The Harvard Network

I have mentioned before the guy who sits on the Georgetown side of the M Street bridge. I don't pass him that often anymore, mostly because the things that motivate me to cross the bridge--sangria, cupcakes, Anthro-- are bad for me in excess. But yesterday, I needed to return some things, so off I went.

I should note that it was really hot and disgusting yesterday. I believe some people would say it was 'hot as balls.' I would say it was like living in a sock. Yeah. You feel like you need a shower now, don't you? Exactly. Given the simile options I have presented, I think you can understand my decision to dress for survival instead of cuteness. In my case, that meant gym clothes, and my teeshirt du jour happened to be my Harvard School of Public Health shirt.

Anyway, I dragged my sweaty, increasingly dehydrated self down M Street, considering various places I could stop to shop, by which I mean wander around air conditioned stores feigning interest in the merchandise. I noticed that, despite the heat, our friend was in his usual post, sitting on an overturned milk crate with a newspaper and a book. I stopped to say hello.

And then I noticed his Harvard Business School shirt.

"Heyyyy!" we both said.

He grilled me about my interests in public health for minute or two and then wished me luck, adding, "You have a wonderful personality; you'll do well in public health." (Note that he said nothing about a good personality having anything to do with Harvard-- I bet he really did go to HBS.) I'm going to miss running into him. Do you think it's too cold in Boston for people to sit on the sidewalk at the end of a bridge, just being pleasant?

Kate Begins to Extricate Herself from DC

Just when it seemed I would never write here again, I am back. I have missed this, and besides, I am quitting my job, soon, so I'm going to have some time to kill.

Yes, it is the end of an era. In 17 days, my DC life will be packed away, and I will drive up I-95, have a little vacation (July and August lazing at the beach-- I feel so French), and then start my new adventure in Boston. I'm preparing already, getting my immunization records so I can prove to my grad school that I will not start a diphtheria epidemic and trying to become a Celtics fan. So far, both of these things are going well, although I am already a Red Sox fan, so I know that the Celtics' lead could blow their lead in the blink of an eye.

It's starting to sink in that I'm leaving. We had a going away party Friday night, since it was probably the last weekend night that we'll both be here, and today I showed the apartment to prospective tenants. It was actually kind of fun, even though no one took me up on my offer of a beer, courtesy of the keg that is still hanging out in our living room. Based on everyone's feedback, either our apartment is enormous and our decorating job is super cute, or every other apartment currently on the market is a catastrophic shit hole, making ours a beacon in the wilderness by comparison.

The best part, aside from the flattery, was meeting the people looking at the apartment. There were a few engaged couples and some girls who coincidentally went to college with my cousin, but my favorites were the girls who were looking for their first post-college apartment. As I showed them around and answered their (many) questions, it struck me that they are Marissa and me circa 2007. They had looked at a million apartments already, trekking around DC in the miserable heat, nervous about missing out on a good place, freaking out about the application ("What does she mean, "previous landlord?" Should I say 'college?' 'My parents?'). Granted, I have not really matured that much as a person in terms of apartment hunting ("Hi, Mom. I think I found my apartment, but you know how I am about snap decisions, so I just need you to talk to me a little and tell me that I'm not being a spendthrift or an idiot"). In fact, I guess the closest comparison I have is the week before the room draw in college, when the underclassmen would come look at our suite and try to figure out if their beer pong table would fit next to the futon. But it was nice to be on the outgoing side of the equation, assuring them that the utilities aren't expensive and that the other tenants don't mind the occasional party.

In any case, this feels like it was a good warm-up for the next big event, my last day of work on Friday. Fortunately, I don't think I have to give tours of my cubicle.

Kate Gets Old, Becomes Reflective

I turned 25 today. If you want to get technical about it, I turned 25 about an hour ago. It is snowing here, as it was in Connecticut that night. Punxsutawney Phil predicted six more weeks of winter today, just as he did in 1985. Actually, just as he does most years. Honestly, Phil can suck it-- there are much better groundhogs out there. No, not you, Staten Island Chuck, but keep fighting the good fight.

Speaking of Essex Ed, how convenient was that for my parents? If there's a freaking parade for your kid's date of birth, do you really need to throw an elaborate party? When we moved to Annapolis, people didn't believe us when we tried to explain the concept of a Groundhog Day parade. "No really, it's great. Everyone stands on Main Street, and you bang pots and pans to call the groundhog, and then they bring out the giant costumed groundhog and when it's over they place him in the middle of the rotary at the top of the street!" What part of that doesn't sound completely believable?

People make a big deal about turning 25. "Ooooh, quarter-life crisis!" Really? I don't know. It clearly helps that I have a definite idea of my trajectory for the next couple years (grad school/poverty). But I figure I balance that out by maintaining my heading on the crazy cat lady track (minus cats). Nevertheless, I see no particular need for an existential crisis.

Furthermore, I think the whole quarter-life thing is a little presumptuous. I'm a science nerd, and I get excited about advances in medicine, and I work out and try to consume more vegetables than beer (not hard--I've gotten really boring lately). But honestly, I am pretty sure I am not going to live to 100, so the whole quarter-life ship has sailed. [Note: I will retract this statement in 10.5 years when my grammy turns 100.]

But I guess 25 is kind of a legit milestone. As my roommate so astutely and depressingly put it, I am now a member of the 25-40 demographic grouping, which I think means I have to eschew ironically cheering "WOOOOOO, COOOOLLLLLLLLEGE!" in favor of sincerely cheering "Hooray, fiber!"

Even my parents seem to consider it a milestone, rewarding my existence with delicious dinners when Mommy Lew was in town for the weekend, some sweet bling, and a terrifying (read: AWESOME) groundhog puppet which you can see in some of the pictures of the Essex parade (I very narrowly escaped receiving one of those groundhog hats). Which got me trying to think of the most memorable birthday presents I have received. Don't jump all over me-- it's an interesting exercise trying to figure out what has stuck with you over the course of your lifetime. Aside from a few conspicuous consumption-type items I won't describe in detail, I came up with the following:

Age 21: My pearls. I'm from Connecticut-- what do you want from me?

Age 16: Driver's ed with Sal. Memorable not necessarily in a good way ("I've seen some pretty bad things happen when somebody turns away from the skid").

Age 6: Part I: Ice skating lessons at the Naval Academy. Part II: Stitches.

Age 4: I think this is the first birthday I remember, which might color my recollection, but I am pretty sure it is the defending champion in terms of joy. My parents made me a beanbag toss... thing. If you can't figure out what I'm talking about, you should probably step away from your computer and go play with a ball or a stick or something. Anyway, my dad built it, and my mom made the beanbags, and it was Scuffy the Tugboat themed, which is to say amazing. AND on top of that, my Uncle Brian brought this Sesame Street foil balloon, with which I believe I became irrationally obsessed. Anne and I volleyed with it for probably the better part of a week until we had beaten all the helium out of it, at which point my mom flattened it and put it up on our bedroom wall. Seriously, best balloon ever.

And to think that then I got to go to the parade for my birthday.

Kate's Grammy Post-Game Report

I would like to say three things about the Grammys. Especially since the television coverage was clearly an attempt to turn it into some kind of three-way death match of Gaga v. Beyonce v. Taylor Swift.

1. I am a Gaga believer. I stand by my original assertion that "Just Dance" has some questionable lyrics, and I think her subsequent work proves that she was not giving it her best in terms of the extent of the crazy in that video. But I understand that she had to suck us in with something catchy and ease into the truly bizarre outfits. And now, brilliance. She showed up as a walking homage to cotton candy and/or rhythm gymnastics. From there she went on to channel Marilyn Manson as the Wizard of Oz and got thrown into a machine that spit her out soiled and accompanied by ELTON. The last outfit was possibly the least bizarre, which is saying something. It reminded me of this terrible song I sang at chorus regionals in high school-- there was this part that involved the altos sort of chanting "lightning lightning lightning." Anyway, she is wacky and awesome and really a talented vocalist.

Sidebar: Do you think her head ever hurts from all the head dresses? Do you ever want to take an afternoon off from being a performance artist? You know, hang out in your sweatpants, watch your DVR'ed Real Housewives, not spend an hour hairspraying your hair until it's a helmet?

2. Beyonce has some pipes. I mean, daaaaamn (that was two syllables, in case you were unsure). She is legit talented. Which is why the army of storm troopers that accompanied her to the stage during her performance baffled me. I get that divas like a posse, but that seemed like overkill, especially when you are up against someone who specializes in performance art, i.e. strategic bizarro shenanigans. The following (abridged) conversation occurred between my sister and me during B's performance:

KATE.
Is the Beyonce infantry going to face off against Gaga Laboratories?

ANNE.
I feel like everyone's trying to unleash their inner Gaga.

KATE.
I mean, she's killing it, but the storm troopers are a little suspect.

ANNE.
Maybe they'll do something interesting?

KATE.
Tase an audience member?

3. Taylor Swift. I have been grumbling about her for a while--after she was on SNL, after I watched a whole thirty seconds of the Hope for Haiti telethon (No, I am not heartless. I already gave to Partners in Health and there was not enough George Clooney to sustain my attention). But now, it is abundantly clear that even though she seems like a sweet person who was sincerely excited just to be nominated and gracious in victory, even though I salute her as a tall girl, even though her songs appeal to many, many people, girl cannot sing. At least not in any key that I can listen to without cringing.

Suggestion: Taylor Swift/Kanye collaboration. Seriously. Can you imagine the publicity they would get? It would be INSANE. And more important to me, he could Auto-Tune that shit.

Kate's Open Letter to... Many People

To my mother, who is probably reading this: At this writing, I am in my apartment, wearing sweatpants, and watching the West Wing episode when it's snowing and the Whiffenpoofs are at the White House and Dulles and National are closed and Josh realizes that he's in love with Donna and the Whiffenpoofs sing O Holy Night. Also, my shoes are drying out-- it looks like the two coats of waterproofing chemicals were a good investment.

To the awesome bellman at the Willard who tried so hard to find us a cab: You are, indeed, awesome. Your heating lamps are awesome, too.

To the cabbie who pulled up to the Willard and then sped away when we explained where we wanted to go: Are. You. Serious. Really, are you serious? To recap, a cabbie pulled up to the Willard and asked where we wanted to go. We said Dupont and Adams Morgan. He responded, "Up? I can't go uphill." Seriously? You drive a Crown Vic. I have seen these cars before. Driving around Connecticut. Frequently uphill, sometimes in snow-- occasionally both at the same time. Imagine.

To all the other cabbies who passed us and did not stop: I do not fully understand your business model, as it seems to involve passing hoards of partygoers wandering through downtown at midnight in the snow. P.S., about half of them were wearing very tall, very unwieldy shoes and inadequate clothing. We really wanted to get in a cab. I would have paid a lot of money to ride in a cab.

To the girls at the Willard who were considering getting a room at the Willard instead of braving the Metro: In what way did that seem like a good idea? Because getting a cab will be so much easier once a foot of snow has fallen? Because your feet will be warmer when your four-inch heels magically turn into snow boots? Furthermore, I particularly liked your logic to explain why it was unreasonable to walk four blocks to McPherson Square: "I'm sorry, but I'm a woman, and it is midnight, and I am not walking to the Metro alone. I do not want to get raped." Honestly, it is snowing. Vigorously. So much so that even cab drivers in their cabs don't want to be outside. All the rapists have taken shelter. It is probably the safest night of the year to wander the streets, unless your concern is wiping out and breaking your leg.

To the guys we passed somewhere around 14th and New York Ave., who decided to grace us with a little Tim McGraw serenade, specifically the miniskirt line from "Bbq Stain": Thank you; I'm glad you liked my dress. I wish I had been as drunk as you were; I probably wouldn't have minded the cold as much. On a related note, my feet were freezing-- why could they still feel pain?

To the people of the fair District of Columbia: I will see you when the snow melts and you all return to normal. Or, you know, what passes for normal here.

Kate Attempts to Grow Things

Steps to becoming a vigilante gardener:

1. Identify abandoned reality TV house.

2. Look for signs of an herb garden producers probably planted thinking the cast would care about sustainability. Preferably on public property, i.e., the sidewalk. See anything you think you might not kill if you transplanted it to a pot in your kitchen?

3. Double check that you're not going to uproot a perfectly good plant only to slaughter it brutally in captivity.
3a. Hmm, Wikipedia says that rosemary does well in drought conditions. The top of my refrigerator gets very little rain, so this is excellent news.

4. Liberate your target plant from its sidewalk home. Preferably under cover of darkness, even if it is on public property.
4a. You probably shouldn't remove the all the rosemary--that's a little greedy. And, furthermore, you're going to feel like an asshole if you kill all of it in one fell swoop. You have to pace yourself.
4b. You probably didn't plan this exercise very carefully, so chances are you lack an appropriate vehicle in which to transport your rosemary plant to its new home. Fortunately, since you're not a greedy asshole, you can carry it in one hand.

5. Pot your exciting new plant. You might have an enormous bag of potting soil living on your fire escape, an artifact of your last foray into the wonderful world of herb gardens. Seriously-- you might have carried a 20-pound bag of potting soil four blocks from Garden District and up two flights of stairs, because you might struggle with gardening, but you try hard and you appreciate economies of scale.
5a. You might also have some concerns about that potting soil and blame it for the stunted growth and eventual death of your basil plant. Maybe. I'm just saying. If that's the case, maybe you pick up a fistful of dirt from the garden in front of your building.

6. Enjoy your new plant. Remember not to over-water it, in the manner you over-water the Christmas cactus you keep at your desk hoping to reenact Little Shop of Horrors.

Kate Misses New England

Things that have made me miss New England lately:

1. Fall weather. It has become fall in DC. Well, not this week; this week was July part deux. But the weeks before and after Labor Day were perfection. The air was cool and mercifully dry-- the type of weather people describe as crisp. I don't really like the word crisp. I don't know why; maybe it's because my brain defaults to my cooking definition of crisp: adj., a polite euphemism for burned. But I digress. The beautiful weather--the clear, energizing air and the bright but not-hot sun--caused me pangs of Yale withdrawal, characterized primarily by regret that I was walking to work instead of WLH or the tailgate fields.

2. Friendly people from Connecticut. No, I'm not kidding. Everyone hears all the time about Southern Hospitality and blah blah blah. Whatever. Speaking fewer words per minute than I can type doesn't make you friendly; it makes you inefficient. You want friendly? Try wearing your high school gym shirt from a small town in Connecticut-- which I do a lot, apparently, based on the number of times I've been stopped by people asking about my shirt. Which is three times in four weeks, to be precise.

"Old Saybrook?! Old Saybrook, Connecticut?"
"Yes!"
"We live in Old Lyme!" "I have a house in Groton-Long Point!" "We just moved to Baltimore from Hamden!"

Seriously. Delightful, lovely people. "Are you in school? You went to Yale? Good for you! When was the last time you went home?"

3. The countdown to the postseason. There are few things I miss about New England the way I miss NESN, mostly because I mix my longing for Remy and Orsillo-- hell, even Orsillo and Eck-- with scorn for all those who try to take their place in my life. At least on Fox and ESPN, I can put the game on mute. On TBS, mute isn't enough, thanks to that clown Craig Sager and his nauseating and misguided jacket-tie-pocket square combos. And, more to the point, I don't want to have to mute the inanity of the guy who dresses like my 6th grade French teacher. I want good commentary. I want Don to gravely but sympathetically give it to me straight when Melky freakin Cabrera adopts a new offensive strategy such as lining the ball straight into poor Jon Lester.

However, deficient Red Sox coverage aside, I admit that DC Sox fans are a devoted bunch who sometimes manifest their fandom in enjoyable ways on par with New England. I have encountered many people who give shout-outs to others sporting Red Sox paraphernalia. I usually refrain from indulging this urge, but today on the way home from Safeway, I couldn't help myself.

"I'm sorry-- is your dog wearing a Sox jersey?"
"Well, I mean, we're playing the Yankees tonight."
"Oh, I understand. It's a big weekend."