So, I've switched from my Upper NW Washington rich-white-yuppie-woman OB practice to a midwife practice at the DC Developing Families Center which has a decidedly more diverse clientele. The mission of the Center includes performing outreach to low-income and minority women, lowering DC's appalling infant mortality rate, and providing first-class, woman-centered midwife care to any woman of any income level who needs or wants it. I described the setting of the Center as "super-urban" to someone recently. It's housed in a converted Safeway, near a big strip mall, off of some busy streets with no trees in a part of Northeast DC that most people don't really have any reason to go to. I was a little apprehensive the first time I went there, even though it's a 5-minute drive from my Capitol Hill street. There's a security buzzer to get into the building. The waiting room is full of young women and men, small children and babies, pregnant women. Most are black. A few are not. I wondered if this place was for me.
After an appointment with a midwife, and speaking at an orientation session with a couple more midwives, and with some of the peer counselors who work at the Center, I realized what an amazing place it is. Midwives, on the whole, are passionate about and utterly devoted to their profession. They really feel called to it. I haven't met a midwife yet who was "eh" about her job, despite the odd hours, middling pay, and sometimes fanatical opposition and non-cooperation from OBs. And these midwives have their door open to anyone. No money, lots of money, insurance, no insurance, they treat anyone.
Which is how I found myself a few weeks later in a classroom with a couple of other thirty-something white and Asian pregnant women, a couple of black pregnant teenagers and their moms, a few tired-looking 20- or 30-something pregnant women with other children in tow, and a few visibly uncomfortable husbands and boyfriends. The Center does a lot of its prenatal checkups in group sessions: if you're due in November, you come in every other Wednesday from 2-4 pm. You sign in, and then head to a conference room with the other women, where there's an educational session of some kind. It could be peer counselors giving breastfeeding tips, or one of the midwives talking about all of the possible post-baby birth control options. I was skeptical about the group sessions, over-informed, over-Googled Type A that I am, but truly, I learned something at each one. It was also crazy to realize that I was a full eighteen years older than the gorgeous pregnant girl across the table from me with a similar due date, and if my life were different, I could be her mother. And then I traded premature contraction hospital visit stories with the 17-year old and her family. We're all just a bunch of pregnant chicks here, going through all the same things.
The midwives and other birth center staff want to make all of the women who come there feel positive about their pregnancies, no matter the circumstances. You're not maligned for being a pregnant teenager -- a peer counselor who was also a teenaged mom talks to you about her experiences, the midwives educate you on how to control your fertility in the future, the center offers pediatric care after your baby is born, and at each session they make sure there are snacks and water. I wonder if the young black women wonder what a white woman like me is doing there, and I want to tell them, it's because this is some of the best prenatal care in DC. These midwives are the best. You're so lucky to have them caring for you. I don't know if they know that.
Part of the pregnancy-positive celebration vibe includes the making of a belly cast at one of the group sessions. What's a belly cast? You can see some here. I'd seen them lining the halls of the birth center, white plaster and rainbows of paint drying, reminiscent of elementary school art projects. And frankly, they creeped me out a little. More than a little. I think it's because they look like plaster casts for broken bones, which always scared me as a child, because they meant someone was terribly hurt and broken and in pain. Disembodied mummy-casts of full breasts and bellies, marching down the shining tile floors of the birth center. I thought, oh, it's nice that some of the women want to do that. How fun for them. I definitely never thought, oh, I want one of those!
So, I was a bit surprised when I showed up recently for my Wednesday prenatal session, and found the conference room windows covered over with paper, and with large signs saying "NO MEN ALLOWED." In the room, all of the tables were rearranged and covered with butcher paper, as was the floor, and there were suspicious-looking tubs of water and strips of plaster. One of the teenagers, Cache, and her sister walked in after me, asking "Are we having group in here today?" "I guess." I answered. Then Cache said, "Oh, we're doing those belly cast things today." What? And I chose a seat in the furthest corner from the plaster and mildly panicked, eyeballing the art supplies like a spooked horse, because uh-uh, no f-ing way I am stripping down and anyone is plastering my belly. I AM SO NOT DOING THIS.
Fortunately, one of the midwives came into the room just then to call me for my checkup. It was short, and uneventful, other than the baby doing her usual attempt to escape from the Doppler check of her heartbeat. I walked back with the midwife towards the conference room, and she smiled, and said, "You're doing belly casts today! That's always such a special time." I nodded and smiled. And as soon as she was out of sight, I fled. Bolted. Ran. Out the door. Practically running to my car so no one would see me from the conference room. So I wouldn't set a bad pregnancy-negative example for the teenagers by ditching the belly cast class. I could not get out of there and away from that plaster fast enough.
What's it about, my visceral reaction to the belly casting? Aside from the general creepiness, I also wondered what in the world one does with the thing once it's done? I'm pretty open and relaxed and all, but I just don't see me hanging a mold of my giant pregnant boobs and belly on the wall. Perhaps if I were very talented and artistic, and could really paint it so that it was a stunning work of art, it could be hung. But really, I think mine would just end up in the trash.
I've also felt very "meh" about pregnant belly photos. Some of my friends have beautiful ones, and y'all know I am all about great artistic photos. I obsessively researched wedding photographers before choosing ours, who produced amazing, dreamlike photos of our day. Some of ours are even on her website. But I just can't muster the enthusiasm for the artistic pregnant belly photos for myself. Perhaps if my good friend Heather, who does this sort of thing professionally, lived nearby, and it were easy, I would do it. I even pondered Amalah's suggestion of the DIY pregnancy portrait, but well, I need a new tripod, and my clamp lights are somewhere in the construction zone, and, eh...too much effort. My friends all say they are so glad they have their photos. I keep probing myself to see if I think I'll have any regrets, and I don't think so. I've been documenting the belly growth pretty regularly in photos, so there's plenty of evidence of what it looked like and that I was indeed pregnant. (There are no photos of Seth's mom pregnant with him, which has led to lifelong taunts from his brother of "You were adopted. See, there are no photos of Mom pregnant with you." Seth still obsesses that this might be true, in particularly neurotic moments. I am not kidding.) Someone suggested recently that I make a flip book of the belly photos, which might be quite funny. That may be more my speed than something lovely and touching and artistic in sepia tones.
What does this mean about how I feel about my pregnancy? I don't know. I just don't love the whole experience, like some people say they do. It's not that bad. But not that great. The best part is feeling the baby move around in there, which is endlessly fascinating, as you wonder what in the hell possible pointy baby part was THAT. It's a means to an end. An end in which I get to wear real clothes again, reclaim my stomach and my bladder, and finally meet the mysterious little kicking nymph inside of me and hold her so gently in my arms.
Showing posts with label DC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label DC. Show all posts
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
I think I did a good thing
I work in a building near the Navy Yard. If you don't know where that is, I work in a building near the new Nationals stadium. It's a weird mix of new buildings, construction, open lots, jagged partial toothy rows of remaining rowhouses, one CVS, and very few places to eat lunch. It's an area "in transition," divided from Capitol Hill proper by 295 south and just a few barren blocks where the old public housing was razed a couple of years ago. Baseball fans from the 'burbs park their cars across the street from a mixed block of rowhouses: some are renovated and for sale; others have bare-dirt, junk-strewn yards. You wonder what's going to happen to these houses and the people who live in them.
Yesterday evening, I was hiking from my office back towards the Hill when a voice behind me said, "Excuse me, ma'am, do you have the time?" I looked back and saw a black man and a young woman walking behind me. They looked somehow threadbare, the man a little too thin, their clothes a little unkempt. I answered that it had been about 6:20 when I left my office a few minutes ago, and started to walk briskly again.
"I'm sorry to bother you again, but do you know how far it is to Second and D Street NW? How long will it take us to walk there?" I stopped. We were at the corner of 3rd and K SE. It's a hike from there to Second and D NW. I told the guy as much, and tried to give him directions. I noticed that the young woman was younger than I had thought, probably a teenager, and her breath wheezed terribly. She was wearing a red hooded sweat suit and carrying a brightly-colored backpack. She didn't look like she could walk all that way. The man said to her, "OK, you just got to hold onto my arm for awhile longer." And she took him arm, her stare remaining fixed and downcast, her breath rasping.
"We're just trying to get to the shelter there. Her school bus dropped her off over here, cause I work by the Navy Yard, and she can't go to her mama's and we don't have no place to go. She's handicapped, and she got a bus pass, but I don't know what bus to take, and we found out her pass only work for the bus, not the train. You know how much the bus fare is? I got 70 cents." He showed me the young woman's laminated bus pass, hung on a lanyard around his neck. It did have her photo on it, and indicated she was disabled.
I started to give them directions on how to get to the D6 bus, which would take them right to the shelter. I fumbled in my purse, and recalled that I truly had no money left in my wallet - only pennies. Damn, if this was a story or a setup, they were awfully good actors. The girl's breathing was kind of alarming. I was going to give this guy bus fare if I could. Then I remembered I had a bunch of old Metro farecards in my backpack. I'd gotten them at an old job, and never used them. I found the farecards, and handed the guy two of them. "Here. These won't work on the bus, but you can use them on the subway. It'll be a lot easier for you to get there on the subway."
The guy's face lit up, and he smiled. "Thank you, thank you! You get home safe now." They turned and walked off, the girl holding onto his arm. eyes downcast. I watched them for a bit, and as far as I could see, they were walking right towards the Navy Yard Metro station.
Did I do a good thing? The right thing? I don't know. They didn't ask me for money, and I won't ever know what the real story is (unless, of course, I see them again today and get the same line - ha! Am I jaded.). I guess they could try to sell the farecards if they wanted to, but I hope they'll just use them to get wherever they think they need to go.
Yesterday evening, I was hiking from my office back towards the Hill when a voice behind me said, "Excuse me, ma'am, do you have the time?" I looked back and saw a black man and a young woman walking behind me. They looked somehow threadbare, the man a little too thin, their clothes a little unkempt. I answered that it had been about 6:20 when I left my office a few minutes ago, and started to walk briskly again.
"I'm sorry to bother you again, but do you know how far it is to Second and D Street NW? How long will it take us to walk there?" I stopped. We were at the corner of 3rd and K SE. It's a hike from there to Second and D NW. I told the guy as much, and tried to give him directions. I noticed that the young woman was younger than I had thought, probably a teenager, and her breath wheezed terribly. She was wearing a red hooded sweat suit and carrying a brightly-colored backpack. She didn't look like she could walk all that way. The man said to her, "OK, you just got to hold onto my arm for awhile longer." And she took him arm, her stare remaining fixed and downcast, her breath rasping.
"We're just trying to get to the shelter there. Her school bus dropped her off over here, cause I work by the Navy Yard, and she can't go to her mama's and we don't have no place to go. She's handicapped, and she got a bus pass, but I don't know what bus to take, and we found out her pass only work for the bus, not the train. You know how much the bus fare is? I got 70 cents." He showed me the young woman's laminated bus pass, hung on a lanyard around his neck. It did have her photo on it, and indicated she was disabled.
I started to give them directions on how to get to the D6 bus, which would take them right to the shelter. I fumbled in my purse, and recalled that I truly had no money left in my wallet - only pennies. Damn, if this was a story or a setup, they were awfully good actors. The girl's breathing was kind of alarming. I was going to give this guy bus fare if I could. Then I remembered I had a bunch of old Metro farecards in my backpack. I'd gotten them at an old job, and never used them. I found the farecards, and handed the guy two of them. "Here. These won't work on the bus, but you can use them on the subway. It'll be a lot easier for you to get there on the subway."
The guy's face lit up, and he smiled. "Thank you, thank you! You get home safe now." They turned and walked off, the girl holding onto his arm. eyes downcast. I watched them for a bit, and as far as I could see, they were walking right towards the Navy Yard Metro station.
Did I do a good thing? The right thing? I don't know. They didn't ask me for money, and I won't ever know what the real story is (unless, of course, I see them again today and get the same line - ha! Am I jaded.). I guess they could try to sell the farecards if they wanted to, but I hope they'll just use them to get wherever they think they need to go.
Monday, May 12, 2008
So long, and thanks for all the fish
We have raccoons on Capitol Hill. At least one, anyhow. A big, fat furry fella clambered his way into my neighbors' backyard and went fishing in their little Zen waterfall fishpond, making quick sushi out of their Last Surviving Goldfish.
I just have so many questions. Where did the raccoon come from (Rock Creek Park? Virginia)? How did he get to Capitol Hill (bus? taxi? hitchhiking?)? Why did he come to Capitol Hill (Adams Morgan was too loud?)? What is he eating (other than unlucky goldfish)? Where does he live (a studio at the Congressional Apartments? The lush lawns of the Capitol grounds?)? How does he get along with the alley rats?
Monday, April 28, 2008
I just wanted to go to the gym, not start a class war
I got shiny new running shoes over the weekend, in the exact same size and model as my old, beat-up, beat-out, beaten down, stained pair. I pulled the new ones out of the box this morning, and pulled the factory insoles out of them so I could put my trusty special custom orthotic/Spenco insole combo in. The custom orthotics are essential to my running life to make sure I don't get any more stupid shin splints/plantar fasciitis/Achilles tendonitis due to my stupid flat overpronating feet. The Spenco insoles add cushion on top of my rigid leather orthotics to prevent the most hideous arch blisters known to mankind. It took me MONTHS to come up with this combination, and I give due credit to Phil Fenty at Fleet Feet in Adams Morgan for suggesting I put the Spenco insoles on TOP of the orthotics. I was almost in tears over my blistered feet when I walked in to Fleet Feet, and I was ready to give up running. I could have kissed Phil Fenty, but that seemed undignified, since he's the mayor's dad and all.
But because I am a dumb ass, I forgot to put my orthotics/insoles into my new damn shoes before I left the house. So I got all ready to hike through the pouring rain to the gym at lunch and realized....no insoles in my shoes. This. Is. A. Problem. But never fear! CVS is here! Right across the street, on the way to the gym! I'll just buy some cheap insoles that I can use to work out today. Great!
I'm innocently browsing the "Foot Care" section at CVS in peace, and deeply pondering the relative merits of some "Sport Link Extreme" insoles when I am tapped on the shoulder. A 40-ish(?) skinny black guy sticks a laminated card with writing on it in front of me. I read it. To paraphrase: "I am deaf and I have a wife, an ex-wife and a girlfriend and eleventeen children to support and due to The Man and the inequalities of society in general I cannot work to support them and so I must ask kind strangers like you to give me cash to feed and clothe my destitute family so please give me money." I look the guy right in the eye, and I say politely,"I'm very sorry, but no. I don't give money to individuals." He immediately gets very hostile and starts waving his hands in the air and yelling something about "You white women are all alike! [Incomprehensible ranting] white women....all alike!" He continues to wave his hands and stomp around and wave his laminated card angrily at me and yell all the way down the aisles of the CVS and all the way out the door.
I just stood there blinking for a minute or so, because, jeez, man, I'm just shopping for some goddamn insoles here. You don't even know me, or anything about me. Because I'm a white woman shopping in CVS I should be your personal Social Services? Learn to take "no" for an answer, man, because your future panhandling/sales career is not going to get far with that attitude. And no, I don't know anything about you either, other than what's written on that card (which I, in my jaded city realism, am going to take with a grain of salt) and that you are rude and hostile. I only give money to close friends and family as wedding or birthday or holiday presents. Why on earth would I just hand money to you, someone I don't even know? You want to hang around while I explain why I don't give individuals money? Or what charities I do give money to in DC that feed people and clothe them and give them job training? Want the names of any of those organizations? No? You just want to yell at me and scare me and stereotype me? OK, then. Fine. I'll stereotype you as another aggressive panhandler who just wants a handout, and doesn't want to do anything to change his situation, and hey, we've really made impressive social progress here! Great.
I chose my goddamn insoles, realized I would have to cut them to fit the shoes, and decided to go back to my office to cut them and get a sandwich because I was ravenous, and it was pouring rain anyhow. So much for the gym - thank you, please try again later. With less verbal assault this time, please.
But because I am a dumb ass, I forgot to put my orthotics/insoles into my new damn shoes before I left the house. So I got all ready to hike through the pouring rain to the gym at lunch and realized....no insoles in my shoes. This. Is. A. Problem. But never fear! CVS is here! Right across the street, on the way to the gym! I'll just buy some cheap insoles that I can use to work out today. Great!
I'm innocently browsing the "Foot Care" section at CVS in peace, and deeply pondering the relative merits of some "Sport Link Extreme" insoles when I am tapped on the shoulder. A 40-ish(?) skinny black guy sticks a laminated card with writing on it in front of me. I read it. To paraphrase: "I am deaf and I have a wife, an ex-wife and a girlfriend and eleventeen children to support and due to The Man and the inequalities of society in general I cannot work to support them and so I must ask kind strangers like you to give me cash to feed and clothe my destitute family so please give me money." I look the guy right in the eye, and I say politely,"I'm very sorry, but no. I don't give money to individuals." He immediately gets very hostile and starts waving his hands in the air and yelling something about "You white women are all alike! [Incomprehensible ranting] white women....all alike!" He continues to wave his hands and stomp around and wave his laminated card angrily at me and yell all the way down the aisles of the CVS and all the way out the door.
I just stood there blinking for a minute or so, because, jeez, man, I'm just shopping for some goddamn insoles here. You don't even know me, or anything about me. Because I'm a white woman shopping in CVS I should be your personal Social Services? Learn to take "no" for an answer, man, because your future panhandling/sales career is not going to get far with that attitude. And no, I don't know anything about you either, other than what's written on that card (which I, in my jaded city realism, am going to take with a grain of salt) and that you are rude and hostile. I only give money to close friends and family as wedding or birthday or holiday presents. Why on earth would I just hand money to you, someone I don't even know? You want to hang around while I explain why I don't give individuals money? Or what charities I do give money to in DC that feed people and clothe them and give them job training? Want the names of any of those organizations? No? You just want to yell at me and scare me and stereotype me? OK, then. Fine. I'll stereotype you as another aggressive panhandler who just wants a handout, and doesn't want to do anything to change his situation, and hey, we've really made impressive social progress here! Great.
I chose my goddamn insoles, realized I would have to cut them to fit the shoes, and decided to go back to my office to cut them and get a sandwich because I was ravenous, and it was pouring rain anyhow. So much for the gym - thank you, please try again later. With less verbal assault this time, please.
Monday, March 10, 2008
U 2 Kin Tek Gud Fotoz
I took a photography class on Saturday. Just in case this law gig doesn't work out someday, or we don't win the lottery, I need a backup plan.
The class was at the Smithsonian's National Museum of the American Indian. We learned a ton of stuff about all the really really cool complicated head-spinning things digital SLRs can do, and then we were turned loose in different rooms to snap away. Thank goodness for two things: (1) a patient instructor; and (2) the miraculous "delete" button on the digital camera.
Here are some of the few acceptable results for your enjoyment/mockery. I know, I know, don't post your photos on the internet, right-click protection, blah blah blah, but seriously, I would be both flabbergasted and flattered if I ever did find that my fairly middling photos were stolen and put elsewhere. (I swear to all the copyright bitches that I will be good and use watermarks and protected sites and all if I ever do this in any serious commercial way.)
Girl with girl statue
Smokehole
Swords
The class was at the Smithsonian's National Museum of the American Indian. We learned a ton of stuff about all the really really cool complicated head-spinning things digital SLRs can do, and then we were turned loose in different rooms to snap away. Thank goodness for two things: (1) a patient instructor; and (2) the miraculous "delete" button on the digital camera.
Here are some of the few acceptable results for your enjoyment/mockery. I know, I know, don't post your photos on the internet, right-click protection, blah blah blah, but seriously, I would be both flabbergasted and flattered if I ever did find that my fairly middling photos were stolen and put elsewhere. (I swear to all the copyright bitches that I will be good and use watermarks and protected sites and all if I ever do this in any serious commercial way.)
Girl with girl statue
Smokehole
Swords
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Danger in the workplace, Will Robinson!
While waiting for my hot water to heat up in the microwave the other day, I happened to look at the bulletin board in our office kitchen. Posted on the bulletin board was our monthly occupational injury and illness report:
Upon closer examination, I saw this (take a look at the third entry below):
We've all been there, anonymous Federal employee. Only you were tortured and brilliant enough to collect worker's comp for it.
Upon closer examination, I saw this (take a look at the third entry below):
We've all been there, anonymous Federal employee. Only you were tortured and brilliant enough to collect worker's comp for it.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Corner Crackhouse Update
The crackhouse before (right after condemnation by the city).
The crackhouse now. I wrote about this structure down the street way back in May of last year. And, amazingly, someone bought the thing and actually started renovating it immediately. Work has been going on nearly every day since June. What a difference. You can barely tell it's the same building. Soon, we might not live on the ugliest block on Capitol Hill.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Cultural Diversity
Let's pretend for a minute that it's not almost another weekend. So, here's what we did this past weekend.
On Saturday night, we went to a Pro Bull Riding competition at the Patriot Center at George Mason. I dug out my 1984 Rodeo de Santa Fe Rodeo Princess belt buckle to wear for the occasion. (Nope, not kidding. I was the Rodeo Princess in Santa Fe in 1984. The youngest Princess ever, thankyouverymuch. And yes, it's pretty much like Miss America but on horses and without bathing suits or evening gowns and with color-coordinated cowboy hats, Wrangler jeans, Justin roper boots and spurs.)
The pungent smell of bull manure in the Patriot Center brought me back to the annual July rodeo in Santa Fe. We usually went all of the four nights - I've been to a lot of rodeos in my life, but I think the total number is under 100. I haven't been to a rodeo event in years, and all I needed was a can of Sprite, a Frito pie, some cotton candy and a couple of drunk cowboys getting in a fight and tumbling down the bleachers in a wave of spilled Coors to make it all complete.
It didn't disappoint. Friends who had never seen bull riding were amazed at how hard it is to just stay on the bull for eight seconds. The good Colosseum Romans that we were, we cheered loudest for the bulls that didn't just trot right back in the pen after bucking their cowboys off, but charged snorting around the arena, chasing cowboys and looking for a nice kidney to gore.
I'm not sure I really get bull riding, or the allure of it. In the event program, there was an article about one of the top riders, and he talks about how he had to take five months off last year to recover from injuries from one ride, including all kinds of broken ribs and a lacerated liver. And of course he's back riding bulls. The injury report on one of the pro bull riding sites is enlightening. I mean, you're all beat up after the marathon, but a lacerated vital organ is something else entirely different to sacrifice for your sport. It's not like they make all that much money, relative to the risk level. The top all-time earner is just under $5 million. Just wondering how the cost of hospital bills figures into that.
On a completely different note, we got up on Sunday and went to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. I've wanted to go for awhile, but it's hard to get really, well, excited about the Holocaust Museum. It seems not suitably somber to be too excited. Middlebury College's alumni group had arranged for a special presentation at the museum, including a lecture with a Holocaust survivor.
While the Holocaust Museum's exhibits were horrifying, nauseating, gut-wrenching, they were also fascinating. The sheer amount of information that has been gathered about the Holocaust in the museum is impressive. We all have a generalized idea about what happened in Europe during Hitler's rise to power, World War II, and the Holocaust, but this museum really delves into the details. It details the differing experiences of Jews in Poland versus Jews in France. It talks about the persecution of the Roma (Gypsy) people during that time. And the names, faces, photographs, and individual accounts are, of course, the most riveting and haunting. So much detail has been amassed about the lives of Holocaust victims before, during and after that time. I was surprised to feel that I could have spent more time there; we didn't really get to see all of the permanent collection before it was time for the lecture to begin.
The speaker, Manya Friedman, is a survivor from Poland. She was 13 when she was sent to a work camp. She has only in recent years decided to speak about her experiences publicly, as it is difficult every time; she said the Holocaust is always with her. Her parents and siblings were all executed. She only had a cousin or two left. Towards the end of her lecture, she spoke of being at her son's wedding. When the family photos were taken, there were only three people in her son's photo: Manya, her son, and her daughter. Her husband (also a Holocaust survivor) had died years before. She described how bereft and alone she felt - her son had no grandparents, no aunts, no uncles, no cousins. And his bride's family had dozens of relatives crowding into the photo.
Tears ran out of my eyes when Manya told that story. My husband has a large family, and at our wedding, the family photos for his side were loud and boisterous, and the photographer had to keep rearranging to make sure everyone was in the photo. When it got to mine, we were only three: me, my mom, and my sister. My father died suddenly from a heart attack just two weeks before my wedding. I can understand how Manya felt, at least a little. My entire family was not systematically murdered; the sadness of that I can't fathom. We were overwhelmed by the end of the lecture.
I've been trying to come up with some brilliant link between these two experiences of our weekend. Survival of the fittest - one willing, one most unwilling? I don't know that there's a way to put these two things together without getting really attenuated, so I think I'll just stick with feeling pretty darn good about living somewhere that I can do both of these things in two successive days. A toast with Coors and Slivovitz for all the living and the dead.
It didn't disappoint. Friends who had never seen bull riding were amazed at how hard it is to just stay on the bull for eight seconds. The good Colosseum Romans that we were, we cheered loudest for the bulls that didn't just trot right back in the pen after bucking their cowboys off, but charged snorting around the arena, chasing cowboys and looking for a nice kidney to gore.
I'm not sure I really get bull riding, or the allure of it. In the event program, there was an article about one of the top riders, and he talks about how he had to take five months off last year to recover from injuries from one ride, including all kinds of broken ribs and a lacerated liver. And of course he's back riding bulls. The injury report on one of the pro bull riding sites is enlightening. I mean, you're all beat up after the marathon, but a lacerated vital organ is something else entirely different to sacrifice for your sport. It's not like they make all that much money, relative to the risk level. The top all-time earner is just under $5 million. Just wondering how the cost of hospital bills figures into that.
On a completely different note, we got up on Sunday and went to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. I've wanted to go for awhile, but it's hard to get really, well, excited about the Holocaust Museum. It seems not suitably somber to be too excited. Middlebury College's alumni group had arranged for a special presentation at the museum, including a lecture with a Holocaust survivor.
While the Holocaust Museum's exhibits were horrifying, nauseating, gut-wrenching, they were also fascinating. The sheer amount of information that has been gathered about the Holocaust in the museum is impressive. We all have a generalized idea about what happened in Europe during Hitler's rise to power, World War II, and the Holocaust, but this museum really delves into the details. It details the differing experiences of Jews in Poland versus Jews in France. It talks about the persecution of the Roma (Gypsy) people during that time. And the names, faces, photographs, and individual accounts are, of course, the most riveting and haunting. So much detail has been amassed about the lives of Holocaust victims before, during and after that time. I was surprised to feel that I could have spent more time there; we didn't really get to see all of the permanent collection before it was time for the lecture to begin.
The speaker, Manya Friedman, is a survivor from Poland. She was 13 when she was sent to a work camp. She has only in recent years decided to speak about her experiences publicly, as it is difficult every time; she said the Holocaust is always with her. Her parents and siblings were all executed. She only had a cousin or two left. Towards the end of her lecture, she spoke of being at her son's wedding. When the family photos were taken, there were only three people in her son's photo: Manya, her son, and her daughter. Her husband (also a Holocaust survivor) had died years before. She described how bereft and alone she felt - her son had no grandparents, no aunts, no uncles, no cousins. And his bride's family had dozens of relatives crowding into the photo.
Tears ran out of my eyes when Manya told that story. My husband has a large family, and at our wedding, the family photos for his side were loud and boisterous, and the photographer had to keep rearranging to make sure everyone was in the photo. When it got to mine, we were only three: me, my mom, and my sister. My father died suddenly from a heart attack just two weeks before my wedding. I can understand how Manya felt, at least a little. My entire family was not systematically murdered; the sadness of that I can't fathom. We were overwhelmed by the end of the lecture.
I've been trying to come up with some brilliant link between these two experiences of our weekend. Survival of the fittest - one willing, one most unwilling? I don't know that there's a way to put these two things together without getting really attenuated, so I think I'll just stick with feeling pretty darn good about living somewhere that I can do both of these things in two successive days. A toast with Coors and Slivovitz for all the living and the dead.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Why I Love-Hate/Hate-Love DC part 2
My friend John had to go get a replacement driver's license a couple of days ago, because his had gotten damaged. He went to the Half Street SW location, right by the DC inspection station. While he was there, apparently someone accidentally pulled the fire alarm at the DMV and they had to evacuate. They were on C48 and he had C52 as his number...
A classic DC DMV moment. But, despite the fire alarm evacuation crisis, getting a replacement license still took less than an hour, and the lady gave him sort of a loophole reduced fee for the replacement. We'd been taking bets on how long John's ordeal at the DMV would take because you never know.
I could go on for a long time with incredible stories about trials and tribulations about the Byzantine bureaucracy of the DC DMV (this could be a future post), but the most important lesson here, people, is NEVER EVER (ever!) go to the downtown C St. NW location unless you absolutely, positively have to. I don't know why, but the folks at the other locations, they're just nicer. Successful visits have been had at the Georgetown, Penn Ave. SE, and Half Street locations. Ball point pens have been loaned (!), smiles have been seen!
A classic DC DMV moment. But, despite the fire alarm evacuation crisis, getting a replacement license still took less than an hour, and the lady gave him sort of a loophole reduced fee for the replacement. We'd been taking bets on how long John's ordeal at the DMV would take because you never know.
I could go on for a long time with incredible stories about trials and tribulations about the Byzantine bureaucracy of the DC DMV (this could be a future post), but the most important lesson here, people, is NEVER EVER (ever!) go to the downtown C St. NW location unless you absolutely, positively have to. I don't know why, but the folks at the other locations, they're just nicer. Successful visits have been had at the Georgetown, Penn Ave. SE, and Half Street locations. Ball point pens have been loaned (!), smiles have been seen!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Why I Love-Hate/Hate-Love DC
I was awakened at 5:30 am on a recent weekday morning by some very insistent pounding on my front door. Seth was out of town on business, so it was just me and the dog, and the dog is small and without opposable digits, so when it became clear that I couldn't send someone else to answer it, and the pounding on the door wasn't going away, and was scaring the hell out of me, I had no choice but to fumble for my glasses, stagger downstairs and open the damn door. I peered through the peep-hole first, but with my Coke-bottle glasses, it wasn't much help. The guy looked kinda familiar anyhow, and it wasn't a cop or Mike-the-ergonomic-snow-shovel-thief, so I opened the door, hoping that in the event of Something Bad, Rufus might do something more than just lick the skin off the person's hands. It was my next-door neighbor, Dan. In his bathrobe. "Someone's in your car out back," he gasped. "What? My car? Damn it! Thanks," is what I think I said. Rufus continued to bark his head off, and I realized Dan's two dogs were out in their backyard, and also barking like crazy.
I'd parked my 1998 black Jeep Cherokee in the parking space off the alley behind my house. Like a lot of neighborhoods in DC, there is an alley running behind all of the houses. I turned on the back porch light to see if I could see anything behind the house. I could see my car, but couldn't see anyone around it. I'd think with all the canine noise and lights going on in the house, whoever was out there would have fled. I went upstairs to throw on some windpants and a sweatshirt over my PJs. I peered off the upstairs deck, and didn't see anyone out back, so I put the (vicious, man-eating!) poodle on a leash and went out to assess the damage before calling the police.
My poor Jeep has a long, sordid history of being broken into on Capitol Hill. I've had a window smashed in at least three other times. Door locks pried out with a screwdriver about three times. And had the ignition damaged by attempted hot-wiring about three times. And yup, they'd done it again. Smashed in the small vent window on the back door, passenger side. Goddammit. They'd rifled through the storage console between the front seats, and of course, nothing was missing because I keep nothing in there. Unless you count some pennies, a nail clipper, a hair rubber band, a ball point pen, a rubber Ganesh finger puppet (long story - and FYI, it is incredible how many interesting non-porn links pop up when you Google "Ganesh finger puppet") and some fast food napkins. Which punk-ass vandalizing thieves apparently don't count, because they never steal any of those things, and those are all I keep in the car.
I can't figure out why my Jeep is so very appealing. (Seth's 1991 Honda Civic has somehow never been broken into. Yes, I did say "1991." Yes it is the same car that he's had since college. Somehow.) After the first time a theft attempt was made (they ripped out the ignition, and I found it dangling by a lot of wires. Dumb-asses had done their hot-wire attempt all wrong and ended up knocking out all the electrical systems in the car. Not exactly "Gone In 60 Seconds" pros we're talking about here.) I started using a Club on the steering wheel, the kind that loops over the clutch and up to the steering wheel. I recently upgraded to a new Club, the kind that locks over only the steering wheel, because I thought the other one wasn't visible enough, because my car STILL got broken into with the Club on. And yes, the Club was on my car at this most recent window-smash. (Actually, it seems that they pry out the door lock with a screwdriver when they intend to steal the car, and smash the window when they just intend to rifle through my ball point pens and paper napkins. Shoot, maybe I should write a paper - "A Survey and Analysis of the Various Methods and Intents of Automobile Theft and Vandalism on Capitol Hill.")
No, I haven't installed an alarm. I've done a lot of research on the standard annoying noisy car alarm that goes off whenever someone walks too heavily anywhere in the vicinity of the car, and the data shows that those don't really work - they primarily annoy everyone within a 10-block radius, and aren't that great of a deterrent, because they go off all the time. I got a quote on a kill switch system not too long ago, and when I poured out my woes of vandalism to the sales guy, he suggested that I put a "No Valuables In Car" sticker on my car, and leave the doors unlocked so they wouldn't smash my windows. Now, I used to do that when I lived in New Orleans and drove my old 1989 Toyota 4x4 pickup. No one even tried to steal that thing. But I feel oogy about leaving my Jeep unlocked. Because I really think there's a good possibility someone would sleep in it. Yeah, maybe no smashed window (if they are smart enough to try the door first), but ewww.
Unfortunately, several of the car break-ins have happened when my Jeep is parked in our parking space behind the house. You'd think it's safer back there, but no. I've concluded that it's dark and isolated and perfect for nefarious activities, and that my car is a lot safer parked on the busy street in front of our house (where I just hope it won't get clipped by the D6 bus). I'd quit parking my car back there, and Seth normally parks the aforementioned aged Honda back there, but he was away, and there was no good street parking, so like a dumb-ass I used our very own parking space. For one damn night. And this happened the morning after I was telling a friend at dinner about how safe I feel on Capitol Hill (she and her sweetie are looking to buy something; he loves the Hill, she's not sure). Which is true. I've always personally felt safe walking around the Hill. I mean, I try not to walk alone late at night, and be aware of who & what is around me, but I do that everywhere (except maybe rural Vermont). And I still feel safe, just....violated.
So, the car is in the shop. (Washington Auto Body has a regular dossier on the ol' Jeep by now. I don't know exactly what it means when you're on a first name basis with the folks at the auto body shop and they recognize you when you walk in.) I've ordered solar-powered security lights for the parking space and backyard. I am never, ever, ever parking my Jeep in that space again. Ever. And I'm trying to figure out what to do to prevent my car from being broken into again. There are Jeeps all over my neighborhood. Many of the same year, same make, same model as mine. They all have Clubs on the steering wheel (by my informal neighborhood walkabout survey). Why mine? Do the other Jeeps get broken into all the time? Should I get an annoying alarm? Leave the doors unlocked? Rottweiler? Spring guns? Argh!
Most of the time, I love where I live. I love my 100+ year old rowhouse, with its creaking original wood floors and big windows and cast-iron stoop. I love that I live less than 2 miles from work, that I can walk there, and everywhere else I need to go. I love walking to Eastern Market and having the butcher at Union Meat cut my steak exactly the way I want it, and give me recipes. I love the tastes of cheese from Bowers Fancy Dairy Products while you are making up your mind between Parrano and Sage Derby. I love having the little girl whose family is selling fruit at Eastern Market pick out each strawberry for me. I love the iron fences, and flower gardens, and brick fronts, and tiny details of each rowhouse. I love that I almost never have to drive on 495. I love being walking distance from two Metro lines. I love that I can walk to almost all of the Smithsonians on a sunny Sunday. I love that I can run on the Mall and past the Capitol and the Library of Congress whenever I want.
But when my car gets broken into, when Seth's bicycle is stolen off of our enclosed back porch, when the garbage doesn't get picked up for two weeks, when the garbage can disappears and it takes forever to get a new one, when you're tortured by the DC DMV (at the downtown location - you know the folks I mean), when I read the awful, true stories about some of DC's public schools in the Washington Post, and when my car gets broken into again, it makes me wonder if I shouldn't buy a used Ford Taurus and move to the 'burbs. I could have a 6,000 square foot McMansion house that I only use 1200 square feet of, and a gift wrapping room, and a backyard big enough for a soccer tournament, in a neighborhood blissfully free of sidewalks and walking, all the chain restaurants I want within a 10-minute drive (without traffic - try 30 at all other times, which is all other times), and a commute on 66 that would make me want to slit my wrists.
I avoid telling some of my far-'burb dwelling colleagues about things like my car, because the last time I did, some of them reacted with such horror, and I know they're thinking that I live in the dangerous inner city or something, with bullets just whizzing past, and vandals and felons everywhere, and they're thinking smugly how safe they are in their cul-de-sac in [insert name of DC suburb here]. One of them proceeded to tell me a story about the "bad neighborhood" he got turned around in the last time he drove to a Nats game at RFK. I asked where he was, what cross streets. He couldn't tell me. "You know I live near there, on Capitol Hill." "Oh well, this was a bad neighborhood. Right by RFK."
So, really, I guess the short-term anger and expense of one broken car window I can tolerate far better than an automobile-based suburban lifestyle that would suck the life out of me every day. Because I only drive the car a couple of times a week, and the gas price hike? What gas price hike? You don't notice much when you only fill up your car once a month.
But damn, can someone tell me how to keep these punk-asses from breaking into my car?
I'd parked my 1998 black Jeep Cherokee in the parking space off the alley behind my house. Like a lot of neighborhoods in DC, there is an alley running behind all of the houses. I turned on the back porch light to see if I could see anything behind the house. I could see my car, but couldn't see anyone around it. I'd think with all the canine noise and lights going on in the house, whoever was out there would have fled. I went upstairs to throw on some windpants and a sweatshirt over my PJs. I peered off the upstairs deck, and didn't see anyone out back, so I put the (vicious, man-eating!) poodle on a leash and went out to assess the damage before calling the police.
My poor Jeep has a long, sordid history of being broken into on Capitol Hill. I've had a window smashed in at least three other times. Door locks pried out with a screwdriver about three times. And had the ignition damaged by attempted hot-wiring about three times. And yup, they'd done it again. Smashed in the small vent window on the back door, passenger side. Goddammit. They'd rifled through the storage console between the front seats, and of course, nothing was missing because I keep nothing in there. Unless you count some pennies, a nail clipper, a hair rubber band, a ball point pen, a rubber Ganesh finger puppet (long story - and FYI, it is incredible how many interesting non-porn links pop up when you Google "Ganesh finger puppet") and some fast food napkins. Which punk-ass vandalizing thieves apparently don't count, because they never steal any of those things, and those are all I keep in the car.
I can't figure out why my Jeep is so very appealing. (Seth's 1991 Honda Civic has somehow never been broken into. Yes, I did say "1991." Yes it is the same car that he's had since college. Somehow.) After the first time a theft attempt was made (they ripped out the ignition, and I found it dangling by a lot of wires. Dumb-asses had done their hot-wire attempt all wrong and ended up knocking out all the electrical systems in the car. Not exactly "Gone In 60 Seconds" pros we're talking about here.) I started using a Club on the steering wheel, the kind that loops over the clutch and up to the steering wheel. I recently upgraded to a new Club, the kind that locks over only the steering wheel, because I thought the other one wasn't visible enough, because my car STILL got broken into with the Club on. And yes, the Club was on my car at this most recent window-smash. (Actually, it seems that they pry out the door lock with a screwdriver when they intend to steal the car, and smash the window when they just intend to rifle through my ball point pens and paper napkins. Shoot, maybe I should write a paper - "A Survey and Analysis of the Various Methods and Intents of Automobile Theft and Vandalism on Capitol Hill.")
No, I haven't installed an alarm. I've done a lot of research on the standard annoying noisy car alarm that goes off whenever someone walks too heavily anywhere in the vicinity of the car, and the data shows that those don't really work - they primarily annoy everyone within a 10-block radius, and aren't that great of a deterrent, because they go off all the time. I got a quote on a kill switch system not too long ago, and when I poured out my woes of vandalism to the sales guy, he suggested that I put a "No Valuables In Car" sticker on my car, and leave the doors unlocked so they wouldn't smash my windows. Now, I used to do that when I lived in New Orleans and drove my old 1989 Toyota 4x4 pickup. No one even tried to steal that thing. But I feel oogy about leaving my Jeep unlocked. Because I really think there's a good possibility someone would sleep in it. Yeah, maybe no smashed window (if they are smart enough to try the door first), but ewww.
Unfortunately, several of the car break-ins have happened when my Jeep is parked in our parking space behind the house. You'd think it's safer back there, but no. I've concluded that it's dark and isolated and perfect for nefarious activities, and that my car is a lot safer parked on the busy street in front of our house (where I just hope it won't get clipped by the D6 bus). I'd quit parking my car back there, and Seth normally parks the aforementioned aged Honda back there, but he was away, and there was no good street parking, so like a dumb-ass I used our very own parking space. For one damn night. And this happened the morning after I was telling a friend at dinner about how safe I feel on Capitol Hill (she and her sweetie are looking to buy something; he loves the Hill, she's not sure). Which is true. I've always personally felt safe walking around the Hill. I mean, I try not to walk alone late at night, and be aware of who & what is around me, but I do that everywhere (except maybe rural Vermont). And I still feel safe, just....violated.
So, the car is in the shop. (Washington Auto Body has a regular dossier on the ol' Jeep by now. I don't know exactly what it means when you're on a first name basis with the folks at the auto body shop and they recognize you when you walk in.) I've ordered solar-powered security lights for the parking space and backyard. I am never, ever, ever parking my Jeep in that space again. Ever. And I'm trying to figure out what to do to prevent my car from being broken into again. There are Jeeps all over my neighborhood. Many of the same year, same make, same model as mine. They all have Clubs on the steering wheel (by my informal neighborhood walkabout survey). Why mine? Do the other Jeeps get broken into all the time? Should I get an annoying alarm? Leave the doors unlocked? Rottweiler? Spring guns? Argh!
Most of the time, I love where I live. I love my 100+ year old rowhouse, with its creaking original wood floors and big windows and cast-iron stoop. I love that I live less than 2 miles from work, that I can walk there, and everywhere else I need to go. I love walking to Eastern Market and having the butcher at Union Meat cut my steak exactly the way I want it, and give me recipes. I love the tastes of cheese from Bowers Fancy Dairy Products while you are making up your mind between Parrano and Sage Derby. I love having the little girl whose family is selling fruit at Eastern Market pick out each strawberry for me. I love the iron fences, and flower gardens, and brick fronts, and tiny details of each rowhouse. I love that I almost never have to drive on 495. I love being walking distance from two Metro lines. I love that I can walk to almost all of the Smithsonians on a sunny Sunday. I love that I can run on the Mall and past the Capitol and the Library of Congress whenever I want.
But when my car gets broken into, when Seth's bicycle is stolen off of our enclosed back porch, when the garbage doesn't get picked up for two weeks, when the garbage can disappears and it takes forever to get a new one, when you're tortured by the DC DMV (at the downtown location - you know the folks I mean), when I read the awful, true stories about some of DC's public schools in the Washington Post, and when my car gets broken into again, it makes me wonder if I shouldn't buy a used Ford Taurus and move to the 'burbs. I could have a 6,000 square foot McMansion house that I only use 1200 square feet of, and a gift wrapping room, and a backyard big enough for a soccer tournament, in a neighborhood blissfully free of sidewalks and walking, all the chain restaurants I want within a 10-minute drive (without traffic - try 30 at all other times, which is all other times), and a commute on 66 that would make me want to slit my wrists.
I avoid telling some of my far-'burb dwelling colleagues about things like my car, because the last time I did, some of them reacted with such horror, and I know they're thinking that I live in the dangerous inner city or something, with bullets just whizzing past, and vandals and felons everywhere, and they're thinking smugly how safe they are in their cul-de-sac in [insert name of DC suburb here]. One of them proceeded to tell me a story about the "bad neighborhood" he got turned around in the last time he drove to a Nats game at RFK. I asked where he was, what cross streets. He couldn't tell me. "You know I live near there, on Capitol Hill." "Oh well, this was a bad neighborhood. Right by RFK."
So, really, I guess the short-term anger and expense of one broken car window I can tolerate far better than an automobile-based suburban lifestyle that would suck the life out of me every day. Because I only drive the car a couple of times a week, and the gas price hike? What gas price hike? You don't notice much when you only fill up your car once a month.
But damn, can someone tell me how to keep these punk-asses from breaking into my car?
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Tale of a Snow Shovel, or Why I Am Clearly A Stupid Pushover
From time to time, we get a knock on our door, and it's some guy, offering to do some kind of work for money. Sometimes, these things work out great, like the guy this summer who painted our slightly rusting and chipping wrought-iron fence and stoop, a job I had all the tools for (paint, brushes, etc.) but not so much the inclination.
And then there's Mike. He first came by around August, offering to weed the sidewalk and the front of the house, and whatever I chose to pay him would go to "the church." Whatever, I didn't buy that, but I did pay him $10 to pull weeds. I found out later that my neighbor did the same thing. (We often use each other as a gage for what to pay these guys when they're offering to do something we've meant to do, but haven't gotten to).
The weeds get pulled. A couple of months later, Mike shows back up again offering to rake all the leaves on the sidewalk and in our tiny front yard for "whatever I feel it's worth." I offer $5. He reminds me that I paid him $10 to weed. I offer $8 (because, really, I overpaid for the weeding). We agree. He goes to work on the leaves, and also apparently talks our neighbor into the same thing. He come back a day or two later," You see? I been working on your leaves. Tell you what. I'll give you the same deal that I gave your neighbor. He's paying me $20 for the whole month to clear the leaves. You be able to tell I been here, because all the leaves will be gone. I just need a trash bag."
I agree. Because I am a sucker. Here's what it is: this guy is actually asking for work. He wants to do something for me in exchange for money. He's not just asking for money. At least the guy is trying. I won't just give money to people anymore. I donate money to soup kitchens, I'll give them food, but no money to individuals.
So, I pay Mike $20 for the month of October. True to his word, the leaves are cleared. About the last week of October, he comes back to see if I want to "renew" for November. He also tells me that he got a leaf blower and that he needs $8 to buy gas for it, and if I don't have the $20, I can give him $8, and he will take it off my $20 for the month. I say I'm not sure if I have any money on me, but I will look. I shut the door, and Mike goes to work clearing the leaves. I can't decide what to do. I look in my wallet. I have $7. I open the door, and give it to Mike. I am a sucker.
He comes back later in November, on an awful, cold rainy night. He asks if I can pay the rest of the money for November, and also he need bus fare, and I can deduct that from the $20 for December. I ask him where he needs to go, and he tells me he needs to take the Metro and then the bus, and tells me the stops. He has kind of a thin-looking jacket on. I give him the $13 that I owe him for November, plus $3 for Metro and bus fare, plus a $10 fare card that's just been sitting around. For one of my old jobs, I got transit benefits where I paid pre-tax out of my paycheck, and I got stacks of farecards that I never used, because I quit the job. It was one of those farecards that I gave to Mike.
The leaves do get picked up. The yard probably does look neater than usual. I wish that he hadn't assumed I would "renew" for December. I really want to get out of this. The leaves are almost gone; they've hung around longer than normal because of the warm weather. But there won't be any leaves much longer, and Seth is adamant about shoveling the snow when there is some. After December, I'm going to have to break it to Mike that I won't be renewing. I will use Seth as the "bad cop" - "well, my husband, he normally does these things, and he really wants to do them, and he doesn't want me paying someone else anymore...." (enter me, as 1950's housewife with no control over the finances, a "yes-woman" to my bacon-bringin' husband).
In early December, I get home later than usual. I walk in the door, and Seth announces,"Your groundskeeper was here. He said you owed him $17 for December, and that he needed $5 in bus fare. I gave him $5." I sigh.
A week later, it snows. As usual, all of DC is in total pandemonium over an inch or two of snow. Seth has stayed home with a cold, and it will be up to me to shovel the stoop and walk later. I hear the front gate clang, hear something on the steps, and a few minutes later, there is a knock at the door. Of course, it is Mike. He has a pitiful-looking plastic broom in his hand, and he's whacking the snow off of our steps. A young woman in jeans and a short, puffy coat stands shivering on the sidewalk, apparently waiting for Mike to finish.
"You see I been cleaning up all those leaves. And I shovel your walk too! I come back tomorrow to get any more snow. Can you pay me the $12 that you owe me?" I tell him I'll be just a minute. Seth says, "I didn't know his rates included shoveling." Sigh. "I didn't either.
Seth queries me about what I owe. I confirm that it's right, and that December is the last month I will be paying Mike. I go to get my wallet, and I think that it's actually kind of fortuitous that Mike came tonight to shovel, since Seth is sick, and in no condition to do his favorite chore. I think about how heavy and sticky the snow is, and how little of it Mike is actually getting off of the steps with that sorry old broom. I open the front door.
"Here's the $12. Do you want to use our shovel? Just for right now, I mean. Just to shovel our walk." Mike says sure, and I trot down to the basement to get the shovel.
Now, this isn't any old shovel. It's ERGONOMIC. We dug through the piles of shovels in the basement of Frager's, our local hardware store for this shovel. Seth is gadgety, and he also has back issues, so this curvy-handled beauty appealed to him on many levels. Seth is attached to this shovel.
I open the front door again, hand over the shovel. Mike says,"Thanks. I'll bring your shovel right back." We hear the scraping of metal on metal, and then it stops. I open the front door. Mike and our shovel are gone. Huh. I thought I was clear that it was to be used JUST NOW and JUST FOR OUR WALK. Maybe he's going to use it around the corner on someone else's walk and bring it back. I wait. I think, it's just a shovel. Be Buddhist. Don't be attached to material things. Worst case, it doesn't get returned, and I will go get a new one.
I go so far as to tape a note to the door at 11pm that stays on the door all the next day: "MIKE - Please put the shovel under the porch. Thanks." Because I really, truly, sincerely, naively believe he is going to bring it back.
The next day. No shovel. A few more days. No shovel. A week. No shovel. Two weeks. No shovel. I am an idiot. Seth is a bit annoyed at my liberties with his shovel. I don't blame him. I go to get him another one. When I check at Frager's they don't have the ergonomic ones. Hopefully it won't snow. I look on Amazon, and price a few. On the bright side, maybe I got rid of Mike, finally. He'd have to have a lot of nerve to come back after STEALING OUR SHOVEL. I mean, THE MAN STOLE OUR STUPID ERGONOMIC SNOW SHOVEL. He already had me suckered out of $20 a month - why ruin such a good gig by stealing a $30 shovel? The mind boggles.
Sometime around Christmas, I go by Frager's. They have the ergonomic snow shovels again. I buy one for $21.
2008 arrives. Woohoo, the new year! We're sitting cozily at home one night, probably drinking some wine, watching a movie. And THERE COMES A KNOCK AT THE DOOR. There is one person, only one, who knocks on our door at this time of night on a weeknight. Seth and I look at each other. I know what a stupid pushover I am. I make a pathetic face at Seth, and flee to hide in the kitchen. Seth opens the front door.
Mike: "Hi!...."
Seth says,"Hey man, where's my shovel?" in a remarkably-Lebowski-like voice.
Mike: "Oh, it's right around the corner! I'll go get it!"
Seth: "You know you weren't supposed to just take it, that we gave it to you to use on our walk."
Mike: "Oh yeah, I know that!"
Seth:"So, where's the shovel been, then/"
Mike: "Oh, it's been with me. It's right around the corner. I'll go get it."
Mike leaves, the door shuts. We haven't seen him since.
Final tally:
Goodwill towards humankind- 0
Minor league neighborhood shysters - one kidnapped snow shovel
And then there's Mike. He first came by around August, offering to weed the sidewalk and the front of the house, and whatever I chose to pay him would go to "the church." Whatever, I didn't buy that, but I did pay him $10 to pull weeds. I found out later that my neighbor did the same thing. (We often use each other as a gage for what to pay these guys when they're offering to do something we've meant to do, but haven't gotten to).
The weeds get pulled. A couple of months later, Mike shows back up again offering to rake all the leaves on the sidewalk and in our tiny front yard for "whatever I feel it's worth." I offer $5. He reminds me that I paid him $10 to weed. I offer $8 (because, really, I overpaid for the weeding). We agree. He goes to work on the leaves, and also apparently talks our neighbor into the same thing. He come back a day or two later," You see? I been working on your leaves. Tell you what. I'll give you the same deal that I gave your neighbor. He's paying me $20 for the whole month to clear the leaves. You be able to tell I been here, because all the leaves will be gone. I just need a trash bag."
I agree. Because I am a sucker. Here's what it is: this guy is actually asking for work. He wants to do something for me in exchange for money. He's not just asking for money. At least the guy is trying. I won't just give money to people anymore. I donate money to soup kitchens, I'll give them food, but no money to individuals.
So, I pay Mike $20 for the month of October. True to his word, the leaves are cleared. About the last week of October, he comes back to see if I want to "renew" for November. He also tells me that he got a leaf blower and that he needs $8 to buy gas for it, and if I don't have the $20, I can give him $8, and he will take it off my $20 for the month. I say I'm not sure if I have any money on me, but I will look. I shut the door, and Mike goes to work clearing the leaves. I can't decide what to do. I look in my wallet. I have $7. I open the door, and give it to Mike. I am a sucker.
He comes back later in November, on an awful, cold rainy night. He asks if I can pay the rest of the money for November, and also he need bus fare, and I can deduct that from the $20 for December. I ask him where he needs to go, and he tells me he needs to take the Metro and then the bus, and tells me the stops. He has kind of a thin-looking jacket on. I give him the $13 that I owe him for November, plus $3 for Metro and bus fare, plus a $10 fare card that's just been sitting around. For one of my old jobs, I got transit benefits where I paid pre-tax out of my paycheck, and I got stacks of farecards that I never used, because I quit the job. It was one of those farecards that I gave to Mike.
The leaves do get picked up. The yard probably does look neater than usual. I wish that he hadn't assumed I would "renew" for December. I really want to get out of this. The leaves are almost gone; they've hung around longer than normal because of the warm weather. But there won't be any leaves much longer, and Seth is adamant about shoveling the snow when there is some. After December, I'm going to have to break it to Mike that I won't be renewing. I will use Seth as the "bad cop" - "well, my husband, he normally does these things, and he really wants to do them, and he doesn't want me paying someone else anymore...." (enter me, as 1950's housewife with no control over the finances, a "yes-woman" to my bacon-bringin' husband).
In early December, I get home later than usual. I walk in the door, and Seth announces,"Your groundskeeper was here. He said you owed him $17 for December, and that he needed $5 in bus fare. I gave him $5." I sigh.
A week later, it snows. As usual, all of DC is in total pandemonium over an inch or two of snow. Seth has stayed home with a cold, and it will be up to me to shovel the stoop and walk later. I hear the front gate clang, hear something on the steps, and a few minutes later, there is a knock at the door. Of course, it is Mike. He has a pitiful-looking plastic broom in his hand, and he's whacking the snow off of our steps. A young woman in jeans and a short, puffy coat stands shivering on the sidewalk, apparently waiting for Mike to finish.
"You see I been cleaning up all those leaves. And I shovel your walk too! I come back tomorrow to get any more snow. Can you pay me the $12 that you owe me?" I tell him I'll be just a minute. Seth says, "I didn't know his rates included shoveling." Sigh. "I didn't either.
Seth queries me about what I owe. I confirm that it's right, and that December is the last month I will be paying Mike. I go to get my wallet, and I think that it's actually kind of fortuitous that Mike came tonight to shovel, since Seth is sick, and in no condition to do his favorite chore. I think about how heavy and sticky the snow is, and how little of it Mike is actually getting off of the steps with that sorry old broom. I open the front door.
"Here's the $12. Do you want to use our shovel? Just for right now, I mean. Just to shovel our walk." Mike says sure, and I trot down to the basement to get the shovel.
Now, this isn't any old shovel. It's ERGONOMIC. We dug through the piles of shovels in the basement of Frager's, our local hardware store for this shovel. Seth is gadgety, and he also has back issues, so this curvy-handled beauty appealed to him on many levels. Seth is attached to this shovel.
I open the front door again, hand over the shovel. Mike says,"Thanks. I'll bring your shovel right back." We hear the scraping of metal on metal, and then it stops. I open the front door. Mike and our shovel are gone. Huh. I thought I was clear that it was to be used JUST NOW and JUST FOR OUR WALK. Maybe he's going to use it around the corner on someone else's walk and bring it back. I wait. I think, it's just a shovel. Be Buddhist. Don't be attached to material things. Worst case, it doesn't get returned, and I will go get a new one.
I go so far as to tape a note to the door at 11pm that stays on the door all the next day: "MIKE - Please put the shovel under the porch. Thanks." Because I really, truly, sincerely, naively believe he is going to bring it back.
The next day. No shovel. A few more days. No shovel. A week. No shovel. Two weeks. No shovel. I am an idiot. Seth is a bit annoyed at my liberties with his shovel. I don't blame him. I go to get him another one. When I check at Frager's they don't have the ergonomic ones. Hopefully it won't snow. I look on Amazon, and price a few. On the bright side, maybe I got rid of Mike, finally. He'd have to have a lot of nerve to come back after STEALING OUR SHOVEL. I mean, THE MAN STOLE OUR STUPID ERGONOMIC SNOW SHOVEL. He already had me suckered out of $20 a month - why ruin such a good gig by stealing a $30 shovel? The mind boggles.
Sometime around Christmas, I go by Frager's. They have the ergonomic snow shovels again. I buy one for $21.
2008 arrives. Woohoo, the new year! We're sitting cozily at home one night, probably drinking some wine, watching a movie. And THERE COMES A KNOCK AT THE DOOR. There is one person, only one, who knocks on our door at this time of night on a weeknight. Seth and I look at each other. I know what a stupid pushover I am. I make a pathetic face at Seth, and flee to hide in the kitchen. Seth opens the front door.
Mike: "Hi!...."
Seth says,"Hey man, where's my shovel?" in a remarkably-Lebowski-like voice.
Mike: "Oh, it's right around the corner! I'll go get it!"
Seth: "You know you weren't supposed to just take it, that we gave it to you to use on our walk."
Mike: "Oh yeah, I know that!"
Seth:"So, where's the shovel been, then/"
Mike: "Oh, it's been with me. It's right around the corner. I'll go get it."
Mike leaves, the door shuts. We haven't seen him since.
Final tally:
Goodwill towards humankind- 0
Minor league neighborhood shysters - one kidnapped snow shovel
Thursday, December 20, 2007
DC gets a quarter! Actual representation next?
I wrote about the New Mexico quarter recently, and wondered that if DC got its own state quarter, would that mean it's a state?
Well, we're getting there. DC did get its own quarter.
If you wonder what all the "Taxation Without Representation" fuss is about in DC, let me clue you in. We pay Federal taxes; we vote for President; we house the center of Federal government in our city and host its thousands of workers every day; and Congress gets to tell the District of Columbia what to do regarding such clearly local matters as education and taxi meters. Yet, we have no voting representation in Congress.
I didn't get what all the fuss was about until I moved here. I have never felt so disenfranchised. A city of 581,530 people, the seat of Federal government, and we have no vote in Congress, while Wyoming with fewer people (pop. 515,004) has three?! Alaska (pop. 670,053), Delaware (pop. (853,476), North Dakota (pop. 635,867 - if it hasn't gone down - people seem to be leaving), South Dakota (pop. 781,919), Montana (pop. 944,632) and Vermont (pop. 623,908) also have three votes in Congress. (These stats all come from the US Census Bureau).
DC does have the venerable Eleanor Holmes Norton, who is our elected delegate to Congress. She sits in the House of Representatives, and is a voting member of committees and subcommittees, but she cannot vote on passage of legislation. Ms. Norton zealously represents DC as best she can, but you're always hobbled if you have no actual vote. With Eleanor, and the better-late-than-never home rule, are we better off than, say, Puerto Rico or Guam? And having voting Congresspeople does make a difference in the power structure: see, e.g., Rep. Don Young(R) and Alaska's "bridge to nowhere." Dang, DC might just like a little old "sidewalk to nowhere" at first, we'll shoot for the bridge later on.
So, just think about it for a moment. What if Congress suddenly decided that the state of Wyoming no longer needed its voting Congressional reps? Sorry, Wyoming, too few people, and you're awfully rural, and so much of your land is Federal land anyhow, so you'd really be better off if Congress just took the reins..... Imagine the outrage. Now muster it up for DC, which has never had the Congressional vote that every other citizen of the United States takes for granted.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Excerpts from the 92 bus
I always say you have not truly lived in DC until you've taken the bus.
Place: the northbound 92 bus line, starting from 8th & M Sts. SE
Time: approximately 9:30 a.m.
Atmosphere: Disgruntled - all the passengers are complaining that the 90 bus is late, so they have to take this one.
The bus is crowded. I'm standing up, towards the front of the bus. The seats in the front of the bus are long benches placed against each side, so that if you sit on them, you are facing the people on the opposite side of the bus. Sitting right in front of me is a youngish woman, who's sitting sort of sideways, with one foot tucked under her, and her face turned as far towards the window as she can get it. Suddenly, the guy standing next to me recognizes the woman. It's a warm, happy reunion.
HE: Hey, how ya doin'? I almost didn't see you sitting there. I haven't seen you in awhile.
SHE: Hi. How's your sister?
HE: I don't know. You'd have to ask her. Hey, you got a cigarette?
SHE: Gimme some money. I know you got money.
HE: Come on, just give me a cigarette. You always got one.
SHE: Gimme some money. You got money. Where you get it?
HE: I work for a living. I earn that money. You need to get yourself together.
SHE: Your sister takes money for sex.
HE: Well, at least she's not a crack-smoking pipehead like you.
SHE (louder): Your sister's a whore.
HE (louder): Well, you a pipehead.
SHE (even louder): Your sister is a WHORE. WHOOOORRRRE! (Turns to face away from him, pressing her face against the window.)
More people should take the bus. It's only $1.25 and the entertainment does not cost extra.
Place: the northbound 92 bus line, starting from 8th & M Sts. SE
Time: approximately 9:30 a.m.
Atmosphere: Disgruntled - all the passengers are complaining that the 90 bus is late, so they have to take this one.
The bus is crowded. I'm standing up, towards the front of the bus. The seats in the front of the bus are long benches placed against each side, so that if you sit on them, you are facing the people on the opposite side of the bus. Sitting right in front of me is a youngish woman, who's sitting sort of sideways, with one foot tucked under her, and her face turned as far towards the window as she can get it. Suddenly, the guy standing next to me recognizes the woman. It's a warm, happy reunion.
HE: Hey, how ya doin'? I almost didn't see you sitting there. I haven't seen you in awhile.
SHE: Hi. How's your sister?
HE: I don't know. You'd have to ask her. Hey, you got a cigarette?
SHE: Gimme some money. I know you got money.
HE: Come on, just give me a cigarette. You always got one.
SHE: Gimme some money. You got money. Where you get it?
HE: I work for a living. I earn that money. You need to get yourself together.
SHE: Your sister takes money for sex.
HE: Well, at least she's not a crack-smoking pipehead like you.
SHE (louder): Your sister's a whore.
HE (louder): Well, you a pipehead.
SHE (even louder): Your sister is a WHORE. WHOOOORRRRE! (Turns to face away from him, pressing her face against the window.)
More people should take the bus. It's only $1.25 and the entertainment does not cost extra.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Scenes from Hains Point
Kids playing on the beloved "Awakening" sculpture. (Please don't move it to Virginia!)
Rail bridge over the Potomac and jet landing at National Airport.
Roller Derby
When someone invites you to go see roller derby, really, it would be impolite to refuse. You've got to go - how often do you get to see roller derby??
It turns out that you can see it fairly often in the DC area - check out the DC Rollergirls for the schedule of upcoming bouts.
The Secretaries of Hate, Scare Force One, Cherry Blossom Bombshells, and DC Demon Cats are sure to entertain.
Fishnets - the official legwear of roller derby.
This is a rough sport. That surface is harder than it looks. We saw a number of knee braces, ankle braces, crutches, and one wheelchair.
Elbows - totally legal.
It turns out that you can see it fairly often in the DC area - check out the DC Rollergirls for the schedule of upcoming bouts.
The Secretaries of Hate, Scare Force One, Cherry Blossom Bombshells, and DC Demon Cats are sure to entertain.
Fishnets - the official legwear of roller derby.
This is a rough sport. That surface is harder than it looks. We saw a number of knee braces, ankle braces, crutches, and one wheelchair.
Elbows - totally legal.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Statues of Washington, DC
Above: Thomas Circle
I want to highlight Seth's latest project, for which I am the official assistant and photographer: Statues of Washington, DC. We've talked about this for years - documenting all of the famous and not-so-famous statues scattered all over our fair city. Now, we don't actually have to write a book, which was one of the original ideas. Google Maps, Blogger and Wikipedia make it really easy to do online documentation. Now, when friends and family who come to town and ask "who is that guy on the horse at Scott Circle?" and we'll be able to answer something other than "Scott. Duh."
Check out Seth's Statues blog here: http://dcstatues.blogspot.com
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Celebration Condemnation!
The eyesore down the street has FINALLY been condemned by the District of Columbia. Thanks to the work of ANC6A and Commissioner David Holmes to get this done! I saw the condemnation notices on the building the other day, ran over to look at them, and started jumping up & down, fist-pumping and going "yessss!" People stared.
My friend John affectionately calls this structure "the crackhouse." It has been in some condition of decrepitude for years.
The brief history: It used to house a corner store. The former owner of the structure let the store's lease expire, and completely neglected the building, allowing the corner tower to collapse. The structure was then bought by a business partnership which intended to renovate it and turn it into condos. They re-built the tower, brick by brick, did some framing inside, and did some other brickwork. The work would happen sporadically, then it would stop. Finally, it stopped altogether. A chain link fence was erected. We heard that the partnership had gone sour in some way. The building has been sitting there, deteriorating, for three years. The weeds grew. The trash accumulated. We all worried about rats and vandalism. I'm sure the neighboring rowhouses worried about wall collapse.
But last week - hallelujah! I saw those bright orange signs that mean the city has taken over! I never knew I could be so happy about the condemned! Or about DC taking something over! The property has been cleaned up; there's plastic over the windows again, and I assume the District will auction the property off at some point. So, if you're the (really) handy type, and have a hankering for a little fixer-upper on the Hill, get your checkbook ready.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
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