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.

Redline: The End of an Era

In a moment of spontaneity, I came to DC , not knowing anything about the city, not knowing a single soul. I came here and decided that I would not hold myself back from anything and that I would enjoy every moment of this new experience and I was determined to make the best of this amazing opportunity. I would do things that I would never do back home…and that included using public transportation. This was a big adjustment that I had to make- from driving a convertible on my way to beach to riding a metro to Chinatown.

I tried to avoid the metro as long as I could (flashbacks of NY metro and vomit stains), but alas it was time. In reality my roommate forced me. I remember that day like it was yesterday. It was a bitter and cold winter day. The weather channel said it was 20 degrees but really with the wind, it felt like -13. I awoke that Saturday morning excited about the adventures in shopping that awaited at the mall. What I did not know then was that my roommate had a devious plan, and it involved tricking me into using the metro.

We came to the top of the escalator and I fearlessly walked the entire three miles down to the bottom of this escalator of death, past the crazy wind tunnel, (which on several other occasions has almost caused me Marilyn Monroe moments ) and went through the gate, barely escaping the jaws of death.

What I saw next completely shocked me. All around me, in every direction stood normal looking people. There were no poor homeless bums or gangbangers. In fact, I was greeted with approving nods, embracing gestures and warm smiles. I was part of a club now; I was a DC Metro Rider.

The first experience of riding the metro by yourself is so magical, so rewarding, there are no words that can capture the right emotion as you figure your way through the system and get to the right destination. I formed a bond with the red line; it was the Mecca of all the lines in DC. Things were going great… I was so genuinely happy.

Then something happened that changed the red line forever with consequences that are still felt today. June 23,2009- there was a major crash on the redline that killed nine people and injured dozens more. People lost their loved ones and so many were effected by this tragic event, including myself ( I just did not know it yet).

In no way am I trying to make a mockery of what happened … but that crash really changed the redline. It changed my relationship… I don’t recognize the redline anymore. They say tragedy has a way of bringing things together… but that was not the case here.

The honeymoon period was over. Gone were the days of fast rides and short lines. Instead I was faced with long unexpected delays and slower rides. The thrill and excitement was gone. And it even got worse after that. There were so many red flag warnings that I experienced on the redline. I lost my beloved pair of black heels. I lost my best friend Sherry when she came to visit me, when the metro door closed on me, leaving her on the metro car, by herself, not knowing where to go. And I nearly lost a hand when I pried the metro door open in order to not miss the first metro in over an hour of waiting.

Just when I was beginning to accept this new life, things just started to get even worse. Several suicides on the redline added more to the stress of the redline. This used to be a place that people came to for comfort and now it turned into a place people turned to take their own lives. With all of these tragedies came even more sad news… the redline would now be operating manually, as opposed to automatically. It is then that I knew… it was over. That the redline I knew and loved would never be the same, I would never get back what I had…it was over.


I still take the redline everyday to work because I have no option. I am not fully healed, I'm not sure if I ever will be. Sometimes I think about all the great memories I shared with the redline and where we would be if fate had not so ruthlessly pulled us apart. But in the end, I know it was meant to be and that there is a better line out there, I just have not found it yet.

Kickball And Beer: The Reason I am Here

After 4 months of living in DC, I discovered this new phenomenon... Kickball. At first, I was not very impressed, but then I was told there would be lots of beer.. so naturally, I signed up right away.

To be honest, I was a little nervous about flipcup. Although I went to my fair share of frat parties during my college days, I completely missed out on flipcup. I confided in my co-worker, who with only a little judgment agreed to help me improve my flipping skills. I was determined not to let my team down , so I would practice at work during breaks ( I kept a red plastic cup in my desk drawer).

The day had finally arrived. I put on my shorts, and a cute pair of green knee socks and I neatly put my hair in pigtails ( with a green bow in my hair to compliment the socks, of course) and I anxiously made my way to the National Mall.

I was greeted by my teammates ,a sea of colorful shirts and containers that (discretely) hid the alcohol that was to be consumed. A short tutorial by a fellow teammate and a few rounds of kicking the ball... and I was ready to go out there.

The moment had finally arrived. The moment that I had been dreading for the past 20 minutes: it was my turn to kick the ball. That day I learned how to get everyone on the field to laugh at you, including your own team and I am pretty sure some tourists walking by. If you want to embarrass yourself, guarantee public humiliation and get everyone to laugh at you hysterically, then please follow these steps:
1) Kick the ball and just run
2) Run past first
3)When you get to second, run past it as well, don't stop at the base
4) Then, in an act of confusion, make a run for third base, where you will no doubt get hit in the back by the ball... thus having to leave the field , and making the walk of shame back to your team.

The night took a turn for the better and I learned how one can redeem themselves from such failures and disgrace, or at least how one can forget about such failures and disgrace. Its called being able to drink copious amounts of beer, in a short time, meanwhile flipping a cup and shaking your hips to some great music.
I learned a very valuable lesson that night, but for some strange reason I can't remember what that was.