Cumberland Maryland 7pm

No. No periods. No commas. I write the way I like. I am the only limit to my own self-expression.

Here, allow me to correct your comma splice. Yes, I am a grammar bitch. And I bend the rules exactly when and how I choose. You are not allowed to bend the rules because you don’t want to embarrass yourself around someone who knows better.

Oh, I’m so polite. Then I go back to my cubicle and skewer your words. I dig darts in your predicate clause. I spade rocks onto your fallacious idiomatic expressions. The next time I correct one of your run-ons, I will modify the kitchen schedule so you’re stuck on dish duty two weeks straight. Perhaps then you will learn that I’m not to be messed with.

And that I only fight when I know I’m right. And that you’re wrong. And that I can make others believe the error of your ways, through processes slow, subtle and planned far in advance.

Your paternalistic attitude gets you nowhere. In the future, I will greet the simplest hint of your b.s. with a flowchart worthy of Ross Perot; I will simultaneously put all easels in the conference room to use. Next time you question my apostrophe placement, I will displace your office supplies like so many African refugees. So un-humanitarian of me, I know.

Sigh…sometimes, all a girl has to sustain herself are fantasies of revenge. I would say that I nourish myself on my own hubris most days, had I not just gorged myself at Thanksgiving. (Disingenuous smut)

And that brings me to tonight’s topic…

The residents of Cumberland Maryland are a curious lot. Taking cues from their geographical location perched perilously on the side of an, err, gorge, they eat abundantly. In fact, one would conclude that eating is the only game in town. One gas station that is the definition of Podunk. One McDonalds with walls like a barn and one Wendy’s with a line out the door. More bar-b-ques than the eye can count.

I enter the Wendy’s with a “when in Rome” attitude, deciding to white-trash myself into fast food oblivion. As I sit at my table for one, I glance around at my fellow diners. Shifty sits by the windows in front, seemingly uncomfortable under the flickering phosphorescent lighting. He’s dining with a woman-either a mother or grandmother- he holds in relative disdain. The woman does most of the talking. He fidgets with a ring finger, an earring.

Wendy sits at pitcher position in the restaurant, but all she does is catch-fries, burgers, sodas, and her kid’s chicken nuggets. The kid mostly sits in a highchair and squeals excitedly. I decide to name the woman Wendy because she has disheveled bottle red hair that could be improved by a set of pigtails.

Over by the ketchup island sit a couple feeding each other French fries. I saw them at the lone gas station 15 minutes earlier, and they recognized me and waved hi when I walked in. Ahh yes, my lone thin companions.

I stare out the window onto a parking lot that leads to a bowling alley. My Oregon plates seem to be garnering attention. A man clears his throat and spits on the ground. Some teenagers skate aimlessly.

The night is cold and damp. Fog rises from the ground; the snow seems to hiss and dissolve into a dirty Sunkist sky. And I feel very far from home.

Buttons

There is a plot of land in the country that contains the frame of a burnt out house. It burnt in 1938, when it was almost 200 years old; it was never repaired and was put up for sale. One day, a buyer arrived, observing the tidy value of the land dotted by the rotting house. Inspectors determined that the foundation of the house, despite its age and fire damage, could still be an appropriate base for a new home. The wreckage was bulldozed away, leaving the stone foundation and uncovering what used to be a cellar. Walking around the square that was to be his new home, the owner discovered three mounds in row. Curious, he began to dig, and cursedly, discovered graves. Due to the age of the home, a local archeologist assisted in the process of uncovering the bones. Ultimately, the age of the graves was best predicted by the tiny gold buttons that used to adorn the men’s uniforms. They were all Union soldiers, likely shot by the Confederate homeowner when they ventured onto his property.

One day, a man was stranded in a sea of endless traffic on I-66 in Virginia. The woman in the car ahead of him got a flat tire and pulled off the road. Absent anything else to do with his time than fret about the traffic, the man pulled over to help. While the woman stayed in the car with the window rolled up, he changed her tire. When he finished, he placed tools back in the trunk of the woman’s car. For some reason unbeknownst to the man, the woman got spooked and took off down the shoulder as fast as she could. The man was wearing a Levi’s jean jacket with brass buttons on the cuffs. They caught in the bumper of the woman’s car. He was dragged at least the distance of a football field before another motorist pulled his car in front of the woman’s to force her to stop. He carries the scars to this day, and never, under any circumstances, helps motorists in trouble.

One of my coworkers made a donation to the Democratic Party and in exchange, received a packet of Obama buttons. Let it be acknowledged that this individual is entirely undeserving of cool lapel flair. Much as this person gives out candy in a ploy to get people to like him, he gives out the buttons in a “favors for favors” fashion. I have received exactly zero buttons, partially because “brownnosing” is not in my vocabulary. However, I would really like a button. Not so much to wear it, but to keep it in mint condition for down the line, when it becomes a political relic. And not in the Dewey/ McGovern sense, in the Roosevelt/ Kennedy sense.

I like collecting people’s stories and locking them away in my mind like I was packing them away in an antique lacquered box. When I was a kid, I had a box like that…it was full of buttons.

Delusions of Grandeur

In the United Arab Emirates, it’s all about the license plate lotto. Specifically, the lower your plate number, the higher your social standing. Make and model of vehicle are irrelevant: Pintos and Trackers are Lamborghini’s equals.

Recently, an individual put his license plate number up for auction to the highest bidder. The transaction earned the auctioneer over $14 million.

The purchased number: 2.

When I was driving behind Mark Warner to the gas station today, I took note of his license plate: also 2. I wonder if he’s aware that in the UAE, he would have lines of people waiting for his autograph, blessing or slightest nod in their direction.

Now that I think of it, perhaps Mark did know. He took off rather suddenly without pumping a dime of gas. It could have been due to the loud music in a nearby car, which clearly suggested the presence of nefarious hoods. One can never be too careful.

________________________________________________________________________

The story of the UAE auction was related to me by my Bangladeshi landlord. He lived in the UAE and keeps up on their current events. One of his favorite stories of the Middle East in general takes place when he was living in Libya. Apparently, he came upon a location at the edge of the desert that caters to the rich and famous. For a flat fee, sultans, emirs, and bosses of all kinds can destroy as many brand-new Jeep Wranglers as they want in the sand dunes. Hundreds of Jeeps dot the landscape, fully drivable if not for the several thousand tons of sand locking them in place.

Replace the Jeeps with go-carts and this reminds me of a perfect playland for the Michael Jackson of the immediately post-child molestation trial era. I read a rather tragic article about him the other day-too much moonwalking has given him premature arthritis, or so he claims, causing him to travel mostly by wheelchair. His comments have the air of a defeated soul. I alternately wanted to crank “PYT” and write Michael a fan letter. Maybe he would keep it in a shoebox under his bed and look at it when he felt down. After all, I have to provide as much support as I can to dark folks who appear lighter than I am.

________________________________________________________________________

Anyway, back to my landlord. I gave him a bunch of Bic lighters today along with my rent check. See, I bought the lighters because Target no longer sells matches, and I have candles that need lighting. My only other option was to buy a giant grill lighter but as I have a poor history of flame-retardation I figured this wasn’t prudent. How hard can it be to flick a Bic? Everyone makes it look so easy:

Ease of Use of Bic Lighter, 98% of the Population Reporting.
Note: Responses are organized from hardest action to easiest action

-Stopping eating Hershey’s Kisses with Almonds just short of making yourself sick (Requires self-control)

-Counting number of licks to center of Tootsie Roll Pop (Requires patience. Sometimes the dog will help. His licks count double.)

-Opening bag of Fritos while lying upside down on the La-Z-Boy recliner without dumping them all over yourself (Requires motor skills.)

-Scratching itchy place between love handle and top of jeans (Requires fingernails)

-Flicking Bic lighter

Ease of Use of Bic Lighter, Michelle Reporting:
(Again, responses recorded from hardest to easiest)

-Constructing a replica of the Taj Mahal out of Kinex while being trampled by a hoard of wild elephants (Indescribably difficult to the point of being absurd)

-Using a Bic lighter (I never even made a spark, even after reading the instructions, looking for help online, and having my landlord demonstrate)

-Whistling (totally impossible)

-Snapping (occasional success possible)

-Eating 3 large bags of Pirate Booty in one day (difficult, but possible)

________________________________________________________________________


Needless to say, my landlord thinks that his renter is hapless, hopeless and oh-so-funny to laugh at.

I hope he likes his new lighters, especially the pink one.

Chick Lit

I get a lot of feedback from my co-workers. Recently, I was told that I would have great material for a book. Usually, when I'm quiet for long periods at a time, it's because a.) I'm saving up material, most of which I reject as banal and start all over again b.) I don't feel comfortable saying the things I really want to talk about. But I legitimately could write a great book. About any number of things. It's something I've thought about doing since I was...well, born.

It's amazing the extent to which I am and am not a perfectionist. It shows up big time on this blog, but very little at work. As a child, my parents began to observe that I was deeply perfectionistic. So I got punished whenever I tried too hard to make something "just so". They were only marginally successful-like putting a knee patch on a pair of jeans.

I self-censor to an amazing degree...this blog takes on my personality in surprising ways...like most INFJ's still waters run deep. So I'm going to try to let you all see a more spontaneous, less carefully edited version of myself. A few days ago I allowed myself to be snarky with someone-that's something I never do. I'm far too polite to expose most of my internal anything.

So anyway, back to the chick lit-the just for fun category of my reading list. I realized that I have a very easy time mimicking the writing style of the chick literati. I plan to utilize this writing style for my PhD thesis. It will be revolutionary, and underappreciated, and eventually a cult sensation with the academic-poseur UO fake glasses set.

In other news, I have developed a rather disconcerting habit on the Metro. I’ve always enjoyed observing others, but only on the Metro do I have a tendency to outright stare. And I’ve noticed that this makes some people more uncomfortable than others. Largely because I’m not just observing, I’m also actively reading them-like a social science meets personal exercise.

I’ve had an uncanny ability since I was a child to pick up on cues that most people don’t even realize they give off. And I’m very good at hiding my ability to do it. Right now, I’m actively working at a.) honing this ability and b.) testing its limits. I’m definitely a lot better with some people than I am with others. However, there are some I can read frighteningly well. My boss has actually admitted to others in the office that my ability to accurately detect intent has scared him on several occasions.

Strangely enough, my recent observations have taught me that I’m pretty good at reading kids as well as adults. I found this surprising. Also interesting is that there are some people who know very well what I’m up to and won’t let me read them. Although rare, these are some of the people who I find the most interesting.

There is a man I met on the metro who has taken a tremendous interest in saving my immortal soul. He’s an interesting one. He arrives in the Vienna garage about the same time I do every day. One day, he let me borrow his golf umbrella so I wouldn’t get poured on. We’ve spoken on at least four occasions. He always gives me a brochure titled “Am I going to Heaven?”, but he never remembers me. There is no spark of recognition. It’s not even that he’s struggling to place me but can’t-I’m literally new every day. But whoever I am, he’s very concerned about me.

All this, strangely enough, leads me to John Edwards. When the story broke it caused a huge commotion in my office, with at least 5 staffers gathered around a single computer making comments. I was disinterested in participating. Partially because, I remember watching Mr. Edwards on TV several years ago and predicting/sensing that this would happen. I use the slash because with me, it genuinely is a combination of both. This is unrelated to any cynicism I may have regarding the private lives of political figures. It has everything to do with an ability that sometimes pops up in strange and unlikely ways. So the announcement, for me, was more like déjà vu.

I’ve also discovered that the best barometer of my mood is to sit down and write something. I can figure out exactly where I’m at by the curve of the letters, their size, organization, etc. Basically, I am my own FBI toolkit.

Notes from all over:

· I may be working on a program soon called “That Takes Ovaries”. I will be the only woman working on the project in our office.
· The Christian the Lion story makes me cry. The backing music on You tube is terrible though.
· Bernie Mac, I will watch Bad Santa in your honor. Not like it takes coaxing.
· Last night I watched the opening ceremony of the Olympics with the Bangladeshi family I live with. During the Parade of Nations, they cheered with me for all the Latin American countries. I cheered with them for Afghanistan, Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Saudi Arabia, Libya and Sudan (places where they have either lived or have family)
· I am quite possibly obsessed with the Rihanna song “Disturbia”. I have listened to it 12 times in a row. Don’t worry, this is normal.

Clarooscuro

“I have a tale to tell” she said, one day over coffee on a Tuesday afternoon.

I appeared intensely focused on stirring, smoothing every lump of sugar into a creamy brown vortex. Truth is, I knew something was coming. She wasn’t that hard to read. But I didn’t want to talk about whatever it was. So I asked her a question to distract her.

“Do you believe in love?” I said.

“Don’t distract me.” She said.

And so I gave up. The silence that followed must have lasted a half an hour. She had barely touched her coffee and was now staring out the window, lost somewhere in the rain.

“So, are you going to tell me?” I finally asked, dragging her back to this table, this space.

“I don’t think you want to hear my story.” She said. I couldn’t tell if she was serious or kidding.

More silence.

“Let’s just go” she proposed, “I’m not feeling so well.”

_____

We met again the following week. More rain. This time she got a hot chocolate. It occurred to me that maybe she didn’t like coffee. We sat together again at our table, and I watched her marshmallows dissolve. She looked out the window again.

“Did you watch the horse race?” She finally asked.

“No” I said. “The result was predictable anyway. And after what happened with Eight Belles, I feel like everyone is just waiting for another accident. Horse racing is turning into hockey, or wrestling, and we’re all just waiting for blood.”

For a change, she looked up from her drink. “Eight Belles is the one who died, right?”

“Yes” I responded, hoping I’d come across a topic of interest.

“Why do you always have to upset me?” She answered. “Do you slow down to look at accidents on the highway?”

“We all do.” I mumbled to myself.

_____

Some time passed. She stopped returning my calls. I worried. One day as a coworker and I sat in the café, she reappeared in a raincoat and galoshes. The sun was shining. Her hair was cut short and she looked more fragile than I remembered. “What happened to you, girl?” I remember asking myself.

I never found out what it was she couldn’t quite tell me.

The Tao of Roo

The way, the truth and the life always brings up the concept of the gatekeeper. No one gets to the future except by me, eh? But who defines the path/tunnel as such? Don’t tell me we’re all literalists here.

We Americans would seem to prefer that our gates come with remote control so we can open them like a garage door.

The following is a list of generalisms/ common ontological problems on this trip of life:

The Stone- Some of us were born with pebbles in our shoes. Some of us were born with boulders. Yes, your JESLUVSU vanity plate may make you feel better, but will it heal my ankle? From birth, the differences in this uneven playing field can crush even the toughest spirit. How can you self-actualize when you can’t eat?

Diagnosis: When hurt/ lack of basic opportunity/ bad luck/ etc prevent you both from seeking and opening the gate

The Mountain- Let’s face it, some of us have an easier climb than others. Some of us make it harder than it has to be. Some of us need it to be hard just so we don’t get bored. Some of us make the trip with stones still in our shoes, and bear the scars. Some of us have learned to channel our experiences, bring the right equipment, and beat the Prada loafer crowd to the top. Are you listening, Mr. You Don’t Know Who You Are? Of COURSE you aren’t! You have nothing I want.

Diagnosis: Uphill climbs are hard on bodies seeking the gate. Sometimes it’s just easier to give up, or paths diverge and lead onto new ones. The prerogative to change one’s mind is not just limited to women. Strains/sprains, broken bones and even loss of life are natural consequences.

The Valley- This is the perfect summer day, the peaceful valley, the good time, the complacency. For every one person who relies on God to get through the bad times, there is another person who has no reason to need God through the good/moderately ok times. And vice versa. There are people who solve this see-saw through alternative belief systems, and rightfully so. Suffice it to say, there is a tendency to linger in the light rather than face what lies ahead; to resist change even when it’s time. (6 year college plan, anyone?)

Diagnosis: People who believe they have reached the gate and linger too long under the erroneous impression that there is just one. The valley also contains those who are waiting for someone to open the gate for them. Moral of the story: just keep moving. Also: bring sunscreen.

The Silence- When the answers are not apparent and won’t come. For those situations when you’re convinced there is no “right” answer. For all the “why am I heres” and “ just why am I doing this agains”. For when your mind won’t stop racing long enough to give you any peace. Ever walk on a street after dark in an unsafe neighborhood, peek over your shoulder and wish for a sign of life so you don’t feel totally alone? That’s the silence. When you need to talk to someone but no one will pick up their phone? That’s the silence too. The relationship between silence and isolation, both spiritual and physical, is real.

Diagnosis: Going it alone is hard but sometimes necessary. Value both independence and dependence. Recognize and take care to protect what makes you resilient.


More t(roo)isms:

There are no destinations. The train station ahead doubles as a stage. Parapets won’t always keep you from falling.

Water is life.

Never underestimate the healing power of _________.

The shoebox under your bed will eat at your conscience. Eventually Mom will find your Playboys. And you’ll secretly be relieved.

Look for the simple in the complicated. Give me a kernel of truth and I’ll be fed for a week.

There is art in everyone. The extent to which it is recognized/ appreciated by others is neither your fault nor your mission.

Vindicated? Not yet. Just closer.


**Program Note: Dr. Roo will now be featured on channel 23 at 12:30am. This post brought to you by PBS and the support of viewers like you.

The Mongoose

Last week I was thinking about this insignificant little critter a lot, although for reasons I couldn’t place. I’ve always been a fan. How could you not be? Mongooses bring to mind David vs. Goliath, good vs. evil, the Tigers vs. everyone else, ie, the quintessential underdog struggle. What other animal combines petite furiousity with a killer instinct the way the mongoose does? Mongooses are like suped-up squirrels that make snakes look as menacing as a boxed lunch.

Growing up, I had an 80-year-old neighbor who liked to hunt down and run over snakes with her lawn mower. She was also legally blind and liked to bake cookies.

My thoughts on the mongoose suddenly came into clearer focus when I attended a conference on Cuba policy two Wednesdays ago. Suddenly, Operation Mongoose came into mind. I began to wonder: who names CIA covert operations? Is some analyst chortling in a back room at the end of a marathon of Animal Planet?

Assignment 1: Think and Discuss: (Actual quote taken from Cuba Conference ’08):
“In the prison yard culture of Washington D.C., if you get pushed, you better push back.”

Potential Answers:

a.) Be like the mongoose, girl, be like the mongoose.

Deja Roo

There were two things that struck me in particular when visiting the Newseum last weekend:

a. One of the displays includes a section of the communications antenna that used to be at the top of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. It looks like a dated and twisted mess. Not knowing the back story, one would think that maybe it survived a moon landing, or Hiroshima. Aside from a commentary of the dated nature of much of the nation’s infrastructure, I was struck by remembrances. Incredibly, I was transported back to being 13, and feeling utterly small in a huge city. I remember standing on the observation deck of the South Tower; having people explain how important it was to not throw pennies because by the time they reached the ground they would have attained deadly velocity. Guess spitting was out too, wasn’t it? It’s funny how an inanimate object, even free of tactile senses like taste and touch, can still trigger memories. I can literally smell the air on that day. Suddenly I felt myself tearing up as I realized I was making the comparison between lost towers and a more innocent time. Because in that moment, I was 13 again. And I knew I had been here before.

Behind the antenna is a display of newspaper headlines from around the world the day after the attacks. I found myself looking for El País, so I could once again see the world framed as I saw it in 2001. The search for the headline proved futile and I wondered if perhaps it was best to keep it in the past, as I had known it, in that moment, on la Gran Via in Madrid. Getting over the fact that events from my lifetime are now museum pieces: priceless? Get to know me: my Newseum’s free.

b. Another stirring component is a delegation of concrete blocks formerly known as the Berlin Wall. I remember people with chisels as one of my first memories of television news. And, I remember, even in a childlike way, understanding that something momentous was happening in the world. Never having identified as German, although by my background I would have every right to feel that way, I’d always viewed this event as being “not me” and “not mine”. (Despite the fact that those contained by the wall could have been family) Perhaps now I’ve studied enough of conflict to see the universality in that struggle, and identify its relevance.

Sticky Fingers

The Manassas version of the London Eye is located just at the point where urban sprawl hits, well, nothing at all. It appeared overnight, according to any reasonable estimate, for it certainly wasn’t there the day before. The sign in front describes it as a “Golf Range”, which it isn’t. It is also most assuredly not a theme park, as those tend to have a rhyme or reason for their silliness. Furthermore, the cartoonish assemblage is also not the local Goodwill Store, which, until recently, I assumed was the real carnival in town.

It has no parking, and is not serviced by metro, metrobus, metrorail, dash, or any other sort of bus, gondola or rickshaw. Hence, its existence is not validated by any apparent mode of transportation. What then, is its purpose?

Some theories:

A.) This is a sort of “Field of Dreams” for carnies. For the last several months, a local mechanic has been troubled by rather alarming “if you build it, they will come” type murmurings. In a moment of inane lucidity, the mechanic called every available Rent-a-away and this was the result. At night, he flips the light switch and a million million-watt bulbs flicker under the moonlight. Every bearded lady, ticket taker and caramel apple vendor resurface from the grave to actually ride all the rides, dammit! (Some of them have even been known to stick gum underneath the seats)
B.) The park is part of a demented effort to remove “undesirables” from the community. While difficult enough for normal folk to access, I’m more than confident that absolutely zero provisions for the disabled are in effect. I’ve also heard that ticket takers have been charged with the undesirable task of checking papers before ride authorization is permitted. Sorry Virginians, but the Tilt-o-hurl is only available to legal residents approved by the biometric device located at customer service, those over 46 in tall, the highly mobile and those without pigtails (long story). *Note: the customer service area is closed until further notice due to lack of available labor, however, restrictions remain in place.
C.) In reality, the park is the newest advance in drug trials for a new anti-motion sickness medicine. Cotton candy containing the drug is passed out for free upon entry. Interaction warnings/ counter-indications are printed on the inside of strategically-placed barf bags located throughout the park. Although feedback on the trial is still coming in, many subjects indicate that, once mesmerized by the flashing lights, they briefly forget the pending foreclosure of their home. Researchers are trying to find a way to market this interesting side-effect to a wider audience.
D.) Another set of researchers are monitoring violence among at-risk groups of youth. The researchers pose as game operators. When the youth populations studied begin to shoot the teddy bears offered as prizes instead of the pop-up bunny rabbits, they are ruled a risk to society-at-large. Incarceration follows in the House of Mirrors.
E.) The daughter of the mayor, after 4 years of singing along with all the songs on American Idol, AND standing in line in the rain for four hours for Clay Aiken’s autograph, feels like she’s ready to take the next step. Being the cherished buttercup that she is, Daddy has no other option but to buy her a stage at her very own country fair.
F.) All of the above
G.) Some other option (write in comments below)