clothes-swapping and karaoke

Last night, I went to a clothes-swap party at L.’s. That means you clean out your closet and bring clothes that you never wear anymore (in my case, the clothes I consistently shrink). And you try on threads that others don’t want (I walked away with two skirts and two shirts. And that sounds like it should be the name of a movie).

L. lives in Petworth, a neighborhood I don’t know, even after living in D.C. for five years. At about 11 p.m., we wandered to Domku, a small funky Polish restaurant/bar with cool art on brick walls, white lights strung up, and several couches. There were about seven people in there, and two were doing karaoke.

C., L. and I drank Slavic beers and nearly immediately started to dance. We sang “Girl You Know It’s True” by the famed and wonderful Milli Vanilli. We laughed uproariously at L., who can do the Milli Vanilli dance. And we ended on “Joy To The World,” by Three Dog Night, which reminds me of my childhood. I’m sure I was off key, but I felt like we were traveling overseas and wandered into a random bar where the people were open and welcoming. I felt uninhibited. And joyful.

music to my ears

In December, my coworker on NPR’s music team told me to listen to the new band Blind Pilot. Knowing that I have the same music taste (from listening to the songs he picks for Song of the Day), I listened to the album. And I liked it. But I didn’t think much more about it.

Fast forward to last weekend — I went to Texas for a wedding on a ranch. It also happened to coincide with the SXSW music festival in Austin. And, Bob Boilen picked Blind Pilot to be one of the bands to watch among the thousands there. So I brought the album for the drive from Austin to Comfort, Texas. It was one of the only albums we had in the car, and we listened to it over and over again as we drove on the open highway.

Then, yesterday, my coworker told me last minute about a performance chat at Studio 4A. Ari Shapiro was interviewing Blind Pilot for Morning Edition. And I stood in the control room with literally a handful of people and listened to the independent band from Portland, Ore., tell their story about how did first tour from Vancouver to San Francisco on bicycles (if that’s not cool, I don’t know what is). They were down to earth. They told jokes and laughed. And they played their acoustic tunes, and I was so moved, I nearly forgot about my 1:30 meeting.

Last night, I rallied a few friends to see them play at a small venue in Virginia called Iota. It was $12. I rarely have the energy to cross the border into Virginia, much less when it’s raining. But we got there at 9 p.m. just before it sold out. And they were incredible. And afterward, the band stood near the bar chatting with my NPR coworkers — accessible and open. The lead singer Israel Nebeker was obviously shy, but smiley and grateful we were impressed by them. I came home and fell asleep to their melodic voices. And today, as it drizzles outside, I can’t stop listening to the album, especially the song “3 Rounds and a Sound.”

My love for this album has been a slow progression. It wasn’t overnight. I needed exposure to it. And as I listen to it, I discover the layers to the harmony. The depth of the instruments. The complexity of the lyrics. The beauty of their voices. I can’t wait till they play in D.C. again.

a new way of drinking

A wonderful, wonderful thing arrived in the mail today. Thanks, D. I will henceforth use this every time I drink. I can’t wait for my morning coffee.

the wacky neighbor

I would like the world to know that I still have a Christmas tree on my porch. It is tiny — mid-thigh — and it’s stuck in its holder, which I’m not willing to throw out. I mean that sucker is jammed in there. I tried to take it out in early January, I really tried. Now, the mourning doves are hanging out near it, which is really odd. I know it is.

But every day when I come home from work, I see that Christmas tree and shake my head and think, “I really need to throw that out.” It’s almost March Madness, for goodness sake.

But it’s been low on my totem pole of things to do, those things in that fester in the back of my mind. (Sow a button my favorite shirt, check. Make a doctor appointment, check. Cancel my New York Times daily subscription, check. Cancel a hotel room for one night in Texas, check). Throwing the Christmas tree is next. It has to be. Cause I don’t want my neighbors to think I’m that wacky neighbor that still has a Christmas tree on the porch in June.

I’ll even scare myself if that happens.

**Update: I finally threw it out in April. With the holder still attached to it.

the case of the mysterious monkey noises

Last Saturday morning, as I made coffee in a small log cabin near Lake Tahoe while on a ski trip, my friend R. looked at me and said, “Do you have a monkey ring tone on your phone?” I looked at her, confused, and said, “Um, no.” R. said she heard monkey sounds in the middle of the night, twice. “What did they sound like?” I asked. “Hoohooheeeheee,” R. said scrunching up her shoulders and making a hilarious face.

P., R. and I were sharing a room (yes, a bunkbed) so P. and I should have heard them too. We made R. make the sounds several times that day, even on the ski lifts at North Star, and laughed every time she did it.

L&B had arrived at 1 a.m., and had used the bathroom. We thought maybe it was the pipes making the noise. So later that evening we actually flushed the toilet while Robin lied on the bed to test whether the pipes squealed like a monkey. They didn’t.

As we crawled into the bunk beds on Saturday night, R., P. and I continued to demystify the mysterious monkey noises like little girls at slumber party. In whispers, we guessed all possible scenarios. Maybe it was a mouse? Or what about an owl? How about a bear outside the window? A laughing hyena? No, those in Africa (we all erupted with laughter). What about a ghost? “Maybe you just imagined them, R.” “I know I heard something!” she insisted.

At 7:30 Sunday morning, all three of us heard it: “Hoohooheehee.” “You guys! Did you hear that?” R. said in a loud whisper. “Yes,” P said from the top bunk. “Yes,” I said. It happened again, and it came from the closet. R. got up and investigated, and found a bright blue plastic toy monkey on top of a box of toys. When she picked it up, it vibrated and said: “Hoohooheehee.” R. fell over on the bed laughing with tears running down her face. I took the monkey and stood in front of L&B’s bedroom door like a mischievous little kid to see if the monkey could wake them up. It did. “Is that a monkey I hear?” said L. from behind the closed door.

We made that plastic monkey talk over and over until we got sick of it. But we were glad to have solved the great case of the mysterious monkey noises. And to know that R. isn’t losing it.

how i know my landlord controls my life

Tonight, I snuggled on my couch* under my green fleece blankets and turned my TV to NBC News to watch Obama’s first prime time address as president (my intense interest in the speech another curious sign of my aging). But below the floor, in the great, scary unknown (I think I could write an entire sitcom about my landlord and his family), my roommate and I could hear Obama speaking about three seconds ahead of NBC. The delay was maddening. So we flipped through the channels to see if we could sync the TVs — and then score! We found it. “Guess we’re watching ABC,” N. said.

*My couch has been my best friend (I have butt prints to prove it) for two weeks as I have fought a nasty mid-winter cold, including two, count ‘em, two sick days. I might have to name it after such bonding.

the crying store

Every Friday morning, Morning Edition plays StoryCorps — stories of loved ones across the country connecting in recording booths. It’s extraordinarily well done, and it usually makes me tear up. On Thursday, a coworker sent me a link to a parody on StoryCorps. And I was laughing so hard, I was falling over in my seat. The link spread through the office. On Friday morning, StoryCorps sounded like the parody, it’s almost eerie. And I felt a little bad, cause it’s really sweet — as usual. But I didn’t feel too bad. The parody is still genius.

how d.c. feels differently — already

I bundled up last Sunday, got a hot chocolate at the Mocha Hut, and walked down to the Mall in 30 degree weather with friends to see the inaugural concert. It was my chance to burn out on the crowds so I wouldn’t feel like I was missing out on Obama’s inauguration because I had to be holed up in the office.

The spirit was euphoric. Hundreds of thousands of people crowded in to get as close to the Lincoln monument as possible. For me, that meant about 100 yards from the World War II monument (read: not close). On the Jumbotrons, I watched Bruce Springsteen, Bono, Beyonce, Usher, John Legend, Garth Brooks (and on and on) perform. There was enough room to sway, but not enough room to snake through the crowd. I’ve been to the World Cup and the Olympics — I’ve never been in a crowd that size.

What surprised me the most was that although people were bumping into each other, no one was irritable. Everyone was smiling — black, white, Latino, Asian, young, old. At one point, a black woman walked past and said, “We’re all uniting!” It was the first time since the aftermath of Sept. 11, 2001, where I felt like strangers of all races were making eye contact and looking to connect. And it felt amazing.

nicaragua

I’ve decided heading out of the country at the end of December is the best way to avoid any kind of holiday malaise, loneliness or angst about New Years Eve plans.

Five of us rented a house on a bluff overlooking the Pacific ocean just north of San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua. We also rented a 4×4 white Toyota truck to navigate the bumpy dirt roads and steep hills (those of us who sat in the back seat had to hold on tight so we didn’t bounce and hit our heads on the roof). As we drove past cows ambling along the roadsides, we blasted the MIA song from Slumdog Millionaire over and over.

We spent most of our days at the beach — Playa Madera — soaking in the sun, taking refreshing swims in the warm salty water, going for a long walks. C., K., and S. surfed — I didn’t. The best time to surf was around 4 p.m. or 5 p.m., when the sun set, a glowing orange ball slowly descending below the horizon. And that was when there were dozens of surfers competing for the waves — I was more content to watch their heads bobbing and teach myself my Nikon D40.

For some reason, I was often the first one up in the mornings. The sun shone brightly in and if I listened, I could hear the low roar of the howler monkeys staking their territories. At 7 a.m., the house was blissfully quiet, and I made myself coffee and sat outside on the balcony in shorts and a tank top, looking at the water and reading my book, Tales of a Female Nomad by Rita Golden Gelman. In the evenings, worn out from the heat, we often drove down to Mango Rosa, an American-owned restaurant/bar in a hut with a thatched roof and ate ceviche, Mahi-mahi, mashed potatoes and vegetables and and drank coke and Flor de Cana rum (I’ve never liked rum before).

On New Years Eve, we danced on the beach at San Juan del Sur and fireworks exploded above our heads.

But mostly, I relaxed. And laughed. And let go. No watch, no phone, no e-mail, no sense of time, no worries. I played with my camera. I talked with other travelers. And I got re-inspired to learn, to save my money for travel and to challenge myself.

i’m losing it

It’s only Dec. 4, and I’ve already lost my hat. It was a cute green hat I bought on the cheap from REI Outlet. I lost it somewhere between the office and the coffee shop in Adams Morgan.

Last January, I lost a blue hat I bought on the cheap from REI Outlet. I lost that one somewhere between Pizza Paradiso in Georgetown and the movie theater when I went to see Juno for the second time.

I’m thinking maybe I should not buy another hat from REI Outlet, maybe I should buy an expensive hat (where do they sell expensive hats?) But until then, I’ll hold out hope that maybe I’ll find my two hats chilling out somewhere together, along with the three umbrellas, two books of stamps and 26 hair ties I’ve lost this year.