Never trust a big butt and a smile

Yesterday at work, I was talking on the phone to someone about a case I'm working on, when he somewhat randomly declared the following rule of life: Never trust a man in a cape.

I hadn't been expecting him to say anything about capes, because that usually doesn't come up in business conversations. But, I was impressed with his matter of fact style and conviction. And his follow up story about seeing a man in a cape at a poetry reading had me giggling.

Fortunately, I was able to restrain myself from actually discussing the merits of capes, or launching into my longstanding debate about capes versus cloaks. I agreed with the man about the omen of a man in a cape, although secretly I was thinking that a cape is so much better than a cloak.

Lately, I've been concerned that I'm no longer capable of having interesting small talk. (For the perfect example, I need only remind you of the dinner party crash and burn.) And I wondered whether it was time to bring back the old topics of cape versus cloak, or sherpa versus scribe, or my favorite -- what would whale taste like? (I had a theory that it would be like bacon, but later internet research proved it's like chicken.)

When I was clerking right after law school, I remember when we'd have conversations at lunch with the other clerks where it was not unusual to hear someone say something like, "The Constitution is a speedbump..." As much as I loved my lunch companions -- they sent me telegrams for my 27th birthday, how awesome -- another clerk and I used to beg everyone to limit their conversations to things that did or could appear in the purple section of USA Today or People magazine.

Now 10 years later, I somewhere lost the urge to talk about whales or monkeys with fezzes. Last night, at happy hour, someone started talking about a degressive corporate tax. I didn't even try to switch the topic to The Real Housewives of New York City. (Of course, I hadn't seen this week's episode yet.)

I suppose I'm maturing, but if this is 35, I'm not going.

If You Get Caught Between the Moon and New York City

I just returned from a whirwind trip up to NYC, my first trip back in almost a year. It was exhausting, but great, great fun. Good shopping, good food, and most importantly, lots of good friends.

While I was visiting, it was the first time I ever wondered whether I made a mistake leaving New York. On the whole, I've been pretty content since I moved to DC. But, I don't think I've ever been as happy in DC -- or had so many drinks -- as I was hanging out in NYC this weekend.

I have been mulling over it a lot in the past 24 hours, and I've reached the conclusion that it's probably not New York that I miss, as much as I miss all my friends. I was able to see a bunch of people that I haven't seen in over a year. And, there were still a number of really good friends that I wanted to see but couldn't figure out how to fit it all in. (Next time.) If everyone from NYC lived in DC, I suspect I'd feel differently.

Still, as I was driving back in to DC this evening, and the sun was setting, I noticed that the cherry blossoms were starting to bloom. I thought how soon I'd be able to lounge outside on my patio, which is something NY apartments didn't offer, unless you had a trust fund.

Of course, just as I was smiling at the thoughts of the cherry blossoms blooming and my tree sprouting new leaves, I stumbled across a donut that someone had left on my front steps. (Interestingly, they ate the outside layer of bread and left the entire inside -- which doesn't seem very easy to do.) I suppose I could have let the trash on my front step sour my fragile enthusiasm for DC, but I decided pastrys on your front door are a good omen, even if half-eaten.

Now I'm just left trying to figure out the mystery of how half-eaten donuts fit in with all the other trash that I've found on my street, such as the tequila bottles, cut-off shorts, and electrical cord. It reminds me of this bit from Sesame Street when I was a kid, where Sherlock Hemlock found a bunch of trash and tried to figure out what kind of twiddlebug party had gone down. I'm entertaining any unifying theories.

You Ever Been to Bonus Eye-res? I Hunger for the Argentines...

A couple of years ago, I hatched my Law & Order guest star theory: Whenever you see someone on Law & Order who is famous, but wasn't necessarily famous when the role was filmed, you can be sure that the almost-famous person is the killer. Time and time again, this has proven to be true. In fact, it's disappointing when you start watching the show, see Laura Linney, and realize who did it. (As if you didn't have it memorized already.)

So, I was watching a Law & Order SVU that I had recorded earlier in the week. Special Guest Star: Carol Burnett. I wondered if Carol Burnett would be the murderess. Because, I used to have a corollary to my L&O Guest Star theory, which was that famous people who showed up on SVU weren't necessarily the culprits, because who wants to play a pervy killer.

But Carol Burnett. The lady is has just enough moxy to agree to play a pervy SVU killer. I heart Carol Burnett. I love Carol Burnett. Not necessarily because of her show, or the later tragedy that was Mama's Family. I love Carol Burnett from when she played Miss Hannigan in the movie Annie. Other little girls dreamed of playing little orphan annie? I wanted to be like Carol Burnett and play Miss Hannigan. Much more character. Much more bathtub gin. In fact, I think the origin of my lifelong desire to go to Argentina is the duet that CB sings with Daddy Warbucks.

But I digress. I taped the SVU to watch Carol Burnett. I thought she could be a killer, or maybe not. And then. Then. I saw the listing that showed that CB's nephew was being played on the episode by special guest star Matthew Lillard. And then I was torn -- would CB be the murderer, or Matthew Lillard. Would my theory be blown to pieces by the two guest stars.

It all worked out well, though. Theory intact. Both of them were the murderers. And creepy as all get out. CB was a cross between Miss Havisham and Debra Winger in Black Widow. Matthew Lillard was like Tom Ripley crossed with Adolf Hitler. It was ridiculous. Check it out.



Creeeeep-eeeee.

Although that ice blue sweater is kind of nice.

Ham bone, Ham bone

My roofer was here this morning to install a new skylight.

Last year, when I lived in an apartment, I could never say a sentence like that, as I owned neither a roof nor a skylight. Now, not only do roofers come to my house, but I actually call them "my" roofer.

It's just like Eldin the painter on Murphy Brown. Which may actually be the best part of having a roofer. If I ever make a sitcom of my life, I'm set. None of my neighbors at my current residence are wacky enough to qualify as the wacky neighbor. But I've got a roofer (to be played by Tracy Morgan) who can come by periodically to do things, and maybe make a wisecrack or two at my expense. People who watch the show will wonder briefly why my roof is never done, but then they won't care because the roofer is just too much fun.

Anyway, my roofer, Bernie, was here this morning, and we got to chatting while he was touching up some paint outside my house that got marked up while they were putting in the roof a few weeks ago. (See why the roof is never done -- one project leads to another.) Bernie mentioned to me that when they were working on the roof, they were practically beating off seagulls. Also, the roof was full of chicken bones. (Isn't the mental picture just prime for a sitcome of my life?)

Bernie said that he thought that all the chicken bones were brought onto the roof by the birds. Which was a timely explanation, since my very unwacky friend and neighbor, Steph, had commented only yesterday about how many chicken bones her dog finds in the neighborhood.

Her dog is lucky, since most of my recent finds suggest something much more sordid going on my block. I hatched a theory last night -- when I couldn't find a parking spot close to my house -- that someone on the block was hosting late night parties involving chicken, tequila, extension cords, smirnoff minis, and possibly condoms. But my roofer shot the chicken part to bits. Apparently the chicken bones are from the birds, and who knows about all the other stuff.

But the weird things is -- where do the birds find all the chicken bones? And do they know that when they eat poultry what they are doing is akin to eating a second cousin once removed?

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

A few nights ago, I went to a dinner party where I knew only two of the nearly two dozen guests. Although normally those odds would leave me with a case of gripping party fear and cause me to call the host with a sudden and contagious case of the whooping cough, I felt like I couldn't back out of a dinner party -- and besides, it's a great way to force me to practice my ever languishing small talk skills.

It turns out a number of people were in the same boat, knowing only the hostess and maybe one other person. Thus, it was little surprise when my table -- yes, there were multiple tables -- had a hard time getting conversation going. It seemed like each attempt to make polite conversation was, quite incredibly, worse than the last. Talk of politics drifted into talk of the Octomom, which should have been lighthearted. But that ended abruptly with a comment about abortion. Someone tried to switch topics by talking about Rihanna and Chris Brown, which lead to a story about a domestic violence victim killed by her boyfriend. Which in turn led one guest to say that the only thing worse was to talk about human trafficking -- which she then used as a segue to talk about...human trafficking.

You could blame the fact that we don't know each other. Or you could blame it all on me -- truth be told, I was the one who brought the conversation to a grinding stop with comments about abortion and homicide. (Okay -- so the small talk skills are really languishing.) But frankly, I blame television -- or lack thereof.

None of this would have been a problem if the other people at the table actually watched television. When I tried to talk about Top Chef -- a perfect topic for a dinner party, and a chance to trot out phrases like "flavor profiles" and molecular gastronomy -- everyone stared at me blankly. Nor had anyone seen the Today Show's extensive coverage of the Octomom (featuring Ann Curry), including the pre-Angelina Jolie photos, where she looked like an average person.

When I tried to steer the conversation to the safe, popular topic of television, no one would bite. One person said -- as I so often hear these days -- oh, I never, ever watch television. And that was that. No one else would speak up and admit they even own a television, let alone occasionally watch the thing. Except for me. I responded -- Oh, I love television so much I want to marry it (or something like that).

Over the years, there's always been one person in a crowd who'll say they don't own a television, or don't own a dress, or whatever. I expect that. There's always an elbow-patch intellectual or tree-hugging hippie in every crowd. But when did the tide turn. What happened to all my tivo-loving friends, who see no problem with accidentally getting sucked into an America's Next Top Model marathon. When did it become so bourgeois for regular folk to admit to watching television? And if no one is watching television, who are all the people out there on the Internet writing passionately about Lost?

Whatever. There's no shame in watching The Mentalist. (Okay, maybe a little shame, but not enough to stop watching.) So, the next social function I attend where someone proudly says they don't watch television, I'm going to proudly respond that I watch television. That I'm addicted to television. And then, I'm going to admit that most days I drive the whopping 13 blocks to work instead of walking, that I watched The Real Housewives reunion instead of the presidential address, and that I have, on a few occasions, worn a pair of socks twice without washing.

At least that will get the conversation going.