itinerary

Two of my college girlfriends came into town this weekend for a visit. It had been awhile since we’ve been together, the three of us. And never had we all crammed in my tiny apartment for a weekend, though in truth the most time we spent there—besides sleeping—was Sunday night. I made dinner and we drank wine and vodka.

And then one of my neighbors came and pounded on the door around midnight.

I’m guessing we were being a bit loud.

So we did what any group of mature, 31-year-olds would do, and went dead silent, not moving a muscle, looking at each other with wide eyes every time the person tapped the door knocker insistently, trying not to laugh. Eventually the person left.

I’ll be sending flowers and chocolates to everyone in my hall this week.

Before the girls got into town a rush of ideas floated around of what we’d do to entertain ourselves throughout the weekend. Enjoying a semblance of order and list-making, I put together an itinerary:

The (very, extremely, incredibly) loose (like, hooker loose) Labor Day weekend itinerary:

Friday, September 3:

7 pm(ish) – Anne arrives, waits for Blue to pick her up at airport, Strz  = happy

10 pm(ish) – Noons arrives, waits for Blue to pick her up at airport, Strz + Benz  = super happy

11(ish) – wine, cheese, and other snacks on roofdeck. Much talking and ruckus to ensue.

Saturday, September 4

??? – Wake up, pancake breakfast

??? – A run/walk/stroll down by the Potomac OR eating another pancake and giving exercise the finger.

3:30 – ND/Purdue kickoff and gamewatch, probably at TownHall, so long as they still run their cheap beer special

7:30 (ish) (or whenever game ends) – dinner at Luigi’s

Post-dinner – monuments at night

Sunday, September 5

???  - Brunch. Restaurant TBD, but most likely one with unlimited mimosas and/or bloody marys. Possible choices include Mad Hatter, Vinoteca, a few others

Post-brunch – wine tasting in Virginia. Wineries to include Chateau O’Brien, and Alpen Vines (or something like that…I have it written down..somewhere…)

Post-wine-tasting – Sunday dinner, roasted pork loin, more wine, and chocolate stuff

Monday, September 6

Molly drives Noons to Reagan ass-early. Strz = sad

Molly drives Benz to Reagan not-so-ass-early. Strz  = sad

We all let our livers recover for a week.

I’m happy to report that for the most part we followed said itinerary, though we changed Saturday’s pre-game activity from a walk by the Potomac to a walk around Georgetown, because that’s where Georgetown cupcake happens to be.

And maybe red velvet and salted caramel cupcakes were calling our names.

Maybe.

Either way, we definitely gave exercise the finger.

Ah, just like college.

photo friday: pets

I’ve missed the last two weeks of Photo Fridays, and for this week’s theme, yeah…I don’t really have a good photo to show. The theme is pets, and though while in my recent life I did once have a pet, he has since passed on.

I miss you, Igs.

ANYWAY, so in place of a photo about a pet, you get a photo of a cake and a story about the woman whose cake it was, and her former pet.

As you may know, my best girl Mare is a funeral director. (See: slightly twisted, yet incredibly tasty and awesome cake at her rehearsal dinner.) She comes from a funeral business family. She also married a funeral director. Basically, it’s one big happy dealing-with-dead-folks family. Good times.

Back when she was in dead school, Mare lived in a cute little apartment that happened to be near my office. To save myself from an insane commute I’d occasionally crash at her place and we’d drink our faces off and eat pizza.

PS—remind me to tell you the story some time about how I once made her laugh so hard she barfed up a pound of Lou Malnati’s. One of my prouder moments.

So this one time, I’m over at Mare’s place, and she’s…doing I have no idea what, futzing around in her closet or something, and I’m aimlessly wandering around her bedroom picking things up on her dresser and putting them down, jewelry, knick-knacks, photos, and I notice a photo of Sammy Kravitz, Mare’s dog that she had in high school.

“Aw, Mare, this is a great photo of Sammy!” I said, picking up the photo. It was a photo box, and I twisted it around to see if there were more photos of Sammy on other sides.

“Yeah, that’s Sammy,” Mare replied.

“No, I said it’s a good picture of Sammy,” I restated.

“Yeah, and I said that is Sammy,” she repeated. I looked at her dumbly. “Sammy is in the box,” she said, nodding her head toward the square in my hands. I looked down at it, semi-grossed out, but more just what-the-fucked out.

“What?”

“Yeah, I was home a couple weeks ago and I saw that sitting on my parents’ entertainment center,” she explained. “It’s been sitting there for years and I never fuckin’ noticed.”

“Sammy’s been dead since we were in high school,” I said.

“I know!” Mare said in disbelief.

I quickly put Sammy back on her dresser and backed away. “I think I’m just going to…go..in the other room,” is probably what I said as I scuttled into the living room.

The moral of the story: be careful what you pick up on your best friend’s dresser, because pets are family,  too.

See what other Photo Friday participants are blogging about today over at Calliope’s blog! Probably something a little less…well, less.

What?

Oh, whatever. YOU have a best gal who is a funeral director and let’s see what stories YOU come up with.

Heh.

where my love of storytelling may prove unwelcomed

I never get mail at work. Rarely. Rarely. And even then it’s a flyer for an event that happened two weeks prior, or some type of quarterly newsletter that someone wants me to report on that has absolutely nothing to do with my job. Like Jordan almonds.

So imagine my surprise when last week I got a letter in the mail from the National Conference of Bar Examiners.

WHAT the….?

I stared at the envelope for awhile, as I am wont to do when I receive a piece of mail from a sender with no seeming correlation to me, peering at it, and then waved it around aimlessly in the air for awhile, thinking that might help me figure out why the National Conference of Bar Examiners was sending me mail.

Turns out, it helps if you, you know, open the mail, at which point all is explained. 

“The National Conference of Bar Examiners prepares character and fitness reports on applicants seeking admission to the bar or a limited license to practice law,” it read at the top. “The Conference has been requested to prepare a report on CAPTAIN KLEIN, who is submitting an application to Wyoming.”

Ohhhhh…..

Heh.

Question 1: How long have you known the applicant?

12 years, going on lucky 13.

Question 2: Under what circumstances have you known the applicant?

Many several circumstances. First, it was life in the Eternal City while living in a hotel staffed by insane Italians, followed by a year of being under the influence of a women’s college, which led to a tumultuous three years as therapist/patient circumstances as the above named applicant attended law school and the respondent to this letter (that would be me) had to talk said applicant off a motherfucking ledge every three days. And then there was JAG. Don’t even get me started, because that circumstance alone would….oh, wait, what? I only need to check a box?

□ teacher    □ business    □ acquaintance    □ other_______

ü      acquaintance

No, wait!

ü       other Close friend

Question 3: From your personal knowledge, do you believe the applicant’s reputation with respect to honesty, trustworthiness, diligence, and reliability to be good?

I paused here and texted Captain Deb.

Me: I got a form thingy from some national bar people who want me to tell them if I think you are honest and trustworthy and diligent and shit. I’m not sure how to respond.

Captain Deb: Improvise.

Me: Good call. I’ll leave out the bit about our trip to Denver.

Question 4: Do you unequivocally recommend that the applicant be admitted to the bar?

Dear God, YES. You never know when I’m going to need a lawyer in Wyoming.

**ADDITIONAL COMMENTS (Use an additional page if necessary.)

You know what? I think it’s best if we just leave it at this.

words to live by

Remember when I was a bridesmaid in October? Good times. As my gift, my best gal gave me a bag of goodies she knew I would love because, well, she’s known me for over half my life and generally during that time you get to know a person’s likes and dislikes pretty well. She knows that I like shoes and pizza, and I know that she hates when you sing at her, using your thumb as a microphone.

What?

Sorry.

My point is one of the items in my bag of presents was a sassy flask. This makes two flasks that my lovely best girl has given me. They are the only two flasks I own. A girl should always have more than one flask in her life, because different situations require different sneaky booze, and every smart gal lives by the credo of always being prepared. Which actually belongs to the boy scouts, I think, but we’re prettier than them, so I don’t think they’ll mind too much if I just pilfer it for my own use just this once. It just goes so well with my #1 set of words to live by: Do it for the story.

 

the fairest of them all

The main reason I went home to Chicago a couple of weekends ago was because my best gal, Mare Beh Beh, was having a shower thrown for her in honor of her upcoming nuptials. She told me that even though I am a bridesmaid I was in no way whatsoever required to fly in for the event. But then she told me that there would be wine and that I wouldn’t be responsible for cleaning up the detritus of party madess we left in our wake and I said sign me up, babycakes, This Girl is coming home.

On the Roofdeck

I don’t see the guys very often, being that RHW lives in Texas now, and Pep is all the way out in Arlington, but they came over the other night for pizza and beer on the roofdeck. All manner of important topics were covered,  including books to read, why I shouldn’t live so far from the metro, home-brewed beer, the Iowa State Fair, and the top 5 greatest moments of all time in college basketball.

So yes, the stuff memories are made of, essentially.

Eight Years

May 19, 2001, was the only sunny Saturday of the month, thank God. Had we not been able to spread out on the rolling lawn in front of LeMans for the commencement ceremonies, had the rain poured down, forcing us to pack into Moreau or Angela Athletic, it would have been miserable. It would have been sticky and humid and I was already mildly hungover, so it just would not have been a pleasant way to end my college career. But thankfully it was sunny, and quite warm. Most of the other girls wore skirts or nice dresses underneath their black robes; I wore a tank top and gym shorts. The gym shorts did say “Saint Mary’s College” on them, though, which I thought was appropriate for the day. I still have the shorts. I still sleep in them now, just like I did then.

Compared to other schools, we were miniscule, a little over 300 of us graduating that year, all women of course. They called each of us up on stage individually, and we shook hands with the president and posed for a photo op as we received our diplomas. Currently, my diploma is tucked away in the catch-all shelf of my wine bar. It seems an appropriate place – wine stoppers, serving trays, and my college diploma.

When I say “eight years” to myself it sounds like a very long time ago. It was a very long time ago. But it doesn’t feel like a very long time ago. It feels more like…hmm…more like recently. Not like yesterday – I am too much of a different person than my 22 year old self for it to feel like yesterday – but maybe just like a few years ago. I like thinking about college, and remembering the memories. I laugh at myself at how absolutely heartbroken I was when I graduated, my security blanket being ripped away from me. My parents may have rejoiced at signing that last tuition check, but I bawled my eyes out for days those last few weeks of school, and the few weeks after school, at leaving. It wasn’t just me. My gal pals, the ridiculous, silly, lovely, loving, amazing, adventuresome, smart, thoughtful, bitchy, sassy women who had been my inner circle for four years, we all simply fell over ourselves wailing and carrying on at the injustice of it all. If only there was more time! If only my parents hadn’t said they would only pay for four years of college! If only we could live in LeMans forever! Vive La South Bend!

Thankfully, blessedly, gorgeously, we’re still stuck together in that circle, despite being flung to the various coasts and corners of the country. And there are newer additions to my circle, friends who became better friends after graduation, for various and sundry reasons, but every single one pointing back to the tree-lined Avenue. So eight years later, Happy Anniversary, ladies. Happy 8^th Graduation Anniversary to all of the SMC 2001 Belles.

Strange Things are Afoot at the Circle K

 

There is something interesting I’ve noticed about getting older: I’ve collected quite a few friends who are not allowed to tell me what, exactly, they do for a living. I realize, living in DC, that I probably encounter an above average amount of these types of people – what with this being the mothership of military personnel, headquarters for CIA, FBI, Secret Service men and women whipping around town in their SUVs, and God knows what else happening that we, the American Public, will never know about – but still.

It’s kind of weird.

You can’t really talk about work with them, which is fine with me, because talking about work is not one of my favorite topics, unless you’re telling a story about your co-workers that has an Office-like quality to it – then I’m all ears. But then again, talking about work and jobs is a HUGE part of conversational society here in DC. This is the city, after all, where the first question out of people’s mouths after they learn your name is, “What do you do?” Which is really code for, “Who do you know?” And that is really code for “What can you do for me?” Which is, of course, the elaborate code for “Are you worth my time?” Which might help explain why some people find it very hard to make friends in this city. (Thankfully, and not surprisingly, most of my friends here hail from the Midwest, which means that we could care less what you do, we’re just looking for an ear to talk at. Barring an ear, a wall will do.)

What was I saying?

Oh right. Shop-talk. Or lack thereof for my friends who are not allowed to talk about their jobs because they could get in serious trouble. I can’t ever imagine being in a job that I couldn’t talk about for fear of firing, leaking national secrets, or worse. How exactly does one land in such a position? And how are they able to keep such things to themselves? How do they blow off steam? Because sometimes, you just want to come home and vent vitriol about everything from the assignment you’ve been tasked to the putrid color of the lunchroom walls. But if you are one of those people who can’t tell people exactly what you do for a living? That’s got to be kind of hard. How does that rant go?

“It’s just, the general…um…er…my supervisor, he wants me to launch…I mean…there’s this project…and those damn Kurds…erm…cottage cheese! The damn lunchroom put out expired cottage cheese! Man, I am super frustrated.”

I’m guessing not so much.

But it’s interesting to think about.