Category Archive

Retrospectively, my move to DC a year and half ago was pretty haphazard.  My newly-married sister volunteered to adopt the entire set of my really fantastic IKEA apartment furniture, and I didn’t really have enough stuff after that to get movers or arrange for anything really professional. 

This is the story of how I got really friendly with the UPS clerk. I mailed all of what I deemed “essential” in eighteen big boxes.  Yeah. That involved many, many trips down the hill in mom’s wagon, loading and unloading, shipping and signing.  Less a few casualties of the “fragile” variety, it all made it here, unpacked and added to over time.

I got spoiled living in Seattle.  My apartment was small, and I didn’t keep more than what I needed on a day-to-day basis.  Anything obscure that I needed?  Ski clothes, say, pictures of me as a child, or nice wine I’d stored in dad’s cellar? I’d just pop across the bridge and get it.  In my head, everything that I own—alongside most things I know my parents have somewhere—is chronicled in my head as “accessible.”

I got an email from a friend today, asking me to join her and some of her work colleagues on a hike tomorrow.  I like hiking; it’s something we did as a family a lot growing up.  I used to hate it.  Long weekends up at the mountain house were the bane of my existence as a child; while everyone else was sleeping in or sleeping over, shopping or hanging out, I was up at the crack of dawn, eating oatmeal (“sticks to your ribs,” mom would say), and getting dirty scaling a mountain.  I’m not and never have been a real nature girl, but I have warmed up to it over time. 

We’ll be hiking here, at Old Rag: http://www.hikingupward.com/snp/oldrag/  It’s supposed to be beautiful.

I came home from work and went to my closet.  “Hiking clothes,” I said, as if they’d just appear.  The hiking clothes did not cooperate.  I suspect that this is because they are on the west coast, in that pile of “I don’t need this enough to ship it”; labeled with the post-it saying “will call and ask for it if I need it.”  A bit late on that now, I’m afraid.

I do have my hiking shoes (I think I moved all of my shoes, howsoever impractical they were adjudged). They are grey and pink, and very adorable.  I have a lot of workout-y clothes, but nothing really attractive, and nothing that really coordinates with the shoes.

I also don’t have a backpack.  That’s a little bit troubling.  I know I must have three at home, at least, but all I come up with here is a dinky knapsack-thing that I got at a conference awhile back.  Unfortunately, it’s bright teal.  And says DIGITAL FREEDOM straight across it.

So, here’s me: pink shoes; black shorts; red tank top; teal bag.  Awesome!

I briefly considered going out and buying a whole hiking ensemble.  This friend I’m going with is a very manicured, always-put-together type of girl.  She’s a sweet girl, but honestly, it can get intimidating.  (And annoying when we meet up after work and, unbeknownst to me, she goes home and changes first.  This has happened twice.  So she’s all fresh and perky, and I’m there in my tired work clothes looking fatigued.  Boo).

I decided against a Friday night shopping excursion, though; if I haven’t needed them all this time, there’s no need to invest now.  If I think I really want to be outside all the time, I’ll pack some things back when I’m home in August.  And really, I’m kind of over the whole trying-to-be-perfect-to-please-others thing.

I have no idea who else is going—friends of hers from work, I think.  Ah.  IRS lawyers.  I’m still hating on the IRS, so if one, or maybe five of them don’t return?  Heh.

I invested a chunk of the forthcoming stimulus on a nice new addition to my kitchen, which arrived today.

Unfortunately, it arrived like this:

But, being something of a furniture-making genius, I transformed it into this:

Needs two adults, pish pish. 

Time for a celebratory glass of wine, I think.

There’s a mischievous child in me that always wants to pull those red fire triggers when I pass them in the hall. I’m always like, oooh, I wonder what would happen. I have to keep being my own parent, scolding “hands to yourself!”

Thus, I was very disappointed when it was Hector who went ahead and picked up the fireman’s phone in the elevator last night. I was stuck in an elevator, with a homosexual Hispanic named Hector, for approximately three minutes yesterday.

Those signs by the elevators? The ones with the very helpful stick figures and red tongues of fire that tell you to please walk to the nearest stairway, and not to call the elevator if the place is about to burn down? They should also apply to electricity-threatening thunderstorms. Apparently.

So the roads were washing out and the stoplights weren’t working and there were felled trees all over the place. But whatever, I was going to the fricking 12th floor, so naturally, the elevator was my go-to ride up.

You have chosen … poorly, the Indiana Jones-style crusader in my mind said, just as the lights flickered out and the elevator stopped. It made a terrible sighing moan, like that’s it, I give up. I was sure we’d be plummeting to the ground any second, dropped to a dark and watery demise.

Hector was very chipper, and made some joke about how he should have skipped the gym and run the stairs instead. Or done both and gotten more muscles. Or something, I’m not really sure, as I was trying to block it out, thinking “these can’t be the last words I hear. They can’t.”

We talked briefly, then he was all, well, I don’t think we’re moving. And then he just goes right ahead and opens the little door and takes out the phone! Okay, sure, he was standing right in front of it, and he was a lot closer. But come on! Diplomatic process, people! Couldn’t we have drawn straws, or something?

As it happened, we started moving at just that second, so he didn’t even get to talk (Ahahahaha! Serves you right, phone stealer!). I exited with him on nine, then walked the remaining flights to 12. I let myself into J’s apartment, and with a renewed appreciation for life and its goodness, unloaded the juices and snacks I managed to snag from the grocery store just before they closed for power loss. I had to get the non-refrigerated kind, because all of the good stuff had been removed to some secret refrigerated room in the underground (or something equally mysterious, I imagine). He’s gotten some kind of a cold, J has, and he was working really late, so I left these small signs of myself as a little surprise.

I don’t think he understands the resolve it took to bring them there, but I’m okay with secrets. Sometimes, they’re quite powerful, just to hold.

There’s a line, howsoever blurred or indistinct, dividing luck and chance from reality and skill.  I just don’t know where it is.  I’ve never been a traditionally lucky person; I don’t win door prizes, and I’d hit bankrupt a hundred times on Wheel of Fortune before I came near the “Tropical Vacation!” box. Luck or no luck, though, a certain fascination attaches to trying—could be me! Maybe this time! We could beat the odds!

With that (and a drumroll, please), the winner of Pay it Forward here at Thunderstorms Highly Likely is notsojenny. Hooray! Balloons, streamers, etc.  If you don’t already read her, you should; she’s fantastic.

Here are the official stats from the secret magic randomizer (aka random.org):

There were 7 items in your list. Here they are in random order:

1. notsojenny
2. margot
3. la
4. lawyerish
5. bunny
6. ashley
7. um…yum!

Timestamp: 2008-05-05 03:20:20 UTC 

Send me your contact info, Miss Number One, and I’ll send on your goodies. 

Luck—sometimes you have it, sometimes you don’t. 

A horse named J. Alfred Prufrock raced in the Virginia Gold Cup yesterday.  If I were a betting girl, I would have put my chips down on him.  And, coming out of the second jump, it’s Head West in the lead, followed closely by J. Alfred Prufrock, and King Lear making a valiant charge ahead, the announcer-man says.  Those odd words just rolled off his tongue, taking with them my support and proving that so much, in fact, is in a name.  

Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky. I think of that T.S. Eliot poem every so often, though it usually creeps into my thoughts at work conferences.  Days when I’m dead exhausted, lining up for the free coffee in hotel china; I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. Harrowing, really.

Alas, he didn’t win, that horse.  I don’t even think he placed. I stood up there at the edge of luck v. reality to cheer him on, however; adding my applause to the sea of hands and voices, claiming a space for me and my sundress among the truly outlandish ensembles on display.

Never again will I walk into JCrew and scoff at the orange pants with green dolphins embroidered on.  “Who buys these clown pants?” I’ve asked, rather recently.  Ah. Gold Cup goers.  The great mystery of crazy expensive preppy plaid baby clothes, too, has been solved.  Sure, you may not be wise to bring Junior to the play park in his Vineyard Vines seersucker rompers (with easy-access diaper snaps, natch), and he’ll probably lose his pink checked bow-tie between the car seat and the front part of the shopping cart.  But heavens forefend you dress your offspring in anything else to meet your pals at Members Hill!

It’s no secret that I’m very new to the whole east coast experience.  Based on what I saw yesterday, it’ll take a bit more time for me to acclimatize.

I went with two of my west coast friends, and we spent most of our time parked on a picnic blanket pretending to be photographers for People’s Best and Worst Dressed, Gold Cup Edition. 

It was the guys’ apparent enthusiasm that we just couldn’t figure out.  No hometown man I’ve ever met would be caught dead in most of the ensembles that fit right in on that series of lawns.  We had a game going for a while: man walks by.  Friend to me: “imagine your dad wearing that.”  Bwahahaha! Ha! We’d collapse into hilarious laughter, which most people I’m sure assumed was owing the vast amounts of alcohol we were not, in fact, consuming.  The people-watching never really got old, either.  The whole event was like a costume party for the office-oppressed prep.

J swears it’s normal, which of course led to a covert search of the depths of his closet the moment he took out the recycling.  Good news: no embroidered farm animals assuming residence; no wild floral trousers or patchwork plaid caps.  At least, none that I found.

Still, somewhere in my head, I could see myself there.  Me in a big hat with coordinating shoes and purse, holding the hand of a doll-dressed little girl.  J in his plaidness opens the hatchback of our prep-mobile, and he and a smaller version of himself pull a perfectly coordinated and gourmet-homemade picnic from within.  We set up tables dressed in fine linens, and have a civilized afternoon with our seersucker friends.  Their children and ours romp around together, grass-staining their saddle shoes but receiving only superficial scolding. 

Maybe I’d be that lucky.  Or maybe I’m just insane.  Sometimes it really is a difficult line. 

There’s something to be said for being really open and forthright about sex. The Sex and the City model is a good one for liberalism and feminism and all that is great about the modern, all-accepting era: gather your friends, talk about who’s getting what from whom and when over coffee like you’d talk about the last novel you read.

I love to watch these kind of conversations go down. But I’m not exactly the girl who’ll jump right in and participate, volunteering details of her sordid night in.

I live in something of a 1950s world where what goes on in my bedroom stays right there, beneath the crisply made sheets, thanks so much. I’ll ask you about your flower garden, or your casserole recipe, but never, ever you and your husband’s nocturnal affairs. Even thinking about sex seems, to me, somehow taboo. Yes, I was raised by puritans.

Out shopping last week, a friend invited me to a party she was hosting. We were out and it was loud and all I heard was “Sunday, my apartment, party.” Excellent, thought I. She sent a later e-mail with her address and the time, and I wrote back an enthusiastic yes, sign me up, I’d love to come. DETAILS, magda, the me of the future cries. Details would have been good.

I arrived late, because I got lost. I always get lost. My car has a GPS but still, believe me, I will detour to a ridiculous degree (chalk that up to “follows instructions poorly”). That and the signs around here really suck (yes, DC, I hate you). I blame the sign commission of the greater Mid-Atlantic for how quickly I’ve become really dangerous driver. No U-Turns? Nah, I didn’t see that. No turn on red? Oops! Oh look, my exit! By the time I eventually get pulled over, I’ll have certainly had it coming, and looking at it that way, each error amortizes to what, like, a nickel? No problem.

But I made it there. I came into the living room, a little bit wet and a little bit agitated, and what ho! No wine, no music, no mingling. Oh no. There, front and center, is a woman demonstrating a dildo. Behind her is a table of exotic erotica.

They handed me a naughty nametag and an ink pen shaped like a penis. I took my seat to watch the continued presentation in something of a shocked stupor.

Had I realized it was a sex toy party, I definitely would have made other plans. In the end, though, I did have a good time—I warmed up to it, met some interesting people, and was living, for a moment, at that table with Carrie and Charlotte et al.

Being matter-of-fact and open-minded about sex is very healthy, and as much as I love my apron and the idea of spending the day vacuuming the house in pearls, the realities of a Doris Day world would not, I don’t think, be as ideal as they seem from this distance. Somewhere, there must be a balance between dildos and dusters in my living room. I think I’m on the way to finding it.

I’m in the market for a dress.  A nice dress; a ball gown, to be exact. I spent the better part of a late lunch looking for the same, because really, who says lunch has to be spent eating? It’s all too common for me to spend an hour shopping, which is detrimental on so many levels.  But moving right along.

Today was our publication day, which meant I was busy busy busy and couldn’t get away till circa 3pm.  It also meant I was wearing jeans.  There once was a time when sitting and staring at proof pages inspired adorable suits and totally urban chic professional attire.  That day, my friends, has passed, and today I was just so not feeling it.

I suppose it would be a common reaction, to think that a young woman in jeans shopping in the “special occasion” section at 3pm on a Tuesday would be looking for a prom dress.  But really? I commonly get carded, but do I look like I’d produce a learner’s permit?

One hundred percent—we’re talking 4 for 4—of the helpful salespeople in the shops I visited today asked me a variation of “Where do you go to school,” “Will this be your first prom,” and “When’s your prom, sweetheart?” 

That last one really got me.  First, I am not a perky twenty-year-old clerk’s sweetheart.  Second, I think I was older than she was.  I lied to the others—not because I particularly cared to be cast as a high schooler, but because I just didn’t want to make them feel bad.  I’d say something simple like, oh, in May; to one I gave the name of a Catholic high school I knew was nearby.  I know that seems pathetic; I’m just like that.

Ms. Perky sweetheart got the true tale, however.  Maybe because it had been a long day, maybe because I was (I’ll admit) a little bit intimidated by how perfectly put together she was, or maybe because I was just fed up with the whole scene, I told her in (I’m sorry to say) a rather unfriendly tone that no, actually, my prom had been circa 1999, and I was in fact looking for a dress for the White House Correspondent’s Dinner.  I felt like adding “Because I’m an award-winning journalist, biatch,” but that was too over the top for my style.  It is true, though, that by happy fortune, I’ve come into a pair of tickets (squee!).  I want to be sure the final ensemble does NOT resemble a prom dress; clearly, I told her, it’ll need to make me look older. 

To her credit, despite my initial rudeness, she turned out to be quite helpful, and I tried on a few … but nothing really stuck.  The search goes on.  This time, thank all goodness, without the teenage angst.

Something about him just wasn’t the same.  I don’t know what I was expecting, really; it’s never easy to move on.  But I called him up; I said I’ve got to come over; and then, I was.  I was there, I was telling him everything, I was smiling and pretending that it was what I really wanted.  Before I knew it I was lying down, he was above me, and … well, he was good.  He was very good, but it was just not the same.  There was an awkward unknowing, a sterile “we’re strangers” feel to it.  And then it was over.  I left, and my day carried on as usual.

My mouth is still feeling a bit violated, if I’m honest.  I’m trying to feed it wine to help it cope, but it’s difficult.

I think I have dental fidelity issues.  My dentist in Seattle has known and loved my teeth since I was 6 (yes, six! Many a molar this woman has nurtured).  Seeing as I never bothered to divert mail from my parents’ house, she still sends the odd postcard to me there, which mom dutifully bundles and mails to me, usually alongside other paraphernalia—throwback to the college care package days, but where I once got candies and delicacies from home, I now get kitchen tools; housewares; bulk mail from people unimportant enough to get my new address. In the last box, tucked next to a new set of tea light holders, was her postcard. 

“Magda, we haven’t seen you in over a year!  We know you’re busy, but we miss your smile.”  I really felt like crying, but I knew it was time to move on.

My last experience with a DC dentist was not tremendously positive.  J recommended the guy, but he just didn’t do it for me.  He was ancient—like, really elderly—and the office was deteriorating.  I think its heyday was Mr. Rogers Visits the Dentist, circa 1982. The chair? Was a hand-crank raise/lower.  It was a little bit alarming.  His glasses were ridiculously thick, and he grunted a little bit as he scooted up next to me.  He squinted, poked rather aimlessly at my gums, then said “well, dear, looks pretty good!”

First point, I am not your “dear.”  Second point, if I was missing a tooth, or had a cavity the size of a nickel, would you even notice?  Third point, was J drunk during his visit, or what?

If I didn’t know then, I knew on leaving that never again would I dawn the door. There was a plaque near the exit, dated 2002, thanking the doc for 50 years of service in DC. He’s been practicing dentistry longer than either of my parents has been alive.  I do not find this particularly  confidence-instilling.  

I replaced him today, officially, but I’m still not sure I like the idea of having a new dentist.  It’s like confirmation that I’m grown up, that I’ve moved on.  Part of me still wants to be that six year old who’s so in love with her dentist that that’s what she sets her mind on being when she grows up.  Until, you know, she gets to biochemistry and would rather die.  But that’s so many years off for her. 

It all started innocently enough.  J sent me an e-mail late yesterday, asking if I’d want to have a “date night” tonight.  What a wonderful idea, I thought; just what I need 

We agreed to meet in Chinatown at 6.  Because I’ve been totally in the zone with train timing this week, I arrived at 5.54.  Perfect.  Predictably, he was late.  Did I pass the time by going to starbucks, having a nice drink and doing my reading? Writing? Anything?  No.  Did I go into Ann Taylor Loft and see a lot of cute, cute spring clothes? Yes.  Did I feel like I had time to try on “just this top”?  Yes.  Did I buy “just this top”?  No.  Oh no.  Ann Taylor was a twenty-minute death trap.  I bought the top, plus the suit the mannequin was modeling with it.  The full suit.  It’s adorable, but seriously? Also, because I was getting a suit, I figured hey, I could use another nice button-down shirt, too.  And charge it, please!

J still hadn’t been in touch after the friendly cashier was done assaulting my platinum visa.  He was stuck at union station; the trains just weren’t moving, apparently.  He asked me to just come to him; we’d have date night around there instead, he said.

The moment I walk onto the union station platform, the opposite train comes.  “We can still make it,” J says.  So back on I go.

I should point out here that I dislike commuting by train immensely.  The shorter the better.  Hence, I was in a rather foul mood when I was deposited back in Chinatown, squished and jostled with nothing to show for it.

Finally breathing real outside air once more, J asks: “so, where should we go?”  No plan.  The man had no plan, no reason for dragging me on a commute-time metrorail scavenger hunt for nothing across greater DC.  I think it goes without saying that conversations from this point forward were strained.

I sullenly ate my dinner; he berated me for “being so angry.”  “It wasn’t my fault,” he said; “it’s not about fault, it’s about attitude,” I responded.  Yeah.  Really cool.

We spilt off towards home the way angry siblings happily abandon the cramped backseat after a long car ride.  I spent the evening mostly wanting to kick him in the shins and laugh; he probably wanted to pull my hair and pinch me.  Thank freaking goodness we don’t live together yet. Coming home alone has really helped me chill the heck out. 

He’s just called to say we’re on for a do-over Saturday.  I’m not crossing my fingers, but I’ll give it a fair shot.  Eh, whatever.  The platinum visa, however, may find itself on temporary assignment to the freezer.  Or somewhere else where it will stay out of trouble. 

The weather here has suddenly taken a turn towards the deranged.  Yesterday, despite a cloudy, menacingly winter appearance, the gaudy neon time and temperature sign I passed on the way to work displayed a steamy 70’.   I came bundled in a wool coat and a massive scarf. 

I think this may have been symptomatic of the ridiculousness that was to follow in my Wednesday.  It was a preposterous day in all respects, and I came home so exhausted I was really near passing out on the couch.  I still had work to do, though, and an Ash Wednesday mass to attend. 9pm found me in bed with my laptop, staring blankly at work I was meant to be doing.

I was not really inclined to abandon this setup when J called around 10.30, wanting to come get me so I could spend the night at his place.  Anyone else, I would have put up a fight; this guy’s really my it-man, though, and we hadn’t seen each other all week.  As soon as we were off the phone, I was up and getting dressed for Thursday’s workday.

I want to note, for the record, that at this point it was pouring down rain outside.  Absolutely POURING.  This was not a Seattle sprinkle, people; it was all-out water warfare.  Accordingly, I added an umbrella plus these little darlings to my ensemble:

 Ahh, my frog galoshes; so ridiculous, yet so adorable. 

Driving to J’s, it was a veritable thunderstorm.  Cracks of lightening, booms of thunder, totally my favorite.  The whole car ride I was filling my head with ridiculously gushy thoughts, mostly along the lines of “thunderstorms!  They’re highly likely, just like my blog!” I know; sad, right?  Of course I could share none of this with J, as he has not been apprised of this internet space.  But moving on. 

I woke up this morning to a closet not mine and a perfectly sunny day.  And frog galoshes.  I changed at work, happily, owing to the collection of work shoes on temporary assignment to my office bookshelf.  They’re all pretty strictly office shoes, though, as their heel height completely disqualifies them from the commuter-friendly category. 

I took the high-heeled challenge over lunch, and walked, hounded by what was likely an arctic wind-chill, to the body shop—one of my favorite, favorite stores ever.  A friend is having a birthday tomorrow, so I thought I’d pop out for a bit and find her something good-smelling to celebrate. Because, you know, I’ve clearly planned way ahead. 

The girls working there today were so nice, and it was obvious that they were really enjoying themselves.  I was keenly jealous for a few moments. I want to be that happy at work!  I want to work where there’s color, and beauty, and light!  For a moment there, I wanted, more than anything, to be those girls.  I thought seriously about phoning my boss and saying hey, I’m just down the street, but I’m never coming back because I’ve found a new job with people who are nice and kind and good, so suck it.  But alas.  I wouldn’t have been able to abandon this froggie footwear, anyway. 

P.S. here’s a shout to the kind, kind people at the House of Representatives Committee on the Judiciary:  thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for canceling tomorrow morning’s hearing.  I really didn’t want to go.  You’ve made my night.  Love, magda. 

I’ve voted in every election since I turned 18, but I’ve never gone to an actual polling place. The closest I think I came was when our second grade class held “voting” in the Bush I / Ducakus election, but that was a very long time ago and involved a lot of cardboard and construction paper.

No, I’m an absentee girl, through and through. The Commonwealth of Virginia is against me on this point.

When I lived in Washington (state! Not district!), voting was super easy. I called a toll-free number, went through their automated system, and voila—absentee ballots just arrived in my mailbox well before the election, which served (a) to remind me that there was, in fact, an election coming and (b) give me ample time to see who was on the ballot and do my research.

I moved here and expected it to be the same. But alas.

In Virginia, you have to specially petition to vote absentee, and you have to fill out a two-page declaration of why you can’t physically come in. You have to submit said application no more than 40, no less than 7 days ahead of the election in which you wish to vote.

You would think that I could provide sworn proof that I am outside of the state for the majority of every day, and I could just get on some kind of permanent list. You would think they’d get tired of my same old “I’m at work, you sad freaks” excuse on every application. You would think they’d realize that maybe, if they extended the hours of my designated polling place, I could actually make it there. You’d be wrong.

I’ve found the Virginia Board of Elections to be woefully incompetent at providing me any pertinent information on when elections are, who’s a contender, and what the issues are. I know voting is important, and I want to exercise my rights, but I don’t like scavenger hunts across an Internet full of VBE’s “sorry, link broken” pages to find out what the heck’s going on.

I realized today that I haven’t sent in my application to vote in the primary. I have until 5pm EST to get that sucker onto the desk of the commissioner of my county, though it took me an exasperating half hour to identify this individual. Yes, he said, you may fax it. So I did.

I called them about an hour ago, just to be sure they got it.

“No, we don’t have anything from you,” cheeky receptionist says. “Can you check again?” I ask, and give her my fax number.

“Well, now that you mention it, we did actually get a fax from you. I have the cover sheet here with your name and number and everything, and yeah, it says your application is attached. But all we got is two blank sheets.”

Fax goddess that I am, it seems I fed the application in backwards. And so nice of them to call me back about that.

With about an hour to spare, it all should be straightened out now.

Happy Super Tuesday, everyone, and may your voting go much more smoothly than mine. And happy Mardi Gras, as well!

It’s hard to forget the first one. The first kiss; the first apartment; the first A+; the first day. The first friend.

True friends are a rare breed. They’re a sort of soulmates, people who know you and accept you and love you despite your flaws, who challenge you to overcome those flaws, and who serve as guides and companions in the thicket where we all find ourselves.

When I moved to DC a year ago, I initially stuck to group of college and law school acquaintances. These people, while not true friends, were familiar; they liked me and I liked them. We had a common background. With time, we’ve nurtured these seedling relationships into something stronger.

As much fun as we have, though, none of them are really close.  None are “best friend” material, in other words, as hoaky and 3rd-grade as that term looks written out.  I think I have about four “best friends” in my life—a “grew up with me” friend, a high school friend, a college friend, and a law school friend. All of them live impossibly far away, but we make it work. I don’t remember intending to narrow down a favorite in every category, and perhaps the limitation isn’t really fair; I do keep up with most people. These four, though–these four are something else.

I’ve been missing that sister-like female companionship out here. It seems odd, but in a lot of ways, post-academic friendships seem more to parallel dating than family except for, well, you know, the obvious.  Seriously, though—it seems us girls are almost scouting for new friendships, rather than just growing up with them.  We’re looking for new potentials, new opportunities; we’re looking for women to be close to who are maybe more in line with What We Do Now than Who We Were Then.  It’s a heck of a lot harder than it used to be, at least so far in my experience.

I’ll call my first DC friend FF. (First friend—oh so creative am I). She works in my company; I sat next to her at a training course. She was young. She had curly hair. She was friendly. Right there, beneath the fluorescent lights, we had an understanding; we glanced each other across the room, and we just knew. It was like friendship-love at first sight. We called, we e-mailed, we went to each others’ apartments and downed bottle after bottle of wine. I threw her a birthday party; we watched Grey’s Anatomy every week; we’d spend whole Saturdays walking the mall and taking ridiculously posed photos by the monuments. It was bliss. And then … and then it wasn’t, and I’m still not sue why.

We never did have a falling out, nor did we really disagree. It just kind of stopped working. Here again, the dating analogy: it was one of those “seemed nice for awhile, but not going to go the distance” type things. She was never going to be someone who I’d share enough with to really, really know. She was a companion—but not a real friend. We both realized it. It’s hard, even now, to delineate how that happened.

We came from similar backgrounds, and had—at least superficially—similar interests. We both really wanted it to work. In the end, though, what we had in common wasn’t enough. I didn’t stop liking her, but I realized that I’d never really love her. We just didn’t have it—past the initial fireworks, we were two pretty different girls. Just as fast as it flew together, it began unraveling. We both seemed to step back, watching in silence from our respective corners as the yarn became, once again, individuated strands.

Our wine dates fizzled into coffee breaks, then whittled down to e-mails. We’ve exchanged polite regrets to loosely veiled formality invites. I saw her in the elevator this afternoon; she was coming back from coffee, alone; I was returning from a late lunch. Alone. We smiled; we assured each other that we were fine, things were going well, yes, you too, have a great afternoon. Though we spend our days separated by but one floor, she could be in another country.

I’m still mourning this friendship, and I’m still confused by it.  I don’t know what there is to mend there, and I think we’ve each moved on—but still, I miss her. She was the first.

I’m also a little bit alarmed that we seem to be heading towards an elevator relationship, a la Meredith and Derek. Gaaah! I don’t even know what happened. As I tell my single friends, though—hang tight! The right ones are out there. Somewhere.

When I heard a rap at my door this morning around 8a, I assumed it was the neighbors coming to tell me to please turn down that music.  I was working my espresso machine, but still wanted to rock out since my morning pilates class didn’t really do it on the energy boost front this morning: hence, loud music.  I’ve never actually met my neighbors, come to think of it, which is incredibly loner-ish of me.  It’s a quiet floor, though, what can I say.  I rarely see people out and about. 

Alas.  At the door I found one of the maintenance men.  He doesn’t speak English too well, but I’ve always been nice to him.  He knows my name; when I see him around, he says hi, gives me a hug which is a little weird but whatever, foreign little maintenance man, it’s totally harmless.

Anyway, he had a Christmas present for me.  He said he thought I’d moved out, I was gone for so long (two weeks, sheesh, but I have been doing a fair bit of staying over at J’s…).  I told him a present was unnecessary, but he was so sweet about it that I accepted.  He left, and I opened it.

Lingerie.  The pervy maintenance man gave me a set of lacy red thongs and a box of bath products from Victoria’s Secret’s “Seduction” line.  Oh. Holy. God!! I returned the same over my lunch hour for store credit, but seriously?

The bath stuff alone would have creeped me out, but the underwear is so crossing the line.  Completely inappropriate.  I can’t help but think, is this how I’m repaid for being nice, for being friendly? I hate that this is what I have to deal with just for being female in our society.  Can a girl not be moderately attractive without the insult of appearing all-but-naked in every passing man’s eye? Can she not be objectified, be classed as something to see rather than someone to know?  I have done nothing to let this individual think that I’m at all interested in him, or that I’m the kind of girl that would accept intimate gifts from a man not her boyfriend.  I seriously know him, um, not at all.  That he visualizes me in lacy red thongs is absolutely appalling. 

I could complain, but he’d probably get fired.  I don’t want that at all; I don’t want to get him in trouble because honestly, in my heart, I think he meant well.  I don’t really think he’s a true pervert; I just that his affections are somewhat misdirected.  In any event, I’m good a rationalizing and, some may say, martyring myself because, sigh, that’s just the way it is.  This is my dilemma: tell J, or don’t tell J?  J will be furious (hooray! A manly man who’ll defend my honor and be my protector!) but he’ll want to do something (and will probably fly off the handle at me for being so nice and accepting the gift and passively returning it, instead of confronting the guy or marching directly to management). Hmmm. Sometimes I worry that I’m too nice, like those girls you read about in the news—you know, the ones who have gotten themselves into horrible, horrible situations and you read their stories and are like, chuh, the warning signs were there, honey, what the hell were you thinking?  I definitely don’t want to be that girl. 

I’m sitting here in my apartment by myself, though, and I admit I’m getting a little bit paranoid.  Pervy maintenance man has keys that will let him into this apartment.  He knows where I live, and that I live alone.  I am locking my bedroom door from within from this night forward, and will possibly invest in a pick-ax.  Or maybe a lead pipe.  Magda, in the bedroom, with the lead pipe.  Muah hah ha.  In the meantime, though, I’m trekking to Arlingon to spend the night in my home-away-from-home where I will lie securely in the arms of the man I love. 

I get travel anxiety, a lot of the time.  Okay, fine, all of the time.  Straightening the house, double-checking compulsive lists, printing annoyingly color-coded itineraries that are read and re-read until the pages start disintegrating—yup, that’s pretty much me.

I came home yesterday morning, and I set three alarms to wake me at the ungodly hour of 4am.  I needed to be out of the house by 5.30 to be at the airport by 6; all that double-checking takes time, you know, and I was petrified I’d oversleep.  It’s been a long week, and that’s the last thing I needed, to sleep through my ticket out of here.

As I was courting sleep, I was going over the plan again.  Wake up; shower; pack last remaining toiletries; leave and walk to the metro, and catch the train to the airport to be there close to 6.

Over and over I repeated this, but something was just kind of not right. 

Then it hit me. The metro. Saturday. Facist “weekend schedules” that make no accommodation for universally busy travel days.

Oh. Holy. God. Metro doesn’t start running until 7am because hi, we’re WMATA, and we suck.

I called the cab company in my cellphone, and they laughed at me. “Tomorrow morning? To the airport? You must be joking, lady.” Click. I looked up every cab I could find online, with similar results. I was very brave and did not cry, but was near hysterical when I called J. He was’t amused, at first, at my idiocity, but he covered for me valiantly and said he’d come collect me at 5.30.

He did, but that’s not the whole story. First, he was all pissy about how inconvenient that would be, and wouldn’t it just be easier if I drove to the airport myself, parked in the daily garage, and then he’d come over later in the day and get my spare keys out of my apartment, metro to the airport, and get my car out and drive it home (saving me the extortionist parking fees to garage my car for the two weeks I’ll be away). Ok, a feasible plan—but hello, problematic! Inconvenient! Stress!  His excuse was a constant “but I need my sleep, it’s dangerous for me to drive tired.” He was planning to go up to his parents’ in NY later in the day.

I really, really wanted him to come get me.  But I accepted that it wasn’t convenient, and said the whole car-moving thing would work.  We debated this, I think, for about an hour.  We agreed, and we hung up. 

I burst into tears.  Am I too idealistic, waning a boyfriend who says, wow, you screwed up but you need me so I’m there?

He called back in about 20 minutes, to be sure I was ok.  He said he’d be there, would come for me after all.  His decision.  He came, right on time, but god, was he angry.  “I’m only doing this a formality,” he spat at me. 

This is where the story takes a turn in the  “magda practices giving J the benefit of the doubt” direction.  This has been something of an ongoing campaign for me, trying to be less of the princess, and giving J the benefit of being human who sews up sometimes, too.

I’d say it worked.  I didn’t respond with my usual fire, and kept coming back to how grateful I was, and how he was making things so much easier for me.  And you know what? It’s been smooth sailing since then.  I let it go, I detached, and I’m not still dwelling on it.  Except, you know, for this writing.  It’s didactic, really; I’m chronicling to learn and remember and repeat.  Et cetera.

That’s part of what makes relationships work, I think—focusing on the positive, brushing over the rough spots with love and encouragement, and not being so hurt by every barb and unpleasant twist.  Was I angry, and hurt, and alarmed by J? Did I find his selfishness unattractive and, in the moment, unforgivable? Yes.  Yes, but I love this person; this is a moment, and I love the whole package.  He isn’t perfect, and if I’m honest, I’m glad.  Perfection is not worth pursuing.  Who wants to look at something perfect, anyway? Nothing unique, no quirky crooks or adorable dimples; nothing that makes it stand out.  Perfection is ordinary; to transcend that takes something malleable, something that shows affectation, some evidence of life. That which is facially perfect has no room for growth, improvement, change.  Love is nothing if not about change. 

Once upon a time, in a far away land, I went to (and graduated from) law school.  It was, as many of mine tend to be, a error of thunderous proportions. However, the experience left me with a couple of assets.  (a) a J.D., which sometimes gets whipped out to intimidate losers at bars (Lame guy: “What do you do?” Me: “Who, me? Oh, I’m an attorney); (b) a license to practice law in a far-away state, which basically means I pay the bar association a preposterous dollar amount every year for the privilege of legitimately claiming (a); (c) an impressive bookshelf full of very heavy books, like the con law book that tonight killed an insect in my apartment.  A big insect.  A big, suspiciously roach-like insect in my apartment.  My seventh floor apartment.   

I distinctly remember reports of roaches in the apartment reviews I read before I moved out here.  I live in a very modern high rise on, as noted, the seventh floor.  I am a very clean girl.  Okay, sure, there are some crumbs in the cracks where my cabinets don’t quite seal and where my vacuum doesn’t quite reach, and my recycling has been sitting out for a few days.  But seriously?  

There I was, washing dishes from the gingerbread dough I’d just finished, and then a big crumb seemed to just fall out of the cabinet under the sink.  Then it started moving.  It had these alarming little tentacles, or feelers, or whatever, and I screamed.  I’m only an occasional screamer, but this brought out the worst in me. It froze, and I busted to the bedroom for the biggest, baddest law book I could find.      

My vengeance came in the form of Constitutional Law,  Fifteenth Edition.  1500+ pages of pestilence-destroying goodness.  Ah, the founding fathers would be so proud.  Or, maybe not.  I hurled that bastard of a book very, very hard at my trespasser.  I’ve heard that roaches are hard to kill, that they can flatten themselves very small, and can even crawl out of vacuum cleaners.  My mom told us all these stories when we were growing up; her kind of “uphill both ways to school” kind of tale about how hard things were where she grew up, and we should be so grateful for our happy west-coast existence, where there are no snakes/poison ivy/humidity/roaches/hellfires and damnation, etc.    

This fucker was no match for the United States Constitution, however.  He was crushed.  Absolutely pulverized.  After a calming glass of wine, I scraped his guts off of my tile, and launched into a seriously intense deep cleaning session which is still, in fact, underway. The unknown is petrifying.  How did he get here? Why did he come? Am I that dirty? Did he walk up seven flights of stairs to come and hunt me down? Also, he was kind of small.  Maybe that’s why he was so easily overcome.  Are there more of him? Is his family planning a stakeout? I keep thinking that every cabinet I open, every drawer I pull, will yield an angry army of bugs, like in the movies.  Like Pacific Heights, right, where the bugs just, like, come pouring out of everything.  It’s all very disturbing.    

Thank GOD I’m going to J’s tonight (bearing gifts of gingerbread, hooray!).  I do not think I shall mention the roach.   

“Organization is imperative. Meals, gatherings, and gifts for all eight days should be charted well in advance to ensure a seamless holiday your family will remember for years!”

Organization. This means don’t stay up till 1a baking special and oh-my-god hard fruit bread, and, say, forget to add eggs. Don’t wait till the day-of to realize that no known stores in the DC area sell driedel and star-of-david shaped cookie cutters, because here “holiday” really means rows of red and green abominations, some of which sing but none, incidentally, cut non-Christmas cookies (Curses! Curses!). Don’t be confused by your day planner’s designation of Hanukkah on Wednesday. Clearly, this means it starts sundown Tuesday (ok, seriously?).

So far I’m the poster child for how to have a totally jumbled together at the last second, oh-hell-I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing Hanukkah. I’m quite sure my family (speaking solely in terms of J at this point) will remember it for years to come. Only perhaps with significantly less glamorous detail than originally envisaged.

I’m going over to J’s tomorrow to cook him dinner in honor of Hanukkah (because, um, yeah… that’s when I thought it started. But anyway). Cooking, really cooking even just one well-planned meal is really hard, turns out! I thought I was being all goody-goody starting preparations yesterday (organization!), but alas. Alas, alas, alakaday, all I have is a dense and disgusting loaf of expensive rare fruits, and an ever-expanding list of things to still get done. I seriously have such new-found respect for the gourmet dinners my mom would just whip up night, after night, after night. The woman’s a goddess.

I’m going over to J’s tonight after work to drop off some of the ingredients (and some presents! Such a good non-Jewish girlfriend I am!). First, though, I’ll go to the store again, for about the zillionth time. This coordination thing really seems to be beyond me. So much preparation. So much planning. So much, sigh, organization. First it was olives, then Frangelico, then dates (I ran out—those, at least, were not forgotten. It was more an estimation problem). Tonight it’s walnuts, at whole foods, on the way home—that should be the last thing. I’ll suck up the inflated cost because it’s just so much more convenient. I’ll re-bake the bread, then truck it all over. Oh lordy, it’s going to be a long week.

J embarrassed himself pretty heartily by leaving his keys at our dinner party Saturday–and not realizing till we stumbled back to his apartment, circa 2am. Leave it to me to one-up him.

Our friends live near U street. Sunday afternoon, I ended up having brunch with some of my girlfriends in Adams Morgan–which, for those of you not familiar with DC geography, is about 6 blocks from U street. Playing the helpful, spectacular-in-all-respects girlfriend, I said hey, I’ll swing by the U street place before I come home and pick up the keys.

Which would have been great, had I not gotten lost. Like, 45 blocks northward lost. Like, in ten more minutes I would have hit the Maryland border lost. Way to go, magda.

I’m not good at directions generally. (Exhibit A: my car has gps. Nonetheless, I regularly detour 30, 35 minutes out of the way. Regularly. I can’t help it; I get it from my mom. Blame her). But, at least here, I had some semblance of good intentions, howsoever misguided.

I know they live on 14th, and I know that 14th goes into downtown. My thinking, once I hit 14th, was that either way I went, I’d either (a) hit their condo or (b) hit downtown, and I could adjust accordingly. I failed to consider the possibility that, from where I was standing, I would have to pass their condo to get to downtown. It was not an either-or scenario, and I chose poorly.

I started walking, and things were looking good. The streets were very unhelpfully named–Euclid, Fontaine, that kind of thing. I was looking for the letters I know and love (in this instance, specifically, U). The streets were going alphabetically, albeit by bizarre names rather than letters, and they were increasing–I figured they’d run out, and then we’d get to the letters. I should have started noticing that the neighborhood wasn’t so cool anymore. The buildings were looking a lot more ghetto. Suddenly, not one sign was in English. This was the neighborhood where the afro-caribbean liquor/deli/laundromat has irons over the windows; where the panamanian grocery has apparent drug-deals going on right outside; where the only words I understand are “hey sexy baby, how ’bout some lovin’?”

Enter magda, skinny designer jeans, big sunglasses, stylin’ coach bag. AWESOME. Someone, MAGDA, does not belong.

A rational person would have turned around blocks and blocks ago. That’s what J told me, anyway, when I gave him the umm, we have a problem here call once the streets ran out–AND THEN STARTED OVER. All of the sudden, I went from Yates or something street to Allison.

“Irate” is probably the best word to sum up J’s sentiments at that moment. He looked me up on google maps. (oh how I love technology). “Fuck, Magda, you’re practically to Maryland! Why the hell are you walking NORTH?”

Umm. Yes, I should have asked directions. I don’t actually know why I didn’t. I thought I had it under control? I really wasn’t worried? I live in a blissfully naive world where hi, I’m magda, and despite my idiotic mistakes everything always works out for me? Tough to tell.

The happy moral, of course, is that I turned around, and about an hour later, ended up where I was supposed to be all along, and made it safely home. J won’t talk about it anymore. I still find the situation very hilarious, however. It was an adventure! A part of the city I never would have otherwise seen! Or something.

Except, I think I’m crippled. Oh My Lord, I was so not wearing walking shoes. I was wearing adorable flats that, while certainly more practical for walking than, say, my three inch boots or the various heels currently lining my closet, have left me in a silent period of mourning for their sadly worn-down soles. Not to mention my be-blistered feet. I nearly died today at work. I do not mean this figuratively.

I have a propensity for extremely impractical shoes. Come to my office sometime, and look at the bottom shelf of my bookshelf: it’s its own mini-closet, filled with adorable professional-esque shoes. That girl who has her pants rolled up all funny over her flats/flip-flops/tennis shoes on the train? Yeah, she’s me, and she’s going to kick it up into something glamorous once at work. I don’t like to wear ‘em out on the metro, you know.

In any event, today, just walking in those babies–any of them–was an excrutiating struggle, and I nearly tripped, twice. Both times in front of people, and I only hope they think I’m just a silly girl in silly shoes (as opposed, say, to assuming that I’m trashed at work or something). I almost kept on my pumas. Almost.

Needless to say, I skipped my run again today. Confession: I was never a runner till I started dating J. He’s hard-core; he does marathons and everything. He’s under the misapprehension that I’m training for a half-marathon. HA. Ahahahaha. Seeing as the farthest I can go is, oh, 2.5 miles, I’d say the only way I cross the finish line is on a stretcher. It’ll be amusing, no doubt. If I keep this up, though, I’ll likely have a way out. Feet not working = disqualification, surely.