Big Brother is Watching

This is what I imagine my youngest son will be doing in the future. Watching his minions a la 1984 style everywhere they go.
Again, this crazy idea comes to us courtesy of photofunia.

Oh PhotoFunia

O.K. here is the site that will be sucking up all my free time between now and spring break. Wait for it. http://www.photofunia.com/

I cannot stop uploading pictures of myself in the various case scenarios and then slapping the table in pure unadulterated glee when I see the results.

Just try and walk away. You won't be able to do it.

Look it's me....in the backround on the wall (not the kid in the hat).

Sunday, Sunday

Bob Geldof was right about Mondays, they really do suck. But what about Sunday? The whole freaking day is fraught with agonizing anticipation of what comes next thereby destroying whatever theraputic weekend value it ever had. Friday afternoon, now that's what I call a good time frame.
Before my kids developed social lives and opinions (and became mildly annoying I might add) we used to hang out in our pajamas on our last day off and make the occasional trek to some family destination. Now it's just riddled with cub scouts, basketball practices and games, soccer, hockey and sleepovers with friends. It's definately needed as the ultimate buffer day between Saturday and Monday but as a stand alone it really blows. Well, I should probably revise that and say I go to church just in case my mother pops in. Yes mom, every Sunday without fail.

Aftermath

As I sit among the discarded wrappers of a thousand quickly consumed candy bars I can actually hear the seams of my pants begin to split. Damn you Halloween and all your chocolatey goodness. Excuse me while I wipe off my keyboard which is covered in melted Kit Kat.

Happy Halloween!

Tonight we will attend the Mount Pleasant Lamont Street Halloween blow out and then we will collapse, exhaused onto our couch.

It's Almost Here

We love Halloween in this house. Sometimes I wish we had a slightly more House Beautiful approach for decorating during this spooky holiday but I've come to terms with who we are so we are going with the 70's old school version.

A Good Read

Yesterday I took a trip to Barnes and Noble to see what I could find. I had been meaning for months to pick up Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers and was rewarded instantly when I saw it proudly on display first thing. It seemed like a waste of perfectly good free time to head directly to the cashier so I started to browse the aisles. First I found Rob Sacchetto's The Zombie Handbook and nestled it in the crook of my elbow and then I saw Stewart Copeland's Strange Things Happen.
A little history on my relationship with Stewart. When all the girls had their hearts aflutter for frontman Sting, I kept it real by loving the tall rangy drummer. I kept copious amounts of useless information about his drums, his childhood and his food likes and dislikes committed to memory and I seriously went home and threw a chair at the wall when the news of his marriage to Sonja Kristina broke. So what if I was twelve, we had a destiny dammit! Sadly, my imagined coupling with Stewart never materialized and we both marched off in separate directions, but this book of his had me howling with gut busting laughter. Who knew this affable kook was so smart and funny?
I'm currently on page 239 reading a chapter that covers the Police reunion tour, but my new favorite quote of all time came only 20 pages into the book in chapter 4.  In it he says " There is no greater glow of narcissistic validation than receiving my own art. I slay myself - always have and hope I always will."
Now that is some spectacular stuff. Call me Stewart, we need to catch up.

Don't Take This the Wrong Way

The playground is a great place to see humankind shrunken down into a microcosm and on display for all the junior sociologists to observe. There is a class system, rules and regulations for negotiating certain play equipment, alliances forged and forgotten.  Oh the humanity. I love to watch my own childen make their way through this group, and usually I am rewarded with laughs when one of them makes a disaster out of an interaction with another kid.
Last year while sitting peacefully on a park bench with some aquaintences, one of them turned to me and said, "I hope you don't mind me saying this, and please don't take it the wrong way but do you know who your son really reminds me of?" "Who?" I asked hoping it would be some adorable moppet from a popular TV show. "That little boy from The Omen." "Wait, you mean DAMIEN?" I was sure this couldn't be the case. "Yeah! That's the one!" I was completely stunned for several very obvious reasons. Number one is that I find that child positively revolting and not just because he has the mark of the beast. That kid was obviously cast specifically for the level of creepiness he projected and the ability to make grown ups cower with one withering look from his dead eyes. Secondly, my kid has had some bad behavior days but I don't live in fear of being knocked off my chair by his expert demonic tricycle riding skills while watering the plants that hang dangerously over my open third story balcony. (Seriously, who hangs plants that high when a drop from that height onto the marble foyer floor  below will obviously kill you?)
A day or two after that I was busy karate chopping imaginary ninjas and pushing race cars with him and I stopped to try and take an objective look at him. I mean, I could be kidding myself, but aside from the dark hair (it does occasionally get long and look like a 70's bowl cut) and the light skin, I don't think we have a match here.

Middle Man

Today my middle child came home from school with a mild stomach flu. As  he rests peacefully on the couch in complete silence, I am again reminded why I like him so much.

I'll Try a Little Silence (in honor of wordless wednesday)

Clementine army

2011, 2012, 200....Wait I'll be Right Back.........

This week I have had the distinct pleasure of fielding questions about the end of days! This is nothing new for my apocolyptic minded clan who had major meltdowns during 1997 and Y2K fretting over how much dehydrated food and bottled water we would need to hide in our walk in closet  for three years. But the level of worry exhibited by my very easy going free spirited kids had me concerned. It started after a trip to the movies that was preceeded by the usually very enjoyable and age appropriate teaser trailers. Somehow, someone decided to give the kiddies a sneak peak of the end of days type scenario that would be unfolding soon as depicted in the new disaster flick "2012".  Nightmare. As soon as the car started rolling away from the theatre the inquiries started. "How much time to we have left to prepare?" "What is the Mayan calender and why does it stop at 2012?" "Why do I have to die at twelve years old?" Hmmmmmm.
The Mayan Calender and the so called Mayan prophecy concerning 2012 was something I was previously a bit fuzzy on, like a nagging warning from your mother that you are vaguely aware of looming out there somewhere in the mist. Apparently, it is a prophetic calender that according to it's followers helps you understand the past and forsee the future. Cue creepy music and scary ghosts.
You know, I'm about sick to death of people giving me the low down on when it's time to perish. I've been down this road before in various stages of distress. The History Channel gives me my daily dose (usually during the new year, when it's time to start your terror fresh) serving up a slew of end of the world type programming like "Seven Signs of the Apocolypse" (It's here people, we are on like #5 or something) "Nostrodomos Prophet" and a special on Edgar Cayce- a man who would apparently go to sleep and become a brilliant medical diagnostician despite only and 8th grade education. Just like everyone else, I sat riveted on the edge of my sofa, frozen with terror. Every show in the 8-12 time slot had the same conclusion. 2012 is the end folks. The poles are reversing and solar winds will be battering us until we are a whithered shell of a planet. Oh and by the way, thousands of unaccounted for asteroids are hurtling toward us while we sit defenseless. There will be famine, plague (natural or man made take your pick) mass extinctions, etc. OY.
It's terribly difficult to remain an optimist in the face of such unsettling information. What is one to do in case of one or all of these catastrophies? I mean, I'm a Girl Scout leader and I take the "be prepared" motto to heart, but my emergency kit doesn't have salve strong enough to soothe the scorching skin burn from a fiery asteroid entering the atmosphere nor does it have food enough to feed a family of five when we are living the exsistence of "the boy" and "the man" in Cormack McCarthy's The Road.
The last act of the late great planet earth haunts me but I choose to believe that we are not destined to have such a feeble run. Mankind is not easily extinguished and I like to think we have a cockroach style approach of remaining attached to our home planet.
In conclusion I decided to make up a complete falsehood to comfort my frightened kids. In my story the delightful Mayan calender maker was busy writing down all the special dates and times that would be essential in the coming years when suddenly she found herself being constantly interrupted by life. Her kids needed to be fed, her dog had to be let outside, she had to cook the beast her husband had dragged home after bludgeoning it to death, there were rugs and baskets to be woven and pottery to create. It happens, some things never get finished.

The First of the Lasts

Here in our house we are normally so overwhelmed with a packed schedule (friends, sports, parties, etc.) that we sometimes don't stop to notice what could turn out to be a momentous occasion. This is one such occurrence. Today I watched in tears as my last child, my baby, walked into his classroom on the first day of his last year of preschool. All of my kids have spent their formative early childhood years at the same  center and each has loved it with all their heart. There will be no more first days at a place that has loved and accepted each of them as they are, warts and all. No more hugs and kisses from beloved mentors who take them under their wing and treat them as if they are their own flesh and blood. No more rolling down the hall in the Little Tikes police car equipped with wailing sirens and walkie talkies to arrest offenders while decked out in full police regalia. No more special walks when they slip up and utter a profanity that they heard Mommy use in the car when that very bad driver cut in front of her.
So, I'm going to get my tissue now and suck it up while remaining thankful that I took a moment this morning to notice the first of what I am sure will be many heartbreaking lasts. I have a whole year to enjoy and dammit I'm going to milk it for all it's worth.

Say Ahhhhh.....

Yesterday we took our annual trip up to Millersville to get the obligatory nine and ten year old check-ups for the older kids. We saw our usually warm and wonderful pediatrician and I felt particularly at ease since these trips are usually stress free (no one is ill and no big tests need to take place). I noticed something immediately  askew. Normally, you get a toothy grin and a hearty pat on the back from Doctor Wonderful  as the exams get underway, I mean I chose this guy for his demeanor and great bedside manor. This time he seemed all business, grim even. I scratched my head momentarily, but figured it must have been a rough day for him considering all the kids in the waiting room who had parents as lazy as me. We did wait until the second day of school to take care of the check up for goodness sake.
Here is how the conversation went after both kids had been examined and were buttoning up.

Doctor Wonderful: Have you discussed sex with them yet?

Me: Umm, well bits and pieces really.... uh just a little.

Doctor Wonderful: Suck it up (yes this did come out of his mouth) if they don't hear it from you they will hear it from their friends and on the internet. That is NOT the kind of misinformation they need to be filled with. Have the talk.

Me: Uh, o.k.

Doctor Wonderful: Are any of their peers smoking or drinking yet?

Me: GOD NO! They are still in kneesocks...I mean they still play four square and hopscotch on the playground!

Doctor Wonderful: Good. You need to tell them in no uncertain terms that smokers make bad friends. These are risk takers and we don't want that kind of influence.

Unaccustomed to this kind of abrupt questioning I was caught a bit off guard, but I wasn't shaken up enough not to notice that my kids eyes lit up when he mentioned smokers like they were lepers. I spun and gave both the stink eye immediately to stop them from revealilng what they were about to.  You see...my husband is a smoker and I did NOT want to hear that lecture at the end of a long day.

Me: (backing away grabbing ahold of both kids) O.K. then, we've got to get going! Thanks! Do I have a co-pay?

Kids: But Mommy, Daddy's a.........

Me: Right, Daddy will be home early today. Here eat these lollipops.

On the ride home everyone looked sullen. Gavan, my middle son thought for a while and then asked "So we can't be friends with Daddy?" I explained that the doctor was talking about other kids and that Daddy would keep trying to quit so that he could be healthy. Having narrowly escaped having to bumble my way through an excuse for the poor health habits of my spouse was enough of a victory for one day.

This Sign Says it All.

Forty Eight Hours of Annoyed

Last week, exhausted after a frustrating day and sad about the end of summer I sent my poor husband the following email.


Annoying things that have happened to me in the last 48 hours.

Unsecured metal shower curtain fell on my head while shampooing.

Dog's unwiped butt spread poop all over my newly laundered bed spread (two nights in a row)

I still have no sink in my bathroom.

Two trips to the Giant foiled when all baskets were spoken for so I took only what I could carry, which was enough to feed one of our three children for one meal. Oh and also there was no parking so I had to walk three blocks with my purchases.

My basement has been completely over run by aggressive and entitled cockroaches. All sleepover activity has been suspended since "cockroach gate" when one infiltrated the tent my daughter and her friend were sleeping in.

I spotted two rats looking like they were planning a coup in my backyard.

Speaking of the backyard, the unchecked growth of weeds and other undetermined plant life now rivals the pictures I see of the Amazon Rain Forest.

The last few "free" things I tried to do with my kids ended up costing me hundreds of dollars (cab fare, parking, food, etc.)


The last two attempts to play ball out front on the sidewalk resulted in the ball rolling in the street and quickly down the slope of the alley to be lost forever.

The entire front facing wall of my bedroom is collapsing from water damage caused by a leaky roof.

My larger dog is suffering with some sort of vile ear infection.

I have picked up ripped garbage bags and their former contents no less than two times today. (Again, thank you dogs)

My kids are screaming and wrestling in my living room seemingly unable to hear my pleas for quiet and calm.

We are out of checks and the cleaning lady is giving me the evil eye as she sweeps my filth and waits for my lame excuse.

Renew,Restore, Replenish

I love the beach. We are home now, I am still unpacking and frankly it's making me want to run back to the minivan and head straight for the ocean again. Almost everyone suffers from a "woe as me complex" as they watch the sun, surf and sand fade in the distance of the rear view mirror, but this vacation was so good that I found myself getting melancholy and misty eyed two days prior to departure. All I could think of was how poorly my real life measured up to my beach existence. I tried to give myself a mental "snap out of it" slap, because who am I to complain really? "You don't have it so bad!" I chided myself. Then suddenly I heard my mothers voice.

"You know who has it bad? The loincloth clad guy sleeping in the brush in sub Saharan Africa with a bush baby perched on his head, waiting in terrifying darkness for the man eating lion pride that devoured his whole village to come and finish him off. Now THAT'S a guy who's earned the right to feel sorry for himself missy, not you".

True, but i still want to have my rear end planted firmly in a beach chair while I watch the waves roll in.

Images From the Beach

Despite the angry face, she was actually having a smashing time with her extended family. I do admit, the intensity she is eyeballing me with is unnerving.

To Pool or Not to Pool

This picture is the best argument I've ever seen for joining the pool.

Every year we toy with the idea of re-joining our local pool at the Hilton (also known as the Hinkley Hilton) to enjoy the many pleasures a cold refreshing dip can offer.

The summer money hemorrhage has begun to take it's toll with sports and leisure camps raising prices (in DC it's almost mandatory to attend) and our vacation rental climbing steadily upward every year. The extra thousand or so it costs for three months of pool membership starts to look far less appealing.

Confessions of a Borderline Aerophobic

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing."-- Helen Keller

There is nothing I love more than traveling to far flung places and soaking up all that these destinations have to offer. I also revel in the fact that I have , for the most part, vanquished a demon that threatens to snuff out the embers of many a potential globe trotter. Fear of flying.

Let me start with full disclosure. I was raised by parents with vastly different attitudes toward risk, the Jekyll and Hyde of adventure. My mother was was the white hot fist of fear and my father was a fly by the seat of your pants, devil may care reckless type. I would watch my mother white knuckle it on every flight we ever took together(until we started drugging her), while flashing an uneasy smile so as not to panic me. My dad, on the other hand peered fearlessly out the window enjoying every turbulent moment in the air. I have vivid memories of sitting quietly on the hood of our Chevy Impala just outside the landing strip of our local airport and glancing periodically at my mother's agonized mask of terror while we watched my father take flying lessons for his much sought after pilot's licence. Knowing my mother as well as I do, I also suspect some of that horror came from knowing they had let their life insurance policy lapse and a life of leisure would not be ours were he to perish in a fiery crash.

When I began to fly with some regularity, she began to crack a bit around the edges, dropping little fear nuggets about the "odds", keeping track of crashes and and airline safety records. "Quantas is very safe, they've never crashed" she'd parrot, sounding eerily like Ray Babbitt.

I began to wonder if the fear of flying itself was a metaphor representing something else entirely like the fear of letting go or fear of some new age cliche like not spreading your wings and being all you can be and embracing success. Then I realized that I didn't have that much hidden potential stifled away and it was probably just the residual effects of my mother's morbid imaginings of the kind of terror that is exclusively reserved for those going down in a terrible aviation disaster. "Just think" she'd ponder aloud "of how frightened and helpless those poor people were right before the end". Thanks mom, ick.

I was determined to fight back against the crippling wave of anxiety even if I had to brainwash myself and drug her (eventually I did both). Helping her understand the principles of aviation and the sensationalized media response to accidents did some good. However, I had no clever come back for her main concern about the high casualty rate per incident. "There are no fender benders in the sky" she'd chirp.

Over time I learned to sit back, relax and really enjoy every trip. Layovers became a time to people watch and read long ago abandoned books. Flights had fascinating (and sometimes famous) individuals to talk to and final destinations were the start of a whole new adventure.
Dad still jet sets and we still have to medicate my mom, but she takes her pill joyously and passes out cold until we wake her and help her down the tarmac to begin the next leg of our journey..the dreaded taxi ride. That, however is a whole different story.

Oh My God, I am Hardly Sorry

Recently my son and his second grade class rocked the third sacrament like a bunch of professional Catholics. They even scored some wine on the way back to the pew , a coup that gave them major cause for celebration as they high fived each other and snickered. We let them have their tiny victory and waited for the reception afterward to use our morality speeches about alcoholism and the perils of ending up living in a wilted cardboard box underneath a highway overpass. Triumphant, they ran away to the jungle gym hopped up on super sweet cake and juice boxes.
Just a few months prior to this we had a completely different group on our hands. Somber and racked with guilt, these same children waited endlessly on a seemingly never moving line to confess their sins . I had jokingly mentioned to my son that any sin forgotten is a black spot on you soul that grows and rots until it crosses the border from venial to mortal. Then you are shit out of luck. This was the example given to me (minus the shit out of luck line) by Sister Angelica, hater of children, and destroyer of dreams. Her harrowing account of what could actually happen to your sparkly little soul in days flat was astonishing. You could actually feel your airway start to constrict with fear when she spoke of the fate that clearly awaited anyone with a poor memory or a bad case of the confession booth jitters. Hell.
You were going to hell, where you would be hung upside down over eternal fires, prodded by evil imps with spears, separated from everything and everyone you loved and be made to listen to that "rock and roll" on an endless loop. This fear was instrumental in helping us hone our memorization skills, and our ability to repeat the Act of Contrition flawlessly. The ignorant few that made the mistake of writing this prayer on their hands for quick reference just in case they had a senior moment in the booth paid dearly. They were rewarded with a swift crack on the head and an extremely painful hand washing ritual that made Karen Silkwood's radioactive scrub down with metal sponges, poisonous disinfectant and men in hazmat suits seem a breeze by comparison.
That is why my mouth dropped open when I saw what each second grader was clutching in their sweaty little paws. Cheat sheets. Steps one through eight with a bold, underlined title. "How to Go to Confession". After my initial shock wore off, it dawned on me. This was absolute brilliance. What I wouldn't have given for that tiny little life line when I was a freckled, pigtailed panic stricken kid. It made me want to find Sister Angelica (if she was indeed still alive) at whatever retirement home for angry nuns they stuck her in and paste a thousand copies of it to her window. Here it is you crazy loon, proof that tiny souls can still be wiped shiny clean and new even with the use of helpful hints.

New Moon on Monday

Random Images

Oink, Oink, I'm not Laughing Anymore.

Today we received the honor of becoming the first Washington D.C. school to close due to a very unlucky staff member contracting the much talked about "swine flu". Aside from the fact that cabin fever is currently posing more of the threat than the virus, we are symptom free but remain on lock down until further notice. All this despite the face mask, hazmat suit and gallons of bleach. Oh well.

Mount (kinda) Pleasant

I spend so much time moaning and groaning about the drawbacks of living in our neighborhood (robbery, murder, car break-in's, rats, lack of parking etc.) that I often forget some of the positives.

Spiderman Rises from the Ashes

This recently resurfaced after twenty some odd years of storage. My parents made the incredibly poor decision to sell our beloved two hundred year old New York farm house and put all of my tender childhood memories in boxes on the floor of an evil storage facility. Did I mention that I was still a little bitter about this? I opened it up to find that it still has the 45 record intact. More importantly, at what point did the monster and superhero worlds cross allowing the wolfman to appear in this?

Air and Space

We just wrapped up a whirlwind three day visit with Grandpa. The kids love it when he comes to town and we try to enjoy some of Washington D.C.'s tourist attractions that we never take advantage of normally. Let me first tell you how grateful I am that nearly every place we went was free. In this crap economy it's a welcome relief to not have to shell out endless dollars to visit someplace amazing. We chose the Air and Space Museum, since our last visit took place five years ago (I know, pitiful). A great day was had by all.

See What I Mean?

These two particular clouds have blown away, but you get the basic idea.

Spring Has Spung

O.K., so the title is borrowed from a pre-school bulletin board , it's actually true. A week or so of warm soothing sunshine and cerulean blue skies have prompted us to break out the sidewalk chalk. Here are the results.

Sandy Point on a Cold Day

During a depressing cold spell last month I found myself looking for something to do. I discovered it in Sandy Point Park. If you take a drive on Route 50 east past Annapolis right before the Bay bridge you will find this sprawling sand covered beach and park with plenty of distractions for young and old. Places to sit and eat, great views and a decent playground all make for an afternoon of fun.

Imdb and Me

On days where I hit a monstrous slump, I find myself slinking closer to the laptop to get my fix. A place where you can post thought provoking questions for discussion, mindless drivel, or angry borderline slander. You can have the DeNiro in Taxi Driver vs. Pacino in Dog Day Afternoon debate one second and find yourself slinging some mud regarding the personal love life of an actor/actress the next. That's right, it's Imdb....and it's spectacular.
Provoke a troll, you get a stalker that will both warm your heart and frighten you to death in equal measure. Engage a writer, film maker or actor (yes they do read and post!) and you get thoughtful answers to most sincere questions. Best of all? It's a movie buffs dream!! Every movie ever made, every thespian to grace the large and small screen, it's all in the mix! Mega fans, mega fun. Film geeks debate everything from the Star Wars prequels to Fellini, cinematography, casting, overlooked performances, you name it..they talk about it.
I knew I was in trouble when I started checking this site instead of CNN with my early morning coffee. Most of my friends are swept up in the current facebook storm (I confess, I do love me some facebook too) but I still find myself drawn to post random observances from the latest thing I've seen at the movies or ordered on Netflix. Nothing beats it.
Go and get yourself an account and let the fun begin.
www.imdb.com

A Tisket a Tasket, I'm Going to Hit You With My Basket

Earlier today as I was penetrating the freshness seal on my grated Parmesan, I was instantly transported back in time remembering it's difficult journey from the Giant to my kitchen. Let me first preface this by telling you that Wednesday is senior day at Giant foods. "Why is this relevant?" you may ask? There are myriad reasons that I could give you but unless you've ever been food shopping with your over sixty five Nana you may have a hard time grasping exactly how fraught with danger this can be. Everyone of the surly old people comes in angry and ready for a fight. The prices are crazy, the manager is taking too long to respond to endless complaints, the cashiers give terrible customer service, the aisles are too skinny and the shelves too tall to reach. These are all valid issues and I do feel for these decrepit souls wandering around in vain trying to buy enough to last them until the next miserable trip to this Godforsaken place, however I was only there this Wednesday to get one item. Cheese. You see, my ten year old daughter loves Parmesan cheese on her pasta and won't eat a morsel without it. So now you understand why we dial it to def con 4 when there are only a few sprinkles left.
I unfairly used my youth (39 is the new 20) and agility to maneuver, shopping cart free, through the maze and used laser precision to zero in on my target. This is where I made my crucial error. I offhandedly cut in front of an elderly woman who initially appeared harmless and grabbed what looked like one of many bottles of sprinkle cheese. I now know that this was the last Parmesan. Only Romano remained. The old lady can't eat Romano, as a matter of fact she HATES it. First she shot me the same look that Chief Brody gave the mayor of Amity when he made the ill fated decision to open the beaches for the 4th of July holiday weekend with a man eating great white still on the prowl, then she started her shrill verbal assault. I backed away quickly and thought about running, but changed my mind. Old age is not a license to be an a**hole. Anarchy could rear it's ugly head if this type of behavior is left unchecked. So I used my junior psychoanalysts calm voice to shame her into silence. NO, I did not feel good about this later, buy my daughter ate her lunch for the rest of the week.

Relax-O-Rama

I bet you didn't know that it only takes one vomiting child to thwart even the most serious attempts at living like a rock star. Now take that and multiply it by three.

As you might imagine, a person needs some time to recuperate after an entire household is struck down by plague.

After merrily hosing down the walls of several common rooms, like the scullery maid I really am, with bleach tinged cleanser, I picked up the phone and made a reservation at Washington D.C.'s very own Topaz Hotel for my husband and I. Many times I had been tempted to do this after hearing rave reviews about the location, funky, spacious rooms and exquisite service, but something always seemed to get in the way. A basketball game, endless birthday parties, needy pets and offspring, etc. With fierce determination I asked for a one night stay and a hot rock massage for my overworked and under appreciated spouse.

Grandma flew in on her broomstick and had just enough time to toss off three housekeeping related insults before we bolted out the front and hailed the nearest cab.

First off, I've got to say how impressed I was with the hotel itself. It looks small from the outside but it boasts cavernous rooms and a fantastic bar/lounge area near it's entrance. Every inquiry was met with a smile and genuine warmth and the bartenders kept me company like big brothers while my husband went upstairs at 6:30 for his massage appointment.

Speaking of the massage.......

Let me just start by saying this is provided by an outside service and a good one at that. My husband being a massage virgin was terrified at the prospect of a stranger rubbing him down with oil in a locked room. Baby. It turns out our masseuse was an enormous Russian fellow with an odd resemblance to John Wayne Gacey. His first words after "hello" were "I FORGET ROCKS" not "I forgot the rocks", just a simple caveman like "I FORGET ROCKS".

For one nanosecond I contemplated making a fuss and then had a vision of him snapping off my husbands twig like arms and brandishing them as weaponry against me leaving me concussed on the floor. Wait, where was I? Oh yes, he opted instead for the deep tissue massage which was in a word ..delightful.

We spent the rest of the evening drinking a strange blue mixed drink from the bar, both delicious and potent, and ate while watching March Madness on the bar TV.

Since we are from the area and we've frequented all the local DuPont Circle haunts, we stayed close to the hotel and went outside for a few quick walks to people watch and enjoy the Saturday evening. Those coming into D.C. from out of town could spend all evening out and about I'm sure.

The Topaz Hotel is a Kimpton Hotel (love them!) and is located at 1733 N Street, N.W. Washington, DC 20036.

http://www.topazhotel.com/

Do yourself a favor and spend a night!

United We Stand, Disgruntled We Fall

http://money.cnn.com/2009/04/06/news/companies/airline_quality/index.htm?postversion=2009040610
I recently found myself standing in front of the United Airlines kiosk waiting for said machine to vomit forth my boarding pass while a watchful but mostly disdainful UA employee kept me in his peripheral vision. A fellow random traveler whose audible sighs wafted past me was clearly in some sort of distress having to do with the inability of his kiosk to answer his question. "These prompts don't have the info I need" he called to no one in particular. Dead silence.
I had just finished so I thought I'd lend a helping hand. "What do you need?"
"My gate number is nowhere to be found on my boarding pass OR the computer screen, and I keep having to log back on with my confirmation number because it shuts me down when I take too long." I checked his methods just to make sure he wasn't some sort of idiot or flat out bat s*%t crazy and his gate number was in fact, a mystery. Putting on my most gracious face and using the polite voice I learned to substitute for my shrill God given one in kindergarten, I tried to summon one of the four airline employees who stood not two feet away. "Can you help him find the screen he needs?" I implored. "Just read it" one delightful layabout suggests.
You can probably imagine how this case scenario deteriorated until whatever shreds were left went swirling down the vortex into the land of "travel horror stories".
The end result was one very unhappy male traveler who stalked off, shaking his head and saying "flying is just not what it used to be". So true.
I can't say I wasted too much time contemplating his sorrow, as my trip was a whirlwind all girls extravaganza in Vegas that included spa time, a private cabana at the pool, endless gambling and late nights dancing, but it did give me food for thought when I returned.
I've flown every airline numerous times in my life and in my opinion no other carrier has lost it's touch quite as obviously as United. Snarky comebacks to travelers questions, rolling eyes at simple requests, inability to keep a level head over simple infractions (in this case a toddler repeatedly pushing the stewardess call button). Next time I fly Continental.