Tornados, Typhoons, and The Spy Museum

Do you know what the best part about waking up bright and (ridiculously) early on a Monday morning is?

To see that it's downpouring outside! Hurrah! Just when I thought things couldn't get any better! I trudged to work with my dress pants tucked jauntily into my galoshes, pretending like I couldn't feel the rain soaking all of my clothing (despite hiding beneath my umbrella.) I don't mind the rain if I can hide away in my apartment and watch scary movies or something, but actually having to get up and go somewhere in the rain makes me one hell of a cranky bitch.

My sentiments exactly

DC is just running the whole weather gambit lately. Friday and Saturday were hot and sunny, and we clocked in around 85 degrees; Sunday it downpoured again and the weather dropped into the mid-60's. Last night there was not only a fucking tornado watch, there was also a fucking tornado somewhere outside the city. I couldn't figure out where it was, because every time the news said it this morning, I was gargling or in the other room or eating my cereal (it's very loud to chew it, really) but still. And today is 60 and pouring. Tomorrow? The same. Then back up to the mid-70s. Talk about a pain in my ass.

On a lighter note, however, Erin bought me tickets to - drumroll, please! - the SPY MUSEUM for my birthday!!! I've been dying to go ever since I first came to DC, and never actually managed it in the four entire years I was here for college. I blame it on the booze.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyway, it was amazing! First we went in and did the Operation Spy simulation, in which Erin and I proved that while we're arse at surveillance, and totally would fail out of it during CIA training, we had the best intuition of the group; if only they'd trusted us and not Topaz! If we'd had our way, we would've saved the Trigger and made sure that nuclear warfare stayed out of the hands of the Kandhar Black Ops group. Damn you, tourists!

Then we spent 2 or so hours wandering around the museum, where we learned all sorts of fascinating tidbits about spies, especially during the major wars. We learned that Aldrich Ames was willing to sell his country out for only 2.7 million dollars (seriously, I know it was like 1985, but that is still not enough money to sell out your role as head of the fucking CIA to work for the KGB of all people!) and learned that in the 50's, even after celebrating the amazing achievements of a spy that helped crack the Nazi codes during WWII, one brave man was driven to suicide because - oops! - he was a homosexual and even though he saved the Allies' asses, they wanted to torture him with humiliating hormonal treatments because, you know, homosexuality was a crime. Ah yes, that makes perfect sense. I love the government.

Also, there was an exhibit on Ninjas!!!!

After wards, we hit up the gift shop, and I got myself yet another shot glass to add to my collection, while Erin rapturously delved into the hundreds of books about spies, historical plots, and all the other things that set her little heard a-patter. All-in-all, downpour aside, it was a fabulous day. Oh, and we have pictures somewhere of me attempting to crawl through an air duct... I'm still debating over whether or not to post them. Flattering, they are not, but they're quite amusing. Perhaps next time.

Taxi Cab Confessions

I find it very fascinating that cabbies are so different in every city I've been to. In New York City, they don't blink at anything; you could strip completely naked and have a threesome with a homeless guy and an Olsen twin, and they just don't care. Why? Because that happened during their last trip, only with Ashley instead of Mary Kate. In Boston, they drive like kamikaze pilots, careening wildly into pot holes, street signs, and elderly citizens that take too long crossing the street. In San Diego, they are exceedingly quiet and very polite when spoken to. And in DC?

They talk. Incessantly. Then badger you about your political views.

Some of the more interesting conversations I've had included a debate between McCain and Hillary's convictions, a lengthy discussion of Obama's idealism and how it could affect international relations, and a delightful story about how this one cabbie was visiting his son in Boston, but he was on some random medication and it made his bladder always feel full, so he pulled over somewhere in the North End and peed behind a pillar.

Not that peeing behind a pillar has political ties, unless we're discussing the Bush twins after a night out on the town, but still.

How do YOU feel about the approaching economic recession?

The cabbies here just really enjoy a good chat. Sometimes this is alright with me, as sometimes I'm in the mood to prattle on and on about my own convictions, but other times I don't feel like being badgered and yapped at. Especially in the morning, when I'm practically a zombie.

This morning my cabbie was very nice, but he asked the dreaded question - "isn't it a lovely morning?" followed by the worst of all time, "are you feeling motivated this morning?"

First of all: No. No, it is not a lovely morning. Do you know why? Because it's the middle of January, it's 3 days after Blue Monday (aka the most depressing day of the entire year), and it's DC. It's a terribly depressing day, even if it is a Thursday, and therefore close to the weekend.

And second of all: No, I am not feeling "motivated" this morning. That's a ridiculous question to ask at 9am. The only times I get motivated before noon are if something huge is going down; if I'm moving, if I'm leaving on vacation, if there's breaking celebrity gossip on TMZ, etc. Otherwise, I'm cursing the world in general for forcing me to be awake at such an ungodly hour.

So, to answer the cabbie's question, I replied, "No, I'm not, but I can't wait for the weekend." To which he laughed. I almost cried. I explained that it was cold, and it was the middle of January, and therefore it was very difficult to muster up some motivation.

He replied, saying something I found to be very interesting: "Well, you're obviously, what, 20?" (it's the suit - without it, people think I'm 16) "Of course you feel that way now. When you get to be my age, it won't matter."

And this frightened me.

What do you mean, it's not July?!

At this point in my life, right in the throes of my Quarter-Life Crisis, it's killing me to imagine going through 75+ more years of gloomy, gray Januarys. I hate the cold; I hate the winter; I hate that terrible feeling of "oh my god, we have at least four more months until it starts to warm up." Am I doomed to spend an eternity feeling crushed by the weight of winter gloom and nosy cabbies?

For the moment, I'm toying with the idea of hibernating for the rest of the winter. I really love sleep, and I really love being cozy in bed. And I really love gorging myself on food and then going into a food coma. But, as the past week has shown me, I hate cabin fever, and I cannot survive on my own. Regardless of anti-social feelings first thing in the morning, I'm a social, needy person. Sure, I can live on my own if I have to, but it doesn't mean I have to be thrilled with it. I like noise, and people, and constant entertainment; hibernation doesn't exactly offer a wild time.

So, in an effort to tackle my issues head on, I present you with:


Your Survival Technique Of The Day:
How to Survive The Winter Blahs

Step 1: Hibernation. If it's your thing, go crazy. Eat a lot of heavy foods, chug some beers, and tuck in for the long haul. Remember to lock your door beforehand, though, because your neighbors are probably really weird, so you don't want uninvited company coming over when you're in a self-induced coma. Unless you're into that.

Step 2: Indulge. Find winter activities that you enjoy, which will help you embrace the cold. If you like skiing, hit the slopes; if you like ice skating, hit the rink; if you like watching other people's misery, watch them tromping by in the cold from the warmth of your office.

Step 3: Take a vacation. A Rockefeller? Go to the beach - Aruba, Barbados, Jamaica, whatever. A broke ass 20 something? Beg your parents to pay for you to go to Miami. A broke ass 20 something with mean parents? Print out pictures of tropical islands and plaster them all over your office/cubicle/bedroom walls. Close enough.

Step 4: Reward system. So you hate skiing, you don't want to sleep for 4 months straight, and those blurry pictures of Aruba are pissing you off instead of making you feel better? Plan a reward system to help you through the long haul. For every week you stop yourself from committing a messy suicide, give yourself something nice - it can be anything from a new pair of shoes, to a package of Oreos that you've been dreaming about. Like Pavlov's dog, we can be programmed to eagerly look forward to tasty treats.

I Am The Definition of Awkward

My life is very awkward. I am very awkward.

But before I explain further, let me ask you a question. Have you ever watched, seething with jealousy, as some old dude careens down the sidewalk on a motor powered wheelchair? Have you ever fought the urge to shove an old woman off one of those motor scooters are Target, because she's zooming around and not only getting her purchases faster, but also running over small children (without getting in trouble) in the meantime? Have you ever wanted to pick up a child out of a wheelchair and throw them to the curb, then steal it because your legs are tired, and damnit you just want to get home faster?

Well, of course you have. But the point is, once you have to actually get in a wheelchair, you suddenly can't wait to scramble out of it and run away as fast as humanly possible.

The first time I ever had to stick my surprisingly round ass in a wheelchair of any sort (besides after a surgery, or after twisting an ankle and having to be carted from the waiting room into the ER or something) was on a trip to Target. I'd been having a bad day pain wise, and once I got into the store, I realized there was no way in hell I'd be able to walk around for more than, oh, .005 seconds. Erin had to procure a motor scooter for me, which caused quite a few raised eyebrows, as I don't particularly look like I need a motor vehicle for movement purposes.

Of course it didn't help matters much that the only scooter left wasn't charged enough, so I had to inch around in the store, pissing everyone off around me because turtles and slugs and such kept speeding by me. Even the old people looked like marathon runners in comparison. And, to add insult to injury, the goddamn thing beeped like a fucking truck when I backed up. It seemed to shout "fat ass needs you out of the damn way to back up!" with every movement. It was mortifying.

I hadn't had to use a wheelchair in public since then, until this past week. My father and I realized that there was no way in hell I could get around in the airport with one, as it'd been something of a struggle to walk from my bed to my bathroom. We told the Jet Blue staff that I'd just had surgery (a cleaner, less embarrassing way to explain the situation, as people look at you funny when you say "oh hey, an ovarian cyst ruptured all over my pelvis, and I bled all over my abdomen - can you push my fat ass around? Thanks!") and needed a chair, so some poor sap got stuck wheeling me around Dulles.

And, if you didn't know, they just moved the Jet Blue terminal, so I got to take a wild ride on the shuttle, and be pushed even further around. I kept my sunglasses on and hid my face, and my father was protectively hovering around me, so some people got really curious and were trying to see if I was... well, probably not famous, I'd need a bigger entourage, but people were seriously craning their necks and deliberately walking by.

I suppose at least that cheered me up a little. I should've pulled the "Yeah, I'm totally Lindsay Lohan, I'm just not wearing make up - and I forgot to go get a touch up on my tan" card. That might've worked.


Whatever, close enough.

The way back was way more awkward, however, because my dad wasn't flying with me, so I just looked like an oversized bug, dressed all in black with my sunglasses on, huddled in a wheelchair pushed by a large woman who didn't speak any English, all on my own. I think everyone just thought I was a freak.

When I'm in pain and I'm walking, I tend to favor my left leg and put the weight on it, keeping the right leg slightly bent. I think it's because when the first cyst ruptured, it was on my right side, so the pain tends to be worse in that area. On the trip back to DC, everyone asked if I had just had knee surgery (since why else would a seemingly otherwise healthy 22-year-old be in a wheelchair?) so I just said yeah. It really is much easier than launching into my Reproductive Organ Mayhem Speech; say "knee surgery" and no one bats an eye (in fact people are very nice to you) but even start saying "uteru-" and people freak out.

Well, now that I'm back in DC, my adventures with wheeled modes of transportation aren't over. I have another week until I'm supposed to attempt walking to work (which is so strange, because when I'm healthy and fine, 6 or so blocks are nothing - but when I'm in pain, it may as well be an attempt to take a stroll to, oh, North Carolina) so I'm on cab patrol until then. Which means goodbye, $20 a day!

Crap, I knew I should've taken the other taxi

This morning - after sleeping a galling 14 hours last night - I stumbled out of bed and actually showered, dressed myself, and put on makeup. I figured I'd attempt looking human on my first day back to work in almost 2 weeks. I waddled out the front door of my building, and after freezing to the bone in just under 20 seconds (WHY is it so cold in DC?!) I hailed a cab and made my way to work. I paid the $10 freaking dollars (including tip) and was about to get out of the car, when the driver happily said, "Aw, are you pregnant?"

I suppose I should've expected this, as:

1. I took a taxi 6 blocks away.
2. I keep a hand over my stomach protectively in the car, because the uneven pavement/pot holes really freaking hurt
3. I'm puffy and retaining water and I looked slightly manic

But I was horrified. Especially because this isn't the first time I've been asked that question. And I don't just mean by a concerned gynecologist.

When I had surgery in June of '06 I had a laparoscopy, which entails having gas pumped into your stomach so that there's more space between organs, and it's easier for your doctor to get the tiny lasers and scissors in there (as a laparoscopy, for endometriosis at least, involves cutting out and burning away any scar or endometrial tissue that may be causing problems.) Unfortunately, you end up with a ballooned out stomach, which doesn't go away for about a week and a half or so. Which meant that 5 days after surgery, when I was up and mobile and going to summer classes at UMass Boston, I had a giant, pregnant-looking stomach. It didn't help that I always had one hand protectively over it, and the other supporting my aching back. I had the pregnant woman walk down, kids.

Mothers and women of all ages would come up to me, cooing and congratulating me. The only reason I didn't snap necks left and right was because they said my baby would be beautiful, just like me. Goddamn right any spawn of mine would be beautiful.

So, long story... long... I'm almost used to being asked if I'm happily impregnated. That doesn't mean I like it. I snarled something about uteri at the cab driver and dragged my sorry ass out of the cab, and proceeded to angrily waddle up to the front door of my building.

Only to find the building locked. After all, it is Martin Luther King Jr. Day, so EVERY OTHER BUSINESS IN THE DISTRICT HAS THE DAY OFF.

Only 7 more stories to go!

I waited for half an hour in the bitterly freezing cold, all the while leaving multiple messages on my boss' office phone and cell phone. Someone finally came to the lobby door, and informed that that no, none of the offices were open, and I should go home. So I did.

An hour later (after spending a total of $20 on cabs so far), my boss calls. Oh yeah, hey, the office is open, I got delayed, um, come in. AWESOME. So I shell out another $10, cart my ass all the way back to work, and so far I've spent 2.5 hours doing absolutely nothing, other than taking 10 seconds out and booking a rental car.

It's dark, it's cold, and I think we're the only 2 people in the entire building. And our office is in a massive building. This can end in one of several ways:

Scenario 1: My boss turns into a homicidal maniac and chases me around with a chainsaw.
Outcome 1: I die. I can't run, and our doors don't lock.

Scenario 2: Zombies overrun the building, in search of fresh meat.
Outcome 2: I die. I can't run, and though we can look our door from the inside, it's glass. It'll give after one or two good attempts at getting in.

Scenario 3: A ghost appears - perhaps the ghost of someone who was messily murdered on a day much like today, in which no one was supposed to be in the office, so no one found their body for days.
Outcome 3a: I die. I can't run, and the ghost can move through walls and doors.
Outcome 3b: I pull a Ghost Whisperer, and help the ghost avenge their death.
- Outcome 3b(i): The murderer is my boss. I die too.
- Outcome 3b(ii): The murderer is my boss. I bring him to justice.
- Outcome 3b(iii): The murderer is not my boss. We both die.
-Outcome 3b(iv): The murderer is not my boss. We team up as a sleuthing duo, and bring the murderer to justice. We then quit our jobs and travel the country with Ghost Hunters, avenging all the pissed off spirits that died messily, without having their murderers brought to justice.

Short of my boss and I become the next Ghost Hunting Nancy Drew & Co. Team, I think I'm in for a bad day. Once it's finally 6pm, and I've spent another $10 getting home, I'm going to pour myself a big class of Absolut Vanilla, watch some Futurama, and cry myself to sleep. It doesn't get anymore glamorous than that.

(s)Noooo!(w)

Days till Hanukkah: Tonight!
Days till Hull: 16
Days till Christmas: 20

So you know that scene in The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe, where the kids all tumble through the wardrobe and end up in whatever snow covered, bizarre creature infested, acid-trippy reality that C.S. Lewis came up with? Yeah okay, so that was like this morning, only instead of falling through a wardrobe I stumbled through the front door of my apartment, and rather than being transported to some pristine, gleaming winter wonderland I happened to get stuck in the very first (VERY EARLY) snowfall of the season, and rather than going on an adventure to raise Christianity awareness and usurp the throne, I got to trek over 3 miles for various errands - all before 9am.

And, to top it off, I once again forgot my nice, warm, long winter jacket at the Reds', so I had to do all of this in just my Northface parka.

Fuck this, man.

It's so cold outside! This is Boston weather, not DC weather. It shouldn't get bitingly cold until the very end of December, and even then we don't get the worst of it until January. I don't understand why I insist on living in the New England/Middle Atlantic region, when there's California over on the southern west coast, just beckoning me to come over and enjoy the happiness of 70-80 degree year round weather. I never should've left San Diego when I was there last December - hell, even if I'd become a homeless hobo, I still would've had a better existence than I do over here on the FREEZING coast.

I made myself a giant hot chocolate, so at least some heat is going back into my body. I'm really fighting the urge to just crawl under my cave desk and take a nap - my jacket could be used as a blanket, my scarf and gloves as a pillow, and the floor will make an excellent bed. I'm not picky. I've been known to fall asleep anywhere and everywhere, so it makes no difference to me.


Your Survival Technique of the Day
How to Survive the First Snow Fall of the Season

Step 1: Don't get out of bed.

Step 2: Milk it till the last minute. If you must get out of bed, make sure you do not do so until the very last possible minute. If you have to be at work at 9, get out of bed at 8:45. Nothing's more important than those last few minutes of warm, blanket-y goodness.

Step 3: Layers. Ladies, start off with a bra, a tank top, a long sleeve t-shirt, then add a sweater, perhaps a vest or two, and then top it off with a fleece and then your regular jacket. Guys, substitute "bra" for "wife beater" and you're good to go.

Step 4: Outerwear. It doesn't matter if you end up looking like a marshmallow, or if you have so many accessories on you look like the clearance table at Filene's Basement. The more gloves, hats, earmuffs, and scarves you have on, the better.

Step 5: If you're still too cold to function, wander into a grassy area, sit down, and wait to freeze. Obviously it's going to happen anyway, so you may as well go out in style, a la Jack Nicholson. As an added bonus, perhaps in a former life you did the same thing, and you can become one awesome (if slightly awkward) urban legend.