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.

"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.