Movies That Leave You Speechless....

After a fun day at Eastern Market a friend and I decided to go see The Other Boleyn Girl because it seemed like a great, relaxing end to a leisurely day.
What we thought the movie would be: Your average, overdone, turn-of-the-century period piece where some pale heroine with a perky chest swoons and cries because she can’t marry some young Duke (that wears tights and Victorian ruffles), who can’t be with her because she is an ale brewer’s daughter.

Well, the Victorian ruffles were there, but we were wrong about everything else.
What it was: Basically a really dark and twisted chick flick on speed. By the end of the movie I had a tension headache and all my joints and body parts hurt. Especially my heart, my eyes and the tip of my nose. The movie crackled with intensity. We should have expected it though, because once you have Natalie Portman in a lead role, the script will be complex and the acting will be superior.

The Other Boleyn Girl is based on King Henry VIII’s quest for a male heir who would inherit his kingdom and the crazy lengths the people around him would go to make it happen. When the movie starts your attitude is: “The 1500’s were so weird…dude why is the king wearing sleeves with big puffy lace ruffles...Eric Bana has got to be burning up in that costume...” By the middle of the movie you are at the edge of your seat, with your arm hair bristling and you’re inwardly screaming: “CANST SOME LADY OF NOBLE PATRONAGE WITHOUT A BARREN WOMB PLEASE BEAR OUR MAJESTY THE KING OF ENGLAND A MALE HEIR?!! ANYONE!? SOMEONE END THIS MADNESS!!!!”

We were the second to last ones to leave the theatre. As we walked out we saw a middle aged woman still firmly seated (alone)in the middle of the empty theatre. The final credits were rolling but she just sat back in her seat, eyes glossy, her face contorted into a permanent expression of shock. I watched her for a minute; she made no move to get up (at first I actually thought she’d had a heart attack). She looked much like a grandmother who had just endured a crazy roller coaster ride at Six Flags.
Sadly my friend and I both understood how she felt.

I need a support group and three years of therapy to work through my emotions about that film (especially since it’s based on a true story).
Honestly, any movie ticket purchased for The Other Boleyn Girl should come with a barf bag, a free shrink session, and a massage that guarantees it will dissolve all your tension knots.

Great movie though. Go see it (just make sure you have your masseuse on speed dial).

Photo Credits:www.mtv.com/movies/

Took a One Week Hiatus....

will be back next Monday...


Photo credits:http://erlc.com/images/article_photos/misc/Beach_Umbrella.jpg

The Code of Conduct for D.C. Celebrities

Celebrities have a hierarchal system and for each level there is an Official Code of Conduct: A guideline that suggests how to behave when you unexpectedly bump into them.
For example, according to the Code of Conduct:
If you are a lady and you see George Clooney you have every right to catapult yourself, like a stone in a slingshot, towards him and see if you stick to him like silly putty on a wall. (Yes, you will eventually get peeled off by his bouncer and probably spend a particularly unpleasant evening in a jail cell with a muscular lady named Helga who alarms you because she wants to make you her jail wife, but at the end of the day it would be worth it).

When some friends and I met Ingrid Michaelson last year (before she got in bed with Old Navy Sweaters, but after her single made it big on Grey’s Anatomy), we followed the official code of conduct for meeting an indie musician on the verge of breaking out:
First, we privately marveled amongst ourselves about how diminutive and cool she was in real life, then we walked over, said hi very casually, told her we liked her music, and then chatted with her for a while about the show she was playing that evening at the 9:30 club. (With indie musicians you always play it cool, because you know you made them semi-famous, they know you made them semi-famous, and they’re still grateful and haven’t tasted the saccharine wine of mass market success that makes them forget where they came from, how to wipe their own derrieres, and what it’s like to be a fan).

In D.C. the code of conduct is trickier to follow because it’s always expanding. In addition to celebrity musicians and actors you also constantly see famous political figures, popular activists, Capitol Hill hookers, respected journalists, and last but not least, local bloggers. This is where the code goes into grey area. Examples of topics it doesn’t cover yet: How to handle running into Anderson Cooper at the gym. What to say to Monica Lewinsky when you see her at Crispy Cream (“So… Monica…going to the Hilary fundraiser tomorrow?”). What to do when you are in line at Starbucks behind Elliot Spitzer’s call girl.

On Wednesday night some friends and I attended the opening reception for the Sartorialist exhibit. The Sartorialist (a.k.a Scott Schuman) quit his impressive fashion industry job and took to the streets to spontaneously photograph quirky street fashion and post it on his blog. His stuff is amazing.
Anyway, amongst the photographs, the well-dressed people milling around, and the glimpses of Scott, I spotted one of my favorite D.C. fashion bloggers: Ms. Spinach.
A five minute conversation ensued between my companions about approaching her.
The problem: there was no code of conduct previously established for running into local celebrity fashion bloggers. There was a lot of back and forth that went like this:
Me: …but is it weird? I don’t want to bug her!
Friend 1: No, it’s not weird. Say something to her!
Me: …but do bloggers think it’s creepy when you approach them?
Friend 2: No, they love it! Say something!
(It went on like that for a while).

Meeting your favorite author (or musician, or activist, or actor) is always risky because you are scared they’ll end up being mean-spirited or that the intelligent, enigmatic, or edgy, (if that is the case) presence that emanates from their body of work might not match up with their actual personality. If this happens it’ll forever taint their work and you’ll have to give away your copies of their book (or CDs, or rantings, or DVDs) because their work will never inspire you again. It’s horribly tragic and makes you emotionally numb and cynical about human nature until Ben and Jerry’s puts out a new flavor and then you're over it.

Thankfully-this was not the case with Ms. Spinach. Her effervescent online persona matched up perfectly with her sweet personality. Dare I say she was even more engaging in person? She was fabulous, friendly, and humorous. Her boyfriend was sweet and charming as well.
Moral of the story: D.C. bloggers are approachable (not so sure about NYC ones though), read Ms. Spinach’s style blog—she’s awesome, the end.

Picture Credits: The Sartorialist

End note: my fabulous roommate was shot by the Washingtonian at the Sartorialist event (She’s somewhere in the event slide show…she’ll kill me for this).

"Hello! May I Shave Your Eyebrows?"

“MISS…MISS…MISS! It went on for a while and trailed me as I continued walking down the platform so I knew whoever was yelling was calling me.
I didn’t want to turn around because the last time a random person flagged me down it was to let me know that my kimono dress had hiked up at the back—due to static—and as a result my underwear was showing. I had just left the Kennedy Center (Of course that sort of thing always happens when you are leaving a respectable place like the Kennedy Center… never when you are leaving a deserted McDonald’s at 2am where no one would notice or care).

Finally I turned around:
Disheveled man with red bag (irritably): Didn’t you hear me calling you?
Me: (Stand silently as a response to his unexpected rebuke).
Man: I wanted to give you my card (extends a business card).
Me: (Look at the card hesitantly) What’s it for?
Man (Impatiently): Well if you take it from me you’d see wouldn’t you?
Strangely fascinated, instead of put off by his domineering attitude, I accept the card and look at it. It had a picture of a barber’s pole on it and it read:

DARRELL GRYMES
MASTER BARBER
Facials, Eyebrow Arching, Hot Lather Shaves

Man: I shave eyebrows (delivered in the same manner one would say: “I’m a movie star!”).
Me (Eyes widen): Oh…?
Man: (Deflated by my lack of enthusiasm) You don’t have to look like that. The Washington Post has written about me.
Me: Oh...(slight relief he isn’t totally crazy but still alarmed at the “shaving eyebrows” intro).
Man: I’m great at it. I shape them just right and then shave off the excess (makes an unsettling hand motion that represents shaving off my eyebrows in one swoop).
Me: (Sneak a glance at the train timetable, hoping it will come soon)
Man: Let me see your eyebrows.
I look up at him and await inspection.
Man: Push the hair out of your face so I can take a good look at them.

Suddenly I was nervous. I’d never met Darrell before in my life and would probably never get my eyebrows shaved by him—or anyone else for that matter—but then and there I suddenly had an inexplicable burning desire for this strange and bossy entrepreneur to approve of my self plucked eyebrows (There’s got to be a psychological term for this eyebrow approval complex).
He studied them for a while.
Man: (Reluctantly) They’re good. Who shapes them for you?
Me: (Timidly) I do them myself…
Man: Well… I could clean em up for you a little bit more.
Me: Well…thanks Darrell. I’ll tell people about you.
Man: (Excitedly) ...And I laminate business cards too. See how mine is laminated? I did that myself.
Me: (Flatly) Cool...?
Man: Do you go to Wizards games?
Me: Occasionally…
Man: Good. I sell tickets too! Nice ones.
Me: (Taken aback) Oh?
Suddenly opens up his jacket and reveals two beat up, used VIP tickets in his inner pocket...almost as if they were evidence in a courtroom.
Man: See? I was serious (glares viciously at me).
Me: I want to point out that two, already used, VIP tickets do not qualify one as a street ticket vendor, but instead I say: Wow Darrell, you’re full service aren’t you? Can I fill up my tank at your shop as well?
Man: Decidedly ignores the joke and puts the tickets back into his jacket. He straightens himself respectably and glances at my eyebrows again.
My train comes. We shake and part ways on good terms.

Gotta love that entrepreneurial New York hustler spirit wrapped up in the cloak of a D.C. barber/ticketmaster/eyebrow shaver.

Photo Credits:www.artregister.com

Peg Legs, Kites, and the Men of Home Depot

On Saturday at Home Depot:
Me: Hi, Can you please give me some advice? A friend and I are trying to build a really fierce kite for a kite competition.
Home depot employee Bill: Really? Where’s the competition?
Me: At the Cherry Blossom festival in D.C. (I open up a kite making book and show him a picture of an elaborate Japanese kite I’m trying to build).
Bill (eyes light up like a child): OOooooh fancy. I like the Cherry Blossom Festival and I like kites too! Come this way.
Spends 10 minutes looking for materials with me.

Bill (to me): Hold on one second. Let’s ask Johnny, he’s the wood guy.
Bill: (to Johnny): Hey, this lady here wants to build a kite…what kind of wood should she use?
Home Depot employee Johnny walks over. Bill nudges me…I show Johnny the picture of the Japanese kite.
Johnny (eyes light up): Oooh, that is something! Goes into a long speech about different kinds of wood I shouldn’t use (instead of telling me what I should use).
Johnny (then calls Home Depot employee David who is the “metals expert”): Hey David, come check this #@$% out! This chick’s building a kite!
David is tattooed and pierced everywhere. I show him the picture of the kite. He is impressed. They all begin talking and suggesting things to me.

Finally David says: You could use aluminum for the structure. You don’t need it to get off the ground right?
Me: Um…it’s a kite *flying* competition…
David: Well…all I am saying is that it would look great with aluminum…but if it *HAS* to fly (rolls his eyes)... then maybe you shouldn’t use it.
Me: David. It *HAS* to fly. I aim to win this thing.

A customer walks up to our group. He is shriveled and pale. He meekly says:
“Can someone please help me? I need a screen patching kit for my windows.”
The guys, who are standing around peering at the kite book, look annoyed.
Bill: You can find someone who will help you down there … (vaguely gestures to the other side of store).
Customer glares at the group of guys in Home Depot jackets, at me, and then at my kite book and stomps away.

David: Honestly copper is your best bet. Let’s get Giuseppe. He’s the copper dude.
We find Giuseppe. He is olive, buff, and has an Italian lover vibe.
The boys brief Giuseppe, and then instruct me to show Giuseppe the picture of my dream kite. He is impressed.
Johnny and David go back to the lumber section.

Bill, Giuseppe and I continue talking; Giuseppe makes some inappropriate lover like comments to me. I ignore them and remind him that kite building/competing is an important American past time and should be discussed with respect.
He looks confused by this.
Giuseppe says we need TJ. (I am exhausted by now). TJ offers some suggestions and tells me about the civil war that displaced his family when he was a child.
Then he says he’s calling the Home Depot resident kite expert: Dan.

Dan comes over and suggests some really advanced options for kite building.
I explain I am a beginner.
Dan (frowns): Why don’t you just buy one from the Air and Space museum gift shop?
Me: A) that’s unethical; I’m supposed to make one and B) Because they are the ones putting on the contest…they’d notice one of their own kites.
TJ: Well you could paint the kite blue. Then they wouldn’t recognize it.
Me (glare at him): Not helping TJ. Besides, then it would be ugly.
I finally leave Home Depot an hour later with sticks and wood glue.

In a later conversation with my kite flying accomplice:
Me: One of the Home Depot guys asked me out. Is it weird if I go? I’m not interested in him; I just want to pick his brains on kite making.
Friend (just coming off a bad date with someone named Juan Cruise, so really not an objective person to ask): No, women have to endure HORRIBLE dates all the time…it is okay if you go on a date for the sake of the kite competition.
Me: It might be a bit awkward though. He’d probably start telling me some personal story about his Dad getting his leg amputated and I’d inconsiderately say: Oh…that's really sad…so what kind of wood did they use for your dad’s peg leg? Pine wood? Now…do you think pine would be great for a kite, or should I just stick to bamboo?
Friend: Mmmm... that would be bad....
I say you still go though.

Image credits: Abstraction Art
Check her out!

Home Depot, Kites, Kite building, Cherry Blosso

Do Strait Jackets Come in a Lady’s Medium?

There are some mysteries in life none of us can figure out. Such as:
What’s really in the Bermuda Triangle? Why hasn’t the leaning tower of Pisa collapsed yet? How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? What really drove Britney off the edge? and now this:
How can a woman who sits on a toilet commode for two years straight keep a boyfriend? CNN reports:

“A 35-year-old woman who sat on her boyfriend's toilet for so long that her body was stuck to the seat had a phobia about leaving the bathroom, the boyfriend said. "She is an adult; she made her own decision," said her boyfriend, Kory McFarren. "I should have gotten help for her sooner; I admit that. But after a while, you kind of get used to it.” The case drew nationwide attention after Ness County Sheriff Bryan Whipple said it appeared the Ness City woman's skin had grown around the seat in the two years she apparently was in the bathroom. "We pried the toilet seat off with a pry bar and the seat went with her to the hospital," Whipple said. "The hospital removed it."

Not to insult the state of Kansas or anything (but I totally will), how come weird stuff like this ALWAYS happens in small cities in western Kansas? Is the water funky there? Do they spike it with a little bit of crazy? If someone isn’t kissing their cousin there they seem to be semi-permanently attaching themselves to toilet seats.

How it started:
"It just kind of happened one day; she went in and had been in there a little while, the next time it was a little longer. Then she got it in her head she was going to stay -- like it was a safe place for her.” But McFarren said she moved around in the bathroom during that time, bathed and changed into the clothes he brought her. He brought food and water to her. They had conversations and had an otherwise normal relationship -- except it all happened in the bathroom.”

This story makes it seem like all a girl really wants these days is a hometown fella who will bring food and water to her while she sits in a bathroom for two years and works out her childhood issues. There are so many unanswered questions though: Why would you date someone who doesn’t leave their bathroom? In the future will family and friends be slightly nervous and jumpy anytime she goes to the bathroom to relieve herself? Has she fully worked through the grief issues everyone attributes her behavior to?

According to her boyfriend, doctors say the infection in her legs may leave her in a wheel chair. The irony: he wanted her when she was stuck on a commode, but he might not want her when she’s in a wheelchair.
Chances are his break-up speech will go something along these lines:

“I’m sorry [insert name of commode loving girlfriend], I can’t do this anymore. It was amazing when you were stuck to that commode for 2 years. Those were the best 2 years of our relationship…I tingle with delight remembering the times we had. I loved bringing you Chinese take-out and sliding it over to you when you cracked open the door for a minute or so in the evening. I know it wasn’t all rosy. We had our hard times…like when I ate that funky tuna and REALLY needed to go but you wouldn’t leave the bathroom…but we worked though it. However, now you are in a wheel chair. That’s too weird for me. You don’t need me to tell you about the world through an oak bathroom door anymore…you can see it for yourself because now you are mobile! I need to travel around Western Kansas and find me another girl with psychological issues that will sit on a commode in my house in a more passionate way than you ever could.”

Too far fetched? Whatever, it could happen.
It’s Western Kansas we’re talking about here people.


Photo Credits:undertheiceberg.com

A Tale of Two Perspectives

There are always two perspectives of one event when you are in a city:
a) The perspective of city dwellers/workers
b) The perspective of tourists.

While walking down M street at 12:30 in the afternoon, I passed a bum (who was simultaneously brushing his teeth and begging) in front of a grandiose glass high rise, a man who was trying to kiss a woman who had decided to duck his pucker(ouch), and then came upon the following object in front of the National Geographic building:
A stump of bright, purple metal chained to a pole.

After closer inspection and cursory investigation I realized exactly what was going on: 20 minutes before that moment that stump had been a brand new bike, probably chained to the bike pole by some pollution-hating-eco-lover who had run into the National Geographic to look at some eco-loving exhibit during their lunch break. But now the handle bars, tires, and even the pedals had been stolen, leaving only a shiny purple torso of what was once a grandiose bicycle, chained to a pole.

An urbanite's perspective of this situation: “SERIOUSLY? That is JACKED UP. How could they do that during the day, on M street, in Northwest? This city is going to the dogs! Now some poor National-Geographic-exhibit-loving-chump is going to have to walk or take an overpriced cab home.”

Hovering around the vandalized bike scene was a tourist family made up of a withered, old couple—who I assumed were grandparents to the two little boys with them. They were also peering at the shiny bike stub, obviously trying to figure out what it was. I eventually saw the “eureka!” look flash across their faces as they also deduced what had taken place.

Tourist reaction to this situation:
They loved it. They got closer to it, peered at it for a while, and then the grandfather happily began taking pictures of it with his point and shoot. Next, he had his wife and the two boys get in a picture with the vandalized bike stump—as if it were a Washington D.C. landmark. They posed proudly with it. You could almost hear the boys saying “Gee whiz Grandpa! A real vandalized bike!? Jumping Jehoshaphat!Big city crime?! Wait till I tell everyone back home at the local dime store in South Dakota about this.”

It was endearing in a: “silly tourists” kind of way.

Photo Credits: Google images.

Riding in the Car on the Way to Work...

Me: Did you guys hear that a woman was awarded the Silver Star for her bravery? She saved the lives of a bunch of injured men in her crew during enemy gunfire; isn’t that great? But can you believe she’s only the second woman ever to receive a Silver Star?
Woman 1: Really??
Me: The last woman won it during WWII! That’s ridiculous.
Woman 2: It’s probably because women aren’t allowed to fight on the front lines.
Me: WHAT? Hmm… I get that, but I don’t agree with it. I know I don’t want to fight on the front lines or anything, but if a woman wants to… it should be her prerogative.
Woman 2 (flatly): Men are just better than women in that aspect.
Woman 1 (changes lanes): Yea, we’re built differently.
Me: Not always!
Woman 2: They’ve done tests to prove it. I read about them.
Me: What are the tests?
Woman 2 (smoothes out her hair): Men are stronger. An average woman can’t just carry a 200 pound man if she needs to.
Me (indignantly): There are tiny men too! They can’t carry a 200 pound man either; some women can lift more than a guy can.
Woman 2: That’s true, but those men don’t make it into the army. Another reason: women give off more body heat.
Woman 1: What does that have to do with anything?
Woman 2: Um…enemy heat detection?
Me: WHAT? That’s got nothing to do with war! How does body heat affect combat?
Woman 2: Okay here’s another one: Women smell different than men. Our scents are really strong too; we can’t get rid of our smell.
Me: Okay, I was sort of almost respecting your points before…but not anymore. Smell? How does that hinder combat?
Woman 2: It DOES. Our scent is stronger than a man’s scent. We can’t get rid of our scent no matter how we try.
Me: This is stupid. Why does scent matter?
Woman 2: No seriously it does; it’s like when my dad goes deer hunting and pours deer pee all over himself to get rid of his scent. We can’t even do that. We smell so strongly.

Silence for a moment as we fully assimilate the dad-dousing-himself-in-deer-pee issue and decide whether to go there or not.

Me (finally mutter): I still don’t get how smelling good would ruin combat. It’s not like we are fighting deer.
Woman 1 (sarcastically, but with a genuine hint of wistful 18th century romance): Our pheromones smell so strongly that the enemy would fall in love with us!

(Think to myself: annnnnnnd this is why they don't let us fight on the front lines during war...)

Photo Credits: freefoto.com

The Anatomy of the Alphabet Streets, Part I

MOST areas in the District have their own character. The warmer it gets, the more obvious these distinctions are.

Breakdown of K Street:
The NW side of K Street reeks of intelligence and corporate climbing.
The closer you get to the Farragut metro stops, the more corporate the atmosphere becomes due to the fact that K Street is home to lobbyists, political PR firms, and advocacy groups.

Walking down K Street is like walking through an outdoor Brooks Brothers. The men are always dressed in the K-street corporate uniform: wrinkle-free blue dress shirts, dark pants, BlackBerries and bursting egos. On K Street, importance is measured by the width of your wallet and the length of your “contacts” list.

When you pass a typical K-Street man, his ego will precede his physical presence. Sometimes his ego is so big that you can barely squeeze by the person in question. And when a generic K-Street man converses with you, he looks directly at his BlackBerry to let you know that that you are item # 8 on his agenda and during your brief conversation he has already moved on to item #13 since he is a very, busy.

K street casual conversations always have an obnoxious, preppy frat boy vibe to them.
I.e. “And then I told Don to stop whining about his house renovation. After all… it only cost one stock trade!”
“Or 18 billable hours!!!!”
(Followed by loud guffaws of laughter and knee slapping from the other uniformed men around, as if this is the funniest joke in the world).

K street women are usually pretty and chic, but in a “I’m going to try and conceal my beauty during work hours so men will take me seriously, but the second it turns 5:00pm, I’ll let out my bun and shake my hair slowly and seductively in the middle of the office, like I’m in a shampoo commercial” kind of way.

K Street women tend to look like moving Burberry, Banana Republic, and Anne Taylor mannequins. It’s common to see the exact same outfit uninspiringly implemented on different women in varied colors. And when a K-Street woman wants to take a risk, she may wear black pearls (GASP) instead of traditional white ones.

A K Street woman takes her career very seriously, and is also irritated by the oppressive male K Street egos, but patiently and wisely caters to them when they assist her long term career goals. More often than not, a K Street woman ends up marrying one of the egotistical K-Street men she has always claimed to detest. The wedding announcement in the Post always goes like this:

Meredith is an Account Executive for a top D.C. PR firm; she met Jacob Woolworth III, a successful lawyer for a government funded non-profit, at a happy hour after work. One minute they were talking about supporting the government’s ban on conflict diamonds, the next minute Jacob had proposed to her with one. It’s a true K Street romance.”

Among cool urbanites, the term “K-Street’ can be used as an insult; a simple way to cleverly let someone know they have become corporately homogenous and sold out to the man:
i.e. “Phillip, where is your Dashiki? What? You got a job where?? Oh wow…you went and got K Street on us huh?”

Photo credits:

It’s Not Over Till Someone Hocks an Engagement Ring…

SOMETIMES men wonder what girls talk about in bathrooms, during shopping trips, coffee dates, and spa visits.
The answer is: A LOT of things.
But one conversation is pretty universal to women everywhere.
It always goes like this:
“…and then Mike (or insert some other generic name) bought Marilyn (or insert some other cutesy name) this 5 carat (or insert some other ludicrous carat size) diamond and proposed to her as soon as they landed on the moon!”
(Collective sigh from girls)
“…and then he cheated on her with that brunette (or insert some other hair color) who almost got a spot on Survivor (or insert some other overdone, cheesy reality show)… so she bled his IRA and called off the engagement!”
(Collective gasp from the girls)
And…then comes the magical question…(wait for it)…
“What happened to the diamond ring???”

Girls frequently discuss all aspects of protocol concerning ex-boyfriend jewelry: Who gets to keep it? Was it actually real? Will he still pay the insurance on it? Can you wear it to your new man’s birthday party? The questions are endless.

And now (drum roll) there is a solution to this issue…it’s a website called Ex-Boyfriend Jewelry. It gives girls an opportunity to buy and sell their ex-boyfriend’s jewelry, as well as rant about him.
The tag line for the website is: Ex-Boyfriend jewelry…You don’t want it, he can’t have it back… The idea is a girl posts the jewelry, describes it, and tells a short story about her ex-boyfriend and why she’s selling the jewelry.
It’s the ultimate shopping/therapeutic solution for women everywhere.

My favorite seller so far is “Babymama” who is trying to unload some vintage looking earrings; she said:
“He was so nasty to me. Just gross, but he gave really good gifts. It was a catch 22 that had me hooked for a loooong time. All I can say is I hope he's happy with all that debt he racked up... and his aloneness. I'm not bitter or anything.”

Seller Buncynooces has a simple and to-the-point spiel about the wedding rings she is selling:
“Hey Mom and Dad, remember that time I got married really young? Sorry about that. I can't pay you back for the wedding, but I'll split whatever I get for these with you. Deal?”

Seller Kelly, who is trying to offload some bracelets, has these kind words to say about her ex:
“OMG! THIS LOSER BROKE UP WITH ME IN A TEXT MESSAGE LAST YEAR! I THINK HE WAS LIKE TEN YEARS OLDER THAN ME AND HE DIDN'T HAVE A CAR OR A JOB OR ANYTHING. HE WAS A TOTAL DECK! THE WORST PART WAS THAT MY MOM LIKED HIM. EEEEEEEW!”
* Side note: Notice the use of the word “deck” she’s definitely a hipster.

Then there were some sad, really heart wrenching ones like:
“I still don’t want to talk about it.”

It’s a brilliant site. This website says to the world: just because these women are sitting at their computers with pickaxes under their arms, burning pictures of their former flames, selling old jewelry, and ranting about their ex-boyfriends... doesn’t make them bitter…it just makes them intelligent entrepreneurs who are using the internet to make money and work through old issues (vengefully).

Image credits: http://i2.iofferphoto.com/img/1149663600/_i/12379510/1.jpg

When It Rains, It Pours…ROBOTS

EVERYONE has a fear that others consider irrational.
The fear of robots is mine; I recently did a rant about robots after watching a Japanese robot show at the Kennedy Center. Turns out it was quite timely because now robots are everywhere in the news because of the robot convention in Tokyo this week. Wired just did an article about robots in Japanese culture and yesterday I read an AP article about Japan that said:
“...Robots make sushi, Robots plant and tend rice paddies…there are robots serving as receptionists, vacuuming office corridors and spoon feeding the elderly…with more than a fifth of it’s population 65 or older, the country is banking on robots to replenish the workforce and care for the elderly…”

I hyperventilated a little after reading that and ripped the page out of the newspaper and stuck it in my pocket.
It was the closing quote by Technology Analyst Damian Thong that really got me: “We could be looking at a robot revolution.” I looked around at the crowd of people reading the same newspaper; no one else seemed bothered by that article.

HELLO?
Um… did we miss “I, ROBOT”?
What’s next? Marrying robots? Sending them to college?
Will they have rights? Run for senate?
Why does NO ONE CARE or notice?
It starts with something small like getting a Chia Pet instead of a real dog and it ends with world dominance by machines.

It's like I’m Will Smith’s character in “I, ROBOT” and I’m the only one that can see that this robot revolution is a bad thing. I'm an anti-robot visionary and 50 years from now everyone will be seeking me out on a mountain top somwhere in Greece to ask me how to save the world since I was the only one that saw the revolution coming.

Currently everyone is just ignorantly happy that a machine will vacuum their living room, feed their senile grandparents, and give birth to their children for them.

Credits:images.amazon.com

Was That a Sniffle? GET OFF THE TRAIN!

IN OUR SOCIETY a sick person usually draws sympathy from others in the form of get well cards, kind thoughts, even homemade chicken noodle soup if they’re so lucky.
Not so much on the metro.

On the metro sick people are the enemy, because, as every seasoned metro rider knows, one sick person shuts down at least two lines of morning rush hour traffic, which creates a one hour backlog that throws everyone’s schedules off.
As soon as the loudspeaker crackles “Attention metro riders, there will be a delay on the orange, blue, and red lines due to a sick passeng—”
A chorus of: “SERIOUSLY? Today? WHAT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? On a Monday? HOW INCONSIDERATE OF THEM!” arises from the commuters.

The following is D.C. protocol for handling a situation where you see someone turning green on the metro:
Green person: (pant…pant)…can’t breathe…
Impatient rider: Dude, I know you can’t breathe; that sucks! But if we could just make it to the Foggy Bottom stop before calling 911 that would be AMAZING!
Green person: (sharply draws shallow breath)
Impatient metro rider: Stay with me Donovan. Can I call you Donovan? You look like one. You see Donovan, I have a meeting this morning that I simply can’t be late for. If you get sick, we have to call the paramedics, they come in here, shut down the train system, do their cute Grey’s Anatomy life saving thing, and then I will NEVER make it to work in time! So, can we hold off on calling the paramedics till we get to Foggy Bottom?
Green person (now blue): (teeth chattering and legs twitching uncontrollably)
Impatient metro rider: Look D, your assistance would not go unrewarded; here’s my card…I do well for myself…I work on the Hill, maybe I could help you out….?
Green person (with their teeth chattering gasps out): …t-t-he h-h-ill, why didn’t you say so? I’ve b-been trying to get a contract there for ages…slip your card in my back pocket…if I live through this I’m definitely giving you a call. The Foggy Bottom stop you said? I think I can handle it...”

Once, there was mega metro meltdown in the evening. It was like the Armageddon of all train delays. For hours and hours people were stuck in the city, packed on platforms, and jammed in disabled metro cars. After hours of standing in hot, pungent masses, commuters were mad.
The cause of the meltdown: a sick passenger.

Everyone angrily waited for hours while paramedics attended to her in the metro car.
Finally, as they wheeled her out, the paramedics started yelling at the crowd so they would part for the stretcher.
The sick lady lay on the stretcher with one eye open, looking dizzy and disheveled.
Disgusted, everyone angled to get a chance to see the architect of the metro disaster as she was wheeled past.
(Okay, I’ll admit it, my first thought was: “What no blood? I’ve been stuck here for three hours and this emergency doesn’t even involve blood or a state of unconsciousness?” then I hurriedly and shamefully quelled my horrid thought).

Finally a commuter with a Burberry scarf (who looked like a kindhearted college professor), said to her as her stretcher passed him:
“WOW… SEEMS LIKE BEING WHEELED OUT ON A STRETCHER IS THE ONLY WAY TO MAKE IT HOME TONIGHT. MUST BE NICE!” he looked at her with disdain and said it really loudly.
I looked around, waiting for people to be offended at his lack of decorum and sympathy.
Instead: I saw a ripple effect.
It started with one “YEA!” and a “That’s what I’m talking about!” then went to a “I KNOW that’s RIGHT!!” and continued until it had snowballed into a dull roar of irritation that accompanied her out of the metro station.

And that was the day I knew that the D.C. metro transit system had stolen our souls and replaced them with charred lumps of coal and Blackberry compatible metro timetables.
Image Credits: http://www.mbta.com/images/subway-spider.jpg