Soup Is Not A Finger Food

The Greenest Grass

AS THE LATE NOVEMBER AFTERNOON DARKENS, I exit my client’s office building onto 17th Street NW, into the gray rain. It is that misty kind of rain that is enough to instantly unstraighten my hair, regardless of whether I use an umbrella.

I pull my wheeled bag down the street, past the back entrance to the Mayflower Hotel,  and I’m immediately stricken with a fantasy. In my head, instead of continuing down the street, I enter the hotel, nodding friendly greetings to the familiar bellhops as I board the elevator to an upper floor. I slide the card-key into the card slot and hear the electronic tweets as I enter my warm, welcoming suite. I kick off my heels (I’m wearing heels in the fantasy, not sensible commuter shoes, and they don’t hurt!), and notice that a bottle of expensive red wine and two glasses are waiting. Wait - is it wine, or champagne? Or is it an icy cold, extra dry, three-olive vodka martini? And are those… cheese straws? And cashews??

And isn’t that just like me to become mired in the ridiculous details? Because it doesn’t matter; whatever consumables are in my fantasy room, the point is that I have conjured myself into a place that is the polar opposite of where I’m headed tonight in real life: A semi-clean ranch home in the outer suburbs, full of dog-hair tumbleweeds and rogue dirty socks and laundry that needs folding and sheets that really ought to be changed and three growing boys who need things NOW. Milk, for starters.

 Said destination is a world away in my head at this moment, yet it’s only a one-hour commute from this fantasy spot. That’s assuming Metro is running on schedule. Add time if it isn’t. Also, add 15 extra minutes if you include picking up the kid from extended care, and another 15 minutes if you must choreograph a mad dash through the grocery store on the way home because the boys are killing a gallon of milk every other day lately.

I and my wheelie bag descend into the Farragut North Station. All the escalators are running tonight, which bodes well, and indeed I am rewarded with a mere two-minute wait for a train that is destined for the very end of the line, where my large gas-guzzling, holds-a-family-of-five-plus-a-large-dog vehicle is parked. I grab a sideways seat near the center doors of the car and resign myself to 30 mildly motion-sick minutes on the train.

The think about Downtown DC is that evokes in me strong memories and emotions. DC was where I began my career, over 20 years ago, two blocks north of the Mayflower at the corner of Connecticut and N. I was fresh out of college and had spent every minute of my 22 years living in Pennsylvania, and I was so ready for a change. DC ended up being perfect for me; I took to city life like a duck to water. I loved it. I thrived.

I sometimes long for those relatively carefree days. I lived alone, I was responsible for only myself. I paid my bills on time, and no one else depended on me. If needed, I could stay at the office for a few extra minutes to wrap up some work without the pressure of having to leave RIGHT NOW in order to pick up a child from daycare or cook dinner for a hungry family.  No one would wake me up in the middle of the night but me. My commute was a mere two stops on the Metro, but on nice days I would sometimes walk the 45 minutes between uptown and the southern part of Dupont Circle.

Not long after I moved to DC, I met the man with whom I now share our 0.87-acre slice of suburban heaven. Curt and I had such fun back in the day! We were two country kids from central PA, ramming around the city, discovering our new selves, soaking in the energy, taking advantage of all the city had to offer. Three years later we were married. That was 18 years, three kids, eight vehicles, and three mortgages (not counting the refis) ago.

And that’s what’s funny about my little fantasy: it almost always includes this man with whom I have shared everything for more than two decades. Except that in my fantasy, we are us NOW, not us THEN. We have nowhere to be but in the present.  Don’t misunderstand: I love everything we have. I have the man, the kids, the large automobile, the home in the suburbs in a Very Good School District. And I am happy; I wouldn’t change a thing! It’s just that sometimes, the weight of all the responsibilities in our life overwhelms me. And then this fantasy that I have, the one about just walking away from it, tugs at that part of my brain that won’t let me utter these thoughts aloud…

...and before you know it, I have changed into a chic ensemble that includes sexy high heels that don’t hurt my bunions OR my hammertoe, and I’m skinny and my hair is fashionably sassy and has been professionally highlighted, and I am carrying a really expensive handbag – without guilt over the cost! (or maybe it was a gift!) – and I am sipping a sophisticated, $14 cocktail in a trendy downtown establishment and I’m out late and I’m not tired! I’m having witty repartee with Very Smart DC types, who may or may not include my husband (wait, where’s Curt?), because while he is without a doubt my better half, I am me, after all, I’m an individual, and…

Well, it goes on and on, but eventually it ends, because I have to come home sometime, right? I mean, these three human beings that my husband and I have created? They really do need me. They need US, here, together. And really, they’ll be grown and gone in the blink of an eye, won’t they? This is what I’m told: Don’t wish these days away. Enjoy every single moment!

This picture came from here)

So, I’ve come to regard my fantasy as therapeutic (without the copay). It’s a necessary mental break. A reboot. A pushing of the reset button in my addled brain. Because this fantasy reminds me that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.  I mean, it would be fun for a day or two, but after that? Wouldn’t it become boring? Might I not start longing for the husband and the children and our cozy home on our quiet street?

I’ve learned from observing others around me that the grass mostly isn’t greener on the other side of the fence. And when you look at it all, the metaphorical grass where I live is the most vibrant shade of green! (The real grass where I live is another story entirely.) I’m truly blessed; I couldn’t  - wouldn’t! - ask for anything other than what I have.

…But that doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize every so often that my life was carefree and my commute was but a short walk to a funky establishment in a happening ‘hood. As long as I always remember where I am meant to be, where I truly belong.

 

I feel the earth move under my feet

WE HAD AN EARTHQUAKE TODAY! In Maryland!! It was reported to have measured 5.9 on the Richter Scale, although it was later downgraded to 5.8. Which is good, because that's exactly what I was thinking as I spazzed the hell out:  No WAY is that a 5.9. Not nearly seizmic enough.

Fortunately, I had decided to work from home instead of going to my client in DC. I'd like to claim I'm prescient, but that would be a lie stretch. I rearranged my schedule so I could sleep in be here when the air conditioner repair man came to my house to conduct the funeral for our 18 year old sell me a new condenser unit. Because we were wondering what to do with that extra FOUR LARGE that was rotting in the coffee can, buried in the back yard.

Last Saturday, we heard a strange rumbling and noticed our lights dimming intermittently. Dumb luck Expert troubleshooting skills enabled us to pinpoint the source: Our air conditioner unit, outside. We turned it off, after which I immediately ran to K-Mart to buy four window fans. 

About an hour after the Nice Man pronounced my air conditioning dead and left me with a quote for a new unit, things started rumbling again. My first thought was: "Dammit! He didn't turn off the unit!" Followed closely by, "WHAT'S GOING TO EXPLODE??"  I ran out into the foyer and spun in circles. I opened the front door, then closed it. By then, Seth, who - amazingly! - was awake, had run into the foyer, too, and told me it felt just like last year's earthquake! Which I had missed because I was in Virginia, visiting Cheaspeake Bay Woman and my other Blogfest pals. But that one was only a 3.6. THIS ONE? Was a 5.9 5.8!

So Seth says, "Quick! Turn on the TV! Check the news!" To which I replied, "You do it - I'm going to Facebook!" And sure enough, friends started posting. I learned that friends in DC/MD/VA had felt it, but also friends in Pennsylvania, Maine, Toronto, Connecticut, New York, Tennessee and South Carolina!

IT'S THE BIG ONE, ELIZABETH!

I carefully ventured out to inspect the damage to my home.  I can report that we are all safe and sound, though we did experience some minor damage:

 

THAT'S IT. Some things on the wall were slightly askew.

(Please; give me a moment. I'm still...processing.)

If you live in DC, you know the subsequent inevitable mayhem. Office buildings downtown evacuated. Employees were left with no choice but to head home, so they all poured onto the outbound 14th Street Bridge at once, causing major gridlock, THE END. No! I kid! Some of them boarded Metro, which was running at half-speed, just in case there was a buckled rail or something, which means it's taking, like, a whole HOUR to get from downtown out to the 'burbs, and that's if you don't have to transfer.

You know what I'd have done? Found the nearest bar and settled in for an earthquake happy hour!  In fact, after the calamity Event, my nerves were all a-jangle, so I poured myself a mid-afternoon glass of wine. But, ever mindful of the predicted after-shocks, I was careful to select a plastic tumbler. Because I don't feel like cleaning up broken glass.

And that was it; my afternoon was shot. I settled in to drink wine watch the Breaking News. There was DRAMA! MAYHEM! People stopped emailing me. My clients had all closed their offices. Everyone was trying to get home. The afternoon fell somewhere on the scale of a weekday Halloween, which always prompts an unusually early rush hour here, and - God forbid - September 11, 2001, when we all were sent home, struggling to process the morning's events, frantic to collect our children from daycare so we could hug the daylights out of them, even as the late-summer weather was more perfect than perfect. Just like today's.

So there you have it. My first-hand account of our region's biggest earthquake in a century.  It feels a little silly to say it was a big deal, but it was. (Shut up, California people. I'd like to see how you handle a blizzard! Oh wait - we don't do those well, either.)

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go hunker in my bunker pour some more wine and brace for aftershocks HURRICANE IRENE. Because it isn't a month unless we have at least TWO natural disasters.

Oh, you meant THAT Starbucks?

AS YOU MIGHT IMAGINE, a city as high-energy and driven as Washington, DC is also highly caffeinated. There's a Starbucks on every corner here and there's never not a line. So on Tuesday, when I suggested to a colleague that we meet at a nearby Starbucks, I was careful to specify the one on 19th Street, just above M.

Imagine my surprise when I crossed the street, only to find that particular Starbucks, plus the two restaurants on either side of it, were closed, gone, out of business. Completely. Nary a stir stick nor any other remnants of their ubiquitous green logo were to be found.

I called my colleague to admit that I had given him the address of a defunct coffee shop. "Oh, you meant that one?" he said. "I thought you meant the one on Connecticut."

Fortunately, he'd snagged a table at the wrong, but nearby Starbucks two blocks away, so I walked over and we commenced our meeting.

I haven't always been careful to confirm the address when arranging to meet someone. One time, I agreed to meet friends for lunch at what I thought was the only Chipotle in town. "Chipotle! Noon!" I waited and waited and waited some more, finally braving the snaking line for a takeout burrito. I found out later that they waited and waited, too - at the NEW Chipotle that had opened up closer to their office than mine.

Then there was the time we traveled to southern New Jersey for our dear friends' wedding. The bride had written driving directions from the church to the reception that included instructions such as, go over the hill, drive for about five more minutes, and the very helpful, "turn left at the Wawa." Of course, if you've ever been to south Jersey, you know that there's a Wawa at every single intersection. Kind of like how there's a Starbucks on every corner in DC! (Except, evidently, the corner of 19th and M.)

I'd always thought that Starbucks outlets multiply, like rabbits.  They're in every grocery store, every Target, every airport. What kind of business strategy is that, to close a store situated on a prime corner in the heart of DC's downtown business district? And would it have killed them to take it off their website? Because I did confirm the address on the website. It was listed right there.

But that was only my first surprise closed store of the day!

On the way home that afternoon, I calculated that if Metro was dependable and I was super-efficient, I had exactly enough time to hop off the train at Chevy Chase Pavilion and fly through Stein Mart for some quick additions to my altogether pathetic wardrobe. (Seriously. My wardrobe sucks. I hate everything in my closet.) I always have good luck at Stein Mart, even though when I got home with the items I'd purchased at my last shopping trip there, I felt as if perhaps I was morphing into a little old lady from Boca. (Which is more a reference to my fashion sense than my overall mentality.)

So, I rode up the escalator and patiently waited for the elevator. When I finally emerged on the top floor of the shopping center, I saw white glass where Stein Mart used to be. Turns out, it had closed only several weeks before my ill-fated discovery.

 
...only you didn't save me JACK on Tuesday, Stein Mart! Where'd you go?

What the heck, retail gods? Why are you conspiring against me? Have I not pumped enough money back into the retail economy recently, what with the insurance-funded purchases of a sofa, TV, new flooring and who knows what else? I am personally keeping Amazon.com afloat. All these things we need to replace and have repaired cost MONEY! What's next - my favorite Target? Are you going to pick up and leave under cover of the night, just like the Baltimore Colts did?

Maybe these sudden closings are a sign of the impending rapture.  I mean, if the rapture is really going to happen, I won't need caffeine and I'm guessing I can wear any old thing from my laundry basket closet, right?

Yes, that's it. I'm ready to go. Just be sure to send me the address first.

My Washington

THE WHOLE COUNTRY IS ABUZZ with talk of the congressional budget impasse and the likelihood that the federal government might “shut down” until our elected representatives can agree on exactly how to spend our tax dollars and then some. The Washington region in particular is fixated on every tidbit of news, seeing as how we're kind of a Company Town.

 
Picture comes from here

I myself find the whole exercise rather ridiculous. It’s like a game of chicken, so much posturing and rhetoric and what about the poor high school band from Dubuque who’s supposed to march in the now-tentative Cherry Blossom Festival Parade on Saturday? GAH.

The reality is, most federal workers, if forced to surrender their Blackberries and forbidden to email anyone for a few days, will probably ultimately end up with a few paid days off (after congress tussles over but finally agrees to reinstate their lost wages). I’d take that deal without thinking twice.

This absurd standoff may exemplify what’s wrong about Washington. But that’s the federal Washington. While our lawmakers are trying to make each other look bad, thankfully, that madness is confined to a few acres of real estate downtown. When I think of Washington, I mostly think of something else entirely.

We’ve got a whole other city here that surrounds the Capitol Hill craziness, and that’s the Washington I call home. It’s the Washington I came to rather randomly 21 years ago and liked it so much, I decided to stay. It’s the Washington that, all these years later, still makes me feel lucky to live within a short drive of the capitol of the most powerful nation in the world.

Earlier this week, I paid a mid-day visit to a client in Alexandria, Virginia. While my commute is normally mostly underground, because of the timing I drove there from my home northwest of the District. And while I naturally grit my teeth while driving on our infamous Beltway, I immediately unclench my jaw when I cross the Potomac and take the George Washington Parkway exit. To me, this is the most beautiful drive in the whole region.

At its origin, the "GW" is a winding, four-lane road through lush woodlands. Then it aligns high above the Potomac River, providing gorgeous views of Northwest DC. There’s no better view of Georgetown (the neighborhood or the University) than from across the river in Virginia.

 
Picture comes from here

Gradually, the road loses elevation, threads itself beneath several arching bridges, showcasing views of the Washington Monument, Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials.

After it sneaks under I-395, it’s level with the river, providing direct access to National Airport. If you’ve ever been driving there while a plane approaches landing, lining up low above the River, you’ve been treated to some of the most spectacular views in aviation. (It also helps to explain why that plane crashed into the 14th Street Bridge all those years ago. But I choose not to think about that.)

Once south of the Airport, it’s on to Alexandria. I have a soft spot in my heart for Old Town. It’s where I lived, with my cousins, when I first moved to DC. The architecture is historic, the shops and restaurants enticing, the brick sidewalks charming.

 
Picture comes from here

The return trip is just as much fun. Leaving Old Town, heading north on N. Washington Street, there’s a stunning direct view of the Washington Monument as the street transforms into the GW Parkway. Passing the Airport this time, I beeped my horn to wake up the air traffic controllers saw the planes banking as they approached the runway. Gravelly Point was packed with people hoping to get an awesome view of the takeoffs and landings.

It was late afternoon, which meant it was time for crew. The river in front of Georgetown was filled with young rowers in colorful racing shells, out practicing their rhythmic sport.

 
Picture comes from here

As the Parkway regained altitude, I noticed that the Judas Trees are just starting to pop; by next week, they’ll punctuate the Parkway’s greenness with vibrant purple bursts.

 
Picture comes from here

This drive is one of the things I really love about living here. It could be any old highway, an alternative to circumnavigating the city via the Beltway, but its designers took care to make it scenic. Even if I drove it every day, I don’t see how I could take it for granted. So, even as the political grandstanding continues today, I won’t be disheartened. I know there are things that make my Washington special that lawmakers can’t legislate against. 

PS, thanks and a big shout-out to DC Blogs for featuring me on Blogs Noted earlier this week!

Snow Way

WHILE SOME SNOW STILL REMAINS on the ground from last week, it's pretty much all melted away. It's plenty cold enough for snow here today - it was 18 degrees (F) this morning in my carport - but snow is not in our forecast. I believe that is because the Weather Gods shot their wad last year during Snowpocalypse / Snowmageddon / [insert hyperbolic nickname here] and have nothing left to give us here in the Mid-Atlantic.

Do you remember? Do you want to? Of course you do. It's hip and trendy to recycle, and so I will do that here, first with a photo -

 
...and then with links to my posts with video clips about the blizzard's first weekend and my kid making snow smoothies (cute!) and the day before the third big snowfall of the week (it was getting old by then) and day four of being snowbound.

Just watching those videos and reading what I wrote, I can tell I'm not completely over the trauma of all that snow in such a short amount of time. Be careful what you wish for; you just might get it.