Things I'm so digging right now:
1. My iPod
2. Having my iPod ear buds attached to my ears allll day long
3. My new computer
4. All my music on my new computer
5. Walking to the metro in the morning with my iPod on
6. Handi transporters
7. The Jefferson Monument
8. My job (finally!)
9. Our Christmas tree
10. The fact that I'm coming home in less than a month!
Things I'm so not digging right now:
1. Missing my Florida friends (still)
2. Not being a part of the Benny's of Bonita action
3. Missing my Missmo
4. ummmmmmm
5. welllll
I'm apparently very happy right now because I can't think of a single other thing that I'm not digging right now.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
if only it were true. my life would be so much easier.
My judge/boss thinks I'm a lesbian.
I mean, I guess if I were her I'd think the same thing. Three times now I've been like "Oh, my best friend is coming from Florida to visit" and I've only been here four months. I think she's starting to suspect the "best friend" thing is code for "lesbian lover." The first time she was like "Oh, that's nice." The second time she asked "How long have you been friends?" and then added "I think it's time that she looked for a job up here and moved up here." Then today we were discussing our holiday plans and once again, I was like "Oh, my best friend is arriving tonight." And then I added "Tomorrow's her birthday so I made reservations at Notti Bianche and then we're going to the Kennedy Center to see the Nutcracker." She replied with an "Ohhhhhh, that's nice."
I've yet to tell her "Oh, this weekend my boyfriend and I [have reservations at a fancy restaurant/are going to the ballet/are visiting some friends in Brooklyn/are going to lay low.]" So I'm pretty sure she thinks, or at least strongly suspects, that I'm a lesbian.
How does one rectify the situation? "Here you go, Judge, here is that opinion I was working on. By the way, I'm not a lesbian."
I'll be back Monday with some pictures from Missmo and Am Take DC Part IV.
Happy Turkey Day, y'all!
I mean, I guess if I were her I'd think the same thing. Three times now I've been like "Oh, my best friend is coming from Florida to visit" and I've only been here four months. I think she's starting to suspect the "best friend" thing is code for "lesbian lover." The first time she was like "Oh, that's nice." The second time she asked "How long have you been friends?" and then added "I think it's time that she looked for a job up here and moved up here." Then today we were discussing our holiday plans and once again, I was like "Oh, my best friend is arriving tonight." And then I added "Tomorrow's her birthday so I made reservations at Notti Bianche and then we're going to the Kennedy Center to see the Nutcracker." She replied with an "Ohhhhhh, that's nice."
I've yet to tell her "Oh, this weekend my boyfriend and I [have reservations at a fancy restaurant/are going to the ballet/are visiting some friends in Brooklyn/are going to lay low.]" So I'm pretty sure she thinks, or at least strongly suspects, that I'm a lesbian.
How does one rectify the situation? "Here you go, Judge, here is that opinion I was working on. By the way, I'm not a lesbian."
I'll be back Monday with some pictures from Missmo and Am Take DC Part IV.
Happy Turkey Day, y'all!
Friday, November 17, 2006
rebel
I never do two in one day, but I was just sitting here in my office, working on some very unimportant legal issue, when my mind started drifting to my visit to my hometown last Christmas, and my blood started boiling.
We went to this bar called Jack's, where I ran into not one, not two, but three girls that I was friends with in high school whom I hadn't seen in years. The first one I didn't really talk to. But I was really excited to see the other two, and really drunk, so I pretty much jumped in their laps. The three of us were part of the same little clique, and so we started reminiscing and talking about others who were in our clique when I mentioned that one of the girls was going to community college in Gainesville the same time that I started college at UF. I ran into her, we exchanged numbers, and we hung out a few times during my undergrad days, but then she kind of blew me off. I didn't really like her that much this time around anyway, because she seemed like a pretentious rich-girl snob that I wouldn't really bother with if she hadn't been one of my VERY first friends in Florida.* Anyway, we kind of lost touch, or rather, she started blowing me off, so we didn't really hang out after that, until one day I ran into her on the street during my first year of law school (I believe she was still in community college). We exchanged numbers again, and I called her a few times and invited her out, but she blew me off each time, something like she didn't want to go to a law school party.** So then I was like "fuck 'er," and that was that.
*As an aside, I moved to Florida when I was 13, and I met this girl and some other people. I desperately wanted to fit in and be cool like them, so when one day shortly after I moved down there, they handed me a leafy green substance and told me it was pot and I should smoke it, I gladly agreed. I smoked it and I didn't feel any different, but I couldn't let on like I wasn't cool like them, so I pretended to be high. Then they told me it wasn't really pot and they knew I was faking. I was humiliated. Some friends, huh?
**As another aside, I think she was just jealous because she was so proud of herself when we hung out when I was an undergrad because she was dating a law student. Then I was a law student. And law school parties turned out to be the best parties EVER.
So I ran into these two girls last year, and because I was drunk, and because we were talking about former members of the clique, I said how the girl in Gainesville was such a bitch because she never returned my calls. So why did one of the girls turn around all of the sudden and be like "Don't hate. You disappointed a lot of your friends in high school." Therefore implying, I don't know, that my behavior as a rebellous 15-year-old somehow reflects on my character as an adult? That I'll always be that wild child and am therefore not worthy of their friendship?
But it wasn't just her words. It was the way she said it. With like a look of disdain and a whole lotta indignation in her voice.
The more I think about it, the more mad I get. So here's to you, Old Middle/High School Friend that I Ran Into at Jack's Last Year - GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!! What the fuck are you doing with your life nowadays? Working at the mall? Oh. Because me? I'm fucking doin' it as a LAWYER in DC. Turns out being a rebellious 15-year-old has its perks.
Bitch.
We went to this bar called Jack's, where I ran into not one, not two, but three girls that I was friends with in high school whom I hadn't seen in years. The first one I didn't really talk to. But I was really excited to see the other two, and really drunk, so I pretty much jumped in their laps. The three of us were part of the same little clique, and so we started reminiscing and talking about others who were in our clique when I mentioned that one of the girls was going to community college in Gainesville the same time that I started college at UF. I ran into her, we exchanged numbers, and we hung out a few times during my undergrad days, but then she kind of blew me off. I didn't really like her that much this time around anyway, because she seemed like a pretentious rich-girl snob that I wouldn't really bother with if she hadn't been one of my VERY first friends in Florida.* Anyway, we kind of lost touch, or rather, she started blowing me off, so we didn't really hang out after that, until one day I ran into her on the street during my first year of law school (I believe she was still in community college). We exchanged numbers again, and I called her a few times and invited her out, but she blew me off each time, something like she didn't want to go to a law school party.** So then I was like "fuck 'er," and that was that.
*As an aside, I moved to Florida when I was 13, and I met this girl and some other people. I desperately wanted to fit in and be cool like them, so when one day shortly after I moved down there, they handed me a leafy green substance and told me it was pot and I should smoke it, I gladly agreed. I smoked it and I didn't feel any different, but I couldn't let on like I wasn't cool like them, so I pretended to be high. Then they told me it wasn't really pot and they knew I was faking. I was humiliated. Some friends, huh?
**As another aside, I think she was just jealous because she was so proud of herself when we hung out when I was an undergrad because she was dating a law student. Then I was a law student. And law school parties turned out to be the best parties EVER.
So I ran into these two girls last year, and because I was drunk, and because we were talking about former members of the clique, I said how the girl in Gainesville was such a bitch because she never returned my calls. So why did one of the girls turn around all of the sudden and be like "Don't hate. You disappointed a lot of your friends in high school." Therefore implying, I don't know, that my behavior as a rebellous 15-year-old somehow reflects on my character as an adult? That I'll always be that wild child and am therefore not worthy of their friendship?
But it wasn't just her words. It was the way she said it. With like a look of disdain and a whole lotta indignation in her voice.
The more I think about it, the more mad I get. So here's to you, Old Middle/High School Friend that I Ran Into at Jack's Last Year - GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!! What the fuck are you doing with your life nowadays? Working at the mall? Oh. Because me? I'm fucking doin' it as a LAWYER in DC. Turns out being a rebellious 15-year-old has its perks.
Bitch.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
crazy
This is how my day went yesterday:
10:00 a.m. – Go downstairs to the retail center in my office building. Buy coffee. Step outside for some fresh air (read – cigarette). Encounter crazy homeless woman who sometimes hangs out around the building. Crazy homeless woman sits down next to me and starts talking about her kids. Ask her if she has kids in the system because I have heard her talking about how they've been taken away. Confirm suspicions that she is severely schizophrenic when she responds that her children have been kidnapped, raped, and beaten by women lawyers who have taken over men's positions whilst wearing witch outfits and have gotten too power hungry since they have taken over the men's positions. Politely excuse myself and retreat to my office.
4:00 p.m. – Leave the office and stop by CVS on my way home. Encounter little old lady in the shower gel aisle. Little old lady comments on the great sales that CVS is having. Politely agree. Little old lady relates story about how she was in the Mac-Donald's earlier and witnessed a crazy homeless woman attempt to rob it. Story takes ten minutes. Little old lady tells me she's actually a CIA agent, and the crazy homeless woman is lucky she didn't have her gun or she would have shot her. Politely agree. Attempt to get away from little old lady, but little old lady follows me down the aisle, imploring me to "listen, miss." Little old lady warns me to stay away from the Mac-Donald's by the courthouse because this is the location of the attempted robbery. Little old lady shares with me that she works at the courthouse as a clerk, a judge, and a lawyer. Finally get away from little old lady. Three minutes later, hear her from the makeup aisle telling somebody else the story.
4:15 p.m. – Get on the bus to go home. Walk towards back of bus looking for a seat. Drunk old man gets up and offers me his seat. Politely thank him and accept the seat. Drunk old man sits in empty seat across aisle from me. Put my nose in my book. Five minutes later, feel somebody rubbing my left arm. Turn around to find drunk old man leaning back into his seat. Resolve to say something if it happens again, but to brush it off this time.
4:17 p.m. – Bus stops at Union Station and I get up to let other drunk old man who is sitting next to me get off the bus. CVS bags remain on the floor, and I see other drunk old man is struggling to get past them. Apologize and attempt to move CVS bags, but other drunk old man says it's fine and that actually, he wishes he could take CVS bags with him. Politely giggle, unsure of the meaning of his comment. Put my nose back in book and wait for bus to continue down H Street. Hear knock at my window. Turn to my right to see other drunk old man standing at window, motioning for me to get off bus. Turn back to book and think to myself that the day couldn't get any crazier.
4:32 p.m. – Get off bus and make my way down H Street. Out of corner of my eye, see drunk young man approaching with bottle in brown paper bag in hand. See him stop short. Continue walking, making extra effort not to make eye contact. Drunk young man grabs my arm as I walk by and proceeds to make the sign of the holy cross and blow kisses at me. Continue walking, resolving not to come out of the house for the rest of the day.
10:00 a.m. – Go downstairs to the retail center in my office building. Buy coffee. Step outside for some fresh air (read – cigarette). Encounter crazy homeless woman who sometimes hangs out around the building. Crazy homeless woman sits down next to me and starts talking about her kids. Ask her if she has kids in the system because I have heard her talking about how they've been taken away. Confirm suspicions that she is severely schizophrenic when she responds that her children have been kidnapped, raped, and beaten by women lawyers who have taken over men's positions whilst wearing witch outfits and have gotten too power hungry since they have taken over the men's positions. Politely excuse myself and retreat to my office.
4:00 p.m. – Leave the office and stop by CVS on my way home. Encounter little old lady in the shower gel aisle. Little old lady comments on the great sales that CVS is having. Politely agree. Little old lady relates story about how she was in the Mac-Donald's earlier and witnessed a crazy homeless woman attempt to rob it. Story takes ten minutes. Little old lady tells me she's actually a CIA agent, and the crazy homeless woman is lucky she didn't have her gun or she would have shot her. Politely agree. Attempt to get away from little old lady, but little old lady follows me down the aisle, imploring me to "listen, miss." Little old lady warns me to stay away from the Mac-Donald's by the courthouse because this is the location of the attempted robbery. Little old lady shares with me that she works at the courthouse as a clerk, a judge, and a lawyer. Finally get away from little old lady. Three minutes later, hear her from the makeup aisle telling somebody else the story.
4:15 p.m. – Get on the bus to go home. Walk towards back of bus looking for a seat. Drunk old man gets up and offers me his seat. Politely thank him and accept the seat. Drunk old man sits in empty seat across aisle from me. Put my nose in my book. Five minutes later, feel somebody rubbing my left arm. Turn around to find drunk old man leaning back into his seat. Resolve to say something if it happens again, but to brush it off this time.
4:17 p.m. – Bus stops at Union Station and I get up to let other drunk old man who is sitting next to me get off the bus. CVS bags remain on the floor, and I see other drunk old man is struggling to get past them. Apologize and attempt to move CVS bags, but other drunk old man says it's fine and that actually, he wishes he could take CVS bags with him. Politely giggle, unsure of the meaning of his comment. Put my nose back in book and wait for bus to continue down H Street. Hear knock at my window. Turn to my right to see other drunk old man standing at window, motioning for me to get off bus. Turn back to book and think to myself that the day couldn't get any crazier.
4:32 p.m. – Get off bus and make my way down H Street. Out of corner of my eye, see drunk young man approaching with bottle in brown paper bag in hand. See him stop short. Continue walking, making extra effort not to make eye contact. Drunk young man grabs my arm as I walk by and proceeds to make the sign of the holy cross and blow kisses at me. Continue walking, resolving not to come out of the house for the rest of the day.
Wednesday, November 8, 2006
a dear boy letter
Dear Boy,
It's been almost a year since you left.
I can still remember the way your hand felt on the back of my head, the heaviness of your body that time we napped together in my broken futon in my Gainesville apartment. I remember the exact look on your face when you stared at the ceiling and told me that my father must be fucked up; the way your lips pursed together when you smiled at me and rubbed my knee. If I put enough thought into it, I can hear every single word you whispered to me that night in Missmo's den.
I cried for days when you left. I was like Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give – as soon as I opened my eyes in the morning, the flood of tears would stain my pillow, and I'd roll over, not wanting to face the day if the day didn't bring you. Even when I'd be out with the girls, drinking and dancing and laughing and having fun, you'd always be in my thoughts. And then, if the night had been long enough and I'd had just enough Bacardi, I'd hide my face in the backseat so nobody would see me silently cry on the way home.
I couldn't understand how things were so different when you left. It was as if when you crossed the state border, all that intensity, all that earth-shattering magic stayed in Florida. I told you to abandon all rational thinking and to just follow your heart, like I did. You wouldn't though. You held on to real life and real life problems – jobs, money, distance, difficulty. And just like that, as you said, you "walked out of my life."
It took me months to get over you. It wasn't until a sweltering day in August, sitting on my mom's lanai, when I realized that it was all so wrong from the beginning. Nothing healthy is ever that intense. Your world views suck, and your competitive streak would never mesh with mine. I was a fool to believe it was right. It was the relationship and its loss that I couldn't get over, not you. It was having somebody who understood me on much more than a superficial level and appreciated me for who I was, who I am, and who I will be that I longed for, not you. And with that, I was over it.
Weeks sometimes go by when I don't even think of you. I have successfully banished you from my thoughts. But lately, you've been coming back in my dreams, and that I can't control, no matter how hard I try. I've always dreamt of you, but they used to be terrible, heart-breaking dreams wherein you are there but want nothing to do with me, or you are there but you're with somebody else. I'd wake up from these dreams feeling empty, sad, and remorseful. The entire day would be grey.
The recent dreams, however, have been nothing short of beautiful. In one, we're sitting together, Indian-style, discussing the romanticism of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms, my favorite love story ever. The colors are bright, the mood is light, but still, I hate this dream. It reminds me of what is and what could never be. I might have been your Catherine Barkley, but you, my dear, were never my Fredrick Henry.
Last night was a new one. We dive into the ocean together, like we did that day we spent alone on your family's boat, and let the sea salt cake our bodies and our hair. I don't remember any more details, just you and me and the sea. But I know that I'll be thinking about you all day now. And mostly, I'll be thinking about the possibility that next month, fate may have us cross each other's paths again.
Part of me hopes that it doesn't, part of me hopes that it does. But all of me wishes that for the time being, you wouldn't haunt my dreams. I finally got you out of my thoughts, now please get out of my dreams.
Sincerely,
Curly Girl
It's been almost a year since you left.
I can still remember the way your hand felt on the back of my head, the heaviness of your body that time we napped together in my broken futon in my Gainesville apartment. I remember the exact look on your face when you stared at the ceiling and told me that my father must be fucked up; the way your lips pursed together when you smiled at me and rubbed my knee. If I put enough thought into it, I can hear every single word you whispered to me that night in Missmo's den.
I cried for days when you left. I was like Diane Keaton in Something's Gotta Give – as soon as I opened my eyes in the morning, the flood of tears would stain my pillow, and I'd roll over, not wanting to face the day if the day didn't bring you. Even when I'd be out with the girls, drinking and dancing and laughing and having fun, you'd always be in my thoughts. And then, if the night had been long enough and I'd had just enough Bacardi, I'd hide my face in the backseat so nobody would see me silently cry on the way home.
I couldn't understand how things were so different when you left. It was as if when you crossed the state border, all that intensity, all that earth-shattering magic stayed in Florida. I told you to abandon all rational thinking and to just follow your heart, like I did. You wouldn't though. You held on to real life and real life problems – jobs, money, distance, difficulty. And just like that, as you said, you "walked out of my life."
It took me months to get over you. It wasn't until a sweltering day in August, sitting on my mom's lanai, when I realized that it was all so wrong from the beginning. Nothing healthy is ever that intense. Your world views suck, and your competitive streak would never mesh with mine. I was a fool to believe it was right. It was the relationship and its loss that I couldn't get over, not you. It was having somebody who understood me on much more than a superficial level and appreciated me for who I was, who I am, and who I will be that I longed for, not you. And with that, I was over it.
Weeks sometimes go by when I don't even think of you. I have successfully banished you from my thoughts. But lately, you've been coming back in my dreams, and that I can't control, no matter how hard I try. I've always dreamt of you, but they used to be terrible, heart-breaking dreams wherein you are there but want nothing to do with me, or you are there but you're with somebody else. I'd wake up from these dreams feeling empty, sad, and remorseful. The entire day would be grey.
The recent dreams, however, have been nothing short of beautiful. In one, we're sitting together, Indian-style, discussing the romanticism of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms, my favorite love story ever. The colors are bright, the mood is light, but still, I hate this dream. It reminds me of what is and what could never be. I might have been your Catherine Barkley, but you, my dear, were never my Fredrick Henry.
Last night was a new one. We dive into the ocean together, like we did that day we spent alone on your family's boat, and let the sea salt cake our bodies and our hair. I don't remember any more details, just you and me and the sea. But I know that I'll be thinking about you all day now. And mostly, I'll be thinking about the possibility that next month, fate may have us cross each other's paths again.
Part of me hopes that it doesn't, part of me hopes that it does. But all of me wishes that for the time being, you wouldn't haunt my dreams. I finally got you out of my thoughts, now please get out of my dreams.
Sincerely,
Curly Girl
Monday, November 6, 2006
public transportation trauma
Since I sold my Explorer in August, I have become a champion of public transportation, and I have found that it's really not all that bad. At first, I would sit on the bus and fume, reminding myself that I have been through eight years of post-secondary education and I'm still riding the bus. But after a while, I got used to it.
Then this morning happened.
The bus was running late, so when it pulled up, I could see that it was packed full. I squeezed onto it and, as I do most mornings, stood in the aisle, holding on to the pole so that I wouldn't topple on top of the other fifty-seven people standing in the aisle every time the bus went over a bump or took a turn. I was standing there not three minutes when I heard a rather impatient man making his way up the aisle, pushing people out of his way, going "excuse me excuse me." By the time he approached me, I had already resolved that I was not going to let him by. In fact, I was rather annoyed at him. So he reached me and told me "excuse me excuse me excuse me," and I held on to the pole and told him "sir, you're gonna have to wait a minute until the bus stops." He looked at me with disbelief and said "I'm tryin'a get to the back of the bus," and I replied "well, you're gonna have to wait."
And then it happened. He took his dirty hand and grabbed my freshly lotioned hand on the pole, and then with his dirty fucking REPULSIVE long-ass finger nails, dug under my fingers to loosen them from the pole and brushed right past me.
I was and still am DISGUSTED. I got to work and washed my hands like seven times.
My response was "excuse me, please don't touch me." The words came out of my mouth and even as I heard them, I was so pissed off at myself. Why did I have to be so proper and polite? "Excuse me?" "Please?" Why couldn't I be gangsta and bust out with some shit like "Oh, I KNOW you didn't just put your dirty mothafuckin' hands on me, mothafucka" and kicked him in the groin? No, instead I busted out with "excuse me" and "please." What the fuck?????
I spent the rest of the ride to work trying to read my book but fantasizing about Henry Hill being my boyfriend and being on the bus with me and whipping out his pistol and telling that motherfucker "Touch her again and I swear to God I'll fucking kill you" like he did when that neighbor boy tried to touch Karen. Okay, not really, because I'm not a proponent of violence, but at least a big beefy gangster boy with me to be like "Touch her again and I swear to God…" something. Something gangsta. Not "Excuse me, please don't touch her again."
Then this morning happened.
The bus was running late, so when it pulled up, I could see that it was packed full. I squeezed onto it and, as I do most mornings, stood in the aisle, holding on to the pole so that I wouldn't topple on top of the other fifty-seven people standing in the aisle every time the bus went over a bump or took a turn. I was standing there not three minutes when I heard a rather impatient man making his way up the aisle, pushing people out of his way, going "excuse me excuse me." By the time he approached me, I had already resolved that I was not going to let him by. In fact, I was rather annoyed at him. So he reached me and told me "excuse me excuse me excuse me," and I held on to the pole and told him "sir, you're gonna have to wait a minute until the bus stops." He looked at me with disbelief and said "I'm tryin'a get to the back of the bus," and I replied "well, you're gonna have to wait."
And then it happened. He took his dirty hand and grabbed my freshly lotioned hand on the pole, and then with his dirty fucking REPULSIVE long-ass finger nails, dug under my fingers to loosen them from the pole and brushed right past me.
I was and still am DISGUSTED. I got to work and washed my hands like seven times.
My response was "excuse me, please don't touch me." The words came out of my mouth and even as I heard them, I was so pissed off at myself. Why did I have to be so proper and polite? "Excuse me?" "Please?" Why couldn't I be gangsta and bust out with some shit like "Oh, I KNOW you didn't just put your dirty mothafuckin' hands on me, mothafucka" and kicked him in the groin? No, instead I busted out with "excuse me" and "please." What the fuck?????
I spent the rest of the ride to work trying to read my book but fantasizing about Henry Hill being my boyfriend and being on the bus with me and whipping out his pistol and telling that motherfucker "Touch her again and I swear to God I'll fucking kill you" like he did when that neighbor boy tried to touch Karen. Okay, not really, because I'm not a proponent of violence, but at least a big beefy gangster boy with me to be like "Touch her again and I swear to God…" something. Something gangsta. Not "Excuse me, please don't touch her again."
Wednesday, November 1, 2006
trick? or treat?
So I volunteered for this Halloween street festival last night called "Hilloween." A realtor whose office is next door to the restaurant I work at on weekends puts it on every year, and there's a hay ride and balloon animals and face painting for the kids, and burgers and beer for the adults. I was selected to be a face painter (for God knows what reason because I can barely draw a stick figure) and I had to dress up in my fairy costume.
It is the fairy costume part that should earn me a medal. I hadn't really put much thought into how I was going to get to Hilloween, that is, until I was in my fairy costume, wings, wand, knee-high boots, face glitter and everything, looking at myself in the mirror when I was like "Am I seriously going walk down H Street and wait for the bus like this?" (H Street is supposed to be an "up and coming" neighborhood. I once told this to somebody, and that person responded by saying it was more coming than up. I have to agree with that statement.) I figured I had to, because how was I going to volunteer for something and then not show? So, ladies and gentlemen, I ponied up and waited for the bus on H Street dressed as a fairy. It was the most uncomfortable experience in my life. This is my favorite exchange that I had on the street:
Man: Damn, you lookin good.
Me: It's Halloween.
Man: You the trick or the treat?
At this point, I had to remind myself that I was doin' it for the kids, doin' it for the kids.
And it was well worth it. Face painting was so fun, although I was sooooo bad at it. My pumpkins looked more like squash, and my spiders looked like flies. I felt kinda guilty about that, remembering a time when I was like ten and I got my face painted and it looked like shit and I was so upset. However, if any of the kids last night were pissed about my unskilled designs, they didn't show it. On the other hand, I could tell some of the parents were expecting me to bust out with some skills and were sorely disappointed. One even told me "I guess you get what you pay for." (The face painting was free.)
But the little kids were just so cute in their little costumes, most of them too young to even talk. There was one little girl who couldn't say a single word that I could understand, but she was sure having a whole conversation with me. It was the cutest! And then there were the brain eating zombies, the mermaids, so many princesses!, the pumpkins, the doggies, the kitties, and one Spongebob Square Pants.
All of them were giddy with that Halloween magic that only children experience, and I even got a little high off of their highs. It reminded me of when I was little, when I would get elated at the sight of a Halloween decoration, when a plastic pumpkin filled with Baby Ruths and Sweetarts and Snickers was all I ever needed, when the possibility that my neighborhood was really haunted by ghosts who appeared only on Halloween seemed quite real. I would plan months and months in advance what I was going to be for Halloween, and the costume had to be perfect. It was my goal in life to win a costume contest. That never happened, although I remember in second grade, I won a pumpkin decorating contest. I remember they said my name, and I was so excited that afterwards, I actually looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and told myself "You did it." Hey – it was a school-wide contest and that's a big accomplishment for an 8-year-old.
Anyway, last night I got as close to feeling that magic again as I ever will be. It was the first time I had participated in Halloween festivities since I was a kid, unless of course you count the law school Halloween party last year, which was basically nothing but a beer fest and my costume was The Guess Who's classic ballad "American Woman," which was comprised of a denim skirt, silver platforms, a white t-shirt, a red feather boa, blue eye shadow, and piece of strategically-placed masking tape which said "American Woman." The only magic that was involved that night was law school colleagues magically finding each other attractive after a few drinks.
It is the fairy costume part that should earn me a medal. I hadn't really put much thought into how I was going to get to Hilloween, that is, until I was in my fairy costume, wings, wand, knee-high boots, face glitter and everything, looking at myself in the mirror when I was like "Am I seriously going walk down H Street and wait for the bus like this?" (H Street is supposed to be an "up and coming" neighborhood. I once told this to somebody, and that person responded by saying it was more coming than up. I have to agree with that statement.) I figured I had to, because how was I going to volunteer for something and then not show? So, ladies and gentlemen, I ponied up and waited for the bus on H Street dressed as a fairy. It was the most uncomfortable experience in my life. This is my favorite exchange that I had on the street:
Man: Damn, you lookin good.
Me: It's Halloween.
Man: You the trick or the treat?
At this point, I had to remind myself that I was doin' it for the kids, doin' it for the kids.
And it was well worth it. Face painting was so fun, although I was sooooo bad at it. My pumpkins looked more like squash, and my spiders looked like flies. I felt kinda guilty about that, remembering a time when I was like ten and I got my face painted and it looked like shit and I was so upset. However, if any of the kids last night were pissed about my unskilled designs, they didn't show it. On the other hand, I could tell some of the parents were expecting me to bust out with some skills and were sorely disappointed. One even told me "I guess you get what you pay for." (The face painting was free.)
But the little kids were just so cute in their little costumes, most of them too young to even talk. There was one little girl who couldn't say a single word that I could understand, but she was sure having a whole conversation with me. It was the cutest! And then there were the brain eating zombies, the mermaids, so many princesses!, the pumpkins, the doggies, the kitties, and one Spongebob Square Pants.
All of them were giddy with that Halloween magic that only children experience, and I even got a little high off of their highs. It reminded me of when I was little, when I would get elated at the sight of a Halloween decoration, when a plastic pumpkin filled with Baby Ruths and Sweetarts and Snickers was all I ever needed, when the possibility that my neighborhood was really haunted by ghosts who appeared only on Halloween seemed quite real. I would plan months and months in advance what I was going to be for Halloween, and the costume had to be perfect. It was my goal in life to win a costume contest. That never happened, although I remember in second grade, I won a pumpkin decorating contest. I remember they said my name, and I was so excited that afterwards, I actually looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and told myself "You did it." Hey – it was a school-wide contest and that's a big accomplishment for an 8-year-old.
Anyway, last night I got as close to feeling that magic again as I ever will be. It was the first time I had participated in Halloween festivities since I was a kid, unless of course you count the law school Halloween party last year, which was basically nothing but a beer fest and my costume was The Guess Who's classic ballad "American Woman," which was comprised of a denim skirt, silver platforms, a white t-shirt, a red feather boa, blue eye shadow, and piece of strategically-placed masking tape which said "American Woman." The only magic that was involved that night was law school colleagues magically finding each other attractive after a few drinks.
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