Passenger Pachyderms Monday, June 30, 2003
Cборщик Mусора
"Trash Man"
I’m afraid of the man who collects my trash. It’s becoming a problem. Every morning an older gentleman, who I think it is safe to say is from one of the former Soviet countries, comes around to empty the trash can in each cubicle.
Each morning when he comes by I say, “Good morning,” or “How are you?” and he says something that is either “How are you doing miss?” or “Good morning, Miss” or I guess it could be “How can you make such a mess?” I’ve never been quite able to decide what it is he’s saying.
I eat at my desk. Every day. I have my coffee at it. I have something like breakfast (e.g. Yogurt, granola bar, or bagel with cream cheese). I munch on fresh or dried fruit, nuts, popcorn, and M&Ms (not all at once). I eat my lunch at my desk. Now, unless I’m throwing out a substantial portion of something (half a cup of cold coffee, for example) or there’s something potentially stinky, like half a tuna-fish sandwich or barbeque chicken from the cafeteria, I throw away my trash in the lined trash-can in my cubicle. Sloshy, messy or stinky food I take to the trash can next to the office microwave and refrigerator because it has a lid. But wrappers, seals, empty coffee cups, and salad bowls with two pieces of discarded lettuce and some leftover dressing go right in the can.
Am I wrong to think this is acceptable? I ask because the trash man is evaluating my garbage! And he tells me about it. He keeps leaving me trash bags, like I’m going to seal up my trash and carry it some where. Where I don’t know. This may sound arrogant but we have him for that. Am I way off base here? I don’t know what he expects me to put in the trash can. It can’t be paper, glass, or plastic, because my office recycles. Why does he come around if not to collect trash? It occurs to me he’d rather I didn’t have trash at all.
One of my co-workers never has any trash and he just seems to love her. He chats with her every day. He grumbles at me. This morning when he came around I said “Good morning” and didn’t even get a nonsense reply. Some days when I hear him coming I invent reasons to leave my desk. I check the fax the machine or run for the bathroom.
The thing is that I would say something to him about it, but I am intimidated by his circumstances. At his age to be doing something so menial, with such low pay and prospects. A recent immigrant with a terrible job that I wouldn’t wish on anyone and they make him wear a maroon smock. I don’t think I’ve seen a smock since kindergarten, but there he is in a smock. I can’t stand the idea of criticizing a person for having a poor attitude while wearing a smock and executing a job that would make me miserable and inclined to be nasty to everyone.
But I do wish he would stop evaluating my trash. Or retire.
"Trash Man"
I’m afraid of the man who collects my trash. It’s becoming a problem. Every morning an older gentleman, who I think it is safe to say is from one of the former Soviet countries, comes around to empty the trash can in each cubicle.
Each morning when he comes by I say, “Good morning,” or “How are you?” and he says something that is either “How are you doing miss?” or “Good morning, Miss” or I guess it could be “How can you make such a mess?” I’ve never been quite able to decide what it is he’s saying.
I eat at my desk. Every day. I have my coffee at it. I have something like breakfast (e.g. Yogurt, granola bar, or bagel with cream cheese). I munch on fresh or dried fruit, nuts, popcorn, and M&Ms (not all at once). I eat my lunch at my desk. Now, unless I’m throwing out a substantial portion of something (half a cup of cold coffee, for example) or there’s something potentially stinky, like half a tuna-fish sandwich or barbeque chicken from the cafeteria, I throw away my trash in the lined trash-can in my cubicle. Sloshy, messy or stinky food I take to the trash can next to the office microwave and refrigerator because it has a lid. But wrappers, seals, empty coffee cups, and salad bowls with two pieces of discarded lettuce and some leftover dressing go right in the can.
Am I wrong to think this is acceptable? I ask because the trash man is evaluating my garbage! And he tells me about it. He keeps leaving me trash bags, like I’m going to seal up my trash and carry it some where. Where I don’t know. This may sound arrogant but we have him for that. Am I way off base here? I don’t know what he expects me to put in the trash can. It can’t be paper, glass, or plastic, because my office recycles. Why does he come around if not to collect trash? It occurs to me he’d rather I didn’t have trash at all.
One of my co-workers never has any trash and he just seems to love her. He chats with her every day. He grumbles at me. This morning when he came around I said “Good morning” and didn’t even get a nonsense reply. Some days when I hear him coming I invent reasons to leave my desk. I check the fax the machine or run for the bathroom.
The thing is that I would say something to him about it, but I am intimidated by his circumstances. At his age to be doing something so menial, with such low pay and prospects. A recent immigrant with a terrible job that I wouldn’t wish on anyone and they make him wear a maroon smock. I don’t think I’ve seen a smock since kindergarten, but there he is in a smock. I can’t stand the idea of criticizing a person for having a poor attitude while wearing a smock and executing a job that would make me miserable and inclined to be nasty to everyone.
But I do wish he would stop evaluating my trash. Or retire.
Tuesday, June 24, 2003
Originally written 10/25/02- pm
Junior
He has just performed a impressive rendition of “Take me out to the ballgame,” and he’s started on “My country ‘tis of Thee.” His mother looks around, a little embarrassed, presumably she is checking our faces to see if anyone is annoyed by her son’s behavior. But, everyone looks either amused or half-asleep, so she lets him continue his concert. There aren’t many of us left on the train as we are approaching the end of the line.
The boy is black, about four years old, and has extra short, fuzzy hair. He’s a little on the chubby side, but it’s baby fat, and it’s just a little. Junior is wearing tiny little blue jeans and a black nylon bomber jacket with red writing on the back that I can’t make out because he is wearing a kid’s back pack over it. The bag is mostly yellow, with blue straps and red trim. It’s very bright.
“Take me out to the Ballgame” seems like a weird choice to me, and I wonder how it is that this four year old knows all the words. All the words, he didn’t have to da-dada-da-da through any part of the song, and he didn’t insert his own words to the original tune.
Hardly anyone likes baseball anymore right? Nothing about his mother says baseball fan to me, and I wonder about his father. Has the song simply transcended the actual sport?
He is also in tune through both songs, and although it is definitely a kid’s voice, he’s pretty good. He seems to know it, too. This is very much a performance, I know because he turns now and then to face different people, making sure everyone gets a good view of the show. When he starts “My country ‘tis of thee” he puts his right hand over his heart, but he abandons the practice when the motion of the train almost knocks him over. I find myself wondering if they have choirs for kids this small.
When he looks at me I smile, and he beams, but it doesn’t interrupt his song. I look around at the others on the train, and an old white lady with grey hair and too many bags is smiling at him, too. She looks like she’s waiting for the song to end, so she can clap. She won’t get a chance though. The train pulls into the station before he concludes his patriotic refrain, and when the doors open he and his mother shuffle off first, hand in hand. As I watch them get lost into the crowd I can still hear his voice, fading gently away.
Junior
He has just performed a impressive rendition of “Take me out to the ballgame,” and he’s started on “My country ‘tis of Thee.” His mother looks around, a little embarrassed, presumably she is checking our faces to see if anyone is annoyed by her son’s behavior. But, everyone looks either amused or half-asleep, so she lets him continue his concert. There aren’t many of us left on the train as we are approaching the end of the line.
The boy is black, about four years old, and has extra short, fuzzy hair. He’s a little on the chubby side, but it’s baby fat, and it’s just a little. Junior is wearing tiny little blue jeans and a black nylon bomber jacket with red writing on the back that I can’t make out because he is wearing a kid’s back pack over it. The bag is mostly yellow, with blue straps and red trim. It’s very bright.
“Take me out to the Ballgame” seems like a weird choice to me, and I wonder how it is that this four year old knows all the words. All the words, he didn’t have to da-dada-da-da through any part of the song, and he didn’t insert his own words to the original tune.
Hardly anyone likes baseball anymore right? Nothing about his mother says baseball fan to me, and I wonder about his father. Has the song simply transcended the actual sport?
He is also in tune through both songs, and although it is definitely a kid’s voice, he’s pretty good. He seems to know it, too. This is very much a performance, I know because he turns now and then to face different people, making sure everyone gets a good view of the show. When he starts “My country ‘tis of thee” he puts his right hand over his heart, but he abandons the practice when the motion of the train almost knocks him over. I find myself wondering if they have choirs for kids this small.
When he looks at me I smile, and he beams, but it doesn’t interrupt his song. I look around at the others on the train, and an old white lady with grey hair and too many bags is smiling at him, too. She looks like she’s waiting for the song to end, so she can clap. She won’t get a chance though. The train pulls into the station before he concludes his patriotic refrain, and when the doors open he and his mother shuffle off first, hand in hand. As I watch them get lost into the crowd I can still hear his voice, fading gently away.
Thursday, June 19, 2003
As an editor, the worst sentence ever to cross my desk was:
"The bikers, while one is in the back sick, Conrad dances in being the toxic aviator."
I memorized it for all time, because it was so astonishingly unintelligible. I do not recall the author, and so much the better for them.
"The bikers, while one is in the back sick, Conrad dances in being the toxic aviator."
I memorized it for all time, because it was so astonishingly unintelligible. I do not recall the author, and so much the better for them.
Terrorism and the Ozone Index
At home on my refrigerator I have a cartoon that a friend was nice enough to clip out for me (thank you, Joe). It pictures a couple sitting on their sofa, and the woman says, “Shh! Tom Ridge is about to announce the terror alert color of the day.” (paraphrased, I'm not looking at my fridge at the moment) Pictured on their television is Tom Ridge, hand deep inside a bag of M&Ms.
Tom Ridge is an idiot. And while I’m at so are Arlen Specter, Frank Mascara, and Rick Santorum. Pennsylvania is not exactly producing geniuses these days, for shame, for shame. My disappointment that James Capozzola has ruled out a run is assuaged only by the fact that I don’t actually live in PA anymore.
But, I digress. My real point here is not to critique Pennsylvania politics, it is to point out that the same color scale being used to identify how scared we should be that something in the country is about to explode is also being used to identify how much ick is in the air and whether or not Junior should be allowed to go to soccer practice. I am referring, of course, to the terrorism threat level and the ozone index.
While watching the news the other day, I was shocked to see that we are at code green. I was just thinking how strange that was, since we have been at yellow or higher since the advent of the terror alert system. Then I notice the words ozone level. This isn’t good. The point of the color scale thing is to make it easier and less confusing, isn’t it? And since I don’t think the Office of Homeland Security is likely to change their threat notification, which frankly is a little more immediately pressing, it may be time for the National Weather Service, or whoever puts out the ozone index to switch to another identifier. Like smiley and frowny faces. Take a page from Yahoo!, everyone knows what the emoticons mean. Just don’t use Mr. Yuck, he means something else too.
At home on my refrigerator I have a cartoon that a friend was nice enough to clip out for me (thank you, Joe). It pictures a couple sitting on their sofa, and the woman says, “Shh! Tom Ridge is about to announce the terror alert color of the day.” (paraphrased, I'm not looking at my fridge at the moment) Pictured on their television is Tom Ridge, hand deep inside a bag of M&Ms.
Tom Ridge is an idiot. And while I’m at so are Arlen Specter, Frank Mascara, and Rick Santorum. Pennsylvania is not exactly producing geniuses these days, for shame, for shame. My disappointment that James Capozzola has ruled out a run is assuaged only by the fact that I don’t actually live in PA anymore.
But, I digress. My real point here is not to critique Pennsylvania politics, it is to point out that the same color scale being used to identify how scared we should be that something in the country is about to explode is also being used to identify how much ick is in the air and whether or not Junior should be allowed to go to soccer practice. I am referring, of course, to the terrorism threat level and the ozone index.
While watching the news the other day, I was shocked to see that we are at code green. I was just thinking how strange that was, since we have been at yellow or higher since the advent of the terror alert system. Then I notice the words ozone level. This isn’t good. The point of the color scale thing is to make it easier and less confusing, isn’t it? And since I don’t think the Office of Homeland Security is likely to change their threat notification, which frankly is a little more immediately pressing, it may be time for the National Weather Service, or whoever puts out the ozone index to switch to another identifier. Like smiley and frowny faces. Take a page from Yahoo!, everyone knows what the emoticons mean. Just don’t use Mr. Yuck, he means something else too.
Wednesday, June 18, 2003
The Polite Pooch
I saw something uncommon today, just odd enough to stick in my head.
Today in the cafeteria there was a blind woman with a service dog. This was not the odd part. There are many people with disabilities working in my building, so seeing a service animal is not that unusual.
Her dog was a beauty. I’m usually impressed with the appearance of service animals, because they are well exercised, well cared for, and they have the look of strength and determination that comes with having an important job. They conduct themselves with a quiet dignity that is almost militant, like furry little secret-service agents. It’s always striking. Her dog is a golden retriever. His rich red fur is long and looks soft.
There was another woman in the cafeteria at the same time, in a wheelchair. She maneuvered past the first woman and her guide dog, and in the process she dropped a book on the floor. It was a paperback novel, probably her lunchtime reading.
The woman in the wheelchair looked down at the book, and was just looking up to ask a stranger for help when the dog took a step forward, picked the book up and gave it back to her.
The blind woman, not completely aware of what was going on, scolded her dog for the unexpected move. The woman in the wheelchair explained that he was helping her.
I’m almost certain that the dog’s action represents a break in training. He probably wasn’t supposed to help anyone but his master, but the incident really made me think. If the blind woman had been able to see the woman in the wheelchair drop her book, she probably would have picked it up for her. Almost anyone would. The dog, as an extension of her, was just being polite. Or is this dog just so conditioned to help that he wants to help the world? Guide dogs are trained to encounter a wide range of events and occurrences before they’re matched with a person with a disability. It is likely though, that this situation never came up in his training. Why did his instinct say help? Would he have helped anyone, or did he recognize that the woman was in a wheelchair?
It just made me think, so I thought I would share it.
Post Script: Lest anyone wonder why I did not pick up the book. I was on the opposite side of the wheelchair, and the dog simply got there first.
I saw something uncommon today, just odd enough to stick in my head.
Today in the cafeteria there was a blind woman with a service dog. This was not the odd part. There are many people with disabilities working in my building, so seeing a service animal is not that unusual.
Her dog was a beauty. I’m usually impressed with the appearance of service animals, because they are well exercised, well cared for, and they have the look of strength and determination that comes with having an important job. They conduct themselves with a quiet dignity that is almost militant, like furry little secret-service agents. It’s always striking. Her dog is a golden retriever. His rich red fur is long and looks soft.
There was another woman in the cafeteria at the same time, in a wheelchair. She maneuvered past the first woman and her guide dog, and in the process she dropped a book on the floor. It was a paperback novel, probably her lunchtime reading.
The woman in the wheelchair looked down at the book, and was just looking up to ask a stranger for help when the dog took a step forward, picked the book up and gave it back to her.
The blind woman, not completely aware of what was going on, scolded her dog for the unexpected move. The woman in the wheelchair explained that he was helping her.
I’m almost certain that the dog’s action represents a break in training. He probably wasn’t supposed to help anyone but his master, but the incident really made me think. If the blind woman had been able to see the woman in the wheelchair drop her book, she probably would have picked it up for her. Almost anyone would. The dog, as an extension of her, was just being polite. Or is this dog just so conditioned to help that he wants to help the world? Guide dogs are trained to encounter a wide range of events and occurrences before they’re matched with a person with a disability. It is likely though, that this situation never came up in his training. Why did his instinct say help? Would he have helped anyone, or did he recognize that the woman was in a wheelchair?
It just made me think, so I thought I would share it.
Post Script: Lest anyone wonder why I did not pick up the book. I was on the opposite side of the wheelchair, and the dog simply got there first.
Tuesday, June 17, 2003
This piece is one of my favorites that I wrote last fall, despite casting some unpleasant light on it's author somewhere in the middle. Living in DC when the sniper attacks were taking place was a strange experience, and I think I've captured it here as it was for me.
This piece originally written 10/22/02- pm
The News on Tape
He’s sitting on the opposite aisle of the train, kitty-corner, one row forward. I don’t take much notice of him at first, except that I can hear a faint voice on his headphones, and I’m a little annoyed. I like to read on the train, and I can't see the point of headphones if everyone else can hear the sound anyway. But he’s listening to the news, so it could be much worse. I know it’s the news because I distinctly hear Lisa Baden say her name as she concludes her traffic report, and though I don’t make out much of the next report, I hear the word sniper at least once. He doesn't spark my interest completely until he does something really unusual. He rewinds the news. It’s an audio tape. He plays the same part two more times, and I know it’s the same because I’m listening more carefully now. And I watch him. I can see his left arm and his hands pressing the buttons on the cassette player. I hear the tell-tale squeal some cassette players make in rewind and fast forward. I hear Lisa Baden again.
I’m keeping an eye on him, I’ve been pretty paranoid since the Serial Sniper starter his spree in the DC area 20 days ago. He shot a bus driver this morning, they don't have all the information yet, but everyone knows it’s the same guy. Between the heightened National security and the sniper, I can't tell you how many times I've heard the phrase "Be on the lookout" or have been advised to "remain vigilant." I've changed where I park in the Metro lot, and the way I walk to the station. I've been walking up the center where two rows of parking meet, where the cars are nose-to-nose. It seems to me that I have the most cover that way.
And now a third phrase I hear continually pops into my head. "Report suspicious behavior." I’m making notes on his appearance, which is difficult because I’ve only got a view of his back at this point. Black hair, cut shorter on the sides than top, the top is a little wavy. Olive green cargo pants, long-sleeve white shirt, dark complexion, neatly trimmed fingernails. Grey headphones stretched over his head. It must be obvious that I'm staring at him, but I don't care. Why hasn't anyone else noticed?
We’re just past the second to last stop on the line when he stands and goes to wait by the doors. I have a better view of him now. The white shirt has a broad dark blue horizontal stripe, with a thin yellow stripe through it. He’s carrying a green backpack by the handles, and the radio/cassette player in the other hand. The thin black cord is stretched up to the headphones. He’s about 22 or 24, and he’s Middle-Eastern, which makes me flinch because I’m thinking about terrorism now. And in my head that seems racist, which also scares me and throws a little guilt on the pile. Am I sure he’s Middle-Eastern? No I’m not, but he’s Middle-Eastern or Mediterranean, which for some reason makes me feel better and so do his clothes, because really, he looks American to me. We pull into the last station and everyone clammers to get off. I try to follow him, but I lose him immediately in the crowd. I wonder why I didn’t try to talk to him, I haven’t heard his voice, and what if that turns out to be important?
I hurry to my car and leave the lot as fast as possible, trying to think up logical reasons to record the news. I actually manage to concoct a reason before I get home. I tell myself he's a college student (he was the right age), and he's following the coverage of this event for any of the following possible classes: criminology, journalism, or sociology. There may even be others. I decide not to call the police, but I hold onto his description anyway.
Post Script. The bus-driver killed on 10/22/02 was Conrad Johnson. He was the last victim of the "serial sniper(s)". The following day the police released a description of a blue Chevy Caprice with a New Jersey plate. In the early morning of 10/24/02 they took John Muhammad and Levoy (sometimes John Lee or Lee Boyd) Malvo into custody. The police announced, "The weapon is off the street," and then preceded to thank a list of people as though accepting an award. Everyone drew a breath in relief. I pumped gas without worrying. I don't know who the man with the news on tape was, and I guess he probably has no idea he frightened anyone.
This piece originally written 10/22/02- pm
The News on Tape
He’s sitting on the opposite aisle of the train, kitty-corner, one row forward. I don’t take much notice of him at first, except that I can hear a faint voice on his headphones, and I’m a little annoyed. I like to read on the train, and I can't see the point of headphones if everyone else can hear the sound anyway. But he’s listening to the news, so it could be much worse. I know it’s the news because I distinctly hear Lisa Baden say her name as she concludes her traffic report, and though I don’t make out much of the next report, I hear the word sniper at least once. He doesn't spark my interest completely until he does something really unusual. He rewinds the news. It’s an audio tape. He plays the same part two more times, and I know it’s the same because I’m listening more carefully now. And I watch him. I can see his left arm and his hands pressing the buttons on the cassette player. I hear the tell-tale squeal some cassette players make in rewind and fast forward. I hear Lisa Baden again.
I’m keeping an eye on him, I’ve been pretty paranoid since the Serial Sniper starter his spree in the DC area 20 days ago. He shot a bus driver this morning, they don't have all the information yet, but everyone knows it’s the same guy. Between the heightened National security and the sniper, I can't tell you how many times I've heard the phrase "Be on the lookout" or have been advised to "remain vigilant." I've changed where I park in the Metro lot, and the way I walk to the station. I've been walking up the center where two rows of parking meet, where the cars are nose-to-nose. It seems to me that I have the most cover that way.
And now a third phrase I hear continually pops into my head. "Report suspicious behavior." I’m making notes on his appearance, which is difficult because I’ve only got a view of his back at this point. Black hair, cut shorter on the sides than top, the top is a little wavy. Olive green cargo pants, long-sleeve white shirt, dark complexion, neatly trimmed fingernails. Grey headphones stretched over his head. It must be obvious that I'm staring at him, but I don't care. Why hasn't anyone else noticed?
We’re just past the second to last stop on the line when he stands and goes to wait by the doors. I have a better view of him now. The white shirt has a broad dark blue horizontal stripe, with a thin yellow stripe through it. He’s carrying a green backpack by the handles, and the radio/cassette player in the other hand. The thin black cord is stretched up to the headphones. He’s about 22 or 24, and he’s Middle-Eastern, which makes me flinch because I’m thinking about terrorism now. And in my head that seems racist, which also scares me and throws a little guilt on the pile. Am I sure he’s Middle-Eastern? No I’m not, but he’s Middle-Eastern or Mediterranean, which for some reason makes me feel better and so do his clothes, because really, he looks American to me. We pull into the last station and everyone clammers to get off. I try to follow him, but I lose him immediately in the crowd. I wonder why I didn’t try to talk to him, I haven’t heard his voice, and what if that turns out to be important?
I hurry to my car and leave the lot as fast as possible, trying to think up logical reasons to record the news. I actually manage to concoct a reason before I get home. I tell myself he's a college student (he was the right age), and he's following the coverage of this event for any of the following possible classes: criminology, journalism, or sociology. There may even be others. I decide not to call the police, but I hold onto his description anyway.
Post Script. The bus-driver killed on 10/22/02 was Conrad Johnson. He was the last victim of the "serial sniper(s)". The following day the police released a description of a blue Chevy Caprice with a New Jersey plate. In the early morning of 10/24/02 they took John Muhammad and Levoy (sometimes John Lee or Lee Boyd) Malvo into custody. The police announced, "The weapon is off the street," and then preceded to thank a list of people as though accepting an award. Everyone drew a breath in relief. I pumped gas without worrying. I don't know who the man with the news on tape was, and I guess he probably has no idea he frightened anyone.
Thursday, June 12, 2003
The Botanic Garden
Tuesday I left work with an hour to kill before meeting my friends at a bar called The Exchange in Northwest. In retrospect, had I known that on my way I was going to encounter fierce traffic and a motorcade, two things would not have happened. First and foremost, I would not have brought my car downtown at all, thus saving myself thirteen dollars in parking. Second, I would have walked to the bar and have made arrangements for someone else to cart me home.
But, we live and we learn. What can I say?
So with time to kill, I decided to go to my favorite DC museum, the U.S. Botanic Garden Conservatory. Technically, I supposed a conservatory isn't a museum, but it has named exhibits and displays, educational materials, and even artwork, so in my mind it's a museum, and a fine one at that. I like it better than any of the Smithsonians, and that's saying a lot.
Right now they have a stunning display called Low and Slow: 300 feet over the American Landscape by photographer Cameron Davidson. He has an exhibit of aerial photographs that include a series on contour farming, and some really impressive natural disaster stuff. The flooding shots are either ghostly and mournful or quietly alarming. I wanted to call my college adviser in the earth science department and tell him that it's an exhibit worth seeing if he plans to be in DC anytime before it's gone. (The exhibit ends June 22, 2003)
One of the most interesting photographs, to me, is one that at first appears to be brightly colored, horizontally striped fabric. I puzzled over it for a minute, aware that all the photographs were of natural landscapes, and trying to imagine what it could be. It was not until I referred to the exhibit guide that I could really see it. It was a fields of flowers growing in Florida. (This shot is disappointingly absent from his website, but I did find it on Photoserve.) I also like the cows.
Outside the conservatory, they have taken down almost all of the hideously ugly chain link fence that surrounded part of the block. There is a sign up now that reads, "future site of the National Garden." They have cleared a space that I believe will become a sidewalk, but right now is just a dirt path with a mound of torn up sandy sod piled at one end. The plans call for an impressive display of colorful native plant species. It is a large space, and if they make it as beautiful as the Bartholdi garden it will be stunning. The Bartholdi garden is across the street from the conservatory, on a small triangle of land. The most famous feature of the garden is the fountain, which has both cascading water and brilliant lighting. It looks good on a postcard, though I've never seen it at night, myself.
Around two sides of the conservatory there is a sort of patio. In the winter they clear away the tables and other items, but now that the warm weather is returning they have put out their beautiful wooden tables, chairs, and trellises and the green umbrellas and terra-cotta-potted palms. The wood is a rich color, like teak, but I refuse to believe that an organization that knows as much about plant-life as they do would use teak. My guess is the wood is some other type that has been stained very well. It is a beautiful little spot, and the Congressional staff and underlings, and people who work in the other Federal buildings come here with their lunch and their cell phones and their shirts with no jackets and their good shoes. Who can blame them? I can't think of anything that contrasts my own drab little cubicle so thoroughly.
Inside the conservatory is beautiful. Were the Orchid room not so small I could spend an entire day there. It is incredibly beautiful and unfortunately popular; it should be twice the size it is, at least. I like to wander through the rooms slowly. I don't read the plant ID cards anymore (unless something draws my attention for a particular reason). I just wander through, breathing in the warm air and enjoying.
On the second level of the "Jungle" exhibit is a small bush with blue flowers resembling tiny butterflies. You'll just be telling yourself that when you notice the tag that says, not surprisingly "Butterfly bush." I want one; I wonder if I could get one somewhere, and if they're hard to care for. There aren't nearly enough blue flowers in the world. It would probably be like my other house plants, lush and green, still very pretty in their own right, but never, ever blooming. I have a green thumb. It's the purple, red, pink, blue, yellow and white that seem to be missing. But I have lots of green.
I come into the jungle room just to visit this plant (ok, and to look for salamanders, or newts, or whatever the creature is I keep seeing sunning himself on the metal supports for the greenhouse dome). I'm somewhat allergic to the room. After a short time wandering through the jungle I begin to get a little tickle at the back of my throat, and then my eyes start to itch. If I stay just a bit longer, I become terribly thirsty and a little dizzy. I never stay past that point.
So I went to the conservatory Tuesday and spent twenty minutes sitting on a bench in the "Garden Court," listening to the fountains and making observations on strangers. There is always an ecletic group wondering through. There are very few children; it seems to be a more mature audience. Besides, the kids are all over at Air and Space. The conservatory sees some tourists, but since it is not a Smithsonian museum it gets missed by most people on the Mall. I suspect that most of the tourists that do visit the conservatory stumble across it by accident while walking to get a better view of the Capitol. Or maybe a local sends them the right way. The people who plan to visit go there with sketchpads and cameras and notebooks (like me). It's a beautiful, artistic, and inspiring place.
Tuesday I left work with an hour to kill before meeting my friends at a bar called The Exchange in Northwest. In retrospect, had I known that on my way I was going to encounter fierce traffic and a motorcade, two things would not have happened. First and foremost, I would not have brought my car downtown at all, thus saving myself thirteen dollars in parking. Second, I would have walked to the bar and have made arrangements for someone else to cart me home.
But, we live and we learn. What can I say?
So with time to kill, I decided to go to my favorite DC museum, the U.S. Botanic Garden Conservatory. Technically, I supposed a conservatory isn't a museum, but it has named exhibits and displays, educational materials, and even artwork, so in my mind it's a museum, and a fine one at that. I like it better than any of the Smithsonians, and that's saying a lot.
Right now they have a stunning display called Low and Slow: 300 feet over the American Landscape by photographer Cameron Davidson. He has an exhibit of aerial photographs that include a series on contour farming, and some really impressive natural disaster stuff. The flooding shots are either ghostly and mournful or quietly alarming. I wanted to call my college adviser in the earth science department and tell him that it's an exhibit worth seeing if he plans to be in DC anytime before it's gone. (The exhibit ends June 22, 2003)
One of the most interesting photographs, to me, is one that at first appears to be brightly colored, horizontally striped fabric. I puzzled over it for a minute, aware that all the photographs were of natural landscapes, and trying to imagine what it could be. It was not until I referred to the exhibit guide that I could really see it. It was a fields of flowers growing in Florida. (This shot is disappointingly absent from his website, but I did find it on Photoserve.) I also like the cows.
Outside the conservatory, they have taken down almost all of the hideously ugly chain link fence that surrounded part of the block. There is a sign up now that reads, "future site of the National Garden." They have cleared a space that I believe will become a sidewalk, but right now is just a dirt path with a mound of torn up sandy sod piled at one end. The plans call for an impressive display of colorful native plant species. It is a large space, and if they make it as beautiful as the Bartholdi garden it will be stunning. The Bartholdi garden is across the street from the conservatory, on a small triangle of land. The most famous feature of the garden is the fountain, which has both cascading water and brilliant lighting. It looks good on a postcard, though I've never seen it at night, myself.
Around two sides of the conservatory there is a sort of patio. In the winter they clear away the tables and other items, but now that the warm weather is returning they have put out their beautiful wooden tables, chairs, and trellises and the green umbrellas and terra-cotta-potted palms. The wood is a rich color, like teak, but I refuse to believe that an organization that knows as much about plant-life as they do would use teak. My guess is the wood is some other type that has been stained very well. It is a beautiful little spot, and the Congressional staff and underlings, and people who work in the other Federal buildings come here with their lunch and their cell phones and their shirts with no jackets and their good shoes. Who can blame them? I can't think of anything that contrasts my own drab little cubicle so thoroughly.
Inside the conservatory is beautiful. Were the Orchid room not so small I could spend an entire day there. It is incredibly beautiful and unfortunately popular; it should be twice the size it is, at least. I like to wander through the rooms slowly. I don't read the plant ID cards anymore (unless something draws my attention for a particular reason). I just wander through, breathing in the warm air and enjoying.
On the second level of the "Jungle" exhibit is a small bush with blue flowers resembling tiny butterflies. You'll just be telling yourself that when you notice the tag that says, not surprisingly "Butterfly bush." I want one; I wonder if I could get one somewhere, and if they're hard to care for. There aren't nearly enough blue flowers in the world. It would probably be like my other house plants, lush and green, still very pretty in their own right, but never, ever blooming. I have a green thumb. It's the purple, red, pink, blue, yellow and white that seem to be missing. But I have lots of green.
I come into the jungle room just to visit this plant (ok, and to look for salamanders, or newts, or whatever the creature is I keep seeing sunning himself on the metal supports for the greenhouse dome). I'm somewhat allergic to the room. After a short time wandering through the jungle I begin to get a little tickle at the back of my throat, and then my eyes start to itch. If I stay just a bit longer, I become terribly thirsty and a little dizzy. I never stay past that point.
So I went to the conservatory Tuesday and spent twenty minutes sitting on a bench in the "Garden Court," listening to the fountains and making observations on strangers. There is always an ecletic group wondering through. There are very few children; it seems to be a more mature audience. Besides, the kids are all over at Air and Space. The conservatory sees some tourists, but since it is not a Smithsonian museum it gets missed by most people on the Mall. I suspect that most of the tourists that do visit the conservatory stumble across it by accident while walking to get a better view of the Capitol. Or maybe a local sends them the right way. The people who plan to visit go there with sketchpads and cameras and notebooks (like me). It's a beautiful, artistic, and inspiring place.
Friday, June 06, 2003
Originally written 10/18/02- pm rush hour
I’m wondering why he purses his lips. He has fairly thin lips, and the exercise is making them dam near invisible. He’s wearing a maroon shirt, with a dark green and tan mix twill blazer. I wouldn’t imagine it would work, but it looks very nice together. I wonder if he picked it out, or if he bought them together, or if his wife picked it out, or his husband for that matter. I never get a good look at his hand for a ring, and it really wouldn’t help decide who picked the outfit anyway. I decide he probably picked it himself. He’s wearing headphones, but whatever he’s listening to isn’t loud enough for anyone else to hear, and I conclude that it must not have a hard baseline, because I don’t even hear that and because he is standing perfectly still. That is, he is standing as perfectly still as one can on a moving subway train, but he’s not tapping or bobbing or lip-synching or anything.
He’s handsome. He has strong features, a powerful cleft chin, fierce dark brown eyes and a deliberate look, a slight bend in his nose, and tan skin. He must have been amazing at 25, he’s 45 or 50 now. He looks a little strange, this dignified business pro, with headphones. But it is the subway and headphones aren’t that unusual. The part that is killing me is the backpack.
He has seen me looking at him, and I think I’ve made him uncomfortable. He turns away from me, and all I see now is the backpack. He’s wearing a black Jansport backpack, like Joe College. It looks ridiculous. And he’s wearing it correctly, with one strap over each shoulder. I try to picture him in his office putting on the backpack, a process which always make a person look like turtle flipped onto its shell and trying to right itself. I wonder what he keeps in there, and why he opted against the briefcase. He gets off the train in two more stops.
I’m wondering why he purses his lips. He has fairly thin lips, and the exercise is making them dam near invisible. He’s wearing a maroon shirt, with a dark green and tan mix twill blazer. I wouldn’t imagine it would work, but it looks very nice together. I wonder if he picked it out, or if he bought them together, or if his wife picked it out, or his husband for that matter. I never get a good look at his hand for a ring, and it really wouldn’t help decide who picked the outfit anyway. I decide he probably picked it himself. He’s wearing headphones, but whatever he’s listening to isn’t loud enough for anyone else to hear, and I conclude that it must not have a hard baseline, because I don’t even hear that and because he is standing perfectly still. That is, he is standing as perfectly still as one can on a moving subway train, but he’s not tapping or bobbing or lip-synching or anything.
He’s handsome. He has strong features, a powerful cleft chin, fierce dark brown eyes and a deliberate look, a slight bend in his nose, and tan skin. He must have been amazing at 25, he’s 45 or 50 now. He looks a little strange, this dignified business pro, with headphones. But it is the subway and headphones aren’t that unusual. The part that is killing me is the backpack.
He has seen me looking at him, and I think I’ve made him uncomfortable. He turns away from me, and all I see now is the backpack. He’s wearing a black Jansport backpack, like Joe College. It looks ridiculous. And he’s wearing it correctly, with one strap over each shoulder. I try to picture him in his office putting on the backpack, a process which always make a person look like turtle flipped onto its shell and trying to right itself. I wonder what he keeps in there, and why he opted against the briefcase. He gets off the train in two more stops.
Thursday, June 05, 2003
Charlie
I haven't seen Charlie in months. I haven't been riding the train, because I found a bus that comes into a Park 'n' Ride about a mile from my house. It takes me about ten minutes longer to get to work, but it saves money, and gas, and it keeps me from going into blind rages on the beltway and I-95. I can sleep (or read on those rare occasions where I'm feeling well rested) on my way to work.
So I haven't run into Charlie. I was so happy to see him yesterday it was like we were old friends, though I've never really even spoken to him. I had to go to a conference yesterday in Virginia, so I took Metro (DC subway). On my way home I was almost asleep when I heard him say, "Seveny-five cents?"
I don't know Charlie's real name, but I can never see him without hearing the Kingston Trio begin softly in the back of my mind. You see, "Charlie" is always looking for, "Seveny-five cents."
Charlie's outfit has changed. I've mostly seen him in the winter, so I was surprised how different he looked. In the winter he's bundled in a thick black quilted coat and a wool hat. Yesterday he was wearing a black Adidas windbreaker and a baseball cap. Charlie is in his forties, about six feet tall, black, and all winter long he had a thick wiry black beard with quite a few grays creeping in, but not quite salt-and-pepper. He must only grow the beard in the winter, because he doesn't have it now. I can't say he's clean-shaven, but the beard is gone.
Charlie boards a train and walks the distance of the car reciting a set of stock phrases, sometime with such speed and so close together that one wonders if he ever considered being an auctioneer. The pitch goes roughly, "Seveny-five cents, anbody got seveny-five cents? I need seveny-five cents. Seveny-five cents git me back to the half-way house, anbody got seveny-five cents?" Sometimes he embellishes a little, sometimes he doesn't it, but it is usually about the same. He says "Thank you Sir" or Thank you very much" when he scores some change. Once he has walked the distance of the railcar, he exits at the next stop. If he was sucessful on this train, he crosses the platform and boards a train in the other direction. If he was unsucessful, he moves onto the next railcar of the same train.
He works the rails in some kind of cycle, or he is periodically removed, because I used to not see him for more than a month and then suddenly he would reappear for about a week, and then gone again. I find myself wondering about Charlie sometimes. Is he really living at the halfway house? And why is the amount always "seveny-five" cents? Is he the man who never returned?
Lyrics to MTA- as sung by the Kingston Trio
100 Things About Me
1. I have blue eyes.
2. I am strangely proud of that, as though it were an accomplishment, rather than a genetic variable.
3. I have brown hair.
4. I have a little cluster of gray hairs coming in on the crown of my head. They aren’t bad, but they’re getting worse.
5. I am five feet, six inches tall.
6. I started wearing glasses when I was 6.
7. I don’t anymore.
8. I am one of a very small percentage of people whose vision problems self-corrected.
9. I have asthma and an assortment of allergies that periodically make me miserable, but never at the same time as anyone else.
10. I was born in November 1975.
11. I collect elephants; knick-knacks, stuffed animals, jewelry, dust collectors, anything with elephants, and I have more than 200 in my house.
12. I am engaged to be married to George in May 04.
13. I picked out my dress six months ago; it was the first dress I tried on.
14. I drive a Plymouth Neon whose official color is listed at ‘cinamon glaze,” which I can only assume is because “creamy-bronze-metallic-tan” sounded weird.
15. I was too cheap to get the power windows and stuff, and now I wish I had.
16. I have a Doberman named Marley (she came with George) *Postscript see entry from July 14, 2003, Of Old Ladies and Dobermans.
17. I have a Yorkie named Fizgig.
18. I live in Maryland.
19. I am from a small town in eastern Pennsylvania.
20. I never thought I could work in a city.
21. I have a degree in Earth Science: Oceanography
22. I am a graduate of California University of Pennsylvania.
23. I have a niece whose middle name comes from my name.
24. I have a nephew who is also my godson.
25. I have one sister and no brothers.
26. I have one step-sister.
27. I am a terrible grouch in the morning.
28. I love deep-sea fishing, and have been going since I was a kid.
29. I get pissy when people react with surprise to #28.
30. I have a hard time throwing things away.
31. I carry a small purse because if I buy a bigger one I am tempted to fill it.
32. I want a job that lets me wear jeans every day and take my dogs with me.
33. I want to go to Kenya someday.
34. I have read the real biography of all the major characters of the movie “Out of Africa” and some of the minor characters -Karen Blixen, Denys Finch-Hatton, Bror Blixen, Beryl Markham (probably the basis for the fictitious character, Felicity, in the film), Kamante, segments on Galbraith & Berkeley Cole, Lord Delamere, Martin & Osa Johnson (peripherally related), et al.
35. I worry often.
36. I spontaneously correct other people’s grammar.
37. I correct George so often that he doesn’t notice anymore.
38. I like Coca-cola; I hate Pepsi.
39. I don’t like nuts in anything sweet (candy bars, ice-cream, brownies, cookies)
40. I love corn-on-the-cob.
41. My family makes fun of me for ordering chicken wherever we go.
42. I don’t always order chicken, but I do very often.
43. I don’t like shellfish or shark or salmon.
44. Chocolate is necessary.
45. Ben and Jerry’s Phish Phood is genius, New York Super Fudge Chunk is inspired (except for the nuts, but you can eat around them).
46. Tea gives me kidney stones.
47. I like beer.
48. I am very competitive.
49. I belong to an amateur pool league.
50. I play pool well enough to hold my own in a bar game.
51. I love the color blue.
52. I crochet.
53. I sew.
54. I love old movies, particularly Audrey Hepburn’s.
55. I am also partial to Paul Newman, then and now.
56. I procrastinate, often.
57. I have been described as both blunt and formidable.
58. I wish I played a musical instrument.
59. I believe in overdoing it on holidays, especially Christmas.
60. I usually overspend at Christmas.
61. I used to be a member of a volunteer fire company ambulance crew.
62. I am against censorship.
63. I am pro-choice.
64. I believe that our criminal justice system needs a serious overhaul.
65. I believe that prohibiting prayer in school is just as bad a requiring it.
66. The same applies to the Pledge of Allegiance.
67. I am usually called a feminist when I begin speaking out, and though I don’t deny it, I find the label kind of worthless.
68. I recently changed party affiliations from Democrat to Green.
69. I am a Methodist.
70. I have dry skin.
71. I am a pessimist.
72. I am an idealist.
73. I don’t smoke pot or use any other “recreational” drugs.
74. I won’t work for anyone who requires random drug tests because I believe it violates the “unreasonable search and seizure” protections of the Constitution.
75. I hate that everyone will now believe number 73 is a lie.
76. I believe that spending on education is terribly inadequate and could probably fix a lot of our problems.
77. I believe arts, music, and sports are as important as math, English, and history.
78. I am conflicted on many important political points including the death penalty, the war in the Middle East, and the Second Amendment.
79. I really just don’t understand cats at all. Not the musical, the animals. I mean every now and then you find a good one, but for the most part they seem to not like people. My self esteem isn’t high enough to have a pet that doesn’t like me.
80. I am a Scorpio.
81. I don’t believe in astrology, but I believe it has a place as an amusing diversion and a way to adjust your perspective from time to time.
82. Same for tarot. I don’t believe in the whole “fortune telling” thing, but sometimes a reading can make you think about a problem from a different angle, or see a solution you hadn’t before.
83. I believe in ghosts.
84. I don’t wear spiky heels; if chunk heels go out of fashion again- I’ll wear flats.
85. I keep a picture of my first grade teacher at my desk at work. I’ve had the picture for 15 years; it went to college with me and has been at every work desk. Mrs. Evans started out as a source of inspiration, and has since become something of a good luck charm.
86. My sister and I went to the same elementary, middle, and high school as my mother.
87. I never believed I would move out of my home town, now I cannot imagine going back.
88. I ran the Marine Corps Marathon in 2000, raising $1700 for the Whitman-Walker Clinic through the National AIDs Marathon Training program.
89. There is a small group of people, mostly in and around Pittsburgh, who call me Freud.
90. There is a small group of people, mostly in and around DC, who sometimes call me Iona.
91. There is one and only one person who calls me Chole.
92. Sometimes I use a pen name, but I won’t tell you what it is.
93. I love to sing and I memorize the words to songs remarkably well.
94. I feel indebted to people who stick their neck out for me, and try to return the favor, sometimes to great lengths.
95. I try to be a good friend.
96. I can be judgemental.
97. I don’t understand the MAC v. PC war, because to me it is like comparing a hammer to a screwdriver. They just do different things.
98. The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was help clean out George’s Mom’s apartment after she died.
99. My most embarrassing moment is a long story, but it involves me giving myself three paper cuts on the cornea of my eye.
100. I love fresh cut flowers and buy bouquets for myself at nearly every opportunity.
I haven't seen Charlie in months. I haven't been riding the train, because I found a bus that comes into a Park 'n' Ride about a mile from my house. It takes me about ten minutes longer to get to work, but it saves money, and gas, and it keeps me from going into blind rages on the beltway and I-95. I can sleep (or read on those rare occasions where I'm feeling well rested) on my way to work.
So I haven't run into Charlie. I was so happy to see him yesterday it was like we were old friends, though I've never really even spoken to him. I had to go to a conference yesterday in Virginia, so I took Metro (DC subway). On my way home I was almost asleep when I heard him say, "Seveny-five cents?"
I don't know Charlie's real name, but I can never see him without hearing the Kingston Trio begin softly in the back of my mind. You see, "Charlie" is always looking for, "Seveny-five cents."
Charlie's outfit has changed. I've mostly seen him in the winter, so I was surprised how different he looked. In the winter he's bundled in a thick black quilted coat and a wool hat. Yesterday he was wearing a black Adidas windbreaker and a baseball cap. Charlie is in his forties, about six feet tall, black, and all winter long he had a thick wiry black beard with quite a few grays creeping in, but not quite salt-and-pepper. He must only grow the beard in the winter, because he doesn't have it now. I can't say he's clean-shaven, but the beard is gone.
Charlie boards a train and walks the distance of the car reciting a set of stock phrases, sometime with such speed and so close together that one wonders if he ever considered being an auctioneer. The pitch goes roughly, "Seveny-five cents, anbody got seveny-five cents? I need seveny-five cents. Seveny-five cents git me back to the half-way house, anbody got seveny-five cents?" Sometimes he embellishes a little, sometimes he doesn't it, but it is usually about the same. He says "Thank you Sir" or Thank you very much" when he scores some change. Once he has walked the distance of the railcar, he exits at the next stop. If he was sucessful on this train, he crosses the platform and boards a train in the other direction. If he was unsucessful, he moves onto the next railcar of the same train.
He works the rails in some kind of cycle, or he is periodically removed, because I used to not see him for more than a month and then suddenly he would reappear for about a week, and then gone again. I find myself wondering about Charlie sometimes. Is he really living at the halfway house? And why is the amount always "seveny-five" cents? Is he the man who never returned?
Lyrics to MTA- as sung by the Kingston Trio
100 Things About Me
1. I have blue eyes.
2. I am strangely proud of that, as though it were an accomplishment, rather than a genetic variable.
3. I have brown hair.
4. I have a little cluster of gray hairs coming in on the crown of my head. They aren’t bad, but they’re getting worse.
5. I am five feet, six inches tall.
6. I started wearing glasses when I was 6.
7. I don’t anymore.
8. I am one of a very small percentage of people whose vision problems self-corrected.
9. I have asthma and an assortment of allergies that periodically make me miserable, but never at the same time as anyone else.
10. I was born in November 1975.
11. I collect elephants; knick-knacks, stuffed animals, jewelry, dust collectors, anything with elephants, and I have more than 200 in my house.
12. I am engaged to be married to George in May 04.
13. I picked out my dress six months ago; it was the first dress I tried on.
14. I drive a Plymouth Neon whose official color is listed at ‘cinamon glaze,” which I can only assume is because “creamy-bronze-metallic-tan” sounded weird.
15. I was too cheap to get the power windows and stuff, and now I wish I had.
16. I have a Doberman named Marley (she came with George) *Postscript see entry from July 14, 2003, Of Old Ladies and Dobermans.
17. I have a Yorkie named Fizgig.
18. I live in Maryland.
19. I am from a small town in eastern Pennsylvania.
20. I never thought I could work in a city.
21. I have a degree in Earth Science: Oceanography
22. I am a graduate of California University of Pennsylvania.
23. I have a niece whose middle name comes from my name.
24. I have a nephew who is also my godson.
25. I have one sister and no brothers.
26. I have one step-sister.
27. I am a terrible grouch in the morning.
28. I love deep-sea fishing, and have been going since I was a kid.
29. I get pissy when people react with surprise to #28.
30. I have a hard time throwing things away.
31. I carry a small purse because if I buy a bigger one I am tempted to fill it.
32. I want a job that lets me wear jeans every day and take my dogs with me.
33. I want to go to Kenya someday.
34. I have read the real biography of all the major characters of the movie “Out of Africa” and some of the minor characters -Karen Blixen, Denys Finch-Hatton, Bror Blixen, Beryl Markham (probably the basis for the fictitious character, Felicity, in the film), Kamante, segments on Galbraith & Berkeley Cole, Lord Delamere, Martin & Osa Johnson (peripherally related), et al.
35. I worry often.
36. I spontaneously correct other people’s grammar.
37. I correct George so often that he doesn’t notice anymore.
38. I like Coca-cola; I hate Pepsi.
39. I don’t like nuts in anything sweet (candy bars, ice-cream, brownies, cookies)
40. I love corn-on-the-cob.
41. My family makes fun of me for ordering chicken wherever we go.
42. I don’t always order chicken, but I do very often.
43. I don’t like shellfish or shark or salmon.
44. Chocolate is necessary.
45. Ben and Jerry’s Phish Phood is genius, New York Super Fudge Chunk is inspired (except for the nuts, but you can eat around them).
46. Tea gives me kidney stones.
47. I like beer.
48. I am very competitive.
49. I belong to an amateur pool league.
50. I play pool well enough to hold my own in a bar game.
51. I love the color blue.
52. I crochet.
53. I sew.
54. I love old movies, particularly Audrey Hepburn’s.
55. I am also partial to Paul Newman, then and now.
56. I procrastinate, often.
57. I have been described as both blunt and formidable.
58. I wish I played a musical instrument.
59. I believe in overdoing it on holidays, especially Christmas.
60. I usually overspend at Christmas.
61. I used to be a member of a volunteer fire company ambulance crew.
62. I am against censorship.
63. I am pro-choice.
64. I believe that our criminal justice system needs a serious overhaul.
65. I believe that prohibiting prayer in school is just as bad a requiring it.
66. The same applies to the Pledge of Allegiance.
67. I am usually called a feminist when I begin speaking out, and though I don’t deny it, I find the label kind of worthless.
68. I recently changed party affiliations from Democrat to Green.
69. I am a Methodist.
70. I have dry skin.
71. I am a pessimist.
72. I am an idealist.
73. I don’t smoke pot or use any other “recreational” drugs.
74. I won’t work for anyone who requires random drug tests because I believe it violates the “unreasonable search and seizure” protections of the Constitution.
75. I hate that everyone will now believe number 73 is a lie.
76. I believe that spending on education is terribly inadequate and could probably fix a lot of our problems.
77. I believe arts, music, and sports are as important as math, English, and history.
78. I am conflicted on many important political points including the death penalty, the war in the Middle East, and the Second Amendment.
79. I really just don’t understand cats at all. Not the musical, the animals. I mean every now and then you find a good one, but for the most part they seem to not like people. My self esteem isn’t high enough to have a pet that doesn’t like me.
80. I am a Scorpio.
81. I don’t believe in astrology, but I believe it has a place as an amusing diversion and a way to adjust your perspective from time to time.
82. Same for tarot. I don’t believe in the whole “fortune telling” thing, but sometimes a reading can make you think about a problem from a different angle, or see a solution you hadn’t before.
83. I believe in ghosts.
84. I don’t wear spiky heels; if chunk heels go out of fashion again- I’ll wear flats.
85. I keep a picture of my first grade teacher at my desk at work. I’ve had the picture for 15 years; it went to college with me and has been at every work desk. Mrs. Evans started out as a source of inspiration, and has since become something of a good luck charm.
86. My sister and I went to the same elementary, middle, and high school as my mother.
87. I never believed I would move out of my home town, now I cannot imagine going back.
88. I ran the Marine Corps Marathon in 2000, raising $1700 for the Whitman-Walker Clinic through the National AIDs Marathon Training program.
89. There is a small group of people, mostly in and around Pittsburgh, who call me Freud.
90. There is a small group of people, mostly in and around DC, who sometimes call me Iona.
91. There is one and only one person who calls me Chole.
92. Sometimes I use a pen name, but I won’t tell you what it is.
93. I love to sing and I memorize the words to songs remarkably well.
94. I feel indebted to people who stick their neck out for me, and try to return the favor, sometimes to great lengths.
95. I try to be a good friend.
96. I can be judgemental.
97. I don’t understand the MAC v. PC war, because to me it is like comparing a hammer to a screwdriver. They just do different things.
98. The hardest thing I’ve ever had to do was help clean out George’s Mom’s apartment after she died.
99. My most embarrassing moment is a long story, but it involves me giving myself three paper cuts on the cornea of my eye.
100. I love fresh cut flowers and buy bouquets for myself at nearly every opportunity.
Wednesday, June 04, 2003
Okay, a good friend had this up on her blog and I thought it was funny, as much for the artwork as anything else. Give it a try.
Take the What High School
Stereotype Are You? quiz, by Angel.
Take the What High School
Stereotype Are You? quiz, by Angel.
This piece originally written 05/22/03
Orange
They moved us back to orange alert again today. I hate orange alerts. I hate the increased news coverage, the military fly-overs, the "increased terrorism threat" messages displayed on the LED overheads on I-95, the missile mounted humvees... all of it. Most people say they don't notice, or aren't bothered by it anymore. It's true, you adjust to it, and most people don't see a lot of it, but I notice the subtleties. Plus I work in a government building.
I should bring a camera to work one day and get a picture of the hummers in front of the Capitol. Some day that will make an interesting story. Someday in the future, when I don't live near DC anymore.
This week they installed our hoods. A hood is a device that is supposed to provide you with 30 minutes of breathable air to escape the building in the event of an emergency. They said they would be installing them near the staircases, and the word "install" made me believe it would be a cabinet or shelves. It's a duffel bag. A giant duffel bag, hanging from a yellow rubber-coated hook screwed into the wall, with a little security tag to keep you from messing with it unless it's a real emergency. The tag looks like the break away clip on a treadmill. You know, the flimsy piece of plastic that is supposed to stop the machine so you don't get brush burns and other injuries, when you trip or have a heart attack and land face-first on the treadmill.
The richest national government in the world, the most advanced military, excellent researchers and scientists, and so far they've come up with 30 minutes of breathable air in a duffel bag. Instead of being comforting it is a lurking presence in the hallway, and disturbingly low-tech reminder that we don't have all the answers.
They'll be giving us training to use the hoods soon. Actually, they did one training session already, but I stayed home to have my dog operated on that day. They also did the sheltering-in-place drill that day. That's the drill for just-in-case we can't leave the building. In 16 years of education (three of them in a college dorm), plus one year as an intern with a Fed agency and three years of work in the "real world" all I've ever done is fire drills. Until now.
Orange
They moved us back to orange alert again today. I hate orange alerts. I hate the increased news coverage, the military fly-overs, the "increased terrorism threat" messages displayed on the LED overheads on I-95, the missile mounted humvees... all of it. Most people say they don't notice, or aren't bothered by it anymore. It's true, you adjust to it, and most people don't see a lot of it, but I notice the subtleties. Plus I work in a government building.
I should bring a camera to work one day and get a picture of the hummers in front of the Capitol. Some day that will make an interesting story. Someday in the future, when I don't live near DC anymore.
This week they installed our hoods. A hood is a device that is supposed to provide you with 30 minutes of breathable air to escape the building in the event of an emergency. They said they would be installing them near the staircases, and the word "install" made me believe it would be a cabinet or shelves. It's a duffel bag. A giant duffel bag, hanging from a yellow rubber-coated hook screwed into the wall, with a little security tag to keep you from messing with it unless it's a real emergency. The tag looks like the break away clip on a treadmill. You know, the flimsy piece of plastic that is supposed to stop the machine so you don't get brush burns and other injuries, when you trip or have a heart attack and land face-first on the treadmill.
The richest national government in the world, the most advanced military, excellent researchers and scientists, and so far they've come up with 30 minutes of breathable air in a duffel bag. Instead of being comforting it is a lurking presence in the hallway, and disturbingly low-tech reminder that we don't have all the answers.
They'll be giving us training to use the hoods soon. Actually, they did one training session already, but I stayed home to have my dog operated on that day. They also did the sheltering-in-place drill that day. That's the drill for just-in-case we can't leave the building. In 16 years of education (three of them in a college dorm), plus one year as an intern with a Fed agency and three years of work in the "real world" all I've ever done is fire drills. Until now.
Monday, June 02, 2003
This piece originally written:
10/22/02- am
He’s an older black man, maybe 70, and very thin. All his clothes are dark… green shirt, black pants, and a black, or maybe even dark blue jacket. He is wearing a charcoal gray hat like my grandfather used to wear. I don’t know what they’re called, but I always think of them as golfers hats. The top of the hat snaps to the visor, and it is nearly flat across the top. They're a little bit like a frisbee, with a visor.
The man is poor, the clothes are old, but they’re in good condition, and he doesn’t smell, which is more than I can say for some of the better dressers on the train. He’s clean shaven. His teeth aren’t good. They aren’t really bad either, they’re just not good… warn, crooked, a little yellow. He uses hand motions when he talks.
He’s talking to me because I’m crocheting on the train and he thinks it's a good thing.
“Not enough people do that anymore.”
He asks how long I’ve been crocheting, and I tell him, "Since I was about eight. My grandmother taught me."
He doesn’t have to tell me, clearly he approves, but he says, “that’s so nice.”
“Not enough people do that anymore,” he repeats himself. He’s lucid though, this is nostalgia, not senility.
He asks what it is, and I tell him it’s a Christmas ornament, a bell. He asks if I macramé. I say “Yes,” but it’s almost a lie. I haven’t macraméd anything in about 16 years. I say my mother does it quite a bit, which is closer to the truth, because I think Mom made a plant hanger for my sister two years ago, but really Mom doesn’t macramé much anymore either.
He tells me his wife used to but she can’t anymore, and wiggles his finger in front of him, miming his wife’s fumbling new dexterity. We are both getting off the train. He wishes me a bless-ed day, and I say , “You too,” because the word “bless-ed” sounds funny when I say it.
10/22/02- am
He’s an older black man, maybe 70, and very thin. All his clothes are dark… green shirt, black pants, and a black, or maybe even dark blue jacket. He is wearing a charcoal gray hat like my grandfather used to wear. I don’t know what they’re called, but I always think of them as golfers hats. The top of the hat snaps to the visor, and it is nearly flat across the top. They're a little bit like a frisbee, with a visor.
The man is poor, the clothes are old, but they’re in good condition, and he doesn’t smell, which is more than I can say for some of the better dressers on the train. He’s clean shaven. His teeth aren’t good. They aren’t really bad either, they’re just not good… warn, crooked, a little yellow. He uses hand motions when he talks.
He’s talking to me because I’m crocheting on the train and he thinks it's a good thing.
“Not enough people do that anymore.”
He asks how long I’ve been crocheting, and I tell him, "Since I was about eight. My grandmother taught me."
He doesn’t have to tell me, clearly he approves, but he says, “that’s so nice.”
“Not enough people do that anymore,” he repeats himself. He’s lucid though, this is nostalgia, not senility.
He asks what it is, and I tell him it’s a Christmas ornament, a bell. He asks if I macramé. I say “Yes,” but it’s almost a lie. I haven’t macraméd anything in about 16 years. I say my mother does it quite a bit, which is closer to the truth, because I think Mom made a plant hanger for my sister two years ago, but really Mom doesn’t macramé much anymore either.
He tells me his wife used to but she can’t anymore, and wiggles his finger in front of him, miming his wife’s fumbling new dexterity. We are both getting off the train. He wishes me a bless-ed day, and I say , “You too,” because the word “bless-ed” sounds funny when I say it.
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