Costume FAIL

I'm not a big fan of Halloween - or any holiday when all the people in the world suddenly decide to descend on my favorite places and act like college freshmen again, thus, I aim to enjoy my birthday enough to be hungover to New Year's Eve each year.

Anyway, if one must go out for Halloween, I think costumes should involve creativity - buying ready-made costumes just seems like cheating. Coming up with something out of my at-home supplies is a challenge. This year I had plans to avoid the holiday altogether, but my aunt sent me an invite to her party, and so I stood in front of my closet and pondered the possibilities. My wardrobe has shrunk over the past two years to focus on work clothes and weekend warrior gear (adventure pants and t-shirts), so there wasn't a whole lot to choose from. The result?

Weekday Walk of Shame.

I created a hairdo my friend Jane would describe as "naughty hair" to top off my raccoon eyes, missing earring, and mis-buttoned shirt. If I'd had a pair of heels I could break one of, my look would have been complete. Off I went, arriving to find my aunt's triangular deck transformed into a pirate ship, complete with cellophane waves and a skeleton bearing a burning tikki torch. I walked in to find my two aunts doling out candy to neighborhood children with skull shaped goblets of wine in their hands. I walked in and gave them each a hug, only to hear, "where is your costume?" and "you're missing an earring!" I explained it was part of the look, but when I said 'walk of shame' there was no recognition in their eyes, and I realized that I had picked the wrong audience for my costume. I also gave them a hard time for the implication that that was how I left the house, but really, I think I'm the loser in this equation...

So the lesson learned? Subtlety has no place on Halloween, and every cliche has an audience. Trick or ... well, there was no treat there.

wine rings in my study book.

So I am at least committed enough to the possibility of going back to grad school that I have a GRE study book. That's right. I have to take the damn GRE again. I can't think of the right idiom for a non-relgious person to use to fully express how glad I am that it's just the general test, but I haven't taken a standardized test in over nine years. I bought a study book. And have drawn up a study schedule. And have even almost fully complied with it. I have a points reward system.

Ironically, my job entails a lob of technical writing and not much in the computation department, so my diagnostic test shows a better verbal score than math. I pretty much wanted to scream. I want to do my best on the math section, so that's where I'm stressing, pushing for speed to make sure I get it all in, and making stupid mistakes.

My new officemate reminded me the other day that stupid is a judgement word. She's right. It's still exactly what I meant.

-- Posted via iPhone.

Old is relative.

I met up with a friend from grad school tonight after work. He has been married as long as I've known him - met his wife in college, got married right after, and spent grad school going home early from the bar while the third in our drinking trio and I went on to second bar to continue our debauchery.

No longer true, the divorce is under way, and my friend finds himself back on the market. So tonight we were in a decided meat market - the average age of females was perhaps 25, and most men had at least a decade on them. It was the typical scene - giggly girls nodding at men who weren't saying anything interesting but their clothes and tone spoke of money and security to the lucky girl who could catch them. The girls were young and pretty, so while I turned a jaded eye to my drink and thought of being home wih my novel, my friend's eyes lit up like a dieter brought to the buffet line. I guess it's all relative.

-- Posted via iPhone.

Return to routine...

I'm back on the bus on a lovely summer day in DC, headed back to work after a week so relaxing I feel as if I'm sort of pouring myself back into the everyday mold. I'm working on a post about vacation, complete with pictures of both salt water and sunburn. But in the meantime I'm finding comfort in familiarity - the sound of coffee while I'm washing dishes, a cat on my lap as I allow myself a few minutes of reading, even the bus ride with its characters.

Also, I planned vacation so I'd come back to a two-day work week. Brilliant.


-- Posted via iPhone.

Baseball, beer, and bonding

Last month ended with baseball week - the Sox were in town for a three-game stand. They weren't up in Baltimore, where getting to and from the game van take as long as the game itself, they were inside DC. Needless to say, I was excited. I've made the trek up to Baltimore once a year since moving down here, which is actually more than I saw the Sox my last couple of years in Boston, when I had to choose between tickets or beer money. And they way things were going at work I deemed beer money a necessity. But I digress. Camden Yards is a great ballpark, but getting there is impossible if you don't have a car. Correction. Getting home is impossible. You can always take the MARC commuter train up there, but because evening commuters are headed away from DC, you can't catch a train home. So I convince my University of Maryland friends that they want to go to a game with me, which involves picking me up at the Metro and giving me a ride back at the end of the night. Less than optimal. You'd think that Baltimore, who lobbied so vehemently against the return of a Washington baseball team because it would cut into their fanbase, would make it easier for folks who live in the city to get to their park.

Anyway, the Red Sox. We know that I love them. One couldn't just buy tickets, however. The Washington Nationals knew that these games were a cash cow, and they made it difficult. At first, you could only get Sox tickets as part of a thirteen game package. That's right, you had to identify ten other times you'd like to see an almost certain conclusion. When they judged that they'd sold as many packages as they were likely to, they instituted a raffle for the chance to buy tickets to just the Sox games. I immediately got everyone I knew (who wasn't likely to want the tickets for themselves) to enter the raffle. It worked. Lady won a raffle slot, and we had a coffee date one morning when we bought tickets to all three games. And so it was that Daddo and I spent three glorious nights in June watching the Red Sox play ball here in DC. Each night we were joined by two other friends - Bill and Anna, a couple of my work buddies, and then Momola and my dad's dad, Pa to me, who grew up in Springfield, Mass. and has been a Sox fan all his life. (Though he felt honor bound to root for the home team, which I couldn't quite fathom. That was the night the Nats won, however, so maybe he knew something we didn't.)

Anyway, the games were great fun and the crowd made for lots of good stories, but the reason I was thinking about baseball here was because last week Daddo and I went to see the Cubs in town with the company tickets. You know, the good seats. And I was reminded of the week of games with him. We'd both head to the stadium, trying to call each other as we got there, missing calls over the din of the vendors, people, and loudspeakers. Instead we'd meet up at the seats, beer in hand - the man taught me my priorities, after all - and sit down to watch the crowd. If I didn't agree to trek for food before the game started I'd hear about it later when the lines were longer. We'd chat a bit, but as the heat kicked in and the games started we settled into the odd baseball or heat-related comment and comfortable silences (although, using the word silence when music was blaring and announcers were at top volume seems wrong). At some point around the seventh inning stretch, Daddo would turn and announce he was headed home at the end of the inning, facing a train ride to his car and the drive home from there. We were both hot and overwhelmed by noise by this point, so a quick 'good night' and we'd part company. We don't talk much during those evenings, but I love going to the games with Daddo. We sit next to each other and share the same experience, right down to the sweaty grossness that is DC summertime, and despite the sweat, the spilled beer or sausage-burned mouth, that obnoxious kid who's bound to sit behind you every so often, and the occassional foul bruise, it's pretty great.

-- Posted via iPhone.

Passport, check. Pants, who needs 'em?

Whenever my passport is required, be it for travel or work, I find myself repeating that line from Bridget Jones. Right before Mark Darcy returns to say he's been a prat, when Bridget's friends come to whisk her away to Paris because she's been such a sad sack. They divide up packing for her and Tom gives her just two responsibilities. "Right, passport, Bridget. Pants."

I booked my holiday Monday night, and had to find my passport to trust I still had it. I'll be out of the country for five days, three full days in Bermuda sitting on a beach, reading books and listening to the water. I'm not taking my computer. I am taking blackberry, but have promised to restrict its use to half an hour. But that's work. iPhone is going with me, so I can photo document, facebook, Twitter, and blog; keep up with the fun aspects of today's connectivity.

And why do I need pants for that?


-- Posted via iPhone.

This is a test.

So there was the realization that I could really access the blog site using mobile devices. First blackberry and then iPhone. But then it occurred to me - there has to be an app for that! And there is. So now, with my keyboard turned sideways in the palm of my hand I'm thinking that I may be able to get back in the swing of this blogging thing. Because the truth is that work isn't getting any less crazy, and I reach for my phone first during the daily commute.


-- Post From My iPhone