My friend Matt

From the UPB is in this commercial. He's the guy who gets bowled over by the cowboys running through the door and the one in the middle who's jumping over the chair and typing.

Where can you see Lions?

Only in Kenya!!

That kind of explains why my sister, who went to South Africa and Namibia, didn't get any photos of them. However, she got a bunch of other great photos from her humanitarian mission with the UNA and a corporate sponsor. Since she's a little zonked from her trip, I put some of these together for her.





Confidential to Jules: Clearly we're even for Wake Forest.... ;p

A Word from the Hokie Nation

Virginia Tech family members across the country have united to declare this Friday, April 20th, an "Orange and Maroon Effect" day to honor those killed in the tragic events on campus Monday, and to show support for Virginia Tech students, faculty, administrators, staff, alumni, and friends. "Orange and Maroon Effect" was born several years ago as an invitation to Tech fans to wear orange and maroon to Virginia Tech athletic events. We invite everyone from all over the country to be a part of the Virginia Tech family this Friday, to wear orange and maroon to support the families of those who were lost, and to support the school and community we all love so much.

Also, many young Engineering Professionals around the country are taking their Professional Certification exam this Friday. Many are young VT Graduates who have lost professors and friends in these awful events. As Certified Engineers will tell you, studying for this exam has consumed their lives for the last several months. To have this happen in the home stretch is simply not what they need. If you could please take some time on Friday to send some warm thoughts and good luck their way, I'm sure it will help and be appreciated.

The Dawg Pound ♥'s Hokie Nation!

There is a saying in the Hills of Virginia that "of course God is a Hokie fan. How else can you explain why the trees turn Orange and Maroon in the fall?"

Of course, there are other sayings about the only intelligent sign of life in Blacksburg being the mileage sign to Harrisonburg, how if you couldn't get into a "college" like UVA, you went to Hokie High, and how if you wanted a good date to the campus formal, you needed to tip early. But, then again, none of that is important right now.

What is important is that the illusions we had about our college campuses being safe were shattered in a few hours this morning. In what appeared to be an isolated incident at the time, some asshat with a gun shot his ex girlfriend in West Ambler Johnston Hall (West AJ). Then, two hours later, he was in the Engineering Building, taking at least 30 people with him as he went down in a "blaze of glory."

Again...asshat. We could talk about the selfishness of killing oneself, but seriously people, if you're gonna do it, please consider doing it in such a way that is personal and private and involves minimal clean-up. Of course, before you get that far, please also consider calling a suicide hot line like 1.800.273.8255 (TALK). These people can help. Let them.

In the days and weeks to come, I'm sure we'll learn more about this, the worst mass shooting in US History. We will come to know what motivated the gunman and what he was doing minute-by-minute. It will come to define a generation of college students in the way that Columbine defined our little brothers and sisters eight years ago and the way Kent State defined our parents. It will be talk-show fodder and a ratings booster (though really, ABC7 in DC, did you HAVE to use an orange and maroon crosshairs logo?) for the more insensitive of our mass-media outlets. Fox News, I can't wait to see what you come up with. Then again, maybe I can.

And slowly, life will go on in Blacksburg. The trees will turn orange and maroon again. We will drive down from Harrisonburg to see our first string be humiliated by their third-string. Exams will be taken, freshmen will travel in packs, mass quantities of bourbons and cokes will be consumed. UVA will still be full of themselves. Things will get back to normal...eventually.

But for a moment, a brief moment, don't forget to put your heart into the hills of Blacksburg. Then take your heart out. Put your heart back in and...well, you know the rest.

After all, commitment to healing and the brotherhood of all Virginians...isn't that what it's all about?

New York

I know everyone's wondering...especially after those ultra-cryptic and very tired messages left on Friday. Yes, I was zonked, and yes, I'm zonked this morning because I was up late watching the Oscars last night. I thought Ellen was good, but I miss Billy Crystal. Plus, when Al Gore as the best line of the night, you kinda know you're in trouble. I only wish he really truly had announced his intentions!!

But I digress.

As for this weekend. OMG, you all have to see Avenue Q. It's positively amazing. I mean, it's no Wicked, but I can totally see how it beat the girls from Oz for Best Musical. Wow, I really am slow...I just realized that Hugh Jackman won that year for Boy From Oz, and Wicked is about a
Girl from Oz. Yes, I'm totally serious. Hey, did you guys know that the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004?

So, yeah, Friday. I didn't sleep on Thursday night. Maybe I shouldn't go out for pizza before bedtime. Maybe I shouldn't work a 12 hour day. Maybe I shouldn't fall asleep with the news on talking about Prince Harry's deployment to Iraq. Whatever the reason, I kept having a truly disturbing dream that I kept waking up from. Every. Half. Hour. And the problem with knowing that you have to be up at a certain super-early time the next morning is that you try to get back to sleep as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, while this never happens with the dreams where I'm hooking up with Clooney, I tend to hop back into nightmares/the truly weird stuff right away. This means that I'm usually woken up again. And well, it's a vicious cycle.

At 3, the alarm went off. I finished packing, grabbed some tea, and called a cab (3:30). CabLady said that it'd be there within 15 minutes. If it wasn't, I was to call back. I gave him half an hour, and then had this conversation with the same lady:

ME: Hi, I called a cab half an hour ago, and it's not here yet.
CABLADY: You already called?
ME: Yes, you told me to call back in 15 if it wasn't there. I gave you half an hour.
CABLADY: Oh, well we cancelled it. You should have called back in 15 minutes.
ME: You cancelled the cab?? So, can I have another one please?
CABLADY: Yes, but if this one doesn't come in 15 minutes, call back. We use that to judge if you really want one.
ME: Fine.

Fifteen minutes later (it's 4:15, the train leaves at 4:45), I call back and, this time, apparently reach Sybil. Same voice of course, but...

ME: Hi, it's me again.
CABLADY: WHY YOU CALLING??????
ME: You told me to.
CABLADY: WHO TOLD YOU TO? WHO ARE YOU?
ME: You did... (WTF???) I called 45 minutes ago about a cab. It hasn't come yet. I have a train at 4:45, and really, if I miss it, it's entirely your fault. (Slightly unnecessary to point that out, I guess, but come on)
CABLADY: [Unintelligible, but it sounded like it ended with "itch"], I HAVE NO IDEA. IT AIN'T MY FAULT. NOW YOU QUIT CALLING ME, AND I'LL GET YOUR CAB WHEN I FEEL LIKE IT. GOT THAT LINDSAY?
ME: Um, ok (making a mental note to check all locks one more time -- after all, this person knows where I live and that I'm going to be out of town for a few days). One question though: how did you know my name when I didn't give it to you on this call, and you claim we haven't
talked yet this morning?
CABLADY: ... CLICK

At 4:30, I give up. I race to the train station and arrive just as the train is being announced for boarding. Thanks to my super-strength (ok flirty muscles), I make it.

I arrive in NYC at 7:15, make my way to Julia's and then lose like three hours. I have no idea seriously what I did beyond watch Thursday's Greys and lie awake staring at the ceiling. I tried to nap, honest, I just couldn't.

After passing myself off as my sister at the gym (this twin thing is good for some things!), I make my way home for a shower. I'm freezing when I get there, but then again, it's totally my fault for leaving the house and running for 5 blocks in a cute t-shirt, a thin hoodie, and crops in the middle of freaking February. Work out, watch the Anna Nicole Channel (AKA Court TV), and gain a whole new appreciation for the DAC and it's opportunity for Gov. O'Hottie spotting. On the way home, this very nice man offered to block the wind for me as I braced myself against the wind tunnel that is 10th Avenue. I appreciated that more than you know.

The afternoon was full of manual labor at my sister's office. They're moving cross-town and things needed to be packed. I worked my butt off, Jules, Theresa, and Merita worked theirs too. James sat on his all afternoon pretending to check accounts. As a result, no one felt bad about slipping me extra bottles of Bombay as I left (they're one of James' accounts!).

Sadly, I still had to trek them (plus the tequila, the Pernod, two bottles of wine, my new cute clothes, and two rolodexes) home, and thus began my second cab-adventure of the day. I waited on 43rd and 2nd for twenty minutes. Waiving my clawed hand (heavy bags, thin straps) like a
tourist and seriously considering jumping out in front of something to ensure that it stopped. If my reaction time wasn't as slow as it was, I probably would have gone for it, but as it was, I was having a hard enough time not walking into people. Cars would have been a nightmare. :(

Finally, though a cab came for me. I crawled in, heaped compliments on my knight in yellow armor, and told him my destination. We got about half a block down when a man with a gun tried to take it.

(I'm pausing for dramatic effect, but to be honest it's not as much fun when I can't see your faces. So, um, yeah...moving on....)

He was a NYPD Cadet who sort of confused our stopping at the light for stopping for HIM. He was halfway in the door when he realized I was sitting there, and I think I scared him. Hee.

At 4:30, I finally got my nap. At 5:15, Jules came home and I spent the next half hour talking to the roommates and the hairless wonder (no, not Britney...Charles' sphinx cat). Then, we went to this great wine bar and had shots of Rum and Coffee Tequila (interesting) with Nikki and the
Scottish bartender who looked like one of The Pretenders. I don't remember what we did after that, but I'm sure it was fun!

Saturday, we shopped and saw the show. Freaking awesome. Seriously, dirty puppets can give a girl a whole new appreciation for Sesame Street and the Electric Company. The "George Bush is only for now line" got a huge HUGE cheer.

Sunday, we went to the Moondance Diner (the place where Jesse L. Martin and Jonathan Larson used to work). I thought Victoria Jackson was behind us because this chick's voice was dead on. Turns out it was just two people who were higher than a kite and drunk as skunks. Still, majorly squeaky voice. They were slurring words and asked the "matre d'" for directions to a hotel three times. After the third time the guy waved him over and hit me on the back of the head (accidentally, of course) while doing it. I seriously considered sending them on the subway up to 125th street (you know, Harlem) just to watch them get their butts kicked. Mean? A little, but I think it would have been worth it.

Then, I loaded my booty into the backpack (haven't had that much liquor in there since college, and even then it was all plastic -- there are definite perks to having a sister who reps alcohol!), and the rolling bar and I hopped an early train thanks to the weather. I got back to B'more around 12:30 and drove home in one of the cutest snow storms I had ever seen. Can a snow storm be cute? I sure think so. :)

All in all, a great weekend. Though, I'm looking forward to the sunshiny goodness that should be Phonenix next week!!!

Super Bowl 41

Like most of you, I watched the game last night (ok, so maybe I fell asleep on Ryan's hawsome recliner during the third quarter, but DUDE I need to get one of those couches), and I was sorely disappointed in the offerings of some of my favorite yearly pitches. For example, did you know that there was absolutely NO Clydesdale commercial? I count on my horsies to make me cry like they did in 2002 and 2006 or laugh like they did in 2003, 2004, and 2006!! They made a quick cameo in a lame dog-centric commercial this year, but Bud, if you're listening, please bring back the horses.

My favorite commercial last night, hands down, was the Rock, Paper Scissors ad by Bud Light, with the wedding being a very close second. Nonetheless, it didn't quite live up to the Magic Fridge from last year.

Since I want to assure you that my favorites from years past don't strictly focus on beer (though it does help), these two are also classics in my book.

Of course, my all-time favorite sports-related commercial wasn't a Super Bowl spot at all. It aired just after the conclusion of the 2004 World Series, and I get chills every time I see it.

Got some favorites? Share them in the comments. As a special bonus (and just because you know you remember it from your childhood):

Just remember: as of today, they're all undefeated.

Dial-A-Boy

I’m a beautiful, intelligent, funny, girl with that auburn hair/golden eyes combination that reminds men of a certain FBI Agent that they crushed on in high school. I’m easy to get along with, a shoo-in with most mothers, and, in case you haven’t noticed, completely unlacking in the self-esteem department. My nice girl qualities mean that I have a steady supply of nice men in my life who, should I find myself conducting boyfriend-auditions once again, are more than willing to toss on a suit and accompany me to a plus-one affair with no strings attached. After all, we all know what men really think with, and these things usually have GREAT food.

All of which meant Jack-Diddly last night.

It all started Saturday when Kristen told me that the boyfriend was taking her to the O’Malley Inaugural Ball. Interesting, I thought. I figured that the tickets were way out of my price range and were probably all gone. Then yesterday, while at the inaugural in Annapolis, I realized that everyone there was talking about how “inexpensive” they were. Fifty to be exact. Open bar, tons of restaurants, and the chance to see Big Bad Voodoo Daddy live ????? Oh I was so in.

Since I was freezing my butt off in Annapolis, I couldn’t really do anything until I got home. Therefore, my evening pretty much went like this:

4:30 – Arrive home, plan to check email and hit gym.

4:45 – Get ball ticket.

4:46 – Check email. Realize that all hell has broken loose while out of office. Decide to forego gym.

5:00 – Get in shower.

5:15 – Get call from Kristen…they have an extra ticket. Would I like?

5:16 – Thank Kristen. Explain that she is half an hour too late. Learn she’s calling around. Place request for someone hot and single. Realize that this is a Democratic Party event. Mentally amend request to “single and mildly attractive.”

5:30 – Start hair and makeup.

5:45 – Get call from Kristen. She can’t find anyone. Do I have a friend I can take?

Now, keeping in mind that I do have that steady supply of dial-a-boys, I figured it wasn’t going to be much of a problem. Who cares that we’re meeting in 45 minutes, I thought? Guys have to toss on a suit, make sure they don’t stink, and brush their hair. Free Food. OPEN BAR. This, I thought, was going to be a cakewalk.

Sure, Cakewalk. I sure am a funny girl!!! I started moving down the phone list. Here they are in random order:

1. Practically Engaged
2. Insane – only in phone so I can avoid calls
3. Friend, but way too interested in me to allow him to accompany me to anything where I look hot. ANYTHING
4. Staunch Republican
5. DC
6. Engaged
7. Phone Busy
8. Married
9. See #8
10. Salisbury
11. Co-Worker
12. Forbidden
13. Um, NO
14. Kristen already called him.
15. Drunkard
16. Exiled out of state for work
17. Texas
18. See #5
19. He’s still in this phone?
20. See #5
21. Too close of a relationship with #13
22. See #5
23. See #19
24. Awkward would never begin to describe what the evening would be like.
25. Suit was at drycleaners…if he wasn’t obviously interested in me, I’d swear he was "washing his hair.”
26. See # 7 (twice!)
27. See #16 – tried anyway to see if he happened to be passing through. No dice.
28. Other plans.
29. See #19. Ironically enough, I did run into him there.
30. See #16

Yes, folks, that was 0 for 31 (including another one who wasn’t in the phone, but whose number I ended up getting from one of the guys we dismissed earlier).

Then, I tried some, shall we say, “alternative” routes. This included calling my sister and asking her for the number of a guy who she had gone out with when she was living up here. He seemed nice, they didn’t really hit it off, and I figured he’d be able to pick up a few stories for his comedy routine. She refused the goods (“practically engaged” my foot) but began suggesting other people I could try. Note to self: when your sister actually describes a potential date as “I know he’s not Mr. Socially Adept, but he’s a body,” you know she doesn’t quite have your best interest at heart.

For the record, both Julia and Kristen suggested the “head-hunter” who turned the head of HR at my office into my personal dating service. I told them he was quite out of the question.

Then, knowing that we still needed to get rid of the ticket, she suggested that I move on to the girls she used to work with. After all, girls like dress-up events with lots of single successful guys and a good looking Mayor Governor at hand. I agreed that that may have been an option, but we still faced a bit of a challenge: I had spent the entire night calling my boys, and this was Black-Tie event. We were meeting at 6:30. It was 6:15. You see where this is going…. I did call her one friend from work who thanked me and then (though she was way too nice to say it) clearly thought that I must’ve been high to propose this at such a late hour. Yeah, she was probably right.

Considering that I never really expected to have a date for the evening and anyone that I would have come up with would have been strictly platonic, I didn’t let it bother me. I got super-cute, headed to the pre-party, and promptly ran into the two guys from that October incident at Café Hon (one of whom was the guy I cancelled and reinstated the date with three times). Awkward? A little. But I was determined to enjoy myself nonetheless.

And enjoy myself I did!! Food: to die for. Big Bad Voodoo Daddy: hopping as usual. One lady asked me if they were a local band. I pointed her in the direction of “Swingers,” but I fear she may have misinterpreted that as “swingers club.” She moved away, scared. I kept dancing. Side bands: Fun dancy music. We ended up missing Kool and the Gang, but hands down the best band of the night… O’MALLEY’S FREAKING MARCH. They did three songs, and the entire crowd was going nuts. We grabbed our Guinnesses and sang along like we hadn’t heard the band in a year. Which, ok, we hadn’t.

It’s nice to be on the winning team. Even if you can’t find a last-minute date.

Office Politics 101

Quick!!

Name the one thing that's ten-times worse than having a head-hunter call your office and leave a message for you with your boss.

Answer: Having a guy you met at a bar call your office and leave a message for you with your boss that sounds like it came from a headhunter.

Of course, since I'm playing this little pop-quiz, you can probably guess that that's exactly what happened this morning. About ten minutes ago, I got this lovely email from Ginny, the HR Director at my firm:

Hi Lindsay
I received a phone message for you from
Fred Name Redacted
Baltimore Chamber of Commerce
Phone Redacted

He asked that you call as soon as possible.

Instantly, I recognized Fred as the guy I met at the BJAC (Baltimore Junior Association of Commerce for those not playing along regularly -- someone probably wants to fill Fred in on that too, now that I think about it) meeting the other night. Nice guy, didn't make much of an impression, but, then again, I was having an active, interesting, conversation before he walked up and tried to insert himself with the usual new-person-small-talk. "What do you do, Where do you work," you know, those types of things.

Little did I know that the answers to those two questions would land me in my present situation. I mean, you guys know how much of an impression I can make when I'm not even trying. From what I can gather, he took the time to look up the phone number of my firm, and left a nice, succinct message with the HR Director that sounded, unfortunately, like he was looking to steal me away. Oh Goody...corporate suicide. Ironically enough, this isn't the first time that HR has gotten involved in my dating life, and while the "Chocolate Incident" and its associated nightmares is definitely a story for another time, I would have preferred the chocolate again. Yummy, and much easier to explain, by far!

After explaining myself to HR, I think they were relieved. I, of course, am mortified, and these guys don't tend to forget things. They're still asking if I'm still dating the guy (my neighbor) from our Calypso Cruise two years ago. Clearly, I'm not, but then again, I never was in the first place. Our Winter Formal is next weekend, so I'm looking forward to a night full of good-natured ribbing about Ginny being my "social director."

Silver Lining: THANK GOD the message wasn't something like "I'm looking for the hottie with the nice ass that I met out drinking on Tuesday." Because, seriously, while I work hard for my rear, I like my rear employed at a job I actually work harder at. Somehow, I'm thinking that implying that I spend my Tuesdays bellied-up to a bar isn't going to go over too well when I've sick all week with strep-throat.

Frank Capra, Eat your Heart Out

Have you ever looked at your life during a particular moment and realized, "by God, this is a scene from a movie!"? No, I'm not talking about those cheesy events where you attempt to recreate the final scene from Sleepless in Seattle or An Affair to Remember by taking your girlfriend to the Empire State Building for Valentines Day or any Princess Leia fantasies that your kinky boyfriend cooked up on a Saturday night. I'm talking about the natural moments that you don't recognize until just after they're over, when you find yourself standing on a street corner saying, "Didn't I see that somewhere before?"

As you can probably guess, I shared one this weekend.

This past Sunday I headed down to DC to pay my respects to President Ford (you guys know me and politics). Now, anyone who's been to the Capitol lately knows that since 9/11, there's no direct access to the building. You've got to go up a walkway on the right hand side (if you're facing The Mall), pass through security (seriously, why can't I ever get the hot Marine to feel me up?), and then slip into a side entrance. On extremely rare occasions you get to go around to the front door, and that's precisely what we did on Sunday.

I breezed through security (but someone still owes me a dinner!) and had made it to that part of the balcony where, when you look straight up, all you can see is the Dome. Kind of like this:

Now, let's face it, it's a pretty dome; it's an impressive dome; but, after almost an entire lifetime of visiting said dome and seeing it from The Mall, I'm sad to say that I've become used to it.
The woman behind me (roughly my mother's age which, if I hope to stay in the will, I will report as 35) however, had an entirely different point of view. She started gasping and shaking and looking up at the dome like a little girl.

"Oh, oh, OH," she exclaimed, prompting me to think that I had wandered into the diner scene in When Harry Met Sally.

I smiled at her, "It's beautiful isn't it. First time in DC?"

"Yes," she breathed. "We did it right, we did it right." She kept repeating herself while her friend -- clearly a DC suburbanite -- looked somewhat embarrassed.

"It's beautiful," I agreed, "But wait until you get inside."

While bummer-friend started relating the history of how this beautiful building was almost wiped out on 9/11, I wandered into the front steps. At first, I couldn't believe that you could reach a certain age (still 35 if my mother's reading this) without seeing Washington, DC. Then I realized that what I really was was jealous. I had grown up seeing The Dome, the White House, the Lincoln Memorial, the Cherry Blossoms, and all the other DC sights that are supposed to invoke patriotism and pride, and now they were just buildings and trees to me. This woman, this 35 year old woman was seeing them for the first time at an age where they could really mean something and when she would never forget the feelings they invoked.

She made me think, and as I left the Capitol and headed down the steps towards The Mall, I paused for a moment to look up at the dome once more with new eyes. And while it wasn't quite the eyes of the "lady on the Capitol Dome," or the eyes of the woman seeing it for the first time, it wasn't through "eyes on the ground either."*


* Just in case anyone doesn't have a clue what I meant by that, here's the speech from Jimmy Stewart's Jefferson Smith...

Just get up off the ground, that's all I ask. Get up there with that lady that's up on top of this Capitol dome, that lady that stands for liberty. Take a look at this country through her eyes if you really want to see something. And you won't just see scenery; you'll see the whole parade of what Man's carved out for himself, after centuries of fighting. Fighting for something better than just jungle law, fighting so's he can stand on his own two feet, free and decent, like he was created, no matter what his race, color, or creed. That's what you'd see. There's no place out there for graft, or greed, or lies, or compromise with human liberties. And, uh, if that's what the grownups have done with this world that was given to them, then we'd better get those boys' camps started fast and see what the kids can do. And it's not too late, because this country is bigger than the Taylors, or you, or me, or anything else. Great principles don't get lost once they come to light. They're right here; you just have to see them again!

One more thing for the Resume...

Mom, Dad, I know you always said you'd be proud of me for whatever I do, but I know that the honor I'm about to tell you about is something that I doubt you'd ever dreamed of for your little girl.

No, I didn't win Miss America (though I hear the Miss USA crown could be up for grabs in a few days), and I didn't discover the cure for cancer. This, trust me, is much, much bigger.

I am Time Magazine's Person of the Year.

To be fair, I should admit that I'm sharing the honor with about 50 million of my closest friends (and, really, they are...my MySpace profile says so), but it's still an honor to be considered above false presidents, great women, and the various and sundry despots (Pinochet, Hussein, Hastert, Foley) who could have been considered front-runners for the honor that you have raised me to believe is a benchmark for the success or failure of a particular year. The people who have come before me have included the greatest aviator of all time, the Duchess of Windsor, both of you (mom twice), presidents, popes, queens, dictators, and Bono. No, not Bozo the Clown, Bono the hot Irish rocker. Yummy....

I guess, if we're being honest here, the distinction of being named POTY bothers me a bit. The fact of the matter is that the honor wasn't given to all of us for doing anything more than sharing. Whether it's our blogs, our MySpace profiles, or a crazy video we put together for YouTube, all we did this year was observe the world around us and share our observations. Sure, together we may have taken down Senatorial Candidates and exposed Congressmen for the pervs they were, but we also dished about our dates, outlined our quests for girlfriends by the end of the year, came up with funny anagrams that ensured that you'll need the Rosetta Stone to talk to your eventual grandchildren, spoofed those PSAs that were supposed to teach us valuable lessons, and gave new soundtracks to childhood classics. Sure, we were creative, but I think you'll agree that we all could have done without someone hand-farting the Star Spangled Banner and Lindsay Lohan telling us all to "Be Adequite."

Something tells me that this wasn't quite what Al Gore had in mind.

So, while I'm accepting this honor under a bit of duress, I am, nevertheless, accepting the honor bestowed upon me and the rest of the "Web 2.0 generation." This is purely in the hopes that this will be the beginning of something beautiful and that the validation that we, the bloggers, the YouTubers, the Facebookers, the MySpacers, and yes even the drunkards from Late Night Shots have received from the main stream media will cause us to abandon our plans to produce yet another Brokeback Mountain parody and possibly use our influence for something good, like bringing another POW home.

A girl can dream, right? In the meantime, let me tell you about my latest date.

They're kidding, right

Ok, I'll admit it. I'm having a serious problem this year with the spirit of Christmas. Probably because, well, it's way too early and also because the average temperature this week has been hovering around 72 degrees. I respect Al Gore, I voted for Al Gore, but come on, if this is global warming, totally sign me up!

I'm used to it in the retail world. Usually, the body isn't even cold on Halloween when the retail elves swoop into a store in the dead of night and attempt to turn it into a winter wonderland. There's something oddly comforting familiar, right, just odd. About seeing a bleeding head on clearance next to a cherubic animatronic snowman. But, the last 28 years have taught me that yes, Virginia-girl, there is a Santa Claus, and the faster he arrives in stores, the better the holiday economic season will be.

Sometimes though, it moves too fast. Like yesterday. Yesterday morning, I went to Starbucks to get my first pumpkin latte of the season and found out that not only had they already replaced the selection with the peppermints, egg nogs and gingerbreads that scream "Christmas," but the decor had switched to a winter wonderland.

The disappointment I felt was like a reindeer kicking me in the face. However, I get it. I accept it. I'm saving the points. I'm moving on.

Or at least I thought I was until I returned from DC last night (where my friend and I shared dinner OUTSIDE because it was so freaking warm) to find this in my neighbor's front yard:


Yes, those are Candy Canes; yes, that's ribbon on the lamp-post; and yes, if you look closely you should be able to make out St. Nick himself on the front door.

Now, lest you think I'm about to steal Tiny Tim's crutch and run maniacally screaming down the street, I assure you that you're more than mistaken. I will get into the Christmas spirit. Just let me build up some enthusiasm for it. Let it get colder. Let the sights and smells sneak up on me. Let me wake up one morning to a freaking winter wonderland. Let Advent begin. Let that fat man make his way into Herald Square.

Christmas is special because it comes once a year. Let's keep it that way.

Meet the Mets

Most of you know how the story ended last night, the NY Mets held off the St. Louis Cardinals until the last inning of the 7th Game of the NLCS. Then, with a single homerun, the Cards scored the two winning runs and the final Met struck out LOOKING at the ball.

Note to all ballplayers attempting a career in the majors: if you've been watching an umpire call a wild strike zone all night, you're known as a "home-run hitter," bases are loaded, you're two runs down, and there are two outs at the end of the ninth inning...YOU ALWAYS SWING AT THE BALL!

But that's the way the story ended. Now, let me tell you how it began.

It all started in a cow pasture in Cooperstown, NY. The year was 1839, and the bases were steaming piles of....

Eh, maybe we should skip forward a little.

The story I want to tell you is how I, a lifelong O's fan with a minor affinity for the Mets (thanks to the Tidewater Norfolk Tides being their farm team) ended up at Shea Stadium with a boy from college and 35k people having what can best be described as a group therapy session.

That is, of course, if group therapy is supposed to be a good thing.

It all started Tuesday night when I accepted a drinks-date with Jeff. Just a casual thing that was a bit of a relief after the whole Friday night minor-drama.

Wednesday, I called Ben to get his email address for a friend who's looking for a new job (she's fabulous if you're hiring). While we were on the phone, he mentioned the game. Granted, we weren't sure there was even going to be a Game 7, but, like me, Ben likes to keep his options open. Long story short, there was a Game 7.

This then posed an "interesting" problem for me. See, while I had accepted the ticket to the game (and I had promised to pay for it), I didn't have:

1. A place to stay in NYC
2. The necessary time off of work
3. Any clue how I was going to get out of my date with Jeff.

Problem #2 was the easiest to manage. I walked out of the office, promised my boss I'd make up the time I needed, and scored his agreement that I could work from "home" today. Yes, I'm in NY and my sister's firewall isn't exactly letting me get into the files that I need to actually accomplish anything, but my coworker sent me a few things, and I'm doing a lot of thinking. That works, right?

Problem #3 also seemed easy. I sent Jeff this fabulous little email saying that while I'd totally love to go out with him, it was a once in a lifetime (I'm an O's fan, remember) opportunity that I couldn't pass up. I figured it he was any sort of a guy I wanted to see again, he'd go along with it. And he did.

Problem #1 proved to be the hardest. Julia is committed to not having her house turned into "Hotel Charles," and while I respect that, I do have an open invitation from her fabulous roommate. The problem, however, was Ben. Julia didn't know who he was (she does now), and didn't want him staying at the house. Since I couldn't find a place for him to stay, the whole plan was almost abandoned. Which caused a couple of emails to be sent back to Jeff.

• Email #1: Was the one I mentioned earlier.
• Email #2: Was the one I asked Julia to send when she told me that Ben couldn't stay and then Ben decided that it would probably be "easier" if we bagged the trip altogether. I don't have access to my Gmail, so I thought I'd see if I could reschedule with Jeff.
• Email #3: Was the one Julia sent after I convinced her Ben could stay. I needed to cancel again (obviously).

Truth be told, I probably was better off staying in Baltimore. See, every time I get together with Ben, he forgets that we're not dating. He's a nice guy, but NO. And the more he throws himself at me, the more that I realize that I want nothing to do with him. I'm going to give him a cooling-off period and then contact him around Christmas.

Funniest part of the evening happened on the train on the way home. Gotta love that post-game zone-out, right? I was sandwiched between a bunch of boys on the 7 when one of them starts bitching about it not being an "Express Train." I turn around and go, "There is no express train; there is only ZOOOOL." Didn't realize I was being loud, but apparently I was. Look for me, on Overheard in NY sometime this fall.

So, kids, no more baseball until the spring. Since the Mets, the O's and the Red Sox are completely out of it, there's no reason to watch the Series. I'll be back in February with a new Baseball Blog, so stay tuned!

My sister makes me laugh

For the record, it hasn't been 4 months.

I accepted a date for tonight, and since my friends always complain that I don't provide details, I decided to issue a "Personal Press Release" just so that everyone's in the loop.

It was clear, concise, and included all of the pertinent information. However, leave it to my personal publicist to edit the release in such a way that she better be glad that I can run fast in heels -- especially since I had downed 96 ounces of water by 10 AM!

Her take on my "event" tonight:

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
10.10.06

(Baltimore, MD)—Lindsay F., 28, Single Girl Extraordinaire, today announces relief in her four-month dating drought, with the acceptance of a dinner date from “Jeff.” Jeff (last name withheld), 33, is a Project Manager from Baltimore. The date will take place tonight. For privacy reasons, the would-be couple has withheld the location of the date and asks the paparazzi to refrain from seeking them out.

Ms. F. expressed excitement about the upcoming event, releasing this brief statement: “Thank God Jeff came along. I was about ready to request famine relief aid from Brad and Angelina. I’m going in with an open mind and a cute skirt.”
# # #

EDITOR’S NOTE: Full review and photography will be released tomorrow on Ms. F’s blog :)

The publicist got it wrong, no photos are coming. As for the review, we'll just have to see about that, won't we?

As a parent, it's always a disheartening experience when you learn your child may have a drinking problem. However, I wasn't quite expecting that the lesson about the perils of alcohol would have to be discussed with a six year-old.

So maybe one of you can explain why this was the scene that greeted me when I got home from work on Friday (at 2 in the afternoon!).
Based on the mess, I have no doubt that Sookie was involved in this somehow as well. I attempted to ask her, but she was sleeping it off. As for Minnie, thankfully, I can report that she is a very mellow drunk and, when confronted, didn't feel the need to blame all of her problems on any racial or ethnic groups. At least the values of equality and freedom of religion have stuck with her so far, even though the "Just Say No" lesson clearly didn't.

Thank Heaven for Little Girls?

In case you missed it this week, one of the biggest stories to hit the wires was the debut of the "Bratz Bra" - a PADDED bra for the six year old set.

Now, I don't consider myself to be all that conservative, but padded bras for six year olds? Something doesn't seem quite right about that. It's bad enough that Osama and Saddam are more familiar names to the post-9/11 generation (for the record, the little girls being targeted for these bras were in diapers when the planes hit the towers) than Ken and Barbie will ever be, but now our little girls are facing a bigger threat than Al Queda will ever post -- a blow to their body image brought on by the celebrity party-girls and a pressure to grow up way too fast.

I remember how embarrassed I was when my mother announced that it was time for me, at nine, to get my first training bra. At first I thought it was cool that my mom thought I was enough of a woman to take on this rite of passage. Then, Monday rolled around, and I realized that I was the only girl in my class who actually had one on. Since it was the 80s, before the age when first graders were sued for sexual harassment, I endured a lot of snapping until the other girls caught up and we shared the load. My saving grace, however, was that I was damn smart and tuned in to current events. As Gilbert Blythe said to Anne Shirley, "Being smart is more important than being pretty," and I took that to heart. Thanks to my academic success, I was able to build a healthy self-confidence that has carried me farther than looks ever could. My idols were Nancy Reagan, Mary Lou Retton, Sally Ride, and Princess Diana -- smart, beautiful women who possessed significant talents and spoke to the message that little girls could grow up to be anything they wanted -- even princess.

So where did we go so wrong? Why are the granddaughters of the ERA generation not only NOT burning their bras in a quest for equality and solidarity, they're embracing the curse of the boulder (pebble?) holder at a younger age than ever before? Even worse, they're already flirting with the dangers of anorexia (because, you know that the biggest insult that any girl can receive is that she's "fat") and are told that mid-driff shirts and thongs are "nice girl" attire. They're not, but that's the message that these kids are getting. The role-models that I grew up with have been replaced by Paris, Nicole, Mischa, and Lindsay -- walking skeletons whose biggest talents are talking their way into clubs and stealing each others boyfriends. Even our First Lady is a puppet who hides behind her crazy husband and whose greatest success in the last 20 years is to have raised two of the most notorious of the party girl set. Gee, she must be so proud.

Our great feminist sisters are gone, and the strong women who try to rise in their stead are often labeled lesbians by men who are afraid that they're actually making sense. However, there's still hope for the next generation. If we each take the time to tell our little girls -- be they our daughters, sisters, cousins, students, friends or neighbors -- that they are important, that they are athletic, that they are pretty, and that they are valued for who they are, we can still produce a generation of girls who can remain children for just a little longer and whose grandmothers can be truly proud of.

RIP Ann Richards: An idol for smart girls every where who reminded us that "Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, except backwards and in high heels," and who seemed to have had both the the self-confidence and father I had been blessed with: "I have always had the feeling I could do anything and my dad told me I could. I was in college before I found out he might be wrong."

Earning the sticker

Some people vote out of civic pride, others vote because it preserves the Democratic process that this country was founded upon. I vote for those reasons in the general elections, but there's there's really only one reason that I vote in the non-Presidential Primary. That's right, kids, it's the sticker that looks like this:

It's Primary Election Day in Maryland, so, as usual, I decided to be a little late for work today just to make sure that my vote was taken care of. I've had friends who have waited until later in the day to vote, waited in line for over an hour, and then have been told that they couldn't because the "polls were closed." Of course they were Democrats and it was the 2004 Presidential Election, but that shouldn't have made a difference right?

Anyway, according to the Maryland Board of Elections and Ginny James' 1995 Government class, it's supposed to be an easy process: Walk up, smile pretty, get a card, toss it in the machine, select your candidates, save your votes, and watch the computer select whoever paid the election officials the most money on your behalf.

All of that would have been a relief. Sadly, this morning didn't go quite that smoothly.

I arrive five minutes before the polls were supposed to have been opened to find my elections officials still trying to piece together the machines. Apparently someone didn't take Networking 101 because the woman behind the table (who I actually never saw again after this point) is trying to jam the networking connection into the USB port. Oh great, I think, let's try to break the machines before we even get this thing off the ground.

Twenty minutes after the polls were opened, the machines are finally up and running. I get to the front of the line and learn that, despite completing all the necessary paperwork with the MVA when I moved a year ago, I'm not registered in the precinct. In fact, according to the election official, I'm not even registered in the STATE. My twin sister -- who moved from Georgia and was only living with me for less than a year before she moved to New York -- is. So, the fact that I've lived in the state for six years and have been registered in the state for six years doesn't really count for anything.

I'm only half-joking when I ask for her ballot.

"Sorry, miss, we can't do that. Frankly, you don't exist."
"Of course I exist. I'm standing right in front of you."
"Well, I can see that, but you're not in the system."

Basically, according to VoteBoy, the State "ate" my registration. I'm seriously tempted to tell him he could Eat Me, but I figure getting ugly with the elections officials isn't about to get me anywhere but a day-trip downtown. Therefore, I opt to play the Sister Suffragette card and tell VoteBoy that my grandmothers taught me from a very young age that women like my great great grandmothers fought hard for my right to vote and that it's a slap in their face that I don't. Therefore, I assure him, there's no way that I would "forget" to change my voting registration or let it lapse because, at the very least, I'm a white Protestant landowner, and even though I didn't have the right "parts" to vote until 1920, I met the other requirements established in 1776.

Desperate to get rid of me and my history-spouting ways, VoteBoy calls the Board of Elections. He calls me a "gal"; I choose to ignore that. NiceVotingLady tells me that VoteBoy is wrong, I'm registered in the State -- just at the old address (even though I filled out the paperwork at the DMV a year ago!). VoteBoy STILL can't find me in the state.

This time, I give in to the urge to push some people out of the way and "do it right the first time." I grab the stylus out of his hand and punch in my last name. Then, because I read the instructions on the screen, I punch "Find in State." Instantly, my name appears.

"Oh, did I not do that?" Um no, buddy, you didn't.

I give him back the stylus and start walking him through the process to get me registered. Really, folks, even a Macaca (a monkey for those of you not following the Senate race in Virginia) could do this as everything you need is right on the screen. Somehow, though, I'm the only one who seems to have passed any sort of reading comprehension test.

We open the screen that covers the provisional ballot. On the screen it says, "use the codes from the chart in Chapter 6 of the Elections Manual."

VoteBoy starts flipping through the elections manual and whining, "I don't see it, I don't see it."

I grab it out of his hand, flip to Chapter 6, read the codes, and go, "I'm a '1'."

"Are you sure?" Hold up, VoteBoy is now asking me if I understand the process? Something doesn't seem right about that. I assure him I'm right, so, he puts in the 1 and punches the button to print out the confirmation page. I sign it and ask for the paper ballot.

"We don't have paper ballots. Use this," VoteBoy says as he tries to hand me a card.
"No, I need a paper ballot."
"No, it's ok, you need this," he says and again tries to hand me the electronic card.

In unrelated news, this is about the time that a second election official appears and goes, "So, William Donald Schaefer just got four votes for Comptroller -- Ted here voted for him, and the machine registered it four times. That's not a problem is it?"

To placate VoteBoy, I wander to the machine (which I know will not work), and slide the card in anyway. Voting Card has already been used, the machine tells me. I head back to the table.
"Seriously guys, I need a paper ballot." I grab the elections manual (again) and start reading out loud, "Paper ballot...Number 2 pencil...pen...pink for Republicans, white for Democrats..."

VoteBoy wanders to the (unwatched!) table where all the supplies are being housed. He opens the envelopes marked, "Provisional Ballots" and goes, "Oh, here they are!"

I get the ballot, and start marking it. Then and only then, does VoteBoy decide to start reading the election manual and again thinks it's a good idea to quiz me on the process. "The ballots are different. Are you sure you have the right one?"

Seriously folks, would I really have gone through all the trouble and not picked up the right ballot? Think about that one will you...

I complete the ballot and say, "Now we're supposed to put this in a sealed envelope," suspecting that there's more to the process because I've only used a pencil so far and the manual mentioned a pen. VoteBoy, who has been looking over my shoulder the whole time, insists that "they" didn't give him any, so he grabs the envelope that the ballots came out of and puts mine inside.

"No, it's supposed to be a sealed envelope," I say.

He starts licking (the envelope, not me, Thank God); I start going through the stuff on the table. I find a second provisional ballot form (the one that needs the pen) and show them to him, "These have a peel-off seal...."

I fill out the form, put my ballot inside, and bring it to the head election judge who has dubbed me "good people" for not ripping anyone's head off and is very interested to know if I'd like to be a judge for our community Christmas parade. I tell him I'd think about it, but my primary concern is being an election judge for the General Election on November 7.

Over an hour after I arrived, I left the school. Since all the electioneers had been in and out of there while I was trying to "get my vote on," they were VERY interested in the final outcome. I filled them in and was walking away when one of them realized the final injury...

...I didn't get my sticker.

West Wing, part 2

I put the photos that I took back in March in a Photostory. Here's the final result...

Oliver K. Woodman

If you're paying attention to that little flicker map to your right, you've probably noticed a bunch of photos featuring a little wooden man posing all over DC and NYC.

Contrary to what the Security Guard at the Museum of American History thinks (and I'm being completely serious here), he is Not my new boyfriend. His name is Oliver K. Woodman, and he's a favor for my mother.

You see, Mom's an elementary school librarian, and last year's most popular book was The Journey of Oliver K. Woodman by Darcy Patterson. As a "fun summer project," she decided that she'd take Oliver K. on a little journey to New Mexico, Colorado, Oklahoma (is it just me that hears Gordon McCrae in their head every time they spell that word?), Tennessee, and New York. The doll got to go out west, I had to settle for the Big Apple.

So, there we wereI was(because I was the idiot with the big purse), lugging this doll all over New York City, attracting curious stares from natives and tourists alike. No matter how many times we tried to explain, it, frankly didn't make a whole lot of sense.

I'm telling you, it would have been easier with a garden gnome. Because, you know, that's normal.

Somehow, that weekend I got attached to the little guy, and I thought that since I was heading to DC "sometime in August" to see the Muppets at the Smithsonian, I thought that Oliver K. (now named "Fat Stanley" because people got that reference) should come along. I wasn't really counting on the Bush Administration freaking everyone out with this whole "sophisticated liquid" thing (puh-lease), but since he's not a bottle of Nestea, I figured he'd get through security relatively easily. He did, and I'm assuming that he really wasn't a threat because the security guard told "my date" and me to enjoy our day. Yeah, real cute.

Why can't government be more like this??

In the late 60s, there was a bill in Congress to develop the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (you know, the people who bring you Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers, and show you hours upon hours of the best of the Tony Awards and beg for money every six months). The proposed endowment was $20 million, but because of the war, President Nixon wansted to cut that in half. Obviously, showing children hours upon hours of embedded reporters is so much better for their psyche than Grover and Cookie Monster.

This clip is the exchange between a young Fred Rogers and Senator Pastore. I have no idea what party affiliation Senator Pastore is, but it doesn't matter. Mr. Rogers talked, and Senator Pastore listened, and over the course of the exchange you could see and hear the fact that the Senator's mind was being changed.

This clip is a little long (seven minutes or so), but it's a good reminder of the fact that once upon a time, our politicians didn't look out for big business and their richest consitituents, they looked out for the people who would benefit the most by their actions. It was also possible for decisions to be made without a lot of political bantering and partisan power-plays. It's another reason that I'd miss the 60s if I had actually lived through them in the first place.

I'd embed, but YouTube won't let me. Click here.

You guys know how I love to take Ghost Tours of historic (and not so historic) cities. Really, it's not so much the ghosts that are the attraction, but the behind-the-scenes history that the tour brings. Honestly, aside from that one time that I had to drive back from Gettysburg by myself and the route took me through the cemetery, I've never really been scared.
Well, until last night.

Last night, Lisa and I took the Ghosts of Annapolis tour. I, of course, was taking photos throughout the whole tour but nothing was showing up. The front of the Maryland Inn, nothing. The fountain at the Governor's Mansion, nothing. The cemetery at State Circle, nothing.
Then, we reached the Annapolis Heritage offices. The guide and the intern were talking about "Audrey," the 10 year old little girl who "loves to have her picture taken." I started snapping, and Audrey showed up in the form of an orb.

Photo #2 is the GreenAlienHead. I don't know what's going on there (the guide didn't say and I only snapped the photo because the I liked the name of the joint), but clearly something is. That's evident by the orbs that are all over this photo (look at the two next to the door).

Moving on, we walked on over to the Big Brice House. This is where things got spectacularly weird. The guide was talking, I was snapping. I took a photo of the top left hand window. As you can see, there's something there. I looked, but nothing was in the window and there wasn't anything in the architecture that implied that there should be something in the photo. I snapped and looked again three more times. The thing in the window kept showing up in the photos, but it wasn't anywhere on the architecture.

The photos, were taken from different angles so that I could eliminate a problem with the flash. Despite this, it kept showing up. I asked the rest of the group if they were seeing anything in the window, and they weren't. Looking at the photo, you can see now that whatever it is, it is definitely inside the house (look at the glass in the window in front of the object).

The Brice House was the home of a little girl who was born with disabilities and whose death was never recorded. In the 1940s, a construction crew found the body of a teenage girl/20-something woman was found entombed in the walls of the house. It's quite possible that this young lady was raised in the room and hidden away from society. Is she looking out now?
Just after this, the camera batteries started malfunctioning. Then, the batteries died. We switched them with another set, but camera was completely dead for the rest of the tour. I kept trying to switch batteries, but set after set of new batteries weren't working both last night and again this morning.

I felt a little stupid, but this morning I got a little frustrated. I mean, I'm going to Vegas tomorrow. I need this camera to work!! I finally went, "Look girls, don't you want me to see your photos? Let this camera work now!" Then, I flipped the switch.

I love it when cameras listen.