Self Defense.

On the Metro tonight I rode home across from an old man. He had a grey and white beard and was wearing a pair of dusty old work boots. His baseball has was pulled down low over his eyes. He sat down with a groan and picked up a newspaper that had been left on the seat.

He flipped through the pages of the paper while in his right hand he gripped an orange box cutter.

Txt.

Multi-tasking.

If you want to put on a little bit of lipstick while riding the Metro in the morning, that’s really not a big deal. But when you decide to pull out your tackle box sized make-up case and start applying foundation things have gone too far.

The thick layer of foundation was followed by powder (which was spilled on my bag), then blush, then eye liner and then that eye lash thingy that looks like some kind of torture device straight out of A Clockwork Orange. Finally, the whole routine was topped off with the lip gloss. (Which for the record was neither poppin’ nor cool.)

Can we please make a deal? I promise not to shave or brush my teeth or put in my contacts on the Metro (and I hope it’s implied that I also promise not to spill any of the aforementioned items on you) if you promise to keep the mobile cosmetics to a bare minimum. Thanks.

Mind Your Own.

Vote.

Off Duty.

After Practice.

The Worst.

Everyday on the way to the Metro I have to pass by a group of trees that is home to hundreds of birds. The trees (and birds) cover both side of the street; there is no way to avoid it.
The sheer volume of bird shit produced by this flock has me concerned for their general health. The street and sidewalk is completely covered in a thick layer of crusty white and black droppings. A good 50 yards before and after I reach the trees, the smell of a poorly ventilated pet shop hits me. I’ve taken to crossing under the trees at a quick jog to insure that I am not hit by anything while underneath.
This car had been parked under the trees for only 24 hours when I took this picture.
It is by far the worst part of my commute.

Transit Dance

I suppose that when you ride the Metro at two in the morning on a Saturday night, you should expect to see strange goings on, but I was wholly unprepared for what I witnessed last weekend.
On the orange line, just past L’Enfant Plaza I watched as two young guys did their very best to seduce their female companion with what appeared to be a dance off. A sexy dance off, on a moving metro train.
At first things started off slow, and by slow I mean like slow-jams grinding on your lap slow. The girl was sitting in the front of the train and the two guys took turns giving her lap dances. Then, one of the guys, presumably overwhelmed with lust/drunkenness/showmanship, proceeded to take of his shirt in what seemed like a very practiced manner. Amateurs they were not.
For the next five to eight minutes the guys took turns showcasing their dance skills. It might not have been the fanciest footwork or jazz hands I’ve ever seen, but what they lacked in coordination they more than made up for in sheer I-can’t-believe-this-is-actually-happening late night brilliance.
And what was the big ending to this public transit mobile dance catastrophe? As I am an ardent fan of America’s Best Dance Crew, I should have known what to expect. Both guys, shirtless and shirted, joined together for a grand finale synchronized routine that involved stomping, jumping and such an awe-inspiring amount of ass shaking that on my walk home all I could think about was just how many hours these two must have spent practicing their moves before finally debuting it on the orange line for an audience of one very lucky lady and eight tired, drunk strangers.

Connecting

My newest favorite hobby is to read the ‘missed connections’ page on Craig’s List. It’s an unlimited treasure trove of one paragraph (and at times one sentence) stories that are always hilarious and very often incredibly creepy. The admirer/stalker and sweet/pathetic lines are crossed so often it’s hard to tell apart the wistful Romeos from the John Wayne Gacys. Oh, but that’s the fun of the internet isn’t it?

I love the one-liners that read like demented poetry:
Your wisdom teeth
I've talked to you so many times, most recently about your wisdom teeth, and I don't even know your name.

But I also love the ones that say it (shout it) all in the title:
Asian Woman with Boxes!!
I saw you on the Orange Line carrying what looked like flat boxes??.... Write ME.

The creepy amount of detail in this one is great, but the best part comes near the end when he describes himself. I’d make a beeline for the door too if some stranger wearing a yellowish floral print shirt was staring at me this intensely on the Metro.
Farragut West - Orange line to Vienna - 4:00ish
You seemed slightly perturbed by something, although I would be the first to admit that it could well have been the natural sense of ennui engendered by the tedium of mass transit.
You: Standing mid-car near the center doors (got off at Ballston?); holding your metro EZ pass in one hand; adamantly determined not to take one of several seats available; blueish top, gray slacks, blue shoulder bag with brown straps; long brown hair done up on top of your head, small spherical silver earrings, gentle brown determined eyes, soft complexion. You made a bee line for the exit when you got off at your stop. A young Latino girl and her parents (?) occupied the handicapped seats between us. Across from you, near the far doors, there was a young guy with a doo-rag, construction garb and a white safety helmet by his feet.
Me: Yellowish floral print shirt, jeans, blue eyes, shortish brown hair, serious regard, couldn't take my eyes off of you.
Probably no chance in hell, but we made solid eye contact several times, and I did not notice a ring.

And then, there are the ones that are just a little bit sad. You were eating at the Cheesecake Factory alone? You felt a connection with the busboy? I’m sorry dear; he was paying attention to you and thoughtfully refilling your water because that’s his job. And a quick tip; when describing someone who works in a restaurant, saying that they were wearing a white shirt and black pants and are Latino doesn’t really narrow it down too much. I’m just saying…
Eating at Cheesecake Factory
I was eating alone at Cheesecake Factory in Friendship Heights. You were a busboy or waiter (couldn't tell) and you kept eying me. You were wearing a white shirt with black pants, and you looked Spanish or Latino. I was wearing an orange T-Shirt and glasses, along with jeans, and reading a book.
I felt this connection between us...