Raise your hand if you have a date on Thursday.

* raises hand *

Effing, effing mice.

There is an effing, effing mouse in my house. I know there is an effing mouse in my house because this tiny beast had the nerve to show itself to me, scuttling along the wall behind my baker's rack. I cannot believe this.

I believed the roaches. They're pretty typical. But this effing mouse I cannot believe. Unbelievable.

This means I need an exterminator. This means I cannot walk anywhere in my apartment without worrying about rodent germs. I just kind of threw up in my mouth typing "rodent germs". Oh gawd.

I can't put my feet on the ground because I'm afraid a stupid mouse will run over my foot, maybe get confused by my movements and GET STUCK IN MY HOUSE SLIPPERS, UNDER MY FOOT.

Oh gawd. Barf in mouth.

Or what if they climb into my purse? And I go to buy myself tea, and I reach into my purse and when I pull my hand out there's a mouse writhing in it?

Oh gawd, this makes so much sense. Now I know why my neighbors have cats, against the apartment complex rules. They need something to catch the mice.

I feel so gross I want to shower. But I'm afraid if I go to shower, I will find a mouse in the tub with me, the way I was once luxuriating in the bath back home in Hawaii and, wondering what the squiggly feeling was against my leg, found a gecko in the tub with me.

This is such, SUCH bad news and I want to scream and cry and throw the rodent out the window all at once. THIS IS BULLSHIT, PEOPLE.

Gawd.

Why I am proud of myself today.

Catskin cape.

Also, check this out.

Thoughts on MLK Day

I am suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.

There was a man interviewed on the NBC Nightly News who, at the age of 100, traveled from New Orleans to Washington, DC to witness the historic inauguration of the first black President of the United States of America. This was a man who is old enough to have been a cotton picker in the south, who survived hurricane Katrina. I think of how I never would have imagined that I would see a black president in my lifetime, and I can't even fathom what he is experiencing at this moment.

This makes me think of my father, who was born in 1927 and lived in Tennessee for part of his childhood. A man for whom it was normal to drink from designated water fountains and sit in specific areas due to the color of his skin. I think of all the things I know he was denied, and wonder about the things I don't know about, privileges that we now take for granted, but were denied to him and others based on skin color. A man whose birth certificate listed him as "colored". He died in 1988, and of course I always wonder what my life would be like if he were still alive. But at this moment, I think of all of the sacrifices he made, the difficulties he experienced as a man of color, for me and my brothers. I wish he could be here to witness this.

I think of how it makes so much sense that our first black president would come from Hawaii. The state is not without its problems, including discrimination. But I never felt, as a woman or as a black person, that I couldn't achieve anything I put my mind to. Before my first visit to Virginia, I never really felt my that race mattered. Here I'm often reminded that I am a minority. Sometimes it's subtle, but it's there. It was back home in the islands that I was allowed (for the most part) to be a person rather than a stereotype. It's at times like this that I remember how lucky I was to grow up in Hawaii.

Speaking of... please keep your fingers crossed that the poor kids from my alma mater's marching band don't turn into human icicles in this weather.

Boys: stop giving me your number.

If you want to speak to me on the phone, please ask for my number rather than offering yours. Yes, I know it's intimidating to ask. But srsly you guys.

Maybe you think it sounds like this: "I am interested in you, and I'm expressing my desire to meet again. I'll leave it up to you to determine what comes next. No pressure."

And it really doesn't sound like that. Not at all. It sounds more like this: "Do you like me? I'm not sure. Gosh, what if you give me the "reject line"? Would you do that to a nice guy like me? Hm... I KNOW! I'll let you call me so I don't have to get my feelings hurt. Brilliant, I am!"

We all get rejected at some point, and that's okay. It's a part of life. So please, you guys. No more of that, alright?

If: Me, Now.

If I don't go out dancing sometime soon omgomgomg I will die.

If I don't read consecutive chapters of a book in a short enough period of time that I actually remember the last thing I read, this is the smartest and most informed I will ever be in life. Jaysus, you guys.

If I don't start making grocery lists I will continue to eat meals like frozen eggplant cutlets with oatmeal and miso soup. And that is disgusting.

If I wake up in the middle of the night one more time to find my books, pens, journal and phone arranged perfectly on my nightstand, I will have to call an exorcist because we all know I'm not the one putting things in any sort of order that makes sense.

If anyone is interested in sponsoring a trip to Luxembourg I'd be interested in taking you up on that offer. I'd like to see my brother, please.

Warning to King Street Blues Patrons.

This should already be clear to you, but "roadhouse nachos" means cheese whiz on potato chips, topped with what looks like a guac-mayo combo. I know this is obvious because nowhere on the happy hour menu is there an explanation detailing the elements of the dish. If there is no explanation, that means it's common knowledge. If you thought there would be tortilla chips involved in any way, well, I'm sorry you're so ignorant.

Updates

While everyone else is searching for a dress for an inaugural ball, I am on the hunt for a birthday dress.

My Bloody Mary craving has been satisfied. I finally got one with brunch this morning, only to find that they are disgusting. Turns out what I really wanted was gazpacho in a glass.

Lest you feel unloved

RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC RAUL AND ERIC.

What am I doing in DC?

I mean, really. I used to live here:


That's not the best photo I have of home, but I'm still working on transferring my info over from my old hard drive. A more representative pic of the home state will follow once that's taken care of.

Man, the last time I went to the beach was... 2007. It's been too long. It's so strange to think that once upon a time it was normal to put on a sweatshirt when the temp got down to 78 degrees, and the only accessory I even thought about was a freshly picked plumeria.

The weather today was nasty, though not nasty enough for work to be canceled. Boo. I was able to keep myself entertained by asking my coworker 800 questions and telling stories about things as inane as my Japanese grandmother's energy-efficient apartment and my thoughts about joining the military and changing my last name to Fox only so that when I call someone, they can say they have a "Major Fox" on the line. Once I started to bore even myself, I moved on to checking the weather in the capitals of Central Asian countries. When I think of how hard I have it here in DC, braving barely-above-freezing temperatures, I log on to weather.com and look up the average January temperature in Almaty and I feel better about my life.

You know what else makes me feel better about my life? New Kids on the Block, because on their song "Single" they offer to be my boyfriend 'til the song goes out. Which, according to them, is "the next couple minutes". So I have a boyfriend for a full 180 seconds, which is awesome because by that time I'm bored and I can move on with life unfettered by the chains of a relationship. And if I miss them, they recommend that I ask the DJ to turn the song back. Nice.

Another thing I really like about New Kids on the Block is that they are spiritual. I know this about them because on "Dirty Dancing" they claim that they're not going to get too close to a hot girl at a club, even though they're totally lusting after said girl, because they "don't want no karma". This is really difficult for them, because she's like Baby and they're like Swayze. Etc., and so on and so forth, forever and ever Amen.

And did you know the New Kids are from Boston? That's important because I really like Boston. And the boys who live there. Or are from there. They're nice. My favorite Bostonian man is the cab driver who hit on me as he was driving me, my boss and a colleague back to our hotel. He had an awesomely bad mullet, but it was okay because he was so smooth. Where are the smooth boys in DC? Note to self: at some point, discuss personal theory re: why everyone in DC thinks everyone else in DC is strange and awkward.

On a totally unrelated note, raise your hand if you can believe that a boy I used to date back in 2007 moved on and found a new girlfriend. I didn't think so.

The Kinky Curly thing

I take back what I said about Kinky Curly. It does a wonderful job of defining and maintaining curls, but once my hair is dry the result is just too crunchy for me.

Also, guess what I have in my freezer? BOXES UPON BOXES OF NATTO. Life is so good right now.

One last thing, this one about oatmeal. The best oatmeal I've ever had was at the Villa Creole in Haiti. I think I've discovered their secret-- steel cut oats. And cooking the oatmeal with the raisins instead of adding them later. Oh, and adding milk. Tasty.

How I eat

1. Figure out whether I'm actually hungry, or I just want to eat.

2. If I am actually hungry, weigh hunger against laziness. Usually laziness wins.

3. Once hunger finally overwhelms laziness, check cabinets and fridge.

4. Contents of kitchen generally include cheese, hearts of palm, frozen peas, grated ginger, and little else. Bummer.

5. Finally decide that oatmeal, quinoa with fermented soy beans, and a round of Baby Bel cheese make an adequate meal.

Now that we're more than twelve hours into the new year, it's time to move onto the next important piece of business - my 27th birthday extravaganza.

From my eleventh birthday, when my mother left me behind with some friends while she and my brother headed to Japan to bury my grandfather, until I turned 25, celebrating my birthday wasn't anything I considered to be important. My mother insisted that it was simply a hassle that obligated me (her) to give my friends presents when they in turn had birthdays. I don't remember exactly what happened in 2007 that made it really important for me to have a party. It probably had something to do with Jen, who is bossy and insistent about celebrating everything. Either way, that birthday rocked and now I can't fathom not having a get together.

This year I inadvertently popularized the concept of a "birthday week," which wasn't intended to be as excessive and self-centered as it sounds. It was really just me wanting to secure birthday wishes from my improv class, which met on Monday, for my actual date of birth, which was a Thursday this year. Lo and behold, it turned into an explosion of Birthday Week wishes, and even led to a sweet, albeit short-lived, relationship with a still-special someone.

Anyway, I celebrated my 25th at Café Citron. I was giddy about a fledgling relationship with a cute boy, wearing a cute black dress with silver trim and polka dots, and surrounded by my fabulous friends. All I remember about the food is calamari and birthday cookies, which is enough for me. I stayed out late dancing to salsa and merengue. I did not make it to work the next day.



Twenty-six was celebrated at La Tasca in Chinatown. It was a less rowdy affair, again involving fabulous friends. Presents included an Intellivision controller and some videotape about a pretty princess, pilfered from someone's office.

after all that, I feel like I need to do it bigger and better this year. I admit that I started thinking about this a few weeks ago, and that I now have schemed up the perfect celebration.

1. Location. I dream of the lovely, modern Mexican tapas menu at Oyamel. Not only are the tiny dishes pretty and delectable, they serve beverages to die for. Their horchata is smooth and just slightly sweet, and their hot chocolate is rich and creamy. And above all, the gorgeous butterfly mobiles! So pretty.

2. People. My fabulous friends.

3. Dress. A gorgeous empire waist cocktail dress, textured tights, fantastic shoes.

4. Hair. As long as it behaves, I'm golden.

Alack, alas, this recession is really cramping my style. I have half a mind to just have a board game party at my miniscule studio apartment. Or not doing anything at all. Blarg. Merg.