Snowmageddon

Having grown up in the Washington DC area, I’ve always had a fond appreciation for snowfall. At an early age, I learned the direct relationship between inches of snow and number of days off from school. But just like a good mathematician, learning the intricacies of differential equations comes with experience and time. As a young professional I am just now learning the impact of an impending blizzard on worker productivity. Empirical evidence indicates that nearly 100% of commerce and roughly 50% of worker productivity is spent in anticipation of the snowstorm.

Of course, the threat of even the slightest flake-falling or flurrying frightens frantic families from facing the fear of famine (V : Vendetta :: F : Frozen vapor) and likely accounts for a 30% surge in daily grocery store revenues, with more extreme surges for staples such as milk, bread, hot chocolate, Aunt Jemima, and Yellow Tail Shiraz. But when the National Weather Service issues a blizzard warning and snowfall predictions are approaching record flakage, a state of emergency is preemptively declared for the inevitable Snowmageddon.

As a consultant, I have the uncharacteristic joy of having two email accounts; one account with my firm and one with my client. Usually the dual account system provides me with a method for keeping my colleagues on their toes; a game of anticipation (to which account will I email? Or receive an email with one and reply with the other). But I have never been more entertained with having two accounts than the day leading up to the historic DC snowpocalypse. Two accounts = double the snowy emails.

I’ve captured the 10 emails I received the day before the snowfall to demonstrate the workforce’s alow and aloft commitment to local weather:

10:19am – Client sends National Weather’s Winter Storm Warning

2:16pm – Client sends Inclement Weather Policy and Guidance

2:26pm – Boss 1 sends Tailored Storm Caution

2:43pm – Client sends Safety Tips for Blizzard

2:56pm – Client sends Updated Inclement Weather Policy and Guidance

3:02pm – Business Assurance Office distributes Updated Winter Storm Warning

3:21pm – Boss 2 emails Tailored Storm Caution

4:15pm – Facilities sends Snow Related Towing Enforcement Notice

4:32pm - Client again sends Updated Inclement Weather Policy and Guidance

5:35pm – Client distributes Gospel; Announces 4-Hour Early Dismissal for Federal Government

I won’t even bother documenting the number of emails I received the day of the storm… (Government at its best: I received three emails alone documenting the hours and offerings of the client’s first floor eatery). The emails were falling so fast the authors didn’t even have time to plow the e-streets before blasting out to the entire office. The ensuing snow forced one victim into sending the revised schedule for the Handicap Stutter Bus…only to then get a follow up email within the hour correcting this to read the Handicap Shuttle Bus.

And to think I made a big deal about the calm before the storm. SnOMG!

David and Goliaths

Again riding the coattails of my roommate, Kyle, I was invited to sit court-side for the melee between two of the worst teams in the NBA; the home-team Washington Wizards taking on the Sacramento Kings. Normally, attending a Washington Wizards game is about as exciting as discovering a penny, the Lincoln Memorial dully shimmering back at you amid a rainbow of motor oil. Combining the abysmal records of the Wizards and Kings with the fact that Gilbert Arenas, the Wizards point guard, was recently suspended for being literally caught with the smoking gun sans smoking, the only redeeming quality was the ability to sit courtside.

For the greater part of the first half, we sat in some of the best seats at the Verizon Center. My perspective as a spectator has always been angled downward toward the action; never before have I been level (or rather below level) finding myself looking up at the athletes…and forget looking at the Jumbotron unless you preemptively took aspirin in anticipation of the oncoming neck strain. Sitting courtside made me appreciate the talent of NBA stars – not everyone can live their life as a giant. While the talent is enough to land them multimillion dollar contracts, watching these leviathans interact with a seemingly doll-sized world made me unremorseful for having neglected to drink my glass of milk with dinner every evening as a child.

Having apparently not gotten exposure to the titans in the Verizon Center, we went to the Wizards Club Lounge during half-time. While sitting at our table nursing Bud Lights and snacking on Nature’s Promise Vegetable Chips, our friend Remy spotted Gheorghe Muresan from across the room. Standing at 7’7”, Remy recognized him from his role in the hit movie My Giant. Not being able to find an escape from the Goliaths, I turned to what I do best in moments of insecurity – rodomontading.

I spent the greater part of the second half expressing to those around me that I would have, in fact, been a professional basketball player had all the stars (and genes) aligned. In a matter of minutes my theory was foiled by Earl Boykins. Standing at an inspiring 5’5” and posting 13 points to secure a Wizards victory, I realized I had to revise my supposition. I’m now using the excuse that I have philosophical differences with the NBA; I am simply a staunch supporter of the 2^nd Amendment.

Broomballer

My Mer-friend Megha recently organized a game of Broomball. Played on an ice-rink, broomball is similar to hockey, substituting sneakers for skates, a miniature kickball for a puck, and plastic brooms for hockey sticks. With the approaching Winter Olympics, I was excited to take my athleticism to the ice.

Although I don’t often socialize my aspiration of being an Olympian (or at least knowing one), it has always been a deep dream of mine. So when the opportunity presented itself to demonstrate my foot skills on the ice, I couldn’t resist.

Just a few weeks prior, some friends and I went skating at the National Gallery of Art’s Sculpture Garden Ice Rink. Along for the ride was our eager first-time skater, Jess. After lacing up and taking to the ice, she hugged the walls while the rest of us tried to teach Figure Skating 101. As the fast learner I know her to be, I had high hopes for Jess, thinking she’d likely master the triple salchow after a few hours on the ice, and would eventually go on to claim gold in Vancouver, and consequently, fulfill my lifelong goal. By the end of the two hour session, a few numb appendages later, I revised my position and am now setting her sights on 2014.

Anyway, another weekend of winter athletics had me yearning to demonstrate my icy instincts. We arrived at the Kettler Capitals Iceplex, most of us novice broomballers, not knowing what to expect. Upon arrival, we took to the ice with our brooms and divided up into our respective teams. $10 and one hour later, we concluded our game in a 2-2 tie, managing to send one girl to the Emergency Room (whoops). I'll admit, I left the ice feeling pretty smug; after all, I only fell once and thought I was pretty broomballer. But even with only one fall, I still spent the following week recovering from the innumerable bruises that had my body resembling a spotted leopard. I now have a greater respect for Jesus; we attempted to simplify the miracle by walking on frozen water, and even that proved to be near impossible.

I guess if I’m ever going to have a shot at landing in the winter Olympics, I’m going to have to get a pied-a-terre in Whislter. It’s either that or seriously take up curling.

Synsepalum Dulcificum

On the second Friday of every month, EFN Lounge draws an eclectic crowd assembling for a common cause; synsepalum dulcificum. Commonly known as trippy fruit, this West African berry contains a glycoprotein molecule that binds to the tongue causing acidic and sour foods to taste sweet. My friend Mimi organized a group adventure, and frankly, I couldn't pass up this science experiment.

Usually I am not one to like surprises, particularly when it comes to edibles. I much prefer to know the taste and texture of my nourishment so I can preemptively send an expectation based on my other senses to my brain. Any dissonance caused by the inaccuracy of my signaled expectation results in a mental eruption to rival Vesuvius. But this idea, while unsettling, was still worthy enough of wasting a Friday evening in pursuit of sweet-toothed happiness.

Like all good scientists, I’ve documented my observations:

1. Set Up: The instruction manual for eating the berry such that you maximize its impact was too long. The whole production paralleled my middle school years spent attempting to master the art of tying maraschino cherry stems into knots with my tongue. And much like middle school, things fell apart in the execution. Somewhere between rolling the berry on my tongue, removing the skin with my teeth, trying to determine which pieces of the berry you’re supposed to eat, which pieces your supposed to dispose of, my mind received the common command: information overload, power down.

2. Experiment: The buffet of consumables at EFN Lounge included a variety of citrus fruits and unsettling beverages (vinegar, Tabasco sauce, soy sauce, etc.). I quickly filled my plate and whet my palate. While one New York Times report indicated that berry trippers became literally like wild animals, tearing apart everything on the table, I went for the more civilized approach, starting with something simple (lime wedge) and working my way up to the big ticket items (shot of vinegar). Overall, I found EFN’s website to be misleading. EFN indicated that lemon wedges become candy canes, hot sauce becomes donut glaze, goat cheese becomes cheesecake. My taste buds had a different experience – lemons tasted like lemonade, limes tasted like limeade, vinegar tasted like…vinegar. My conclusion: I either got lost in the how to or I got a placebo (my money is on the former) See 1. Set Up.

3. Effects: It is important to remember that the berry’s impact is limited to the taste bud. While to some, Tabasco sauce tasted like sugar water (let’s come clean, nobody thought hot sauce became donut glaze), there was no deceiving the rest of the digestive tract, beginning with the burning sensation in the back of the throat.

4. Conclusion: If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops, and if all the snowflakes were candy bars and milkshakes, I’d (a) not be standing outside with my mouth open wide and (b) have to guess Synsepalum Dulcificum was responsible.

Government, Where Art Thou?

A few months back, I made the big leap in the world of government contracting – actually moving to the client site. Maybe I’m just using this logic as justification for me sitting in my window office back at my firm’s tertiary campus, but the company usually incubates the recent college graduates grooming the malnourished, providing us with enough Kool-Aid to create a horde of myrmidons and loyally espouse the firm’s values. Well, with this exciting change, I got a first-hand glimpse into the workings of our federal government.

First up, Building Access: In order to obtain the building access card, I needed to report to the third floor and present two forms of government issued identification, one of which must be a photo ID. There was only one problem. In order to get to the third floor of the building, I had to first get through Security in the lobby; signing in as a visitor vice pulling off Mission Impossible IV. As a visitor, Security gives you a visitor badge in exchange for one government issued photo ID. Catch-22. Now that I am inside the building, I no longer have the necessary government issued identification to show to the third-floor building access card folks. Obama, you lie. You told me I only needed one photo ID. I needed two. That’s socialism if I’ve ever seen it.

Once I finally received building access it was time to gain network access: When registering for my online government account, I was prompted to answer a security question in the event that I forgot my password. Standard procedure, right? Think again, it’s the federal government. What is your favorite dog name? Please select from the following: Bella, Coco, Ginger, Poppy, Shannon, Bandit, Dallas, Jack, Prince, Spike, Boomer, Freckles, Holly, Princess, Tawny, Chico, Fluffy, Otis, Scout, and Wags. My stream of conscience:

A. WTF?

B. Bella was probably included so this question could meet certain anti-discrimination policies now that Twilight has given vampires equal rights.

C. Who has ever known a dog that responded to any of those names?

D. Even if I select my favorite dog name now…what are the odds that I’ll be able to successfully select the same favorite dog name the next time I’m faced answering this question?

E. What was wrong with What is your mother’s maiden name? I guess this discriminates against orphans?

F. How about In what city were you born? This question must be equal opportunity – everyone was born somewhere.

Disclaimer: This isn’t a complaint. It’s just that I’ve always been told to think critically and ask questions, no, not questions like What is your favorite dog name?

The Apocalypse

I have had my New Years plans set in stone since the summer, ever since my friend Katie Appel announced she was going to host a party. And with such advance, a great assortment of personalities gradually made DC this year’s New Years Mecca. With a converging of characters to rival Knights of the Round Table, I was expecting nothing short of an epic week (although not anticipating many heroic deeds).

And the week lived up to it’s expectations. The entire week blurred together as I caught up with friends from foreign lands and become good friends with former acquaintances; a mosaic of merrymaking and snapshots (and shots sans snap). With this assembly, I was all but certain that the Apocalypse would occur the moment the clocks chimed midnight.

A few superlatives:

Biggest blunder: Our good friend Chelsey Jones, whom I dearly adore, is really good at (a) opening her mouth and (b) talking to strangers. So it made complete sense when she befriended Alex Plank on the metro en route to our New Years Eve jamboree and invited him along. So when he agreed to come, the evening was spent in addled trepidation, everyone making certain to look both left and right before moving across the dance floor (which can be pretty challenging while dancing the Cupid Shuffle). By midmorning, and one Facebook friendship confirmation later, we came to find that Alex Plank runs WrongPlanet.net, a popular community for individuals with Asperger’s Syndrome and Autism…You can only imagine the self-reproach and compunction that filled the apartment after some of the comments made. Woof.

Biggest prank: My funny friends think they are full of wit and always know how to pull a fast one on me. Over the course of the week, I found myself swindled on many occasions, from the larger task of saran wrapping my apartment while I was at the grocery store paying for their sustenance, to more minor infractions, like changing the time on my clocks, to taking liberties in redecorating the Christmas tree. Alas, the ultimate winner goes to mother nature. A mere hours after the stragglers filtered out, I opened the front door to find a fervent river flowing down the hall in our direction. I immediately retreated, panicked, near hysterics, as I senselessly started stacking my precious personal property (valued at circa not much and what property?). As it turns out, due to the devesatingly low temperatures and wind chill, the pipe burst in our neighbors apartment, and within a matter of minutes, we were rocking our rain boots, trekking through our uninhabitable swampland. Mother nature, you thought you had me, but thankfully I asked for new galoshes for Christmas!

In the end (or apparently not, since I’m still here and the Apocalypse has yet to bring a tragic end to this romance), I’ve decided to retroactively enact a New Years Resolution: Buy Renter’s Insurance.

Buddy the Elf, What's Your Favorite Color?

Civic engagement can come in an abundance of forms. This Christmas, instead of phoning our Senator urging the passage of health care, a few respectful citizens and I took up an equally important cause, Elfing. The local chapter of the Jaycees raises funds by charging patrons a nominal fee to get their picture taken with Santa at the Ballston Commons, a futile attempt to coalesce enough trinket shops to earn the stature of mall. In order to make this cost-effective, they rely on a well-mobilized volunteer force (enter Elves).

So Valerie and I donned our sprite-like attire, Elfed in everything except the pointed leaf-shaped ears. Remy and Megha got into a tussle over who would go as Mrs. Claus, and compromised in the end. They both went as Mrs. Claus. I thought Santa had higher morals than this, or maybe he’s just a fundamental Mormon at heart.

From my limited exposure braving the onslaught of candy-cane-eating children (ergogenics at its best), I have successfully categorized all Santa-see-ers into the following three categories:

The Eager Beavers: These rambunctious firecrackers have been waiting since becoming zygotes to sit on Santa Claus’ lap. Their list of holiday hankerings exceeds the allotted Santa-time, and their faces radiate gingersnaps and sugar plums. They often return every five minutes to make sure Santa’s still there and shout out an additional gift idea or two.

The Fake Outs: Synonyms for this genre include little rascals and jackanapes. From the hundred yard line, they scream for Santa, but something sets them off right outside the end zone and the fury is unleashed. Maybe it’s just cold feet, or maybe Santa’s beard is more scraggly than they remembered, but whatever the cause, the consequence is always the same; Tears. If I hadn’t received a decent education, I would have guessed the Trail of Tears was actually the spot from Santa’s lap to the nearest mall exit.

The Dazed and Confused: This group of children is either (a) star struck and speechless (b) too young to know who Santa is or (c) asleep. No matter, they are the easiest category to corral for a picture.

By the end of my shift, I also came to realize that there was a category in a class of its own:

You’re Too Old to Sit On Santa’s Lap: The outcome of paralyzing Santa from the waist down has negative externalities for us all. A handicapped Santa certainly can’t shimmy down the chimney to deliver presents to all the eager beavers, fake outs, and dazed and confused.