Hot Hot Heat

As you may recall, I hate the heat. A lot. Now factor in that this is today's temperature, even at 9:02pm:

After you've mentally complimented my distinctly Perez Hilton-esque Paint abilities, let's discuss what ameliorates heat like this & makes life better. The answer is: NOTHING. But let me tell you about a few of the methods I've tried:

• Today I wore a maxidress to try to minimize sweatiness. Ironic? Anyway, both roommates complimented the dress, & I was quite happy about it. Unfortunately, the thigh rub that comes with summer dress-wearing did not make for sustained happiness.
  
  
• I also saw "Inception" for a second time, & for the second time, I fell asleep. Ironic? Anyway, I didn't fall asleep during the same parts as last time (or spill anything caramelized in my purse), so it all came together quite well. Unfortunately, the temperature inside the theater was approximately 85 degrees, which didn't feel like such a break from the outdoor heat.
  
  
• And I went to Sticky Rice for brunch with the roommates. Nothing ironic or unfortunate there, just delicious. And while it didn't do much to cool me down, it sure did fill me up. Tater tots for breakfast? Well, OK.
  
  

Seriously, it's too hot to go outside, even - especially? - to socialize. It's too hot to move. It's too hot to booze, except inside, but we don't have anything in the house. And we'd run out & get some except, you know, it's too hot to go outside.

Don't mind me. I'll just be sitting here in my pajamas, watching "Men in Black," & oh yeah, sweating. Snowpocalypse, I miss you.

The Best Birthday Gift: Will You Help?

My 26th birthday is coming – on August 5^th, to be exact. I’ve always been the kind of vain person who implicitly demands a birthday week full of activities, including but not limited to: happy hour, dinner, brunch, bar. The celebration possibilities are endless, especially as I near the dreaded "late 20s" & need increasingly more moral support. I’ll probably celebrate as usual this year, but there’s really only one thing I want for my birthday – and no matter who you are or where you live, you can make it happen.

My good friend Elissa has an aggressive form of cancer. For the third time. She learned it was back the same week that she learned she’d been accepted to rabbinical school – a dream interrupted by a nightmare. But if you didn’t know she had cancer, you’d never guess. Elissa is one of the most upbeat, positive people I know, always ready with a joke or a laugh or advice. She’s also the only person who wanted to see “Twilight” with me, which gives her extra points… or fewer, I guess, depending on your views of vampires.

Elissa needs a bone marrow transplant, & by joining the National Bone Marrow Registry, you can help her find one. A simple (painless!) cheek swab will determine whether you’re a match for Elissa or someone else in need of a transplant. Of course, there are a few caveats: Donors must be between 18 and 60 and in good health. But beyond that, it’s vital that the search for a bone marrow donor spread far and wide – the more people who register, the better her chances of finding a match.

On to the details for DC-area folks: My friends have organized a bone marrow registry drive on my birthday, Thursday, August 5, from 5:00 pm to 7:30 pm at the DC Jewish Community Center (1529 16th Street, NW, Washington DC). Stop by, get swabbed, & be on your merry way. For more information, please contact Allison (grossman.allison@gmail.com) or Debra (debra.eichenbaum@gmail.com).

Not in DC? You can – and should – still register. Here’s how:

• Find a registry drive near you. Marrow.org and GiftofLife.org both list upcoming drives where you can register for free in very state from Maine to California – and even Israel.
  
  
• Can’t find a nearby drive? Organize one of your own! Learn more.
  
  
• It costs some scrills to have a swab kit mailed to your home, but the fee is tax-deductible. Visit Marrow.org or GiftofLife.org for more info.
  
  
• I don’t know how many pregnant readers I’ve got out there, but if you’re with child, consider donating your baby’s umbilical cord to a public cord blood bank to help someone with a life-threatening disease. Just by being born, your baby can save a life – what a way to start out, huh?

I can’t think of any better birthday gift than a bone marrow transplant for Elissa. Make it happen, will ya?

Baby Got Back

Kids wear the darndest things:


I'm glad my friends think to text me when they bear witness to teenage fashion crises verging on the wildly inappropriate.

Not Gonna Reach My Telephone

My iPhone bit the dust.

I've had it since December 2008, which makes it a dinosaur in Technology Years (which are much shorter, even, than Dog Years). Today, it slid off my bed & turned off upon impact with the floor. Despite my prodding, pushing & pleading, it remained dark, taunting me with my inability to tweet or to track the next bus or to text a particular boy or even to tell the damn time. I spent a full afternoon without it, a bit panicky, even while sitting through a movie. (During that time, I also spilled an entire McDonald's frappe in my purse, but that's a story for another day, about me getting my comeuppance for being the jerk who sneaks outside food into the theatre.)

When I got home, I plugged my phone in again & literally begged - out loud, as if there are special techno-gods listening for such pleas from above - for my phone to turn back on. And you know what? It did. So I called my grandmother. And then I checked my work email & tweeted a bit & browsed Facebook & GChatted with a friend & watched Firefly on Netflix & Skyped with my mom & am now blogging about it all.

Truth be told, I'm ashamed of how panicky I become when my technology doesn't work. For a self-professed misser of the days when things were simpler, I sure am dependent on my toys. But do you ever stop & remember how we functioned as kids, calling our friends' landlines to play & then spending entire days at the swimming pool with no contact with anyone but the people we were with? And remember how we functioned in high school, waiting for boys to call our landlines & spending nights out on the town with no contact with anyone but the girlfriends we were with? Appreciating the people in front of us, the situations we were in, the lives we led.

Technology has done amazing things for us, & I love it, but it's also stressing me the hell out. I don't want to be this connected all the time. I want to read books & walk dogs (I don't have a dog) & ride bikes (my tires are flat) & blah, blah, blah. Of course, I'm not the first person to write this blog post, nor am I the most eloquent. In fact, columnist Bob Herbert said it much better than this in a recent New York Times op-ed titled "Tweet Less, Kiss More." In it, he challenges us: "We need to reduce the speed limits of our lives. We need to savor the trip. Leave the cellphone at home every once in awhile. Try kissing more and tweeting less. And stop talking so much. Listen." And would that I could kiss more, but dude's got a point about the whole connectivity thing, right?

Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled my phone's not actually broken. But in light of my afternoon of radio silence, I had to ask myself: Was it so terrible to spend a full five hours disconnected? Did I miss anything essential? Did the world crumble & implode while I couldn't send 140-character updates to 1,447 strangers or look through my college classmates' wedding photos? Admittedly & overwhelmingly, the answer is no. This afternoon was a little reminder that it's OK to enjoy life free of the tether I've allowed technology to impose upon me.

Life was easier when Apple & Blackberry were just fruits.

Stuff Tourists Like, Pt. III

It's been awhile, I know, but only because I was trying to gather a sufficient number of photos in order to create a really extravagant collage. In the end, I only took five photos, mostly because chasing tourists down the street to snap their photo while remaining unnoticed is not as easy as you might think.

In case you missed the rest of the series, check out the other stuff tourists like by reading Part I & Part II, as observed during my lunch hour in the National Zoo neighborhood. Today, I proudly present you with the newest installment, one with lots of photographic evidence to prove its truthfulness:

6. Bucket Hats: It's sunny out there, & as a Cullen-skinned young lady myself, I respect tourists' desire to avoid melanoma. After all, no one digs the leather look (save Snooki, I guess, but she's not visiting the National Zoo), which means lathering sunscreen on religiously, only to promptly sweat it off - or donning a hat to shield the rays.
   
   I tend to be of the belief system that almost all hats are hideously disgusting, though I concede that there are some forgivable options, including variations on the fedora & the straw hat. But you know what I can almost never get on board with? Bucket hats. And tourists love bucket hats. They're everywhere. I truly have no idea why, having not sported a bucket hat myself since the very early '90s (Lord forgive me). Maybe it's the brim? Maybe it's the full coverage the brim provides? Maybe it's a Gilligan complex? Regardless, every time I head out to pick up lunch, I spot at least five new bucket hats on the go.
   
   

OK, fine, even I admit that children in bucket hats are often adorbs & that it's probably entirely creepy of me to surreptitiously photograph children I don't know. In fact, I hope that it's not illegal or something. I'M JUST IN IT FOR THE HATS, I mean it.

And come on. These hats are good. Am I right?


PS: Are you following along in a reader? Click through & check out my new layout, as designed by the lovely Moorea Seal. Let me know what you think!

Slow Down, You Crazy Child

This weekend, there was a wedding. I've been to a lot of weddings lately, so what's another one? But for this particular wedding, I took a bus to Charlottesville, Va. - which is, let me tell you, a post of its own. Trains headed north are easy, businesslike, uneventful, filled with dudes in suits; trains south involve lots of passengers camped out for days headed to places like Birmingham, & lots of rambunctious children sans footwear.

The ride wasn't ideal, save for the lovely British girl I befriended to pass the time. But when the train rolled into the station & I finally made it to Charlottesville late Friday night, I fell in a little bit of love. It's quiet there, slow & quaint, a college town with a lot of charm. I shared a hotel room with my mother, & there was much cuteness to be had:


But perhaps more importantly (not that you're not important, Mom!), my phone didn't work half the time in the sticks of the Commonwealth, providing me a mandatory technology vacation - which, let's face it, I can always use. It looked a little bit like this:

You don't need all the wedding details, which will seem tedious because you don't know the people involved or care about their lives (or mine, for that matter). Suffice it to say there was no tweeting, no phone calls, no blogging, no checking of the email. But what was there is far more gratifying than what wasn't - there were sunflowers & a lake & sparklers & Yuengling & dancing. There was cake & pulled pork sandwiches & a Klezmer band. There was a field in the mountains in the middle of nowhere - or maybe in the middle of everywhere. There was family. There was love & happiness & all those other good, mushy things. There was no stress at all. And that? Was the best part.

For the Love of Cleveland: The City That LeBron Built

This Thursday at 9pm, the world will explode. Or at least Twitter will. And probably a lot of Clevelanders' brains, too.

It's when LeBron James, Akron's own basketball prodigy - Cleveland's favorite son - is expected to announce his big decision. Will he stay or will he go? At the end of June, all guesses indicated that he would be leaving the Mistake on the Lake for someplace harder, better, faster stronger. Now, reports hint that he'll be staying in the city that raised him & plays him.

And why would he leave? Sure, the whole world wants him. Sure, he's been wooed by everyone from opera singers to rap stars to celebrity chefs - & let's not forget the promises of hefty(er) paychecks. But when you think about it, why would LeBron James ever want to leave the city that worships him so?

Think about it this way: Say you became the king of a small country, a country that was struggling & downtrodden, & under your leadership, that country began to flourish. It might sound a little sad but, but really, the citizens of your country don't worship anything or anyone but you - they rely on you to buoy both their economy & their hope. You are the epitome of a big fish in a small pond - the biggest of fish in the clingiest, most thankful, most appreciative of ponds. You're the King & your reign is guaranteed; no one else even comes close. Why would you ever leave your throne?

And that's what Cleveland is to King James, who first landed on the cover of Sports Illustrated when he was just 17, a kid who, without really meaning to, gave a busted city a lot of things - but mostly hope. Sure, he doesn't tip his hometown waiters & his mom once kicked out the windows of a police cruiser, but in CLE, the King reigns supreme. He revived a dying city, gave it someone to believe in & something to look forward to. And in return, it gave him everything - a desperate, fervent, please-don't-leave-us-because-we're-nothing-without-you love. He is not just our claim to fame; for seven years now, he has also been our claim to legitimacy.

It sounds cheesy, & it is. And truth be told, it kills me to see the city I love beg a star to stay. Cleveland is better than that, & I think Clevelanders have a lot more to love than basketball royalty. It pains me to watch the city become a desperate pawn in one man's big decision; he is, after all, just a man (and from what I can tell, not even a particularly nice man, at that). But the city that LeBron built loves its leader, & we feel deeply that he ought to love us back - & that he ought to love us enough to stay. Just as he built us, we built him.

#LeBromageddon is coming. The countdown begins...

Just Watch the Fireworks

I have a notably terrible memory, but I remember how I've celebrated nearly every Fourth of July since I was 17. It's far & away my favorite holiday - no religious rituals, no old-timey traditions, no set-in-stone celebrations. Just doing what you want with people you love.

When I was younger, we spent a few years going to family friends' house on Independence Day; in my little kid brain, they had the greatest holiday picnic on the planet. There were sparklers & Roman candles (albeit far, far from safety-conscious me); there were those little white pellets that explode when they hit the pavement; there were Firecracker popsicles & watermelon slices & pasta salads with little slivers of pepperoni in them, because that's what Midwesterners do with pasta salad. More importantly, there were friends & there was fun.

As I got older, it remained my favorite holiday - in part, perhaps, because I don't recall ever having a bad one. When I was 17, it was the holiday during which I reunited with my high school boyfriend; as we kissed on a hill after a fireworks display, an elderly couple commented in passing on the joys of being young & in love. When I was 18, I tearfully saw my college boyfriend off to Army boot camp at an Independence Day barbecue with his friends & family. When I was 21, I spent my first 4th in the District, decked out in the touristy-but-requisite red, white & blue & picnicking on the lawn of the National Mall with other summer interns. I've now spent three more holidays in the District, including waiting out a thunderstorm at the base of the Washington Monument & more than one incidence of grilling & day-drinking.

I think I liked it so much - like it still - because nothing about the Fourth of July ever feels mandatory, like the formal, sit-down dinners of Thanksgiving or sitting through services at synagogue on Rosh Hashanah. The Fourth is a holiday free-for-all, doing whatever you want to do with whomever you like most & eating food that's undeniably tastier than that of any other holidays (read: hot dogs). Maybe I'm actually a closeted romantic, though I shudder at the thought - something about fireworks, so big & beautiful & booming, makes me feel both small & important, like there's plenty to discover & take on & learn & love.

This weekend followed suit with the Fourths of July that came before, proving to be a perfect long weekend full of all the right things. Last night, my friends & I forewent the Mall in favor of grilling on friends' roofdeck, with an almost entirely unobstructed view of the fireworks; when they were over, the whole deck erupted into raucous cheering after a man proposed to his girlfriend. And when we turned away from the spot where the fireworks had been, we found that smaller displays were going on all across the city & into Maryland & Virginia, little explosions of colored lights popping up in the distance as far as we could see. The idea that throughout the metropolitan area - throughout the country - people were doing the exact same thing as we were, celebrating with friends & taking in the day, was somehow both powerful & simple, & of course the view & the company were unparalleled.

One of my favorite songs has long been Jimmy Eat World's "Just Watch the Fireworks," which always reminds of the Fourth of July, though there are no real references to it. The lyrics go, in part, "Here, you can be anything, anything that scares you. I think that scares you." They've always felt applicable to my life in DC, a place that has always been so beyond me, even when I've been in love with it. There's so much here - so much power, so much potential. On that Fourth of July four years ago, I cried at the end of the fireworks display on the Mall, promising myself that I would move here, that I would find a way to return, that I would become something that scared me.

Four years later, it seems I may not be in DC come this time next year; I say that regularly, I know, but this time, it feels truer. This Fourth was simpler than holidays past, yet another reminder that my life is infinitely good - but that it is also different than it used to be. "You can be anything, anything that scares you. I think that scares you." Time changes everything, & everything has, indeed, changed.

That Time I Was on "Top Chef" Talking About Rootbeer & Steak

OK, so maybe THE COOLEST THING EVER just happened to me.

And OK, maybe it wasn't the coolest thing ever, but it was pretty effing cool.

A few months ago, my roommate Andrew & I skipped work (with the bosses' permission!) & drove out to Mount Vernon, home of wooden-toothed George Washington. The reason for our day trip? We were diners at a "Top Chef: DC" challenge!

I didn't blog about it at the time because we were asked not to; I still won't reveal much other than the fact that I was there & it was awesome. It was, by far, the coolest thing I've done here in DC, wandering the hallowed grounds of our first president's home while shoveling down bite-sized meals created by some of the country's best chefs. To my dismay, it turns out that neither of my favorite dishes - Kenny's harissa pork with quinoa & Andrea's rootbeer-marinated steak - made it into either the top or bottom, indicating that I have a sloppy, uncultivated palette, or something. Whatever, Padma, at least I don't wear rompers.

ANYWAY.

Tonight, excited about our potential TV debuts, Andrew & our roommate Jason & I hosted a little (BIG) viewing party at our tiny apartment, hoping to catch a glimpse of ourselves on the greatest cooking show in the land. There were about 150 diners present, so we figured we wouldn't get screen time but would maybe spot ourselves in the crowd chowin' down.

Imagine our surprise & delight when we found ourselves in the crowd not once but FOUR TIMES. Once in the background. Twice at chefs' tables (me at Kenny's & him at Amanda's). And one super-unexpected close-up of me talking somewhat awkwardly about the food. My big line? "I wouldn't have expected rootbeer to taste good... on meat."

That's right. Soda & meat made me famous for a whole six seconds. And the best part was the comment a close friend left on my Facebook about her toddler son: "LOVE IT!!! and AC was yelling 'there's Katy I found her momma!!!' you are officially famous to him!!! so cool and you looked cute too...loved the diva glasses :)"

Temporary stardom win.

I'll be signing autographs while I wait for an agent to call me.

Hot Town, Summer in the City (In Other Words, I'm Miserable.)

With apologies for starting this post out on a negative note, let's cut to the chase: I HATE THE HEAT. I can't believe I've never covered this before, but it's true & it's strong. I really, really, really hate the heat.

My roommate Jason hates it, too, as evidenced by the following series of texts & the fact that we opted to take a cab home from U Street today rather than stand in the sun for 10 minutes until the bus arrived:

Kaaaaaaaaaaaaate. It's hoooooooorrible outside. I just got out the door and now my everything is sweaty.

Why is this bus not air conditioned? Why am I so sweaty? Why won't the heat go away? Whiiiiiiine.

I need some new genes, stat.

I find Mother Nature's other elements to be aggravating but largely manageable: when it snows, bundle up; when it rains, carry an umbrella. But what options are there in gabillion-degree heat? There are only so many layers of clothes to remove! Stubbornly, I've also been known to refuse to wear summer-appropriate clothing, occasionally donning Pete Wentz-style pants in the heat of July. Alas, yesterday I caved in & bought shorts, which is both shameful & liberating. I don't really know how to wear shorts, & I am beyond convinced that they make me look like a minivan mom - but my legs can breathe now, offering me minimal but essential respite from the heat.

Still, people who enjoy heat - who like it, thrive in it, crave it, love it - sort of make me sick. I don't understand. What part of bathing in your own sweat is enjoyable? What part of "If I don't have a glass of water every 10 steps, I'm going to dehydrate" is likable? Who seeks out suffocation? Sunburn? Sweat?

That's the key to my dislike, really. Sweating. I am, admittedly, like, the sweatiest person on the goddamn planet, which makes for regularly unpleasant summer days - hair plastered to my head, weird patterns on the backs of my solid-colored shirts, etcetera. Maybe I have a problem. Maybe Jason's is onto something in that text. Maybe it all comes down to genetics. Those among us blessed with being relatively unsweaty can withstand the heat - & perhaps even enjoy it. But for those of us whose pores deem it appropriate to relentlessly marinate us in sweat, every day feels like a public bath. Everyone's all, "It's not that bad," & I'm all, "I've just lost half my fluids & I look like I just crawled out of the Gulf oil spill." (I'm painting a beautiful visual image for you here, I know.)

.....sigh.

OK, fine. There are a couple things I like about summer, but they're, like, tangential. They're honorable mentions to make me feel better about losing the genetic summer lottery. But because I don't want to be a total downer, I'll indulge. They include:


Scruffy men in Raybans.


Mango margaritas at Mixtec. The menu listed them as being "MANGO!," so we felt the need to yell it enthusiastically every time we discussed their deliciosity.


And, of course, the occasional summer outfit, spotted in a CVS, that makes it all feel just a liiiiittle bit more worth it. Maybe I'd like the heat more if I started sporting dip-dyed one-pieces? I bet that's the key.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to hoarding cold air like it's Y2K & not leaving my apartment until absolutely necessary.