I'm failing in my mission

July 30, 2007

10:04 p.m.

The outlook isn't good. Three online dating sites, six days, and not a single promising prospect. Four men over the age of 45 have "winked" at me. My matches have headlines like "Opportunities are seldom prefect!" and nicknames like "CuteStud2007."

It gets worse.

I've been living in D.C. for 11 months. There are approximately 279,134 men that also live in Washington D.C. Yet somehow, despite this sizeable population, eharmony matched me with SOMEONE I KNOW! He's a friend of mine from Boston, who went to my church and just moved to the D.C. area.

And then there was this jewel of a man, who ended his profile with "Yes, first of all I have conservative values. However, that doesn't mean I am a stick in the mud. But if you are "liberal" we are not a match - I don't believe that's the way of Christ, sorry."

I haven't read a single profile with personality, extraordinary wit or undeniable goodheartedness. But what an amazing coincidence -- all these men online are open-minded, want women who like to laugh, love to travel but not as much as they'd like, and hate to play games. Seriously, guys. Written profiles matter! It's like they think posting up shirtless photos and writing crap like "I really don't know how to describe myself, I am looking for friends first with a potential to be more, if it indeed happens" is tempting.

Operation 2012 is going to need reinforcements...

Operation 2012

According to the Mayan calendar, the world is coming to an end in 2012.

A USA Today article (always a reliable source) explains, "part of the 2012 mystique stems from the stars. On the winter solstice in 2012, the sun will be aligned with the center of the Milky Way for the first time in about 26,000 years." The date will be Dec 21, 2012, just two days after my birthday.

Damn. If the world is coming to an end in five years, I better get a move on in the dating department. Thank goodness the world comes to a halt at the end of the year. Anyway, this week, with three other fabulous yet single women, we launched Operation 2012 -- a concerted and strategic effort to find four fabulous yet single men in this barren land called Washington D.C.

Unfortunately, Operation 2012 didn't get off to a strong start. We four ladies went up to Baltimore for a Marc Broussard/Toby Lightman concert and I quickly set eyes on a good-looking man and his friend. I had high hopes. But the first words out of this man's mouth came after Marc toasted Reggie Bush --Dude leaned over and deftly explained "Reggie Bush is a running back in the NFL." I wanted to punch him in the face. I haughtily explained that I'm sufficiently familiar with Reggie Bush, thank you very much, and by the way, my football team was in the Superbowl and assuming he was a Ravens fan, he could take that and shove it. Okay, I didn't really say the 'shove it' part. But I wanted to.

I let it go and hoped he would redeem himself. Sadly, that's where I went wrong. For the rest of the concert, Dude and his friend loudly jabbered about nothing in particular and made more obnoxious comments. It was during the encore that they really outdid themselves. Marc was playing a slowish song and Dude's friend stuck his head in our business and says "My friend and I have been dancing here next to each other the whole concert and we don't want anyone to think we're gay or anything. So do you mind if we dance with you?"

What the hell kind of pick-up line is that?? Not only is it entirely offensive, it's just downright lame. I've heard better lines from the kindergarteners I tutored last semester. Not in any mood to put up with bad lines and even more annoyed that good-looking Dude was worthless, I retorted "Ha. Don't worry, we know you're not gay. Be secure in your manhood." I figured that would be enough to shut down most men, given an intelligence above that of a plastic penguin. But no. Two songs later, and Dude's friend tries again to dance with my friend. I think she gave him a flat no.

So ended the first Operation 2012 project. We move on to the next phases. Phase One is to identify the fabulous non-single men we know and scour their Facebook pages for potentials. Phase Two is to test the online dating waters. Stay tuned.

Once

I keep forgetting to blog about this movie and I honestly feel really bad about it. Once is one of the most genuine, beautiful, moving and funny films that I've seen in awhile. It's a different take on the movie musical -- there's no random bursting into song. Rather, the two main characters are musicians, lost in their own ways, who find each other and find themselves in the music they create together. We learn about both characters through their songs, which are so perfectly snuggled into the plot that you don't even realize it's a musical. And, as an extra bonus, both lead roles are played by real life musicians -- Glen Hansard, lead singer of Irish band The Frames, and Marketa Irglova, new to the Czech music scene -- and add a healthy dose of charming realism to the movie.

I was so obsessed with the film that I bought the soundtrack as soon as I got home and have been listening to it nonstop ever since. Hansard and Irglova wrote most of the songs and lyrics featured in the film -- the melodies are haunting, the lyrics will capture your imagination, and the vocals are so raw and full.

Okay, enough gushing. You probably won't find it playing in any mainstream theaters, but find your neighborhood indy cinema, treat yourself and just go. You'll love it.

"Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You've made it now"

Singularly speaking

Good news is that there is a list of the top 25 cities with the most single people.

Bad news is that 98-100% of the cities suck.

Extra bad news is that I don't live and don't ever plan to live in any of the 25 cities.

Top 25 Cities with the Most Single People

1. State College, PA
2. Durham, NC
3. Amherst, MA
4. Storrs, CT
5. Oxford, OH
6. Standford, CA
7. East Lansing, MI
8. Indiana, PA
9. Blacksburg, VA
10. Geneseo, NY
11. Boone, NC
12. West Lafayette, IN
13. West Chester, PA
14. Orono, ME
15. Morgantown, WV
16. Auburn, AL
17. Bloomington, IN
18. College Park, MD
19. Kent, OH
20. Hoboken, NJ
21. Hanover, NH
22. Chapel Hill, NC
23. Whitewater, WI
24. DeKalb, IL
25. College Station, TX

And so the 10-year saga ends ...

No more Harry Potter books. I finished the book Saturday night and was awestruck and thrilled and sad all at the same time. I can't believe it's over.

Criticize all you want, but these books are amazing. J.K. Rowling has created a world just as charming, rich and profound as Middle Earth or Narnia. I've invested 10 years of my life, immersing myself in the lives of these children and it's just so wonderful to see how it all came together in the end. sigh...

I did play the cruelest joke at work, though. A co-worker asked me to come upstairs and talk really loudly about a fake ending to the book because the two women who sit next to him haven't finished Book 7 yet. So, although I expressed remorse at the beginning, I did it. Screamed about how Harry, Hermione and Ron all die in the end and from over the cubicle wall came a shout, "Omigod, whoever is talking needs to stop RIGHT NOW!" At which point, we dissolved into laughter and admitted it was all a joke. The two women came flying around the corner, demanding that I show my face and how could I be that cruel?! We spent the next 20 minutes debriefing about the parts they've already read.

Ah Harry. He just brings people together, doesn't he?

Give me your tired, your poor

I saw two interesting articles on BBC and in The Post this morning. (It's been a slow week at work). The BBC wanted to know if believing in God is a requirement for the U.S. president. The article noted how only one Congressman, Pete Stark (CA) has ever publicly admitted he was an atheist. When asked about the presidential race, he responded, "Who can say more rosaries than the next person in a certain given amount of time, hardly seems to me, to be a qualification ... I'd like to hear much more specifics about how they plan to get us universal health care."

Can't say I disagree. And speaking of helping those who are in need, The Post today published an op-ed on John Edwards and the credit he is due for "making the poor visible." In it, E.J. Dionne Jr., references the three top Democratic candidates and their anti-poverty records. Now, for me and perhaps for these candidates, our concern for the poor comes from our faith and what we believe is a clear set of instructions to have compassion and reach out for those who need assistance. But, if an atheist feels the same way toward the poor, does it really matter? If that atheist or Buddhist or Muslim or Mormon can come up with solutions to alleviate suffering in this country, shouldn't they be given a shot at the presidency?

One of America's best character traits is its desire for a meritocracy. I know that reality doesn't always reflect it, but the idea is that the best person for a job should have that job, regardless of personal history, faith, ideology, background, whatever. I should hope our country is able to provide this answer to the BBC and the rest of world.

"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me.
I lift my lamp beside the golden door."

*Hic*

Would you rather have the hiccups for five years or a vagus nerve stimulator implanted in your chest cavity?

From BBC:

An east Belfast man who has suffered from hiccups for five years is hoping a new surgical technique pioneered in the US will give him his life back.

David Willis, who suffers from an incurable condition known as intractable hiccups, hopes a £9,000 operation will end his misery. The operation involves implanting a vagus nerve stimulator into his upper chest cavity.

As a side note -- I can't believe doctors can't come up with a better name for this condition. "Intractable hiccups"? J.K. Rowling could have done a whole lot with that one. Speaking of which, my only plan for Saturday is to get my copy of Harry Potter Book 7 and find a sunny spot in a park somewhere and lose myself at Hogwarts. yessssssss.....

Parlez vous frances?

So I went out to celebrate Bastille Day with my roommate tonight. It was our first night out and I figured it would help set some boundaries for our household. Turns out I'm much more of the party girl than she is. Go figure.

But it was still a successful night. I think. She attended a party at the French Embassy and met up with a Frenchman who invited her to a party up in the U Street area. She didn't want to go alone, so she invited me. I've been dying for an excuse to wear this super cute red and white strapless summer dress, so of course, I agreed to be her wingman. We got there a little early and stopped by Local 16, where I ended up in conversation with a hot Italian and an even hotter Samoan ... but then she gave me "the look" and we had to leave since she got stuck talking to the rather boring American man. Damn. That Samoan was downright delicious. I kinda just wanted to reach out and stroke his chest.

But off to the French party at Tabaq Bistro. Sadly, the cover was $5 more than the Frenchman had told my roommate and he was nowhere to be found to pay for us. So I covered and we eventually found him. He wasn't even that cute!!! And he was diggin' on some other French girl, so we decided to make our own party. I quickly made friends with the bartender, who told me I was simply too beautiful to pay for drinks, and fed me all sorts of alcoholic beverages at no charge all night. Cool ... if only more men felt this way about me. My roommate, on the other hand, found a couple of Puerto Ricans, who provided good conversation and entertainment for the rest of the night. Until the Brazilian woman wearing a thong, lots of silver fringe, and a blue-red-and-white feather headress mounted the bar and started to gyrate, at which point, my roommate asked me to close out her tab. Unfortunately, even my favorite bartender was taking cell phone pictures of the scantily clad, gyrating woman atop the bar. It took me a full 20 minutes to close the tab, and that was with puppy eyes and a kiss for the bartender. A girl's gotta really work it these days.

Finally arrived back home around 2:40am (early in my humble opinion) and my roommate immediately crashed into bed. Me? I kinda want a jumbo slice of pizza ....

Best engagement story ever

One of my favorite Gang of 100 members just got engaged! It was rather unconventional, fraught with obstacles, dower customs officials and clandestine meetings under the very nose of authority. You'll love this lengthy but worthwhile story -- told from the point of view of her now-fiancee: (Names changed to protect the innocent)

One Crazy engagement story:

That’s right, my beloved family and friends, LaPrez, the love of my life, has agreed to marry me. Now I’ve just got to tell you how it happened but be warned, this may take a while.

In June, LaPrez left for a class in Alejuela, Costa Rica (outside of San Jose) a school called INCAE. A few days before she left, I decided to propose to her during my visit in July. I also thought it might be nice to have a little ceremony on the beach, since we both wanted a small, informal wedding (to be followed with a giant party for family and friends in attendance!) So my friend Jim put me in touch with a friend planning a wedding in C.R., who in turn put me in touch with their wedding photographer/planner named Fernando. Fernando speaks (or at least types) great English, has a wonderful sense of humor, is extremely accommodating and attentive, and appears to live and breathe weddings and surfing. I told him that I couldn’t set anything in stone until after I proposed on 7/1 but, if LaPrez liked the idea, we might want the ceremony on or around 7/5. “No problem!” said Fernando.

A week ago LaPrez sent me our full itinerary that she had somehow managed to research and compile between her 8 hours/day of classes, 4 hours/day of homework, meeting and learning Spanish from her various fascinating classmates and getting violently ill just before her final. When I saw that we’d be staying at a beautiful hotel overlooking the most beautiful and dramatic volcano in Costa Rica, I knew that’s where I had to ask LaPrez to be my wife.

So finally Friday evening came and I arrived at BWI airport for my 6:30 p.m. flight. Storms in Atlanta (where my connection was) kept us from boarding until about 7:30 p.m. but I was assured that my connection was also delayed to 10:30 p.m. and that I would just barely make it. We were next in line for take-off when the plane pulled over and powered down - more delays in Atlanta. A half hour passes, and another, and another. We finally leave BWI at 9:30 p.m. and I am resigned to spend the night in Atlanta. Upon entering the ATL airport at 11:45 p.m., I glanced at the monitor and lo and behold I see “flight #xxx, San Jose, CR: Boarding Gate E1.” “Holy crap!” I think. “Where am I now?” Gate A25. About as far from E1 as would be humanly possible. I get a call from LaPrez: “Your plane is boarding right now - you can make it!!!!” She’s been monitoring the situation via Internet from her school in Alejuela.

I’m off like a rocket. I catch the train from terminal A to terminal E and book it to the gate where ... they haven’t even started boarding! The monitor was wrong - the mechanical delay is actually ongoing and they estimate a departure time of 12:30am. Awesome! The plane finally takes off at 2 a.m.

When I enter C.R. customs at 3:30am, Saturday morning, everything seems to proceed normally. But just as the agent is about to stamp my passport, he sees that it expires at the end of July. “No problemo. I’m leaving on the 8^th. I have my itinerary,” I explain in my broken Spanish. Off he goes to talk to his supervisor who tells me in Spanish that, in C.R., they need 30 valid days on the passport and they send me to wait while they deliberate. At this point, I assume they will make me wait for a while, maybe fill out some paperwork, but they can’t deny me entry to the country with a valid passport. So my biggest worry is LaPrez waiting for me below.

In the waiting area, I start talking to a bunch of Nicaraguans also denied entry and the security guards about my options. Not knowing how to say “engagement,” I simply say that I am getting married and that my passport is really not expired. Finally, I convince one of the security guards to take my wallet picture of LaPrez, find her, and explain the situation. Ten minutes later, he returns and hands me his cell. It’s LaPrez on a payphone downstairs! I was elated to hear her voice. She paid the security guard to call the payphone and let me use his phone. That girl thinks on her feet with the best of them.

“So, I hear we’re getting married!” she says. “Goddamn it!” I think. “I should have told the guard not to mention that part!” “It’s okay,” she says. “I knew you were going to ask anyway. A girl just knows these things.”

A little defeated, but still filled with nervous excitement I say, “LaPrez, will you marry me?” “Let me think about it,” she says. Just kidding. Her immediate and beautiful and life-changing reply from the payphone in the San Jose, Costa Rica airport to the grimy 1989 Nokia cell phone belonging to the airport security guard who was my captor was simply, “Of course.” For a moment, all my problems just went away. We giggle for a bit and exchange sweet nothings but then it was back to the task at hand.

She tells me to get a three-day pass so I can go to the U.S. embassy on Monday and get things squared away. We agree to keep working from inside and out and I would call her back at 5:15 a.m. with an update. Unfortunately, I quickly discover there wasn’t anything I could do from the inside. But at about 5am, a security guard comes running over saying, “Come with me. You can talk to her for five minutes and then you go back to the U.S.” “Holy crap!” I think. “This is exciting but completely horrible!” So there I am waiting by the metal detector with two security guards, when out of the side entrance, comes my beautiful LaPrez – the first time I’d seen her in three torturous weeks. It was a clandestine, unapproved meeting that LaPrez had convinced them to allow by sneaking her in through a two-foot wide service corridor.

After a much needed embrace, I take out the ring passed down from my grandmother to my mother, finally look into LaPrez’s eyes, and ask her to marry me … again. And she says yes … again. We agree to get married in Costa Rica as soon as I can return. Too soon, we have to part – but then a Delta employee named Brian tells us he can get me in! It was about 5:30 a.m. and we agree that I would call her at the pay phone at 6:15am with an update. That was the last we saw of Brian.

At about 7:30 a.m., a different Delta employee comes by hurriedly and says, "You’re going home and the plane leaves in 20 minutes.” “But you don’t understand,” I implore. “Let me talk to Brian, he said he could work things out.” “Brian went home,” he says. I start to get angry. Eventually, I convinced him to give me one more shot with the immigration officers, so we run at full speed down the length of the airport to where the incident began. The middle-aged, overweight, dower customs official reads my report with annoyance as I try to explain for the 20^th time that I will be out of the country two weeks before my passport expires and that I just want to get married in his beautiful county. At this point, my brain was pretty much functioning on a reptilian level, so I can’t be sure that anything I said made any sense. What I can be sure of is that with a single wave of his hand, he sent me back to gate and crushed my chances of seeing my new fiancée in the immediate future. At the gate, I plead further with the harried Delta official, rightly pointing out that this was all Delta’s fault for never informing me of this regulation and letting me board the flight at all, after inspecting my passport when I checked in. He half heartedly apologizes and tells me to get on the plane. “I refuse to get on that plane until I’m married!” I deliriously half-shout in the crowded airport. “Sir, I have two security guards here that are going to put you on that plane,” he retorts. Defeated and semi-conscious, I convince him to at least let me call LaPrez to tell her I would be leaving.

But I couldn’t work the card-activated phone. So at about 8 a.m., my dream of spending the next week touring the west coast of Costa Rica and marrying my sweetheart on the beach was pronounced dead as I boarded a plane to Atlanta, GA.

In retrospect, I realize that the curious looks I got on the plane were probably not because people could see the anguish in my soul but more likely, were due to the scenes of sprinting at full tilt through the tiny airport with security guards to talk to immigration, only to be followed ten minutes later by a determinedly petulant tantrum at the gate, followed by threats of force. Of course at the time, whether due to sleep deprivation or love sickness, I wasn’t even aware that there were other people in that airport. The return trip is a bit of a blurr. I had two screwdrivers on the first leg and was in and out of consciousness. All I could think about was that I had failed. But every now and then, a feeling of bliss would sweep over me ... “She said yes.”

By the time my Dad picked me up at Reagan National Airport, I was depressed but resolute. The plan now, thanks to LaPrez's quick thinking, is to get my passport (hopefully by Thursday) and get married next week in C.R. Assuming Fernando is cool with a slight postponement, then the only issue is whether “next day” passport service is truly next day. I will be calling PassportandVisas.com tomorrow morning to find that out. I’ve also emailed my congresswoman to enlist her help if possible. If anyone has any advise in this arena I am all ears. But I'm getting married!

Chalets and champagne

Don't know about you, but I'm a Firefox browser user. I love it. I love the little add-ons and gadgets. Like my weather gadget. It appears in the bottom part of my browser window and gives me the current temperature and the two-day forecast. Usually, there's a cute little icon -- you know, a shining sun, a rain cloud, a snowflake, etc.

Except I live in DC. And it's July in D.C. For the past two days, the icon has been a melting thermometer. And really, that's what it feels like. Every time I walk outside, whether it's 7am or 11pm, I'm convinced my flipflops are going to dissolve in the heat and I'm going to melt right into the sidewalk. It's so nasty humid here, I can't even put it into words.

Pleeeeease rescue me. I just need some fabulously wealthy and handsome man to steal me away to a chalet in the Swiss Alps, feed me chocolate and champagne for the next two and half months, and pamper me with full body massages until I feel like I'm going to melt into the pillowtop king sized bed draped in buttery smooth Egyptian cotton sheets. If you know of anyone who might fit the bill, drop me a line. Now that I'm thinking about it, handsome is optional. I'll settle for wealth. Desperate times ...

Sake it to me

The funniest thing happened on the way to Eastern Market the other day. I was standing by myself at 9pm up in Northeast, at the corner of H and 14th St. (The Atlas District is kind of a sketchy part of town -- definitely up and coming but definitely not there yet). Anyway, I was waiting for the bus to take me home, looking all alert and aware of my surroundings, when a cute little black girl walked up to the stop. She looked about 13, wearing two afro puffs and a shirt that had to be from Forever 21 or Wet Seal or someplace like that. I smiled at her, she smiled back.

A few beats later, I noticed that she was looking at me in a very curious manner. When we made eye contact again, she asked, very earnestly, "Do you do nails?"

I nearly died in laughter. Right there, on the street corner. I mean, Atlas District is a predominantly black neighborhood and I realized at that moment that Asians are probably in short supply there ... and quite possibly, the only Asians this little girl ever saw in her neighborhood were the ones in the nail salons. I was so torn as to how to respond. Gotta admit, I was really tempted to say something like, "Oh no, honey, those are Vietnamese. I'm Chinese; we own the laundromats and dry cleaners." But then I realized that the dry humor would probably be lost on her. (To her credit, I was looking super Asian that day -- traditional Chinese-style shirt, jade bracelet, etc).

Instead, I just smiled and said, "No, but I love to get my nails done. Do you?" She grinned, responded in the affirmative and we both boarded the bus, while she continued to look at me like I was a new specimen of human.

During the bus ride, I started thinking about the juxtaposition of that encounter versus an encounter I recently had with a (white) friend's father. He and I were chatting about all sorts of things and in the course of conversation, he asked me if I saw myself as "ethnic." Again, I nearly died, this time from horror. I knew that he asked that question from a place of sheer ignorance, not disdain or malice, but I still had to take a few deep breaths before answering. First of all, that's just plain offensive. Second, using the word "ethnic" in that context makes so little sense anyway. I explained that if he meant to ask if I see myself as Asian, then absolutely yes -- like most people of color, my race is among the first adjectives I use to describe myself.

How is it that one person could look at me and see nothing but my race ... and another simply ignored it or didn't see it? And which situation is preferable? Being Asian shapes so much of my attitudes and outlooks towards life. But it's certainly not the only thing. And I wouldn't even say it's the most influential thing either. Most days, I just carry on about my business; my Asianness hangs around in the background, always there, but not necessarily at the forefront of my life. Is it so hard for other people to have the same attitude?

Can't I have my fried rice and eat it too?

That's what I call a productive weekend

Friday night: Shopping at the new Vintage store down the street, drinking wine on an outdoor patio with a friend, making friends with the Canadians at the next table, and getting invited to next week's party at the Canadian embassy.

Saturday: Helping the Fortress move into his new apartment, rolling my eyes at the way boys throw things into boxes and want to bring leaking beanbags in the truck (I put the kabash on that), drinking beer and eating nachos at a Gang of 100 birthday bash, sneaking liquor into a Nationals game, drinking too much of the liquor at the Nationals game, commuting 10 minutes home so I could catch up with a good friend on the phone before crashing into bed half-dressed and fully drunk.

Sunday: using my fabulous Black and Decker Firestorm drill to hang up pictures, lanterns, pot racks, spice racks, and letter holders, balancing precariously on the step ladder atop two kitchen chairs in order to hang up the living room curtains, finally unpacking all the kitchen boxes, drinking wine with my roommate whose been out of town all weekend.

If only I had remembered to put in my eBay bid for the to-die-for Steve Madden zebra print peephole heels, my weekend would have been heaven on earth ....

Possibly one of the best Craiglist ads ever written

I'm hosting a July 4th BBQ at the new house, but don't have a BBQ grill yet. So, I went cruising through Craigstlist and came across this fabulous ad:

Behold! A chip-and-dip bowl of life-altering proportions! - $5

---

Reply to: sale-353466039@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-06-16, 12:11PM EDT


BBQ season is here.

It's a lovely day, and you're probably thinking to yourself,

"I'm going to another BBQ today. Let's make it count. Today is the first day of the rest of my chip-and-dip bringing life. Today, while the hot dogs and hamburgers smolder away on a dollar store hibachi, while the beer goes flat and the guests lose their mingling mojo, while the desserts melt in the afternoon sun, this is the time that I will arrive--not with a 6-pack of domestic swill or 2-liter of high-fructose diabetes, NO! I shall strike awe in others with a gleaming bowl of fresh, mouth-watering spinach dip, lightly accented with dill and cumin, nestled gently within a mountain range of crisp, salted, corn tortilla goodness. Every petal of this crispy blossom yearns to be smothered in this tasty salve, uniting at last in a culinary delicacy that not only tides one over before the meat is off the grill, but reminds us all what we can achieve... together."

Still on box. $5

The Ugly Rug: Part I

Once upon a time, there were two single women who lived together in Washington D.C. One was Asian. The other was not. Together, they tastefully decorated a cute rowhouse and furnished it with lovely accessories from all over the world. They had scrolls from Asia, papyrus paintings from Egypt, sofas from Virginia, drapes from Sweden (ok, Ikea), artifacts from Chinatown in Boston. The home was beautiful. All they needed was another area rug for the common room.

Then one day, the non-Asian girl's father brought over a rug. He restores Oriental rugs as a hobby and agreed to lend a rug to the two ladies. But ... it was an ugly rug. A really ugly rug. Threadbare, old and ugly. The Asian was horrified, but, alas, what could she do? It was on loan. And it belonged to her roommate's father.

And so the Asian began to hatch a plot ....

Stay tuned for the next exciting installment of "The Ugly Rug."

Bye Bye Birdie

A friend of mine has been filming the progress of a nest of baby finches in his backyard. Not sure why, but I LOVED the clips. They are kind of addicting. Baby birds are so cute. Check out the whole family, feeding times, and watch each of the four babies learn to fly!

Paris meets God

Paris Hilton has found God in jail. The best part? She says she's ditching the ditzy persona:

"I used to act dumb. It was an act. I am 26 years old, and that act is no longer cute. It is not who I am, nor do I want to be that person for the young girls who looked up to me.

Unfortunately, it seems that perhaps the dumb part wasn't so much an act. Later in this New York Post article, she talks about her first few days in prison:

"I was not eating or sleeping," she said of her first few days. "I was severely depressed and felt as if I was in a cage."

Huh. Prison makes you feel like you're in a cage? Who knew??

Meanwhile, Daddy Hilton is pimping out his daughter for a "Get of Jail" party in Vegas. He's demanding at least a $50,000 fee for her appearance. Poor girl. The new Paris doesn't have a chance.

That's SO 19th century

My roommate has a hope chest.

No joke.

A hope chest.

For those of you who were born after 1849, a hope chest is a box kept by unmarried women in anticipation of getting married. You put in the family heirlooms, grandma's pearls that you want to wear on your wedding day, the quilt that's been passed down from bride to bride for 18 generations, the table linens that were made by your great-grandmother, etc etc.

Now, don't get me wrong. I really really like this girl. She's got some spunk to her and we get along really well. But I kinda want to break into the hope chest and see what she has in there. It's KILLING me to know what's inside. I mean, what does a girl in her mid-20s in the 21st century actually keep in there? I'm intrigued. A printout of her very first love letter email? A list of top wedding Web sites? A SIM card? A DVD of Father of the Bride?

I brought this up to people at work the other day and one of the guys actually thought it was kind of a neat idea. And I got to thinking. Have we lost something in losing traditions like a hope chest? I don't even know many women who did the whole "something borrowed, something blue" thing for their weddings. Are weddings less thrilling now that the sense of anticipation from the age of 7 is gone? Now we dread having to buy and wear wretchedly unbearable bridesmaids dresses and fulfilling the grueling chores of being maid of honor. We put up with the chatter of flowers and tuxedos gone wrong, bad outfit choices by the mother-in-law, and the unending seating assignment woes -- all because this day is for the bride, she can do what she wants. Don't get me wrong, we're thrilled for the dear friend as she walks down the aisle, but admit it, we're relieved when it's finally over.

Maybe we've lost something along the way. But weddings are still fabulous events in so many other ways. This weekend, I'm heading back to Boston for some pre-wedding festivities and am really looking forward to it. Gonna get me some quality girl time - and it all just reminds me that weddings are so much more than hope chests, dresses, and bachelorette parties. Whew. I'm too young to be this jaded!

Summer lovin'

I'm officially a DC resident! And what a great neighborhood I've landed in, too. Eastern Market, in my humble opinion, is one of the best areas of DC. I adore the grittiness of U Street and the funky chic of Dupont but Eastern Market is quaint, urban, diverse, eclectic and yuppie all at the same time. On our first night here, my roommate and I walked down to the main drag for food and beer. By the time we got back home, we had been introduced to Bernie, the guy who owns the liquor store; Carl, the unofficial "mayor" of this area, bartender and aspiring filmmaker; Kevin, local bartender; and Tom, just a random guy from the neighborhood who was behind us in line. Carl and Kevin told us that Bernie is a whiz at pairing food with wine and gave us a "shot for the road." I LOVE it. My roommate made fun of me for talking to everyone too but I just love being in a place where people answer back (nicely, of course).

While our new house is simply wonderful on so many levels, we've also discovered a leak in the basement, no hot water, and a third roommate in the shape of a small grey mouse. Welcome to city living. But I'm a 7 minute walk from the metro station and only 10 minute drive to work. Which will turn into a 15 minute commute when I (gasp!) sell my car. I'm taking the ultimate city living plunge. Not gonna lie -- it's scary.

This move has also coincided with other fortuitous circumstances -- new job, new salary, new account with Verizon Wireless, and new crush! FINALLY. I have a crush in DC. This is so great and a whole lot easier and cheaper than Chemistry.com. What's even better is that he has a crush on me too. Ah, summer crushes ... they make life so enjoyable. It's just enough drama to keep me satisfied but without the craziness that often comes with new relationships. I'm still convinced I've missed the window of marriage-in-my-20s opportunity and that I'll be single until at least 35, at which point I'll marry a divorcee and we'll have to adopt a gaggle of small children from an array of developing countries. Angelina actually stole that idea from me.

But until then, I fully plan on enjoying the single life and having crushes on hot boys who order pizza and beer and a movie with me on Friday nights, hitchhike to see Shakespeare in the Park, and wink at me just because.

Why Comcast is the spawn of the devil

My most recent phone conversation with Comcast (made from the office because my digital voice line keeps going out and I can’t use it to call them and tell them that my Internet is down)

Comcast: Thank you for calling Comcast. Please enter your 10-digit phone number

Me (dialing): beep bip beep bo beep beep beep bip bip

Comcast: Please enter your zip code

Me (dialing): bleep beep bip bip beep

Comcast: For trouble with your service, press 1; for billing, press 2; to transfer or downgrade your service, press 3

Me (dialing): Beep

Comcast: For security purposes, please enter your 10-digit phone number.

Me (speaking): What the eff? Didn’t I just do that? (dialing) beep bip beep bo beep beep beep bip bip

Comcast: Please enter your zip code.

Me: Seriously? (dialing) bleep beep bip bip beep

Comcast: To transfer your service, press 1…

Me (dialing): beep

Comcast: One moment. (series of bleeps)

Patricia, the Comcast lady: Thank you for calling Comcast. This is Patricia. How can I help you?

Me: I need to change the name on my Comcast account to my roommate.

Patricia: You need to go in person to your local billing station and fill out a form.

(I pause and wait for her to tell me where it is. She doesn’t)

Me: Can you tell me the phone number and address of the payment center?

Patricia: What city do you live in?

Me (thinking): Didn’t I just give you zip code TWICE?! (then, out loud) Alexandria, VA

Patricia: It’s at 508 D South Van Dorn St.

Me: And what’s the phone number?

Patricia: They don’t have a phone number because they don’t take calls.

Me: (thinking) Oh dear God in heaven above … (out loud) Ok. Can you please email me the form?

Patricia: No, we don’t have it electronically.

(I pause and wait for some kind of apologetic follow-up or explanation. She doesn’t give one).

Me: Ohhh-kay then. Um. Thanks?

Patricia: Sure, thanks for calling Comcast. Have a good day.

Me: I HATE YOU PEOPLE. (click)

Love's not Time's fool

I've recently become re-enamored with A Prairie Home Companion, a radio variety show broadcast by American Public Media. If you've never heard of Garrison Keiller and his sardonic, satirical and hysterically funny humor, you must tune in. It usually airs on Sunday evenings, which usually means that I listen to it later in the week over the Internet. The May 5th show is especially wonderful -- a special poetry episode featuring Alan Ginsberg, Meryl Streep, Billy Collins and more. Every week, Keiller does a completely off-book monologue of the News from Lake Wobegon, the fictional location of the show, and this week he used one of my favorite Shakespeare sonnets.

Suddenly, my mind was flooded with high school memories like the time my toilet flooded the bathroom because I couldn't figure out how to turn off the water. I had to memorize and recite this sonnet back in high school and as Keiller recited it on the show, I found myself reciting it along with him. I can't believe I remember all the words. I can't even remember to set the timer for my Trader Joe's frozen pizza. (Sucks when you burn your last frozen pizza to a crisp.) The human mind is a bizarre thing. Ah, highschool. I wore an afro during parts of highschool. Not on purpose, of course. It was perm gone miserably wrong. And then there was the time I got caught by the police while making out in parking lot with my boyfriend -- I tell you, they turn those lights on brighter when they know you're not wearing clothes. But my favorites memories from those days are the nights when me and a group of friends would just hang out at the elementary school playground, lying on our backs, trying to read the hidden language of the stars, putting into words life's deepest issues. We took ourselves so seriously when any adult probably would have laughed us off. But that's what high school is all about it, isn't it?

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.