Dixieland Delight

The time finally came when my roommate Hunter and his beautiful fiancé Emily tied the knot. While I was incredibly happy for the two of them, I was less than happy about the prospects of losing the roommate (and his superior culinary skills). I was secretly hoping Emily would decide to move into the sunroom-converted-to-Hunter’s-room instead of losing both of them to the state of Tennessee. Apparently my persuasive argument wasn’t as bulletproof as La Roux.

Alas, the beautiful union did give me the chance to explore a part of the Dixieland I had never seen; Memphis. My overall impression of Memphis was that it met my general checklist of requirements for places I could live, to include outstanding barbeque, Beale Street (Memphis’ own Bourbon Street), and a religious edifice at every street corner.

I should have learned from the last wedding I attended not to wait until the week of the wedding to purchase a wedding gift. But, I was fooled yet again into waiting until the wedding week to gift hunt. As the famous saying goes, or so I remember Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me…you can’t get fooled again. Wise but inaccurate. Trying to maximize utility, and feeling a bit overwhelmed about wedding shopping, I outsourced the gift selection process to my friend Remy, whom I know would shop for wedding gifts as a career if someone offered her the job.

She informed me that the only gift in my price range was a $32 Williams-Sonoma Goldtouch Nonstick Meatloaf Pan (which might be able to convincingly double as a banana bread pan). The likely reason for this being available at all was that it was on backorder and would not be available until one week after the wedding. Done.

In addition to the meatloaf pan, Kyle and I got the newlyweds a second gift.

Background: There are a school of angst-filled Mer-maids on our hall that have a skull and cross bones welcome (or not so welcome) mat. Whenever Emily passed this doormat, she made a point to crinkle her nose and stomp on it to demonstrate her disapproval. I too, hold a grudge against the mat, and have been known to take it captive on multiple occasions. My philosophy: If you act like a pirate, be prepared to play like a pirate; a little looting never hurt anyone. Kyle seemingly disagreed, and would within the hour, find my pilferage and return the mat to its proper post.

The Gift: Kyle did some investigative research and found an exact replica of the doormat, except for substitute the skull and crossbones with a smiling yellow face. So Kyle made the purchase, and one unassuming night, we visited the pirates down the hall to make the swap. This is what I would call a win-win situation. Emily will now have a sign to stomp on at her new home, and I now have a friendly face to greet me every day after work. :-{#}

Embassy Row

I often overlook and take for granted the history and beauty of Washington DC. As part of my personal initiative to learn more about the community I live in, I went with a group on an Embassy Row walking tour; what was pitched as a walk to Revel in the architecture along Washington’s grandest boulevard.

The tour began just outside the Dupont Circle metro stop, in a location I am all too familiar, as Dupont Circle is a nightlife hub. Not surprisingly, within two minutes of leaving the Circle, I found myself in a wonderland of beautiful buildings nestled among embassies I have never seen before. I was figuratively, and I suppose literally, in a foreign land.

The tourguide, a petite toady female named Terry with a quirky sense of humor, paraded us down this nouveau-riche thoroughfare, speaking to its heyday and its transformation to the current status as the home to many foreign embassies.

The expression most overused on the walking tour was As you well know. Similarly, the expression that made me most feel like a blockhead was As you well know, because inevitably, I didn’t ever know the bit of knowledge shared in the second part of the sentence. Credit for my favorite expression on the walking tour goes to the late Alice Roosevelt Longworth, who declared If you don’t have anything nice to say, sit next to me.

Interestingly enough, many of these ornate works of architecture made the home-to-embassy transformation during the Great Depression, with the families' fall from riches. Oddly juxtaposed to these stories stood the Greek embassy, or compound as it is known, because of its magnitude. I’m ready to make a down-payment on the Greek embassy. Last I heard, they were in the market for some extra cash.

Blades of Inglorious Bastards

I genuinely am trying to live the life of the normal twenty-something. But being twenty-something with braces sometimes places me in compromising situations that no twenty-something, or any-something should find themselves in. Such was the case the other afternoon when I decided to go for a run through Arlington after a day at the office.

In an attempt to pacify my rumbling stomach, I elected to eat a few pita chips before the run, and then changed into my mesh shorts and moisture-wicking tee. As many metal mouths will attest, it is a common practice to tuck a snack away for later, and I have developed a subconscious habit of rolling my tongue along the outside of my brackets to dislodge these savory morsels. Some call this disgusting, I call it survival.

Well, this subconscious act, not even one block into my run, did not have the usual happy ending. Instead, for lack of better terminology, I found my tongue blade (the membrane that connects the tongue to the bottom of the mouth) hooked onto my lower left bracket. (I’ve since come to learn from Kyle that this is called the lingual frenulum, but I prefer my edgier name; tongue blade).

I had to immediately turn around, unable to retract my tongue into my mouth; instead looking severely challenged. I was drooling uncontrollably, and simply praying not to pass anyone I knew…or anyone I didn’t know for that matter.

Once behind closed doors and in the comfort of my own apartment, I attempted to unhook my tongue, meanwhile using a hand towel to control my slobber, before giving up all hope and upgrading to a drool bucket.

I could compose a florilegium describing the different techniques I used to free my tongue from the brace’s wrath, but to spare the graphic details, suffice it to say, I found myself desperate for assistance and fearful of finding myself in urgent care. I immediately began texting my Mer-friends to enlist their assistance in my mini-emergency. Thankfully, my neighbor Ellen remained composed and was able to decipher my words through my mumbling lisp. She provided me with the exact assistance I needed to separate blade from brace.

Thirty minutes and only a few drops of blood later, my tongue was free from the metallic grasp. Seriously? Seriously. Oh well, live and learn right?

Beam Me Up

As a young professional it is remarkably easy to fall into a weekly routine and succumb to the monotony of the greater American workforce. For a young professional, this means going to work Monday through Friday, keeping up appearances by attending the obligatory happy hours, and throwing back at the same favorite bars on the weekend, where everyone thankfully doesn’t know your name. Fortunately, my Mer-friend Megha ensures that we never fall subject to the constraints of adult life.

Megha took the initiative to plan a group outing to UltraZone, where for $14.95 ($10 with a groupon) we could essentially play endless Laser Tag. I decided to continue my youthful guise and participate. I knew I had made an abhorrent decision as soon as we stepped foot in UltraZone. It was difficult to push through the throngs of Ultra-hyper metal mouths, and the Zone was soaked with the foul stench of puberty. After getting our passes, we were set to battle for bragging rights.

The last time I played Laser Tag I could count my age with my two hands. So to ensure that I was appropriately briefed on the latest laser techniques, and more importantly, understood the rules of engagement, we sat through the requisite instructional video. Three teams, Red, Green, and Blue, would compete in the arena, with only one being victorious. Since Megha had created two teams in advance, we now had the added complexity of fending off a third team of strangers. I’ve chronicled the epic journey through the trilogy of games.

Game 1, The Warm Up: We proceeded to the vesting room. The third team, comprised solely of teenage girls, flocks to the Blue vests. So we divide into our respective Green and Red teams. I spend the first few minutes in the arena getting my bearings, finding myself incessantly under fire. It doesn’t take us long to realize that the entire Blue team ascended the ramp and has assembled a full out poaching fortress, gunning out teams down while protecting themselves behind their altitudinal shield. With around 1 minute to spare, the strategy shifted and I led the Joint Forces up the ramp, reminiscent of the Battle of Bunker Hill (except for unlike the Brits, we failed to secure the high ground by the time the game ended.) The final score wasn’t even close. We got schooled by a bunch of school girls.

Game 2, Domination: With bitter tongues and a desire to win back some of (alright, all of) the pride we sacrificed in Game 1, we decided on an important course of action developed from the lessons learned in Game 1. We would unite. Two teams of us versus one team of them would surely secure a definitive victory. Having forged this alliance, we proceeded to the arena experienced veterans, and emerged as champions. Nothing like beating an outnumbered pack of puberty to boost our egos.

Game 3, ADHD: I apparently still have a short attention span, and two games was enough for my liking. So instead of participating in the third game, I wandered aimlessly through the arena looking for hidden crevices and secret passage ways (hopefully finding a connecting chamber to Narnia to rendezvous with my dear friend Ed.

Something Fishy

I recently went to my family’s beach condo in Dewey Beach with some college friends for a weekend escape. It was an enjoyable weekend; similar to the Zak Brown Band lyric I got my toes in the water, a$$ in the sand, Not a worry in the world, a cold beer in my hand. Life is good today. My toes were all that got in the water because, despite the unusually warm May weather, the water temperature was cold enough to cause hypothermia. And thankfully my rear didn’t end up in the sand, despite my friends’ attempt at digging a crater under my beach towel while I was taking a leisurely stroll.

Anyway, on Saturday evening, at Stuart’s suggestion, we elected to play Fish Bowl (a game involving two teams, and three rounds). After all, we were at the beach, and had many conversations spanning the sea spectrum, from the science of estuaries to the mating patterns of sea horses. Rules are outlined below:

Each player contributes five nouns to a collective “fish bowl”. Each team alternates minutes attempting to get fellow teammates to guess the nouns on the cards. In the first round, the describer can use anything except for the actual noun to describe it. For example, if the noun is immigration, the describer might say Arizona just passed a racist law about it. The second round uses the exact same nouns, but the describer can only use one word. For example, Arizona. The final round is charades, so in this round the actor might point to the can of Arizona iced tea sitting on the coffee table. The winning team is simply the team that accrues the most points over the three rounds. Simple, right?

Well. The past two times I played, the game went as follows. Stuart assigns each individual to a team. My team always ends up being my two loyal friends, Hurley and Rhino. The other team always ends up being EVERYONE ELSE. The first time, the team was literally Hurley, Rhino, and myself versus 10 everyone elses and one Stuart. I cried foul play the entire game but nobody else seemed to care! Obviously my team lost. Well, the second time, I was ready to redeem my damaged pride, sure that with a level playing field, my team would emerge victorious. It turns out the field wasn’t level, my team was charging up an incline the entire time, Stuart standing at the top. So third time’s the charm. I was pleased to humor Stuart, finally wrestling her to her defeat. Shockingly, when the teams were formed, I was on the team of three, Stuart on the team of four. Not surprisingly, my team lost, however, if the score was calculated based on the metric points per team member, my team would have won!

I’m currently petitioning the officials at gamesecretary.com to get the rules changed. I should have known Stuart was up to something fishy as soon as I smelled the sea air.

The Middle East Part 7: Keffi-maybe

My friend Bowman came to Washington for New Years. It was then that he gifted me a keffiyeh in advance of my Middle Eastern adventures. Keffiyehs are a very practical arid climate headdress worm to protect the head from direct sun exposure. I was excited, less so because it was a gift from a distant land but rather because it was one of the few Arabic words I knew.

In anticipation of my trip, I spent some time each evening with my roommates attempting to master the art of keffiyeh tying. Originally, I used Bowman’s written instructions, but soon realized I couldn’t wrap my head around his foreign instructions (or rather wrap it around my head). So I turned to youtube and futilely attempted to use instructional keffiyeh tying videos. When I had exhausted all of my options, I decided that it would be best to learn to tie a keffiyeh while in the Middle East, for authenticity’s sake.

Well, my keffiyeh emerged as soon as I touched down in Jordan. Everyone else, including Val, had this tying mastered. I haven’t felt this uncoordinated since trying to keep up with the clay pottery lesson in elementary school art class. My head looked more like it was balancing a bunched up picnic blanket that sporting a secured keffiyeh.

One evening, our tour master Bowman, took us on a camping adventure with the Bedouins. We went to Wadi Rum, traveling deep into the heart of this beautiful desert. I was Lawrence of Arabia, or at least pretended to be. It was here where I met my Arabic counterpart. I instantly befriended the Bedouin with braces.

Due to the language barrier, I used a translator to inform my new friend that I wanted to take a picture of the two of us with our braces. I’m not sure what was translated; when I saw the pictures when I returned to America, I realized he hadn't smiled. I couldn't see his braces. I had been boondoggled! I guess I can’t complain too much, he did end up fixing my swaddled heap, turning my keffino into a keffiyeh.