My Name Is NOT "Hey, Baby!" via Stop Street Harassment

Remember that Wednesday not too long ago? When it poured like crazy? According to the Capital Weather Gang, it was a record-breaking rain storm. If you’re as sick of precipitation as I am, the rain was unwelcome and made me quite grumpy. And you guys know me: I’m quite the grump even if it were to be 70 and sunny in mid-July (around here?  Hah!).

Anyway, I tried to avoid the rain as best I could that day. IP and I took the bus in the morning (and were soaked in the process nonetheless thanks to Metrobus’ stellar track record of never showing up on time, especially in a rain storm). My work is kind enough to provide a shuttle, so I took that instead of walking. On the way home I again took the shuttle and waited for the bus—while my pant legs were going to be soaked anyway, I’d rather spend five minutes in the rain instead of 20.

So on said way home, I boarded the bus and sat in an empty seat with the row all to myself. Once comfortably ensconced, I took out my iPhone and proceeded to check email, Facebook, Twitter, all that good stuff. It was then that I heard a clearing of the throat, followed by a question.

“Excuse me, what time is it?”

I glanced up briefly to see a guy giving me his most winning smile, trying to be as charming as all get out. Raising an eyebrow, I responded with 6:27 p.m., the guy thanked me, and I then turned back to my iPhone. The ride is short, but I like to keep busy.

“Do you speak Spanish?”

I hesitated, looking up again. I hate this question, especially coming from men around my age or younger. It’s almost always a way to begin hitting on you and it rarely bodes well. You can tell by the looks they give you and the way they try to lower their voices by several octaves (never quite accomplishing the low voice of my beloved IP, by the way) when asking the question. In my experience (remember, anecdotal here), they believe that speaking Spanish creates an affinity (it does not) and establishes a cultural norm that makes it okay to proceed to say what they want (again, it does not). For some reason, though (fucking stupid politeness ingrained by society), I answered that yes, I spoke Spanish. D’oh.

The guy then proceeded to ask me all kinds of questions: Did I ride the bus often? (No.) Did I live in Silver Spring? (I’m not telling you where I live.) How long had I been in the States? (Since I was a kid.) Internally rolling my eyes, I asked the same questions back, not really listening to the answers.

“So you don’t take the bus?” he asked again.

I sighed, shaking my head, then not-so-subtly brought up my left hand to flash my emerald engagement ring and Sholdt Twisp wedding band (not that being married should matter—he shouldn’t be harassing me, period, but it is a way of showing that I’m definitely not interested). He eyed them for a second, but was undeterred. “My husband and I walk a lot,” I answered, also undeterred.

“Oh. That’s why you have such a beautiful body,” he commented, giving me the slimiest smile I’ve seen in a good while.

I gave him a look, one that I hope conveyed disgust and suspicion and absolute derision for his clumsy attempts at trying to charm me. Newsflash, buddy—I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks about my looks. That has never been the way to get to know me, and those kinds of tactics get you nowhere. I’ve yet to see a woman who was told she had a bangin’ bod fall helplessly into the arms of her seducer. As women, we’re treated like objects all the time—you think by sexualizing yet again me you’re doing me a favor or offering me a compliment? Oh no, no, no.

The biggest thing that was attractive about IP when we first started dating? He listened to me. He didn’t immediately dive in with stupid compliments, try to touch me without my say-so, and he didn’t presume to think that flattering me was the quickest way into my pants. One of the best early conversations we had was about books and analyzing them—this guy could never hope to match that in a million years.

It was then that the bus arrived at my stop. For a split second, I debated not getting off there—what if he followed me?—but I decided to take the long way out (I usually sit toward the back to make a quick exit through the second door) and walk by the driver. If he followed, I’d turn to the driver and let him know the guy was trouble (after all, he’d told me where he lived, so why was he  getting off at this stop?). I bolted out of my seat, still giving him a dirty look, not returning his good-bye.

My only regret was not saying anything. Like, “What if some guy said that to your mom or sister?” or “You have no right to say that to me!” or “That is not a compliment nor flattering, ass.” I know that could’ve caused more trouble, though, and I was so absolutely disgusted that I was shocked into silence. I mean, who says shit like that!?

I rushed home, furious with the guy and with myself. Jesus H. Christ, way to make a shitty day shittier.

The addendum to this story: On Sunday, when returning home after my race, IP and I were offloaded at Takoma thanks to track work on the Red line. While we waited for the next train (supposedly seven minutes away—it was more like 15), I noticed a guy who had also been offloaded watching us. While we waited, IP warmed my face with his hands, pulled me close, and we were generally all lovey-dovey—not in a terrible PDA way, but in our snarky, sarcastic, playful kind of way. Throughout this, the dude watching us kept on circling closer and closer, until he was nearby us when the train came. I wasn’t sure that he was the guy from the bus, but he sure did look like him.

The train came, we boarded. When we got off at our station, I caught the guy looking at us again. It was then that I thought, yeah, this was the guy, and he was definitely trying to get me to notice him. To what effect, though? Strike up a conversation with IP and me? I was disgusted by him when I last saw him on the bus. It’s not like I hadn’t told IP about this guy—I didn’t point him out at the time because I wasn’t sure what the deal was, but when I told IP later, IP cheerfully said he would’ve offered to beat him up for me. So that wouldn’t have gone well for him at all.

Here’s hoping I don’t see him again.

And a note to guys who make these horrible comments to women thinking they’ll get somewhere: this doesn’t work. Ever. It’s insulting and demeaning. We’re not here for your entertainment or pleasure, and we’re not weaklings who swoon at being told we’re good looking. We’re people and we deserve respect. No forced conversation. No comments on our looks. Nothing. If it’s clear we don’t want to engage, leave us the hell alone. These types of comments are unwelcome and that makes it harassment.

STOP.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Anyway, I say “we” not because I am wonderfully royal (though I am), but because IP accompanied me downtown. He sometimes joins me for races not only for the moral support, but also so that he can do some work while I run. And when I say work, it’s not work-work (for the most part), but projects he’s working on that are important to him. While getting up early isn’t always a treat, he gets stuff done, which helps set the tone for the rest of the day.

Getting downtown was not a problem—once in D.C., IP and I headed to his office so that I could do some last-minute race preparations before jogging down to Freedom Plaza. (An aside: you know what’s a bonus of having your husband’s office near race starts? Bag checks without the line!) Once at Freedom Plaza, I kind of wandered a bit, trying to find a registration tent because—gasp!—my race swag bag had not contained any jingle bells. I ask you this: How is one supposed to jingle all way without the aid of jingle bells? Is the purpose of jingling all the way not defeated by this oversight? Alas, I wasn’t able to find the reg tent, so I was jingle-less. Sadness.

Thanks to the jog from IP’s office to Freedom Plaza I was pretty warmed up by the time I got to the race start. And with a few minutes to go to the race, the announcer announced … that there was to be a 10- to 15-minute delay for the race start. Blah. Wasn’t I just saying last week that a race delay could be one of the worst things to happen to me? But no matter in this case, I kind of just went with the flow. The race started 25 minutes after 9am, so it wasn’t the longest delay. And the race organizers were super apologetic. However, my toes were frozen.

Which wasn’t the worst thing in the world, believe it or not! Remember these boots I wanted last year?

Eddie Bauer Tall Equestrian Boots

Well, I have them. And I can’t wear them because they apparently tear up the skin on my ankle bones and chafe my heels and toes. So the middle toe on my right foot is in agony, and I was seriously worried about a) my footfall being so painful that I couldn’t run and 2) the sides of my shoes hitting the scabs on my ankles and causing even more pain. But by the time the race started? The benefits of my warm up were gone and I couldn’t feel my feet. That meant that it took about two miles to shake off the cold, but it also meant that I couldn’t feel any of the pain associated with my various foot lesions. And they didn’t bother me the entire race.

Yay for numbness!

The race itself went by very fast (makes sense, since I got a course PR!) and followed the St. Patrick’s Day 8K course. I always enjoy this course—it’s flat, fast and just seems to slip away. The beginnings of the race were a bit tough; I was going fast, but my legs felt really still (not as wonderful a feeling as my cold feet) and the cold air was really catching in my chest. I forced myself to slow down a bit, measure the breaths I took, and it was like I was out for a run in Michigan again. If there’s one thing I do actually enjoy, it’s running in the cold, but you first have to adjust to it in order to have fun with it. The rest of the course was a relative breeze, and while the cheering crowds were thin, the spirit amongst the runners was more than enough to keep anyone going. I love running in race in D.C. (as opposed to training in D.C.—everyone’s just so freakin’ happy to be there!)

(The only thing I don’t like about this course? When you can see the finish line and then … the course jogs onto 10th (I think) in order to round out the mileage. Argh! I don’t know why it drives me crazy, but it’s kind of dispiriting for me. But not enough to get me to stop running.)

I finished relatively strong. I had tried to get some water at one of the final water stops, but runners ahead of me kept on taking the cups that I was anticipating, and I am not one to stop and wait for a refill. Consequently, I felt totally parched during the last tenth of a mile—I thought for a second I might have to stop, but seeing that my RunKeeper app had stopped made me keep going.

Yes, that’s right. Almost done with the race and the app I’m using to keep track of my time and pace crapped out on me. Way to go, RunKeeper, woo!

(This is a lesson to all—try not to forget your Forerunners at home.)

Forerunner 405

But at least I finished relatively strong, even if I was motivated by sheer annoyance to finish out the race.

So, that’s the race in a nutshell. A little late, lots of fun, and validation that I’m a powerful runner even when I don’t run for more than a month. And all this despite not having any jingle bells to jingle me all the way. Woot!

(Great job, Capital Running Company! See you in March for the St. Patrick’s Day 8K!)

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

So yes, I return with a post about the National Book Festival. An event which is, like, ZOMG! (Does that mean“Zombies! Oh my god!”?) In its 11-year history, I’ve been in D.C. for six of them and have only attended two. That, my friends, is pathetic. I confess, though: I thought it was something that was mainly a book sales event instead of an author event. How wrong I was, and I’m happy to be proven wrong in this instance.

This year, the festival expanded to two days for the first time in its history. When the author schedule hadn’t been released yet, I pondered whether it was a good idea to stay downtown on Saturday night in order to have easy access to the festival on Sunday afternoon. I debated: after all, riding on Metro during the weekend sucks, but was it really worth $150+ dollars to stay downtown? We didn’t even know who would be speaking on day two—what if it was just the dregs? After a bit of conflict, I said fuck it and decided to book the stay. After all, IP and I don’t treat ourselves enough to quick getaways, and even if this one was just a Metro ride away, it would still be fun. There’s value, I think, in listening to authors of all stripes speak because they may discuss interesting processes and the stories behind their stories. I said we’d go for it and IP agreed.

It turned out to be a wonderful idea. Day two was just as strong, if not stronger, than day one. If the book festival is two days long again, I’m booking a room as soon as they announce it.

IP and I left our apartment at 8am on Saturday and didn’t return until nearly 7pm on Sunday. In between, we saw Toni Morrison, Jennifer Egan, Sarah Vowell, Edmund Morris, Sherman Alexie (who is goddamn hilarious and insightful—why didn’t anyone ever mention this man to me before!?), Joshua Foer, John Milliken Thompson, Siddhartha Mukherjee and David McCullough speak. Jennifer Egan and Sarah Vowell signed books for us, and we ran into an Internet friend while there (details? That I cannot give).

We had dinner (uh, where’s the Cap City at the Postal Museum? This is what happens when you’re never in that area), had a few drinks at our hotel bar, and slept in a nice king-size bed (a size we’ll be buying shortly). We chatted animatedly about books and the talks and how inspiring we found it all. We looked about us and it was heartening to see so many people in love with books. We applauded when the authors championed readers and learning and teaching. We laughed at their jokes, at their swearing (boy, were the authors potty-mouths this year—we loved it!), at their self-deprecation which made them seem pretty damn modest and human. We felt giddy with the rush of it all.

And then we went home, with a list of books to read and new authors to enjoy. We went home, and I have the hope that I won’t let this year’s inspiration wane as I try my best to pick up my pen and finally write.

We’ll see.

But a note to the Library of Congress: I love you so for putting on this event.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

So, despite my vow earlier this year to keep running on a regular basis, integrating it with my weight workouts, I ended up dropping running completely from my schedule. Part of it was still nerves: I mentioned in the Cherry Blossom race report that my stomach was going crazy during that time, and it didn’t really fix itself until, surprise, I left my old job. Considering the timing of my problems starting with this post (on the day I took a mental health day because I was so upset over the newbie) and more or less ending with my quitting my old job, there was something definitely psychological going on there in addition to freaking out over the problem to begin with. Now that I’m out of Dodge, my stomach’s settled down for the most part.

The other part? Well, I confess: I really, really don’t enjoy running in D.C. And the treadmill? Such a boring—albeit necessary at times—option that I couldn’t bring myself to do all the time.

No Running--At Least Not in D.C.

My location doesn’t lend itself to the best of running options. Sure, there’s Rock Creek Park, but I’m somewhat of a klutz and running trail has never been a good option for me. (I should learn, though, if we move out West one day and there are spectacular trails nearby.) There are also Maryland park trails, but a lot of them are paved. My favorite option is the Capital Crescent Trail, but when I get to Bethesda the trail becomes paved, crowded, boring. The trail prior to Bethesda—wide, unpaved, not so crowded, with minimal foot dangers like roots and jutting rocks, is ideal. Never mind running around the neighborhood, too—I’ve noticed that the D.C. metro area has this obsession with randomly ending sidewalks. While I did plenty of street running when living in Michigan, and suffered many, many idiotic drivers (and dogs), finding myself sans sidewalk in D.C. freaks me out because drivers around here are, to put it bluntly, fucking nuts. So yes, I’m very picky when it comes to running.

Oh, and can we throw in the ridiculous summer heat and humidity? Sure, Michigan’s freaking humid and hot in the summer, but running in Michigan summers at 6am is worlds better than running in D.C. summers at 6am. I have never adjusted (and make it a point of pride that, all things being equal [i.e., no three-day power loss thanks to PEPCO], winters in D.C. can’t get me down and I could still manage a Michigan winter with the best of them—and hell, Michigan winter running is heaven compared to D.C. winter running where they can’t salt or plow to save their lives).

Ahem.

But I’ve been trying to get back into it because I do miss it quite a bit. A lot of my new coworkers are runners and I’d like to build up my mileage enough to join them on long runs that they do every week. Given my work location, I’m also flirting with the idea of taking some lunch runs downtown. First, though, the heat needs to go away and that’s not going to be for a while. That means I’m stuck on the treadmill with the occasional three-mile loop around Rock Creek Park/Candy Cane City thrown in when the region isn’t be stifled by a wet, warm blanket. And the idea of that is very, very boring.

And yeah, all of the above? Excuses, excuses, right? Ugh.

Bottom line: I do miss running, but I’m having a lot of time keeping my motivation going. It’s easy when Cherry Blossom’s on the horizon—there’s a goal, something to train for. And I know that the logical thing to do is to sign up for more races, but here I’ll confess: I have deliberately missed so many races in the D.C. area it’s ridiculous. Getting from Point A to Point B on the weekends seems ridiculously complicated for me because a) Metro opens too late given race start times and 2) I’m not a fan of driving around here. Of course, I just need to get over that, but how to do it?  Hmm.

What’s the point of this post? I have no idea. But I have to find a way to make it work despite my aversion to D.C. running.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

I was at my last job for a little over half a decade. It’s crazy to think that, especially when so many people in D.C. jump around jobs a lot (for the better, I might add), but I was something of a reluctant stalwart. I hated being a reluctant stalwart. I want(ed) to experience new environments, new challenges, new people, and it would really grind my gears to feel so stuck. I’ve never liked the thought of being a professional lifer anywhere—even if pensions were offered in the private sector, I’d hate to feel trapped by those golden handcuffs. I like the ability to jump from experience to experience, and that I didn’t for so long really chapped my hide (how many clichés can I fit in here!?).

But unless you’re made of stone, you’re going to develop relationships when you’re at a job for a significant amount of time. And I did. And man, am I going to miss some people.

Blank Greeting Card Bon Yoyage by BOOTOYOUDESIGNS

My immediate supervisor and I get along particularly well. Although he was pretty good at pissing me off at times, my most indignant rantings never lasted long and we always worked well together. I think it helped that I started joking around with him almost instantly—while driving to an event on my first day, I found out he was from a city that lost miserably to the Wings during a Stanley Cup Final, so I jumped into game-taunting mode. Which I think he found hilarious so a trust was almost immediately established. It didn’t hurt that, during this first event, I was able to provide serious back up for computer issues without blinking an eye. I was later chosen for travel with him because a) I provided solutions rather than creating problems 2) I was fun to hang out with when it was group time, and III) I really didn’t mind being left to make my own mischief during downtime because I like to recharge alone. See that picture of me jumping into the ocean up top? I probably wouldn’t have done that traveling with other work people.

Other co-workers, some who I have complained about here, some who haven’t made the blog at all, are also being left behind. Our other travel companion to those big ocean expanses is an amazing man whose intelligence and poise and kindness are things I hope to emulate one day; his encouragement of me as a writer is amazing, and I’m grateful to have him in my corner. My event partner-in-crime will be missed because, while we didn’t get along at first, we built first a grudging respect and then a good work friendship. She’s frequently nitpicked by the big boss, and that frustrates me because she could do so much more if given the chance. Another event co-worker is a hilarious woman whose no-nonsense approach to the place frequently had me in stitches and helped provide good perspective in terms of work-life balance. A newer co-worker, who I feel like I got to know too late thanks to the pettiness of another co-worker (who went from being an almost friend to someone I want nothing to do with), is way too talented to be there—she’s also a sweetheart extraordinaire who bakes like a mofo (and yes, that’s a huge compliment!).

I will miss these five people very much.

But holy shit, I didn’t expect to cry so much because of them!

Telling my supervisor and our travel colleague was always going to be hard; when I finally did, all three of us had a crying fest, and what’s funny about it is this: my supervisor does not cry, damn it. On my last day, he sent me an email apologizing for not being able to say good-bye in person; my imminent departure had already damaged his tough guy reputation, and he didn’t also didn’t want to say good-bye—just “See you later.” That made me burst into tears at my desk, I must admit. My other co-workers were so happy for me because they knew I wanted to leave, but they said they were sad to be losing someone who made the place a little more bearable. I absolutely hate that I’m leaving all these people to the devices and machinations of the place, but I also know that they can take care of themselves quite well.

And it’s kind of weird that I won’t be seeing them almost every day from now on. It still seems a little unreal. Part of me can’t believe it just yet, even if I was the driver of the good-bye van.

So yes, breaking up was ultimately hard to do, but not because of the job. In the end, it was the people who mattered the most to me, and in any situation, that’s the way it should be. Although there was some negativity from a few people before I left (and these are people I will not miss), the good guys ended up tilting my last day more towards sadness than anything else. I can only hope that, in the end, our talk of remaining in contact is more than talk. It will be good to share a beer with them in the future.

But now . . . up, up and away.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

I look over and recognize the building of the company/organization/agency (to keep you guessing) immediately. “If they have a job opening one of these days up my alley, I’ll apply,” I say brightly.

Mom: “You’d be perfect there. They’d love you.”

It was a casual, playful exchange. We continue our day and I don’t give it another thought.

Until . . .

Until that following Monday, when I open up my Google Reader feed and check out a folder lovingly entitled “D.C. Jobs.” I laugh out loud when I see that the company/organization/agency my mom pointed out is looking for someone. And the job is right up my alley. It seems challenging and I’m a bit intimidated, but I apply. Moms are wise, y’know? Might as well give it the good old college try.

I apply, tell my mom about it, chuckle, then move on. I continue to apply for other things as time passes.

Mom's always encouraged and nurtured my talents and interests!

Shortly after I apply, I’m going home one day and happen to be walking in front of an annex office of the company/organization/agency. I have my work security badge on my hip, and it jangles a bit as I walk. All of a sudden, without warning, right in front of the annex building, my security badge snaps off its badge reel and falls to the sidewalk. I scoop the badge up, shrug, then tell myself to look for a new badge reel when the little basket by the security desk at work has some displayed. In the coming months, though, none appear. Ah, well. I have to carry around my badge, but it isn’t a big deal. Nine times out of ten I have pockets.

Some time later, I receive a call. Phone interview with company/organization/agency!

I think I do okay. I flub one question. I am told that call backs will happen at the end of the week, but of course they don’t. I’m fretting, but IP tells me not to worry—things like this get pushed back and I’ll probably hear the following week.

While stuck in a miserable meeting that next Monday, being treated like crap by the feds, my phone starts to ring. I jump, recognizing the number. I quickly excuse myself and take the call. Full interview. I squee like crazy and send IP and my family quick emails and text messages.

The interview happens. I get a good vibe about everything and everyone. I interview well and am excited by all I hear. I’m told a decision will be made in May. I go on vacation and do my best not to think about it, and succeed quite well. It helps when you’re being doused by the sun and sand and surf.

On a Friday, I look at my phone after work and see that I’ve missed a call. I again recognize the number and my heart starts pounding. I get off the train at a station where there’s a signal and listen to the message.

They want me.

I can’t help it. I start crying in the station. I call IP and freak him the fuck out, but when he learns my news is nothing but good, he’s all congrats and happiness. I hang up with him, then call my mom while I’m waiting for another train. “You were right,” I say to her, laughing.

“Yes!” she says. “Congrats, m’ija! I knew they’d love you.”

It’s happening. After all my bitching and moaning and wanting to move on, it’s finally happening.

Moms are psychic, yo.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Then I was all and then .

Then, because of my grad school, I was all  . But then, because I can overcome their stupidity, I was all .

And then I got all and then and then because I didn’t get to . I seriously needed lots of .

And then, when finally did happen, I told myself to get  and  again, damnit.

So I did. For a while.

Then I went from , am approaching this and might go to this again because I feel like is running out.

I would like to know when I finally get to leave all that behind, get permanently back to and  and then get to with IP.

The end.

For now.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Well, not really on the hanging my body from the highest tree part. But the woe is me? Totes, dudes, totes, even if it is Friday (we so excited? OMG, I just sullied a Simon and Garfunkel-related post with reference to Rebecca Black’s “Friday”—revoke my fan card now!).

Ahem.

On this first Friday of June 2011, I have in mind Simon and Garfunkel’s “Why Don’t You Write Me” from their wonderful last album, Bridge Over Troubled Water. It popped into my head last night because, damn it, I need someone to write me!

Well, more specifically, I need a call and then I need someone to write me with the details of that call. Hopefully soon. Fingers crossed.

Remember that muy, muy awesome news I’m dying to share? Well, I still can’t share it and it’s driving me bonkers. Absolutely bonkers because I was expecting to have shared it by now. Once the news can be shared, so many things will be set into motion, but I’m stuck, still revving my engine but unable to depress the accelerator (which brings to mind “Baby Driver,” also from the Bridge Over Troubled Water album—except I don’t wonder how your engines feel, peeps; I love you and all, but not like that).

Anyway.

I’m anxious and flustered and wishing I had news and wishing I could get the ball rolling. But I can’t, because no one’s (phoning and) writing me. So, in conclusion, join me in my misery with a jaunty little tune:

P.S. Before I wrote this post, IP told me to write a post about this and a half-dozen other topics, but I dismissed them all. But then I remember “Why Don’t You Write Me” and it was too perfect to pass up, you know? So, here’s me saying that IP was right with his first post idea suggestion. Love you, honey! Mwah!

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

And now I’m blanking on even the most mundane of topics. Hmm.

Ah, here we go.

The heat has returned to D.C. After some rainy periods that were on the cooler side, now we have occasional stormy weather with high temperatures. Lovely. I for one do not enjoy summer in D.C., and would rather that it pass quickly. However, given that we’re already hitting the high 80s in May, I think we’re in for another screwing this year. On Friday night, as a storm rolled through our area, our power flickered but managed to stay on. I’m warning you, PEPCO: you’d better have made improvements and you’d better be well prepared for this summer. (I have a feeling, though, that they’re not.)

Last week was my birthday, and I enjoyed it by hitting up a good restaurant and the Paul frickin’ Simon concert. What can I say? He was awesome. The Baltimore Sun has a great review here which I’d say is pretty spot-on. As geeky as this is going to sound, I felt breathless throughout the entire concert—it was just such a great feeling to be in that audience, enjoying the music that I’ve been loving for the past 20 years of my life. And Simon played “Rewrite,” which is my current favorite off of his latest album, So Beautiful or So What?. Since I’m doing some life rewriting of my own lately (can’t really share at the moment, but it’s all good), and I’m trying to some more literal rewriting (of a short story), I feel it pretty apt right now and I lurve the song. And I just loved that concert to high heaven. And did I mention I also loved my slice of red velvet cake with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side?

I can also add that, in addition to a fabulous evening with IP, Paul Simon, and that lovely red velvet cake you see in that picture, I made out like a bandit. Not only do I have an amazing husband, but I have a pretty damn amazing family who showered me with gifts. IP’s parents participated in the gift-giving, and I now have some more books to read (booooooks!). I am also the recipient of another gift that I can’t mention just yet, but hopefully can soon. It’s good, it’s great, it’s muy muy awesome. And I’ve been sitting on it for a while now and it’s not getting any easier to keep it from you, interwebs, but it must be done. Alas!

And that’s all I got for you right now. Maybe some writing inspiration will come later.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

My hair was pretty long; I hadn’t cut it since July 2010 and really just wanted a trim with some layers thrown in for body and bounce. The ends of my hair were splitting and there was that ugly, dry crunch that happens when the ends are no longer healthy. So I thought I’d spruce up my hair and get it snipped a bit. I didn’t want to lose a lot of length, just the unhealthy parts.

After a work event that had me sitting in a room for two days, I left work early on Friday an decided to hit one of the local salons here that gets good reviews and was recommended to me. I had an appointment set up for Sunday afternoon at a Silver Spring salon that I like, but decided to kill two birds with one stone: I’d have a less busy Sunday in which to run other important errands and I’d get my hair done in advance of the weekend with the time I had available to me. Why not?

I should have waited and just made my busy Sunday work.

My stylist obviously didn’t hear me out. I told her I wanted to keep most of the length and add in some more layers. I even showed her a picture of my old haircut (from July) and said that I had loved the cut and wanted to replicate it closely. She then asked how short I would want to go; I indicated a length that would have my hair hitting the top of my chest; definitely past my collarbone. No higher. Even touching my shoulders would be too short.

Guess how short my hair is? When she did the initial snipping and I saw how much hair fell, I nearly gasped. She then whirled me around and asked if it was still too long. All I could say was, “No, stop there!” The length was gone; I could only hope the layers would save the haircut as a whole.

But no. The layers are all kinds of crazy, too. The way that they make my hair fall just seems so flat and lifeless. Like instead of adding body, the layers take it away, probably because of over-cutting in some areas. The bangs that were added in (which I usually don’t mind) don’t have any staying power; they’re too short to do anything at all, and just end up pushed back constantly. I have a feeling I’m going to be wearing my hair in a ponytail for the next couple of months until I grow it out a bit. It’s long enough that I can do a ponytail (which is good), but short enough that it looks weird to me. I had been loving my long hair, so my intention was not to go back to short hair. I like my hair short, too, but this particular style isn’t working for me and I wasn’t prepared for short hair. And it reminds me of Kristen Stewart as Joan Jett in The Runaways:

Me no like-y. At all. It’s not as extreme as the cut pictured above, but it just feels and looks so lifeless to me. Flattened to my face and having absolutely no bounce.

At the end, after my stylist dried my hair and styled it, she asked if I wanted her to thin out my hair for me. Emphatic no to that—my hair already felt insubstantial enough, thanks much. I sort of wanted to complain, and in most cases I would, but I’ve never had a haircut I’ve hated before. Seriously. This is my first bad haircut and I had no idea what to do or say. I know some would say to go back and have them “fix it,” but there’s nothing that can fix it except growing it out over the summer (thank goodness my hair grows relatively fast).

Or perhaps get extensions. Groupon? LivingSocial? A little help?

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.