Stupidly

So, this media frenzy between the "President's close friend," and the Cambridge cop is getting out of control.

I'm sick of hearing about it.

But, for this particular police man, it was bound to happen sooner or later, right?

With a name like Jim Crowley? Come on, he's just asking for a civil rights slam. If I were him, I'd have gone by James or Jimmy or even Jamie rather than Jim.

All Deliberate Speed

It took me almost an hour and a half to get home today (a commute that usually takes me only 40 minutes in rush hour).

We got stuck between Metro Center and Farragut West for 40 minutes. Underground. For 40 minutes. It's ok, though, because even though it was long and my iPod was out of batteries and I didn't have a book with me (I hate commutes when I am ill-prepared like that), the car was sufficiently air-conditioned.

Also, and more importantly, the thug next to me (full grown thug, not thuglet) was listening to "Don't Go Chasin' Waterfalls" on repeat on his ipod. Probably as loud as it would go. Round about the 5th time in a row, I got restless and started texting my Blake and my friends to tell them about my TLC-loving metro neighbor.

Me: "There is a big thug sitting next to me on the metro listening to 'Don't go Chasin' Waterfalls' over and over again. Classic"

Meg: "We all need some TLC every now and again"

Me: "Yeah, no matter how thug you look..."

Meg: "Tap his shoulder and give him a thumbs up"

Me: (Now listening to "just stick to the rivers and the lakes that you're used to..." for the sixth or seventh time) "He might rip that finger right off and eat it for a snack. We are stuck on the metro and he is starting to look hungry and restless."

Meg: "You don't have enough meat on you to make it worth it."

Me: "I dunno, I am getting pudgy from all the snacks that I eat at work....good thing he has waterfalls to chase."

Blake: "Just stick to the rivers and the lakes that you're used to"

Ashton: "I hope he was singing too. That's something Stephen would call 'blog-worthy.'"

Yes, yes it was.

Oh, and I'd lost count of the number of times he played the song by the time I got off at my stop and he continued on, probably spreading the TLC love all the way to the end of the orange line.

Why I want a Yard

I was just talking with Blake about how, when we have a yard, I want to build a tree house. For me. For us. No, we don't have to have kids yet.

My friend Megan had a tree house in her back yard in Seattle. Her dad had built it for her. It was basically just a wood platform in a mid-sized tree, but it was awesome. It had a rope ladder. I had a lot of trouble getting up that rope ladder. I must not have been too coordinated back then, because it usually took me two or three tries to climb up into the fort, and when I finally pulled myself on up there, it took some real convincing for me to get down as I knew I wouldn't be able to climb back up again.

Megan had no trouble with the rope ladder and could go up and down at her leisure.

So, I left her to get the otter pops and various other snacks and sneak them from the kitchen for the both of us, while I laid on my back on the platform, wondering how long I could postpone having to struggle down the ladder again. How embarrassing.

We loved it up there. It was our secret club. It was where we'd watch over the alley-way and spy on the neighbors. It was also where we came up with our money-making schemes and other adventures.

One Saturday we got the idea (probably sparking from something we'd watched in TGIF the night before) that we could make ourselves rich if we sold home-made perfume. We went around the neighborhood searching for rose pedals and honey suckle (or anything else we thought smelled good) and put all our findings in a jar full of water. Then we let it sit.

A couple of hours later (we were going to let it sit all day, but who were we kidding, we were impatient to become rich) we took the box of Dixie cups from under the bathroom sink and doled out individual portions of our "perfume." I can't remember if it smelled alright or not, but I do remember trying to make it look better by including some fresh rose petals in each cup.

Then we peddled our wares door-to-door. We sold the "fancy rose perfume" for 50 cents per cup to our (I realize now) very generous and understanding neighbors.

My Mom wasn't too happy with us when we told her that we'd been selling water with fermented rose petals in it for 50 cents a Dixie cup to her acquaintances. I couldn't understand at the time why she'd be at all embarrassed.

I think we only ended up with about three dollars by the end of the day, but we were happy anyway because it still made us feel wealthy enough to chase down the ice cream truck.

Ponderin'

"Hello, Georgetown Clinical Programs"

"Hi. How are ya'?"

"Um, good, how are you sir?"

"Well, I'm just a poor man, sittin' here ponderin' how I can help get my son out from where he is currently incarcerated..."

pause pause "let me transfer you..."

I love answering the clinical line.

Spicy

My feet smell like Santa Fe Chicken salad.

Thank you, Corner Bakery, for bestowing on me this unlikely perfume.

(I brought my leftover salad with me to work for lunch today, and it exploded all over my bag. I had to wash my dress shoes off in the bathroom, but the soap and water were no match for the potent dressing.)

Why do these things happen to me? And on a Tuesday too.