A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm!

Tromping The Ol' Oeil

Et voilà, my eyes, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

There is one very sticky thing that happens in large cities where agglomerations of people who have waited to have children --in favor of better pay, more education, or a higher level of maturity (ha!)-- live.

Sometimes, the parents of young children tend to look like grandparents.

If you happen to be a normal person, whose brain-mouth connection is healthily developed, you may think to yourself, "Hmm, Isabella's mommy looks a bit older. She must have had her baby when she was... let me see.... 48, perhaps." And then you leave it at that, and everyone carries on with their day, happily in denial.

I try to keep my mouth shut.

But in my efforts to control the rude torrent of questions trying to escape, I can't help but stare. I have been told I don't just stare: I full-on bear down with all the might conferred upon my eyeballs by the District of Columbia and its second-class, non-voting representation.

I stare at the mother, and the child. Sometimes there is a daddy around, and I study him as well. I shift my glance from one to the other, and if I am perfectly honest, the whole time I stare, I am asking myself only one question:

"Aren't they tired?"

Because I am. I confess it: sometimes I see parents who are visibly older, and sometimes visibly happier than I am, and I just have to wonder why they are so carefree and.... young-looking, in a manner of speaking. Because I can barely drag my soul behind me some days with two little ones, and I will only be 50 by the time my younger son is ready to graduate high school. And yet, I have seen a fair share of parents (or maybe they really were grandparents?) who will be way beyond the "Ooh! Discount Tuesday! Fun!" age before their firstborn graduates kindergarten; and I see them carting these kids around and pushing them on swings and running after them at tot lots and helping them slide (and in some cases, dispensing proper sliding technique).

So yeah. This is a rudely roundabout way of saying that I don't get it.

It's also a roundabout way of saying that old people must simply have access to some good stuff.

Metamorphosing

Thicket of Cherries, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

Spring is ironic because it's a beautiful event that is the walloping harbinger of life, and then death.

It happens so quickly, all this beauty. All this fragile beauty that makes some of us so sick and renders others of us into zombies who can't drive and who think they can find parking down by the Tidal Basin when it's 11:30 am, 79 degrees, and more than ten thousand other people have had a similar idea.

And then the long summer settles in, and nature becomes fat and matronly and eventually she becomes ugly and jowly and then she becomes a haggard, disheveled hag who chases you away with icy words and an acid tongue of frost.

Bla, bla, bla. I lost some weight.

I find myself emerging from a cocoon of ugly and haggard and jowly and for the first time in years I feel light, like I can enjoy the sun. Call it postpartum depression that got stuck in the DC mail; call it sudden impending modest amounts of hotness getting to my head; call it really bad timing, considering that I'm here and feeling good and pretty for once in a long time, and there's no one to cast admiring glances in my direction.

Well, no one except for this one kid, who had to have been over ten years younger than I-- he seemed to want to flirt with me earlier today, despite the fact that I was in feeding Thunderdome with the toddler.

I was baffled. I haven't really had to fend off the admiring glances for the past eleventy-or-so years, but it seems there is a first time for everything.

A first time for everything, Including having a very young guy think it's dead sexy that I'm getting pelted with partly-chewed pieces of bread. Maybe he ate paste as a kid.

Cherry-Mandering

There are few things as gorgeous as cherry trees blooming.

It's a gross platitude, but I don't mind indulging: in all their varietals (not just the iconic Yoshino Sakuras that have become a symbol of DC in the spring), cherry trees are majestic and simple; delicate and strong; feminine and masculine in one.

(And yeah-- I totally went there and pretty much hinted that men are stronger than women.  Smite me now.)

The aroma of flowering cherries in bloom is like an illusion: you know it's there but can't really capture it or describe it.  It's not like, say, the trickery and weirdness of the sweet violet's ionones that numb your nose so you can't smell the same violet twice (or at least not for an hour or so).

The irony of this beautiful process is many-fold to my deranged mind:

1. Every year, the trees will bloom and we will all be amazed.  They usually bloom between the end of March and the beginning of April, but we always seek to pin down the exact date, so we can make grandiose plans about which we'll grumble because we get to share "our" moment with 10,000 others.
2. The obsession causes many not to notice the earlier-flowering varieties (as in, not like the Yoshino we got from the Japanese), which are usually just as gorgeous lining boulevards and gracing backyards.  It also causes them not to recognize the later-flowering double cherries as, well, cherries.
3. Craploads of teenagers are forced to confront what winning at adolescence is like-- spring being the tender and messy adolescence of many flowering plants.  These young'uns --many sporting massively bored-looking pizza faces-- get to walk around looking surly and aimless in the streets of DC, wondering why anyone would care about trees.
4. Kits for growing cherry blossom trees can be obtained from the Smithsonian Institution gift shops for around $10.  They are marketed toward children.  Newsflash: most kids would not have an easy time growing their own cherry tree because the first direction involves BOILING WATER.
5. We are all in love with tree genitals.  This is perhaps the most glorious bit of irony: while we as a nation are transfixed in horror that Janet Jackson's nipple and tacky nipple shield would be visible for 3 seconds on national television during half-time/potty break, we track obsessively flower vaginas and flower penises for the entire month of March and half of April.  
6. And then there is tree jizz of all kinds in the air, and you're sneezing it out if you're allergic, but that's a topic that may have been covered (har, har, "covered") before.

So there you are.  Enjoy the blossoms, avoid the tourists, and cherish the little forgotten trees doing their thing on the streets.  And please, when you see teenagers, point and laugh: it's the polite thing to do.

Surrealist In DC

It's not just the fact that the District of Columbia is a little evil empire onto itself-- a little oasis of rabidly outspoken with such a dramatic and shocking disparity between rich and poor that it boggles the mind whenever one crosses the river.

It's not even the fact that the city's zeitgeist, like the city streets, is filled with enough tangents to make even the more sane among us get lost in the zaniness.

And it's not that it's March and things are insane.  No wait-- I guess it is partly that it is March and things do go insane a little.   But I honestly wonder why I've had several encounters with the surreal lately.  It's a little weird (ha!).

_________

The first surreal moment came a few weeks ago, back when it was bitterly cold and we thought spring would never ever get here.  As I started on a walk, bundled up from here to eternity and wearing long underwear --just so you get an uncomfortable visual-- underneath my thickest pair of jeans, I saw a woman down the street.

She was in a bathrobe and shower slippers, with a towel over her head.  She had a confused, shy smile on her face, and was clutching a comb with one hand and desperately trying to keep the towel over her head like a modesty veil with the other one.

As I got closer and closer to her, I realize I panicked.  I had Don Meow strapped to my back and I somehow became alarmed that this seemingly defenseless and confused woman could somehow hurt us.  Other people walking up and down the street at that time --a prime time of day for work people, might I add--  were openly ignoring her.

She didn't seem to mind, or to want to be helped in any way.  Weird: normally when people are standing in the middle of the street, they tend to work the corner and either have some strange story about how they lost their change and, "could you spare $0.25 for a phonecall? Or maybe $5?"  (Strange Guy at the CVS on 12th does this) or, "Would you please break this $20 because I need only small bills, now."

But this woman, except for her face of confusion and her odd smile, was mute.

I walked on by. 

And then sheer panic assailed me, because what if she is someone's grandmother or aunt?  Or what if she doesn't speak English or is mentally ill or accidentally wandered away from an asylum or a special care facility? 

So I did what anyone with a ridiculous amount of time to spare would have done: I stared at her for ten minutes from a prudent distance and then called the police. 

Here is the surreal part: the 911 dispatch didn't question my call; was incredibly nice and polite; and sent police in my direction within five more minutes. 

And as I was walking away, a beat cop was turning the corner and walking toward me and (presumably) toward the lady.  As I approached him to ask if he was going that way, I heard him say the following,

"Okay mommy.  I love you too. *kiss*"

Then he put his phone away and politely informed me that there was a car on the way but that he was headed in that direction, too.

_______

Mommy?

In Which It's Obvious I'm Not Rugged

Dear reader,

You do not appreciate the luxury of right now.  Yes, right now.  You in your cozy wherever-you-may-be, with your feet up, perhaps, lazing about and checking Facebook every ten minutes or so, or browsing through email and reading this.

You have electricity.  It's pretty friggin' awesome.  It's so awesome I considered swapping "friggin'" for "fucking", but I didn't because this is a family blog.

(Oops)

Anyway.  In my neck of the woods, our power lines are buried-- a delightful little idea that is really rather convenient when it comes to things like massive snowstorms and gale-force winds making their appearance.  So while the outer ring of hell the DC area sat in the freeze and waited for a Pepco miracle, I and my compatriots got to obsess over every miserable inch that fell on top of inch; we ate hideously large amounts of food; we imbibed as if the storm were going to rob us of yeast to ever make booze again; and generally were able to kick back in our socked feet while many suffered in the murderous cold. 

Take the blows that come my way and deal with them gracefully, I always say.

Except that there is this pesky and little-regarded thing called salt corrosion.

It chews through delightfully buried power lines.

It makes them break.

This interrupts you mid-Beatles RockBand slaying.

And your preschooler cannot understand what the fuss is and why you can't just turn the lights on, mommy.

The cat scurries away for dear life.

So you call Pepco and their automated voice very nicely assures you that you may have your power restored by 6 pm, the following day.

It's cold and eerily quiet, and  the lights don't come on and neither does the heat, when there is no power.  There is no Internet.  (collective gasp)  And when you walk into a room and you want to see its contents, you flip the switch and get nothing.  The fridge gets opened seldom; and each time, reverentially, as if it were old and coming apart at the seams.  The garage door has to be released and pushed up manually, and if you don't watch it, it can pinch your fingers.  And oh, the fancy smoke alarm/carbon monoxide detectors/banshee wailers from hell decide that they'll run out of battery in the middle of the night and then, later, break; so that even after you change their battery and the power is on and everything else in the house is acting normal and making noise and you're glad you're part of the twenty-first century, they still randomly chirp their evil loud chirps until you pull some feat of anger and superhuman strength and rip one of them right off the ceiling and get nasty plaster crumbs dropping vengefully in your mouth.

So, this is just to say that I'm very happy that the power is back on.

Carry on.

10 ~ The Wheel of Fortune

Today someone was shot on H Street.  He turned out to be the older brother of DeOnté Rawlings, a boy who was killed in a theft-related incident by an off-duty police officer in 2007.

So George Rawlings had to live through the loss of his little brother, and witness a murder of a friend of his on Halloween, just to end up shot and killed as he was trying to board a bus after leaving the funeral.

Ironic, at best.  But I can't help thinking of Mrs. Rawlings and her pain as a mother tonight.

_________

We've had plenty of ups and downs in the neighborhood-- crime seems to flare up every once in a while and rattle the nerves of everyone, and it's been rattly lately.  But then in the greater scheme of things, horrible things like the Ft. Hood murders happen, just as horribly and senselessly.

And the economy seems in a slump and people are getting laid off left and right and the dollar is weak and Those Who Claim To Know Better keep on trying to convince us that we're going to hell in a hand basket and that everything is going even more downhill than downhill.

But if you slow down and stop spinning out of control with fear and paranoia, you see that things tend to gravitate toward the middle.  It's true that people die and people get out of control and sadness and unemployment prevail.  But it's also true that this neighborhood is teeming with pregnant bellies everywhere and people seek treatment for their mental illness so they can have better lives and people hold block parties and splash in puddles and people find new jobs every day.

Some things come and some things go.  Just when you think you can't handle another bit of sadness, someone goes and tells a dumb joke and you laugh. 

The wheel of fortune embodies infinity-- no beginning and no end, just like life itself.

8 ~ Justice

John Allen Muhammad will be executed tomorrow.  Some call it justice.  Some call it closure.  Some call it senseless murder.

________

If the name does not ring a bell, perhaps the case of the Beltway sniper attacks might ring a bell.  Two men --one of them, a minor-- went on a killing and wounding spree over a three-week period in October of 2002.  They randomly shot, wounded, and killed people going about their day.

It was a horrible nightmare for many around the DC Metro area.  In some ways it still is, because they have to live with the constant reminder of losing their loved ones to a senseless and brutal action by a couple of unstable men.

But then there is the whole bit about whether "An eye for an eye" living makes sense, and whether killing a man who is mentally ill and a veteran with untreated issues is really the kind of example we want to set in society.

Justice is blind for a reason, I suppose.

_______

No one likes justice, even if everyone clamors for it. 

Justice is messy and it's no one's friend, even as people are willing to die for it.  Nothing is ever cut and dried: answers never satisfy the thirst inside, and things are always far more complicated than they seem.  And when the poison goes into Muhammad's veins and it's a few minutes after nine p.m. tomorrow and he's dead, no one can know for sure what will be felt by anyone else, whether they were directly affected by the murders or not.

But one dead asshole is not going to bring anyone else back.  They will all still be dead.

Personality Goes a Long Way

Personality Goes a Long Way, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

Right off the bat, I'll come out with it: I like dogs.

For instance, this happy little wonky guy standing there with the happiest little expression on his supermutt muzzle made me very happy the other day.

Minor thing: I wouldn't want to live in a small house with dogs. To me, it's a little cruel and inhuman to coop up a dog --especially a large dog-- in a small house with a postage stamp backyard. I think that if I ever end up living in a big house with a HUGE backyard, then I will have dogs. And I will also have a doghouse. And the dogs will not come into the house and scoot their butts on the carpets and the rugs.

For that matter, the cats that I would have in this rural utopia would also live outside.

But I'm not here (just) to talk about my feline and canine preferences or possible tyranny, as far as habitats are concerned. I am here to tell you that having dogs IS NOT like having babies, so please stop selling me that idea.

__________

Once again, with the disclaimer:

I have nothing against dogs. I have everything against irresponsible dog owners.

__________

The other day Monsieur Meow saw a young hipster couple on their doorstep with their rain gear halfway on and getting soaked mercilessly in one of the many fall storms we're having. But you will be gladdened to know that their chihuahua was nice and toasty in his little rain poncho and hat.

Except for the fact that the hat and poncho were ill-fitting and kept on blowing off the poor dog, and so there they were, struggling with dog finery while getting wet themselves, and nothing was happening.

If the dog were a kid, you would be putting that stuff on at home, not outside, you know. And you would make sure it fit well, or as well as child sizing and child squirm allow. And as they say on the airplane, you make sure you have your gear on before helping others.

Child: not a dog.

_________

I constantly see people carrying their small to not-so-small dogs around the street as if the dog were somehow crippled or its paws were blistered and the ground were not good enough for their precious pooch. Around the same time I snapped this picture of Mr. Wonky, I also saw a rather obese Welsh Corgi (breed average weight: 25 lbs) being carried around like a baby. Yes,I realize there were loads of people, all of which could possibly step on the dog, but if anyone needed to walk it off it probably was that poor dog. 

A child would be walking.  Or riding around aboard a stroller.

Child: once again, not a dog.

__________

Anyway. One of the favorite things that dog people like to share with child people (if you will) is how,

"Dogs are training for kids!"

or,

"Oh, I know how you feel when (insert scenario where we look like we haven't slept in a month)! I have dogs!"

or even,

"Well, you know! I think having dogs is worse than kids!"
_______

Look, dog people. I like dogs too. I think they are lovely --those who are lovely. I think they are fun-- those who are fun.

I even believe some can do amazing and unbelievable things. And I believe pets can cheer people up and keep humans company. I do believe in that ethereal magic that happens when owners and pets who are well-matched come together.

But having a dog, being JUST like having a child? No, and here is why I think not:

1. You made the choice to adopt/BUY a dog. I made the choice to bear/adopt/NOT BUY a child. They are both fine, reasonable choices, but they are different. Even if a child adoption involves money (and how!), you are NOT BUYING a kid.

2. While my child or children will most likely learn human traits and develop some sort of primitive-to-evolved sense of societal norms and never require several walks a day to poop, your dog will not. I realize there are some dogs who can poop in toilets, but this is such an extraordinary occurrence that people talk about it in the same tone of voice they reserve for the Yeti.

3. My children show love for me. They are able to smile, hug, laugh, and use more sophisticated cues as they get older to show their love for me (and their resentment,boredom, anger, frustration, etc. too). The love can on occasion be eclipsed by frustration or other feelings --especially as they get older-- but they are able to communicate those feelings. Really, even if people's children hate them, these children are perfectly capable to relay those feelings, even despite severe handicap. Your dog may display affection cues, some of which may even begin to resemble uncannily those of a human; however, the dog can't really emote nor relate to human feeling because the dog IS A DOG. Dogs intuit this in the same way that they intuit that cat poop may have some nutrients they may need despite the fact that it is poop that came out of a cat.

(Also, the dog will never actively ask you, "And how was YOUR day?" even if he or she just knows when to cheer you up.)

4. My kids can babble, and later they can talk. In a few years, they will sass. Your dog cannot talk. Please stop making me listen to recordings that prove they can.

("UuhOooh Roo" may sound like "I love you", but really people... really.)

5. Some people are willing to give their cats or dogs years of dialysis or other therapy, to extend the life of a little being who doesn't understand why it's being subjected to torture, even if that torture is making them better. However, do you really stay up nights and feel awful inside and sometimes wish it were you who were the one getting sick and not the dog, like you would (might?) every time you see your son or daughter vomiting or shaking with a suddenly very high fever? Do you wake up in the middle of the night, heart palpitating and hands shaking, just to check that your dog is still breathing? Do you try to imagine what your dog will look like in ten years? Does the sight of your dog in his or her first Halloween costume that they really love because they won't stop telling you about it bring tears to your eyes?

(Please say no?)

6. Finally, a dog at the end of the day, is not a human.  You can't get mad at them for doing mischief even after you've repeated yourself a million times, because dogs don't speak human.  You can train, it's true, but training is relatively limited.  A dog will never make you irrationally upset.  A dog will never turn around and curse you out.  A dog will --and this is why some like dogs better than humans-- look at you with happy eyes and wag its tail at you and bow to you, leader of his or her pack that you are.  The dog will lick you and kiss you and not talk back.  And if the dog does something to hurt you --bite, maul you-- there is a good chance that you may look into getting rid of the dog, if the damage is bad enough. 

Can you get rid of a child? Um.  Yeah, don't answer that.

_________

Child DOES NOT equal dog.  Of course, your dog may be your baby, and you may love it like a child.  But really, no.  It's different. 

Even if I've sometimes wondered if Cesar Millan does housecalls, and even if both look irresistibly cute in their costumes.

Like, Dear Abby?

I grew up in California, a child of the 80s and 90s.

This has had an irritating side effect in my speech patterns: I "like" quite a bit.

Like, on occasion I have started my sentences with "like."  And, like, stuff.

But, I've been, like, schooled.

________

Let's get a ground rule in first, shall we?

If we're all sitting at a restaurant, not only are we going to try to show a modicum of good manners (no chomping open-mouthedly, no burping, no farting), but we're also going to try to be aware of our surroundings.  This means that if the baby starts to wail loudly, I'm going to be removing myself and the child with the golden lungs so you can enjoy your steak tartare or whatnot.  I will not run away if he's just fussing or if he's whimpering; but if he's about to let 'er rip, I'm gone and that is a promise.

This also means that if you've convoked some sort of emergency meeting at the booth next to where I'm sitting and you're shout-talking to the people with you all about your your sort-of boyfriend, who,

Apparently reads all the text messages you send him during the day --and yes, you know this because you asked him if he, in fact, read them all, and lo! He does!  But he just, like, reads them?  And, he doesn't, like, answer them?

And you, like, asked him?  "Like, do you read them?" and he, like, mumbled something about, yes, like, "yeah, I read them."

But, like, that was it, right?  Like, he said he read them, but, like, that's, like, all he said.  And, like, he never really writes back, you know?  Like, not even something to tell me he, like, got them?

And so?  You don't, like, know what to do?  Because you're, like, going to weddings together?  And, like, you're not sure? Like, because, he's really nice and, like, sweet?  But he's not, like, texting you, you know, back?

And, like, he's not sure he wants to date, date?  But, like, he reads the texts!  He totally knows, like, what you wrote!  And he, like, remembers what you wrote!  Like, all of it!  But, like, he's just not sure about needing space, or not, like, needing space?  You know?

And so on,

you should look into some sort of speech therapy.  Or perhaps you should just be fitted with a muzzle when out in public.  I've seen Gallaudet students communicate via SideKick with people who do not understand sign language, actually; I think that's a good and silent solution.

Because, like, that was ridiculous.  Between your over-liking every single sentence to death and your unfortunate tone of voice, you raised the dining room's noise level by at least ten decibels.

And even though you didn't ask me, although it completely felt like I should have said this to your face, you should just leave that guy alone. 

DUMP HIM.

(Duh)

Eat your heart out, Edward Cullen

Eat your heart out, Edward Cullen, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

So by now I assume that most of my readership has at least picked up one of the volumes from the vampire oeuvre by that mensch of kitsch, Stephenie Meyer: the Twilight Saga.

(Aside: Her name bothers me. Why must she spell "Stephanie" with an E?)

And yes, I have swooned over Edward and have tried to put out of my mind the whole freaky obsessive, stalkeresque, folie à deux quality of their love and have just enjoyed the swoon for what it is.

But I refuse to suspend my disbelief for a Volvo S60. I mean, a VOLVO?! The car of choice of hippies, broke college students, and eternal adolescents the world over is the car that the man of girly womanhood's collective dreams drives?

How is that possible?

I mean, with the possible exception of The Saint's Volvo P1800 --the very Volvo portrayed here, which we Meows got to see in person at Barracks Row's Oktoberfest today-- and perhaps the little Volvo that was actually picked out for the Twilight movie (thank goodness for consultants), I cannot think of a more soporific car for anyone to drive.

Seriously. Volvos are dependable and supposedly great in a crash, but I just don't get all starry-eyed thinking about them. I tend to associate Sweden with unfailingly polite people, meatballs, and an evil den of terribly chic and affordable home furnishings; and not associate them with sexy and precise automotive engineering.

Funny thing is, I've just been to Stephenie (grr) Meyer's website,  where she discusses her car choices for her characters. Amazingly enough, she discloses that she cut the Aston Martin Vanquish that Edward drove as his "special occasion" car from Twilight.

Aston. Martin.

One could make the argument that perhaps a Volvo is the right choice for understated Edward, who just wants to blend in.

Alas, how can he blend in if he's gorgeous and sparkly and surrounded by his weird family, AND if his family drives BMWs and Mercedes-Benzes?

So now you know: it's not the part about the vampires and the werewolves roaming the earth and being deadly enemies that makes my suspension of disbelief go AWOL: it's the Volvo.

And the Abisinthe I Had, Too

I happen to think that birthdays are special, but in a greater sense-- not just in the let's-throw-a-big-bash sense.  More and more, I also happen to think that birthdays should be more about honoring your mom than not-- because, let's face it, she wasn't exactly comfortable that day!

But also, and admittedly this has taken me several years to figure out, birthdays and life in general is about the boring things.  The best things in life are about those moments in between -- the cracks that often get unnoticed.  A good meal, a nice small purchase, a walk with a friend, and a bright late summer day-- these are the things worth remembering.  The big productions and the big thrills are also wonderful, of course; but the point is that most lives are small and it's only the reckoning ex post facto that brings along the realization of just how important those little moments were and are.

Incidentally, if you're a local, you want to go to Wisdom DC and have a cocktail.  That way you'll understand why I'm so delightfully  impaired while writing ;o)  But hey-- I believe I've written an entry for every single birthday I've had this blog, and I'm not about to give up that tradition.

It's the little things, after all..

It Hath Thirty Days

When September comes, I can't help but be philosophical.  And I don't think I'm alone-- for many children in this world, this time of year signifies a rite of passage-- a reckoning of time changing and maturity.

And the suddenly cooler days and nights that are the harbinger of autumn-- together with the ever-shortening days and the inescapable burden of sweaters and schedules-- make life seem that much more serious and ephemeral.  Summer is gone; the fun seems gone.  Real life must once again begin.

Today I was driving Herr Meow back from yet another appointment (because who knew paperwork could just evanesce?) and listening to Phlash Phelps on Sirius.  

Brief aside: I love morning deejays.  Specifically, the oldies stations always seem to have the most fun, peppy, trivia-laden morning DJs and that appeals to my almost compulsive obsession with insignificant dates and bits of things no one else seems to remember. 

Phlash Phelps broadcasts on Sirius/XM and he does the morning duties on '60s on 6.  Within the show, he has a city of the day segment, and today's was Poland, Maine.  Poland was, in fact, the city of the day because today 70 years ago World War II started when Germany invaded Poland.

"Oooh," went the little old lady from Maine, today's winner. 

She guessed right, but she had no idea.

_____________ 

As we drove back home and crossed the Douglass bridge, I choked up a little.

The sky was the most perfect, painful, awe-striking shade of cerulean blue, and it seemed powdery and flawless and endless.  I figured it was an atmospheric phenomenon-- something having to do with the cooler temperatures making the sky appear more like a beautiful, enormous vacuum and less like a cyclorama above our heads.

This is the sky that made me think of the first of September.  This sky is the one that saw the first glimmers of what would be a long, painful and scarring war; the same sky that was pierced by rogue planes in New York eight years ago ; the same sky that has seen so much death and destruction side by side with lovely milestones, and the same sky which hangs a full corn moon to help feed the Native American tribes.

This is the sky under which I was born.

Happy September, one and all.

The Jamaican Beat of Justice, DC Edition

It was Wednesday, and it was hot.  I mean, of course it was hot: it's summer in DC after all. 

I needed gas.

Which is how nearly ended up ruining a sting operation at a seedy Shell on New York Avenue.

________

I am not the kind of person who shops around for a bargain.  Circulars do not make me burst into glee or song, nor do I greet the weekend paper with scissors, or even bells, on.

So when I emphasize that it's highly unlike me to go driving around the city because I saw gas for ten cents cheaper at that fateful Shell on New York Avenue, I am hoping that you will take me at face value and beyond.  Because I actually made a point of driving around with nothing but the fumes fueling my car so I could save... well, I'm sure I saved some money.  But I also gained a story.

______

The man didn't look much out of the ordinary, really.  He looked a little scummy and a little dirty, yes, and he was entirely too self-assured for someone who is going around town in a beaten-up Hyundai.  He ogled me as he pulled into the gas station and I just had to chuckle because there are some guys who will ogle anything-- from lamp-posts to grandmothers to dumpy mothers with twenty (or forty) extra pounds and with matted hair from a day spent at the pool.

The one who caught my eye was the woman. 

She was wearing a pair of high-heeled peep-toed mules, the kind that have not really been in fashion since 1993; a yellow pair of Capri pants that had some oily dark stain on the left butt-cheek, and a loose t-shirt that revealed her rather perky bralessness.

Her hair was disheveled, just so.

But of all the things, what was odd about her was that she seemed to match the bright, cheery, we-want-your-money yellow of the Shell.  She was like a beacon, standing here.  At first I thought she could be an employee, directing cars around.  But that didn't make sense, at least not in this gas station.

What was she doing, standing in the middle of a gas station when it's already hot outside, and muggy and stinky and generally not that fun out; and moreover in a rather grungy and industrial part of town?

Because this is the kind of person I am, my thoughts went fleetingly from worrying about her and her possible luck in such an inhospitable place without appropriate footwear, and briefly considering asking her whether she needed help or a ride, or a phone, or better shoes; to worrying that she would somehow jump into my car while I tanked up and drive off with my two children and my wallet.  And that her butt stain would leave a smudge on my upholstery.

(Yes, I am paranoid.  But just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean that the lady with the stained butt won't run away with your two kids.)

I focused on getting through refueling the car without pissing off The Credit Card Gods-- because if you mess up punching in your zipcode or your social security or your number of extant tonsils on the slippery buttons that are coated in the innards of someone's gas tank, the pump gets moody and won't let you buy the gas.  I was pleased to notice that Stained-Butt started chatting away with the man.

Suddenly, I just paused and thought, "Oh goody!  They know each other!  She was just waiting for her friend."

Oblivious to what was ACTUALLY GOING ON NOT TEN FEET FROM ME, I started humming happily about them being friends, and now she's going to get a ride to work or wherever and she won't have to walk in those shoes and tra la la, when...

...she disappeared.  And...

... I saw a paddy wagon blocking the NY Avenue exit to the gas station.  And two cruisers blocked the other exit, for good measure.

"Hm," went the inner monologue, "that's kind of odd."

And then three men, showing off their doughnutty physique in Kevlar vests, approached Hyundai man and, guns in hand, pulled him out, handcuffed him, and led him away and into the paddy wagon, while the Hyundai just kind of sat there.

And then the inner monologue started to scream, "WHERE IS MY KEVLAR VEST, YOU JACKASSES?!?!"

_________

She was a cop.

This explained why she looked just so.  Ratty enough to pass, but suspicious enough not to do so.

And honestly?  After the penny finally dropped, I totally kept on looking for the cameras, because this could have been pulled right out of COPS.

Two Hundred and Thirty-Three

AC, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

Happy birthday, dear adoptive country. You are loved.

_______

Right now, as Monsieur Meow reads Herr Meow a little book about America's birthday ("Daddy, what is "tax"?), and the sirens wail throughout the city, rescuing the hapless and the possibly burned, and our local PBS affiliate gets cheesy with the background music while the sky lights up my screen periodically from all the fireworks displays around, I am happy.

Happy, because birthdays are happy (even mine, exactly two months away).

Happy, because if some fireworks are good, then MORE fireworks are just awesome.

Happy, because it was a lovely, cool, wonderful day today.

Happy, because I no longer have a raging headache.

Happy, because some gentlemen some time ago decided that stupid over-taxation from far away reeeeeeally sucked.

Happy, because this truly is the best country in the world, and there is no other place I would be as honored or happy to call my home.

I love you, United States of America, from California to the New York island.

And There Was Much Merriment, and Bread Pudding

Glorious Ceiling, originally uploaded by Madame Meow.

In case you're not familiar with DC's Eastern Market, it is a lovely little building tucked in the heart of the Capitol Hill neighborhood, an anchor of bricks holding down 7th street SE, C street SE and North Carolina Avenue SE.

It was built in 1873 and designed by Adolph Cluss --no doubt, a man who was so named because he was born in a time where the name was just another Scandinavian name, and no more.

The building, though much loved, had become dilapidated and dirty.  And in the early hours of April 30th, 2007, it burned down, leaving little left but a smoldering hull of bricks, glass and debris.

Our collective community hearts broke.  Here is something I wrote that morning.

The picture above was taken on June 26th, the day that Eastern Market rose like a salmon-colored phoenix from the ashes of that fire two years ago. Shortly after taking it, I paused to wipe my face and a fellow patron, equally moved but not nearly as embarrassingly so asked me, "Are you crying?"

"Tears of joy," I grinned.

I am so glad you're back, dear friend.

__________

Some friends go away and come back --sometimes even better than when they left us, as is the case with Eastern Market, which is now air-conditioned, basemented, sky-lighted, properly-toileted, and originally-salmon-pinked on the inside.

And sometimes friends go away forever.

Last week we lost several famous people -- Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, and even OxiClean guru Billy Mays (I love OxiClean.  I will forever remember Billy Mays's rough, loud voice whenever I make my laundry cleaner and brighter). In a local accident last week, we also lost nine lives in a senseless and preventable collision on the Red line.

Although death is an intrinsic part of life, it always catches us by surprise. Frankly, the responses to Michael Jackson's death to me have been a little over the top as it is my honest opinion that the genius who dazzled and entertained back in the eighties and early nineties was dead and gone almost ten years ago, and had been replaced by a ghostlike, eccentric and truly pathetic man-child who didn't see anything wrong with wearing pajamas to court after arriving three hours late.   But it is still sad to see someone go at only 50 years of age, with so much wasted potential. 

In my heart and mind, however, the deaths that made me saddest were those of the ordinary citizens of this adopted city with which I fell in love --a couple of whom happened to be neighbors; not the kind of close neighbors who may pick up your mail for a day or two, but the kind of neighbors you see parking their car and coming and going-- the kind that you probably take for granted and may view as background, until the day you realize that a freak accident means you'll never see them driving down the street ever again or waving a warm hello at you as you unload your grocery shopping.

I don't like to think that those mourning could have been us, as Rev. Mom happened to also be using the Red Line that day.  When death is truly close --not just fanatic-close-- your emotions become selfish and self-preserving and complicated.  It's no longer wistful or just plain emotional; suddenly, there is the mind-racing and the feeling that life will never be the same.

That is the thing about death: it's not personal, and yet it is extremely personal.  And as a friend said, death is only sad to those left behind. 

_________

But the upside of death is that, along with the sadness, new life comes along. This is not always obvious when a person, a beloved, or a friend is the one who passes away. But in the case of a building, it can be easy to see what happens when we are able to turn the corner and find there is much to celebrate and much to be grateful for.

I am grateful that Eastern Market is back.  And I am glad that I knew our neighbors, even if faintly.  And I am glad that there were kind and brave people who were willing to help or, in the case of the very brave Metro operator who applied the emergency brake that failed, willing to stare death down doing what was right.

And so I mourn and celebrate this June of 2009, which will never again come, and I remember all the good that came of it.

__________

Celebrate with me: what were some notable things that happened to you this June?

All Hail, The MissTache

There have been some very turmoil-y days in the Meowhold.

For one, we are finally the owners of some sweet solar panels upon our roof. We will be living a little more off the grid and this is immensely exciting, especially to Monsieur Meow.  For me, to be perfectly honest, the most exciting part is not to have the incredibly nice guys who installed the solar panels going up and down the stairs a million times a day. 

Priorities, I suppose.

Herr Meow has finished his first year of slightly more serious school, and this was exciting too.  He celebrated by deciding he needed to walk home to a local restaurant... on his own.  We found him almost three blocks away from home, with his pail and shovel, determined to make it to the Argonaut.  I don't think I've ever been more scared of the unknown in my life.

Don Meow is now working on sprouting teeth --he is a consummate drooler-- and he's mastered rolling from back to tummy over the past two weeks.  He is a chuckler, too-- just tickle him a little bit and watch as he does that little stuck-clutch laugh that is so endearing in babies.  He's also managed to almost roll off the bed a couple of times: I give him a month.

Mademoiselle Gracie is a fit feline.  She is exceptionally tartar-free and she could stand to lose a few ounces-- but I think most females always feel that way.  I wish I could lose some more of that post-baby chunk myself.

I find it hard to write these days.

I sometimes fire up Ye Olde Typepad and stare at the blank screen for ages, not even feeling the faintest stirring to commit anything to paper.  I have been reading more, and my life feels like it's lived so intensely that I can hardly remember it; and yet, the blog remains sadly mute.

And it's not for a lack of things to write, either. 

For instance, the other day I saw a woman with an it-would-make-Burt-Reynolds-envious mustache.  It took me a few seconds to realize what the fuzzy worm that decorated her upper lip like a festive Christmas garland would a mantelpiece really was, since she was otherwise well-dressed and made-up, you see.  She even had panty hose on in the sticky southern heat of a few days ago.

Maybe that is a nasty statement: why should a well-dressed woman --or any woman, for that matter-- forego the pleasures of having an accessory that for some reason (androgens, perhaps?) has been viewed as exclusively male?

So I started to think that perhaps discriminating on the basis of mustache should be the next crusade for women.  Why should we be denied, if The Powers that Be gave us the wherewithal, to grow and properly maintain thick, luxuriant mustaches?  It wouldn't have to be something that produces a visceral, knee-jerk disgust reaction, you know.  It could be something beautiful and elaborate; something to coat with glittery mascara and to weave beads into.

Something to behold: a woman's beautiful lip fur.

Certainly, it's something to be grateful for: it seems to have been a remedy of sorts for this dull, low-hanging writer's block.

And They Are Making Me Thirsty For Some Sweet Tea, Too

Dear D.C. metro area,

I know you get very sensitive about this whole "being part of the South" bit.

I know that, this far north, it's a little sticky to talk about North versus South, because there is still that weird, generations-old animosity and ante- and postbellum hatred. 

While the south of the country has rich traditions, better taste in hats, politer manners and a greater knack for frying foods, there are other less-charming stereotypes that still hang on that hemisphere of the country, and I understand that proclaiming an affiliation to it makes you nervous. 

Your palms sweaty, you get dizzy with the Dixie flags dancing in your head; the ugliness makes you afraid.

The unsophisticated, vowel-abusing drawls make you run for the hills-- except that we're in a river basin and the nearest ones are nestled in the bosom of the lands whose latitudes you reject.

And yet, on a day like today where the skins of your people -- be they borne from your loins or not, like yours truly-- flush and bead with the sweat that can only come from that charming and overwhelming weather combination of heat and humidity that denies your latitudinal neutrality, there is little doubt as to where you stand in relation to the Mason-Dixon line.

In other words, it's Southern-muggy-warm today, and the lushness of the elms swaying in the breeze outside my window showcases it well.  And there is not a thing you can do to convince people that this is not the South-- at least weather-wise.

Your roots are showing, dear Washington, and they smell of Hush Puppies.

_________

Pee Ess: Go to my review blog to check out a great resource for moms, and have a great weekend!

This Is Why People Go Postal, Too.

I'm sure your local post office is a paragon of American efficiency and either small-town charm or big-city cool. 

I'm sure your post office gives you prompt service with a smile, and, no sooner have you walked in, than you're walking out with a tune streaming from your lips and a spring in your step.

Oh, and your mail, too.  Mail, stamps, etc. are the reasons to go to the post office in the first place.

My local post office?  Not so much.

_________

There is a saying attributed to John F. Kennedy about DC, which goes, "Washington is a city of Southern efficiency and Northern charm.," and I'm thinking he coined it while waiting for a package at the local post office.

In this particular outlet of the United States Postal Service, one can easily wait for three attendants who all look "free" for about twenty minutes and never get so much as a glance directed your way.  I'm not sure if there is an invisible leaden curtain that separates the workers from the customers, but I'm thinking it's got to be physically painful to interact through it.  No guesses on how they tolerate having to actually interact when they run out of excuses and call whoever is next in line, but I'm also thinking here that when they sadistically reveal that they cannot take credit cards as soon as you're about to walk forward because the gods smiled upon you and it's finally your turn and you'll be home in time to see your first grandchild being born, has got to do something with excising their revenge due to the comfort level thereof.

But truly, having to deal with long lines, long waiting times, dour-faced workers, beaten-up packages, and unbearable air-conditioning/central heating conditions is nothing compared to having to endure some of the patrons with which you end up suffering waiting through the long, arduous wait.

___________

The problem with braggarts is not that upon first hearing what they have to say, they make you jealous. 

After all, this is expected of braggarts: they are going to first shyly talk of whatever they think might make them awesomer than everyone else; and then they fill in the details so that you fully get the awesomeness picture in full, excruciating, every-shade-of-green highlights.

The problem is that, upon the tenth hearing or so, you end up wishing they were pimples so you could squish their heads with wild adolescent abandon and enjoy the sick moment when they would explode in a satisfying, if repulsive, jet of pus.

So it was with two particular women the other day at the aforementioned post office.

As usual, whoever was in charge of scheduling failed miserably and there were only two harried workers standing at the counter and looking intently st some obscure piece of bureaucracy, while a third one actually worked at the retail counter and made eye contact with people.  I am still not sure who dropped this Mother Teresa in that sea of uncaring, but I am grateful nonetheless.

This meant that two neighborhood doyennes-- both vying for title of "Longest and best-known resident of Capitol Hill" -- got to share their stories about how they knew more people and knew them longer and knew them better and knew the people who used to live before where people who have  lived there FOREVER live.

It was truly amazing to behold: the way these two women bitched back and forth at a volume that any well-meaning parent would have judged as "not your indoor voice" were it coming from his child about an inane subject that could be perhaps the stuff pissing contests are made on, but not much else.

My fellow patrons an had our ears hijacked by these two obnoxious people for what seemed like an eternity, having to endure their inanity and the self-importance with which they addressed each other for what seemed like hours and hours, just because many of us couldn't somehow pick up our packages electronically.    Although I must say, a part of me envied the ease with which they talked about the neighborhood and its inhabitants (and the way they didn't give a flying eff about said inhabitants either).

_______

I wish there were some sort of closure to this story-- that perhaps someone called them on their braggart rudeness; that the employees took advantage of their distraction to skip over them and help us quieter patrons; or that the Anacostia river grew to biblical proportions instantly and swallowed them whole leaving no trace;  but those things only happen in movies, or in our eager imaginations without fear of retaliation or jail time.

Instead, I realize why working at a post office must be such a drag, and why the internet is so popular.  And why it's important to sometimes, just sometimes, remember that others around you are paying attention, so you should strive to be kinder and quieter whenever you can.

Although I'm also starting to think that earplugs and noise-canceling headphones are possibly underrated when you must interact with annoying people.