My Forearm Goes National

Oh yeah it does. Story of my life.

Perspective

Awaits you here.

I Misplaced My Words

"Know something, Sugar? Stories only happen to people who can tell them"
Allan Gurganus

So when did I become someone who couldn't? Where lurks my former knack for relating the absurd, the mundane, or the simple encounters of life to my 'this could only happen to me' sense of self?

I went to a meeting at the White House last week (fine, fine – the Eisenhower Executive Office Building). I had every intention of writing about it, similar to the prose-ESP I feel before going into many experiences I've then written about. But in the hours and days following my occupation of the most famous home (or the building next door…whatever) in DC, I had zero impetus to give words to the experience.

I thought that I would be able to. In anticipation of the meeting, I planned on using the White House (or, EEOB) bathroom and stealing anything that wasn't affixed to the countertop or walls, or wouldn't fit in my purse (or down my pants). Just before the 3:00 pm meeting, I waited for the White House Liaison to the Jewish Community (younger than me) - the other half of my meeting - in a room where walls were adorned (tainted) with photos of President Bush. President Bush exiting Air Force One. President Bush in a pick-up truck with his dog. President Bush mid stupid sentences, standing behind a podium.

It wouldn't have been far-fetched to think that after returning my bar-code ID tag and exiting the highly secure residence, I'd start writing the post (with aforementioned writing blocks) in my pocket-sized pink-n-brown floral notepad (which matches my stu-stu-studio) that I always carry with me, jotting down ideas and opening lines on the metro ride home. More than thinking it possible, I hoped that I would be able to memorialize my immersion in government, as my musings here are dwindling in frequency with no conscious effort on the part of the muser (me, me, and me). I don't know why my muse is running dry. Is this writer's block? Is it me no longer needing a blog-shaped outlet? Well, my 14 ½ readers, I can't focus in on the root of the trend of blank pages.

Maybe the would-be muse failed to reach fruition because I didn't get to go to the bathroom and, more importantly, steal a souvenir. I'm just not sure - Story of my life.

Just Call Me Handy

When your world seems dull and you feel like everyone is having more fun than you are, try hand modeling. It revved up my confidence. It made me feel needed. It sent my heart beating a little faster than usual. It caused me to wake up the next morning with a stiff shoulder. Case in point -

When I asked the wine and food author/critic (whose entire body got to remain in the frame) about his opinion of DC’s food scene, I desperately tried to channel the message, “Take me with you. Perhaps I, too, can dine for free. Let me be your wingman.”

After the photo shoot, I tasted the wine with my modeling hand. I noted that it tasted like juice. “Can I smell it?” asked the wine connoisseur. Watch expertise in action -

Later in the day, I requested him as a friend on Facebook. Then I felt slightly desperate. Story of my life.

My Happy Stchick

I exited Whole Foods with my usual supply of variety foods from the ready food case (because I can’t cook), and saw some activity on the sidewalk in front of the store. A table hosting chocolate covered strawberries, iced coffee, and popcorn for sale, and then a grill off to the side.

Corn on the cob roasted on the grill. I walked past the grill, admired the veggies taking residency upon it, and then continued toward the end of the street. And then turned back. I like corn. Corn on a stick? Love it.

Back at the grill, I pulled out a dollar (bargainnnnn) and said, “One please.” I noticed the chef (in my eyes he was) painting the corn with some kind of sauce.

“What kind of sauce is that?”

“Coconut cream.”

And then I thought, what a wonderful world.

I walked blissfully to the metro with a corn on the cob on a stick in my hand and a yoga mat slung on my right shoulder – story of my life.

No Big Red Heart for NY Transportation

Needing a taxi from Mid-town to Brooklyn, I told the first taxi driver who stopped that I had the address and the cross-street. He asked if I knew how to get there?

“No.”

Out the taxi I go. Story of my life.

Needing a taxi from Mid-town to Brooklyn, I told the second taxi driver who stopped that I had the address and the cross-street. He asked if I knew how to get there?

I learned my lesson the first time, so standing on the sidewalk, I told the driver through the passenger window, “No.”

On the sidewalk I remained.

Needing a taxi from Mid-town to Brooklyn, I told the third taxi driver who stopped that I had the address and the cross-street. He asked if I knew how to get there?

I learned my lesson the second time, so I told the driver matter-of-factly, “Yes.” In the taxi I went.

Once we made it across the bridge, he asked me which way to go.

“Roll down your window and ask that guy on the sidewalk.”

Thirsty?

For another story of my life? Read this.