Confessions in a Taxi Cab

As a newcomer to the wonderful District of Columbia, and lucky enough to live in Dupont Circle, I spent a great deal of my time walking around the city. There are so many perks to walking, such as: exercise, not having to look for parking, discovering cool neighborhoods and having the option to drink all day. Also, if you find yourself walking on Connecticut Avenue, you are guaranteed to get hit on, heckled or even barked at (whatever that means).

Alas, my love of walking changed one fateful November night. Something happened that questioned my pedestrian lifestyle. Something so traumatizing, that I was rocked to my very core and made a vow to never walk again.

It was a weeknight, around 10:30, near Farragut North. I was walking with a couple of girlfriends, minding my own business, when suddenly I felt my friend grab my arm and frantically pull me to the side. I realized what was happening and in a state of being Shermineh, let out a blood-curdling scream. Apparently, some crazy Voodoo, witch doctor- looking lady (with questionable fashion) decided she needed to KICK me. So, said lady charged at me, while yelling in something that resembled a possessed lunatic speaking in tongues. ( I wish I were being hyperbolic, but I am not. Remember, no satire or humor here.)

At that moment, several thoughts ran through my head:
WHAT THE F***???!!!!
I’m not in Irvine anymore.
Why are bat-shit crazy people drawn to me?
Did I close my tab at Blackfinn? AND
As God is my witness, I’ll never walk again!!! (cue Gone with the Wind soundtrack).

And I never did.

Thus begins the second chapter of my life in DC- where I discovered the cab ride. In the beginning I was apprehensive about getting into cabs by myself. Growing up with a Persian mom that watches one too many Lifetime movies really messes with ones head. Not to mention my crazy imagination and unhealthy obsession with Robert De Niro made me extremely paranoid. But I would rather risk a ride from Travis Bickle than get a roundhouse kick to the head by a crazy Voodoo, witch doctor-looking lady (with questionable fashion).

DC Cab Drivers

The DC cab driver.

They can tell you about culture, history, geography, psychology, science, and of course, politics. They are a wealth of history and information and will gladly share with you. Despite their lack of driving skills, they are extremely kind and good natured.

The life lessons and the experiences I have had during cab rides are unparalleled. I have had heated debates, tequila infused breakdowns, and life changing epiphanies. I have had numerous existential moments and received the best therapy and career advice of my life.

I find most of my experiences, for the most part, to be universal. However, some experiences are unique, in that they could and would only happen to me. When you read this, you will think the same.

Everybody Dance Now (or Sing)

One of the greatest things that I have discovered about DC cab drivers is that they are multi-talented. Meaning, some have been given the gift of song and dance. On numerous occasions, I have had the great fortune and pleasure of experiencing that talent. The best part is, they always invite you to join them.

Nothing is greater than ending the night with a sing off in the back of a car- jamming and singing to 80’s tunes. NOTHING.

Wait, I lied. Nothing is greater than having an Indian dance party in the back of a cab. Imagine 2 girls, 2 guys, a cab driver and Indian music on blast. Keep in mind the only Indian is the cab driver, who is too busy singing and dancing along to keep his hand on the steering wheel. Picture a very bad version of a Bollywood music video, throw in a high speed car chase and you get one of the best cab rides I have ever had.

DO NOT Tell a Persian Girl That You “Love Ahmadinejad”

One of the many reasons that I absolutely love DC is that you can talk to anyone, at anytime and any place about current affairs and politics. That includes cab drivers. I have had some wonderful debates and talks with cab drivers-mostly pleasant encounters. Except for that one cab ride that cost me my Drivers License, favorite MAC lipgloss and convinced my roommate that I may need to take Anger Management classes.

It was a few days after Snowmageddon and I miraculously caught a cab from Chinatown and made my way home. We had the usual small talk, he asked me where I was from, I answered “California”, he said “no where are you from?”, I said “oh, Iran.”

He looked at me, smiled, and said: “I love Ahmadinejad. He is a great guy.”

Usually, I make it a rule to never engage incompetent and ignorant people. I also have a bad habit of breaking my rules. In fact, if you know me, I am sure you can only imagine how the rest of that conversation went. Let’s just say heads were rolling, fingers were pointing, arms were flailing and voices were being raised.

Ok, it was mostly me doing the yelling and the finger pointing. But, before you jump to the conclusion that it was typical, impulsive Shermineh behavior, I would like to say this: 1) during the aftermath of the 2009, June Presidential election in Iran- I spent two weeks of my vacation going to demonstrations and protests in California (where the crazy people live); 2) it was Snowmageddon, tensions were high, people thought the world was coming to an end AND 3) honestly, I thought it was common knowledge to not go against an impassioned Persian girl. He should have known better.

In the moment of rage, I left my Drivers License and make up bag in the cab. I tried to get it back, but for some strange reason I never saw it again. I walked around the city with my passport for six months!!! Damn, I really HATE that cab driver.

Lessons in Geography

Where the hell is Eritrea*??!!! Seriously, I had never heard of ‘Eritrea’ until I came to DC. It sounds like the name of an enchanted kingdom from a fairytale or a village that is part of the seven kingdoms on Game of Thrones.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Make Me a Match, Find Me a Find, Catch Me a Catch

When a Rico Suave wannabe and self- proclaimed “playboy” tries to get you a boyfriend, you have nothing else to say but: “FML.” No, really, f*** my life.

This very man, the ‘matchmaker’, got caught cheating on his girlfriend with her best friend, then had the audacity to blame the friend because she lured him with her “seductive ways.” This is the man who tells me that I need a boyfriend. This is the man who then tries to set me up with one of his many friends.

Here is how that conversation went:

“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?!” – Rico Suave (ps- a question all single girls LOVE being asked!)

“Well… I don’t know because…”- Me.

RS interrupts. “You are such a beautiful girl! Let me set you up with Dave. He is 30. Nice guy. Looking for a wife.” (All of my requirements: check)

RS then pulls out his cell phone and tries to call his friend on the spot. I politely refuse. He gives it to me anyways.

FML.

Everyone Loves a Persian Girl

One of my favorite things to do during a cab ride is play a game that I call: “Where are you from?” This game is a lot of fun, because cab drivers rarely guess the right answer. So far I have heard : “Italian” “Greek” ,“White girl” and “Venezuelan”. I smile and sweetly reply: “No, I’m Persian.” What I really want to say is: “Duuuude! Have you seen my profile?!” or “If I can guess where you are from, you can guess where I am from.”

Now, this would normally give me a complex about my identity. However, when they realize that I am indeed a girl of the Persian breed, this leads to my favorite part of the game. They look at me in the mirror, sometimes they even turn their head like a freakin’ owl and say: “ohhhhhhhhhh! I LOVE PERSIAN GIRLS!!! You are all soooooooo beautiful! The most beautiful women in the world!!!”

Those type of cab rides always cost me more, but they are worth every penny.

*A country of northeast Africa bordering on the Red Sea. Once part of the Ethiopian kingdom of Aksum, it became an Italian colony in 1890 and was named after the Roman term for the Red Sea, Mare erythraeum. Captured by the British during World War II, Eritrea later became a federated part (1952) and then a province (1962) of Ethiopia, from which it gained its independence in 1993. Asmara is the capital and largest city. Population: 4,910,000. (The Free Dictionary)

To Whom It May Concern

I am one of 14.6 million Americans unemployed. This does not take into account the 5.9 million who have stopped looking but say they want a job, and the 8.5 million who are working part time but would like to work full time. In other words, I am one of nearly 30 million Americans looking for a job. You would think it would make me feel better to know that I am not alone. However, I feel even more hopeless now, because I am competing with 30 million people for one job. To make matters even worse, I have to hear shit like this everyday:

“Double dip recession”

“Worst economic crisis since the Great Depression”

“Hundreds of thousands attend Glenn Beck rally”

“You can go marry a rich guy” (serious advice from a former colleague)

“Blah blah blah… you are shit out of luck. There is no hope for you”. Ok, I made this last one up. But you get the picture.

This entry is in no way inspirational. I do not offer any words of advice, because if I had some good ones, then I would perhaps have a job. If you are expecting something that offers hope or a happy ending, then you are either employed, in which case, I hate you already or you are highly delusional and could possibly benefit from reading this entry. This is my reality, or how I see it.

Let’s start from the beginning.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

To Whom It May Concern:

My name is Desperate Job -Seeker and I am interested in ANY position that is either: a) somewhat related to the field I want to get into b) somewhat related to the field I have previously worked in and c) somewhat resembles a job that pays me just enough money to avoid getting deported from the District of Columbia.

Attached please find (and utilize the skills you learned at the tender age of 5 and READ) my resume, cover letter and writing samples.

I look forward to hearing from you, which will most likely never happen and if it does (in 6 months), I will have absolutely no recollection of what company you are with and what position you are talking about, because by then I would have applied to 60,000 other positions.

Sincerely,

Desperate Job -Seeker
_____________________________________________________________________________________

Interview with the Vampire is Less Precarious and More Preferred

You have completed the application phase. Which means you wake up in the morning and apply to jobs all day, until your carpel tunnel kicks in. If you have the rare fortune to find yourself at an interview, which up until a few months ago I thought was a myth, a made up word, a hyperbole; here are the most common questions that they will ask. (Note- I have provided corresponding answers to add further humor to my story. Use them at your own risk, because chances are you won’t get the job and they will most likely call security on your ass).

Q: Do you have any questions for us?
A: Can you please hire me? When will you hire me? Am I hired? How about now? Am I hired yet?

Q: What are some of your Strengths?
A: I can tell you, but if you hire me, I can show you. *wink* OR

A: Clearly, I am not strong enough to take my own life despite feeling worthless for the last few months. Or does that count as a strength? I am strong enough not to take my own life despite the strong negative feelings I have about it.

Q: What are some of your Weaknesses?
A: I have plenty of weaknesses, but I will tell you some positive characteristics about myself and somehow take a question that is supposed to highlight my areas of growth and turn it into a discussion about my brilliance. So basically, I have just demonstrated one of my strengths. If you are smart enough to realize that, you will hire me.


There is a Fine Line Between a Follow Up Call and a Restraining Order

Congratulations, you are done with the interview phase and have sent the “follow up” email, thanking your interviewer for their time. They, of course, tell you that they will get back to you “by the end of the week”. You, of course, cannot accept this; thus begins the weekly “calling to touch base” phone calls. These calls eventually transform into the post interview stalking phase. During this phase you will spend more time talking to future employers than your actual family. Before you know it, you will find any excuse to call. “I got a missed call from you”, “did you call me?” or “you said…to…call…you?” (Note- I may or may not have a few restraining orders filed against me. My lawyer has advised me not to talk about them).


Excuse You

After months of extensive fieldwork, I have compiled a short list of the most common excuses used by employers. Below I have listed them and translated their meanings for discussion:

“x was out of town”,“x is out of town”,“x just got back from out of town” – This means that they do not want to bother their boss with your insignificance, aka perform their job. Ergo, they use their bosses name as scapegoats to mask their incompetence.

“We are still interviewing a few more candidates (4 months later).”- We don’t want you, but we don’t want other people to have you.

“Things have been so hectic, we haven’t had a chance to…”- Oh shit! I totally forgot about you, even though you have been calling me and checking in once a week for the past 4 months. Oh, well. I will get to it after I am done g-chatting my friend about our dream weddings, even though both of us are single and have not been out on a date for 6 years.

“We will get back to you by the end of the week.” – We will not bother to get back to you, ever. In fact, you will contact me the following week in which I will tell you one of the 4 excuses listed above.


Turning to the Occult for Assistance

Perhaps what makes the waiting Phase so difficult is the complete lack of control over the situation. You have gone on the interview, sent a “Thank You” note, a follow up email, made a follow up call, a “touch base” call and you have even sent a fruit basket and flowers. Now you wait for either a phone call from your potential employer or your lawyer. Either way, the waiting game sucks.

I have discovered that impatience and desperation can create a chemical reaction in the brain which convinces people to turn to horoscopes, superstitions and the occult for answers. For the past few months I have wasted several hours of my life looking through different websites to find horoscopes that are relevant to my career. Then, I have convinced myself of the validity of these horoscopes. I convinced myself that I was going to get the job because I have somehow equated “the moon is in retrograde” with “they will call you with a job offer tomorrow”.

If that wasn’t bad enough, I have become one of those people so obsessed with superstitions that I blame my friends for my bad luck because they have enough common sense to not take that shit seriously. For instances, its 11:11- make a wish, for ME. Get that white lighter away from me! It rained today, is that good luck for interviews like it is for weddings? I had an interview on my birthday; it has to be a sign. It is my birthday and it rained- I totally got the job.

It is quite amazing what people will do when they really want something. They might even consider dabbling in the dark arts to get what they want. For example, I ALMOST considered making a voodoo doll of someone who interviewed me for a position that I really wanted. I was never going to hurt the person; I just wanted to get them to hire me by using some voodoo magic. But then I recognized that my life has some repeated patterns which would most likely result in my plan backfiring; meaning I would somehow mess up the voodoo doll and end up accidentally killing the very person that could hire me.


The Prodigal Daughter

The questions every jobless person loathes-where do you work? What do you do?
I am honestly sick of hearing my own voice as I try to think of witty phrases or euphemisms to explain my unemployment. However, I am pretty sure people will judge me harshly if I said: “I spend my daddy’s money because I don’t have a job. I like to go to happy hours with my friends and drink and spend more of my daddy’s hard earned cash to support my drinking habit that was initially caused by my lack of employment. Then I drink more because I feel horrible, guilty and shameful for spending my dad’s money and for being unemployed. I can’t distinguish between the two feelings of failure, which makes me drink even more.” I guess I could just say I’m “in between jobs”.


You Know What They Say About Advice…

I completely respect my family and friends and I value their opinions. However, there are two pieces of generic advice floating around that will eventually leave me without any friends or family.

The first, “stay positive”. STFU you employed fool. Do not say another word because I am positive that I will drop kick you to the floor.

The other piece of advice, “have you tried ( insert the most obvious and trivial advice, leaning towards border line offensive it is so blatant)”. REALLY? Wow! I haven’t thought about that in the last 5 fucking months!!! Thank you for that wonderful piece of advice. If only I knew about this critical piece of information, I could have gotten a job months ago!!! All of my problems would have been solved. Your pearls of wisdom could possibly bring peace to the Middle East and solve world hunger.

I know that they are trying to be helpful and supportive, but at this stage, I am better comforted by negativity. I don’t want to hear: “I’m sure you will do fine”, “remember the laws of attraction” or “don’t give up”. I want you to tell me that my situation sucks and I want you to acknowledge that if you were in my situation, you wouldn’t know what to do either.

The EU

The only people that I want to hear from are people that do not have jobs. Misery loves company and I have become a great host! I want to be amongst like-minded people, people who can feel my pain and suffering. People who also see this world as a dark, empty, cruel place. So, I propose starting a club: the Embittered Unemployed (EU). And only those who have been unemployed and looking for work with no avail are permitted to join. We will meet once a month in the Dupont Circle park, because there is a lot of shade and the fountain brings me peace. First rule of EU - You do not talk about employment. Second rule of EU -Positive thinking is not allowed. Third rule of EU- Alcoholism is not condoned, it is mandatory. In fact, we will sit around, pass a bottle of vodka and discuss the many ways we hate this world and how we have become jaded and disillusioned by the whole process. We will discuss our hatred of human resources personnel and their futile existence. We will wallow in our self pity and lack of competence in being able to secure a job. It will be magnificent.

STFU

I hate people who complain about working and being tired. Bitch, at least you have a job. And no, the grass is not always greener, because I don’t even have astroturf. So quit your incessant complaining, be thankful you have a job and stfu.


“Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity”

At one point in my life, this quote was really inspirational, funny how things change. What I now get from this quote is that luck is contingent on opportunities and preparation, that luck is not an entity on its own. What I also get from this quote is that the author, Seneca, is full of crap. We can use me as an example to prove that this statement is misleading and stupid. Despite being ‘prepared’ (component 1), qualified and experienced for jobs aka ‘opportunities’ (component 2), I am still jobless, aka I have no luck. Basically I have such bad luck that I am an exception to this quote. I have learned absolutely nothing from this statement. It is stupid and I don’t even know who “Seneca” is anyways; I’ve never heard of him. In fact, I’m beginning to hate him. His name even annoys me.

What I’m Trying to Say is…

Ultimately, you have to keep trying, unless you are jaded enough by the process to give up and settle for a life of quiet solitude. This means a rejection of all material objects and a diet of park squirrels. So, we keep going because eventually we will find that job and this struggle, this pain and suffering will all just be a distant memory, a bump in the road that helped “build” your character and strengthen you as a person. At least I hope so, because that is what I tell myself everyday. If not, then I am completely fucked because I have deluded myself into thinking it is true. It’s bad enough that I am unemployed and now I am delusional with no hope of ever getting better because I don’t have a job to pay for a psychologist.

I would be remiss if I did not conclude my raving and ranting with a little speck of hope. I leave you with these wise words from Norman Lear, who according to Wikipedia, “grew up in a Jewish home and had a Bar Mitzvah.”

"When I thought I couldn't go on, I forced myself to keep going. My success is based on persistence, not luck."
-Norman Lear

The Waterfront, Politics and Pink Shorts

The Georgetown Waterfront is the closest thing DC has to the beach, so naturally it has become my own personal playground. There is something very alluring about the place and believe me, it is not the horrific food or the over priced drinks. It is not the scenic view of the Potomac nor is it the thrill of finally being able to enjoy the outdoors. Then why do so many torment themselves with long lines at the bar, obnoxious drunkards and suffocating crowds? To love the Waterfront is to love the people that you are guaranteed to meet there. These “colorful” characters truly make the Waterfront one of the most fascinating places in DC. You have the quintessential prepsters, the Popped Collar Crew, the Georgetown students, the Pink Shirt Association, the Prom Dress Princesses, the “I work at State” Brigade, the Salmon Colored Pants Posse, the Persian Mafia, the Loafer Lovers Squad, the cougars, and the mid-life crisis perverts. Perhaps of all of these groups, the two that that have made the most impact are the Kennedy Boys and the Reagan Boys.

The Kennedy Boys…*sigh*. As the paragon for perfection, they provide the best view at the Waterfront. A hybrid of preppy East coaster and laid back California surfer, these guys are a walking Abercrombie ad. Defined by their polo shirts, magnetic smiles, eyes that melt hearts and perfect hair (Ashton pre Demi), they exude confidence and charm without the haughtiness. Their incredibly chiseled good looks and laid back demeanor makes them an aberration to the man stock in DC. Sightings have been rare and to my dismay and not for lack of trying, personal encounters have been rather scarce, which is something I plan on changing once the weather gets nicer. Devastatingly, personal experiences with the Kennedy Boys have been more of a distant observation or quick walk by, whereas run-ins with the Reagan Boys has been much more frequent and given my uncensored nature, much more entertaining.

The only path that leads one to conversing with a guy in pink shorts covered with little blue whales is the path of the refreshing and always effective Loaded Corona. I have a theory that Reagan Boys approach me because I look completely different than the Waspy girls they are used to dating. Also at some level of subconscious dysfunction, they figure dating an Eye-ran-E-n girl would scare the shit out of their parents. Unbeknown to me, it is apparently not “proper” social etiquette to engage strangers in the discussion of religion and politics. However, in DC politics are ubiquitous and a bar is considered fair game. No matter how hard I try to restrain myself I somehow always break that cardinal rule and end up making a smart ass remark about my disdain for Bush and all conservatives. Thus begins a series of very uncomfortable and awkward moments where I am the only one laughing hysterically while they stare at me in complete shock like I am the Anti-Christ that just shouted “Reagan was a closeted homo!”

After a few sideway glances, someone mutters “hippie” under their breath and then comes The Question that always changes my fate: “Where in California are you from?” To which I proudly answer: “Southern California…Orange County!”, which then signals the next round of even more awkward moments accompanied this time by judgmental stares. The combination of unbearable tension and my inability to deal with uncomfortable scenarios gives me the biggest urge to shout: “Waterboarding is NOT torture!”, because at that very moment, immobilizing me on my back and pouring water over my face into my breathing passages repeatedly is far more humane than subjecting me to the judgmental stares of some pompous asshole sporting a bowl cut with his dress shirt tucked into his jeans held up by a McCain belt (not a fabrication).

No matter your preference- Reagan Boys, Kennedy Boys, Prom Dress Princesses, the Waterfront has something for everyone. And if you happen to not find what you are looking for, just remember that a Loaded Corona will never fail you.

Lessons of a Pub Crawl

Its 3:14 in the morning.I am wide awake. The culprits: a throbbing, pounding, violent headache and severe dehydration. It feels like something died inside my mouth and simultaneously grew fur. It could be the nausea or the unsettled feeling that I did something bad. Either way, I am up.

Still in my clothes from earlier that night, I make my way to the kitchen(with a lot of effort)to get some water. As I reach for a cup, I notice a “Coors Light” wristband and a black star stamped on my hand. I look down at my shirt and amidst the cookie crumbs and the ketchup stain I see green beads dangling from my neck- a shiny reminder of what had transpired earlier in the night.

Looking like one of those creepy zombies from Night of the Living Dead, I make my way back to my room (with a lot of effort), but not before I have an encounter with my roommate.

“How was your night?” she asks. “Did you have a lot of fun?”

After three failed attempts at speech, I finally find the words to sum up my experience: “I think I might be getting too old for this shit.”

“No!” she responds. “No, you are not!”

Normally those words would have been comforting, except they were coming from a 24 year old girl who mixes potions on her Harry Potter Wii game during her spare time.*

What could have possibly happened that was powerful enough to shake me to my core and have me questioning my youth? My livelihood? Two words: Leprechaun Lap

In an attempt to prove to everyone ( for no apparent reason), including myself that I can drink and party like a 20 year old frat boy (failed),I enlisted some friends to join me on an ALL day pre -St. Patrick’s Day pub crawl, better known as the Leprechaun Lap. For the past 9 years, Washingtonians have taken to Dupont Circle for an annual pre – St. Patty’s Day celebration , otherwise known as a good excuse for people of all ages to get really drunk in the middle of the day.

The morning of the big day, I woke up to an intense emotion that could only be compared to that feeling you have as a child before you go to Disneyland. The type of excitement that takes over your body and occupies your mind for days.

Well...this was no Disneyland (although there were plenty of cartoon characters, but they were more like Quagmire and Bart Simpson than Mickey Mouse). There were tons of people, infinite amounts of beer… and a lot of walking. It was exactly what I expected, but I was surprised at my reaction. Let me be clear... I still had a lot of fun. In fact, I had the type of fun that has you up 3:00 in the morning questioning everything you thought you knew about yourself (possible side effect of severe dehydration?). Like most chaotic experiences in my life, I came out of this event with many valuable life lessons.

Here is what I learned:

• Coors Light is NOT beer
• You never need an excuse for day drinking
• If someone asks you if you are Irish, nod your head politely and say “yes”. It is not an appropriate time for lessons in history, geography and global politics
• Telling a guy to ‘Facebook’ you instead of giving him your actual number could be taken as an insult
• I learned, the hard way, why it’s called a pub crawl. Although a pub stumble, is equally befitting
• Sake bombs in the middle of a pub crawl should be mandatory
• Green is the one color that looks good on everyone
• It is highly unlikely that you will meet a guy at a pub crawl that you can take home to mom ( no matter how romantic it seems, at the time)
• Julia’s Empanadas only accepts cash
• If a guy tells you he danced in The Nutcracker, he is telling the truth
• If a guy tells you he danced in The Nutcracker and thus proves it by demonstrating ballet positions … walk away
• If a guy tells you he is in the “organ donor collecting business” and he is completely serious… run away
• Burger King is NEVER a good idea
• Everyone loves an Eye-Rain-E-N girl
• While trying to impress a guy with your mediocre Spanish skills, do not try to be cute and ask “Tienes mota?” It will backfire!!!
• “Beer before liquor never been sicker” – wise words

In conclusion: No, I am NOT too old for this shit. I am TOO LAZY for this shit. The most important lesson that I learned is that I do not like to move when I am drinking. This whole bar hopping, going from one over crowded bar to the next… not for me. No. I want to be with a group of my own friends and sit in one spot the entire time, without moving. The only thing that I ask is to keep the beer flowing.

*DISCLAIMER. There is not an age limit to enjoying Harry Potter books and movies. There is however an age limit to pretending to be Harry Potter. Because, it is just too weird.

Terminator Networking

For those of us who live and work in DC, we are all too familiar with the N- word: networking. Networking is the art of schmoozing and cultivating people who can be helpful to one in moving up, either professionally or socially. In a competition driven city defined by over-achieving, young professionals, the only thing that matters is who you know.

Individuals engage in two types of networking: social networking and professional networking. After months of extensive research, countless hours of field work and several hundred interviews, I have discovered another category of networking, endemic to DC, which I have classified as Terminator Networking (Copyright pending).

Terminator Networking is the culmination of motivation, competition and raw ambition manifesting into behavioral characteristics tantamount to those exhibited by The Terminator; a fictional character portrayed by the illustrious Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Terminator Networkers (TN’s), have only two goals: terminate the competition and get the job, at any cost. They are ruthless in their pursuit and infamous for their casualties.

Below is a list of Terminator skills employed by TN’s:

1) Much like the Terminator who can crash through walls and withstand heavy firearm, the TN can withstand copious amounts of alcohol and is resistant to the allure of eye candy.

2) The Terminator can look at an individual and process data, such as weight and height. The TN can look at an individual and determine occupation, position in a company and overall usefulness in helping them achieve their career goals.

3) It can be argued that the TN is also a cyborg. The research on this matter is inconclusive and requires several more hours of fieldwork.

4) It is nearly impossible to destroy a TN. If you get in the way of the mission, prepare to be terminated.

5) TN’s were created by the government as robotic assassins (under the Bush Administration). Once again, the data is inconclusive; however, if you ever witnessed a TN take down a competitor, you would be convinced of the validity of this argument.

In Memory of a Blackberry

I dramatically bid farewell to my friends and stumbled my way to the bottom of the escalator- not realizing that with one clumsy slip of the heel I would meet my doom. I reached for my metro card and courageously made my way down to the place that caused me so much pain and misery earlier that night. As the red lights flashed so did images of what I had lost. The doors opened, revealing the mouth of the enemy and challenging me to walk in. I mustered all my strength and with fierce determination faced my sadistic foe.

Looking around it was as if time stood still, like nothing had changed since I was last on the train…5 hours earlier. If everything was the same, why did I still have so much hatred? Why did I feel like this train was making a mockery of my life? What did it take from me to make me feel so empty? I attempted to regain my composure, but failed miserably at keeping my balance and quickly sat down. As i noticed shifty eyes giving me the stare, I pulled the hood of my coat over my head in a state of annoyance and paranoia.

It was somewhere between Adams Morgan and Cleveland park when I suddenly felt a strange wetness in my eyes. Tears started streaming down my face, staining my cheeks and ruining my mascara. Then like a ton of bricks... it hit me. I knew why I felt so empty on the inside – the metro, my enemy, had taken away my Blackberry!!! I had lost my support system… my most reliable confidant. The tears quickly turned into loud, violent sobs as I remembered the great moments that we shared and the life that was cut short by a moment of negligence. The pain was so overwhelming that the flood of tears could not wash away the grief in my heart and the emptiness of my hands.

With “All by myself” playing in the background, I walked home... forever to mourn the loss of a best friend.

“You Have to Try Ethiopian Food”- Six Words That Led to PTSD

It all started with a few simple words: “You have to try Ethiopian food”. Most of my friends had eaten Ethiopian food and they kept making references to this “spongey bread” that is served with the food. They made it sound so delectable that I too wanted to share in the experience, I too wanted to eat "spongey bread". I was new to DC and I wanted to get more acclimated with the culture, and since there is an Ethiopian restaurant in every major area of DC and since almost everyone I knew had tried it…I did not want to feel left out.

I soon found myself on a mission that was made impossible by the fact that my friends were somehow always busy on days I suggested eating Ethiopian food and all of a sudden they all had commitment issues when it came to making set plans. At the time, I (naively) did not give much consideration to their lack of enthusiasm.

After 6 months of living in DC, the opportunity finally presented itself in the form of my two unsuspecting best friends who came to DC for a visit. I had done a great job as a tour guide, taking them to the most popular attractions, the best places to eat and drink. At that time I earned a lot of credibility, so convincing them to eat Ethiopian was not that difficult.

It was the last day of their visit and it suddenly occurred to me that I had taken my friends everywhere, except Adams Morgan (with good reason). So I thought if we went there during the day, the chances of getting shot, raped or mugged would be a lot slimmer. Completely famished and desperately looking for a place to eat, we unexpectedly came across a sketchy looking Ethiopian restaurant, which I convinced my friends (and even myself) probably had “good, authentic Ethiopian food”.

Our waitress, who had a mustache and the most bitter expression on her face finally brought out the food in a round, communal dish. The "spongey bread" covered the entire plate and had different types of mushy food on top of it. It did not look too appetizing, but ethnic food rarely does and besides at that point we were starving. (Apparently the "spongey bread" is called “injera” and it is used as a utensil to scoop up food).

Injera in hand, I scooped up what appeared to be some meat and potato mush and I went in for the first bite. It was odd… but I thought I would try the next mushy dish… then the same thing. With every single bite, the food got worse and worse. I had no idea what I was eating and everything tasted the same. Everything tasted like paprika and I was not even sure about the type of meat I was consuming. It tasted like what I would imagine donkey tastes like. And that “injera” everyone seems so enamored by… absolutely horrific. It was sour, chewey and … spongey. To make things worse, the injera made every single dish taste sour. I felt like I was at war with my taste buds. The spongey bread felt like it was growing and expanding in my stomach. We kept eating because we were so hungry and we convinced ourselves that we could grow to like it. However, every bite was a painful reminder of how I had failed my friends and how I brought this disastrous experience upon us.

After our meal we sat there traumatized and expressionless. For 20 tense minutes, very few words were exchanged. When we finally mustered enough strength to leave the restaurant, I felt like I had left a war zone, battle wounds and all.

To this day, I try to avoid riding a DC cab (most friendly cab drivers I have encountered have been Ethiopian). If someone mentions Ethiopian food … I curl up on the floor in the fetal position. Whenever we drive by Adams Morgan and I see that restaurant, I have flashbacks and the taste of paprika inundates my mouth. In retrospect, I understand why it was so difficult to get my friends to join me. And that one “friend” who said “you have to try Ethiopian food”, lets just say she is out of the picture for good.