tea and tofu

I've taken a liking to herbal tea and tofu. The tea is soothing; a pinch of cinnamon, a dapple of honey, two bags of sugar. I drink it before or after dinner, to de-stress, unwind, visit with friends. I drink it in the kitchen, leaned over the island, breathing in herb after herb. Something about tea is kind of like laying in a grassy field on a sunny day; both make you feel alive and well.

Tofu: Lipy is a vegetarian. She has introduced me to a plethora of spices, vegetables, meat replacements. Every night, I stand over a cutting board or skillet like a child, my excitement and wonder and awe swirling in the aromas of caramelized onions, snap peas, carrots, peppers, okra. I can't get enough. The colors alone are worth the effort of preparation.

Slowly, I am broadening my horizons in this place. I eat every new food I can get my hands on. I've been reading books that I wouldn't have typically picked up. I've been jogging every weekend morning - which, by itself, is quite the feat. I have never had the stamina or desire to run, especially along unevenly paved, hot city blocks, but now?

I am a tea-drinking, tofu-eating, jogger. This place is changing me, or I am changing in this place, but whatever is happening, I embrace it. If college brought me out of my proverbial shell, DC has placed me in the middle of the ocean.

And I am playing in the waves.

old dog, young pup

We are all at an awkward stage in life. Just when you think you are 'past' one stage, another one creeps up and BAM, there you are, wondering when this next phase will end. By awkward stage, I mean this: My sister is getting ready to start high school (9th grade, yo!) in the fall and she's going through the whole does-this-guy-like-me-why-are-my-friends-jerks-I-hate-homework-but-I-love-school-boys-are-stupid-and-I-will-forever-deny-that-I-have-a-crush-on-my-best-friend phase.

Yes, I remember those days. And I am so glad they are over. But now I'm in this weird stage (as are all the girls and guys that live with me) that makes me think that the high school phase was a tad easier.I swear, it's the twilight zone.

I am turning 24 in T-minus 2 days. What is that? I think it's the most awkward age that I will ever go through. The only novelties left are looking forward to renting a car and driving it across country because I can, and slowly coming off my parent's health insurance. Really? What do people do with 24?

It's like the middle child that people pity. Aw, poor 24-year old, you're not finished with grad school? You are still looking for a grown up job? You aren't married? Do you want to get married? Time's ticking, you know. 30 will creep up before you know it, poor 24-year old. You sad, unsettled soul, you.

Amanda, the girl who shares a door with me, is 26. She's in the same boat, and we're both paddling with our hands. In white water. On an empty stomach. And no one wants to paddle on an empty stomach.

A large part of me wants to stop being so lost. The twenties are supposed to be so exciting! But, mostly, I feel lost. I'm the person at the party who is searching for some familiar faces, who keeps shoving her face with tortilla chips because she's too lost to speak. The people in business suits ignore her because she has no experience. The people in swaying skirts and ray bans scoff because she's too old. At least the tortilla chips are good?

Now don't get me wrong, I'm excited for my birthday. I'm excited about my future prospects (???), I'm hoping to use my degrees, and I'm up for the challenge and adventure of everything. I just wish I could have a little stability these days. That is all.

Twenties? I think we're all lost. And those who are too proud or insecure to admit they are completely and utterly lost need to own it. We can't shrug it off. I suppose we have to lean into the confusion and hope, that sooner rather than later, that there will be clear skies ahead.

Now someone give me my cane and pacifier, because I can't make up my mind whether I'm old or young.

**On a side note, our final roommate moved in this past Sunday. His name is Kevin and he is 19, a Sophomore in college.

He comes into the kitchen, where I am making fish with pineapple salsa and wild rice. Amanda is chopping fresh garlic for her burgers. Lipy is pinching tumeric onto her Desi veggies.

This guy walks in and we chat for a bit. Super nice. He looks in the fridge and finds the cheap bottle of vodka that perpetually pokes the side of my milk.

He says, "Oh sweet. You guys like to party?"

Amanda, Lipy, and I look at each other, stop cooking, and laugh.

"Aw, sweetie," Amanda says, with a final chop of garlic and a raised eyebrow. "How old are you again?"


...we suffer from quarter-life crises everyday. We don't know if we are old or young, naive or wise, anxious or excited, ready to leave or ready to stay.

All we know is that we know nothing, and that will have to suffice for now.

The Art of Metro-ing

Stuck, confused, nervous..all superb adjectives to describe my first week in DC without a car. I learned to drive in Pennsylvania, after all. I spent my entire undergrad career driving through Sandusky, Buffalo, Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Rochester, Ontario, palms sweating, knuckles white from gripping the steering wheel a tad too hard, listening to music a tad too loud. I drove a van all through college - The Beast - and the seats were always full of friends and strangers, alike. After graduation, I bought my first car - Daisy, my beloved green beetle - and I drove her for a happy 1.5 years up until this past May.

So Daisy awaits my coming home in the driveway at my house, and I still shell out money to make a payment for a car that I won't drive until the beginning of September.

I'm starting to think taking public transportation is a form of art. People weave in and out of the Metro gates like a school of fish - darting, never touching, eyes trained on the prize of an on-time ride to anywhere. The first week, I was lost. I didn't really know how to put more money on my Metro card, nor did I understand the concept of "rush hour traffic does not cost the same as Sunday afternoon traffic". Okay, so what does that mean?

It means that I shell out approximately 8-9 dollars a day to get me to and from Alexandria for work. And on Sunday, when the Metro only sends a train once in a while to every station, I pay about 4 dollars to and from where ever. Honestly, I never would have thought about the metro charging for 'rush hour'. We faithful metro patrons pay extra throughout the week to be squished like the sardine school of fish we are. It's fantastic.

So far, I've only encountered one crazy person on the Metro. This encounter actually happened when Kevin and Moni and I were riding the Metro from Mount Vernon (where I reside in DC) to Alexandria (where I commute for work). We wanted to try out the route. Everything was fine on the way there, of course.

On the way back, we swiped our passes, found seats together and life was good. Then the man sitting directly across the way from us begins to talk. Kevin and I try to carry on a conversation and before we know it, this man is yelling. So of course I stare at him (that's what he wants, right? To be noticed?) and he stares back and continues to yell.

This normally wouldn't have bothered me except for the fact that his harmless ramblings turned into phrases like "I'm going to string you up by your feet, Mother F*cker, and gut you like a fish. I'll kill you and all ya'll"

You know, things like that. And he was staring right at us. And then, because this is what I do in uncomfortable situations, I start to giggle. Giggling turns into faking a cough, because oh goodness, he's getting louder and I can't compose myself. Which turns into full-blown, shoulder-shaking, raucous laughter which I try to hide by turning around to the seat behind me.

At this point, I honestly can't control myself and every time I look at Kevin, he is sitting beside me, stony-faced like nothing out of the ordinary is happening, most likely willing me to shut up, but I can't and his composure makes me laugh even harder. How does he keep a straight face when this strange man is clearly going to gut us like fish, and hang us by our feet, no less?

This is why I should probably never attend another funeral. I clearly lack tact.

I'm knocking on wood right now, because so far, out of all the days that I've gone to work and come home from work, everyone seems to mind their own business. No crazies. No fascination with murdering harmless strangers. No fish guts.

So far, the Metro has been fantastic at getting me to my destinations on time and without creepy people or awkward situations. People listen to their iPods and read the daily newspaper and sleep. Me? I'm too preoccupied to read or listen to music. I'm still in the fascination stage, where I have to look out the window and stare into the black abyss tunnels and keep an eye on everyone that's around me because maybe, just maybe, something might be out of the ordinary. And I wouldn't want to miss an opportunity to engage in uncontrollable laughter.

Cars? Overrated.

trashy, dirty things

Taking out the trash in the castle is an event. A spectacle, really. We have two huge dumpster like containers for trash-trash, and three blue wheel-y type deals for recyclables that sit outside of our house, but behind the iron gates. Every Tuesday night, the trash needs to be carried from the kitchen to the outside containers and the containers need to be pushed outside of the gate and onto the curb for Wednesday morning pick up.

Easy, right?

Well, the week that I moved in, nobody carried the trash outside from the kitchen. Banana peels and wine bottles littered the hardware floor and my bare feet skimmed sauce-ridden containers and juice that had leaked out of the garbage.

Ever since that week, I decided that I would be the trash-taker-outer. You already know I suffer from OCD. Ever since that week, my feet have been clothed in slippers and, if the air conditioner decides to work, socks. Garbage juice between the toes makes me want to vomit. I mean, that's worse than watching my mother give birth to Lacey and Gavin. And that was bad.

So me, with my big-beasty-eye-popping muscles, heaved four extra large disgusting bags of trash outside and into their proper containers. Flies swarmed and I'm pretty sure laid eggs all in my hair. But I pushed on - I would wash my hair 18 times when I got back inside - I pulled all five containers down to the curb and stuck my hands on my hips in satisfaction.

After going back inside, three of the five guys were sitting on the couch in the living room, eating salad and watching Real Housewives of Orange County. The front door is directly in front of the living room, mind you.

I was so close to standing in the doorway and saying, "Really? My boyfriend would have gotten up off the couch and not only opened the door for me, but he would have told me to sit down while he carried everything outside. And he would have been watching NCIS, girls."

But I didn't. I took out four gigantic trash bags, and shook them out in the dining room as hard as I could, taking my time, making sure I could reach to the bottom. Then I proceeded to place the bags in each trash barrel and banged the barrels against the floor.

Yes, I am just that passive aggressive. But does it work? No. The boys don't move. They are engrossed in incredibly melodramatic dialogue, and boobs, and lettuce.

This is their train of thought, I'm sure:

Aeriale: Guys, the trash is overflowing.
Guys: What? Leave it there. Boobs are on TV.
Aeriale: Okay, I've got it, but really, can someone at least open the door?
Guys: Boobs?
Aeriale: Door? Please?
Guys: Yum, this lettuce is almost as good as the whey protein I mix up everyday in my manly shake. Grrrr, boobs!
Aeriale: Yeah, okay, we are going to get fined, yo. Like, money is going to come out of our security deposits in August and then you won't be able to buy your gigantic jugs of whey protein and then your muscles will shrink to the size of clementines and then you'll cry yourselves to sleep. So, trash? Anyone?
Guys: Yeah, yeah, screw the security deposit, little girl. Now hush, Leanne just got slapped by Jennifer. Who's boobs do you like better?

......

So the following Tuesday rolls around, and the trash is overflowing. But! Laura is in the kitchen with me, and I am just peeved enough to recruit her assistance. She complies and we do the routine. But this time, something growls as we throw the filled bags into the bins. We search everywhere, because we are just that stupid. Who searches for the growling unknown? Then, it clicks. A cat! Then I search even harder because I am a bleeding heart - I want to find the kitty! And there it is, Laura points, up in the tree above our heads. After fifteen minutes of coaxing and cooing it, the furball jumps down and runs away.

So much for the help-the-homeless-pets-of-DC campaign I was going for...

Two Tuesdays ago, the trash was piling up and I searched the kitchen and found Lipy - she was extremely hesitant to help me. I pleaded with dog eyes. She succumbed. We made it to the front gate with the big, beasty barrels until she screams. She points to the sidewalk and frowns.

Blood. Fresh blood, that is splattered all across the brick in front of our gate. I lean in to examine it. Lipy screams and tells me I am going to contract HIV. It is definitely fresh blood - it immediately reminded me of the time Michelle and I were in Morocco in the Sahara and she got the worst nosebleed of her life and we had no tissues, just sand, so it went everywhere....

Sorry to share your personal life, M. But for real, the blood looked like a horrific nose bleed. Or someone could have just gotten stabbed in front of our gate. Stabbing sounds like a better, more dangerous story so let's go with that. I did not contract HIV from staring at the blood, contrary to popular belief.

This past Tuesday, I recruited Enid to help me with the trash run. She gladly came out and we hauled the trash like pros. This time, there was no cat in a tree, and no blood as far as we could tell....but we did run into two big guys at the corner of our house, selling pot. They looked up at us and wrinkled their eyebrows, as if we were the suspicious ones.

Enid tried not to laugh. They were lighting up right next to our allotted space on the street. We maneuvered around the guys and watched as the one clearly handed the other a roll of bills. Enid and I got back in the house and busted up laughing.

Where are we living, we asked each other. She's from Minnesota. People don't toke up on the street corners. I'm from rural Pennsylvania, and the worst thing we come across are high school boys running around with their heart-ridden boxers hanging out of their shorts.

Needless to say, the guys in the living room are missing out - they may see boobs on television every Tuesday, but surely, the experiences right outside of our front door are so much more entertaining. 

night walkers

There are four homeless people that panhandle for money and/or food right outside of the castle everyday. I pass by all four of them on my way to work in the morning, and as I walk by every afternoon, there they sit. One of them is a wanderer. She is the lone female of the group, and insists on roaming each side of the road until she gets what she asks for, or not.

This woman crept up on me the other day as I was minding my own business coming home from the Metro. Now the street directly in front of my house, N Street, leaves little to be desired. I don't walk it, ever. Similar to the creepy dude that sits behind you in your college math class, breathing really hard and occasionally stroking your hair with his pencil though later claims it to be an accident... that's N street.

Then there's M street, which is a single street over (the street directly in front of where all the panhandlers sit), and it's like night and day. M Street houses colorful row homes and rows of beautiful trees and dog walkers who look you in the eye and smile. M Street is like comfort food, like mashed potatoes, really.

M Street is the street I take when I step off the Metro, and it's about a ten minute walk from the DC Metro to the castle. I'm just bee-bopping along, bag slung over shoulder, most likely on the phone to my grandmother, when BAM - I turn the corner and there the lady is, standing in front of me, holding out her hands.

At first, I tried to skirt around her, thinking she was just another pedestrian trying to go somewhere. In fact, she moved purposefully back in front of me and held out her hands again, with crescent moon blue eyes. Wrinkles creep down her forehead in jagged lines, like Pocohontas' river basin. Just around the river bend, yo.

"Do ya have change to spare, Ma'm? Dollars?"

"I honestly don't." I said this...in all honesty. In case she thought I was lying like every other person she'd asked that day, I totally wasn't. Because before her, I had thrown my spare change into the plastic pickle jar which sits in front of a man who plays a different instrument every day by the Metro. I'm easily impressed.

She nodded her head and said 'God Bless', which I thought was nice. She returned to roaming the sidewalks. The others, three aging men, station themselves on the island strip of grass and trees that lines the middle of the road. One shakes a glass jar as if it were a tambourine. He never speaks, just shakes and shakes. Another is in a wheelchair. His beard is dread-locked, which I find particularly fascinating. They only panhandle to the cars, never to the pedestrians.They leave the walkers up to the woman.

I often wonder if they sleep there at night, in the middle of the crossroads, or if the pickings are better elsewhere after dark. I wonder if the woman continuously roams. I wonder if they split their earnings, sit around the island after dark and decide which one is going to walk to Safeway for dinner.

This is why I don't go out alone at night. Too many unanswered questions.

adult messes (Part 2)

This is my first internship - and it has been quite the experience. For possible incriminating purposes, we'll refer to it as the Big House. Not to be confused with a prison sentence, it is certainly more freeing than that - like, we get half hour lunch breaks and there is a window I can look out of when I feel the need to get up and walk around every five seconds.

Ha. Just kidding.

It's actually the most lenient place I've ever worked. Let's start with my project coordinator, Sarah. She is completely and utterly 8 months pregnant. Now I didn't have the pleasure of meeting her before she got pregnant, but man, I think the baby has stripped her of all rationale. This is not a bad thing, in fact, I think it's quite hilarious.

Ben, the guy in the cubicle next to me, is her go-to person for everything. Ben kind of hates his job with the Big House, and has been there for 3 years, but continues to stay on because Sarah will knock his teeth in if he gives her any slack. I would kind of like to see this. But anyway, this is the conversation I eavesdropped on the other day:

Sarah: *Walks into Ben's cubicle, barefoot and holding her very round stomach* Ben, I need so-and-so's number to chew him out about this so-and-so project. And do you have any chocolate?
 Ben: Here's the number for-
Sarah: Yeah, okay, so do you have any chocolate or not?
Ben: Do I look like I eat chocolate?
Sarah: Let's go get some chocolate.
Ben: Okay, but let me-
Sarah: Now, Ben. We need to leave now.
Ben: Yes, Ma'm.
Aeriale: I like dark chocolate. Like 80 percent cacao. I just wanted to throw that out there.
Sarah: *Pops head around the corner of my cubicle* Yeah, okay, we'll pick you up some, too.
Ben: *Puts jacket on and rounds the corner* You going to put shoes on or am I going to try and piggy-back your ass?
Sarah: No, no, I need the number for so-and-so. Sit back down and get me that number. I'll wait.
Aeriale: I can get the chocolate. I found Trader Joe's yesterday on my lunch break!
Sarah and Ben: *Sigh* Interns.

Needless to say, no chocolate was bought. This is Sarah's constant thought process. I'm not lying when I say that for the past two weeks, I have no idea what I've been doing. She is incredibly flippant with her decisions and one thing never leads to another. Nothing really ever makes sense.

Then there's John, my cubicle-mate. He is another intern that started the week before I came, and he is absolutely hilarious. He is this fiery red-head with a bushy red beard that he consciously, constantly strokes. He just finished his senior year in college, and is not sure what he wants to do in the CJ field either. We are in the same boat.

So, Friday, while we were sitting there pretending to be busy, I pumped out an essay that is due Sunday. Fortunately, I work for a non-profit organization that serves Police Chiefs from all over the world. Unfortunately, my essay was all about domestic terrorist organizations. So there I am, overloading my browsing history with animal rights' terrorist sites that demonstrate how to carry out a professional bombing on fur factories and butcher shops. Pictures pop up with people in masks holding lambs and wielding knives. I snort out laughter, which is most certainly inappropriate but I can't hold it in. These people are ridiculous.

This catches John's attention, and he wheels his chair over to me and raises his eyebrows.

John: I definitely took you for an animal-lover when you sat down and gushed over your cat for the last week, but car bombs? Damn girl! *Strokes beard*
Aeriale: Well, hey, how else am I going to save those who cannot speak for themselves?
John: Maybe you can start by showing me your mask. I think I want to be an investigator. This looks like something I can put on my resume.
Aeriale: Well, of course. We call ourselves ALF. After the thing that has a weird nose...you know, before our time. We like to keep it old school.
Ben: *Wheels his chair into our cubicle* Hey, cut it out kiddies. I just got off the phone with the FBI. Now hurry up and give me a mask. Let Sarah deal with the dark side of law enforcement.

Needless to say, I somehow finished my essay between the ridiculous conversations and feeding my bottomless stomach. Since I walk almost 45 minutes to work everyday (not including the 30 minute Metro ride to Alexandria), I basically starve all day. My lunch bag is like a clown car. I just keep bringing food out every hour on the hour and John shakes his head at my endless hunger. I swear it's gotten worse since I've moved here. But that's another story for another post.

adult messes (Part 1)

I've been living in Washington, D.C. for approximately two weeks now, and my life has been flipped upside down. The kind of upside-down that is reminiscent of Alice falling down the rabbit hole - lots of weird falling kitchen items, and reading books without pages, and having my dress flutter over my head when I least expect it - I'm trying to figure out how to be a "city girl" and the experience so far is laughable.

I'm quite fond of lists, and since I've been lazy and haven't written a single word about my internship experience or what it's like to live with 16 other 20-somethings who are from all over the world, I shall chalk up the last two weeks in a series of lists! And then, maybe, just maybe, I will write something of substance from here on out. No promises.

- The first week, I was a nervous wreck. I tried to casually introduce myself to the other 20-somethings, and that didn't seem to be working for me. I've come to realize the people under this castle roof are like frozen eggs...hmm, that's kind of weird. They are like frozen onions! You have to take a butcher knife through seventeen layers before they crack a smile or talk to you in passing through the hallways.

- These people are from all over the world. Let me see if I can remember all the places: Uganda, Bangladesh, Russia, Texas, Rhode Island, Minnesota, Oregon, Florida, Idaho, Maryland, New York City...and I'm sure I'm forgetting some places.

- When you place people from all over the world in one house for an extended period of time, hell often breaks loose.

- Like during the first week, Laura (Rhode Island), found a cockroach in her bedroom and we all flipped out and went on a cockroach hunt. There are ten bedrooms in this place. They could be hiding anywhere, you know.

-  Fact: I am a neat freak. Another fact: Nobody else in this house is. Which means that when people use the kitchen they leave jelly smears on the island, and toast crumbs on the counter, and dishes piled in the sink, and dirty pots on the stove, and big bottles of whiskey and vodka on the dining room table that sometimes find themselves on their side and leaking stale liquid onto the hardwood floors....

- So, my OCD clicks in and I become a freaking maid.

-Conversation between Lipy (Bangladesh) and I from the other night:
Lipy: Aeriale, why do you always do their dishes?
Aeriale: I'm actually not an intern here. I'm getting paid 8 dollars an hour to clean up this house and to supplement that income, I prostitute on the corner of N and New Jersey Friday nights.
Lipy: ......
Aeriale: Yeah, yeah, I have problems, okay?
Lipy: You're making them lazy, you know.
Aeriale: No, they were already lazy. I'm just reinforcing negative behavior. I have OCD okay? I NEED CLEAN DISHES.
Lipy: *Shakes head*

- It took two weeks, but finally, some of the 20-somethings are starting to warm up. I've figured out the key! You sit at the dining room table while Leena (Uganda) is sitting there eating her plant food (I live with mostly vegetarians. I need more cow in my life. I've actually been eating tofu and enjoying it. My senses are screwing with me, hardcore) and watching some dating show with millionaires trying to hook up with other millionaires and stimulating conversations happen. Since I've been deprived of television for two weeks (because these people are always watching BET and CNN, two stations that I could care less about...) I sit down and am immediately engrossed.

We have a productive conversation, which goes like this:
Aeriale: Wow, she's really into him, huh?
Leena: Yep.
Aeriale: She only likes him for his money.
Leena: ....they are both millionaires. They both love money.
Aeriale: Oh, yes. So she likes him for his witty charm?
Leena: *Slight huff and rolling of the eyes* She obviously likes him for the sex.
Aeriale: How can you tell?
Leena: .....we can change the channel if you want.
Aeriale: No, I'm good with -
Leena: *Changes channel to CNN*
Aeriale: Yeah, so you work for a congressman, right?
Leena: We all work for congressmen and senators.
Aeriale: Sweet. I really don't know the first thing about politics.
Leena: *Standing up, hands me the remote* Yeah, so you can have this. I'm going out.

-It was definitely a start. I mean, I even got to control the television for .5 seconds until other people came in and started talking about the news. I live with 16 future politicians. And I have no idea who congressman so-and-so is. This is a bad thing.

This is just the beginning. I'm definitely more comfortable here now than I was two weeks ago. I'm a cooking fiend (believe it or not). I go out with Lipy and Laura and Enid on the weekends and we talk like we've known each other forever. Sometimes it's a bit rough. But mostly, it's enjoyable. It's like college all over again - and then there is the internship....