Jumping on the "Rocktober" bandwagon

I was going to write something all serious about today being Blog Action Day, and how this year, it's supposed to focus on the environment -- but I just got distracted by the Colorado Rockies' 4th inning 6-run offensive barrage.

Damn, this team is good! They were in fourth place in mid-September, and now they're in the process of winning their 21st of 22 games. Consider me officially on the bandwagon.

I will go so far as to say that, absent a good reason (i.e. you grew up rooting for the Diamondbacks or you are allergic to purple and black), it is unAmerican to be rooting for anyone else right now.

I want a t-shirt.



Too bad it's so late here, because I don't want to turn off the tv.

Poor weekend time management

Earlier today, I was thinking I would write about this article -- about this book -- and how I think it's a little strange to think about punk rock and Judaism together.

But then I started watching the baseball game and talking to my brother on the phone . . . . And now it's approaching midnight, and I still haven't washed my dishes or folded my laundry -- and I'm in no shape to think about anything critically, let alone Judaism and punk rock. It's always amazing how time manages to slip away from me.

But at least the Rockies won.

Salsa Dancing vs. Football

Early tonight, before I realized how awful the event we were in the process of heading towards was going to be, I offhandedly joked that, "You can only open your mind so much before your brain falls out."

Boy, was that prophetic. Being open-minded can come back to bite you in the ass.

You see, tonight I was convinced to go to some random nightclub in the middle of ghetto Arlington for salsa dancing lessons. Not only that, this was a nightclub with a dress code -- no jeans, no sneakers. So, I did what any girl would do -- I primped. I took my hair out of the ponytail. I put on eyeliner and mascara. I wore a dress. Heck, I even wore a push-up bra -- and trust me, the girls looked good.

Sadly, it was a waste of all of the effort. The nightclub, for lack of a better word, stunk. It was pretty much empty. And, to the extent that there were people there, there were way more women there than men -- which was not entirely unexpected -- but most of the men there were really old. Plus, despite the dress code, many of the people in attendance were, indeed, wearing jeans.

To add insult to injury, they played two Ricky Martin songs before the salsa lessons even started.

So, rather than dancing with an icky old random guy, with one of my female friends, or by myself, I opted to sit down and watch -- figuring that I could put the merengue knowledge to use once I had someone worth merengue-ing with. But within minutes, someone who is even less open-minded than I am convinced me to leave.

So we went to go hang out with another friend, who was watching football at a local sports bar, and then we ate ice cream. Sure I was way overdressed, but it was way more my speed. And way more fun.

The moral of the story is that the next time I feel like dressing up, I'm going to a sports bar instead.

Regret

A couple months ago, I saw Ann Coulter sitting in the lobby of a hotel in downtown DC, right next to the entrance to the restaurant where my friends and I had gone to dinner.

She was talking on her cellphone, and, at the time, seemed just like any other generic little blond-haired bimbo. In fact, I probably wouldn't have even noticed her without someone pointing her out.

I think my first reaction was to be surprised that she was that little -- and that she looked way older in person. But I pretty much kept my observations to myself, since it's mean to call someone old.

What I should have been looking for was some kind of mark of the devil. Not only does that woman have a ridiculous political ideology, but now she's making anti-Semitic comments.

Someone needs to stop that woman. Seriously.

I should have punched her in the face when I had the chance.

History of Dara, part 7

Once upon a time, a long long time ago -- a little over thirteen years, to be exact -- I was eighteen years old and living in London for the summer. Well, not just living there -- studying abroad -- which basically constituted taking a bunch of art history classes and a playwriting class.

I lived in a flat -- with four other students -- in a historic building that -- according to rumor -- Shelley had lived in at one point in time. I drank beer, at pubs. I went to lots and lots of plays, and the opera, and the ballet. I shopped in the open air markets. I went to Paris. More than that, really -- I went to so many places, it would take more than a whole blog entry to catalogue the whole thing. But that's not what I wanted to write.



I was recently reminded that, in my playwriting class in London, I wrote a one-act play as an assignment. Actually, each and every member of the class wrote a play, and then, the class voted for the top three, and staged them. Mine was selected.

In retrospect, it's not exceptionally good -- but I was eighteen. And, at the time, my class compared it to Pretty in Pink, which is a compliment. (If it had been written after 1997, I would think that Dawson's Creek would have been more accurate, but whatever.)

Anyway, here's the play, such as it is.

Connections

It's kind of a sweet idea, really -- posting your phone number on the internet, via PostSecret, in order to connect with people. And he was refreshingly honest about it: It was a way of curing his own loneliness by curing other people's loneliness.

It amazes me that anyone could actually go through with it, especially in light of the potential repercussions. People calling at all hours, from all over the place. The risk that the callers might not be entirely sane, and might need more help than he could give. The cell phone bill. The loss of anonymity. The callers' expectations of a connection -- a way to fill their own lonely voids.

It's an unusual leap of faith.

Smoke detector

All of my fretting about my car was good in one respect: It got my mind off of the fact that, on Sunday morning while I was getting ready to go out, my smoke detector decided to start chirping at me every 90 seconds. I called it in to maintenance, who, apparently decided to do nothing about it -- which I didn't notice because it stopped on its own.

. . . Until 5 am Monday morning.

Needless to say, I was ready to kill someone by the time the maintenance guy showed up to fix it (at around 10:30 that morning). Nothing like five-plus hours of constant, shrill beeping to put a girl in a good mood. It's a good thing that I'm somewhat of an expert in sleeping through alarms. (And at least it wasn't building-wide this time. Actually, there hasn't been one of those in a while.)

Right after they finally quieted the damn thing -- which took all of five minutes -- I had a realization: I'd have been better off cooking something smoky enough to really set the thing off, and then waiting for the fire department to come and fix it for me.

Auto Repair 101

Sure, I know things about sports and I work in a male-dominated field, but on many levels, I am still a very girly girl.

I admit, here and now, that I know next to nothing about cars. I haven't the foggiest idea how they work.* I mean, yeah, I know there's a gasoline-powered engine and wheels -- but after that, I'm clueless. So I do all recommended preventative maintenance -- no matter how ridiculous it is. But if something goes wrong, I am left with two options: (1) Asking for help; (2) Paying for services that I don't understand -- and potentially don't need.

Anyone who reads this blog should have deduced by now that I am probably not so good with option #1. And, in all honesty, the males with whom I would consult about an auto-related issue are probably as clueless as I am, but are even more loathe to admit it because of their intrinsic male-ness. But nevertheless, I occasionally take this approach -- usually as a precautionary step to determine whether I'm over- (or under-) reacting.

The car -- my cute little pride and joy -- is six years old, and was just on the threshold of 30,000 miles. Over the winter -- 2500 or so miles ago -- I started worrying about my tires because of the age of the car, but I took the car in for maintenance, they said that the tires were fine. So I stopped worrying.

A couple of weeks ago, when my sister was visiting, my front driver's side tire started to look a little flat. I checked the pressure, added some air, and all seemed fine. It was still fine when I drove to Harrisburg (which was also the day the car passed 30,000 miles). Last weekend, the tire looked a little flat again. I checked the pressure, and it was very low. So I put air in it and went to Target. By the time I got out of Target, it looked low again. I figured that I must have done something wrong, so I drove across the street to the nearest gas station, and repeated the process.

When I went to go take the car out on Friday night, the stupid tire was low again. I emailed a friend to ask how I would know whether I needed new tires. He told me that I should check to see if there was a slow leak by inflating the tire to the right pressure, and then checking it again in a day or two.** I told him that I'd probably wind up taking it to a shop, out of laziness -- but with the knowledge that they would probably try to sell me tires even if I really didn't need them.

So, Saturday, around lunchtime, I took the car to put more air in the tire. It didn't seem to help, so I drove the car to the first tire place I came upon after leaving my house. But to be honest, I made this decision not just because of proximity, but because the place at issue had the word "Tire" in its name. I figured that, like with Dunkin' Donuts, if you advertise something in your title, it should be safe to assume that you're an expert at it.

Anyway, I told the guy at the desk what was wrong, and he went out to take a look at it. He agreed with me, that it looked flat, and that he could have it taken back into the repair bay, where they would charge me $30 to fix the tire, or, in the alternative, would let me know that it was irreparable, and that all of this would take approximately one half-hour. I agreed with this treatment strategy, signed the estimate, and waited in the lobby, where they had Star Wars Episode III playing in the background -- you know, the one where Hayden Christiansen goes from whiny and annoying Anakin Skywalker to crazy Darth Vader.

My car is ready about 45 minutes later -- just as Darth Vader takes his first awkward steps in the big black costume. The tire place goes to charge me the $30, but as I am fumbling around in my bag for my credit card, I ask a dangerous question: "What was wrong with it?"

"Nothing. We couldn't find anything wrong with it. There is no leak."

"Then why does it keep getting flat?"

Instead of answering, the guy starts printing out a new invoice. I have somewhere to be, so I annoyedly thrust out my credit card. He tells me not to worry about it, and he hands me a key, and an invoice that says "No Charge."

I walk out to my car, and the tire looks okay. I drive the mile back to my apartment, park in the garage, and look at the tire. It looks flat again. I am pissed. That afternoon, after various events, I have a friend look at the tire. She concurs, it looks flat. I tell my friend that I emailed earlier the story, and he tells me "You brought it to the wrong tire place."

I am even more pissed.

But, lucky for me, I have Monday off from work, which means one more day I can devote to car care. So, I went downstairs this morning to check the tire. It still looks flat. But according to my tire pressure gauge, the tire is fine.

So what do I do now?





*I do, however, know how to drive a stick shift, since I actually learned how to drive on one. I was never great at it, and I am probably way out of practice -- since the last time I drove one was back in the mid-'90s -- but I'm sure I could figure it out again.

**He also told me that after 30,000 or 40,000 miles I might notice that I'm not braking as well or taking wider turns, which would mean that the tread has worn down. But honestly, I wasn't so concerned about this, given the flatness of the tire. Not to mention that I don't think I could even begin to notice a subjective difference in braking or my turning radius.

Hold On, Hold On

Maybe it's the time of year -- the darkness starts to creep in earlier and earlier, the leaves start to fall. Maybe it's the end result of the Jewish holidays, and the taking stock of my life that inevitably ensues. But whatever it is, I always find myself getting a little more pensive than usual around this time.

It's somewhat worse than usual this year -- maybe because of my grandfather, or maybe because I'm not dwelling on the big-picture career issues that I had to distract myself with for the two prior years. But whatever the cause, I'm spending way too much time in my own headspace -- and even for me, it's mildly disturbing.

For the past couple of nights, right around bedtime, I've been listening to Neko Case. I'm pretty sure it's complicating the matter. I'm drifting off into sleep, trying to unravel my own muddled thoughts, listening to certain words:

The most tender place in my heart is for strangers
I know it's unkind but my own blood is much too dangerous

Lying in bed at night, I'm starting to think I understand this. At least to me, it's about the wall. You know the one -- the wall we all put up, protecting our hearts from others, protecting others from us, protecting ourselves from ourselves. It's easier to be kind when others have no expectations of you and you have no expectations of them.

In the end I was the mean girl
Or somebody's in-between girl

This is the line that kills me, the one I relate to. This makes the whole song make sense to me: The story of the girl taking stock of her poor romantic choices in, of all places, the middle of a wedding -- and resorting to self-medication as the way to get through it all.

In any event, the song just fits. It fits with the somewhat-serious conversation I had with my mother the other day, where somehow, in response to something, I explained to her that, on the inside, I'm still the same scared little kid I've always been, but that from the outside it's hard to see -- or for me to let anyone see it -- because of all of the layers and layers of scar tissue that have accumulated over the years. My mother sort-of chuckled, and asked me why I thought it was any different for her at 60.

The thing is, it's different for her -- she's adept at letting people in. I'm just not built that way.

The funny thing is that I don't want to be this way -- I want to change, to be open and to tell others how I feel, even with the possibility of rejection. But at this point, my behavior is reflexive, a habit. Or maybe it's more than that: It's who I am.

Banned Books Week

It's Banned Books Week. To celebrate -- or, more accurately, to protest -- I'm taking a break from my usual list and reading something from the list of the top 100 "offensive" books.

Conveniently enough, I just bought a copy of The Handmaid's Tale. But it would also be a perfect excuse to re-read A Wrinkle in Time.

I don't understand banning books. Granted, not all of these books are appropriate for children. But still, what does banning books really accomplish? It's ineffective, and it's intellectually lazy. If a book is considered racist or sexist or class-ist or anti-Semitic or anti-God or just plain scary, maybe the key isn't to ban it or ignore it, but to teach kids about the what the book represents, the time and the history and the context in which it was written, and -- hopefully -- how we've grown as a society since then. Or if the book contains -- egads!-- sex, well, maybe we should just finally admit that kids are already learning about it from television and movies and pop culture in general, get over ourselves, and teach them about it in classrooms -- rather than waiting for them to figure it out for themselves in the backseats of cars and on prom night.

Besides, there's an element of reverse psychology at play. If you tell a high school kid not to read Catcher in the Rye or Harry Potter or The Anarchist's Cookbook or whatever, guess what their favorite book is going to wind up being?

What's My Karaoke Theme Song?

This was eerily prescient:

Your Karaoke Theme Song is "Livin' On a Prayer"

You believe the best things in life are mostly forgotten, and you're definitely more than a little nostalgic . You're likely to still like the same foods, fashions, and music as you did when you were a teenager. You have a knack for knowing what elements of pop culture people have missed, without them even realizing it. It's great to remember the past, but don't forget that not everyone is as stuck in it as you are. You might also sing: "Pour Some Sugar on Me," "Rapper's Delight," and "Cherry Pie" Stay away from people who sing: "Toxic"

What's Your Karaoke Theme Song?

My parents' anniversary

My parents' anniversary was this past weekend. They've been married for thirty-three years.

It's hard to find a card for that. So this is what I sent:



I wrote my parents one of of my typical silly notes on the inside.



At least I make them laugh.

More new fall tv

I just finished watching Moonlight on the DVR.

Similarities to Veronica Mars:

• Nouveau noir style with over-the-top narration
• Private investigators
• Jason Dohring
• Hearst College
• Flashbacks as storytelling device

Similarities to Angel:

• Hunky vampire private investigator
• Flashbacks as storytelling device
• Executive producer

Similarities to Alias:

• Kevin Weisman -- as a tech guy

By all rights, I should love this show -- but I'm not sure if I do. The pacing's a little too slow. And it takes itself a little too seriously -- almost like a routine police procedural show, just with vampires. Oh, plus the background music is horrible (it featured a Celine Dion song) and it airs on -- gulp! -- CBS -- the network for old people -- which co-owns the CW, which I am still boycotting. Still, it's got so much going for it (see above).

I'll give it another shot, I guess.

Just because the actors are hot doesn't mean that the show is good

I am so disappointed. I thought that if you mixed the very hot Michael Vartan with Dylan McDermott, and threw in some Joshua Malina (from one of my favorite shows ever), it would create instant awesome.

Sadly, the show sucked. It might have been the worst thing ever. Well, no -- clearly that's an overstatement. Besides, I can imagine worse.

And ABC, what's with you and the tranny hookers in your 10pm shows? Hmmm? Something you want to talk about?

Not enough hours in the day

For the record, I eat relatively healthily. Sure, every once in a while I have ice cream and hamburgers, but more often than not, I have salads. I've pretty much given up "white foods" -- pasta, sugar, bread, and rice. And I exercise -- not as much as I would like, but I generally go to the gym a couple of times a week, I walk outside, and I occasionally take the stairs instead of the elevator.

But apparently, it's not enough. In order to lose weight, the contestants on shows like The Biggest Loser exercise four to six hours per day.

Yeah, you read that right -- four to six hours each and every day.

I think I probably get about six hours of exercise in an entire week -- when I'm being diligent. For me to get four to six hours of exercise every day, I would have to give up sleep. Or work. Maybe both.

The one where the dental hygienist was mean to me

I went to the dentist this morning, for a routine cleaning. Big fat yawn, right?

While there the hygienist said two things that I was not expecting. First of all, she told me that, contrary to years and years of conventional wisdom -- not to mention my mother's nagging -- chewing gum is good for me, and I should do it for 30 minutes after each meal.

An AP article confirms this. So I just went out and bought a new pack of Trident Watermelon Twist.

And second -- most disturbingly -- in relation to the fact that I burned the roof of my mouth on a croqueta de pollo at Jaleo over a week ago, and it still hasn't healed, she told me that "As we get older, our gums take longer to heal."

I was in total shock. First I wanted to hit her in the mouth while shouting "Shut up, beyotch, I'm 31, not 50!" I should have done it too, since old people don't start fistfights with their dental hygienist.

Then I just wanted to cry.

Now, I'm just confused. If I'm so friggin' old, why does she insist on giving me the fake watermelon-flavored fluoride treatment? Blech.

Ozzy Osbourne would be proud.

I may travel a lot for work, but I've never done this:

The Rocky Mountain News reports that Scott D. Clark, an auditor with the Denver office of the Health and Human Services Department's inspector general office, is facing a felony animal cruelty charge related to an incident at an Embassy Suites hotel in St. Paul, Minn., where he had traveled for work.

According to witnesses, Scott cornered a duck near an atrium pond at the hotel and ripped its head off. Announcing, "I'm hungry. I'm gonna eat it," Clark got on an elevator with the headless bird and took it up to the fifth floor.

On top of that, the Minneapolis Star Tribune reports, local law enforcement officials said in an official complaint filed against Clark that after police arrived on the scene, Clark said "that he worked for the federal government and when this was over he would have the officers' jobs."

When told that he was in trouble for killing the duck, Clark told officers, "Why, because I killed it out of season? Big deal, it's just a [expletive] duck."

Then again, I'm not an auditor. Guy's gotta find something interesting to do, right?


Update: At least the duck guy doesn't go around biting three-year-olds.

A laboratory technician has been fired after the parents of a 3-year-old boy claimed she bit his shoulder while drawing blood from his arm, a hospital spokesman said.

Faith Buntin took her son Victor to St. Vincent Hospital on Friday for a blood test because of recent recalls of toys involving lead. She said she saw the worker put her mouth on Victor's shoulder.

"I looked at her like that was the craziest thing that I'd ever seen," Faith Buntin told television station WRTV. "She looked at me and smiled and said, 'Oh, it was just a play bite. He's not hurt.'"

After they returned home, the boy's mother said, she saw teeth marks on his left shoulder, and her husband drove the child back to the hospital, where he was prescribed antibiotics.

"Taking a bite out of him like he's an apple, this is heinous," said James Buntin, the boy's father.

St. Vincent fired the technician after the incident was reported and is "reviewing the capabilities" of the employees of the subcontractor that does blood work for the hospital, spokesman Johnny Smith said.

A (long) day in the life

Today was a really long, tiring day. Fourteen hours from the time I left my apartment in the morning until I got back this evening.

It probably started at 5:00 when my first alarm went off, but what I really remember is the emergency back-up alarm going off at 5:15. (At least I knew I'd need a backup.) Then it was eat, shower, dress in fancy-yet-comfortable-enough-to-drive-in suit, do hair and make up, put on sneakers, grab heels, bag, cellphone, BlackBerry, and Diet Coke and head down to the garage.

At 6:05 -- five minutes behind schedule -- the little blue car and I were on our way. Five minutes later, I realized that I was heading in the wrong direction, out of habit.

Forty-five or so minutes later, I was heading west on I-270, watching the backed-up traffic in the other direction. Man, it must suck to live all the way out in Damascus.

In the midst of this, I'm listening to the traffic reports and thinking that there must be some kind of correlation between people being tired and people being in car accidents. And how the world would be better if we could just schedule things according to our own circadian rhythms. Friggin' genius, right? I should get some kind of grant or something to study it further.

Anyway, once the DC radio signals and their traffic reports started getting weak, I put in some CDs, and raced along my merry way. I was in Pennsylvania before 7:30. I barely saw any other cars until I was basically at my destination -- Harrisburg. Man, it must be nice to live in a place where the ten cars that are waiting for the light count as "traffic."

I got to my final destination by 8:45. In and of itself, that's noteworthy because there are a heck of a lot of days when I don't even manage to leave for work that early. Anyway, while at my destination, I got to see a former co-worker, educate his interns, and -- while waiting in the appropriately-named waiting room -- read a five-year-old Sports Illustrated with Jason Giambi on the cover, proclaiming him "the perfect modern hitter."

No, really:



And yes, I did feel slightly suspicious taking this picture with my cellphone in a Federal building.

Shortly thereafter, I did my lawyer-y work, which involved going to court and winning a case. All that, and it wasn't even 11:30. So, I got in the car to head back.

I even took a picture out the car window. You can almost make out the Harrisburg skyline in the distance.



I meant to get on the highway and get off on Route 15, to go back home through Gettysburg and Frederick -- I would have stopped for lunch somewhere along the way -- but somehow, I wound up on the real highway instead, heading towards York and Baltimore. Later, I'd find out that this miscalculation was a good thing, based on my former coworker's email to our other coworkers describing some kind of accident involving a horse. Forget about my earlier comment about the ten cars constituting traffic -- it's even better if you imagine nine cars and a horse and buggy. Livestock rules!

I got stuck in a little bit of traffic in Baltimore -- there was an accident -- so I read my BlackBerry emails. And when I got to my office around 1:15, there was no parking available in the garage. So I drove home. And changed out of my suit, checked my email, Twittered, grabbed lunch, and metroed into the office.

I got home just after 8 -- which was fourteen hours, almost to the minute. And now, I'm eating dinner. If I'm not too exhausted, I'll probably watch last night's Heroes when I'm finished.

Revenge of the Pool Boy

On first read, I thought this article about the Bush family pool boy must have been a joke. I mean, what kind of self-respecting pool boy speaks English?

Then I remembered that this was taking place in Maine, not Palm Beach.

Cheap jokes aside, I find certain parts of the article hard to believe. Like how a 23-year old pool boy engages in offhand discussions of Bush 41's policies. Or how his friend happened to set up a web site to help raise money for his dental work. Or how he just happened to go to a war protest down the road from the Bush compound and wound up talking to their cousins at a lemonade stand, and that those same cousins indicated disagreement with the administration's policy. These coincidences strain credulity, but they make for an excellent feature.

But I wholeheartedly agree with this sentiment:

For Razsa, his job -- the only one he could find -- put him directly in touch with the very sort of power he holds partly responsible for his, and other people's, hard times.

"I look at the biggest middle finger in the world all day," is his more succinct explanation.

I ask Razsa if he has a monologue loaded up, in the event that his next encounter was at closer range. To my surprise, the idea doesn't appeal.

"What do you say? 'Thanks for School of the Americas, and Iran-Contra, and NAFTA, and shipping all those jobs overseas, and arming Saddam, and funding the Taliban?' What do you say -- 'You're a jerk?' There's nothing that can be put into a sentence that would capture the lives these people have taken, and the way of life that's been taken."

I mean, how do you burn down the master's house when that master is the President of the United States -- or, for that matter, his father?

Duh. You tell your story. And hope that people listen.

My version of atonement

Slate had an interesting article on Yom Kippur.

Here's what we're supposed to have done or be doing:

According to Jewish law, there's a five-step program for sin eradication during the Days of Awe, the weeklong period beginning with Rosh Hashanah and ending with Yom Kippur, when God's judgments of each man's righteousness (or lack thereof) over the past year gets indelibly inked in the Book of Life. The first is mere recognition of the sin, followed by remorse for having committed it. Next comes the physical cessation of the sin, the act of restitution toward the sinned against, and, finally, confession before the Almighty, which includes vowing never to do it again.

Versus what people actually do:

Plenty of High Holy Day Jews cut corners on the sacred practice by resorting to what Rabbi Yehuda Sarna at NYU's Bronfman Center calls the "spray-fire" method of atonement. Instead of humbly approaching those you know you've wronged over the past year, you dial up everyone in your Rolodex or e-mail everyone in your address book, and seek a pardon for any offenses you might have given—a hollow gesture if ever there was one. Operating on the Don Corleone-ish principle that a request can't be refused during a blessed event, these Jews literally phone in their apologies and expect forgiveness for all sorts of trespasses, be it a missed birthday, an unpaid loan, or nasty gossip.

Not me. I don't call anyone -- let alone everyone -- to ask for forgiveness. Maybe I should, but whatever. What's done is done, and all I can try to do is fix whatever problems my behavior wrought.

So, instead, beginning around Rosh Hashanah, I tend to contemplate the year gone by. (Probably more because it's fall, and less because of the holiday -- but the reason seems less important than the action.) I think about the things I could have handled better, and eventually, I get to a point where I promise myself, and whatever deity may or may not exist, that I will try harder. This is my version of atoning for my sins.

And, then, more often than not, I go to synagogue and fast. My personal 24-hour atone-a-thon begins in roughly two hours.