Where have all the Interns gone?

Last night, conducting excellent research out and about the Adams Morgan area, I realized that it was a quiet Friday night. There was much less shrill 21-year-old-girl screeching filling the night air. There were many fewer flipped collars. There was a noticeable lack of general assed-ness in the area. I drank many a beer with out any girls telling me that they are bored, or getting beer spilt on me by those who cannot hold their liquors like the King. That's when I realized that the season is at it's end. The interns are gone. Or if not gone, going home.

Bon Voyage, fair interns: You brought youth and vitality, spilled it onto my going out shirt, and now you will go away. Take these pieces of knowledge back to your Arizona State University, back to UConn, back to Fordham (is this even a real university? I question.) Tell your friends, go to your classes, and next time you come back be ready to not run up the real estate market with daddy's money.

Things You Will Tell People You Learned In DC (and What You Really Learned):

1. How to Take Metro (You really learned that you don't like public transportation because it requires you to wait, to be patient, and to sit with people who smell. From now on you will drive everywhere and then complain about traffic. When you return I recommend living in Northern Virginia)

2. How Things Work in Our Nation's Capital (how happy hours work, what the best place to hook up is, where to get things drycleaned, that your office internet filter doesn't recognize myspace or facebook yet, so you spent countless hours updating your profile about your going to happy hours and hooking up)

3. How to Make It On Your Own (if Dad paid for almost everything, then basically you didn't learn anything. Keep that in mind- that's kind of the way it will work for the rest of your life.)

4. How to Work Hard (you really figured out the most important skill you ever will come across- looking busy at work while really continuing to do things that matter to you. Well done. Don't forget this, it is the holy grail of working.)

That's all you learned. Trust me. I was watching you.

The Rip Off Barbie Head USB Drive

When you just need a really good place to store all of those file you have illegally downloaded from the internet at work, why not choose the rip off head barbie USB drive? I mean really, what more could you ask for? It answers that call of bloodlust that sitting in a cubicle sparks, you can dress her in different outfits, and really, who has never wanted to rip the head off of Barbie? No one that I am friends with.

Viva la Revolución

The wheels of odocracy keep turning. That's my new word for the heirachy of people and things I don't like and are keeping me down, a la the MAN. But, finally for the King of the Badgers, one thing has worked out right- new job. Fantastic new job. New job with good boss and interesting people to work with. I had to fight the good fight for a respectable salary (well, most people would laugh at my salary, but seriously- respectable for me). Also included in this fabulous take home prize are health benefits and a pension of some sort, however the King does not understand pensions well, so it is just as many fancy words to him. Ohhhh... health benefits. The spoils of belonging to the establishment. Drool.

An Open Letter to the Naked Fat Guy

Dear Fat Naked Guy on 16^th Street:

I know that you paid top dollar for that condo. I know that you should be allowed to use the space as you see fit, but just to clarify: those huge plate glass windows that allow you to get a great view of the street in front of you? They also allow us to watch you rhythmically drying your rolls of fat. And your balls. Don't forget that we can see your balls, too.

Quit it. Right now.

Love,

The 16^th Street Public

Today was the second time I have seen him. He seems to have a pattern. My brave steed, the S1 bus, was idling at the stop light when I looked up from the Post. There he was. Again. He seems to always be watching TV while drying. His towel was blue. And very small. And when he got done drying his belly, he changed channels, and then put one foot up on a chair to dry his left leg. That's when the gasp escaped from the seats in front of me, and a woman's voice rang out “Dios Mio sus huevos!”. I have to say, dearest reader, we were all thinking about his huevos, as they were swinging in the weak morning light.

That's when he put something into his mouth. I couldn't see what it was but my brain has decided that it was bacon. A big fat naked guy showing his balls to the world and eating bacon.

Morning, DC!

Useless Information

Never having actually thought about Henry VIII's wives, I was pleased to find I am Anna of Cleves. She got shafted by H-dog so she annulled his ass and took a fat settlement, from which she drank a lot and ate expensive things for the rest of her days, most likely hiring the medieval equivalent of attractive cabana boys . But the King of the Badgers in ugly shoes? I think not.

Which of Henry VIII's wives are you?

God Said: Quit Loving Your Wife. Now Have More Kids.

There was a great page-two article in Wednesday's Washington Post (here) that was seriously hilarious. And I mean HILARIOUS. As you know (well, most of you probably have real hobbies), Tuesday the House was debating the Marriage Amendment. That's right, the one that was defeated by the Senate like, I don't know, at least one Crime Emergency ago? The very same amendment that cannot be passed into law unless the Senate passes it with a supermajority. Which it did not. So we are paying for congressmen and women to sit around and discuss things that are not a possibility. In light of this clarification of the House's role, I present the next five most important things to be decided:

1. My Little Pony's™: Threat to Alaska

2. Defeating the Danger: Dangling Participles

3. Gravity: Just Vote No!

4. Threat Level Abrahamoff

5. The Naming of The “Scooter” Washington National Airport

Apparently God was speaking to the Republicans on Tuesday, and this is what he was telling them about protecting marriage for fat white guys: “It's part of God's plan for the future of mankind,” said John Carter from Texas. Really? God's plan for MANKIND? I thought his whole plan was to get it so that we could walk on two feet. I doubt God had much more in mind after that. Bob Beauprez agreed, “We best not be messing with His plan”. Yes, we best not be using standard English either. Can't have the hispanics catching on and learnin' it up. They mights pass the citizen test, then.

The best quote of the entire shameful chicanery come from a man who comes from close to where I come from (the pride, oh the pride welling up), Todd Akin from Missouri. “Marriage is not about love. It's about a love that can bear children.” I think we can safely assume that Ms. Akin made him get his tubes snipped along time ago, if only to ensure there was no one to assume his political legacy. So there you have it folks, from the mouths of Republican Christans: gays can't marry because that would mean that straight guys love their wives. Case closed.

You thrust just like so to make loveless babies. God said.

And the Travesty of HR Continues

I am sure everyone cares a lot about this (eyerolling), but it consumes my daily life, so read on, or not.

Yesterday while I was saving babies' lives at work, I was called by Patty. Patty was running a background check on me about the job I applied for (see here) and have heard nothing about since (even though was assured I would have an answer by last Friday). I have to assume that is a good thing, because why pay the money to run a background check on me if you don't want to hire me?

Patty was calling because she had some problems finding my old boss. She said the “phones were down” at my old company, from here on our refered to as Making America Fatter, Inc. (MAFI). When I called MAFI the phones seemed to be in perfect working order and I got my bosses new number straight away. Patty also was concerned that she couldn't contact my last boss (my last job was in Japan). Patty was concerned that “everytime I dial, I get a strange tone”. Dear Patty: when dialing overseas, you have to use the international dialing code. It's 011. Put in front of the other numbers. That is all.

Patty was delighted that she could now call Japan. She was concerned however when I explained that it was tomorrow in Japan, and she would have to call after midnight or before ten am to reach my company during normal business hours.

I have no problem helping Patty out, but just one question: Do you NORMALLY ask the people who are being checked to help with the checking? Isn't that kind of counterintuitive? I thought background checks were supposed to be conducted in the background. Nothing like coming right out and saying “nope, we really don't believe a word you said.” Good thing that little problem with Japanese immigration will never appear on a public record. Who could have known porn would be such a big deal to the people who invented cartoon sex videos?

Still no word about the afore mentioned job. Is it a universal thing that HR departments are neither human, nor a resource? Are they considered outside the laws of politeness and professionalism everywhere, or just when they are dealing with me? Since I pretty much only write or think about myself, then yes, it is me. They only do it to me.

Our British Cousin: The Underground

I feel like this about Metro. Every single morning.

London Underground Song

It just sounds so much classier when the British bitch about it. I'm a complete accent whore.

I like to ride bicycles. I think it's fun to tool around like a seven year old, jumping the curb and whatnot. I want to tool my way to work, jumping curbs, riding on the grass, and scattering hill staffers like so many pigeons. However, buying a bike in DC has turned out to not be child's play. I have been to three bike shops and several pawn shops, and before you start writing me to ask in petulant voices “Haven't you tried craigslist?”, yes, I have tried craigslist. And craigslist sucks for buying a bike in DC. Bike shops are great, but they only sell the new, shiny bikes and I have no money.

Where I come from, the square states, used bicycles are plentiful and cheap, roaming the prairies in packs just waiting to be tamed. Here, however, used bicycles are a rare commodity, indeed. They fall into three categories: crazytalk expensive professional bikes being sold by wannabe pro cyclers to other wannabe pro cyclers, crappy crappy bikes sold by people who bought bikes from Target then left them in the rain for three years, and the normal bike. Craigslist is flush with the bounty of the first two categories, the third must be panned for carefully. I do not need a bicycle frame made of carbonized carbon polyurapoly that was welded in space and then frozen in the depths of the Arctic to ensure a lightweight yet durable structure that floats in air and costs eight thousand dollars. It's a bike. It should always cost less than a car. And my car costs 700 dollars, so that's my rational limit for the price of bicycles. I also don't want your son's 1995 Huffy with “some major scratching- needs new tires, chain. seat missing.” So, if it needs tires, a chain, and a seat it's no longer a bike, it's parts.

I thought I had found a normal bike to buy on Sunday. The ad on craigslist said it was just what I wanted- regular road tires, lightweight, normal handlebars that don't make me hunch over like Quasimodo, with all the bike essentials, such as seat and chain and breaks. After a bizzare volley of emails, I was on my way up Georgia Ave to find my iron steed. Well, aluminum or steel or whatever they use these days. Let me pause here to say that I moved to the East Coast because I didn't think I could live on the Prairies anymore after having lived abroad for so long. Not to be judgemental, but I was fleeing the stupid. There are a lot of them out there wandering around. I am coming to learn that the East coast has a proportional share, and one of them lives in Glenmont, MD. After having to drag the directions out of this mouth-breathing-carbon asshat (she wanted me to drive to some address and then call her for more directions...for security reasons....riiiiiight), I arrive to look at the bike that she has posted on craigslist.

Every single thing she had listed in the ad was a non-truth. I won't say a lie, because she was a wiley one: Shimano deraileur with hand-grip shifters? Yeeeeessss, but they were 12 years old and had never been cleaned. Selle Royale Gel Seat? Yes, but it was broken and falling off. Samid Saminox Hubs? Yes, I guess, except I've never heard of them and neither has the internets. Altenburger Synchron brake components? Yes, I suppose. They were so mangled from some distant wreck that they provided no braking action. They would need to be replaced. Completely replaced, madam, not 'bent back a little. The frame? The heart of the bicycle you ask? Oh yes, it is a Sears vintage. Manufactured in 1982. You said, and I quote verbatim “Well, it says Sears, but I am sure it is a Tiawanese frame. It's vintage! Worth the price of the bike alone!”. WWWWWWWWWWHHHAHAHAHHA- I'm sorry crazy old lady! I didn't hear that last part because I was laughing so very very hard at what you just said- you think that a 23 year old Sears bike frame is worth $125! WWWWWWWWWWHHHAHAHAHA!!! You are great.

No seriously, I'll give you 40 dollars for this bike: I will have to buy new brake calipers, pads, a back tire, and have the chain replaced and the shifters cleaned. No no, you don't understand. “Meeting me half way” would be 80 dollars. And no, this pile of crap is not worth $110, I'll give you $45. No? Well, how about you reimburse me for my gas money for driving all the way up here to look at your smoke and mirror show of a bicycle?

And that's why I have decided I will just steal a bike from the Metro like everyone else.

I interviewed for a job yesterday. It was a job I wasn't really sure that I wanted doing something that I think I might possibly find enjoyable. As you can tell I have really strong opinions about my work as of late.

The interview went well and the man that would be my boss, from now on referred to as the CR, would be great to work for- really really great. The problem is that I am a temp, so I have already been working here for a couple months and I know all the people involved with the decision. And when I went into the interview I didn't really care that much about the job. Now I want the job. If I don't get the job, I will feel the shame of having been denied. And since all of this, my current work, my possible future work and the interview location as well as the CR , reside all on the same floor of the building, I could effectively have to cordon most of the office off, a DMZ of embarrassment and shame.

Oh, the humanity.

But the coffee machine is on that side...

What a Difference the Bus makes

Morning sunshine! Rise to greet the day! Any thing is possible! Time for some coffee, mmmmmmm delicious coffee. Walking to to bus, walking to the bus. What a pretty day. It will be such a good day. I am so going to get stuff done, find a job with benefits, write amazing things and feel good about myself. Walking, walking, hey look at that house! Beautiful! And for sale! Holy shit they want $485,000. Let's see, at sixteen dollars an hour I would have to work for... oh my god. OK, things are still ok, I have a good apartment. Would be nice to have health care, but that's the breaks living in the new America. (Quiet humming of Green Day's “Give Me Novacaine”) Ahhh... the bus: damn it... it's full and goes sailing past. Here's another one. Good- no air conditioning. Awesome. Well, my shirt is kind of wrinkly because I don't own an iron. Maybe sweating will cause it to look more ironed.

(45 sweaty minutes later)

That was the fucking stupidest idea I ever thought of. DIE. EVERYTHING DIE. Shirt: Soaked. Me: Hot. Work: Stupid. Moving back to America: Dumb, dumb idea. Song in my head: Nirvana's “Jesus Doesn't Want Me for a Sunbeam”.

Less than impressed.

Verizon Customer Serivce Agent: Hi! I'm insane and from some call center in Buttneck Creek, Arkansas! How you'all doin' today! Can I have your little ol' phone number and account number!!?

Me: Uhhhhhhhh... (momentary pause while I adjust to the fact I will be doing business with one of the Clampetts)

VCSA: No?!?! Well that's just a little bit of somethin'! Do you have your phone number?! I can look up that cotton-pickin' account number!

Me: That would be great. 202-829-5555.

VCSA: That's great! Now while your account loads, let's talk about your cellular phone! Is that with Verizon?

Me: Let's not talk about my cell phone. Let's just answer the questions I have about my bill.

VCSA: But is it? Is it with Verizon? What about it's service quality? Can you hear a pin drop? (I'd like to point out that she pronounced pen with two-syllables. Does she drink her moonshine out of a clay jug with three x's painted on the side? Yes, yes she does.)

Me: Look, I just called to remove this crappy option you talked me into when I signed up for broadband service. I don't even know what it does.

VCSA: Well, there's no reeeeeee-son to get annoyed.

Me: Well, I do get annoyed.

VCSA: Yes, you do.

Me: Excuse me?

VCSA: All I wanted to do is talk about your cell phone! And here you are grumpier than a hog in a desert!

That's when I hung up, stared at the phone for a full five minutes in disbelief, then took a hefty pull off my flask of whiskey.

Saving the world, stabbing one back at a time.

I wanted to save the world. I wanted to hold babies while they drank milk I just flew in on my plane to the starving plains of Africa; I wanted to drop food from the air to the expanse below with the promise of food and a better life; I wanted to help schools improve and demonstrate for the world that first-world citizens are generous, good people with deep pockets and warm hearts. But nobody wants to let me do that, probablly becasue I can't fly a plane and I'm prone to dropping babies. Still, no one will even let me help do these things. It's like there is a club and I'm not invited. Or even allowed into the lobby. Or to stand on the sidewalk.

I applied to go to graduate school and study international development but was denied. Drop kicked. Thanks for trying, we'll keep that hundred bucks application fee, please come again. I was informed that because I don't have a degree in politics or international relations, I needed to have some work experience in international development before they could see that I was committed to studying with them. Right. Never mind that I am a good manager, speak three languages, whooped that GREs butt with my high scorin' information absorbin' brain, and have already lived overseas for five years. Where I grew up we studied things that we could use to make money which is why I have a degree in food science (that and I like the foods). It might be prosaic, but I guarantee that few of the people who were allowed to study in my place know how to sanitize well water, preserve the bioavailability of calcium in milk or process cereal grain so it can be cooked into porridge at low heat. And I bet none of them ever created their own pop-tart.

So, now I live in DC. I work as a grant writer at the brightly colored poligonal object. I constantly chase interviews with NGOs and nonprofits doing development work overseas. And I constantly get the at-arms-length, gotta-have-experience-before-we-can-give-you-experience, no,-aid-work-is-not-like-any-other-work run around. Maybe aid work isn't like any other work. Maybe that's why it is so incredibly ineffective. Bitter, much? Yes.

All I can say is I CAN DO YOUR JOB. So don't act like you having it will keep me from getting it. See what this industry does to people? Helping the needy? No thanks, I'm to busy stabbing my way to the top of the pile. OUTTA THE WAY STARVING BABY! RICH PEOPLE NEED TO SQUABBLE ABOUT WHO GETS TO HOLD THE BAG OF FOOD!