Mountaintop Removal on the D6?

This morning, I joined the usual group of high school students with attitude, blue collar guys with cigarettes tucked behind their ears, and elderly men and women with frowns on their faces, profanity on their lips, Bibles in hand, and walkers for stability for my ride on the D6. This time, we had a visitor: a pretentiously normal looking older white gentlemen clad in an Obama t-shirt and Obama baseball cap with Mom jeans. To top off the look? A cause button reading: "Stop Mountaintop Removal." Seriously? I didn't realize that was a thing.

Predictably, he started asking the local guy sitting between us for directions to "The Smithsonian," "Union Terminal," and Freedom Plaza. Aww, tourists- how endearing. Eventually, I asked if there was an event he was heading to at Freedom Plaza so I could hear someone get worked up on my morning commute. Turns out, he was an Obama supporter from Appalachia (seriously I didn't know that was real) who is tired of the EPA allowing coal companies to blow off mountaintops, creating flooding and environmental damage to the people living in the towns below. He told me he was hoping to get his first arrest today. How sweet- it's almost as if he honestly believes his spending three hours in a holding cell with a few crackheads and prostitutes will help convince the government to listen to his opinion more.

I can understand the people coming in for big things- anti-war rallies or immigration reform stuff or- hell- even rally for restoring honor- at least it's an actual march for an actual cause, albeit an annoying and probably sorta racist cause. But these super obscure ones just seem like a waste of time. Nevertheless, once he calmed down from educating me on the Appalachian hippie environmental concerns, he was a nice fellow to share the bus with into downtown. Al Gore would be proud of him, if he ever noticed.

Huuuge Thighs!

The other day, I took a Friday off from work. It was a nice break from the routine- I woke up, went for a run, rode my bike to the grocery store, and got harrassed by my new neighbors. I was only a bit shocked by the last part. Truth be told, I never expected a casserole or a "welcome to the neighborhood" bundt cake, but I was a bit taken aback by the audible grunts. I thought they would keep them inaudible, as I live down the street, and their quiet admiration would increase their chances of catching sight of me through the window, or wherever people typically spy on their female neighbors. Now, I am keenly aware of their intentions, and I am careful to keep the blinds shut. Silly fools.

Anyway, as I biked past the D6 (suckers), three elderly gentlemen sat crouched in front of a house around 10 AM on a beautiful day. Cradling a 40 oz in one arm and dangling a cigarette out of the same hand, one points me out to his friends with a gutteral sound followed by a "Daaaaaaaamn. Ummmmmm. Look at them legs... She's got some huuuuge ol' thighs!"

What an asshole. Strangely, I think he meant the huge thighs thing as a compliment - he seemed pleased with his findings. I was literally angry about this for three hours... he simultaneously objectified me and hurt my feelings in one quick statement. I wasn't sure which one to be angry about, and my confusion only added to my desire to hit him with the handlebars on my pink bike the next time I see him.

Should I switch back to the bus, a kinder forum for writing with better opportunities for listening, and fewer opportunities for showing said huge thighs? Or should I stick it out on the bike riding tales?

Overheard in IKEA

"Daddy... I told you we should have brung the measuring tape." Preppy looking little blonde kid, about 8 years old. Far too old to talk that way, and his daddy said nothing. Gross.

Overheard at lunch

"Awesome! Now I can say that I'm employed on my OK Cupid profile! Girls are going to come running... nuthin' like a man with benefits." - volunteer in my office, upon finally finding a job

"It's not easy being a midget." -Lawson's deli employee, approximately 5'9, while trying to reach the top shelf

Biking on Florida Ave.

This morning, I rode my bike to Catholic University via Florida Ave. NE... what a piece of work that road is! The traffic lights are non-sensical, potholes are the size of small craters and are filled with black and stagnant water, and the people look at you threateningly. The sidewalks begin and end without pattern or purpose. As a biker, you can't ride on the street or on the sidewalk. Of course, I choose the street and, of course, people hate me. It's ok - I feel like my hatred or disregard for drivers, depending on the day, still puts me in the "I win" category.

This morning, there was traffic you couldn't bike around- multiple busses, tractor trailors, you name it! I, for the life of me, will never understand that weird Florida Ave/New York Ave turnabout where you have to loop around the Wendy's... it's ridiculous! I always shamelessly ride through the Wendy's parking lot where, inevitably, a gaggle of construction workers yell at me with a combination of angry orders to not bike through cones and catcalls/offers to take me home. That is a phenomena I'll never understand. As a pedestrian, cars are highly favorable and efficient forms of transportation. As a biker? How in the world are you, in your oversized gas guzzler, going to get me home faster than I can? You are stuck at this light. Once I'm through being amused by your commentary, I'll speed around you and run it. But nevertheless... I get offers for rides all the time. My pink bike is a dude magnet. Who knew?!

Anyway, it was a cold bike ride for me and, while I'm not looking forward to being bound by the bus when the weather turns legit cold, I am looking forward to the lively conversations I've missed so much.

Until then, I'm stuck writing about Florida Ave. potholes. And the Washington Gas guy who, after "losing" our order two days in a row (where my housemates and I waited and waited at home), called this morning informing us that he may have to come back later because "Parking is tough on C Street." He met the angry and threatening glares of three pissed off women first thing in the morning, and finally got to work even though he thought it was our problem. Here's to crossing fingers for hot water!!

A 92 First Timer, and an Irish Times Bathroom...

Last night, my friend M had her first ride on the 92 bus going to U Street. I was really disappointed that her "first time" wasn't a little more special. Honestly, there were no direct threats made to us, we didn't come out of the bus with any visible scarring, and the psycho dude was far enough away that we couldn't take down his incoherent ramblings. Yes, there were repeated utterances of: "When I get home, I'mma smack the sh*t outta you. I'm tellin you now. You don't believe me, but that's 'xactly what I'mma do... I'mma smack the sh*t outta you" from an elderly gentleman in basketball shoes yelling at someone on the phone (wife? mistress? boxing coach?).

Yes, there were the requisite peanut shells and sunflower seed shells (is that what they're called?) strewn about. Yes, we sat a few rows away from a man who had a conversation with himself that started before we got on the bus and continued until we left (and presumably didn't stop there). Yes, we were a touch frightened. But really, all in all, it was a disappointing showing.

Much better? Being told by the Cowboy Mouth manager in a pretentious and probably fake British accent: "You look even more stoned than I do." Geez, thanks dude. Actually, it's just the way my face is put together, but have a lovely time trying to hook up with my friend. Fail on his part, thank God.

It's been an interesting weekend. The night before, my friend R an I went to Irish Times (another first time, this time for her. Am I corrupting my innocent friends?). Overheard in the bathroom?

X: "Ugh, how are we still on a date with these guys?"
Y: "It's still early..."
X: "I thought we were going to meet new men. Ugh."
Y: "We could leave them and go somewhere else..."
X: "Meh... f*ck it. We're already here."

Then the two ladies waltzed outside to two seedy looking gentlemen and embraced them enthusiastically. See, men (haha see-men)? Y'all aren't the only ones who date/hang out for convenience. The coolest part? Upon emergence from the bathroom, the two gals looked totally convincing in feigning interest in their undoubtedly lame conversation!

I just moved to a new hood...

"Amy... I saw the prostitute... I saw the bullet hole just one inch from the gas line." -J, in a gentle Wisconsin accent. He was worried about my safety in my neighborhood where, just weeks before he saw said prostitute and bullet hole a few blocks away.

Fun news? I'm moving even closer to the decour he so aptly described. Thanks, DC.