Dulywed

Last night, while I was engrossed in an episode of Forensic Files, Mack made this little video. Which is a hilarious and troublingly accurate portrayal of our life together. Except he's not nearly that polite in real life. And I look nothing like Sarah Palin.

WTF BP?

Shame, shame, shame. On BP for letting this happen without a viable emergency plan in place, on our government for allowing inaccessible drilling in our ocean floor, and us for not getting off this sinking oil ship without first destroying one of the most beautiful places on our planet.

Enough with the oil, the greed, the laziness and this unfounded sense of entitlement we have.

Wisdom Teeth

While we were in L.A., we got to see Bubba get sworn into the army. There was some question about whether his blood pressure would hold out long enough for him to get accepted, but he got it under control and he'll be heading off to learn how to fly helicopters in August.

Bubba, in the army. That's totally not a joke.
During the swearing in, the leader guy said the lines and had the enlisters repeat after him, as is the normal swearing in process. He started with, "I, state your name," blah blah blah, and someone actually said, "I, state your name," instead of stating their name.

God bless the USA.

California is fruity.

California is a fruit show off. Lemon trees in parking lots, orange trees lining the highways, nectarine trees in neighbors' yards... and then the fruit selling guys, who cut up mangoes and pineapples and canteloupes and watermelon and coconut and cram it all into a giant bag for $5.

Those fruit guys should win Top Chef honors for what they do on sunny days.

Mack's dad is a bit of a fruit junkie, so their house is always stocked with fruit. There are, of course, bananas and oranges and apples, but thanks to the Iranian store Elat, there's also cherries and blackberries and sweet lemons. Elat sells fruit for half of what it is at the regular grocery store, so even if you have to park your cart and then scramble around the store collecting your goodies, it's worth it.
Just before we got to LA, they'd stocked up on fruit from Elat, including baskets of strawberries. Or some steroidal version of strawberries.

That is a strawberry next to a Gala apple... a strawberry so large that only it and about six of its giant friends fit in the normal-sized strawberry basket. Now that's almost as impressive as a pluot.

[An apple aside, since we're on the subject, my mom and dad discovered these apples called Honey Crisps that are the best apples on the planet. Sprinkle a touch of cinnamon on them and it's like dessert. Honey Crisps put other apples to shame.]

Nap Time at Man Care

Laila and I were playing around the other day, taking walks, looking at Japanese erasers and trying to figure out what Water Babies are exactly and why they are strangely fun, when we decided we should probably come downstairs and be more social.

And we walked into this.

That's right. Three grown men, all having naps, with That 70s Show on in the background. I've seen Mack in this state, usually with the news on, on several afternoons, but to see him, his brother and his dad all napping together made me wonder if it's genetic and not just gender specific like I thought it was.

Just a little stroll.

Tom took us on a hike today, and by hike I mean a 7-mile power walk that worked butt muscles I didn't know existed.

It was an absolute incline until we reached the overlook, but the incline was speckled with courting hummingbirds and interesting animal poop and deer tracks and lizards so there was enough distraction to get me to the top... which was outfitted with recycling containers because that just how conscious people are here.God this place is freaking wonderful.

3 plus 2

I actually don't mind getting older... probably because my birthdays are always so awesome they're worth living for.

This year things got started on May 9, which was a celebration of Renee's birthday, my birthday and Mother's Day rolled into one. Renee was just about the cutest 3-year-old I've ever seen opening her presents, so even though celebrating with her meant sharing the spotlight, she provided entertainment that was worth it. And it's always fun to share your birthday with Mother's Day, since in a twisty way it's also your mom's birthday... her giving birth day.

Sharing my birthday meant we got to have two cakes... a chocolate one for Renee (that said Happy Birt because Bad Mommy Shannon ran out of icing) and a vegan carrot cake for me. I hate to say it, but I think I may like sharing my birthday.

My birthday week was pretty good. I did a little bit of work, played volleyball, cleaned the house, and then on Friday, I met up with Ruble and Steve for giant-sized birthday Red Stripes.

Saturday was a little lame, since I spent the day in a nursing home giving bed baths and feeding old people, but it was also waaaaayyyy better than the Saturdays I've been having, where I sit in a room with people whose development is questionable and whose accents border on unintelligible. Sunday, my actual birthday, was a little more of the same as Saturday, but it was also THE LAST DAY of nurse aid torture.

I wanted to go to the drive-in for my birthday, but it started raining so we had to do a change of plans. I was stumped. All my favorite restaurants are closed on Sundays, but Mack called and found out that the new Dudley's on Short Street was open. Thank god.

We met Leigh and Nash and ate some of the best pan-fried snapper in the world. It was served over some magical greens and craveable beans and I basically licked that plate clean.

Just as we were sucking down the last of our mojitos, the waitress brought down a carrot cake that Leigh had brought... complete with a small forest fire on top. I saw her coming because the flames caught the corner of my eye and I thought there was some sort of disaster headed our direction. The heat coming off that thing actually made me sweat in the short time it took for my dinner mates to serenade me with Happy Birthday.

But in that small moment, with 32 candles blazing in front of my face and a smile wiped across it that overwrote any essence of cool I was trying to project, I accidentally achieved birthday euphoria.

It seriously felt like those people on Intervention who talk about feeling a rush when they put the needle in their arm.

All the voicemail singing, all the Facebook love (some of it from people I didn't think really even knew me), all the special dates, all the cheers and good food and laughs. If you've gotta be addicted to something, birthdays are it.

Ya'll 'member Jesco???

The Dancing Outlaw? The one who was half spray paint huffer, half mountain genius? The one who threatened to murder his wife Priscilla if she made sloppy, slimy eggs?

Well, he's baaaaaccccccckkkkkkk.
I read today that there's a new documentary about Jesco White and his family coming out called The Wild and Wonderful Whites of West Virginia and I am soooo excited about it.

Jesco tap danced his way into my heart during an Advanced Writing for the Mass Media class I took in college. He was shocking... for his idiocy and his brilliance... and it's good to see he's not only still alive but still living in his crazy way.

For reasons that aren't entirely noble, I love mountain people. I love hollers and twang and twisted logic and the incomprehensible, self-induced tragedy that these people rise above time after time.

A few years ago Mack and I got hooked on the PBS series Country Boys, where one of the main subjects was a death-metal sex-having teenager aspiring to be a youth pastor and the other was a great-in-his-own-mind dreamer who decided it was more important for him to work at Taco Bell than get a free ride to college.

Those country boys were good, but they were no Jesco. They were nothing like the Whites.

Where have I been? Climbing up on my soapbox.

I was just studying for my anatomy final, which covers the reproductive system, when I read this: diabetes causes erectile dysfunction.

I'm about to get all judge-y so feel free to bail now.

In addition to being in anatomy, I'm also spending my weekends doing my nurse aid training. You have no idea how awful that class is. Think traffic school, but 8 hours long, every weekend for 5 weeks, full of morbidly obese smokers.

In both classes, the words "smoking is a factor" and "smoking increases risk" and "obesity contributes" keep coming up. Over and over and over.

Heart problems = fat + smoking. Lung problems = fat + smoking. Sex problems = fat + smoking.

If there are two things you can do to add quality years to your life, it's not smoking and not getting super fat.

All you have to do is look at me to know I am not a fat hater. Or a smoker hater, for that reason. I like beer and French fries and pizza and potato chips, potato chips, potato chips as much as the next person, and I'm hauling around an extra 10-15 pounds as proof. And there was a decade there where I was without question a certified "bum smoker."

But honestly, I didn't know better. Or I was young enough to not care. Now, though, I won't tolerate being stupid. I will not love my vices more than I love being able to walk around without feeling like I'm going to die. I just will not, no matter how old I get or how hard it gets to lose weight.

I have lost weight, gained weight, lost weight, gained weight my entire life. And knowing me and my love of beer and French fries and pizza and potato chips, potato chips, potato chips, I will live in that cycle for the rest of it. But I have set firm limits for myself that I will not trick myself out of.

The other day, one girl in my class made a comment about how much sugar was in juice and how she didn't realize it until that morning in the gas station when she was looking for a healthy alternative to soda. She's also trying to lose weight, and I said, "If you cut out soda, you will lose 10 pounds without even trying."

And then, one of the 15 Mountain Dew junkies in my class said, "I love my pop, there's no way I could give it up. Besides, you gonna die of somethin'."

Isn't she going to feel stupid for saying that when she's 49, half blind and an amputee? What about her kids or her husband? Are they going to feel alright about her deterioration in the name of fucking soda?

Of course, it's not just about soda, though. It's about being lazy and how un-fun it is to force ourselves into healthy living. Sinister things are way more fun... and faster and more delicious. I get it. But we don't walk around masturbating whenever we feel like it and we shouldn't be letting ourselves enjoy a triple decker fudge brownie every commercial break either.

One girl in my class brought macaroni noodles cloaked in mayonnaise and Bacon Bits for lunch today. Then she went and helped herself to about 30 Tootsie Rolls from the candy jar. Another girl opted for a family size bag of Doritos and a Mountain Dew. A couple others were McDonald's subscribers or Sonic fans. And I sat back there eating my salad with Balsamic Vinaigrette and a tomato sandwich (with mayo and salt) thinking my god these people are poisoning themselves in the name of convenience.

After lunch, diabetes came up again, this time with pictures. Diabetic socks and injections and pills and obesity and gangrene and amputation, and I just wanted to pull a Dead Poets Society and stand on my chair and hold up a big mirror with flashing red warning lights so that these people could realize their fates if they keep this up.

I just don't understand how people just can't care. My friend Seth was a preemie, was diagnosed with diabetes as a kid, and has to give himself insulin injections before every single meal for the rest of his life. He did nothing to earn this lot in life but be born too soon. He is active and eats right and takes care of himself, even though he understands that someday his disease is going to make him blind and steal his limbs and, as I just learned, prevent him from getting a boner. It's unfair that Seth works so hard to have what Mountain Dew fuckers take for granted, what they're willingly giving up.

One of the super fats in my class is wanting to have a baby but can't get pregnant. Wonder why. Another one has high blood pressure, as she just learned (and was shocked about) when we were taught how to do vital signs. Is she really surprised, considering she just had a second lunch consisting of Tootsie Rolls?

I don't get it. I guess there's comfort in ignorance, because ignorance absolves you of responsibility for your actions, but I call bull shit.

Most of these mega-chunks are in the South, most of them live in small towns, most of them have little else to do but eat and go to church. And now I'm gonna slam on church, so feel free to bail now if you haven't already.

Isn't gluttony a sin? And for some reason I seem to remember lust and sloth and greed are also sins. And not just sins but deadly sins. I've never been to cadechism, but I think deadly sins are worse than regular sins, like, you know, the type of sins that being gay or masturbating or lying are supposed to be. So in that regard, aren't these Bible thumping super fats who are not only killing themselves but also their babies worse than the abortion-getters and gay families they rise up against? By being such an incredible strain on our health care system for no other reason than they couldn't care less about the effect of their actions, aren't they committing a more egregious social offense than any flaming homo might?

(*I'd just like to say that I find flaming homos delightful.)

Seriously, ya'll, the rest of the world is not like this. In other places, people are normal sized. In other countries, we look like gluttons and sloths and totally ungrateful, engorged, greedy piggies. But forget about how we look to other people... how do we look to ourselves?

Daisy of Love & the Boy Who Lives Under the Bed

Jen and Mike bought a mansion and since movers and deliverers and realtors and buyers and sellers were all going to be swirling in and out of multiple homes this week, Mack and I opened Camp Kitty back up for business.

And this time, we had TWO guests.

Milo is older and more fraidy cat this time than he was on his last visit, but to be fair, it's only day 5 and he usually doesn't come full out until day 6. Also, every time he comes out, I sneeze and he freaks and there are setbacks. Also, every time he comes out, Daisy whoops on him and I laugh at him and there are more setbacks. So, this is the most we've seen of Mr. Handsome.
Daisy of Love, on the other hand, is like a kitty shadow. She is everywhere. She's on the potty with you, in the sink while you brush your teeth, on the edge of the tub while you bathe, on the counter while you make tacos.
She helps me with work, helps me wash dishes, helps me sweep. And most of all, she's helped me find things like candles and toy cars that had rolled under furniture and been forgotten.
Like all cats, she seems to have a special bond with Mack and appreciates his donkey-like carrying abilities. Normally she jumps onto his shoulder while he's at his computer studying, but once she leapt from the counter in the kitchen while he was at the stove. She tries to get me when I walk past the couch and I have the claw marks that prove I am no good for shoulder riding.
Like Milo, she seems to have a special thing for Mack's stinky gym bag. Maybe it's the aroma of cat pee judo gi that makes her feel at home???
Unlike Milo, she has had no problem whatsoever settling in and snuggling up to us. She spends chunks of the day on my computer chair with me, forcing me to sit hanging off the front of it so she can lay down on the back of it. Yes, I know who's boss.
At about 9 o'clock she and Milo get wet food, and then Daisy chases Milo into the bedroom and pounces all over him. There's snarling, followed by thumping noises, and all my good intentions to learn acid-base balance goes right out the window. It's like my own little Animal Planet performance, right at the foot of the bed.

Here they are doing another thing they do called Get the Tail of the Cat on the Seat and Bite the Legs of the Chair... Also Take Breaks to Clean Yourself.These are two of the funniest little cats I have ever met. So Jen, no, we will not be meeting you or Mike or your mom as planned because I am not going to be able to give these things back to you. Sorry. Go enjoy your appliance corral.

Birth Daze

It all starts with Leiah. Actually with Shahin, but since we don't really know when she was born, it's kind of hard to count.
Then it's mom and dad, just one day apart. Then Renee. Then Laila.
Then MEEEEE. (This year I'd like paper money that has actual value. Or you can just make a payment to my credit card to help me pay off Ghana.)
Then we squeeze Charles in there.
Then it's Shannon's turn. And Bubba's. And Tom's. Tom especially likes to go to the zoo for his, since there's no place better to spend a hot day in July than the zoo.
And then we wait until September revs it up again, with Ben, then Betsy, then Mack.

I almost died. Well, I could have. But really I just hurt my butt area.

I was riding my bike down High Street tonight around 8pm when a stupid fucking moron asshole decided she needed to turn right in order to hang out at the coffee shop with her boyfriend. Only problem was I was right there, and she turned into my bike.

Luckily the universe made all the seconds line up just right so that my fender snagged her fender and our respective vehicles did a little dance into the turn. I think I yelled, "Hey, hey, hey, what exactly is this all about?" Or something like that.

I also stood up on my right pedal to get my left leg out from between my bike and her car, and when I did my weight shifted and the bike seat kissed my hamstring... kissed like drunk dudes kiss on MTV. I'm pretty sure I'm going to have an interesting bruise to show off at Keeneland on Friday.

When you get hit by a car when riding your bike everything slows down the same way it does when you get hit by a car while driving your car. It was over in a matter of seconds, but even so it was enough to swirl emotion with adrenaline and fear, and when I got off my bike and looked at the car I yelled something classy and composed.

And when the girl rolled down her window, while my hands were shaking and my body was trying to figure out if it was broken, she said, "I didn't even see you. Are you okay?"

To which I replied, "You're gonna have to get away from me for a minute because right now, I want to bash your fucking face in."

Yeah, I lost it. I totally cussed and threatened that poor girl, who I now know via Facebook is a high schooler at Dunbar. And I feel terrible. Sort of.

A nice guy in a yellow car with curly brown hair saw the whole thing happen and pulled over to see if I was alright. I sort of cried, sort of breathed deeply, sort of managed to collect myself, sort of reassured him that I was okay, just freaked out. I knew I had to calm down if I was going to feel if I was hurt or not, but whoa, adrenaline is madness.

I finally was able to stop tears from exploding out of my face so I walked my bike over to the girl's car... she was nice enough to park as far away from me as possible... and the first thing I said was, "I'm sorry I yelled at you. I was just freaked out and scared and mad, but I'm pretty sure everything is okay."

I then got her phone number, took pictures of her car, my bike and her, called her to make sure her number was legit, and reassured her that I really thought I was fine and that I was just being cautious.

I asked her passenger for his name and he actually started to cop an attitude with me, like he didn't have to give me his name. So I asked him if he had a problem, because you know, she just hit me with her car and I'm the one who should have the problem, and he said no. A longing to bash someone's face in (someone named Daniel Hannah) resurfaced.

At the time I didn't know she was a high school girl or I may have been nicer to her, but maybe not. She never got out of the car, and when I took a photo of her she started to pose and smile, like I was taking a snapshot for her Facebook profile.
Then, when I decided to fill out a police report more for the city's awareness and the hope that the more accidents reported, the more bike lanes will be installed and the more pressure they might put on drivers to pay attention, the police officer called her to verify my claim and she said I was riding on the sidewalk, which would make me at fault if it were true.

I wish I had punched her in the face all over again.

I admittedly ride on the sidewalk sometimes, especially when it's busy traffic or narrow roads, because... well, because I don't trust Lexington drivers. You have to go slower on sidewalks since they're narrow and bumpy, and I'm extra careful about driveways and pedestrians, but if I had an accident on a sidewalk, fine, I accept responsibility. It's better than being clipped by an SUV's rear view mirror at 45mph.

But this time I was absolutely on the street, on the right hand side of the street. I rode down the hill out of my driveway, got in the right lane and cruised on down the road until she hit me. A man out walking his beagle saw it, the man in the yellow car saw it... the girl who didn't see me riding my bike in the right lane was the girl who hit me and then said, "I didn't see you."

And who's the cop gonna believe? The girl who was hit by the car but still had the where-with-all to take photos and get contact info and names or Queen Oblivious?

Because I was so worried about how mean I'd been to her at first, I didn't get Yellow Car Guy's contact info as a witness... lesson learned: get witnesses' info FIRST!... but luckily I'm pretty sure I'm okay and my bike is okay so who's at fault isn't really an issue.

Except it was her fault.

What is an issue is, damn, I could have died because some girl didn't bother to pay attention. Please, when you see a cyclist or a pedestrian, give them some room, slow down a bit, and if you pass them and need to turn right, for the love of god look over your shoulder first.

As for me, I'm getting back on the sidewalk where it's safe.

The Magical Wonders of the Outside Experience

This winter was spent in the jungle of my living room, with doors closed to other areas of the house, curtains cloaking the gray outside, and a New Mexican-flavored down comforter on top of my body. Which is to say I did not leave and barely moved because I did not like leaving or moving and because I did not remember how the cold could be so cruel.

But now, amazing.

Springtime (fingers crossed it lasts until June) in Kentucky is like breathing air again after being dead for a while. I love that the non-Gism trees are just getting buds on them so that I can watch the exposed squirrels playing on the naked branches and see where the birds are making their nests. You can't see that in the summer because of all the leaves.
I love that one day there's nothing out by the front porch and the next we've got bright red tulips and fluffy pink hyacinths. It's like a little surprise party, thrown and decorated by Mother Nature.
I've wandered into no fewer than six trees trying to get a closer look at their blooms. I just love the contrast of the cold, dark bark against the delicate, bright blooms and the soft blue sky... And that I wear glasses or else I'd be really embarrassed that, yeah, I'm blind by stabbing myself in the eye with a tree branch that was still attached to a tree.
It's true that every day in California is like this time of year in Kentucky, but when you factor in the thrill of change, Kentucky is winning. At springtime anyway.

Return of the Vagina Trees

Look, this is going to be nastyish. You've been warned.

There's this tree that's planted all over Lexington's suburbia called Bradford Pear. It's one of the first to bloom every spring, which is why I think developers planted them all over suburbia, and when it blooms it sprouts these cute little white flowers.

When it blooms it also sprouts the aroma of unkempt vagina, half dried semen or sex in a dirty sock.

a bouquet of vagina

Perhaps you've been too struck by the beauty of this tree, too grateful for its trumpet of springtime to really evaluate its smell... but I haven't. There are 10 of them densely packed right outside my front door (which is, admittedly, not in suburbia) and when I open everything up to let the outside in, I get a little too intimate with the scent of backseat teenager sloppy sex.

And that is really hampering my springtime euphoria.

one of the 10 offenders outside my door

Sweet, sweet vegans

I got fat over the winter, so I'm trying to do more cooking type things and less eating convenient fast food type things. When I cook I eat way better (as in healthier and more delicious) than when I rely on outside sources to feed me, and thanks to a really good cookbook selection, I've been pretty productive the last few days.

Vegetarian rubens, enchiladas, stuffed pitas, curried cauliflower, pineapples and strawberries.

But these... these vegan banana split cupcakes with vegan buttercream frosting and vegan chocolate ganache and a strawberry on top... these aren't exactly what a fat person should be cooking. They are, however, what a fat person likes eating.

Meningitolioatitis Tetanellow Fever

Mack and I decided to go to Ghana this summer. It was a decision that went sort of like this:

Me: "Maybe we should go to Ghana."
Him: "Sure. They have judo there."
Me: "Let's go get a book about it at the library."

So we got the book, arranged for a volunteer assignment, bought plane tickets for as much as a small country in Africa costs, and then found out we needed yellow fever vaccines. We have insurance through school for the next few weeks, and we plan to capitalize on that BIG TIME since they recently refused to cover my birth control. I'll show you Aetna.

Our doctor coincidentally had grown up in Africa (her parents, who were also doctors, were missionaries), and all the vaccines that we had written off she scared us into getting.

It's a wonder how "I've had two friends die of ___" will change your mind about vaccines.

Mack ended up getting out of there with three shots, but I had to get five. FIVE.

Buuuutttt, before I got my shots, I heard Mack in the next room screaming out in pain and I flashed back to when I was a toddler and had to get an allergy test that involved repeated shots and my blood pressure went up to 135/84 (normally mine is 100/60) and I had to start pacing so I would not explode from anxiety.

By the time the nurse came in with my tray, I'd learned that Mack was screaming out in pain about something else because he is a weinie, but my nerves were shot and dread was pulsing through my veins. And there I sat, staring at a tray of syringes with sharp needles, really wondering if meningitis was all that bad.

I finally let go of my very first world problem by thinking of all the Africans I'd be meeting who'd probably really enjoy a free vaccine that would keep them from getting Hepatitis A. And we got on with what the English very appropriately call jabs.

In addition to meningitis and Hepatitis A, I got shots for polio, T-dap (which is tetanus and some other things you get when you're a baby) and yellow fever.

And now I have a little bit of every disease. Forgive me if I don't move for the next day or so. I'll be sleeping.

A Parade of Rants

Saturday was the St. Patrick's Day Parade. I love a parade, especially one where nearby vendors sell green beer, so I called Leiah to see if she and Ben wanted to come along.

And now I'm going to complain.

Parades are fun for adults, yes, but when they are centered around such things as leprechauns or other imaginary creatures, they are for kids. Which means, hey, you giant assholes, back up and let the kids you're making look at your gross butt get a spot in front of you.

Parades are for floats. Not your company's giant RV/movable billboard or your Mustang Club. If you don't care to decorate a float, then you should have to walk and hand out candy. We do not come to Main Street for a parade so that we can watch decorative traffic. If that was fun, rush hour wouldn't be annoying.

Parades are for candy. Candy is crucial to the value of any parade, and I don't care if it's that skull breaking hard gum. You need candy. And whoever the prick was who made it illegal to throw candy to people during parades should be stoned to death by candy. The argument against candy is for the safety of kids... but what about when they run in front of a fire truck to get that dropped Now & Later in the middle of the road. Seems safer just to toss the candy to the sidelines, doesn't it?

Politicians should only be allowed in parades if their floats are awesome. And everyone has matching t-shirts. Or if they provide some additional service... like a marker board to show people the latest score of the UK game. If they can't provide a service like that, they better be on a float that is extraordinary. And loaded down with candy.

Can we be done with beauty queens in parades already, especially the ones sponsored by groups that sound progressive, like the Metropolitan Women's Club? Either that or the beauty queens should have to perform their talent while riding on the back of the convertible. Then they can stay.

We need more marching bands in parades, so the next time you see a high schooler band nerd, show them some respect. The only marching bands in the St. Patty's parade were the ragtag group of hobby musicians known as the March Madness Marching Band and a school band from Wolfe County.

The horse shit and garbage on the street after a parade is okay for an hour. No, it's not delicious smelling, and no, it's not fun to step in, but it doesn't warrant a crew of street cleaning machines and an entourage of leaf blowers to rain down upon the parade route minutes after the last entry rolls by. At least let the parade watchers dissipate before bringing in the Overly Enthusiastic Pavement Washers of Impatience and Rudeness.

I ended up having a good time at the parade, mainly because someone finally broke out the Tootsie Rolls and we elbowed our way to the front of some unmoving people in lawn chairs and sat on the curb in front of them. Plus Leiah and Ben were there. And the green beer.

Something to make Shannon feel athletic.

Prepare to have your day brightened. And to feel confident about your coordination.

Forget Beyonce. I'd like to dance like this instead.

All the single babies, all the single babies...

El Capital

Mack got to have Spring Break last week, and since the winter has made us Hermits (yes, with a capital H), we decided to get out of town for a few days. He made a No South Rule, so Asheville, Atlanta, Knoxville and most other drivable places that direction were out, and I refused to go anywhere colder, so anything North was out.

Finally we settled on Washington, DC... lots of free stuff to do, pretty walkable city, plus the Obamas and my favorite Lincoln Memorial.
I've really liked visiting DC in the past. I went there once when I was 10... for a day-long field trip with my class... and again when I was 14... with the band for Clinton's inaugural parade. But I think something has happened in the last 20 years -- maybe cynicism has crept in or perhaps I've officially watched too much news or it could be a post-9/11 capital or some California conditioning.

During this visit, I kept feeling disgusted at all the middle aged white guys in suits with their ties sporting Windsor knots. It felt like everyone there had an agenda, a trust fund and a long Burberry coat. It was like everyone was a descendant of politics.

There's also an overwhelming sense that you're being watched. Which automatically makes you feel like a suspect. I get that we need security and monitoring, especially considering a dude pulled out a gun at the Pentagon while we were there and shot two cops before they killed him, but when that sense of big brother is so strong you feel like you'll get in trouble if you step off the sidewalk and Walk Through the Grass!! something is out of balance.

Even the security guy at Baja Fresh was undercover!

[Sort of Related Tangent: Since we got into town kind of late, the only place really open near the White House was Baja Fresh, so we went in to grab a taco. Some homeless guy, the only one we saw while in DC, was sleeping at one of the tables -- and by sleeping I mean passed out. We had just sat down to enjoy our roasted tomato salsa when suddenly Sleeping Beauty woke up, did that throat grumbly thing that precedes a loogey, turned his head our way, and let mucus fly. I almost died. I thought he'd spit on Mack and had a flash forward of hoochie mamas/hutcimata/something judo being thrown like crazy, but luckily, undercover security a few tables away intervened and told the man to leave. I like a good nut job, but I Do Not do snot.]

Mack, who has watched a whole lot more news than me, was convinced that the Washington Monument was a free mason lookout tower that secretly covered an escape rocket housing aliens who are directing activities on earth. Normally I'd think that was just imagination at work, but since everyone in DC is a robot, I'm not so sure.
To be fair, some of my evaluation of the DC may have been influenced by our visit to the International Spy Museum, which taught you to trust no one. It also taught me about microdots and picking locks and that the key to being a good spy is having lots of hollowed out things... like sticks, shoe heels, lipsticks, cigarettes and cigarette boxes.

We also learned a lot at the Smithsonian Natural History Museum -- namely that, and this is not directed to people whose babies I like but all the other people in the world, PEOPLE NEED TO STOP HAVING BABIES. It would have been nice to look at the Insect Zoo if not for the 1 to 6 ratio of adults to kids. And you know kids are like ants but without the discipline. And since when do strollers have to be the size of Cadillacs? It's really a matter of space, and all these babies with all their crap are taking up way too much space. Babies that I know can stay, but no more new babies and babies I don't know need to be anti-consumers. That means a $15 umbrella stroller, one sippy cup and one toy. Maybe some diapers too, but that is it.

Normally when I go places I enjoy myself even if all I do is walk around and take photos, but for whatever reason, DC was just not inspiring me. In fact, the only inspiration I could muster came from Sarah and her collection of photos of herself next to things. May I present Amber in Photos Next to Things:
Overall, my favorite place was probably Chinatown. We found an awesome Thai restaurant that had some amazing curry. Our lunch at the Smithsonian was $40 (admission was free though), but our dinner at this Thai place, with beers and an appetizer, was only $35. I also loved the archway that welcomed you to Chinatown and being able to watch the guys cook duck in the window.
Getting out of town was fun, and it would have been a lot more fun if we'd been able to get over to Baltimore to see Sarah, but I think I'm good on DC for another 20 years.