Pizzas and POW MIAS: Late Spring is Here!

I just saw my first POW-MIA biker dude, which means only one thing: Memorial Day weekend has officially begun. If you're from DC, you definitely know what I'm talking about; the POW-MIA biker dudes are the guys who strap American and black flags to the backs of their Harleys (and they must be Harleys; these guys are not Kawasaki types) and descend upon Washington the last full weekend in May. They congregate at the Mall and, specifically, the Vietnam Wall, to commemorate their buddies who fell in that war.

I wonder if, in 20-odd years, there will be the same kind of remembrance for soldiers who fell in Iraq. Must every generation have a war, leaders of America? Mmmm?

In other news, a new wood-burning pizza restaurant has opened in downtown Rockville. Now, to say that Mr. P and I like pizza, esp. that of the wood-burning oven, would be a gross and unfair understatement. People, we LIVE for pizza. Not proud of that, but there you go. The crunchy and delicate crust, the gooey and salty buffalo mozzarella, and the rich tomato sauce all combined together is one of this life's greatest pleasures. The best in DC is Two Amy's, with Pizza Paradiso in 2nd. And now we have the same thing in Rockville! BUT... and this is a big but...(sorry for that)...at the Rockville establishment, you must pay extra for the olive oil. In my opinion, and I know I am not alone here, pizza of this kind is only complete when either slathered in, or dipped in, olive oil. To not provide this liberally is just un-American. Technically, that would be un-Italian, but you get the picture.

Home, Sweet Home

Last night I slept in my bedroom again, in an actual bed for the first time in approximately 1 1/2 years. That's right: one and a half years. All this time we have been remodeling (read: destroying, puttering about, thinking about, destroying some more, constructing, lagging, constructing more, and generally tinkering with) our home, and all this time we have been living like refugees in the sloped-roof rooms of the upstairs, sleeping on our mattress, which has remained on the floor. Not even in college did I ever sleep on the floor. But now, with the sockets rewired, insulation installed, new walls and ceiling in place, skim-coated, and painted, we are proud to rest our tired bodies in a new master suite, the most beautiful room Mr. P and I have ever resided in together. This room alone is about 1/4 of the total house, which we will completely renovate at some point in our lifetime. In a few days (God willing) the living room will be in the same shape as the bedroom, and in no more than a few months (God willing), the master bathroom will also be complete.

If you are considering renovating your own home, here is some advice: get a reality show to do it for you. Seriously. Even if you have to rent kids and pretend to be an ideal family or whatever criteria they're looking for, home remodeling is not for the squeamish, the neurotically neat, the faint of heart, or the fatalist. A self remodel is only for one kind of personality: someone who is patient, conscientious, detail-oriented, intelligent, electrically and aesthetically inclined, and insane.

The "insane" part is really important.

Friday Musings: Good News Friday

I was cast in a show! A DC Fringe show, no less (just what I wanted!). And furthermore, it's a musical - an opera, technically, although a contemporary one. I'm an ensemble/multiple role player, so I think it will be low-pressure and hopefully fun and interesting. So, I have two musical performances on the docket for this summer, plus a fair amount of church singing, which means I'm going to be a busy, busy girl.

Burning the Man: Step Away from Iron

I have come to the conclusion that working for someone else is like babysitting someone else's kids. You may like the parents, you may like the kids, but in the end, do you really care if the kids go buck wild and start hanging from the chandelier naked? As long as the parents don't see it; or if they do see it, it's because they're home, and the kids are no longer your responsibility. Not that you don't try to avoid this kind of behavior, of course; you try very hard- in your paid hours - to instill in them discipline and good manners. You try to run a tight ship as long as you're in charge, because otherwise, they will eat you alive.

I worked for two years as a nanny, and it may have been both the best and worst thing I ever did. On the one hand, it about killed my desire to ever bear offspring. On the other hand, I learned many of the joyous, disgusting, crazy and scary aspects of childcare. (Thus: killing my desire to bear offspring.) The greatest advantage to the work was also the greatest drawback: these were not my children. People used to say, when seeing my tongue dragging the floor after only five hours with one of those boys, "it's different when they're your own." Of course it's different! You can't give them back! Also: you love them, more than you can love any living person.

But this post isn't about kids. It's about working for the man. Or the woman, or whatever the case may be. Do you really and truly care about the fate of an organization that is not lawfully your own? Is it not hard to walk away from it when you have had no control of its direction to begin with? Do I sound like Carrie from Sex and the City clicking away on my laptop with these inane questions?

Fine. All I'm saying is, four months at a job is too soon to be filleting a fish at my desk a la Office Space. Or is it?? I'm tired of being a glorified servant. It may be time to go to work for myself.

Joyeaux anniversaire a moi

When I lived in France, I loved having my birthday, because it was a national holiday: "Victory Day," or the day France was liberated from Nazi occupation at the end of WWII. Today, May 8, is my birthday, and this year I turn the same age as Marilyn Monroe and Princess Diana were at the time of their death. Happy thought! Good thing I'm not a blonde, royal, uber-famous bombshell.

Mozart was also almost my age at the time of his death.

I share birthdays with Melissa Gilbert, Enrique Iglesias, and Ray Whitney (same year), a Canadian ice hockey player, whom I don't know, but he is very cute.

My horoscope for this coming year suggests that powerful, transformative energy is at my disposal this year, but the results will depend on how I handle it. Channeled positively, I could "move mountains," but if mishandled, I could be argumentative, stressed, and hell-bent on having my way. Well, that would explain a lot.

Yikes, now I see that Anna Nicole Smith was also this age at her death. Sounds like for this year, more than anything, I better watch my back.

Edited to add:
I just heard this chant, from a woman in my office who shares my b-day:

Hooray, hooray for the 8th of May!
Hooray, it's outdoor intercourse day!

I'm going to pick up so much more traffic for that language.