When the doors are shut

The other day, I got stuck in an elevator.

I’m gonna make this relate to my last post, I swear.  Just bear with me.

I had been in a basement conference room of my think-tank, participating in an evening event.  I had left my bag and coat at my desk upstairs, on the 6^th floor, but had forgotten that the building closed at 7. Which means the elevators don’t work normally after 7. It was nearing 7:30.

Not a problem, I thought, I’ll just check in with the security guard in the lobby and he can help me out.

My friends clustered in the lobby, promising to wait while I retrieved my things. The security guard accompanied me back to the elevators and swiped an electronic passcode thingie (I’m sure that’s the technical term) to open the doors.

“Which floor?” he asked, as I stepped inside.

“The sixth.” He pressed the appropriate button and moved away. “Wait, don’t you have to come wi– ??” I started, concerned that my think-tank would let some random girl – who, after all, could be anybody – wander through the building after hours. What if there were state secrets just “lying around”?

Whatever, I shrugged to myself as the elevator started up.  Bing! First floor.

Then, the elevator shuddered to a halt. No happy little Bing – be happy, you reached the second floor! No doors sliding open. No nothing. Not even flickering lights – the elevator just stopped.

Ah, that awkward moment when you realize you are stuck in an elevator.

(Aside: Ok, SRSLY elevator? If you’re gonna trap me, at least make the lights flicker!)

Um, ok, I’m stuck in an elevator, I thought to myself, trying to keep calm. All right, none of the buttons are working…and mashing them over and over again doesn’t seem to change that. I looked for a handy red “EMERGENCY PULL” button. You know, something like this:

"Push to talk." Brilliant.

Did my elevator have one?

Nope.

Did my elevator have any red buttons at all?

Nope.

The closest thing my elevator had was a small yellow button that said “bell.”

(Aside: Um, yellow? Like my emergency doesn’t merit the color red?)

(Further aside: Um, “bell”?! How ‘bout “alarm” – anything that implies a bit more alacrity!)

Breathing heavily (read: angrily), I pressed the bell button. Let’s just say it didn’t have quite the “this is an emergency” tone I was looking for. It sounded like the bells in my high school that were used to signal the end of a class period.

I held that button down for at least several minutes. Did anyone come to my aid? Nope. They must have been too busy getting to third period calculus.

Okay, okay, I thought, pacing the small space (thank God I’m not claustrophobic).  What’s the Morse for SOS…is it long-short-long repeated three times, or short-long-short repeated three times? Dang it, where are all the Military Fellows when you need them!!

I tried both my Morse theories. They didn’t summon anyone.

I was ready to cry at this point, and probably not the most rational creature. Great, I’m gonna have to sleep here ALL NIGHT. Ugh, the floor is so gross! Why won’t this bloody box let me OUT!!

Then I grew calmer. Well, I’ll just pull an Arnold and pry the doors open. They do it on Star Trek all the time.

 I wedged my fingers into the door and heaved.

Fortunately, they sprang open as soon as I got them the first few inches apart. Turns out, the elevator had made it to the second floor and then just had a brain shut-down. Or something. I took the stairs back to the lobby.

The guard, and my friends, turned towards me. Thoroughly disgruntled, I explained what just happened. “Oh,” my friends said, “was that you making the bell sound?”

Yes, you idiots. Didn’t you hear the SOS? Does a bell going off in patterns at 7:30 at night sound AT ALL normal to you?

I still needed my bag, so the guard took me back to the elevator and re-swiped his card. Wait, I have to go back in there? I panicked. Then I mentally slapped myself and reminded myself I’m an adult.

This time the elevators operated without a hitch. I retrieved my bag and re-joined my friends.

As I lay in bed falling asleep that night, I remember thinking, Huh, I should turn this experience into a blog post. It could be a really cool metaphor for feeling stuck in life and not knowing how or where to move next…all the doors seem shut…you can either pry them open, or…or…

Or you can accept that some doors will remain shut.

I was recently turned down for an internship (a paid one! Huzzah!) that I really wanted.  Obviously, I’m disappointed – the experience would have really advanced my career and given me incredible opportunities.  But when God closes one door, he opens a window. Or, he opens another door. Or, he traps you in an elevator to teach you the value of sometimes clawing at closed doors until they open.

Does this mean I’m going to claw at that internship until I get it? Naw, probably not. Will I continue to claw at the job market until I find something? You betcha.

Because sleeping on the dirty floor of an elevator – aka, interning forever/remaining static/giving up and waitressing full-time – is simply not an option. And I know that someday, that door WILL spring open for me.  (Even if it takes a scary ride and an SOS to get there.)

For now, I’ve decided to remain at my current internship. For a variety of reasons, all carefully and prayerfully considered, I believe its benefits outweigh its cons.  And I believe it offers the most opportunity for an eventual job.

So where does that put me within my elevator analogy?

Psh, heck if I know. Sometimes an elevator is just an elevator.

Hanging in Suspense

You may have noticed another long hiatus in my writing. This is becoming a habit, so I guess I’ll quit apologizing or making excuses. Seriously, though, I’ve been too busy to write! <<<  Excuse.

The end of the fall marks a serious transition point for us interns. Our commitments slowly come to an end, and we face once again an uncertain future and a viciously competitive job market. (And the scary realization that despite the 3 months we’ve put into our internships, we still don’t have sufficient “experience” to satisfy potential employers. Really makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, doesn’t it?)

My point is, I’ve spent the last several weeks floundering over what to do with my life. Okay, to be honest, I’ve spent the last 12 months floundering over what to do with my life – but transition times condense all that stress into one long, terrible, grey-hair-producing, frozen-pizza-and-beer-eating, somewhat-hysterical-phone-calls-home experience.  You should try it sometime. I’m sure it’s good for the heart.

My head swirled with questions, and each day saw me resolved upon a new path.

I will be a JOURNALIST! Excuse me now, I’m gonna go cover the war in Afghanistan, brb….hmmm, no, I will actually study those TOP SECRET intel reports, because I’m a policy analyst and that’s what we do…scratch that, I’m pretty much a spy, and I’m gonna private.dance it.outta here…fine, screw the job market, I’m joining the military! 

All this uncertainty really made me a productive member of society.

I had a choice. Move on to another internship (possibly on the Hill? Possibly in a different field? Possibly with a different company?) or stay where I’m at. My company offered me a continued internship into the spring, and my boss offered to help me out a bit with the job search.

What to do…what to do…

(I eventually did make a decision, but if you think I’m gonna tell you right now then you clearly don’t understand the phrase “hanging in suspense”…nor have you read any trilogies.)

(Not that this is a trilogy…given my posting regularity, do we honestly think I’m capable of that?)

(The answer is no. I’m not.)

On Success

Thanks to pophangover.com

Apparently DC doesn't "DO" winter

I have a problem.

I’m a country girl. I love my quiet town and my mountains and my long, cold winters.  I love bundling up in big, poofy layers and throwing myself down upon the snow in the pasture to just stare up at the frosty stars. I love weather that is so cold you have to wear a scarf beneath your ski goggles or your face will fall off.

Me and the Madre, properly outfitted for a REAL winter.

Back in Montana, winter crawls in to stay somewhere around Nov. 1. For example, it was 30 degrees back home today. And that was the high. Yes, our falls are both spectacular and spectacularly short. This has conditioned me to be ready and eager for winter at an early date.

Unavoidable fact: I live in the city.  No frosty stars or heaps of snow here (excluding Snowpocalypse 2010). And, hmm, it's kind-of still really warm.

Actually, today – the middle of freaking November, might I point out – the temperature reached a high of 70 degrees. 

What is this, Florida?

I realize that most of my friends are ecstatic with this weather, but I’m still in shock. It reminds me of the time I spent studying abroad in Jordan – no snow.  No real cold. (May I remind you, DC, Jordan is a DESERT. I should not be making this comparison right now.) No blatant commercialism to tempt your credit cards as the holidays approached.  I lived in a mostly Muslim country, meaning the run-up to Christmas didn’t exist, because the majority of the country didn’t celebrate Christmas.  Returning to the States on the 19^th was like getting physically assaulted by Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

Why this analogy matters:

DON’T YOU PEOPLE CELEBRATE WINTER???!?!?

Seriously, I’ve been wearing my jean jacket to work lately. My unlined, thinly-layered, should-not-be-a-winter-coat jean jacket.  Sometimes, I don’t even zip it. I took my scarf off yesterday because it was too hot. Not cool! Literally!

Last week the DC weather gods sent me a teaser – we received a schizophrenic snow/slush/rain mix that was sufficiently white and sticky. Sufficiently white and sticky, that is, to send Aftan skipping up and down the street clapping her hands and crowing about how much she loves winter. It wasn’t obnoxious at all.

But since that promising start, nada. No snow. No frost. No clouds. Again I ask, only with way more incredulity, what is this, Florida?! 

When I fly back to Montana for the holidays, I don’t want to feel like I’ve been physically assaulted by Frosty the Snowman. Work with me here, DC. Send me some real snowflakes. Holla atcha homegirl.  [I was going to spell that “gurl”, but then I just…couldn’t.]

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.

Economy: 1, Me: 0

Stop 1:

The call went through the store like an assembly line: “Where’s Mike? There’s a…young lady here to see him.” “He’s in the back – Joe! Tell Mike there’s a young woman here who needs him!” “Mike, there’s a young woman here who wants you!”


Hmm, maybe some background info? I was out scouring my neighborhood for part-time jobs (or full-time jobs, I’m in no position to be picky) that could fill the hours – and my pocketbook – outside of my internship. Last week I made buds with a liquor store employee, and he hinted that the management might be looking to hire as the holidays approach. At his urging, I was following up with the store’s general manager.

 Which is why this long train of men carrying crates of alcohol were calling through the store for Mike about a “woman who wanted him.”

 Thank you for the awkward set-up, liquor store employees. You’ve managed to make me simultaneously feel like a nine-year-old (Dad only whipped out the “young lady” terms when I was in *deep* trouble) and some floozy propositioning her wares (“Mike, this woman wants you”). Mind if I partake of this here rum?

 Not holding my breath for a call-back on that one.

Stop 2:

Fun-looking pub that I’ve passed several times before. Had a nice chat with the general manager, where I endured some good-natured ribbing about being from Montana.

“Yeah, actually the Montana Senator comes in here a lot,” the GM said.  “He’s a BIG guy…and he can really PUT THEM AWAY. Wow. Actually, yeah, all the guys from that office are pretty big guys, and they can all drink A LOT.” He sounded impressed, not judgmental.

 “Yeah, that’s how we roll in Montana.”

 Yes, I actually said that. I think it actually helped my chances.

 Stop 3:

Uneventful. Other than suffering through yet another rolling of eyes when I mention I have a day-time internship. You and every other moron in this city.

Stops 4 and 5:

Two Irish pubs. Me like Guinness.

 At the first one, the sorority-girl-seating-hostess half-heartedly flipped through a shuffle of papers on her little hostess stand before calling out to the bartender.

 “Sorry,” he told me, “check back later.”

Similar story at the second, sans Sorority Girl. Actually, sans females of any kind – I sidled up to the bar and a whole gaggle of football-watching ex-footballer-esque men turned to stare at me. (This seems to happen to me a lot…)

“What kind of position you lookin for?” asked the barkeep.

“Anything that pays.”

Barkeep smirked. You and every other moron in this city. I clutched my dignity and thanked him anyway, lingering for a moment to get an update on the Michigan game. The screen was across the room, so I squinted to catch the score. Unfortunately this prompted a return from Barkeep, who apparently thought my squinting and lingering signaled some kind of disorder. “You okay…you need something else?” he asked condescendingly, like one of those playground bullies who’s trying to impress the other playground bullies.

“Uhhh no, I just wanted an update on the game.” Like I had told him earlier. Learn to pay attention.  Whatever – my team was losing, and so was I the longer I stood there, so I left.

Call back? Probs not.