The Princess and the Pea

Hostels are my thing, but I realize I won't be able to convert many to the wonders of quickly plugging into a city when there is a string attached called "sharing a bathroom." Such is the case of my good friend. I affectionately call her my Persian Princess as she only will tolerate the nicest of things.

Stay in a hostel? No way! Marriot hotels are more her speed, but she was willing to slum it with me in a Best Western. Public transportation? Are you out of your mind? Instead, we rented a car. At the beach, I offered her peaches that I bought from a farmer's market, and she wanted to know how I was going to wash them first. Besides, she argued, "Didn't you see the flies on those things?"

Before we left on our trip, she emailed me a packing list which was a foreshadowing of what was to come. My first clue as to how much we are the odd couple was that this list included both hotel shoes and shower shoes. I thought, "Huh, room slippers and shower shoes? Maybe she wears slippers around her house like a 1930's Hollywood diva. But shower shoes when we aren't camping?"

To her defense, she wore the same flip flops around the room and in the shower as she did to the beach. Based on that, I'd lower her crazy from a 9 to an 8.

Like true royalty, my Princess required everything to be in perfect order before she could relax. The first thing she did when we entered our room was to inspect the sheets. She turned the bedside lamp on and carefully went through each square inch of sheet, blanket, pillow and pillow case under it's condemning light. She even inspected the mattress. Can you guess what she was looking for?

Bedbugs. She wanted to see if any blood drops could be found on the sheets and mattress. "And if you find any evidence of bedbugs," I asked? If so, then she wanted to ask for a new room. Awkwardly I tried to follow her instructions on inspecting the sheets. I totally went through the motions to appease her since I didn't know what the hell I was looking for. I just wanted the Princess to be happy.

I also thought she'd be proud of me for my initiative in cleaning my feet before hopping into bed with her. Walking around town in sandals left my feet dirty, so I washed my feet in the tub. The plug fell into the drain and the water pooled. I didn't care. I let my feet take turns soaking in the hot water while I cleaned the other foot.

She walked into the bathroom, squished up her face, and oozed, "Ewwww! That's disgusting! Don't you know what's been in that tub? Pubic hair! Jizz! All sorts of gross stuff! And now your feet are in the water that is touching where all of that stuff was."

Well, after that description, I wanted to throw up.

Her neurosis didn't end there. The remote control was wrapped in a tissue so that I could not figure out which button was for volume or input. She unpacked a package of toilet seat covers, and I wondered if that was for the hotel or for our outings. And when I walked around barefoot in the room, I remembered her stance on germs and quickly put on my flip flops while checking to see if she caught my blunder.

Observing her for a few days, I finally figured out what the problem was. "Have you ever been to a third world country?" I asked. She hadn't, which was just so obvious. Once you see the level of filth in which the human body can thrive, you realize just how clean the United States are. By comparison, our dirt is dang clean.

Until she hits rock bottom, and by that I mean using a porta potty without a seat cover, I really don't think any of my arguments will win her over to my carefree ways. As long as she travels in clean places, she will demand only the most sanitary of conditions. But I'm not prepared to say that this demand is such a bad thing. The princess who felt the pea below so many mattresses earned herself a prince. I'm sure my Persian Princess will too.

Cool People are at Cool Places

Hostels are also a great way to find where the cool is in a city. Here in Charleston, SC, the hipster staff put together a guide with their favorite picks. They revealed the funky vegetarian restaurants or best place to hear live music at an out of the way venue.

The alley entrance at Gilroy's

From their recommendations, my roommates and I frequented a bar that doesn't have a sign to advertise it. In lieu of an address, they gave us these instructions: walk down King St, turn right at Gilroy's Pizza, walk halfway down the alley, then up the stairs by the trash can. Guess what? There still wasn't a sign upstairs. We just opened the door and hoped we weren't walking in on something private.

There at the Upper Deck Tavern, the music was indie, the patrons were tattooed, and the cheap drinks were strong. On a Sunday night when every bar we past on the main street was empty, this bar bursted with drunk people accompanying the karaoke singers.

Two dudes with long hair and bandanas like Axel Rose sang a Flogging Molly song. A group of girls in Buddy Holly glasses lead the crowd in a rowdy Yeah Yeah Yeah's hit. The song lyrics were not only on a prompter for the singer, but the words were also projected behind the singer on a huge screen so that everyone else in the bar could sing along. A group of people danced to the songs, and others hooted acknowledgment. One of the guys at our table grabbed my hand and pulled me to dance floor for some country song. He danced the Texas swing really well!

With one of the guys who shared our table, my roommates and I ended up singing Living on a Prayer since my German roommate is such a huge fan of Bon Jovi. Of course, that song is a crowd favorite, so I  really didn't have to worry about anyone hearing my voice over the noise of the crowd singing along. Mission accomplished.

After singing, we played Jenga. When I went to grab the game for the table, I saw a hot guy dressed like a beatnik. He was all by himself, so I said, "Hey, you look lonely. Want to play Jenga with us?" He did.

This bar has it's own edition of the game. Each time we pulled a Jenga piece from the tower, we read the instructions that had been written in marker. We might have to buy the hottest guy at the bar a drink, or tickle the person to the left, or yell "Cunt licker!" 

At 2am, the bar closed and all of the coolest, hippest kids in town were kicked out to the street. Like a steady stream of clowns coming out of a car at the circus, we poured out of that tiny dive bar to fill the street outside. How had we all fit in there?

Had we not taken the advice of the staff at the hostel, we would've missed the biggest karaoke party in Charleston while sitting at an empty bar wondering, "Where is everybody?"

Hostels: You're Never Alone

Not So Hostel, Charleston, SC

When traveling alone, I love to stay in hostels since I never feel isolated there. For some glorious reason, everyone who stays at a hostel is friendly, talkative, and willing to invite those traveling alone to tag along because they are usually traveling alone too.

Many of my friends are afraid of staying in them after watching the horror movie in which a crazed killer has his way with the travelers in one unlucky hostel. Or they imagine them to be unclean. Or they don't want to share a room with other people.

I would submit that a crazy killer can find you anywhere, a hotel can be just as clean or unclean as a hostel, and that most hostels have private room options. However, you probably cannot get away from sharing the bathrooms. You've got me on that one.

By their very nature, hostels are designed to bring strangers together which might even be more valuable then their rock bottom room rate. Sharing space means bumping into people and giving you that excuse to talk to a stranger. In Charleston, SC, rooming with two other girls gave me the excuse to introduce myself then invite them along with me to my outing. Sharing computers in the living room, eating breakfast around the kitchen table, or enjoying the cool of the night on the gracious front porch were all opportunities I grabbed for good conversation.

As for eating dinner at a restaurant alone, who wants to be "that guy"? Not I. (Said the fly with the buy in his eye...random, but it all rhymes.) If I must eat alone, I prefer to sit at a bar in hopes of striking up conversation with the people on either side of me. But I find it so much nicer to walk in with my dinner companion so that there is a guarantee of company.

The hostel spared me again, this time I didn't need to chance eating my dinner alone. After my two roommates checked out of the hostel to move onto their next city, I had lost my impromptu traveling companions. But just as quickly as I had lost them, I found another. Walking out the door, I bumped into a guy who was also heading into town for dinner. Over a shared pizza, I learned he owns a hostel in Costa Rica. Yeah buddy! I plan to check that out one day!

People told me I am too old to have stayed at a hostel on this past trip, but I will continue to use hostels at any age if I'm traveling alone. I've seen families and old people staying at them, so I'll never run the risk of being too old. But really, I just love the hostels because without a great private room to hide in, people congregate in the shared spaces and conversations begin. I never have to feel alone even if I'm traveling alone.

Charleston, South Carolina: The Sweat!

Gross. This weather is disgusting.

Due to my late arrival at the hostel last night, my room assignment was mixed up. I ended up sleeping on a random bed in a room full of guys. I didn't know it was a room full of guys since I went to bed after 3am. What I noticed about the room is that it was stifling hot and smelled like feet.

This morning, I found out that I actually had a frigid room waiting for me with pleasant girls who smell clean. I'm so looking forward to sleep tonight!

As I couldn't sleep in, I went for a run. Big mistake. This heat rivals the tropics. Due to the intense heat,  all I could think about was the sweat dripping off of my pony tails.

After a shower and breakfast, I was still feeling sticky. Walking to town only increased my discomfort. Sure, I felt the sweat dripping down my back, but I didn't know that my clothes were as sweaty as if I'd gone running.

My dress darkened with sweat marks! Damp, dark fabric rose from my belly to two crescent shapes below my breasts. I guess my bra was doing a good enough job of soaking up the sweat. Ick! Gross! I was mortified!

As soon as my roommate and I found a coffee shop, we ducked into there and stayed until our clothes dried out. In the meantime, all that sweat and AC left me fa-reeeeezing. In fact I was so cold that I was shivering.

Dammit. Remind me again why we need to sweat outside of the bedroom?

Charleston, South Carolina: Take One

Last night I arrived in Charleston, South Carolina. It's way down south where DC's unusual heat wave is but a normal day's temperature. Right away, I realized that I'll only make it in this town if I hop from one air conditioned venue to another.

The DC boy wearing his Natty Boh.

As I'm traveling alone, I decided to stay at a hostel where I could meet some people. However I was disappointed when arriving to the hostel after midnight, I found everyone going to bed instead of heading out to the bars. So I ventured out on my own.

I wandered the streets until I found where all the bars are. All of the bars had long lines of frat boys and sorority girls. So when I found a bar called Macintosh that looked like Meridian Pint in Columbia Heights, I went in. I figured that if a bar decorated with a nod to the industrial then it would play better music and attract more interesting people, and I was right.

Sitting next to me at the counter was a boy from the Maryland side of DC who moved to town last week to work as some sort of chef at Husk, a restaurant that only uses ingredients from south of the Mason Dixon line. From his description, it sounded like fancy home cooked or soul food prepared with the idea that ingredients should be more local. I will definitely be trying that place.

We talked til the bar closed, and he walked me back to my hostel. Along the way, other Maryland people stopped us in the street to loudly slur, "Naaaaaaaatty Boh!"

Back at the hostel, all the night owls greeted me from the porch. The German au pairs swooned at the thought of my house so full of kids and asked me to come visit them in Europe in order for them to watch my brood. Um, can they swear to that in blood?

I'm Too Afraid to Go Home

Yesterday my oldest and I watched the movies Scream 2 and Scream 3. Watching that sequel during the daylight was no problem especially since the movie wasn't so creepy. However, we watched the scarier third installment at night which freaked me out!

Unlike my child, watching that gory movie at night unnerved me and frightened me. Being scared out of my mind meant forcing my kid to walk beside me through the house as I closed up for the night. I couldn't even go to the bathroom alone! I was so scared and wouldn't enter a room until it was inspected by my kid.

"And the mother of the year award goes to....."

In bed, we watched sitcoms until I fell asleep. It was sweet to share the bed with this child who hadn't crawled into bed with me for such a long time. Instead of me as the mother soothing a child after a nightmare, our situation was reversed. I was one the one laying there with my eyes wide open and needing to be comforted.

Tonight, the kids are with my ex. Who the hell will soothe me to sleep tonight? I don't want to be alone in my house so I'm avoiding my home. My plan is to stay here at Epicure Cafe until they kick me out at 2am. By that time, the murderer will be so bored waiting for me at my house that he'll move onto to someone else, right? RIGHT?

She Miró; She Lloró

Last Sunday I biked over to the National Gallery of Art to see the Miró exhibit. How refreshing it was for me to have time to go soak in art at my own pace. Since the children were off camping, the beautiful art kept me company.

Or was it beautiful art? I'm not a fan of surrealist art. Like so much of poetry, I usually want to strangle the proverbial neck of the artwork and scream, "Why don't you just say what you mean??"

While Miró didn't tell me what he meant, whoever did the write ups for the exhibit shed some light on his meaning. Each room grouped his works into a theme: a place where he lived, a war going on, a scene he repeatedly painted, etc. And in several rooms a recurring theme became evident. A few times he included a ladder to represent his escape.

Like Jacob's ladder, Miró's ladders are grounded on earth but reach to the heavens. For the artist, this escape was artistic expression free of all the political restrictions and turbulence oppressing him. To me, that ladder felt like hope and I cried as I sat there in the East Gallery looking at his art.

Unable to disguise my crying, I tried not care that people were looking at me. I read about his life, the 3 wars he lived through, the exile he was forced to endure, and thought about the peasants who didn't have the money to move away from the misery.

Something struck a chord within me, and to the surface came all the fucked up shit in my life that I try to drown out with distractions. I felt all the pain I try to ignore and longed for his ladder to escape my woes so that I can frolic in my own artistic expression.

Crazy isn't it? I looked at funky art like this and cried.

What is Truth?

I was raised in a fundamentalist home that both mocked the Enlightenment for replacing transcendent truth with reason and yet embraced logical explanations for religious beliefs. From an early age I was taught to question everything from abortion to evolution to why we are forced to wear seat belts by asking a series of questions that requires an opponent to define their terms, name their sources, and get to the root of their moral framework.

Assuming everyone else is consciously operating from a thought-out worldview, this works great. But in this post modern times, nobody gives a fuck why they do anything. I envy those who just don't give a damn since I'm left questioning Christianity without having anything to replace it with.

Believing that truth exists whether or not you choose to believe brings so much comfort to me because then truth isn't dependent on me. In that scenario, truth exists. It just is. Instead, I feel so uncomfortable under the weight of the decision: what do I believe? What if I choose the wrong truth like some fucked up Mormon or Al Qaeda freak?

Often I feel like Pontius Pilate standing before an innocent man who's about to be sentenced to death asking, "What is truth?"

French Kissing on the Bus

Waiting in line to board the bus back to DC from New York City, this kid with a heavy French accent wanted to know why I travelled with my bike. Hearing that accent made me want to keep talking to him, and he wanted to keep talking to me just because I knew some French geography. That's not surprising. Europeans are typically won over if you demonstrate a knowledge of world geography.

We sat next to each other on the bus and proceeded to talk the entire drive back to DC. Throughout the conversation, he kept dropping hints that he was interested in me. For example, he kept offering to teach my kids math or be their French tutor. And then he said how tired he was of college girls since they are so loud and don't know much about anything.

I had to stop him there. Anyone who knows me knows that I can be extremely loud. In Europe, I stick out in a crowd with my loud guffaws and I don't really care. You know why? Because we Americans are happy and we show it.

Secondly, he's studying at a university. Don't girls need to prove they are smart in order to be admitted there?

I kept pressing these points until the truth came out. He doesn't like to date younger women; he prefers older women. What the hell? Didn't I just go through this already? As if the universe wanted to magnify how similar this boy is to the Georgetown student, this VA Tech student also plays rugby for the university. All of these comments sparked my curiosity.

"What do you wish the college girls knew more about?" I wondered.


"They know nothing outside of America!"

"What was the oldest age of a woman you dated?"


"45."


"Have you dated women your age?"


"Yes, but those relationships don't go anywhere."


"So you seek out older women?"


"Yes. In fact, I think you are very attractive. Would you mind if I kissed you?"


Even though we were seated in the middle of the bus were everyone could see us, I thought that I'd probably never kiss a random stranger on a bus again. So I kissed him.

He's an excellent kisser, living up to his French stereotype. With one hand he grabbed the back of my head and with the other one he inched up my thigh. At first I could only think about people watching, but then I just let go of that thought. When I forgot about the people around, my tension eased, and I reciprocated.

We kissed so much after the bus arrived that he ended up missing his bus to Blacksburg, so I drove him to the station the next morning to catch the next bus.

My First Encounter with a Hassidic Neighborhood

While in Brooklyn, I stayed up late and woke up early. Unfortunately, I could not sleep in due to the bright sunshine pouring into my room and my usual early mornings back at home. So when I came back from my run on Sunday morning, my friend asked me to go walk the neighborhood so that she could sleep in. This was my chance to bike over to the Brooklyn bridge.

From her place in Greenpoint, Google directed me through a section of the Bedford neighborhood where the Hassidic Jews live. At that time on Sunday morning, school boys were being collected by yellow school buses with Hebrew script on the sides. The sidewalks were full of mothers dressed all in black and wearing 1930's style head wraps. They pushed strollers and were surrounded by their numerous children dressed all alike. Females only wear long dresses, thick tights, and long sleeves. I'm sure that black outfit must feel great come August.

But really, these people all looked alike. Images of clones from the opening theme song for Weeds went through my head. "Tiny boxes on the hillside, tiny boxes full of ticky tacky..."

The boys look like clones of each other. There is no red headed or blond Hassidic Jew who will mix it up a little. No, instead, they all don the top hats, the long dark curls, the long black coats and black pants. Looking so similar was kind of creepy for me. Horrific thoughts began to go through my head.

What if that goofy outfit was just meant to disarm someone like me? 
What if they are all armed assassins? 
What if they see how different I am and converge on me like ants on a dead bug?


Fearing that these people really didn't want an outsider like me to be biking through their neighborhood, I peddled faster.

Are all of these really the same man?

The Quintessential New York City Experience

Every sitcom or movie set in New York City always seems to include a scene in a tiny theater off Broadway with a performance by amateur actors. I know you know what I am talking about.

So when my friend who divides her time between DC and Brooklyn told me she would be performing the same weekend I would be up north, I determined to go. I took a bus early enough to make the Friday night performance and stowed my bike in the undercarriage. From the bus stop at Penn Station to Times Square, the bike ride should have only taken about 15 minutes.

Now even if I were in DC, I would need my handy GPS to get around. But I was biking in Manhattan. Manhattan! Those streets are even more crowded than DC. Every once in a while I had to stop riding, pull out my phone, and try to translate the phone's map to the street layout of one way streets.

After zigzagging through Times Square more times than I needed to, I finally found the theater. It wasn't even a half block from Times Square where the flashing lights spilled onto this street. Dodging the theater-goers who were leaving shows like The Lion King, I biked up and down the street trying to follow the building numbers but I just couldn't find this building. With the help of a woman rolling a cello down the sidewalk, my eyes finally saw the skinny building that looked like a plain office building but housed the theater. Yes, I did say that the woman was rolling a cello down the street.

Up on the 8th floor of this narrow building, I found a stage with maybe 60 theater seats. It was tiny. Gratefully, I drank the beer that came with the cost of admission. Not only was I thirsty from the ride, but I figured that being buzzed would help me enjoy the performance. Alcohol also tends to make me chatty, so when I saw this guy,  I laughed and struck up a conversation.

How could I not laugh? He glittered and shined like no one I had ever seen before. In one fluid swoop, his mustache started below his nose, swooped along his jaw line, ran over his ear and around the back of his head then ended at the starting point. One unbroken circle of hair. His mohawk was really made by two stripes shaved clean and decorated with beadazzle beads. Blue glittery lips playfully peeked beneath his hair and matched his blue glittery spandex pants.

Being super friendly, he talked to me all through intermission and indulged all of my questions. Foremost, I wanted to know if he dressed like this all day every day. I mean, does he dress like this for his day job? Yes, yes he does. With some sort of academic job in the sciences, he claims that he's only had to forgo his wild dress a few times.

Some of the storytellers that performed were much better than I expected. And the burlesque show based on Donkey Kong made us all laugh when the strip tease ended with nipples covered in gorilla fur. But none of these performers had the same panache as this guy who doesn't change his clothes when he leaves the theater to go out on the street. I wonder if he knows that I consider him part of my NYC experience?

Everybody Say, "Oohh's and Aahh's"

It's more crowded after the Food Network feature.

Last Friday, my friend and I biked for several hours through the city. It was a blast, but it left us hungry. By the time we arrived at our destination, it was well after 10pm and we hadn't eaten dinner yet.

Starving, we walked into the soul food restaurant Oohh's and Aahh's located near the corner of U St. and 10th. I had learned about this place a few weeks before when I was waiting on the corner for my friend. On that Sunday morning, a guy sweeping the sidewalk started talking to me and invited me to eat at the restaurant where he worked.

My friend and I tried to eat there that morning, but our timing was off. We were ready for brunch at 10:30 am and the joint didn't open until noon. So we returned after our brunch to say hi to the sidewalk sweeper. While saying hi, we met the chef's mother who gave us samples of the most delicious food with a heaping side of entertaining stories.

She told us that her uncle modeled in Milan, Italy. There he learned that Italian men love black women, therefore she wants to go there before she dies.  The other place to see before she dies? Rio de Janeiro. She'd like to enjoy the nude beaches there before "gravity sets in." This woman had us captivated with her charm. We couldn't decide which was better: the food or the chef's mom? We vowed to return.

This dive is easy to miss.

Finally, we did return. At a quarter to 11 pm on a Friday night, the place was crowded. The restaurant serves food until 4am on Friday and Saturday nights.  So I'd recommend this as an alternative to a jumbo slice after a night of dancing. Try another DC experience. Eat soul food at the counter and talk to the staff! They are so friendly!

We ordered our food, sat at the bar by the stove, and talked to everyone working in the kitchen. They laughed at my method for attacking my beef ribs, yet they also assured me that my fingers were the only appropriate utensils. But did everyone wear their BBQ sauce on their face like I did?

I ate and ate and ate. My stomach never told me, "I'm full." So I ate my whole plate of beef ribs, yams, and collard greens. I ate everything. BBQ sauce threatened to encroach my hairline and covered my hands, so I was a mess. And I was in pain! I was so full because I also drank my industrial sized ice tea. Don't order the large drink. It's too big.

It's a steep price they charge for the plate of food ($20), but you receive a lot of food. Ladies, plan on splitting your meal with someone. Also, be prepared because they only accept cash.

Biking the District

Are you afraid of biking in the city? I was.

With all of the cars zooming by, I figured that I surely would get hit. Ouchie! Or maybe someone would open a car door just in time for me to slam into it, summersault over the it, and land on my back. Seriously, I've imagined and assumed all of these worst case scenarios and more. But my friend convinced me that riding in the city is not scary and is really fun.

Enjoying the full moon this past weekend, my friend and I rode our bikes through the city. Where we began our bike ride is enough to make most people slap their forehead with their palm.

After the sun set, we decided riding along the Rock Creek Parkway was the best route. Did I mention that it was already after dark?

"Rock Creek Parkway?" I asked.


"Yeah. What's wrong with that?"


"Well, I grew up around here. That's where girls go to get raped. I didn't think women ever jogged in the Rock Creek Park anymore," I explained.


"Well, you'll be riding a bike. Secondly, you won't be where any women get raped."


So, against my better judgement, I thoroughly enjoyed myself!

We biked from Columbia Heights, through the Rock Creek Parkway, cut over in front of the Kennedy Center beside the Potomac, then I gave my friend a short history lesson and guided tour of the monuments. Lit up at night, they are so beautiful!

After attempting a few pictures on my phone, we were off to dinner. We rode down Constitution and then shot up 13th Street to U St. There we devoured some delicious soul food.

If you are afraid of biking the city, don't be. Trust me! It's even faster than a car in some cases! It's a fun date idea too!

The Case for Talking to Strangers

Kids, talk to strangers. I know, you've been told not to talk to strangers. We all were told that. When we were 5. But now we are all grown up. And as grown ups, I say we should be talking to strangers.

To me, talking to strangers has been like following the white rabbit to whatever adventures awaited me. Here are some recent examples.

While traveling back from the UK last year, I had a 5 1/2 hour layover in Amsterdam. I had never been to the Netherlands before and I wasn't about to sit in the airport when a famous city was just a 20 minute train ride away.

Making sure that I waited for the train on the correct platform, I asked a couple if they spoke English so that I could have them confirm the train schedule. The man's response was, "Speak E'glish? Focking-A! We are bloody E'glish!"  I spent my whole layover with this couple and had a blast.  Thanks to them I missed Anne Franks house in favor for joining them at the cloudy "coffeehouse." Definitely, I wouldn't have done that alone!

When picking up some out of town guests from a DC bar last summer, I started talking to a man who calls himself "The Hussy Cowboy." Yes, he's gay. Hussy Cowboy is his stage name as he sings and performs on the side. After talking to him that night, he invited me to his video release party at JR's in Dupont Circle. I went to the bar and didn't know if it was OK to laugh at this video which premiered that night. Is it a parody or serious?  You watch and decide for yourself:

Last December, I was standing around downstairs at the Wonderland Ballroom when a guy asked me where to find the stairs to the dance floor. Noticing his accent, I asked him where he was from. That lead to me dancing with him and his friend and going to another bar with them after dancing. His friend lives here in DC. She and I get along so well that we regularly see each other.  Seeing her regularly landed me on a weekly Friday-outing email list. This group does everything from happy hours, to dancing, to watching art house films. How fun to have a group of people to do this with!

This spring, I've gone out with a few people that I met on twitter. It's been fun to meet these strangers in person after a few fun exchanges online. Since their personality comes through on twitter, I already knew we would hit if off. Each time, I've had a fabulous time and enjoyed good conversation. Meeting someone new like this feels like online dating. You approach the stranger/acquaintance and awkwardly ask, "Are you ....?" Hahaha, how many times have I looked like a lesbian on a blind date?

So you see, boys and girls, talking to strangers broadens your circle of friends, exposes you to new experiences, and just gets you out of your bubble. The moral of this story is to "Do as I say and do as I do."

Fuck Idealism

I had dinner with some hippies.

Typically, you think of DC as a city of politicians, lobbyists, and all the human infrastructure needed to support the political machine. Activists might work here, but we tend to think of them as polished, TV-ready, suit-wearing office workers. I mean, wasn't the Occupy DC crowd bussed in from other cities?

My dinner companions all live together in a group house in DC. If you have ever stayed at a hostel, then you already know what it's like to constantly have people around. It's kind of like a college dorm...with even the bathroom being shared by 7 people. These people are intelligent. They have high wage potential. But they choose to continue to live communally as a lifestyle choice.

They are granola, crunchy hippies. They dress like they are ready to go hiking at a moment's notice. The girls don't wear makeup. Boys take as many supplements as the girls and have mastered vegetarian cooking. A pot of biodegradable trash sits in a pot waiting to be added to the compost pile outside. Each week they host meditation classes. They are uber friendly and open to any strange practice...like homeschooling.

Each has an unusual story to tell. There was the young perky couple who met while working as Peace Corps volunteers in western Africa. A high school film teacher also juggles professionally on the side. Each weekend, he juggles at the farmer's market where his sister sells vegetables from her farm. My friend works at a Smithsonian art gallery in the restoration department. Some volunteer at the community garden, and plans are set for a vegetable garden in the backyard.

Since I used to raise chickens in the suburbs, they wanted to know the specifics. How could they raise chickens in the city? With all of my land, they hoped that I grew my own vegetables. As a homeschooler, they wanted to know exactly what perspective I taught my kids.

As our discussion ranged from the plot points of Star Wars to dumpster diving for free food, I felt exhausted by their ideals. They praised a group home in the Maryland suburbs where 15 people live under one roof. In this highly organized house, everyone has a job. Most food is provided by dumpster diving. Housemates co-parented the children living there. House dinners are mandatory.

Listening to their idealistic hopes, I felt like I was in college again. It has been a long time since I discussed how to save the world. On the onset, saving the world seems like a good idea. But have you ever tried to live out any of those ideals? It's exhausting. You have to be consistent. You can't start it, let it go for a week, and then come back to it.

Now in my 30's, I have no desire to save the world. I'm too busy keeping my own tribe alive and well. Whether following the rules of a traditional religion or following a regimented life of meditation and composting, I'm tired of being told what to do. Instead of worshiping at the altar of anything else, I'd much rather worship at the altar of me.

My First and Last Date With Pierce Brosnan

Sunday night I had a first date at a Caribou Coffee shop in Fairfax.  I met this man on Ok Cupid, and was intrigued by his writing. On his profile, he expressed himself so well. He made some statement about emotions and intimacy being so closely tied together that I figured every girl on that site must find such a comment so refreshing.

Typically, men are afraid of emotions, right? Plus this is a site full of 20-somethings that are obviously looking for sex rather than a relationship. So, yeah, when a guy isn't afraid of emotions, I take notice.

We messaged a few times before meeting in person. Again, I liked how much he wrote since I tend to write novels compared to the haikus that are frequently exchanged on dating sites.

When I saw him in person, my first impression was disappointment. He looked like a grown up frat boy. I could just imagine him wearing loafers without socks paired with shorts and a polo. Isn't that so snobby of me? I thought so too. So, I pushed that first impression out of my head and tried hard to listen what he had to say. Maybe his personality would overcome his bland dressing.

On paper we would seem to have a lot in common. We both have kids. The ages are similar. He and I are both soccer players. He recognized my Barca scarf in my profile pictures. We both work in education. We have similar schedules. But...?

Well, there was no spark. He wasn't funny. Damn. Those emotions made him so intense and serious. And he looked at me with such attention that I felt under a microscope. Because he kind of looks like Pierce Brosnan, his one eye squinted while he listened to me talk which further reinforced who his doppleganger is.

Patiently, I suffered through his stories of travel soccer schedules and gymnastic classes until he finally said something interesting. He tried to convince me that men need to be as careful as women when it comes to online dating. One woman he dated four times became obsessed with him. Not only did she talk nonstop about his kids, but she stalked him. As he ate dinner at home with his kids one night, he saw her sitting in her car. Watching them.

But his interesting story wasn't enough. Besides, I walked away feeling like he was a perv. Too easily he talked about divorced people needing sex if they haven't gotten any in a while. That Pierce Brosnan stare silently asked if I would offer him the relief he was seeking. I tried hard to signal with my body language that no, I was not the girl for his needs. Any guy who uses the word "horny" on a first date makes me feel uncomfortable.

Glad that the hour was up and that we both had commitments to dash off to, I lied about seeing him again. I didn't know what else to say. Thankfully, the disinterest was mutual because neither of us have contacted each other since that night.

"Gong!" at the Blue Banana's Comedy Night

Tuesday night I ventured into the city to experience standup comedy. My friend did her best to rally her friends downtown to the Blue Banana to support her boyfriend's debut on stage. Watching my friend during his performance was almost more entertaining than his bit. The whole time her eyes were glued on him, and her hands covered her mouth. She was nervous for him.

Awww. That was cute.

Know what wasn't cute? Most of the comedy. Now take this with a bucket of salt. I mean, I realize I can be a bit naive and act kinda innocent at times, so my ignorance of stereotypes really puts me at a disadvantage. Meaning, I didn't get a lot of the jokes. Then there were the jokes that I got, but I still wasn't laughing. That's because they just weren't funny.  Offensive. Not funny. No good.

Ok, so I didn't walk away thinking about the jokes people told. However, I am still thinking about this little oddity that I learned that night. Most comedians seem to dress like Jerry Seinfeld. You know what I'm talking about. They wear the standard issued white sneakers to coordinate with their jeans. To me, this is like one of those chicken/egg questions. Did Jerry just dress in the standup comedian uniform, or have all standups decided to forever give a nod to the Great Jerry?

However, these Jerry Seinfeld impersonators take themselves way too seriously. Do they forget that they are comics?  Figuring that I went to a bar to watch the show, I didn't really see what the big deal was if I talked during the set. I mean, hey, if the comic isn't funny, then I'm gonna make fun with my fellow patrons. This is not recommended. Any audience member caught talking will be berated with the MC yelling, "Shut! The Fuck! Up!" (Just like that. Put the pauses with the exclamation points.)

As you can see, I'm the comic's worst nightmare. Unlike my cute, little friend that laughed at every joke or my other buxom friend that was flattered by the MC from on stage, I'm a cynic. I will not give the comic the benefit of the doubt. I will not presume the comic funny until proven disastrous. Instead I will listen with a mental mallet poised to strike that gong in my head.

The Grocery Stores are Full of Masochists

I mean really, why don't more moms have groceries delivered? Like many people, here are my choices:

1) Take all 34 kids with me to the store.  Appease them while I forget to look at my list thus forgetting critical items. Agonize over the embarrassment of my baby standing in the cart while people try to teach me a lesson with their stern looks. And, don't forget, kids want EVERYTHING they see! 

2) Shop on the weekends when the lines are so long that by the time I'm done shopping and paying for my mountain of food, I could've driven to the beach. And back.

3) Go online while the kids play video games or watch TV or finish their homework. I transfer my whole list onto a webpage -- which means I'll never come home again regretting that I forgot to buy milk. Or as we finish something in the house, I just add it to my online list.  Then I have the leisure of choosing between a delivery that includes the driver carrying the groceries into my kitchen or leaving the groceries packed in dry ice and boxes outside my garage. I don't even need to rearrange my schedule to be home to accept the food!

When it comes to relationships, I might be the masochist. But no one can accuse me of self loathing when I have my groceries delivered to my house.

Why? Because.

If I had a nickel for every time that I was asked why, then I'd be financially independent.

Since I have 50 kids, I get asked this question a lot. A lot. From challenging my decisions to wanting to know why numbers go on forever, I'm continually asked to explain things.


"Why was I born on that day?"


"Why do I have to play outside?"


"Why is blue blue?"


"Why don't you know what the first movie ever made was?"


"Why can't I stay up all night?"

Why is a question I ask too much as well. I usually vary it with What if? Why and What if can rob me of hours of sleep. I should probably just tell myself the same distracted answer that I give my kids, "Uh, I don't know. Because that's the way it is."

Caught Between Worlds

Yesterday's post prompted a disccusion with a friend about my situation. He said my situation reminded him of Superman's loneliness.

This really isn't far off target. (I'm examining my nails and polishing them on the shoulder of my shirt.) He's not the first to call me a super hero. When people find out I homeschool, they wonder how I can manage to be with my 64 kids all day everyday.

All acalades aside, he wasn't referring to my super human ability to maintain a household while educating my kids. He was referring to how I don't fit in any one social group. Just like the super hero who can't reveal his identity to any mortal and must always be alone, I too feel like I'm forced to hide a bit of myself with each group.

While I might have the energy of someone much younger than me who doesn't have kids, I have such a different lifestyle than they do. I don't have a career outside the home.  We don't have that in common.  I have kids to care for, so we don't normally have that in common either.  I have a limited schedule, yet another thing we don't have in common.

In fact, I get mixed reactions from people I meet when I'm out. Some are impressed that I still get out despite my responsibilities. Others squish up there face and wonder why a mother of 32 kiddos is out living it up. Or they ask why I would chose to homeschool instead of work. Their disapproval can make me feel like an under achiever who couldn't even earn a high school diploma. Staying at home with my kids doesn't always mix with the cooperate world.

But I'm single so I do enjoy the things that single people do. I like to date, go dancing, bar hop, see a concert. Unfortunately, many of the other people I might typically have things in common with aren't interested in what I like to do for fun. Or if they are interested, they may not have the energy to venture out.

As a homeschooler, I'm usually mingling with large families who talk about things I can't relate to since I don't have a husband.  Or if they invite me, the single, to something like a family game night, I feel as bored as if I were at some other kid's recital. I mean, family game nights are something I take for the team. But if I am the team, then it's pointless. Besides, if most of those families knew what I was doing with my free time, then they'd feel the need to proselytize me.

So I have a foot in my weekend world and a foot in my family world, but I'm not completely at home in either. If I'm gonna hide some of my identidy and be lonely like a super hero, I really hope I'm at least as hot as Wonder Woman.

Only MILFs Need Apply

The divorce process drained my steady supply of friends.

As my unhappy marriage wound slowly down to a stand still, I escaped by being gone most nights and weekends. I have always loved to be in the middle of the action, so I threw myself into going out . Since I grew up here, I had childhood friends that I'd been palling around with for decades. Going to college here added to my pool of friends. Then having and schooling my kids here increased my social circle so much that, at times, I actually had to decline offers.

But all of that changed after I filed for divorce.

The end of any relationship will draw a line in the sand for your friends. Friends always have to choose sides. Will they be his friends? Or mine? But I grew up in a church that considers divorce a sin and that preaches how enduring a miserable life is a good thing as Jesus taught us to bear our cross every day. So the natural conclusion was for my friends to call me up and inform me that, until I changed my ways, our friendship was over. It was either end the friendship or listen to them try to figure out what went wrong in the marriage in order to facilitate reconciliation.

Most of my friends who continue to support me are good intentioned but very busy. Married couples with kids love to do activities with other married couples with kids. Hitting a bar, going into the city!, dancing, watching a show, taking in a movie...all of these exhaust my married and career friends. Once night comes, they are ready to hibernate until sunrise.

My free weekends throw me back into a feeling of being footloose without responsibilities like when I was young. All the energy that I expend on my tribe of 20 still surges through me on the weekend. With all of that energy, I get the urge to go, go, go! 

But the friends I've collected over the years are still tiring themselves out on the weekends as their responsibilities haven't lessened. This puts me in a unique position. A lonely position. My kids are with my ex, and my friends are with their families.

Ah. This phase of my life totally sucks.

I know this won't last forever. Already, I've met other single moms and dads in this area. They too face the same friendship problem. Which makes me think. Am I to only search out and befriend MILFs and the dad equivalents? I guess my future posse will be drawn from that limited pool.

Meeting Other Single Moms on Ok Cupid

I've met some really cool people thanks to Ok Cupid. Two new friends came from that online dating site.

Two? Two friends? You might be wondering if I'm dating two people at the same time. No, I'm not two-timing anyone. Despite what you are thinking, I ended up using Ok Cupid to find other single moms to be my friends.

Using a dating website was perfect for me. Each mom has all of her interests listed. I could see if we liked the same music, the same books, the same movies. If we had enough in common, I took the plunge and contacted them. Just like dating...except, not.

Thankfully, I didn't scare any of the women. As single moms, they have been in my situation. Those who are divorced know the pains of losing friends through the separation process. They knew why I was seeking potential friends who might understand my current situation. Our conversation might have gone something like this:

"Hi, I know you didn't list yourself as gay or bisexual, so I hope I don't weird you out by contacting you. I'm a single mom like you. I was wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime in your free time?"


"You'll have to do a lot more than that to weird me out. What did you have in mind?"


"Just something simple like you coming over to paint my house."


"What?"


"Just kidding.  Want to meet at a central playground where our kids can play?"


With one mom, we first met with our kids for an unconventional playdate. When the kids were out of earshot, we detailed our post-marital dating experiences. Our second meeting was at a sports bar where she felt me up while teaching me to play pool. Since then, I've done some writing for her business and we keep in touch loosely on twitter, but we live too far apart to do much more.

The other mom lives practically in my neighborhood. We united over a mutual love of awesome music, live shows, dancing, her possession of a hookah, and the fact that she homeschooled her kids.  What a freakin' small world. And here I thought that only religious freaks homeschooled their kids.

The later mom and I are getting together more regularly. Over a drink, we commiserate about our exes and our kids and then wow each other with our latest outings.

With both friends, we love to tell people that we met on a dating site.  So why am I so embarrassed to tell people that I've met guys online?

Forever Alone?

With my 55 kids, I know that I'll never get married again. They already have a dad, and I can't imagine introducing a new man into their lives. Besides, what man really wants to move into a house full of kids?

Because of my situation, I have no future to offer any potential mate.  All that I can offer is now. Do you enjoy hanging with me? Do I make you laugh more than that girl over there? Can I outrun you at a zombie race?

Unlike other available girls my age, I've already done the marriage thing and am living the kid thing. I have no desire to find someone, marry, then have kids with him. I just want to have a bit of fun during my free time.

All that is left for me is dating. If a guy wants to marry, then I'm not a candidate. If he's looking for someone to live with, then I again must gracefully bow out.

It remains to be seen whether or not I'll be able take myself off of the nightmarish cycle of first dates in favor of dating just one person. Can men focus on just one girl even if she doesn't want to be married?

My Life Needs a Designated Driver

I really hate being in charge.

On the playground, I never battled to be king of the hill. Never did I want the pressure of being captain of a team only to choose the players and hurt someone's feelings when I didn't choose them. I only ran for student government because it was a resume builder without requiring any work or leadership skills.

Yet here I am in charge of my brood.  Long ago when I was in charge of my own finances, I signed and mailed in a check. Now I am learning to be careful what I enter in the bank's online bill pay forms. Twice I've paid myself instead of the utility company. Twice my services have been threatened to be cut off.

As a child, my biggest concern was finishing my homework so that I could go play.  Now I'm responsible for a whole house full of kids and their education. While homeschooling takes all day, at least I still have my nights free. I can't imagine working all day outside the home only to come home to make dinner and supervise homework all night. Whether homeschooling or supervising homework, I'm in charge of a billion kids' education and I'm terrified.

And think of this: What good is their education if they don't survive childhood long enough to use it? That's right. Their health is also my responsibility. Why did I ever complain about making doctor's appointments for just me? Now I'm resolving health insurance claims and schlepping kids around to appointments in addition to my own needs. Besides, who will watch these kids when I need to see a doctor?

Mondays are normally tough after the relief of a weekend that breaks routine. However, this Monday was unusually rough after a weekend that brought me no relief.

After today, I want to hand over the keys to a designated driver, crawl into the back seat, and sleep while the driver takes over my responsibilities.

Mig Bar

Mig Bar is becoming my neighborhood bar even though it is nowhere near my neighborhood. People living on that end of Adams Morgan don't even know how lucky they are.  The few locals that I've met there are very friendly and talkative.

There's Alex, who rides her bike to work at some artsy-fartsy place downtown. Every second Sunday she leads the regulars in a time of arts and crafts. I won't make her February art night since I have the kids this next weekend, but I hope to make the craft time next month.

Van is the bartender who looks very Soviet. With his uniform of a black fisherman's cap and neck scarf, he blends in well with the murals in the tiny bar. His love of classic black and white movies is the reason why a movie like La Dolce Vita can be seen projected on the wall.

Embarrassingly, I can't remember the bouncer's name. Each time he greets us with just as big of a smile as Alex or Van. Last time he even bypassed checking my ID  with a, "Oh, I know who you are."

One weeknight I'd like to sojourn into the city to enjoy the quiet of the mid week so that I can get to know the natives in their natural habitat.

Eleventh Street Lounge

With the closing of Eleventh comes the end of some memories for me.

One night a few drinks lowered my inhibitions enough to photo bomb to smithereens the memories of two college friends reuniting. Feeling guilty about inserting myself into every one of their pictures made me contrite. I leaned over and talked to the friends to find out their story...but I never once apologized for being so rude. No way. You've got to expect that kind of crap at 2am on a Sunday morning.

There was the time I really want to forget when people walked in on me while I was midstream in the bathroom. If I wanted to be walked into a bathroom, I could've just stayed home to use my own bathroom with a broken lock. Heck, I've got kids constantly walking in on me.

Several people told me about the amazing food there, but I only tried their sweet potato fries and deep fried jalepeno peppers. Their sweet potato fries will be missed.

I loved their awesome red lounge with billowing drapes hanging from rods made of pipes. I wish I had snagged one of those chandeliers that dripped with beads. Hanging in my house, one of those would add that over-the-top girliness that screams a lady is the head of this house. Of course I also loved the couches due to their cool styles and fabrics. However, I never sat in any of them since I was terrified of whatever was lingering from previous occupants.

Eleventh was the place my friends and I would start the evening before going to birthday party downtown or end the evening at. It would be after 1am and we knew that we could squeeze in another drink and dance before calling it a night.