"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.

Russians love Palin

These guys are kind of genius.

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.

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.

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.

Lemmings and Liars

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



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

"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.