A quick trip to Virginia turned into a near disaster last month…well, sort of. I thought the most exciting part of my day would be singing with Mr. Bruce Springsteen (That’s right friends, I sang in a choir with him at the Lincoln Memorial concert for Obama. Boyeah), but as I headed to a friend’s place in Virginia, I turned a corner barely a mile from her house, and busted a tire on my sweet 1993 Tempo. Luckily, I was just feet away from a small Greek café called Plaka’s Grill.
I felt ok about the situation, I mean, I had a warm place to wait, my friend was on her way to meet me (I called her the second I got inside), and most importantly, I had AAA.
Trouble began when I realized I did not have my AAA card on me. I managed to call home and get a hold of my pop who gave me the number to call for emergency service. I dialed away, confident that I would be back on the road shortly. The phone rang and rang, until finally, a recorded message came on saying that “regional AAA services have been halted due to inclement weather. We apologize for the inconvenience.”
THE WHOLE POINT OF AAA IS TO HAVE IT DURING INCLEMENT WEATHER! (Not to mention that the conditions on this particular evening were absolutely clear)
At this point, I become quite anxious. It’s 10pm in sleepy Vienna, Va and I need to be back in D.C. in 7 hrs for the obscenely early concert rehearsal the next day. I ask for a phone book, to start calling garages to get towed, when I am told the restaurant doesn’t have one. It is this detail, the lack of a telephone book, which pushes me over the edge. I become a Hysterical Crying Girl, while my friend, who arrived minutes earlier, turns her head mouthing “oh, she’s fine,” to customers witnessing the scene.
I then begin to harass every male I come across, asking if they know how to change a tire (I know it’s sexist to ask only men, but panic tends to draw the political correctness from me). I come to find that tire changing has become a lost art, and not a single person I asked that evening was able to assist me.
All the while, there was this really nice fellow at the counter that my friend and I had ordered food from (I did not want to be considered a squatter), who noticed my trouble. This dude had seen me laugh, cry, and totally lose it, all within a 40 minute span. He then offered to change my tire, so long as I did not mind waiting till the place closed. I told him I most certainly did not mind waiting, and managed to restrain myself from kissing his feet.
A short time later, he closed up shop and got to work on my old Ford. He had no gloves, so I of course, offered him mine (which I have not washed again since). He worked for about 30 minutes in 20 degree weather and the car ran once again. I felt so indebted to him, but all he asked of me was to give his place a good review on Yelp, which I did. So to reiterate, if you find yourself in Vienna and craving a gyro, hit up Plaka’s grill. Mention my name and you’ll receive a free drink and a tune-up.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Feeling suicidal at David’s Bridal
A dear friend of mine is entering the fine institution of marriage and has bestowed upon me the honor of being one of her bridesmaids. Now I really am happy to be a part of her big day (and I am not just saying that because she is most likely reading this). The truth is, it really is an honor just to be nominated, er—I mean asked because photos from one’s wedding day last forever, sometime even longer than the marriage. What I mean to say is that I will most likely be gracing the mantle, piano, or banister wall of the happy couple for at least the next 50 years, so naturally, I want to look smokin’ good.
The bride had chosen her color months ago and told us we could select any style we wished, alleviating my initial anxiety of finding something flattering. After several weeks of friendly reminders from the bride, I headed to the store and, wanting to get it all over with early in the day (and before I could possibly eat or digest any calories), I waited outside the entrance for the clock to strike eleven, the magic opening hour. I entered the store and immediately felt like a Disney princess in her castle closet. I was surrounded by satin, chiffon, and taffeta in every shade of the rainbow, from plum purple to goose grey. I immediately began to pull dresses off the rack, twirling around on my tippy toes and wrapping myself in the trains of sparkly, gleaming gowns.
My personal shopper Charlotte (that’s right, the store assigns every customer to a shopper who assists them with the difficult challenge of changing clothes) told me all the dresses could be done in any color. After forty minutes of zipping this and tying that, I settled on three finalists. These were dresses that I actually liked and possibly, under certain circumstances (for instance, should I be invited the Whitehouse Easter Egg Roll), might wear again. However, Charlotte soon broke to me the bad news. She had been mistaken and none of the eight dresses I tried on came in the bride’s chosen shade, “Pearl Pink.” Slightly disgruntled, I asked Charlotte to bring me the dresses that did come in the crimson hue, while I waited in the dressing room half naked. (The dressing room mind you, did not have a door but instead, two swatches of fabric barely big enough to meet in the middle, fastened together by a binder clip). It is there that I anxiously await Charlotte’s return, crestfallen when she comes back with a paltry two dresses. I sigh and choose the one that is the least clingy, chalking the loss of my dress dignity to merely the trials of being yet another bridesmaid.
I proceed to the register where I am filling out the dress order form, when the woman at the cashier asks if I have been measured. I said I had not, since the sample dress fit fine, but she says no, all customers must be measured. It is at this point, so close to goal line that I suffer my game ending fatal fumble. Right there, in the third circle of hell, otherwise known as David’s Bridal, not one, not two, but three sales associates spring at me and begin to measure every inch. One is at my hips, the other my waist, and the third is, in all honesty, spending just a tad too much time at my bust. My literal nightmare was coming true, and right in the middle of the showroom floor. I manage to squirm from the reins of their measuring tapes, pay my bill, and escape, ecstatic that I got out of there in one emotional piece. However, it is then that I remember I must to return in six weeks to pick up the dress…..though on second thought, maybe I’ll just have it delivered.
The bride had chosen her color months ago and told us we could select any style we wished, alleviating my initial anxiety of finding something flattering. After several weeks of friendly reminders from the bride, I headed to the store and, wanting to get it all over with early in the day (and before I could possibly eat or digest any calories), I waited outside the entrance for the clock to strike eleven, the magic opening hour. I entered the store and immediately felt like a Disney princess in her castle closet. I was surrounded by satin, chiffon, and taffeta in every shade of the rainbow, from plum purple to goose grey. I immediately began to pull dresses off the rack, twirling around on my tippy toes and wrapping myself in the trains of sparkly, gleaming gowns.
My personal shopper Charlotte (that’s right, the store assigns every customer to a shopper who assists them with the difficult challenge of changing clothes) told me all the dresses could be done in any color. After forty minutes of zipping this and tying that, I settled on three finalists. These were dresses that I actually liked and possibly, under certain circumstances (for instance, should I be invited the Whitehouse Easter Egg Roll), might wear again. However, Charlotte soon broke to me the bad news. She had been mistaken and none of the eight dresses I tried on came in the bride’s chosen shade, “Pearl Pink.” Slightly disgruntled, I asked Charlotte to bring me the dresses that did come in the crimson hue, while I waited in the dressing room half naked. (The dressing room mind you, did not have a door but instead, two swatches of fabric barely big enough to meet in the middle, fastened together by a binder clip). It is there that I anxiously await Charlotte’s return, crestfallen when she comes back with a paltry two dresses. I sigh and choose the one that is the least clingy, chalking the loss of my dress dignity to merely the trials of being yet another bridesmaid.
I proceed to the register where I am filling out the dress order form, when the woman at the cashier asks if I have been measured. I said I had not, since the sample dress fit fine, but she says no, all customers must be measured. It is at this point, so close to goal line that I suffer my game ending fatal fumble. Right there, in the third circle of hell, otherwise known as David’s Bridal, not one, not two, but three sales associates spring at me and begin to measure every inch. One is at my hips, the other my waist, and the third is, in all honesty, spending just a tad too much time at my bust. My literal nightmare was coming true, and right in the middle of the showroom floor. I manage to squirm from the reins of their measuring tapes, pay my bill, and escape, ecstatic that I got out of there in one emotional piece. However, it is then that I remember I must to return in six weeks to pick up the dress…..though on second thought, maybe I’ll just have it delivered.
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