Sick Leave

I stayed home from work today because I am still full of the sniffly and the sneezy and the achy. I slept and slept and then emailed people to whine about how sick I was and then wondered aloud, "Good Lord - when did I become such a baby?"

So I am forcing myself to go to work tomorrow, even if I feel shitty, just on principle because if I am well enough to sit at the computer, I am well enough to sit at work at the computer. (Of course, if I had the laptop I really want, then I would definitely be in bed and would totally negate the whole guilt factor because I would be in bed, and therefore be very, very sick. Obviously.)

So I've been back and forth to the kitchen today for tea and then water and then soup and then water and then tea... you get the idea. Anyway, I stopped at one point to look at my pretty floor and my pretty light fixture and it made me think of a certain someone who drove my whiny ass all over the DC metro area to get these things and then installed them himself. And it made me realize how happy I am to have him in my life. Not because he installs floors and takes me to nice dinners and good movies and talks about things that make my brain feel fulfilled, but because he's a wonderful person and I care about him very much. But also for those other things.

And I just want him to know that.

Oh HELL to the NO

In the wintertime, we keep our thermostat set somewhere between 60 and 63 degrees. Why? Mostly because gas is expensive and the DC gas company enjoys it when an entire city bends over and grabs their ankles simultaneously.

Also because we're rarely here and we all tend to sleep better with the temperature set at this point and constant heat gives us tickly throats. Tickly. Hee.

Thing is, we keep the heat at 60 in the winter, and our gas bill averages $300. I am not kidding. I wish that I was.

I woke up this morning, still sick, feeling like complete hell, and staggered to the kitchen to make some greemint. Greemint is the term that K-10 and I created to describe green tea with mint. It takes less time to say (or type) and we are constantly singing its praises. It's awesome, seriously. Try it. Run up to your local grocery store and make the deal.

While waiting for the kettle to boil, I noticed that the little timer/temperature gauge (among the many things CreePaul left here when he moved back to Jersey) read... 48 degrees. Um, what?

I decide to ignore it and make my tea. Yum. As I'm shuffling down the hallway back to my room, I glance at the thermostat. And I did a classic cartoon double take:

You can't really tell, but the little red thingy on the vertical gauge is set right above 60. Interesting. The "real" temperature looks to be set at, oh, 52 degrees.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

See, I knew that something was wrong. When my alarm went off this morning (yes, I know that it's Saturday. Shut UP), and my leetle hand shot out from my cocoon to MAKE IT STOP ALREADY, my arm almost froze in mid-air. You know, like in Antarctica or wherever, when exposed skin freezes in seconds? That's basically my house.

Right, so my "landlord" shows up this afternoon, determined to fix it her god-damned self, and tells me that I have a bad attitude because I have asked her to FIX SOMETHING IN THE HOUSE THAT I RENT FROM HER. Heaven FORBID. She's had a bad week and doesn't want to deal with this.

OH. I'm SORRY. It's not like it's required by law or anything that you do something about this. Oh. Wait. Also? Shut up.

To be honest, I should have stayed, holed-up, in my room, wrapped around the space heater and avoided the whole situation. But no, I had to throw in my bitchy two cents, and that I just so happened to have also had a bad week, and I snapped at her bitch ass. My fault.

Seriously, she is SUCH. A. BITCH.

Now I have to pee and they're blocking the hallway right before the bathroom. Fantastic. Stupid narrow house with no heat.

update: The heating guy will be here tomorrow morning between 7 and 10. In the morning. I planned on sleeping until noon. GD it all to hell.

Nurse!

I'm sick.

:(

K-10 has promised to send me some Night Nurse from her friendly UK pharmacy (or "chemist," as they say across the pond), and that makes me happy because it sounds so helpful. I also think that it will be awesome because it says that it relieves "tickly cough." Tickly. Hee. Apparently, you have to ask for it at the pharmacy just so you can't buy it in bulk and cook yourself up some nice crystal meth or whatever you make from paracetamol. I'm sure that there's something.

(Oh my LORD, I thought that I knew what crystal meth was. I did NOT know. Yikes. I did know that it made people look like death and also that Stephanie Tanner was an addict, but that's about it.)

(Oh, and it looks like paracetamol is just another name for acetaminophen. So this shit is basically Tylenol Cold. Whatever. I'll take anything at this point.)

Anyway, K-10 has informed me that Night Nurse will no doubt knock me the fuck out for like, a day. Maybe two. Fine by me - I didn't want to go to work anyway. Will my cold be gone when I come to?

I'm Still Sunburned, Yo

Welcome to Miami, Benvenido a Miami!

Sorry. It was in my head for the entire trip. Apologies to the Lady as well. Because I know I was annoying. I know this.

I left Reagan on Saturday afternoon, connected in Charlotte, and arrived in Miami at 6 p.m. Also, side note? The bitchiness of US Air flight attendants cannot be matched. Good Christ.

Right. The Lady left Detroit, connected at Dulles (ironic, no?), and arrived in Miami at 8 p.m.

Except that she didn't.

She got stuck at Dulles overnight and I was stuck in the Miami airport contemplating my night alone. K-10 pointed out to me that maybe it wasn't the best idea to be hanging around the Miami airport by myself, and so I rented the car and drove my nerve-shot ass to Weston, FL.

We had reserved a room at this hotel, though upon arrival I realized was more of a condo/timeshare kind of place. Customer service? Not so much. I called the place before I left the airport just to be sure that I would be able to check in under the Lady's name. It was booked on her credit card, so I was nervous. They gave me the green light, so I drove the 45 minutes there.

The 18-year-old asshat at the front desk gave me crap from the get-go, and that was NOT the thing to do to the Donut, especially after her day. After two different douchetard "managers" came to talk down to me, they finally agreed to give me a room. As long as they could charge me a $100 deposit.

The fuck?

By now I was in tears. The place was already booked, and the Lady's card was ALREADY CHARGED, but they made some assumptions that I was under 25-years-old (I'm guessing) and treated me like a child. Upset I was.

Whatever. After driving around their insane complex for ten minutes, I got to the room and attempted to relax. It was actually quite nice:


It was apartment-sized with a fully-stocked kitchen, living room, and bedroom. I had both televisions on at the same time. Just because. It would have been nice for the Lady to actually see this place, but ah well. I promptly ordered a pizza and some Coke (no, not that kind. Though I was close to Miami), decided to be proud of myself for getting through everything all by myself, and then passed out on the couch watching The Parent Trap. I know.

The next morning, I had to be out of my room by 10 a.m. But that's early! So I drove from exit to exit on I-75 in search of a mall of some sort, only to discover that Florida loves strip malls just as much as southeastern Michigan. I found a Panera for lunch, horrifyingly browsed through a Marshall's and a Ross, read my book in a Home Depot parking lot, and got green tea at Starbucks.

FINALLY, the Lady called and I hauled my tail to the Miami airport to pick her up. I flawlessly maneuvered through the wreckage of the airport grounds (seriously - was it recently bombed? It was a complete mess!), and we arrived in Fort Lauderdale in less than an hour. We checked in, changed clothes, and practically ran to the closest place that served alcohol:

Guess which one was mine?

Then we went to a few of the beach shops that all boasted the exact same merchandise and all came complete with a certifiably insane owner. Our last stop was an Italian restaurant that was trying waaaaay too hard. Techno music? At 7 p.m.? No. Jerkoff waiter? Check. Overpriced wine? Check check. Just a note to Spazio: cut it out. You're just not that hip. We're just not that into you.

We effectively lost a day, thanks to the fucktards at US Air, so Monday was our beach day. And what a day it was. We left our hotel to walk the block to the beach:

Okay, not really our hotel, but a still-hurricane-damaged hotel located just a few paces from ours. Bummer, dude.

This is the sun that greeted us. The merciless, evil sun of Fort Lauderdale. It did create picture-perfect moments like this:

... but still managed to burn us to crisps in under two hours. We are retarded. Apparently:

Donut: Not amused at the camera. Or the sun. So pink!

Just a few quick pictures of our hotel room. It looked much better online, let me tell you:

Yep, that's the dumpster right outside of our window. Awesome!

The furniture was lovely! And chic! And rounded!

Oh my gosh, this place. It was surreal. Each and every time the owner spoke, she called The Lady "Sweetie" and it was seriously every other word out of her mouth. When she wasn't smoking, that is. She told us no less than ten times that she had to clean the fridge after the last guest because he had spilled some milk and it had "coddled" under the fridge. Coddled? I think that she meant "curdled," but I'm just guessing. What do I know? Anyway, she said this ten times, along with the fact that she just put blankets on the beds. She also brought us a space heater. Um, isn't this Florida? Again, what do I know? She was eccentric. And precious. And smokylicious.

We avoided her from then on. Because, scary!

For our last night, we were exhausted from the sun and had sizzled like bacon all day, so we ordered sushi. Oh my gosh, the sushi:

I must give props to his adorableness for introducing me to this gastronomical amazingness. I seriously cannot get enough of the sushi. Or the edamame - that stuff is beyond addictive.

I know that it seems like the trip totally sucked, but it was SO NICE to get away from the snow and the 20-degree weather and hang out with the Lady. My worst day in Florida (or getting to Florida) was still better than my best day in DC.

Shane's Birthday: A Photo Essay

Shane is edging closer and closer to thirty, and in an apparent attempt to regain some youth, we headed to Dave and Busters. The White Flint mall? Not so close to the metro. Also? No sidewalks. I fell on my ass. Hilarity ensued!

The food was mediocre and the service pretty much sucked, but that's not really why we went, now was it? Here, the ladies (and CutePaul) enjoy one of many drinks:

Amanda and I are children, so when I discovered this picture on my camera, I laughed and laughed like a freaking idiot:

It's a P33N! (that's internets speak for "penis")

Tucker won a gorgeous, too-good-to-be-true necklace from the claw game. We took bets on quickly Lauren's skin would turn green:

We soon became quite enamored of this game. It shoves coins around and sometimes they fall and you win tickets! It is addicting and rigged, and is the reason I can never go to Vegas:

Joshy and I escaped the mind-controlling powers of the coin game to play some other shit game hidden against the wall. I don't know what I did, but I hit the jackpot on the first try. 400 tickets, bitches!


All winnings were given to Shane to purchase prizes. They were amazing, obviously:

A fingertip mouse. Awesome.

Apparently, it's still 1995 at Dave and Busters.

I think that these are blow-up sumo wrestlers. Clearly a first choice.

Ah. Escape. We were in a mall at midnight, and we couldn't. get. out. We snuck through a service corridor into the parking lot. We were stealth-like.

Horribly blurry, I know, but the old man behind Shane and Gabe looks like a ghost. Like he wasn't really there but showed up in the picture! Bwa ha ha ha!

(Okay, he was really there. I also think that he got off the metro a stop too early just to avoid our drunken shenanigans.)

Happy Birthday Shane! One year closer to death!

DC Snow Ineptitude-ness

So DC finally got snow, and it was, as expected, a massive clusterfuck.

This is Tuesday, February 13, when the federal government shut down at 2 p.m. because the roads might be icy for the evening commute. I wish I were kidding:


That's what, like, an inch of snow? Of course I was happy to be going home early - I stopped in Chinatown on the way home for some Thai Chili takeout and then happily parked myself on the couch to watch the Food Network until I passed out and woke up at 7. Or 10. I don't remember.

Oh, and will this ivy ever die? It's probably what killed the tree that keeps dropping huge dead branches everywhere. Something my "landlord" will do nothing about. I'm waiting for one of the branches to pierce the windshield of our upstairs neighbor's car. Will. Be. Entertaining.

This is what the snow looked like the next morning, when federal employees were given a two-hour delay. Maybe... two inches total now?


It's ridiculous, I know, and so we just live with it. It's sure better than being in upstate New York, where they got twelve feet of snow and everyone was expected to report to work/school on time. It could always be worse, my babies.

Ahhhhh...

So Much to Say, So Little Time

Lots of fun stories are languishing in draft mode, from the "snow" to Shane's birthday at Chuck E. Cheese. But I can't be bothered to enlighten you all at the moment, as I am off to Fort Lauderdale in a few short hours.

You'll just have to wait to hear about the "snow" and how much time off the federal employees won. You'll have to wait to hear about wrestling in the ball pit and the cookie cake. Be patient, and all will be revealed!

If I'm not too tired from lying on the beach for three days.

Vermicelli?

Anyone who attempts to dine at Union Station is well aware of the "service" at Uno's. It's spotty at best and you'd better not have somewhere to be, because your pizza or burger is going to take at least an hour. Be sure to be ready with your meal choice when the surly waitstaff comes for your drink order, and you might as well ask for the check at that point, too. Seriously.

But as I had a long day and nothing more than spaghettios and meatballs at home (not that I don't love spaghettios and meatballs, because I most certainly do), I decided to stop in and place an order for carryout. I had money remaining on a gift card (thanks, Lady!), so it was going to be free. Besides, I could shop around while I waited.

I walked in and was immediately greeted by Penay (I'm sure that's spelled incorrectly, but I'm trying). It was shocking, mostly because he was happy and smiley and super nice. Certainly a change from the other employees, like the hostess who stared down a couple for a good minute before asking if they were "waitin' for a table?" Penay was definitely trying to get his employees pumped up for the dinner rush. His enthusiasm and happiness wasn't really rubbing off on anyone, but at least he got people as soon as they walked in the door. The sad thing was that he seemed genuinely surprised when I was happy and smiley, too. I don't know how you couldn't respond in kind with this guy, but I guess that some people just have food on their minds when they walk into a restaurant.

Right. So I ordered something strange - a chicken salad (salad meaning spring greens, red peppers, tomatoes, cheese, bacon, and tons of other yummy stuff), honey mustard, and then... vermicelli. Pasta? And salad? Weird! But sooooo good. And it's quite filling as well, what with the strange addition of carbs and whatnot. Lovely.

I walked home over the ridiculously frozen-over sidewalks, almost fell on my ass in the alley, and definitely almost slipped backwards off of my porch steps a la Joe Pesci in Home Alone. I settled myself in the living room, wrapped around the space heater, and started eating. But something was wrong.

No chicken.

I considered just dealing with it and having a nice salad, but I was hungry! I called, and Penay remembered me. He had a new salad waiting for me after I hauled my ass back there, and added double the chicken so that I could have two salads. Two salads? Awesome. He then won me over by adding a few extra containers of honey mustard. Bitchin'!

Anyway, I don't know what the moral of this story is, except that ordering carryout from Uno's is a much better idea than dining in. Oh, and being nice is contagious. For some people. At least, that's what I like to think.

Not a Trick, An Illusion

Michael: So... this is the magic trick, huh?

Gob: "Illusion," Michael. A "trick" is something a whore does for money.

Michael jerks his thumb at a group of open-mouthed children.

Gob: ... Or cocaine!

~Arrested Development

Right, so we spent Wednesday with pizza and a movie - The Illusionist. With a tagline of "Nothing is what it seems," we knew what to expect... and yet we didn't. The film drew us in quickly and kept us guessing almost to the end.

Set in turn-of-the-century Vienna, Eisenheim the Illusionist is generating a huge amount of popularity. His illusions are different than the run-of-the-mill tricks to which audiences have become accustomed, and he becomes popular after his first performance. Through flashbacks and reports from the police inspector, we learn of Eisenheim's past, and there is, of course, a woman. A long lost love torn from him because of class differences and prejudice. Heartbreak! Murder! Intrigue! Social commentary!

Throw in a jerkoff Crown prince, some twists and turns, and a surprisingly interesting storyline, and you've got a film that was captivating, interesting, and far better than I'd expected. I love it when that happens!

Edward Norton is brilliant as Eisenheim. Edward Norton is brilliant at most things, though, so that wasn't a surprise. Jessica Biel as Sophie, however? Definitely a surprise. She's nice to look at, sure, but a good actress makes the audience believe that she is her character, and it worked. The cleavage shots brought us back to reality, but that can't be helped, can it? (No more writing her off as the poor man's Jessica Alba, especially since Alba can't act.)

Paul Giamatti played the unrelenting police inspector to a tee, and Rufus Sewell was a perfect villain. I think that the mustache helped - it was perfectly evil.

The mystery was revealed in a very satisfying way - it wasn't drawn out, and the director timed the realization of the police inspector to match that of the audience. It was fun and entertaining.

(Edited 4/24/07 to change "candy" to "cocaine." What the hell kind of fan am I if I can't even get a line right from the first episode? GOD.)

Pretty

Gnocchi with Spinach and Bacon

This recipe is my variation of a dish I enjoyed when vacationing in Bar Harbor, ME. Because there are several pans necessary, and some items cook quickly, I've tried to make the process as easy as possible by including steps. Enjoy!

extra virgin olive oil
1 to 2 tablespoons butter
1 small onion, sliced into half moons
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1 pint grape tomatoes, halved
3-4 large handfuls fresh spinach leaves, chopped in half
1/4 cup pine nuts
1 package gnocchi, mini size
2 strips bacon

1. Start water boiling for gnocchi.

2. Coat bottom of large saucepan with olive oil. Heat on medium high heat and add 1 to 2 tablespoons of butter. When melted, add onions. Saute for 30 seconds and then add garlic. Turn heat to low and mix periodically.

3. In a separate pan, cook the bacon until crispy. Let drain on a paper towel.

4. Add the tomatoes to the onions and garlic. Saute well. Add the pine nuts and spinach. Mix. Make sure the heat is low and cover with foil. The spinach will wilt rather quickly.

5. Add the gnocchi to boiling water. They will cook quickly, in 2-3 minutes. When they float, they're done. Drain well.

6. Add the gnocchi to the saucepan and mix well - make sure that they're coated with the sauce. Finally, break the bacon into small pieces and add to the pan. Mix, and serve warm. Serves 3-4.

DC - 1, NoVa - 0

I ventured out to NoVa twice this past week for some evening festivities, and the smoke was horrendous. I mean, I've hated the smoke forever, so it's not like I was surprised, but after getting used to being able to breathe in DC bars, it was more than a little disconcerting.

I saw a band in Falls Church on Thursday night, and while it wasn't super packed, it was pretty smoky - febreeze was my friend that night. It was a cool bar, though, and a great time - plus there was good airflow. Saturday night, however, wasn't as drafty. Dr Dremo's was basically a lung cancer haven. We left after an hour because it seemed like we were the only ones not lighting up and our eyes just couldn't take it anymore (sorry about that, John - hope you had a Happy Birthday and are breathing easy today!).

Hell, when I walked into the Brickskeller last week, I was amazed at my ability to see across the room. It was so nice to not smell like a smoke bomb for a week. After Saturday night in Arlington, I don't know that my coat will ever be the same. It's a shame because there are some really cool, original bars in Arlington - I guess I'll look forward to warmer weather when the patios open up. Anyone know of plans to ban smoking in NoVa? Could that even happen?

Intros and Interludes

Is this the new trend?

I was a little late in picking up my own copy of the Killers' new cd, Sam's Town, but that doesn't mean that I wasn't anticipating it. And, it's pretty damn good.

HOWEVER.

What is with placing "intro" songs and interludes on an album and passing them off as complete tracks? Pete Yorn did the intro thing on his Day I Forgot album, but at least he had thirteen other tracks to follow. The Killers have only ten tracks plus an 'enterlude' and an 'exitlude' which is basically the same exact "song" with slightly different words. I'd bet that this phenomenon is present on many other albums as well.

I understand the importance of creating a cohesive album - one that flows and tells a story. There are few that accomplish this (Jamie Cullum's Twentysomething and Rubyhorse's Rise are good examples), and Sam's Town does a good job . But were those 'interludes' necessary?

Sure, there are many other things in this world to get annoyed about, but this just seems lazy.

I Can Wear it to Sing Sing

I've made no secret of my love for Target. But when I find items like this there, I know that Target truly "gets" me:

Look at how amazing this is! Her lips look a little weird, as she always wore neutral lipcolor, but I'm over it. Brilliant!

Metallic Hair

It's that time again - intern application time! Here is my desk, seemingly happy and carefree:

LIES! It's all smoke and mirrors, people! It's to distract you from what's going on elsewhere (to the right of the photo, actually)! I won't go into the paperclip situation this year since it really wasn't that horrific. The paperclip variations were few because, much to my dismay, the little effers made up for it with staples:

(It looks like hair! Hmmm, that's semi-gross, now that I think about it. Especially since it's still sitting in a pile on my desk.)

But seriously. Hey, applicants: If you don't understand what the word "collate" means, then LOOK IT UP. I wish that we could institute rules for our applications as do other organizations. I asked my boss if we could include the following on our website, and she said no:

If you plan on stapling the bejesus out of your application, you can expect your letter of rejection in one month. Bwa ha ha!

She thought that we could get "sued." And I was only half serious. Whatever.

The application count was ridiculous this year. This shot captures about 75% of my workload:

The picture doesn't even do it justice, especially as these still require massive amounts of copying. But it's okay: I love staying at work until 7:30 at night!

GD applicants.

Neolithic Love

Just in time for Valentine's Day!

It's a bad sign when a story like this gets me crying. To be fair, I was half crying because of the story, half crying in excitement over the neato prehistoric find (even though the quoted anthropologist says that it has "...more of an emotional than a scientific value").

Yep, I am an overemotional histo-archaeological nerd.

A Special Thank You

To the Red Line conductor at Union Station at approximately 7:42 this morning:

I stepped outside into one degree of "warmth," hauled ass to Union Station, picked up the pace when I realized that an Amtrak train had arrived early, and then got stuck behind someone on the escalators. The panic set in.

I saw the train waiting, ready to transport the commuting masses toward Shady Grove. I leaped off of the escalator and ran toward the rear of the train. To my dismay, the chimes sounded and the doors closed. I slowed my pace, frustrated, saddened, dejected -- especially when I noticed that the next train wouldn't arrive for four minutes. The Amtrak passengers were almost here! They would soon be upon me! It didn't look good...

And then, a stroke of luck! You must have spied me, noted my desperation, and reopened the doors. Perhaps you were impressed with my full-on sprint and wanted to reward my energy, or maybe there was a problem with a door elsewhere. EITHER WAY, I don't care. I scurried onto the train to find it nearly empty, and when I switched lines at Gallery Place, the lower platform was deserted. It was like the dream commute. And on a Monday morning, no less!

You don't know it, but you set off a chain of events that made this Donut experience a very happy Monday. Thank you, Red Line conductor. Thank you very much.

Superboring

I did something this evening that may appall some people: I didn't watch the Superbowl.

Gasp!

Call me un-American if you will, but I just had no desire to watch. Had the Patriots or the Eagles made it, I might have shown some interest - if only to glimpse fellow UofM alum Hot Tom Brady or to be supportive of a certain Philly fan.

Instead, I whipped up my lovely bean and corn salsa dip (recipe below) and watched season two of Arrested Development. If you've yet to discover the brilliance of this show, I highly recommend checking it out soon.

I did catch the K-Fed Nationwide commercial, only because I was in the kitchen at the time. Funny, but whatever. I'm sure I'll be able to watch the commercials at work tomorrow if I get a break from the GD intern applications.


Bean and Corn Salsa Dip

1 can sweet corn, drained
1 can black beans, drained and rinsed
1 pint grape tomatoes, quartered
2 green onions, sliced thinly
1/4 cup World Harbors Mexican Style Fajita Sauce
a handful fresh cilantro, chopped

Combine all ingredients in a deep saucepan over medium heat. Combine thoroughly and stir until heated through. Remove from heat and add cilantro. Serve warm with tortilla chips.

Love in the Afternoon

I can't believe that I am about to say this about an Audrey Hepburn movie, but I watched Love in the Afternoon this weekend, and it was a total crapfest. Well, it wasn't the film that was horrible, it was the plot... if that makes any sense.

Audrey was perfection, as usual, but she played a part that was both like and unlike the roles to which I have become accustomed. She portrayed many ingenue roles throughout her career, but always with sass or strength -- or both. It's difficult to watch her in this role - an ingenue with invented strength throughout that gives way to insipid adolescent fawning. Girl Power be damned, apparently. (Of course, this was 1957. But still.)

Audrey plays Ariane, the only daughter of a French widower and a cellist at the Paris Conservatory. A private detective who specializes in philandering spouses, her father has built quite a reputation as a discreet investigator. When Ariane overhears the machinations of one of his clients, a distraught husband, to shoot his wife's lover, Frank Flannagan, she races to his rescue and saves the day.

Frank Flannagan, played by Gary Cooper, is an American millionaire playboy with scores of women in cities around the world. Ariane falls for him, but remains anonymous. Her tall tales of her many lovers eventually irks Mr. Flannagan enough to drive him to... that's right -- her father! He wants this mystery girl investigated, and soon!

I don't know what it was that turned me off so badly -- Gary Cooper was a little old to play against Audrey (he was 56, she was 28), but that wasn't an issue for me, especially since the majority of her leading men were significantly older than her (Gregory Peck in Roman Holiday, Cary Grant in Charade, Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady... the list goes on and on). The storyline seemed forced and insufferable and I just didn't find the Frank Flannagan character to be all that likable.

I did catch the point of the film: that love will find you no matter how you try to put it off, and that in itself was charming. The ending actually surprised me, and in a way made the whole theme of the film... work. I guess. Doesn't mean that I agree with it.

I've still got a few Audrey films to see before I can check them all off of my list, and while this one was extremely well-acted and has a few sweet scenes, I'd recommend Funny Face or Sabrina if you want to see an ingenue. At least then you'll get to see Audrey as a strong woman.

A Walking Tour of L'Enfant Promenade

I told you I would do it.

My office recently relocated to L'Enfant Plaza from Chinatown, and while I enjoy my new enormous office and cartwheel space, the L'Enfant Promenade left me wanting... more. No longer is Five Guys an option for lunch, and popping into Urban Outfitters for a shirt or fun gift is now but a fleeting dream. Now, I have the choice of McDonald's for a burger and Dress Barn for a sweater. Both leave me nauseous. In other news, Dress Barn? Really?

Here is a sampling of all that the L'Enfant Promenade has to offer. I snapped these shots after leaving work one night at 7:00 p.m.; so the shops were closed and I only got the signs. Trust me, you won't be disappointed:

Ah, one of the center displays. This one is for Hallmark. I think that it is advertising Valentine's gifts for that special couple. You know, when the woman doesn't realize that her boyfriend's still closeted and doesn't like to be touched. Ever.

US Kids. I was unsure whether this meant "us as in all of us kids," or U.S. children. Then I saw the American flag. It's an interesting boutique - mostly off-brand toys that no child would ever want and baby clothes. No wonder everything is always on sale.

Once you clothe your child in an American flag onesie, bring him here to Supertots! It's a training ground for super children. Like on Heroes. I'd imagine. He'll be bench-pressing more than you in a mere week.

It's everything I've ever wanted! And it's all for me!

And finally, my favorite shop. They make no secret of the classiness of this boutique. I guess if it was spelled simply, "Shoes," I would not be tempted to go inside. Of course, if it was spelled, "Shoes," maybe they'd have something other than size 11 cross-dresser pumps.

This is only the corridor nearest my office, as I was exhausted and wanted to go home but could not pass up the chance to snap pictures with no one to get in my way. I will share this little tidbit with you, however: Oh's Cafe, a Chinese restaurant, is lovely. But after dining there you will not be showing anyone your 'Oh Face.' Trust me.

People Who Need to Be Bitch-Slapped: Metro Version

Scenario One, Gallery Place Chinatown Metro Station, 5:35 p.m.:

You notice that the escalator to the lower level is working just fine, and the commuters seem to be adhering to the simple "Stand to the Right, Walk to the Left" rule. The "up" escalator from the bottom level is broken, and as commuters are eager to reach their red line connector train, they are climbing up the temporary stairs side-by-side. You are in a hurry, so you:

A. descend the 'down' escalator on the left, easily catching your train, or
B. fling your metrosexual, over-gelled self down the broken escalator into upcoming commuters because you are VERY BUSY AND IMPORTANT and in doing so rudely shove The Donut into the Amazon woman in the Chewbacca-ish fur coat causing the Donut to cower in fear for her life because the Amazon woman has been snarling to herself since the platform at L'Enfant Plaza and just bared her teeth.

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Scenario Two, Red Line, Union Station to Gallery Place Chinatown:

You ride the metro every day. Every morning, you:

A. Brush your teeth, or
B. Do not brush your teeth.

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Scenario Three, Orange Line to Rosslyn, Evening Rush Hour:

You are quite tall and "hefty"and able to locate more than a few places to hold during the movement of the metro train, yet you think it acceptable to wrap yourself around the only accessible pole. Someone about, oh, I don't know... let's say, five feet tall, boards the train. She can't seem to find a suitable handhold. Do you:

A. Extricate yourself from the pole that you love and reach for a handhold on the ceiling, or
B. Scowl at her and move your body to cover as much of the pole as possible each time she attempts to steady herself.

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The answer to each scenario, my darlings, in case you weren't sure, is B. These people need to be severely bitch slapped. Hard. And I would have done it, too, if I wasn't so wee. Oh yeah, did I mention that all of these scenarios happened to me this week? Yes.

Alas, my wee-ness.