Thursday, December 11, 2008

I'm Such an Ass

Somehow, over the course of my life, I have become known as a frazzled, clumsy person.

It probably has something to do with having larger than average feet attached to the bottom of my legs. And the untamed nature of my locks. That is not to say I don't fall down a lot. I do. And break things. Not bones so much, as chairs and things of that nature.

Every time I find myself on the ground, or somehow awkwardly caught on a rogue tree branch, I have two thoughts, one after the other:
1) I'm such an ass. I really hope nobody saw that.
2) That was hilarious. I really hope somebody saw that.

Like most, I possess the basic human instinct to save face. And to refrain from appearing a total spaz.

However a mere retelling can never capture the rawness of my idiotic maneuvers. It never fails that I always hope some one out there got a first-hand look. (It may have something to do with that strange giddiness that comes with connecting, even briefly, to people you don't know.)

Even so, there are those rare events when a clumsy move goes unwitnessed. I usually say to myself, "I'm such an ass. Thank God no one saw that. I am never telling anyone about that."

Which lasts a whole 10 minutes.
I cannot help but divulge my own secrets, perpetuate my own stereotypes.

There is poetry in the time I got a straw stuck so far up my nose, my nose began to bleed; symmetry in walking onto Proctor Terrace with my skirt tucked into my underwear; awe in each stained blouse, simplicity in all the broken chairs and beauty in each and every wipe-out.

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Are you okay?

People rarely answer this question honestly.

That doesn't bother me at all, because I'm one of those people. And to be honest, I really hate that question. Okay-ness is relative and subjective and if you actually care about a person's state, there are more productive ways to get your answer.
But today I encountered a man who was definitely not okay.

I was standing at the bus stop after leaving the law firm where I work (have you noticed how the most interesting things in my life happen at the bus stop?). The law office is in Farragut, which is a primarily business district. This is relevant, as is the fact that I left the law office at 1pm.

So, there I am standing at the bus stop at 1:04ish on a Thursday afternoon. An older man 10 feet away is hailing a taxi. He is wearing a green sweater vest over a button up shirt, light chinos, a tie, and casual dress shoes of some sort, and wearing a navy baseball cap. He is leaning on the USA Today newspaper dispenser with his arm in the air.

I instinctively thought this was weird, "Dumb guy," I thought. "Step further out into the street. No cabs can see you there." There were cars parked, not between the man and the street, but in such a way that he couldn't see approaching traffic, and it definitely couldn't see him. I guess he realized this, too, and went to move further up the road, away from the parked cars.

Next thing I know, I see something falling out of the corner of my eye, and hear smack. I look down, and two feet away from me the guy has bit it into the curb. He is a mass of crumpled clothing and gray hair. He is face down, half on the sidewalk, half in the street. I immediately run over. All I can get out is, "Sir, are you okay?" I don't know if I can get him up on my own. Two pedestrians hurry over (one man) and ask the same questions. A female cyclist with a nose ring (who I recognize from the metro on Monday night), skids to a halt to help, too. We all notice that there are drops of blood on his hands. "Are you okay, sir? Sir? Can you get up?"

He pushes himself up a bit, to sitting. He is not as old as we are expecting. "Sir, can you get up?" His face is bloodier than we are expecting. He is swaying a bit. Gasping, looking confused, saying quietly, "Yes, I'm fine. I'm okay." Somehow I have his baseball cap in my hand. He is unaware of his dripping face. His glasses have cut him somewhere under the eye and the blood is bright red on the pavement. The bleeding man grabs the hands of the cyclist, while the two pedestrians grip him under the armpits. They have quite a time hoisting him up. Once on his feet he sways quite a bit, before a passing cabby wises up and sees the chance for a fare.

We put him in the cab. I teeter after him in vain saying, "Sir, your cap. Your hat, sir," and eventually just toss it in the cab on top of his knee and shut the door.

Despite his protestations, this man was not okay. His bloody face was proof enough for me. But then, I guess it's all relative.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

"In your wildest fantasy you're in Hell? And you are co-running a bed and breakfast with the devil?"

Apparently I have difficulty distinguishing between mentally handicapped and just plain drunk.

This became problematic recently when a strange man began talking to me at a bus stop. I usually avoid these kind of situations by simply using my headphones. But this particular evening I wanted to soak up the awesomeness and celebration that was everywhere on the streets of DC
He thought I looked "blue" and wanted to cheer me up. (Sidenote: I was in fact a bit blue, because it was just before midnight on November 5th, Barack Obama had just won the election, and I had spent the entire evening working my menial retail job instead of watching returns and celebrating with my friends.)
Anyway, I ignored him, thinking: "Crazy drunk man."

Then my kind and pure heart got the better of me and I thought, "Maybe he's not drunk. He's just trying to be nice. Maybe he's slow. What I thought was a drunken slur might actually be a speech impediment. He's fairly well-dressed. How harmful could he be?"

Needless to say he was just drunk. I think. And after being pressed mercilessly for information and asked for my phone number I made up the following lie.

My name is Sarah.
I go to GW. A sophomore, as it turns out.
Undeclared.
I work at a shoe store in Georgetown.

This was all "very impressive" to the slurring man.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

I tend to pretend I know things

I was waiting at a fairly empty metrobus station last night for a bus I had never taken, to go to a place I had never been. What the marquis on the bus that pulled up in front of stop 23A and opened its doors should have read was, "23A." Instead it read, "NOT IN SERVICE."

Clearly this was untrue.

However, I was nervous this was not my bus. I thought "Perhaps down here in Virginia, a young lady cannot trust her bussing instincts. What if this bus takes me to Anacostia? And what if I am then assaulted or someone pees on my pashmina? Or worse, what if I miss my audition? Then I'm screwed."

An affluent young Asian guy in a delightful sand-colored v-neck sweater asked me as we waited in the small queue to board the bus, "Is this 23A?"

I gave him a bored look through my glasses, glanced up at the sign, sighed the sigh of an experienced 23A rider and said, "Yeah." Duh.

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Paul Newman

In my social sphere it's not exactly acceptable to adhere to the mainstream preoccupation with celebrities and their lives. And, in truth, I have never liked the gossip rags, despite the fact that I enjoy being in the know. Hollywood gossip and scandal has developed a very ugly face.

But the lives of classy, talented, principled actors will always be fascinating to me.

Look at Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward. They are lovely.









Tuesday, September 23, 2008

The Ethics of Sniffles

Since my return to the real world post summer camp, I have also returned to the Temp world.

Today I am sitting at the front desk of a law-firm. Screening calls and transfering them. I get a kick of out doing it like they do it on TV: "Hi, I have Mr. Ficabush on the line."

I find a sense of ownership over the caller makes the whole thing more bearable.

And today a semi-ethical question is raised: Is it unethical for me to go to work, type on someone else's keyboard, sit in her chair, touch all the office doorhandles when I know I have a very contagious cold caught from the Canadian?

Currently I am only sneezing and coughing sporadically, so that I could potentially play the issue off as allergies if confronted. And I see disinfectant wipes in the corner that I plan on using before the evening receptionist arrives.

What responsibility do we have to the rest of the world to not give them our colds? Does it only apply to the subsect of the population with weak immune systems-- the elderly, infants and the impoverished? Furthermore, is my current impoverished state drastic enough to justify going into work sick just to make a fraction of my October rent?

I think it is.

I have an eagerly awaited houseguest due in tomorrow. Even though I want my friend here, do I have some stupid responsibility to tell any and all parties who will be living in close proximity to me for 2.5 days that I'm coming down with something? And risk the houseguest finding another house to guest in?

Boy, what an ethically charged issue. Phew.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Lemmings and Liars

Know who's kind of a liar? Jim Inhofe.



However, let me just say: Ace TV ad, Oklahoma Democrats.
Ace.

Sunday, September 14, 2008

"He who desires, but acts not, breeds pestilence."

I lie about the things I want.
The jobs/roles I want. The fellas I'm attracted to. The things I desire in life.
The things I want to eat.

Sometimes I lie about wanting things because I know that thing is bad for me. (funnel cake, chimichanga, deep fried twinkie*, etc.)


Sometimes I lie about wanting things because wanting in and of itself seems weak. (Something about a tricycle, a halibut and a woman not needing either of them.)
Sometimes I lie about wanting a thing because I want that thing so much that an honest demonstration would be akin to Tom Cruise, Katie Holmes and the infamous sofa incident. And nobody wants to see that.
*Disclaimer: I have never eaten (nor particularly wanted to eat) a deep fried twinkie. But now I sorta do.






Wednesday, July 23, 2008

I want to be a kid again

I'm currently at theatre camp. Writing this from my bunk, while the girls toss and turn, and technically I have only 5 minutes left of "flashlight time," if I'm being totally honest. But I'll go far beyond that.

My favorite FAVORITE thing about camp is how much the campers adore each other. A handful of them have known each other for upwards of 5 years, camp is where their souls live, where they are totally safe. They are both encouraged and independently moved to support one another and build each other up, and they do it very well.

Tonight the plays were cast. That's a tough night. People are ecstatic, crushed and on the edge of something new. But these kids love each other. The people they've known for 1-6 years. The people they've known for 3 days. Tonight I watched a camper whose 5th summer this is, who may or may not be excited about his part, I couldn't tell, I watched him put his arm around a first time camper, congratulate him on his part, tousle his hair, and say, "I'm so proud of you, man," before bear hugging the new kid.

I love it here. Where else in the world do you find people so devoted to each other and what they're doing that they can find in their hearts that kind of love in a matter of days? Young people have a natural gift for it. These kids have naturally open and honest hearts.

Several times a day I think, "I wish I was a camper."

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Charm School

I'm kind of a charmer.
Really.
I'm an acquired taste-- "Like sushi," says the Canadian. Or dark chocolate, perhaps? Instead of raw fish?

We've determined that it takes me a while to get to know people and it takes people a while to warm up to me. But something I've learned, and have become more forthcoming about is that when I put my mind to it, I have the manipulative skills to get anyone I want to to really really like me. A lot. Seriously.

I have used this skill many times throughout my life. As a child, teachers fought over who would get me in their class. And once I set my sights on someone who I want to like me, it usually only takes a few weeks to accomplish my goal. It's manipulative, sure, I guess. But it comes from a very real desire on my part to get to know someone and be close to a person who I think is wonderful. So in the end we've both gotten what we want. Or, what we think we want.

So when I (and this doesn't happen often, although it's occurring more and more recently) come across a person who is so clearly indifferent to me, someone who, even after a handful of meetings in which I've turned on the requisite charm and the pizazz, seems as disengaged as on Day 1, I get even more intrigued.

My, oh, my, what is it that makes these people so incredibly fantastic, unique and intelligent that they can see through my witticisms, self-deprecation and sparkly silences?!

And then I get mildly needy.

Like me. Please. LIKE ME.

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

"How do you change the world?"

If you know me you know that I struggle with "getting to know-yous." The prospect of a party in which I know less than 30% of the attendees makes me sweat. I have a difficult time coming up with questions to ask that are not boring and cliche. I sometimes forget that you're not supposed to just talk about yourself when you meet a new person. I know that makes me sound like a narcissistic, self-absorbed bitch, but I don't think I necessarily am. Maybe. But hear me out: "Me" is something I know about. I can be charming about. Self-deprecating about. Other things-- the election, climate change, DC culture-- I am considerably less well-informed about. And speaking about important things ups the chances someone will find out just how ignorant I am about important things. Which is the problem with living in DC. Nearly everyone is smart and well-informed half-nerds. So I have trouble.

I am trying to get better.

Good friends down the street had a fabulous party a few weeks ago. There were popsicles, a sprinkler, and delish, yes that's right: DELISH! strawberry rhubarb pie made by the Canadian. I was doing very well in conversation. I was reconnecting with some college people I hadn't seen in a long time and I was meeting some nice new climate change action folks-- a group I have come to quite enjoy. I was doing well-- being myself, being honest, talking about mutual interests-- I was channeling all the normalcy and coolness I could. I began talking to a girl wearing a fake straw cowboy hat.

I should have known from her headwear that she was bad news. I'll breeze by the agregious fashion choice and merely remind the wearer that it is no longer 2003. I should have sensed before we began speaking that anyone who wears a straw cowboy hat to a house party on a Saturday night in Washington, DC is begging for attention. I also found out later, that unlike many of the people I met at the party that night she is not even from the Midwest-- where donning a cowboy hat might signify something of heritage or at the very least be a high-quality family heirloom. No. She was born and raised in North East DC. Which may or may not explain a lot.

Hat girl: "Oh, yes, well, I have created for myself some super important politico non-profit orgnization. I use my many persuasive powers and my army of magical cowboy hats to send young, impressionable Dems into battle in the Red States. The young Dems secretly infiltrate the lives of the Right and slowly convince them to vote for Obama. We're using they're own "missionary" technology against them. So far we think it's really working. They are a very open minded group, the Right Wing. What do you do?"

Me: "I'm an actor."

Hat girl: "Oh. Wow. That's great, you know! I think that's....great. I think I really would have loved to do something like that with my life if I had the...If I... didn't feel so self-indulgent."

Me: "Hmmm."

Hat girl: "I mean-- you know what I mean."

Me: "...Yeah."

Hat girl: "So...how do you get involved in theatre in DC?"

Me: Same ol' jargon about making connections, having friends, auditioning, *smile* *sigh* *self deprecating chuckle*

Hat girl: "No, I mean, how do you...get involved?? Other than going on auditions, obviously. Do you do political work? Do you donate your time?"

Don't you strive for change and happiness and correctness? Don't you use all your energy and brain to support Obama like the good well-educated young Dem you are? Surely, you attend bi-weekly rallies? And give to Green Peace? And you call yourself a Liberal! Don't you do anything AT ALL to better the world and the people in it while you're getting rejected over and over at auditions and dreaming up ways to fund an artistic endeavor? However could you dream of being so self-absorbed that you're willing to spend your early 20s knee-deep in debt, not making any money in pursuit of bringing a little bit of art and culture to a world and city without any room to breathe? What a stupid, self-indulgent twat you are, Caitlin. Really.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Nautica Guy

For the most part I am not a gawker.

Sure, I notice attractive men on the street (usually if they're significantly taller than me, wearing glasses, etc), but often it is with the same appreciation that I admire a woman's beautiful wool coat or fabulous spring dress.

Recently, however, DC Metro changed their ads. To this fella. CLICK IT.

And I objectify him, okay?

There's no two ways about it.

I admit it.

He is really very good-looking. Congratulations, Nautica. Because while I have always been able to appreciate beauty, I am now the pervy girl on the train. If I am unlucky (read: lucky) enough to get onto a car with this ad, I do my best to stick my nose in the Express or become very interested in my ipod. Else I start ogling like a teenage boy. Ogling an advertisement! Who have I become?!

This is inappropriate and embarrassing. I am not proud of the lip-biting and glazed over eyes that invariably occur when I see cute blue-deckshirt guy. But it is Nautica who should be the most embarrassed. After a few weeks of enjoying attractive Nautica guy, I am retracting my congratulations, and I'll tell you why:

Who in God's name thought it a good idea to couple this photo, of this very attractive man removing his shirt and exposing his perfectly tanned midriff with ads about Father's Day?? What the crap, Nautica? "Father's Day is June 15, make your dad a hottie"? "Is your father a FILF? Let Nautica help."

It was bad enough that he's plastered all over train cars where unsuspecting and sexually repressed 23 year-olds can be captivated without a moments notice. But Father's Day? Let's hope that I'm the only one who's so captivated, or DC is just asking for some weird string of Electra Complexes.

Saturday, May 24, 2008

**In the Spirit of Honesty

Of late I have been noticing the socially incorrect elements of my personality. There are an overwhelming number of things that, try as I may, I am incapable of faking. So, in the spirit of honesty! (or, **"things that I have found it, up until this point, impossible to fake, or lie about"):

My room will never be clean. A clean bedroom has a shelf life of about 2.3 days for me. In which I am inspired to rehang all my clothes after I've tried them on and discarded them in the morning. 2.3 days that I'll make my bed or organize my side table. In which I'll fold my clothes before stuffing them back in the drawers (but the drawers will ALWAYS be closed-- open drawers being something I have been unable to abide since as an 8 year old my tall bureau, too many of the drawers left open, tipped over on top of me and the small TV on top hit me in the face, leaving 2 small knots--1 on my forehead and 1 on the bridge of my nose-- that have remained to this day.). I recently heard a radio interview with 23 year old Tony award winner John Gallagher, Jr. in which he admitted to having a messy room. It inspired me. I, too, will wear it as a badge of artistic honor.


I like white bread. I realize this is a completely inappropriate behavior from a young lady raised in the suburbs and educated at Middlebury College. No properly reared, affluent young white person with real aspirations would ever choose white over wheat when given the choice. And should probably even turn down a sandwich, wrap or pasta dish meal in general if white is the flour used. But wheat pasta makes me want to gag. And why eat flax pancakes when you can have delicious pancakes? I will concede that as far as sandwich bread goes, whole wheat sometimes tastes best. But you'll never find me eating a whole wheat bagel. My wheat will always be frosted and mini. This predilection for eating things that taste good to 9 year-olds extends beyond white pasta and white bread. I like my oatmeal in packets and full of brown sugar and vegetables are best soaked in gravy or sauteed.


I can't walk around in high heels. I can barely handle most cute flats: narrow toes, unsupportive arch. Yes, I realize I live in a city now. A professional city. In which, for the time being, I work in an office and commute with the suits and the stilettos. But you will not see me in heels taller than 1 inch. And my shoes will never be as shiny as everyone else's. Even if I bought them shiny, they undoubtedly lost that luster after 1 day with me. My shoes will be comfortable, size 11 friendly (that's right, I'm a drag queen), rubber-soled, practical and probably ugly. (Ugly, because it is a universally acknowledged fact that women with big feet actually would rather their shoes be uglier, less trendy and look like they belong to Cynthia Nixon's girlfriend.) Even if they did make giant sized cute shoes, I still could not wear them like all those beautiful and empowered business women you see on the metro, because I am at my most unpleasant when my feet hurt. I will wear my men's Asic tigers or my hot pink and grey suede diesels with my pantyhose and pencil skirt during the commute and change into my 3 inch heels for walking back and forth from the copier to my cubicle: 9142C. Disregard, for a moment, my plantar fasciatis-ridden left foot. I still wouldn't be rocking the stilettos. I'm just not that girl.


Love me, love my ugly shoes, delicious pasta and messy room.

Friday, May 2, 2008

(ham and) Egg (croissant) on my face

Today I was called out.


I stopped into Heller's (awesome neighborhood bakery) on my way to work this morning. The same cool, tall, black guy with diamond studs and braids past his shoulders that usually helps me, called me over to the counter. I had to sidestep a ridiculously cute Mt. Pleasant family with an infant and a toddler in tow while their dog was chained up outside in order to reach the counter. I walked over and ordered my usual, perhaps a little embarassed that he might recognize me and my order from my 4 or 5 visits since I've moved to the area.


Me:"An apple fritter, please."


Now, this guy is pretty cool. He's way too cool to just be working in a bakery. He definitely has a funk band. Or does multi-media installation art using found materials. Probably he also bakes some of the delicious pastries and adds a secret Dominican flare that he no doubt learned from his senile island grandmothr. So, ordering a doughnut from him makes me a little nervous. I tend to get a little nervous like that around super hip and/or attractive people (Like when the Canadian and her boy are together, I shut down just a little-- there is just too much beautiful in one room.) Anway, his response was not what I expected.


Cool dude:"That's not how you really talk is it?"

Me: (thinking 'What does that mean? What is he talking about? Why would he say...?....Oh *realization*....I definitely just used my waif** voice.)
**The "waif" voice is what one Professor of Theatre Douglas Sprigg used to accuse me of having in Acting II, Voice and Body. It's where I sound like a pretty mcpretty little lacoste wearing Theta, and not a 6 foot tall hoss.
"Um....yeah....in the morning...."

Cool dude:"Really?"

Me: "Yeeeaah. Why?

Cool dude: *looking at me, trying to decide how not to offend me

Me: "Cause I'm tall?"

Cool dude: "Yeah, you're, you know....you're not...you're a..." (goes to get my fritter) (comes back) "You look like you know how to swing a bat at something!"


I guess "swing a bat at something" is a figure of speech that I never learned growing up in the suburbs. I know how to swing a bat at a softball. Or an intruder.

I left, mildly offended that super-hip counter help guy thinks he knows me and how I should talk. But then I realized he was totally right and even though that is how how I OFTEN talk, it's not how I REALLY talk. It's a fake voice. A lie-- trying to get people to think I'm sweet and charming and young. "Oh, she's such a sweet girl, what a quaint little voice she has!" The dumb voice came out because I was embarassed that I was having my second apple fritter of the week. And afraid that he was going to remember that I'd already been in once this week for the same sugar-loaded, deep-fried goodness.

Doug Sprigg would be overjoyed that a layman (despite the fact that he must surely be an artist of some sort) has assisted me in remembering my Linklater and freeing my natural voice.

Apple Fritter: $1.50
Impromptu Theatre Lesson: priceless

Monday, April 28, 2008

Retaining my cool factor

How do you tell your boss that you cannot, in fact, create talking points on biotechnology to assist General Colin Powell's staff in shaping his keynote address for the 2008 Biotechnology International Convention in San Diego because you're STILL NOT SURE WHAT BIOTECHNOLOGY IS?

Monday, April 21, 2008

Stewing Quietly

I've recently acquired a three month long temping gig. If I had any work at all to keep me busy it would be a pretty sweet gig. I'm under the impression that all of my bosses/people in my department are aware of how little I have to do (read: nothing). It would be overkill for me to be constantly emailing them to tell them that I have nothing to do and to please give me more work. I tell them when I see them in the hall or they come by to give me a 10 minute long project! But, apparently, they don't need me. And are perfectly fine with paying me 15 dollars an hour to use their internet and drink their apple juice and ginger ale.

Which are telling beverages for me to be drinking. Full of high fructose corn syrup, but lacking anything adult--hopps, tannins, caffeine. Moving to the big city has not made me more grown up. Instead it has made me a poser grown-up.

These
beautiful illustrations I found on Etsy



that I'm currently fawning over

and with which I cannot wait to decorate my new apartment, are merely symptomatic of a greater Peter Pan syndrome.

But, seriously, I would be unable to stop myself from impulse buying these right now if there wasn't a couch stuck in my brand new room. Which leads us to another problem of mine, semi-related to my truth telling dilemma. I hate asking people for things. It's a really bad problem. It's why I end up with overdraft charges on my bank account. And is definitely why our couch is stuck in my room-- I don't have the juevos to ask the boys upstairs to carry it out again (cause I made them bring it in there in the first place) and possibly up and down several sets of stairs. Which is why I'm sleeping in the same room as a cat hair-covered sofa. And, yes, I am allergic.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Fitting Room Faux Pas

Know what little, tiny, non-verbal lie makes me nervous every time I have to do it?

Handing clothes back to the fitting room attendant with a bored but vague smile, saying "thank you" and going back to my iPod. Pretending the clothes I'm handing back to her are in just the same coniditon they were upon my arrival in the store. It wasn't me who popped the button, ripped the seam, somewhow managed to pull the price tag off. Acting my ass off so as to not get caught and then high tailing it away from the 19 year old girl with the bad weave and the menial job who could totally take me with her 4 inch fake, Korean leopard nails.

Or option two--pretending I'm actually going to purchase the item. ("Did these items work for me? You betcha!") The item that clearly was too small too fit in the first place, and she knows it, just so I can take it back out on the sales floor myself and stuff it quickly and awkwardly into the most packed Clearance shelf. Between the tshirts with hoods and drop waist dresses.

The awful feeling this lie brings is 3 fold.
  • I've made some poor girl's minimum wage job harder. Now she'll have to sew a button, repair a seam or refasten a price tag. And if I chose option 2 she'll have to fish the faux satin babydoll dress I would have never worn anyway out of the hooded t-shirts and put it back by the leggings and patent leather clutches.

  • It's a reminder that my body is such a wreck, so abnormal, that it causes damage to property.

  • But also, if I'd just told the truth, I'd have been a little embarassed, sure, but since I mainly shop at TJ Maxx and Marshalls, leopard nails girl wouldn't have given a shit.

That's reason number 1 I don't go into JCrew. The uppity sales staff doesn't like it when you break their clothing. Bitches.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

How to Procure an Apartment When You're Too Poor to Slip the Landlady a Jackson.

So, the Canadian and I FINALLY found an apartment. It's cute. Exposed brick, open kitchen. It's in a great location. There is outdoor space. And I only had to be minimally dishonest in order to get the place.

I could tell right away that the property owner, let's call her Laverne, likes to talk. She's the kind of woman who doesn't have very many friends. Probably one best gal pal that she's had since her days at Smith in the 60s. That might be it. The poor mess of a woman has arthritic joints and can barely get up and down the stairs of her own property. She wears sweaters with a very large knit without anything underneath. This is not the kind of woman with a lot of personal relationships. That's why, when she let slip that she was designed the floorplan when the basement was renovated into an apartment, I knew I had to pounce.

The "beautiful" exposed brick would be beautiful had it not been painted over and then painted over again by an "artist" to make it look like actual exposed red brick.

The chandelier is "lovely." It's gaudy 90's brass, sure, but nothing a can of spray paint can't fix.

The big bedroom really is spacoius. It's just too bad that the closet has sliding mirrored doors. And a seafoam green "brick" wall.

And the small bedroom is very light. It has two big windows. No big deal that the pipes are exposed and hang down into the room. It's not like 7 foot ceilings are short. Or I'm 6 ft tall or anything.
My Canadian roomate? A student, of course!
Am I employed? Why yes, I'm a temp. (It just so happens that I got hired less than 24 hours ago, isn't that great!?)

And yes, of course I have 7,500 dollars in the bank. (I realize a lie is more illegal when you sign your name to it, but the Really Important Question is: is it also more immoral?)

Okay, probably.

Monday, March 24, 2008

For Profit

Blogs have themes right? Cupcakes, home decorating for cheap, funny observations. I am a minor addict to Things I've Bought that I Love (girly comic genius of Mindy Kaling-- she has the sickest life). But I am the least home decorator-y of the girls you've met. HGTV is fun to watch, but I do not possess the talents of some of my friends to infuse my surroundings with pretty, hip, 20-something, bohochic fabulousness.

What topic am I well-versed in enough to share with the blogosphere?
Well, I'm a pretty good liar.

Until now it isn't something I've been proud of. I have wondered recently how I will adapt to my new habitat-- a city awash with buttoned-up young politicos starting their careers of charming and manipulating the world around them. I harbor little hope of forging friendships anytime soon. But am I really so different? My first week here I went to buy a map at a bookstore:

Dupont sales clerk:
Do you have a card with--(seeing map) oh, looks like maybe you're visiting!?

Our heroine:
(desperately not wanting to be found out as a non-local)
No, actually. But I don't have a card.
(forking over my credit card for the ridiculously expensive 9 dollar map)

At this point I should explain that I have a business credit card. There is no good explanation for this other than a good APR, 0% on balance transfers and no annual fee. Under my name "Liar, Liar" it also says, "Business Account."

Dupont sales clerk:
(seeing a chance to meet a quota)
I see you have a business account, can I give you some literature to take back to your office? It can be a great deal on purchases.

Our heroine:
(thinking, "Oh, my gosh, this guy thinks I could be with a business, he sees the potential for employment in me! Someone else will, too!"
Sure.

Dupont sales clerk:
(brings over literature, continues talking about the great deal, realizes some other great literature he can give me)

Our heroine:
Great....That sounds great.... Lovely.... Thank you!

Dupont sales clerk:
Are you with a profit or not-for-profit?

Our heroine:
(without skipping a beat)
Profit.

Dupont sales clerk:
(excited about potentially snagging a corporate account, gives our heroine more pamphlets and gushes about the tax deductible possibilities)

Eventually our heroine extracts herself from excited sales clerk and walks, embarrassed, into the circle, vowing not to tell anyone about this and to staunchly avoid the scene of the lie for the next few months.

Now you're saying, "Kiddo, there was no need for that little white. You could have told him you just weren't interested. You could have explained that you were, in fact, unemployed and your 'business account' is in fact your 'Forever 21' account." But see, that would have conflicted with my hatred of seeing myself and, most importantly, other people in awkward situations. The excitable and polite sales clerk put himself out there, by playing along I helped us both save face.