Jack Rose: so much better than Titanic, OR "2 Years WASSUP?!"

I realized something this morning, as I was sitting in the eye doctor's office filling out paperwork -- today is my two-year anniversary of living in DC. (On an unrelated note, you probably shouldn't wait two years after relocating to find a new GP, dentist, eye-doc, etc. Doctors will scold you.)

All told, it's been a pretty zippy and fulfilling two years. I have a (mostly) stable job, wonderful housemates in a cute lil rowhouse (let's just skate over the whole mold thing), fabulous friends (remember when I lived in a cave and complained about my social life?), and am looking at getting another degree (apparently this involves studying for the GRE. Psh).

So thanks, DC, for being pretty good to me. All I need is my family and the mountains and I'd be set.

Since my 1-Year Anniversary Post was a mild tribute to Irish whiskey, why not continue along that theme?

There's a bar here in the District, called Jack Rose. It is not an homage to Titanic. It is an homage to all things whiskey. And I've had some pretty good experiences here, one of them just last week, which is close enough to serve as my annual nod to whiskey.

One of my best friends in the city is moving to Colombia for a Fulbright. (#baller) I promised her a Whiskey Education Night before she left, so on a quiet weeknight we tripped over to Jack Rose for the evening. Most of my knowledge I gleaned from working at my fine wine/liquor store, but if you're interested in a primer on whiskey, start here. And ignore the sexist title of the article. *grumble grumble*

We started with beer. Cuz you need something to sip on. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I get very animated (and, well, loud) when I'm excited about something, so basically anyone sitting near us could hear my whiskey spiel. The bartender had a little grin on his face, and the guy next to us (sitting alone, my age, and very attractive, not that I notice these things) was blatantly eavesdropping.

I get about halfway through my lecture, and the bartender approaches with two drinks. "Here ya go, ladies," he says, as we pick them up with curiosity. "Some of us bartenders are participating in a gin mixology contest for GQ, will you be our guinea pigs?"

Um, YES. I don't know much about gin and it isn't my favorite, but I'm not about to turn down free drinks.

We take our sips and the bartender asks for our opinion. "Well, to be honest," I say, "I think it's missing something." I give my recommendations, since Bartender was going for a gin chai flavor -- up the citrus, add more spices, maybe try a more floral gin to make it pop more. The cute loner leans in.

"Whoa." He stares at me with serious eyes. "That was incredible. Are you a professional?"

I laugh and explain the whole worked-in-a-liquor-store thing. Bartender raises his eyebrows and says, "I remember you! You've definitely sat at my bar before." [I have, indeed, dear readers. But that's a separate story.] Oddly, Cute Loner doesn't say anything more and returns to his burger -- gentlemen, *cough cough*

Just sayin.

We sip our gin and order some bourbon. Girl talk. Appetizer. Bartender brings us another, improved round of gin drinks. Cute Loner leaves, to be replaced by Gaggle of 4 Dudes. I order a Scotch. More girl talk. Another bourbon. Gaggle of 4 Dudes eye-flirts with us for a while, but we don't engage and they leave. Bartender brings a different gin drink. Another bartender wants us to be his guinea pigs, too, and brings over yet another gin drink. At this point it's late, we're almost the only ones there, and we've made friends with all the bartenders. There may have been more gin involved, I don't remember. One more bourbon and we're almost done for the night. We've probably been here for hours, I think.

"Excuse me," I hear a voice say from behind. "But have you ladies been here drinking whiskey for almost four hours?"

Convenient.

We turn. It's one of the Dudes from the Gaggle of 4 Dudes. "Um, yes," we say with slow grins. "Yes we have."

"That's AWESOME," he says. We exchange brief small talk and he explains that the Gaggle didn't leave, they just went upstairs. And that they all couldn't help noticing what beautiful blue eyes we each have, and how they couldn't stop talking about us once they got upstairs. I'm about to roll those beautiful blue eyes, but he interjects. "I'm not trying to be creepy!" he protests. "I'm actually married -- but I just wanted to let you ladies know that we think you're beautiful."

"Oh. Well, thanks," my friend and I say, genuinely appreciative. "We were actually just sitting here complaining about men, so....really, thank you. It means a lot."

"Oh, I'm sorry about that," he says. "I promise we're not all terrible. You ladies have a great night. And just know that you're appreciated." Then he smiles and leaves.

My friend and I turn slowly to each other. Well, that was...cool.

Bartender comes over to ask what just happened. When we tell him he laughs -- "Are you kidding me?" -- and goes to fetch our bill.

Second shocker of the night: our bill, together, comes to a grand total of 20 dollars. WHAAAT.

We each protest, surely we ordered more than that and it's very sweet but we'd feel terrible not paying for more and we don't want to be those girls always looking for free drinks, but he overrides us, quite firm. "I don't remember pouring any more than that," he shrugs.

We stare, thank him profusely, and leave a very generous tip.

"See you ladies next week!" the bartenders all call as we gather our things. "You're regulars now, so you better be back!"

Oh, trust me, we will.

Workin the DC grind

Last week wrapped up what was probably the busiest week of my life at work. I've occasionally worked into the evenings, but last week was the first time where 8 pm saw me still at my desk, tapping tiredly at the keyboard, trying to make deadlines, filing paperwork, etc etc, other Frantic Office Stuff.

I don't know about all of you, but 11 hours in front of a computer leave me drained and sad about my future.  

I've always believed in having a healthy balance between a work life and a personal life. I want to be passionate about what I do, yes, but I also don't want my job to drive me into the ground and destroy whatever fervor I have for my field. (Otherwise I'll just end up a fat dog-lady (the new cat-lady) who yells at the dumb broads on The Bachelor.)

This is pretty tough to manage in DC. (The work-life balance, not the dog-lady thing.) People define themselves by their job. Whenever you meet someone here, the first question is almost always "So what do you do?"

This really frustrates me, but I haven't figured out a classy way around it. "Tell me about who you ARE, as a PERSON" doesn't come off too well. And asking lots of detailed questions about someone's non-work life can veer quite suddenly into stalker-land. I'm still working on this...suggestions welcome.

Now that that segue is over, I want to take some time to address the work culture of DC. Because clearly, I missed out on some club meeting where everyone here decided the new Rules that Everyone Shall Follow. Drat, it's middle school all over again. 

Also, I like lists. Aren't they efficient? 

Rule #1: Thou shalt go into the office early. What job you have will determine how early you go in. Government job, think early. Like, early early. I don't have a government job, not yet anyway, so I can't speak to this entirely, but 7 or 8 seems normal. Even if you don't have a government job, earlier is better.

Rule #2: Thou shalt stay late. Leaving at 6 is leaving on schedule, but 7 or 8 seems more normal for some of my friends. Later gives you a Truly Dedicated Award. (I have one friend who stays until 9 on the reg.)

Rule #3: Thou shalt donate weekends. Notice I say "donate." Oh, you thought you'd get overtime? Hahahaha, excuse me, but bahaha. That's precious.

Last weekend I was up until 1 am trying to meet a deadline. Nope. No overtime. If you have a cool boss you can shuffle those hours around and take time off later, but not everyone has a cool boss.

I can take the above three rules and distill them into a nice graph for you.

*Note: Graph may not be mathematically accurate. As previously mentioned, I'm no math major.

As you can see, people in my age and pay bracket (that would be the "who are you" section) commit ungodly hours to our jobs. This is because we want to prove ourselves and move up the food chain. We want to move up the food chain so that we can eventually put in the same ungodly hours -- but at least we'll have a fancy title! And we'll truly AFFECT policy! And there is nothing unrealistic about this dream whatsoever! Yay!

Until then, the drudgery must continue. And that brings us to Rule #4, my personal favorite.

Rule #4: Thou shalt observe Happy Hours. I did not know this term when I first moved here. Happy hour? Eh?

Ahem. What do overworked professionals need more than anything? A break, you might say. No no, young padowan. Overworked professionals need alcohol. 

"Happy hour" refers to special bar hours (usually 4:30 until 7 or so) that offer discounted drink prices. Cocktails, beer, wine...it's a great marketing scheme actually, because by the time happy hour rolls around, we (and the bar adverts) have convinced us that we DESERVE some libation. And nothing feels more cathartic than to get deservedly tipsy and complain about your job, right?

Right. Now if you'll excuse me, Irish Whiskey Public House is calling my name.

After the natural disaster, a man-made one: Election 2012

I spent this electoral season in our nation's lovely capital - epicenter for the man-made disaster that has become our electoral process. Luckily, I don't own a TV, so I was relatively sheltered from the various attack ads trying to convince undecided voters which way to swing.

That does not mean, however, that I was sheltered from the campaigning.

I have several good friends on both sides of the aisle who are die-hards...subsequently, my Facebook feed looked something like this in the days prior to November 6:

"Knocking on doors in the good ole District Blah Blah! Let's turn it red!"
"Last chance to make a difference, America! Yes we CAN."
"If Obama wins, socialism wins. Seriously I'll move to Canada. Not even joking."
"Anyone who votes for Romney is voting for the 1% and hates minorities and gay rights. Weep for America."

And then there were others:
"Can't wait for this election season to be over. Gonna go stab myself in the eye now."
"Why can't we all just get along? I LOVE EVERYONE!"

I simultaneously agreed with and disagreed with all these statements. As an independent moderate, I can identify with portions of both the Democratic and Republican platforms. (I won't enumerate my political beliefs further here, if you're interested we can grab coffee sometime.) As a human being, I too am sick to death of assualt-by-soundbite and pointless blustering. However, I DO think it's counterproductive to alienate your friends with sharp, and sometimes bigoted, opinions on a social platform that isn't built for longer, open, rational discussion.

This pic, via Twitter, is from Election Night at Busboys
rather than a debate, but you get the idea.
Same type of crowd. 

That's why I appreciated going to the various Prez and VP debates. This town is a Mecca for political nerds, and almost every bar hosted their own watch parties. So I gathered my peeps and we clustered in places like Busboys and Poets - imagine not a seat open in the house, all eyes glued to the TV, loud comments from supporters and/or haters, stout beer and sweet potato fries, and laughter at various presidential missteps.
I can't imagine the bars back home would get this worked up over politics. Cat/Griz football, maybe, but politics, no.

I'm more a foreign policy buff than a domestic policy one, so I particularly enjoyed the last debate. For your amusement (and mine), a brief recollection of my favorite moments (from all the debates):

 

 

 

 

 

 

I won't lie, the Democrats seemed quicker on their feet (other than the first debate) and better able to connect to my generation via the media. Sorry, Mom. [Enter political rant about media bias here.]

 

When Election Day came, things seemed pretty quiet, at least to me. But then, I worked from home on purpose that day to avoid the frantic rushing about town. I cast my ballot quietly, and my precinct saw a minimum amount of drama.

 

However, the liquor store (maybe I should start calling it my "fine wine shop" since people seem to get the wrong idea when I say "liquor store") was the place for citizens to air their opinions. Democrats and Republicans streamed in by the dozens - and you could tell their mood based on what they bought. Champagne = we're gonna win. Vodka/whiskey/bourbon = we may lose, and if we do I'll need to drown my sorrows. Champagne AND liquor = I'm prepared for anything. Beer = general partying. Because why watch sober.

 

A few customers, who shall remain NAMELESS (because I legit don't know their names) strolled in like they owned the place, utterly confident of a win and utterly convinced that I needed to agree with them. Badgered me repeatedly about how their guy is obviously the only guy to vote for.

 

Yeah, like I'm gonna share my views with a boozed-up die-hard on Election Night. In a liquor store. 3 blocks away from the Capitol building.

 

Hey, I'm just the cashier. Do you want a bag with that?

How to prepare for a disaster

Most of you know by now that DC got off fairly light from Hurricane Sandy. New York and New Jersey weren't so lucky, and I'm still praying for recovery efforts there.

Hurricane Sandy was the first time I had the potential to be in a real natural disaster. Out in Montana we don't have much beyond forest fires or the occasional flood, and my home there is on high ground so floods wouldn't affect us anyway. Michigan occasionally gets tornadoes, but nothing serious ever happened while I was there.

As such, I had absolutely no experience upon which to draw for preparations for Hurricane Sandy. I should have read useful sites like this one, but alas. I did not.

Instead I went to the grocery store with a friend. We wandered vaguely around, picking up items and then putting them down again -- you need a stove to heat up canned soup, you need milk in order to eat cereal, you need a fridge to store pudding. None of those things work without power. I finally settled on some tins of canned fruit, along with some other odds n ends. For some reason I thought it'd be great to buy mango Jello. Post-hurricane treat?

Despite people tripping over themselves for it, I simply couldn't bring myself to buy water. For one thing, the price had been jacked up. For another, water seems like such a ridiculous thing to spend money on when you can get it, for free, right out of the tap.

A few girls in my college dorms bought bottled water because they said the tap water "tasted funny"...

Some families in developing countries walk for hours to get potable water; I wasn't gonna waste my limited college funds on bottled water because the tap water, while perfectly drinkable, "tasted funny."

Since my roomie was of the same opinion, we got creative.

We emptied out old cider jugs and filled those with tap water. Same with old honey jars. I happen to save the *cough cough* occasional wine bottle, so we filled a couple of those up to the brim. In all, we probably had at least 5 gallons of water. Ahem hem, WATER, not wine. And definitely not whiskey. Or bourbon. No beer either. In fact, there was no consumption of alcohol at all during the storm. None whatsoever.

I felt pretty proud of myself.

In the end, all the water wasn't necessary. Very few areas in the District lost power -- although we did have some pretty intense rain and wind (I was sure to park my car on a street with no huge trees; dealing with an insurance claim for weather damage would be just about the last straw with my car). 

I hope any of you reading this, if you were affected by the storm, are safe and sound.

How to see DC in 2 days

One of the things I love about DC is that there’s.so.much.to.do. Monuments! Memorials! Museums! Oh my! It’s definitely too much to cover in one trip. However, when a favorite aunt comes to town for only a few days, that’s when ya make it hap’n, cap’n.

DC in two days? BRING IT.

Having done a fair amount of traveling, I intimately understand the sadness of not being able to do all the things you’d like to do in a destination city. (London, I will return to you.) Thus, here are some quick tips to help you out:

Condense your city into a concise list of priorities.  Don’t feel badly about the things you leave out – it’s tourist season, Jefferson won’t even notice that you stood him up for Lincoln. He’ll be too busy fending off about a quadrillion 8^th grade tour groups.

It’s ok to fudge the numbers a little. You want to see the Smithsonian. Awesome. Me too. But the Smithsonian consists of no fewer than 19 museums and 9 different research centers, and each of those museums has multiple floors and multiple wings, with rotating exhibits and 3-D movies and fancy gift shops. Is it physically possible to see all this stuff? Erm, no. Soooo…pick one. Bam. You saw the Smithsonian. (I recommend the Air and Space Museum – it hits a lot of cool stuff you don’t necessarily get in school.)

Wentelteefjes: Belgian “French” toast.

Go with some city-savvy locals. (Ahem, I’m city-savvy now, my blog says so in the title!) Locals will show you how to navigate the metro system quickly and efficiently (escalators: stand on the right, walk on the left!), tell you what’s worth seeing and what’s not, and introduce you to cool little holes-in-the-wall that the guidebook didn’t mention (Belga Café – my favorite brunch spot!).

Never.stop.walking. If you do, you’re done. You’ll never get started again. Just ignore your aching limbs and bruised feet – pain is weakness leaving the body.

Refuel with mango margaritas. Okay fine, it’s ok to stop for alcohol.

Be spontaneous. I like to think of The Plan as more of The Suggestion. Sometimes adhering so strictly to The Plan actually just makes us miserable. So, if you get the sudden urge to walk barefoot through the grass at Arlington Cemetery, or dip your toes in the pool at the Sculpture Garden, or run naked around the Washington Monument, do it.

Okay, maybe don’t do that last one. Let someone else do that, and then you can gawk and get pictures as they get dragged away by police.

And finally, enjoy your exhaustion at the end of the day. You earned it. 

Do we look related, or what?

Fried chicken, donuts, and BEER: a Churchkey experience

I’ve been meaning to write this story up for a while, but hey, sometimes life happens – say, perchance, your car gets towed (through no fault of your own, might I add), or you realize you’re a legal American citizen and must therefore pay taxes – and before you know it three weeks have passed and you’ve almost forgotten that you had a blog in the first place.  

Contrary to the tenor of my last couple posts, this one should serve as a reassurance that I am, in fact, enjoying my life here in DC. Really! It’s true! My friends are great, my sis is great, and as always, everything is better with beer.  

So. A couple weeks months back, The Sis and I decided to leave work early and take advantage of the unseasonably warm spring day. How best to do this? Hop a few blocks over to Churchkey for happy hour, of course. For non-DCers, Churchkey is one of, if not THE best bar for beer in the District. It boasts a selection of over 500 beers from all over the world, as well as a pretty yummy menu. Being an employee of a liquor store, and therefore knowing a bit more about beer allotments for the District than your average Joe, I can say with some authority that Churchkey is often allotted certain specialty beers that almost no one else receives from distributors.  

Sadly, I had not yet been to Churchkey before this day. *shamefacedly hides in a broom closet* 

The Sis and I arrived at about 4 o’clock. The bar was largely empty at this early hour, except for some sort of film crew that was occupying all the tables near the windows. I grumbled to myself – living the last year of my life in windowless cubicles has made me crave sunlight like a withered plant – and sat down at the bar, as near as possible to the windows.  I assumed the film crew was updating the menu, taking new shots of meals and such. I didn’t pay them much mind, largely because The Sis and I had engaged the bartender in a lively discussion about beer. 

Another plus of working in a liquor store: I actually kind of know what I’m talking about. We chatted about hops (this girl is NOT a hops fan), maltiness, fruity crisp notes, and the inherent superiority of Salmon Fly Rye, a beer brewed out of Montana. (Okay, I talked about the inherent superiority of Salmon Fly Rye, and the bartender listened patiently and had the good sense to agree with me.) Occasionally other bartenders would meander past us and offer their opinions. 

After a few minutes of this, a member of the film crew sidled up on my right and leaned his elbows on the bar. Score one for being a cute girl in a bar, where the only other competition is your look-alike twin sister, I thought. 

“Hey,” Film Crew Guy said. “You ladies seem to be having a very dynamic conversation here…you sound like you really know what you’re talking about.” We do. As already established. “Would you be interested in participating in our TV show?” 

Say what? Sure!! I washed my hair today, so why not? 

Film Crew Guy explained that his show, ABC’s The Chew, was doing a special about different eateries around DC. Churchkey was chosen for its beer reputation and for its unique sandwich called “The Luther.” The Luther is essentially a behemoth of fried chicken, donuts, and maple syrup. A surprising combination, and surprisingly good. (UNsurprisingly, it’s probably worth at least 4 heart attacks.) 

FCG introduced us to the host of the show, a jet-lagged but energetic Kiwi named Jason, and explained that they would do a couple takes of Jason interviewing us, and then us actually eating the sandwich and commenting on how much we loved it. [Obviously, we loved it…people aren’t interviewed to give their REAL opinions.] We ran through these scenes quickly, eating little bites of the sandwich each time. The Sis was a little hesitant about eating too much of The Luther, and rightly so; one bite had to have been at least 1,000 calories.  I had every intention of maintaining discretion as well, but…hey, I actually did really like the sandwich. [Meaning I ate the whole thing.] At one point FCG complimented us on our acting skills and presentation – “Wow, you guys actually sound perfect, like real actors!” Why thank you, I told him. I actually had the lead in my 5th-grade Christmas play.

For those interested, the clip of the Chew can be seen here. Thanks to my friend Jon for pointing it out! And ignore the fact that I sound like a ditzy sorority girl.

At the end of the shoot, Jason gestured toward our drinks. “What are you guys drinkin? Next round’s on us.” Why thank you, Jason. We chatted with him and the crew a while longer before meandering back over to the bar, which was packed at this point with people just off from work. Actually, a little crowd of them had been watching us during the entire interview. 

Our favorite bartender came back over and chatted with us for a moment, but he was much busier now. Didn’t matter too much, the people next to us were very interested in our interview and what was going on. [Note: by “people next to us” I mean “that guy next to my sister,” and by “interested in our interview” I mean “interested in her phone number.” But I digress.]

Eventually, one guy approached us and introduced himself as the manager of the bar. “I hear you ladies are the new face of Churchkey!” he exclaimed. We are? Okay, I guess I can handle that.  We chatted with him about beer and other things, explaining just how good a tall Coldsmoke is – it’s another beer out of Montana, a rich stout that people also make into a special ice cream. The Sis and I made it very clear: if he wanted his bar to TRULY be the best in the District, it needed to import some Montana beer. After all, we have one of the highest ratios of micro-breweries to people in the entire country!  

True fact. Maybe.  

Point is, we convinced him, and discussed a few different import strategies. And as we were talking, he mentioned that Churchkey does its own version of a beer ice cream, and insisted that we try it. On the house. The Heart-attack Yummo Sandwich Luther followed by beer ice cream? Okay, I guess I can handle that. 

“Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you ladies,” the manager said, preparing to depart. “How about we comp your tab for the rest of the night?”  

I think my eyes bugged out of my head. Free beer and food at Churchkey for the rest of the night!? Okay, I think I can handle that. 

I had been about ready to leave the bar – I had a date that night across town. After the manager’s offer, though, I quickly dialed my date and explained the situation. He agreed to the change in plans immediately. Smart guy.

And that’s how I got interviewed for a show on ABC, got a free tab at a favorite bar, and arranged to import Montana beer all in the same night.

I guess I kinda like this DC town.

Apparently being from Montana is a liability when dancing

Given the title of this post, you’re probably about to crack some joke about how Montanans can’t dance unless we’re in a barn with hay and a fiddle. You country bumpkins are so quaint, you think, just like all those Lifetime movies with Katherine Heigl before she got famous and did crap like The Ugly Truth. Yes, I’m sure you’re thinking exactly that.

First of all, our country hoe-downs are grand fun. Don’t knock ‘em til you try ‘em. Second of all, we can also do other types of dancing. I’m a big fan of swing, myself. However, I do also love me some uncoordinated, spastic club dancing – great in a place like DC, which has so many clubs.  And gradually over the years, my awkward 80’s moves have morphed into something that can actually resemble some pretty decent club dancing (although I can still whip out the Shopping Cart or the Sprinkler on occasion).  

My point is, I love club dancing. And not in an I’m-still-in-college-and-looking-for-affirmation-on-the-dance-floor kind of way, but in an I’m-an-adult-with-a-job-look-at-me-cut-loose kind of way. Minus the job part, of course.

Unfortunately, I have a handicap.

Everyone here in DC thinks my Montana ID is a fake.

I actually found this pretty funny the first time it happened.  I was out with some co-workers, casually handed off my card to the burly Russian-looking bouncer, and prepared to receive it back with the typical “Gee you’re far from home” comment. Instead he held my card, glared at me with a look that plainly said, “Вы незаконно!” and crossed his arms, barring entrance. Luckily, my hiring manager was there and assured him that she would not have hired me had I been underage.  He grudgingly let me pass.

The second time was on Halloween. Also a funny occasion, as I stood by the door watching as Gaddafi after Qaddafi after Khadafi strolled through in their bad wigs and golden robes. This time, the bar manager had to come over to take a look at my ID. “I promise it’s real,” I told him. “I’m sure you hear that all the time, but just check with your little UV pen and you’ll see the holographic bears on it.” Grizzlies, to be precise.  The manager relented this time, too.

But this past St. Patty’s Day, my luck ran out. The bouncer, who I maintain had a chip on his shoulder anyway (something corroborated by my friends…the phrase “douchebag” may have been used), took one look at my ID and said flatly, “You’re not getting in.” And none of my cajoling or explanations made a whit of difference.

Curse you, Montana driver’s license!  

Actually, I wasn’t 100% sure that my rejection was based on my license…after all, it WAS St. Patty’s Day. But I had my managers at the liquor store take a look at my ID the next week, and all of them immediately said something along the lines of Yup, that looks really fake.

Sigh. I really don’t want to be one of those girls who takes her passport to bars. Her passport, of all things. Having lived abroad for a year, a passport is like gold and not something to be dog-eared as your bar companion. Not only that, it’s fairly easy (so I hear) to steal an identity based solely on a passport.

Nope, not for me.

Time for a DC driver’s license?

Open letter: To the person who robbed me

Dear Thief,

I am not stupid. I know what a robber looks like, and I know what a casing for a robbery looks like. I've traveled to 10 countries in 8 months, and I know how to protect myself and my property. This ranges from observing and tracking my surroundings to being able to throw a few punches -- I took boxing lessons from a couple of hardened ex-Marines, so don't even try it.

I am not an easy target.

That said, I congratulate you on your method. Having some random guy paw through my coat and gloves (I don't keep valuables in my pockets, jackass) in order to distract me was clever: I was too busy confronting him to notice your greasy fingers slipping into my purse. By the way, you missed my cash, my iPod, my computer, and my computer cord. Actually, why didn't you snag the whole freaking wallet?

You only got two cards. Nice job, Thief.

However, you have further ruined one of my favorite coffeeshops. Caribou Coffee reminds me of home, with its rustic, warm atmosphere and wood paneling and stonework. The last time I went to this location, though, I was harassed by a homeless person and had to threaten to call the cops. This time, willing to give it another chance, all I wanted was some peace and quiet with my book and a cup of mango tea. Not only did you ruin that, but you ruined the coffeeshop. First time I go, I get harassed. Second time, I get robbed. Third time? There will be no third time.

Also, H&M? Really? You rob me and your first stop is a clothing store? (They must not have ID'd you, and trust me, I'll be speaking with them about that. The $1000+ you charged is totally their loss.) You must have really hot-footed it there -- you stole my cards, used them, I discovered the fraud and cancelled the cards all within the span of about three hours.

Quick word of advice -- next time you get twitchy fingers, target someone who's a little more flush. Don't know if you've heard, but I'm kind of a broke intern right now.

Also, don't target someone whose small-town bank knows her well and will bend over backward for her.

And finally: You better hope that I'm not as good of a researcher as I claim on my resume, because if I ever catch you then I will prosecute you to the full extent of the law. Which in DC is a fine of up to $5000 and 10 years in prison.

But I'll settle for just punching you in the face.

Sincerely,
Pissed Off Ball of Rage formerly known as Aftan

My evil plan is working

I mentioned I have a part-time job, just something modest to sustain me during my internship. This job, while fun and pretty decent as far as part-time jobs go (more on this later), is eating up the rest of my life.

That’s one reason why I haven’t been writing. The other reason is far more exciting.

I’m slowly convincing my best friends to move to the District.

This idea sprouted sometime late senior year, when we were all talking about what to do with the rest of our lives. In between conversations about international volunteer work, journalism, IT, politics, psychology, and mid-wifery (for reals, we’re pretty awesome), we all voiced the same question, one we knew we could probably never answer in the affirmative. Guys, what if we all lived together in the same city, in the same house, somewhere down the road?

Aaah, college. Almost our entire four years, we had all lived together. We took for granted how blessed we were to share a cozy cottage (when I say “cozy”, I’m definitely not referencing the triple room, and when I say “share” I’m also not referring to the bats). Those evening dinners with Jeopardy! Those late nights with rum and spilled pizza and really bad movies.

Though I had only begun to consider moving to DC at that point, privately I thought it was the most acceptable “compromise-place” for all of us. We could all manage to do something field-related in DC. So as soon as I moved here, I took it upon myself to turn into “that annoying friend” – you know the one I mean. The one to whom something happened (“Poor Fluffy ran away!”), and now she must always preface conversations with that experience (“You know, when Fluffy ran away, I went through the same thing, so this totally relates…”)

Only my repetitive phrase involved moving to DC. You know Laynsy, there’s this job that combines IT with international relations…Hey Becks, you could do Spanish church work here, right? Court, there are lots of babies on my block, so clearly DC needs some good nannies… MirCat, public policy + international work = DC… Imma jussa sayin… Sis, we’re in the same field. Getcho butt out here.

Variations on a theme, people. I would apologize for being so annoying about it, except, well, MY FREAKING PLAN IS WORKING: LAYNSY AND THE SIS MOVED TO DC. Enter times of growth, exploration, laughter, and most importantly excessive immaturity sprinkled throughout our masquerade as real adults.

This is why I haven’t been writing. Oh, and the second-job thing. That too.

Be warned: consider my (not so) subtle brainwashing to continue.

Part II, or "How pumpkins, whiskey, and fire combine to make a fabulous night out"

So, I meant to write this post a lot earlier -- as The Sis offhandedly reminded me a few minutes ago -- but a few things intervened to bump this down the priority list a few notches. Namely, two of my BEST college buddies came to town and I had much better things to do than sit in my room with my computer. 

When last we met, dear readers, I was on my way to the nearest bar with my friend in sore need of libation -- standing on a street corner mentally envisioning angry hot flames lick their way through my apartment (My computer! My Aberdeen sweater! My Jordan boots!* Aaargh!) will kind-of do that to you.  

Luckily, "the nearest bar" was barely a block away. It's a dark, fun, mostly purple little hole-in-the-wall place crammed full of character. "Seriously," my friend (who is, coincidently, one of the afore-mentioned college buddies. I'll call her Laynsy) later asked, "how did you find this place?" Word of mouth. They do have a website though, which I won't share because I'd prefer NOT to give you blatant clues as to my living whereabouts.

Totally important digression: A few weeks ago, as I was browsing through the bar's website, I noticed that this bar served New Holland Brewery's Dragon's Milk stout. I went to college 2 blocks away from NHB and was raised on their fine beer -- meaning it is TOTALLY THEIR FAULT I am the beer snob that I am -- and while I wasn't the biggest fan of Dragon's Milk, I was encouraged that NHB beer had made it down to DC. Maybe, just maybe, that meant some of their Ichabod pumpkin ale had penetrated the DC market? 

Something you should know: The Ichabod pumpkin ale is my.favorite.beer.of.all.time. It beats out Newcastle brown ale and even Guinness. It's that good. I'm sure part of this is nostalgia talking....but seriously, I had scoured the city and not been able to find it. 

Back to the story. Laynsy and I are on our way to the bar. We're in mild states of shock. We need a drink. Or more. These circumstances combine to put me in a particularly bold and uncaring mood -- I'm evacuated and my poor little apt is stuck next to an ex-wild blaze. Hahahaha!!! Cue hysteria!!  

Keep in mind, this is a Thursday night. The bar scene is pretty tame in my neighborhood on Thursdays. Thus, when we walk in we are (once again, in my case) the only females there. Two groups of guys turn and stare at us. 

I walk boldly forward and slide onto a bar stool. Laynsy joins. (Guys are still staring a bit.) Awesome Bar-Tender Lady greets us -- "What can I get you fine ladies?" -- and drops a huge binder of beer options on the counter in front of us. We open the binder, and there it is on the very first page: the Ichabod pumpkin ale.  ULTIMATE WIN. 

"We'll have that one!!!" Laynsy and I exclaim, slamming our palms emphatically on the counter. "And," I add loudly, "we'll also have some shots of tequila." To aid in our recovery from shock. 

The guys next to us have perked up their ears. Immediately, the group on my left starts talking to me, and the same happens for the group on Laynsy's right. Turns out, Laynsy's friends end up being waaaay cooler, as my friends (or singular "friend" -- his buddy didn't talk much. Just stared at me creepily the whole time) decided to go with the "neg" game. Seriously, it is NOT fun to chat with you if you contradict everything I say. And by the way, if you're at least 27 and male and still sporting a blonde faux-hawk, stop it. Just stop it.

I eventually turned my back on these guys to engage with Laynsy's friends. (My friends left shortly afterward, but only after Creeper Starer touched my elbow and said that it was really nice to meet me.) Laynsy's friends were awesome! They didn't try to hit on us, they weren't whackadoodles, and we had completely normal conversation.

One of them, Jason, said to me at one point, "Hey I noticed Blonde Faux-Hawk Guy try to use the "neg-er" approach with you. He wasn't getting very far!" I expressed my complete bewilderment that that approach would ever work on anyone, but Jason assured me that it actually works a lot. "Girls have surprisingly low self-esteem, and if someone subtly insults them, then they subconsciously want to please him. Trust me. It works."

Guys: that approach will not work on this girl. If you're trying to hit on me by subtly insulting me, I will mentally swear at you and then exit stage left as soon as possible.

Aaaaaanywaaaays. The bar was a cash only place -- bollocks -- so I ventured back to my apartment to collect a few bills and get an update on the fire situation. Laynsy held down our tab at the bar. The firefighters were finishing up for the night, and a huge cluster of them stood outside my place. We chatted for a moment as a few others threw useless burned crap out the windows of the now-burned neighbor's apartment.

They told me I couldn't go back inside, due to the throwing-crap-out-windows situation. "Is it really urgent?" they asked. "Do you have to take some medication?" Haha, no not at all...why, do I look deranged?? "Do you have a pet?" No, actually I need to get some cash to settle up my bar tab.

Instant scoring of points with the firefighters. 

"Yeeeaaaahh!!! Boy, wish WE could have some beer right now! Go drink another for us!" Oh, I will.

They paused the other guys in their trash throwing activities, and I nipped inside to grab the cash. On my way out I stopped to chat further with the group. 

"Um, were you friends with any of those guys?" one firefighter asked. All the others appeared really interested in my answer, and peered at me. 

"No, not really," I responded, feeling a bit awkward. "I mean, they gave me my mail when the postman mis-delivered it, but other than that...."

"Well, GOOD," a particularly handsome firefighter said. (Read: SMOKIN HOT firefighter. Pun intended.) "Trust me, you did not want to be friends with those guys."

....Why????

"Oh, it's nothing I can repeat in front of a lady."

......Cute, but yes you can I have to know tell me tell me!

I wheedled a few other details out of him, and yes. He was right. I didn't need to know more. End of story. 

Eventually I reluctantly went back to the bar, where we chatted further with Jason and his buddy. We swapped stories and advice and generally had a good time, and Jason bought us a round of Buffalo Trace whiskey before they took off.

All in all, the evening ended fabulously. Something in the universe decided to reward our earlier stress by treating us to Ichabod ale, free whiskey, new friends, and at least 15 minutes where I had a group of 5 to 7 firefighters all to myself. 

Oh, also, the bar had an Airedale puppy wandering around. Further win.

Editor's note: Laynsy received several kisses that night...from the Airedale. She said it was "THE HIGHLIGHT OF HER NIGHT." (She owns an Airedale -- shout out to Sophie-Soph!)

*Purchased while abroad for the equivalent of $12. When I bought them, I found a receipt inside that said they were originally from Europe and priced at something crazy ridiculous like 90 euros. Don't know if that receipt was real or not, but these boots are AWESOME and I always garner more than a few compliments when I wear them.

I came home, and MY HOUSE WAS ON FIRE

Just so you know, when I say "fire," I mean it literally. This was not a "this party is so awesome, lets raise the roof [do people still say that?] and set this place on fire" type fire. Literal fire. The hot kind.

Okay, to be fair, my house wasn't exactly on fire -- that was a bit of a hook to reel you in, dear reader -- but I thought my house was on fire.

Story: After eating a scrumptious meal with out with friends (read: stuffing my face with mostly waffle fries), I was riding the bus back home. One of my best college buddies, who's in town for the week, accompanied me. As we pulled into my stop, we passed a cluster of firetrucks and policemen. Not unusual in the city -- there's always some yayhoo doin' somethin' stupid that requires firetrucks and police.

Like any good rubbernecker, I wanted the chance to shamelessly gawk without making it look like I was shamelessly gawking.  Fortunately for me the path home took me right up to the edge of the scene, so I could check things out while still being mostly out of the way.

Well, as I moved closer I discovered that my path home wasn't exactly "at the edge of the scene."


Oh, wow, these firetrucks are closer to my block than I realized, I thought, gradually transforming from trying-not-to-be-shameless gawker into concerned individual. Hmmm, they actually wrap around the corner and go onto my block...I wonder how far down the block -- OH SHIT THEY'RE ALL IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE. 


I went from concerned individual to slightly hysterical in about .3 seconds flat.

"SHIT!" I yelped, bounding forward, friend in tow. A policeman stopped us.

"Sorry, miss, but you can't go down this block."

"But that's my house!" I cried, peering around his shoulder to look at the knot of firemen on my stoop.

"I'm sorry," the officer repeated, "we can't let you go down this block. It's not safe." You must stand and watch as your life goes up in smoke.

I think I said something closely resembling "aaaarghsdnvolsnjkdhbvla!!!!" and then my friend and I moved to the other side of the street, where we had a better angle. There I finally realized -- THANK GOD -- my was house was not, in fact, on fire.

But my immediate neighbor's house was.

Or, at least, it had been. Black smoke was still flowing from the windows, which had all been smashed out by the firemen. Long ladders leaned against the brick face. The whine of a saw cutting through brick floated above the building. I could see shadows and flashlights moving around as the firemen worked inside. A bunch of them stood on my roof, another bunch on my stoop -- clearly using my place as an access point. Thus my initial and completely understandable confusion.

A little background: to be brutally honest, my neighbor's place has always been a little...janky.  (Read: sketchy. Apparently janky is a term DC-ers use.) Or as my roomie put it when I called her, "Oh, I'm not surprised it's that one." The people there have always been nice, and return my mail when the postman mis-delivers it. But...eh. The place still kinda says, There may or may not be hard drugs here. Wink. That's all I'll say for now.

So I was standing on a corner watching the place smolder, silently thinking, Oh, it *would be* that one.


"Do you know what's going on?" multiple gawkers asked us, of whom I was a little resentful at this point. Yes, I actually DO know what's going on -- see that house on fire? Yeah, I live right next door. 


Their responses, while very kind and truly concerned, usually boiled down to, OMG really?? Wow...sucks for you. Good luck with that.

(My proud moment of the evening: while I was explaining the situation to one person, another person leaned in and asked my friend, "Is she a journalist?" "An aspiring one," Friend responded. WIN.)

Seriously, though, some of these gawkers had missed the "try not to be shameless" directive -- when you pull out your Nikon camera and a digital recorder, it's time for you to leave.  Let the men do their job. Eventually a policeman found some POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape and cordoned off the block.

I called my landlord and my roommate (all of whom were safe), and then I called my parents and The Sis. And then we chatted with a fireman, were told the block would likely be inaccessible for a few more hours, and walked a block to the local bar. Aftan needed something to calm her nerves.

But our adventurous evening didn't end there. Oh no.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Submitting Timesheets, OR "When I realized I desperately needed another job"

Actual email that I receive faithfully every two weeks:

All,

This email serves as a friendly reminder that timesheets are due by noon tomorrow.

Please keep in mind that if you are an intern, you must enter your hours using the drop down box selecting “intern" not "regular.”   

Also, Monday October 10^th was a holiday.  Please adjust timesheets to reflect.

Log into [this site] to complete your time worked.

If you have already submitted a timesheet, please excuse this email.

Regards,

[Management of Aftan’s company]

I have an uncanny ability to cut through the diplomacy (living in DC is teaching me how to translate politically correct language) and this is what the email really says: 

Hey, you!

This email serves as a sharp and hopefully painful reminder that you are an unpaid intern. Tomorrow at noon – when everyone else is submitting their time sheets ON TIME – you will most likely be slumped in your desk chair, chin in hand (drool possibly running onto your fingers), eyes glazed over as you endlessly “conduct research.” 

Please remember, you are a valued member of our team.  However, you did not receive one of our coveted and rare-as-a-diamond-found-in-that-gross-alley paid internships. If you had, you would enter your hours using the drop down box labeled “scum”, “one step above scum” ,“intern.”

Also, Monday was a holiday. Everyone else enjoyed the day with the full realization that they were simultaneously playing touch football on the Mall and getting paid to play it. You were not getting paid, and you were probably not playing touch football because unpaid interns don’t have friends.

We will not let you log into [this site] to catalogue your hours until we’ve eked every last drop of free labor out of your thin, brittle fingers.

Remember, you are a valued member of our team. And you will continue to receive these emails reminding you of that. Until you die.

Never excuse these emails.

Regards,

[The People To Whom Aftan Sold Her Soul]

Dammit, I need a paying job.

Another day, another dol -- protest.

Heard of the Occupy Wall Street movement? If you haven't, then please: slap yourself. Feel ashamed. Go open a newspaper. Or watch TV. Or jump online (I recommend the New York Times).

Occupy Wall Street (or OWS) refers to a gaggle (a very large gaggle) of people who have gathered in New York to protest...corporatism? Greed? Lobbyists? Trash in the streets? Juice boxes with chemicals in them that we serve to our kids? The movement seems to encompass a lot, and means something slightly different to each protestor. One op-ed I read criticized this very aspect of the movement, calling it "happily incoherent."

Well, this happily incoherent protest hit my city this week. Today a rally gathered in Freedom Plaza (echoes of Tahrir Square anyone? [Tahrir means freedom in Arabic...]) to protest militarism and corporatism. From the research I've done, it sounds like this protest has been on the books since April, and the simultaneous movement in New York was a happy coincidence. So the movement here used the momentum of Occupy Wall Street to become OccupyDC.

I was at work most of the day, but I Livestreamed the events so I could watch real-time from my desk. I also logged into my dusty and mostly inactive Twitter account to keep track of people's Tweets and pictures.

It seemed like quite a few turned out for OccupyDC. Twitter (that oh-so-accurate little bird) used figures anywhere from 500 to 3000 people. Not so sure about that last one...

The DC movement is quite a bit more organized than OWS. They have a website and a list of goals, which is more than OWS has. But don't worry; this doesn't prevent these protestors from being angry and frothing.

Unfortunately, from what I heard and saw from the Livestream, OccupyDC seemed to be run by vehement anti-war protestors (by "vehement" I mean fist-shaking, spittle-flying, cursing and fire-and-brimstone-raining men in whiskers) and hippies with drums.  A major slogan for both the NY and DC movements has been, "We are the other 99 percent" -- a direct jab at the wealthiest top 1 percent of America, who are perceived to be receiving all the benefits of society. Well, from what I saw, their "99 percent" didn't include me.

I read another interesting article that talks about how the OWS movement needs to match the faces to their message. If OWS says it represents middle America, then it needs to actually be composed of middle Americans. Hippies and anarchists won't cut it. The article went on to explain how OWS could learn from the Tea Party. Now, I have my problems with the Tea Party too, but you can't deny they've been effective in getting their message out.

OccupyDC eventually marched from Freedom Plaza to MacPherson Square on K Street, in order to protest lobbyists and corporatism more directly. The K St. corridor is a major business and lobbyist district of DC. Actually, my office is on K St, and I walked past a group of protestors when I left work early today.

Part of me, the part of me that sympathizes with the notion that there are a few things wrong in America, wanted to go over and say hi, maybe talk about the different negative circumstances of our lives and why we were upset about it.

But then I kept on walking. I was late for a job interview.

Something Strange Afoot

I recently went through one of the most bizarre experiences of my life. Let me give you a hint.  Watch this video at time-stamp 6:04:

"I like feet. I do not know why."

Okay, so I was coming home late one night from salsa dancing.  A guy stopped me to ask for directions to the metro. I pointed him in the right direction, but as I turned to go, he stopped me again.

"This might sound weird," he said, "but would you mind if I took a picture of your feet?"

What?  

"Ummmm," I said, looking down at my toes, thinking he must be charmed by my lime green nail polish. (You see, I had been complimented on this polish numerous times by random strangers, one gentleman on a bus even appreciating how they matched my lime green raincoat – this gentleman then asked if I was Italian, and when I said no told me I was pretty anyways.)

The problem here, though, was that my nail polish was cracked and chipped, and I had dirt scuffs on the sides and tops of my feet from salsa dancing barefoot for several hours. I definitely lacked that "fresh shower" glow, shall we say. "Ummm, sure, I guess," I acquiesced, thinking he would take a quick snap of my toes and be on his merry way.

Not so. "Okay, now would you mind if I took a shot from the side?" he asked, crouching down to the sidewalk. "And would you actually mind picking up your foot? So I could get a picture of the bottom?"

I felt my eyebrows contract. "Like, you want a picture of the sole?"  Jeez, it sounds like a bad joke...Can I get a picture of your sole? (Get it? Sole, soul? Haha....I love stupid jokes. Sorry Sis, I know you hate them, but I threw that in just for you.)  Anyways. I was a bit flabbergasted at this point, but this guy didn't seem to notice.

"What we really need is a bench for you to sit on," he said, looking around. "Then I could get all the angles I need." In his search for a bench, he failed to notice the expression on my face. I'm sure it said something like, You went from nice stranger to random crazy-pants, so I think I need to leave now.

"Yeah no benches around here," I told him flatly, turning to leave. Unfortunately, the metro directions I gave him happened to be the same direction I was going, so we had to walk in tandem for a block or so. During that time frame, he spotted a concrete stoop. 

"Oh, look! Would you mind just sitting here for a sec so I can get a really good side shot?"

"...Fine."

I took my sandals off and stretched out my feet. He asked for permission to move my toes into a more pleasing arrangement – "Some people get freaked out when I touch their feet, so I always ask first." So thoughtful, Crazy-Pants, I wonder why? 

(Honestly though, this guy was really nice. I didn't feel threatened in any way and we were in a really well-lit area with a few other people walking around. I did not feel in danger at any time.)

"Wow," he said, "your feet are really beautiful. I mean, REALLY beautiful. And they're so soft!! What do you do for them?"

"Um, nothing."  Truthfully. I have never had a manicure/pedicure in my life, and had been picking at my calluses only a few nights before. So I truly have no idea what he was talking about. But this guy was in raptures. I also couldn't help noticing that the photos he was taking were actually pretty poor shots, and as an avid photography lover and total know-it-all I was itching to give him some pointers, but there was no way under God's magnificent heavens that I was prolonging this strange event any further.

"Sorry, is this weird for you?" the guy asked as he moved to a different angle. No, I get accosted by strangers and put into impromptu foot photo shoots on random concrete steps all the time. Why would you ask such a silly question. Yes, I told him bluntly, this was VERY weird.

"Oh I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable!" I really wonder why he said that, because then he asked: "Would you mind if I stroked your feet for a moment?"

Yes I mind. 

"Well then could I kiss them really quick?"

Hell no. And I'll be leaving now. 

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable!" he repeated as I firmly pointed him in the opposite direction. Luckily, he didn't follow me home, and so I didn't have to ram my REALLY beautiful, super soft feminine dirty calloused feet-with-chipped-toenail-polish into his face.

Why do I attract the crazies? 

My feet. In all their beautiful glory. Except I'm wearing
canary yellow polish instead of lime green.