Good morning, Bethesda!

Fairly attractive brunette, late 20s/early 30s, sits down right next to a senior citizen, takes the window seat, proceeds to fidget with her smart phone. She reminds me a little of the Brit on the HBO series Girls. 

After a few minutes, the guy next to me straightens perceptibly.  Both of us are observing her sexting from different vantage points; he gets a clearer view from looking over her shoulder, while I get a more distorted rendition from the images reflected on the window pane she and I share.

OMG! WTH!  She just sent a naked picture of herself to some guy. It appears that she wants the favor reciprocated. My seatmate and I share an embarrassed moment but not enough to desist. After a few more explicit sexts, she checks her Facebook and then logs on to a popular singles dating site, where she proceeds to flirt unabashedly. All this and not even 8 am yet.  Here comes my stop and the next batch of voyeurs.

V Day

I hate that I hate what Valentine's Day has become.  Being asked what I got, what I’m getting, how I am celebrating is grating on my nerves.  It's almost better to play the coy and secretive card, because my love life is being judged by the degree of pomp and circumstance surrounding this most auspicious demi-holiday, which according to the New York Times is the 2^nd most celebrated day after New Year’s.  Honestly, one cannot help but react to the public outpouring of sentiment and get-togethers that people are planning or doing to celebrate V day.  It’s everywhere!  Billboards, TV, Facebook!  And I don’t think I am alone in the observation that exhibitionism is so much more rampant in social media during Valentine’s than any other occasion.  From bling to kinky underwear, the point is to remember not to compare what one got or not!  Then there’s the influx of people (mostly women) who never talk to you all year long and now are interested in spilling their V day bits.  It’s an outright skill to juggle “Ohhh, how romantic!” “That’s nice,” “The day isn’t over yet” or  “Christmas was good, right?”  The pressure!  Over the years I have reconciled myself to the fact the only way to survive V day (or any gift-giving holiday for that matter) is to keep one’s expectations at bay and even more important, to contain one’s disappointment at a manageable level.  Valentines, after all,  should not be exclusive to significant others, but open to family, friends, pets and whatnots.  As with any special occasion, it’s the thought and the sincerity of the effort that outweighs any material substitutions.  Special days are set aside each year to organize people who are not so inclined to daily or regular demonstrations of affection. Even with these reminders, there are no guarantees.  The bottom line – love your own self first.  If you want something bad enough, get it or do it yourself.  If you want others to get it/do it for you, give them specific instructions.  And to those who did take the time to remember you, don’t judge their care by the size of their package.  Revel in the fact that somebody cares. 

An Allergic Reaction



White House Bowling Shoes



It’s quite common to observe metrophiles having a visible and sometimes audible display of dismay when entering a packed car full of kids being escorted on a field trip to the Capitol.  The reactions vary according to the grade levels.  This morning, it was all about 10^th graders. 

I wouldn’t say it was all bad.  I was lucky enough to occupy the last seat at the end of the car, near the door, facing another set of the usual suspects on their way to work.  From the looks of them, they have been saturated with incessant babble for quite a while.

Unfortunately, I forgot my ear buds.  But I did have a loaner to read and was confident that I could drown out the ambient noise of the rails grinding and sloshing the car about; and the deafening conversation of three affluent looking teenage girls who were trying to one up each other.

I almost succeeded.  I was at an interesting juncture in my book.  If only I had not rubbed my eyes and looked up.  There, sitting directly across from me was a doe-eyed African American girl in her work uniform, who looked like she was not any older than the three chatterboxes blocking the doors and balancing themselves on fancy pedicures and Patagonia sandals.  She was clutching her tiny purse on top of her huge belly, fidgeting in her seat trying to get more comfortable. 

Intermittently biting the corners of her mouth, my pregnant protagonist listened intently to the lanky blond aggrandizing her academic achievements to the equally lanky Indian girl and her shorter African American sidekick.  History is my passion, the blonde blurts out…I got a 200  in my PSATs….Well, I’m getting a 99.8 in my AP Chemistry, the Indian girl replies…and I’m all set to take a double period Honors Calculus class with Mr. so and so next semester …., said the sidekick.  On and on it went, from La Crosse meets to a Costa Rican summer of Biology.  Preggers soaks it all in.  I wonder what she is thinking about.

It’s not about race.  It’s all about economics.  Damn it!  I lost interest in my book. 

Valley of the Dolls





Like, I'm so sure. I was picking up peeps from the slug line.  Totally forgot my sunglasses. Duh. Didn’t see my roommate til I was pulling out.  Yikes!  He was like, mad, and sent me a nasty text.  What-ever!  Anyhow, I was like, late to work and I missed my glasses….Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah….

I just spent fifteen minutes of my precious life sharing pole space with a 20 something year old woman who hurled incessant drivel towards another 20 something year old guy at least 5 passengers away. At first glance she looked innocuous enough, even cute, until she opened her mouth.  Is this really what at least $100K worth of education paid for?  Have mercy on us all, for sure! 

Oohlala!

What comes to mind when I look at Caravaggio’s Fruit on a Stone Ledge?  Scrumptious, tempting, dark, inviting, succulent, mouthwatering, enticing, exotic, elusive, rotund, curvy, pointy, dimply, soft, firm,  earthy, vibrant, delectable --- I can go on and on. 

A friend of mine requested that I write a tribute to DC derrieres – those ubiquitous wonders that he cannot help but admire every time he is fortunate enough to share public transportation with the womenfolk of this great metropolis.  He is quite a connoisseur, he claims, and just relishes those moments when he can exercise his right to “look but not touch.” 

Well then, here’s to you my friend.  Caravaggio’s masterpiece says it all!

There’s something in the water….

Is it me?  Or is the DC Metro population experiencing the fruits of last winter’s snowmageddon labors?  There are pregnant ladies everywhere!  And we are not only talking about youngsters, but many veteran and prime females as well.  For the most part, the summer has been hellish.  It’s bad enough to rub body parts on a single body load; one can only imagine with a double, triple and beyond.  Heaven forbid when the metro is packed.  The poor things look so miserable.  Occasionally, there have been gallant individuals on board who would give up their seats.  But for the most part, our heroines tough it out like the rest of us, looking as regal as Xena protecting their pouches.  I salute the DC Metro Preggers for their stamina and tenacity to bravely battle it out every day on the metro, ensuring that their livelihood is secure and the economy is stimulated by their contributions.  They are amazing, radiant and beautiful goddesses who grace us every day with definitive proof that the human race is still going strong and that there is hope for the future. 

So the next time you see a DC Metro Pregger, make sure you offer her your seat or at the very least a little bit more wiggle room.   More importantly, stop staring at her lactation devices!  Take a mental snapshot instead and move on. 

Waiting to Exhale...

It’s been relentlessly hot these past couple of weeks.  Wilted metrophiles everywhere are beginning to take on the hapless look of the denizens of Fritz Lang’s Metropolis as day in and day out they confront the establishment in droves via the WMTA’s iron horses.  It doesn’t help that many of the wheeled wonders don’t have AC.  I don’t know which is worse, coming into an empty car in the morning or being canned like a sardine later in the day.  Either way, many of the trains evoke distinctive olfactory experiences for the attuned.  The older cars have a musty smell, the kind that results from removing previously sweaty socks that you had forgottenly stuffed in your gym shoes a while back.  And it’s not the sock smell I’m talking about, but the inside of the shoe when you finally want to wear it again.  Then you have that old carpet that didn’t quite dry completely smell that’s a little bit more on the sharp coppery side.  Either way, there’s a miraculous thing that happens every time.  Once the cars fill up with people, the original car smell disappears and then you get a waft of whatever food item your fellow passengers happen to be carrying (fresh or leftovers), or a mixture of exotic perfumes and cosmetics either people poured, laved, or scrubbed on themselves.  And of course, there’s just plain old body odor from every unique human, animal, and pest that happen to be on board with you at the time.  Needless to say, the scintillating chemistry of scents can be a wee bit overwhelming. 

Especially around flu season there won’t be a lack of signs and posters on the metro reminding people to wash their hands or cover their faces when they blow their nose.  Occasionally, you can spot interesting individuals sporting face masks while they commune with other passengers.  Realistically speaking, however, regardless of the season, traveling in enclosed, cramped quarters with a little over a million people a day will definitely either make you super immune to all sorts of critters, or the average 80-minute contact with live bodies (and I don’t only mean what’s visible to the naked eye) on the metro will eventually make even the heartiest individual sick.  A quickie solution to preventing a summer cold - there’s something to singing the Happy Birthday song while washing and soaping your hands or if you don't have time, squirt some Purell.  But don’t go overboard with the antibacterial dispensers, unless your company has an airtight contract with the vendor.