Scope it Out

The other night, we ordered Chinese food.  My fortune cookie declared “You like challenges.”  I was disappointed because 1. This is not a fortune, it is a statement. 2. This is a false statement.  Over the past few months, I have submitted to the hebetude that accompanies the winter months.

Embracing the arrival of spring, I signed up for the Scope it Out 5K. Appropriately titled, the Scope it Out 5K benefits colorectal cancer research and awareness.

After a weekend that included wine tasting, eyeing the big screen, and some birthday shenanigans, I thought this 5K would aptly compliment my unproductive weekend.  Still recovering from a cold, I threw on my Under Armour mesh gear and jumped on the Metro. Destination Freedom Square, Federal Triangle.

Three observations that told me I was not at the zenith of my affinity for challenges:

1.    About 10 minutes into the race, the race’s frontrunners had already circled around and were passing me on their way toward the home stretch. Adiyot Endale, the ultimate winner, finished with a time of 14:34.

2.     My dream of being the victor shattered, I devised a more obtainable goal. To beat the two prepubescent girls ahead of me.  I succeeded, but not without mentally amending my fortune to read “You like challenges if you know you can win.”

3.  In the end, when the results were posted, I was excited to see that I finished right in the middle of the pack for my division (Males 20-24).  Scrolling down, I realized that half of the people that finished behind me opted for the walking portion of the run/walk.

Upon returning home, I took some Nyquil and went back to bed. At 2pm I was confusedly awakened by Megha’s phone call.  Megha had just gone on a date, simply described as horrid, and in order to avoid being escorted home, had fabricated a lie.  She had to meet one of her roommates at Barnes & Noble.  Not to worry, apparently Mr. Horrid had to do some book shopping anyway (read: Wanting to catch her tangled in her web of lies, Mr. Horrid eyed Megha from the Non-Fiction section waiting to see if she was being truthful).  Caught in her charade, she turned to me.

Channeling my newly publicized running skills, and some of Adiyot Endale’s, I embarked on the 15 minute run to Barnes & Nobel. Using proper breathing techniques, high knees, and a focused commitment on my end goal, I successfully navigated the streets of Arlington.  Nothing like a damsel in distress to remind me that maybe I really do like challenges after all.

If You Seek Amy

Timeline:

1884: The Ringling Brothers Circus drew its first crowd.

1919: The Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey merged.

1989: I attended the Greatest Show on Earth. This is, in fact, false advertising. I alone have attended many a show more effervescent and enchanting, and would posit that Britney's Circus makes these Brothers appear lackluster.

2009: I returned to the circus, Ringling Brothers' production of Over the Top.

When my friend Allie sent an email asking if anyone would go to the circus, I committed without hesitation.  Let the show begin.

The Verizon Center had a distinguished scent of baby powder, and the soundtrack of My Little Pony playing throughout. The audience was 49.5% Children, 49.5% Parents, 1% Other. I tried rationalizing my inclusion in the Children category, but feel that unfortunately I probably fell in the Other category.  One child in particular proved to be less engaged in the circus and more engaged with her flashing sparkle spinner and consequently, nearly gave me an epileptic seizure.

But in the end, after all of the fanfare, the elephants, the trapeze artists, the rebel riders, the tigers, what did I take away from the circus?  Lesson learned: I went into the wrong profession.  I should have been a Ringleader. After all, my life is a circus. And it is definitely Over the Top.

Crazy Eights

I haven’t felt this nauseous since I was five; that time my mother dressed me up in a Ralph Lauren cotton cable vest and chinos and entered me in a fashion show at the Fair Oaks Mall, instructed me to socialize with the other child models (the term child soldier had not yet been coined) and parade down a runway in front of hundreds of gawking parents. In the end, I could not summon the strength or courage to participate.

About a month ago, I went to the dentist for an elementary procedure, a relatively small and simple cavity filling.  What the vulpine dentist forgot to mention was that OPEC had  commissioned him to drill for oil, and my lower left molar looked more promising than anything he had seen of late. Eight shots of Novocain later my entire face was numb…with the exception, of course, of my lower left molar.  After a handful of drilling attempts, and coming up dry each time, we wrote the day off and scheduled a new appointment.  Eight hours later, I finally began to regain control of my muscles, the pain settling in for a long winter’s nap.  But I think I was less concerned about the pain than I was with having stand up to public scrutiny in my office all day.

So today I was nauseous. I returned to the dentist, stomach aflutter with the lucid memory of my last visit, to settle some unfinished business.  Oddly enough, my friend Megha was also getting a cavity filled.  The two of us had previously set up a double date, dinner and a movie, with Clive Owen and Naomi Watts.  I had visions of the two of us gallivanting around Arlington, drooling on each other and mumbling with our slurred speech.  The heartfelt onlooker would have smiled at the “special” couple on a date.  But the second trip sealed the deal, and all the puzzle pieces fit together perfectly.  Eight minutes later I, along with my phobia of oral hygienists, was out the door.

Cake in the Time of Cholera

Google Maps recommended 12 minutes; I gave myself 30, after all, I was only traveling two miles down Route 66, Exit 71 to Exit 69.  But as I barreled down the on-ramp, the VDOT sign read “Expect Delays Exit 71 to 69.” Seriously?

Meanwhile, my friend Lisa stood in the vestibule of Columbia Baptist Church, embarrassingly awaiting my arrival.  The ushers went from wondering when I would be arriving to wondering if I would be arriving.  Lisa spotted me, tattered and torn, sprinting through the parking lot, hurtling over shrubs, just as the ushers were asking her if she would rather wait until after the formal seating of the wedding party.  So you could look at it in two ways.  I was either the absolute last person to arrive at the wedding, or the first person to proceed in with the wedding party…I have always been the optimist.  And all of this for a ceremony that was over in under 22 minutes!

Knowing only the bride and each other, we honed in on the open bar immediately upon arriving at the reception, like two honey bees flocking to the smell of sweet nectar.  After a cocktail and some bacon encrusted scallions, we settled in at our table.

What we learned about our new acquaintances during dinner at our table for seven (eight if you include the fetus Jill brought along with her):

Mary-Anna: A walking contradiction, she wore an engagement ring, but was not, in fact, engaged.  Deceit?

Justin and Laura: Recent graduates of CNU and happily married for as long as I have been working.  Gender roles are a hit in this household.  Before they were engaged, Justin dined on refined Voila! frozen dinners but now he thankfully has Laura to cook for him.

Jill and Oran: My personal favorites.  Also recent college graduates and happily married.  Jill has been married and pregnant for as long as I have been working.  Shotgun wedding?  After their wedding reception, Jill thought it prudent to open every wedding gift because she couldn’t handle the suspense.  (I wanted to inform her that she could have saved her and her husband a lot of time if she just looked at her registry).  After opening all of their presents, they were hungry and went to get late night food at Chili’s.  If Chili’s took priority over consummation on night one of their marriage, I couldn’t help but wonder WTF?

My conlusion: We may be the same age, but we are not on the same page.

After a fine helping of filet and jumbo shrimp served with savory mashed potatoes and grilled vegetables , Lisa and I excused ourselves before cake to use the restrooms.  On our return trip to the table, five minutes later, we crossed with Mary-Anna, donning her jacket and purse, making an escape toward the door.  She informed us that she was heading out, and that we would have the table all to ourselves.  (Read: She wished we had taken six minutes instead of five to permit a smooth get-away. She wasn't as fast as Justin and Luara, Orin and Jill, who had already exited stage left)  How discourteous.  At least they could have stayed for the cake.

Looking on the bright side, when the cake was served at our table, Lisa and I each got three slices.

Santa's Bible

About six weeks ago, I moved into the Meridian with two other guys, Kyle and Bobby.  Our apartment is everything a recent college graduate could ask for.  It leaves nostalgia at the door and exudes all the vibes of college; loud music, friends to frolic with any night of the week, the smell of wine and cheap perfume. It is also the birthplace of the story that has become known as the Santa Bible.

Week 1: This story commenced the day Kyle and I move in.  We each spend most of the day unloading boxes and arranging furniture in our respective rooms, trying to get them habitable.  Going to grab a glass of water, I notice the Santa Biblia sitting on the counter.  I was surprised to find the Santa Biblia because I 1) didn’t know Kyle spoke Spanish and 2) didn’t know that Kyle was incredibly religious.  Within our circle of friends, Kyle has always been known as Liberal Kyle.  I’m not saying that liberals can’t be religious, it’s just that I had never heard him speak of his faith before.

Week 2: I’m hanging out at our apartment with a friend. Since the Santa Biblia is still on prominent display, she immediately noticed and inquired.  So, of course, I told her that the Bible belonged to Kyle.

Week 3-4:  As is often true of the good word, it  travels fast.   Almost as fast as Chris Brown’s fall from grace.  Over the next few weeks, Kyle found himself answering a flurry of religious questions. In preparation for Lent, our friend Remy asked Kyle what he recommends giving up.  Although unsolicited, I eagerly suggested something simple, like giving up cleaning the dishes. Nobody cared what I thought, because word of mouth had effectively canonized Kyle.

Week 5: Come to find out, Kyle found the Santa Biblia in one of our kitchen drawers on move in day.  The onslaught of religious questions never queued Kyle, and, conversely, his often blasphemous answers, while perplexing, didn’t reveal the truth of the Santa Bible.  Having laughed at our collective presumption, we continue to introduce him to others as the most religious and devout of the group.

As for the Santa Biblia, it has become the cornerstone of our apartment. We prominently displayed it at our housewarming.  More recently, we had friends over and accidentally left a bag of ice on the counter.  The poor Santa Biblia had to suffer through the great deluge twice, and spent the next week drying out.  Our Santa Biblia has become an icon.  Who knew when we moved into the Meridian that we would get such a cool amenity! And while that is the end of the Santa Bible story, I really think our time with the Santa Biblia is just beginning.

1700 H Street

About a month ago I received an email from McIntire inviting its young alumni to a series known as “Commerce City Circles.” The event was to be hosted by three McIntire grads at the Metropolitan Club located at 1700 H Street in Northwest DC.  The only bolded phrase of the invitation was the discussion topic; the state of the finance industry, certainly a riveting topic and one that has no dearth of issues to discuss, avenues to pursue, and apparently one that has no solutions to resolve its current quandary.   

When I read the invitation, however, I saw the hieroglyphics between the lines; cocktails, passed hors d’oeuvres, free dinner, open bar. So I immediately signed up and forwarded the invitation to many of my McIntire classmates encouraging them to attend. 

Fast-forward. We arrive at the Metropolitan Club promptly at 7pm, having spotted the flag carrying the club’s insignia from across the street.  The elevator, probably constructed in the early 1900s resembled a claustrophobe’s nightmare, Houdini’s dream.  Arriving in the atrium on the top floor (the 4^th floor), we were escorted to an intimate back room, already alive with grandiosity and ostentation,  designed for no more than 30 individuals.

 I’ll prematurely declare the affair a huge success.  In order to recreate, the recipe is below.

1/3 friends I recruited from the Class of 2008

1/3 unemployed or looking

1/3 moving objects to be maneuvered around on your way to the bar.

Directions: Throw on a coat and tie for gentlemen, commensurate attire for ladies, and call it a night.

The winners: Me.  Nothing like dinner and drinks with your friends.

The losers: The unemployed.  Certainly attending with grandiose plans of networking to find employment, this group fell short of reaching their goal.  When looking for a job, the best people to network with are apparently not the fellow unemployed or graduates of the Class of 2008.  Hoo knew?

Kibibi

At 1:45pm on January 10, 2009, Mandara, a western lowland gorilla, gave birth.  So to make sure we didn’t miss out on our chance to see the gollum-like baby, some friends and I took a trip to the National Zoo this Saturday.  I have not been to the zoo since the age of imaginary friends.  As you can imagine, or no longer can, I was greatly anticipating the visit, and hoped I would get the chance to cuddle with the pandas (no, not the chimps).

Here are my two observations from a few short hours at the zoo.

1. It’s every man for himself.  Children resort to barbarian tactics when trying to sneak a peak at a mammal.  Children are at a serious advantage because it is still socially acceptable for them to push you out of the way to get a better view themselves.  I thought about fighting back using their tactics, but thought that might not sit well with some of the parents.  And while trying to get a front row view of the caged creature, you better make sure you are keeping an eye on the kids around you.  I witnessed a child elbow-deep in some lady’s purse, while she was fixated on the baby
gorilla.  He smiled up at me as if to say, “I was only scavenging for some floss.”

2. If you want to see the gorillas, wait until they are outside.  The Great Ape House has the stench of decaying flesh wrapped in feces. The rest of the zoo exuded the aroma of fresh lilacs with a touch of honey compared to the Great Ape House.  I had to tap out to prevent myself from falling out of consciousness.  And the volume of people trying to view the baby gorilla made it unbearably hot.  I guess when the economy takes a turn for the worst, people flock to free entertainment: going to the zoo to watch the baby gorilla breast feed….

So the baby gorilla has been hanging around town for two months now, and it still doesn’t have a name.  I voted for Kibibi in the National Zoo’s naming contest.  It means “little lady”.  I mainly voted for Kibibi in the hopes that, and with a fair amount of certainty that, one day she outgrows her name and will no longer be a little lady. Meta.

Splatter Screens and Soda Shooters

One day I expect to have perfected the art of weddings much like Owen Wilson and Vince Vaugh demonstrated, but for now I’m working on just meeting the minimum requirements, such as bringing a gift and showing up (which may be harder than it appears….I accidentally missed my cousin’s wedding because I opted to stay an extra day at beach week and poorly calculated the amount of time it  would take me to drive from Myrtle Beach to New Jersey…I made it back just in time for the reception). So I am putting my ability to the test this week.  On Saturday I will be attending the union of Katie Sparks and Timothy Wacek – my first friend’s wedding.

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not that I’m a novice wedding-goer.  I have attended plenty of weddings in the past.  But in all previous weddings, I have been cast as the lazy child who let’s his parents handle the wedding preparations. Attending a friend’s wedding brings its pros and cons. Pro: I won’t be subjected to dancing the polka with my Aunt Dot.  Con: I’m obliged to find the idyllic cutlery or home décor that will forever symbolize my joy with the couple’s union until death do they part.

So I decided to tackle the gift buying first.  I searched the online registry at Bed Bath & Beyond and settled on a nice four piece place setting, inclusive of dinner and salad plates, a cereal bowl and sizable mug.  And, not having the nerves to go it alone, I convinced my friend Megha to join me.

When we arrived at the Pentagon City Bed Bath & Beyond, we found our way to the registry area.  The kind lady asked us if we wanted to register.  How thoughtful…Megha and I getting married?  If only she knew.  Although, looking back on it, I’m not morally opposed to the idea. After seeing all the free stuff you can get, I’m planning on registering for everything. For the next party we host, I think we’ll register.  In addition to the normal locations, we’ll register with the ABC, and call it an open bar party.

Anyway, she printed off the registry and indicated that just about nothing was available for purchase in store; almost everything remaining (including my four piece place setting) could be ordered online.  Of course, because I procrastinated, there was also no way to guarantee that the order would arrive in time for the wedding.  And I certainly didn’t want to go one for two on my self-imposed wedding requirements.  So that left me with scooping up some of the handy trinkets (read: gifts nobody else had snatched up yet because they were, in fact, utterly worthless) available for in-store purchase.  Among the top contenders were splatter screens, a deluxe ironing board cover, a bamboo cotton swab jar, and a soda shooter.  After much discussion, I settled on a set of  ambrosia placemats and napkins in combination with a glass sauce bowl with ladle.  The picture on the ladle box indicated that the owner might find utility in serving peach punch from the glass sauce bowl, however the on-site display clearly disproved this as false advertising.

Hey, at least I didn’t have to resort to the splatter screen or soda shooter.

College: The Aftermath

Call me unpolished, but my memory often eludes me.  The logic is simple.  Everything I want to remember I forget.  The important is crowded out by the inconsequential.  I can still tell you that Chester A. Arthur owned 86 pairs of pants, a piece of trivia from my 11^th grade US History class, but really, of what value is that to me?  So ultimately, I just wanted a place for an amalgam of memories that I would otherwise forget. 

And so it begins.  Chapter 23. My life, through trial and error.  True Life: I’m a Consultant.