In which I discuss this afternoon's activities

FROM THE BEGINNING of any relationship, toothbrush etiquette is important. When is it okay to start bringing your toothbrush? When is it okay to leave it there? When does it become your responsibility to replace the other person’s toothbrush at your place? And most recently, what am I supposed to do with the ex/boyfriend's toothbrush now that he’s moved to New York? In a compromise I considered appropriate for our current "understanding," the toothbrush had recently started shuttling out and in of the medicine cabinet: out of the cabinet before he arrived for one of his many weekend visits, and back in when he left and we were supposedly not together.

The ex/boyfriend and I progressed quickly from the “Hello, nice to meet you” stage to the “I am providing you a toothbrush” stage, in large part because I think it’s only charitable and the mark of a good host to provide even a quasi-significant other with their own toothbrush. And if we’re being honest, (A) I have no interest in kissing your morning mouth, thank you, and (B) under no circumstances are you using my toothbrush. My tongue may slut around with every mouth in town, but my toothbrush will know one mouth and one mouth only.

From there, it was a hop skip and about 8 weeks to, “I am replacing this for you, and for that matter, here’s a replacement for your other one at home because that one is a big ol’ mess too.”

Then, earlier this week, in a moment I was sure was rife with symbolic meaning, I used the ex/boyfriend’s toothbrush to clean the mysteriously orange-colored stuff around my bathroom sink faucet that had suddenly crossed the border between “chill out, no one notices this shit but you” and “mother of god, this must go immediately.” While cleaning, I daydreamed. In one of those reveries in which you try on a scenario to see how it might fit were it to come to pass, I imagined the conversation that might ensue when the ex/boyfriend returned to find his toothbrush had become a cleaning utensil.

“Babe? Where’s my toothbrush?”

“Oh, I used to it to clean the sink,” I would say from the other room, the very embodiment of poise and calm. In fact, I imagined myself sitting on a bed covered in a white comforter, surrounded by plump white pillows. This bed bears no resemblance to my actual bed, mind you.

“You did?” he would ask, coming out of the bathroom, eyes big moons of confusion and the beginnings of hurt.

“Well, we’re not really boyfriends any more, are we? So I felt funny having your toothbrush here.”

And then we would have that discussion we’ve been avoiding, the one about what exactly we’re doing and whether our "understanding" is working for each of us. Maybe we would cry. And maybe I would feel badly for so heartlessly using his toothbrush as a grime removal device, and I would dash out to the 24/7 CVS around the corner and buy him a new one. In the rain. And then we would make out. After he brushed his teeth.


TWO DAYS AGO, I learned that the ex/boyfriend is coming down this coming weekend, and suddenly my using his toothbrush to neaten up and thereby spark a conversation I'm not prepared to have at this juncture became the Wrong Thing to Do. Standing in the bathroom, holding his now gray (and, again, strangely orange-colored) toothbrush, I immediately decided I had to buy him another toothbrush. While I’m at it, I thought, glancing at my own toothbrush, mine could stand to be replaced as well.

When I got to the CVS, I headed directly to the toothbrush section. Or as directly as anyone heads anywhere in CVS. I think it’s actually impossible to find what you’re looking for with any sort of alacrity, as there seems to be neither rhyme nor reason to drug store product placement. Regardless, I eventually found the toothbrushes, and it hit me: there are far too many toothbrush options.

Do I want a compact, regular, or full head? Do I want soft, medium, or firm bristles? Do I want a narrow handle that curves, or a bulbous monstrosity that couldn’t fit through my door, much less the holes in my toothbrush holder? Do I want it in normal red, deep red, bright red, or some shade in between? Do I want to do all the work myself, or do I want Dora the Explorer to do the work for me? Do I want my bristles to be of uniform material, length and direction, or do I want them to be a jumbled mess designed to hit every nook and cranny from every angle, massage my gums, and straighten my bottom teeth?

The problem with having this many choices for something like a toothbrush is that, through trial and error, you eventually figure out the exact type you prefer. The truth is that I’ve developed quite an attachment to a toothbrush that I think acknowledges the advancement in toothbrush technology, while still nodding at classic toothbrush design: the bristles are arranged in a ridged pattern, with a clump of longer bristles at the top to really get at those back teeth, and a patch of those blue bristles that let you know when it’s time to trade it in for a newer model. For a good two years, I’ve been able to find this toothbrush without fail, in my preferred blue no less, which I have considered a testament to my good taste.

(I've even been able to find it in red -- just plain red -- for the ex/boyfriend. Who, it bears mentioning, has the exact same toothbrush preferences as I do.)

That is, I was able to find that toothbrush without fail until today. Today I visited no less than three drugs stores in a fruitless attempt to find my preferred toothbrush, and ultimately wound up settling on these totally bland CVS brand disappointments in his and his navy and light blue.

All of which is to say, I’m stocking up on toothpaste.

Brian Boitano takes it to the streets

ON MY WAY to take my GMATs this morning, I saw a man on rollerblades weaving in and out of lanes on a very busy thoroughfare in Washington. He wasn't wearing a helmet. This sort of blantant disregard for personal safety brings out mixed emotions in me. One part of me wants to grab the person and shake them and tell them to be careful before something terrible happens. Another part of me secretly wants it to.

As I watched, expecting/fearing/wishing for him to be mauled by a car before my very eyes, I realized in horror that he was doing a full ice capades routine, right down Connecticut Avenue. He zoomed up ahead with powerful strokes, and then crouched down and pooched his butt out, spreading his arms wide and waving from side to side with one of those faux euphoric smile plastered on his face.

When I first noticed him (and, really, how could you not?), he had the road all to himself and he was making use of three full lanes. Moments later, however, the cars came up behind him and began honking, which he misinterpreted as encouragement. He smiled more broadly, and – I shit you not – lifted one leg off the ground while waving at an imagined crowd. 30,000 invisible elderly women swooned.

Do you know what I have to say to that?

Gay.

Scoping a Disaster

YESTERDAY was the one year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina's landfall. The media commemorated the anniversary with stories that tried to parse out how much progress has been made thus far, whether there should have been more or less, and (depending on where you stand on that issue) who deserves the blame or praise. There was also a lot of commentary asking why the devastation on the Gulf Coast hasn't been bigger news over the course of the past year.

I've wondered about that as well, especially as we approach the five year anniversary of 9/11, which has been commemorated with two major motion pictures and countless TV specials. A lot of folks are quick to jump on the media (as if the media were a single person), and I do think that the fact that 9/11 took place in the nation's media hub is certainly pertinent.

I wonder, however, whether the disparity isn't primarily a result of the vastly different scopes of the two disasters. 9/11 happened fast, while we all watched, and although the motivations of someone who would murder for political purposes are hard to parse and fathom, 9/11 happened on a human scale. It was a human act, and if for that reason only, somehow more comprehensible. Katrina, on the other hand, was a series of catastrophes and failures in the face of an impersonal force of nature that took place over days.

I lived in New York City the summer after 9/11, down in the Financial District. When friends would come to visit, we would walk over to Ground Zero, through the vendors already selling memorabilia, and stare through the chainlink fence at the massive hole in the ground where the towers used to stand. The memories were fresh, but in a way they were contained and processed on the tip of Manhattan.

Katrina washed away tens of thousands of homes, wiping out entire neighborhoods and ripping apart communities. Everyone who comes back from New Orleans talks about the incomprehensible destruction. Where do you contain something like Katrina?

Ultimately, everything failed in New Orleans, the entire social fabric; in New York, the horror of that day was cut through with stories of hope and faith.

Maybe less has been said about Katrina because we just don't know what to say, because it's too big, too hard to understand. And maybe, on some level, we know that despite our very best efforts, disasters like Katrina are ultimately beyond our control, and that too is too difficult to accept.

It's Complicated

MY EX/BOYFRIEND recently moved to New York City, and, as I mentioned a couple of posts earlier, I live in Washington, DC. When he left, after much hemming and hawing, we decided to leave things on a “when we’re together, we’re together, when we’re not, we’re not” basis. It’s a situation where the rules are fairly clear but the emotions are anything but.

Our relationship is teetering on that borderline between uncertain and all fucked up, but we’re continuing along as if nothing has changed, which only makes things more bizarro. We talk every day about the nothing that only people in a relationship can talk about, and yet are apparently allowed to sleep with other people. I’ve seen him four of the past six weekends, and will see him for three of the next three, and yet we are allowed at some mysterious point on these weekends to go on dates with other people. I convince myself that he’s dead in a gutter when I haven’t heard from him and send him panicked text messages (“How’s yr day? I’m good. R U ALIVE?”), and yet we are supposed to be okay with not saying goodnight every night.

We haven’t broached the subject of what is going on, in large part because (A) he lives his life in a state of “what, me worry?” and (B) because I’m from Connecticut, where no topic is too large to swallow with a nice glass of whatever you have handy. I’m mulling our situation over at all times without raising the issue or drawing any sort of meaningful conclusion and he is, to put it plainly, not.

But that’s one of my favorite things about him. His tendency to over-think almost nothing is a good balance for my tendency to over-think, say, what to eat the night before my GMAT (salmon) or how many different cheeses I can keep in my fridge to maximize variety while minimizing spoiling (five, if you don’t count shredded or sliced cheese and you don’t get anything fancy that goes downhill fast).

I suppose the situation, as half-baked and unsatisfying as it may feel, is working. I have a lot of “hamster on a wheel” thinking to do, and I’m sure he’s just glad I’m not weirding the fuck out.

Or at least, no more so than usual.

Staying Pretty

I HAVE A TENDENCY to be somewhat absentminded, and to do mildly idiotic things with startling frequency. When I was still living at home, I would notice my parents staring at me a little google eyed and shaking their heads. When I asked what was up, they would inevitably say something along the lines of, "For someone so smart, you sure do a lot of stupid shit." My friends here in DC have a more cutting response to this behavior. When I do something vaguely stupid, someone will look at me and sweetly say, "Aw. You're pretty."

I just had a distinctly pretty moment. I've been studying for the GMATs (a rare treat, like a laxative brownie), and have for weeks been planning my life around a test date of Wednesday, August 30th. I scheduled time off from work, planned my study schedule accordingly, and so forth. It's Sunday night and I just realized that my test is, in fact, on Thursday, August 31st. Nice job, Einstein. Whenever it is, lets try to remember to wear pants on test day, okay?

But it's a small miracle if you remember in the morning

WHY IS IT that when you are taking someone home from a bar, conversation gets awkward as soon as you walk out onto the street? You could have been chatting the person up for hours, playing the game, saying the cute things you say, testing the waters, stepping in and stepping back, and then the moment the two of you step out onto the sidewalk, this happens:

"So... my place is this way."
"Okay."
Silence. Walking.
"So... what's your last name?"

Which, of course, is probably something you should have known already.

Like a Flower, Opening

ONE OF THE BEST THINGS about living in a city is that you get to know your neighborhood a little more every day. I happen to live in Washington, DC, but for the purposes of this post I could live anywhere. Each new facet makes the neighborhood feel more like home: the Italian barber holding a haircut fundraiser for a mayoral candidate, the to-die-for chicken salad at the deli around the corner, the long-awaited sighting of the middle-aged douchebag who drives that obnoxious orange sports car. The little things reveal themselves and I'm charmed.

My most recent revelation took place this morning. I was out of my apartment early for a Saturday, and was apparently hitting the streets at a prime dog-walking hour. I swear, it was like a 3:1 dog to human ratio on the sidewalk. I've always been perplexed by those people who have one huge dog and one small dog -- was one a surprise? A mistake? Did it appear with a pacifier and a hastily scribbled note in a basket at the doorstep? I mean, don't most people have a preference about these things?

Regardless, I digress. The revelation. I'm walking up the street on the way to the bank and I see not one, not two, but three dogs piss on the exact same spot on the curb, one right after the other. And on my way back, there's another dog pissing on the same spot! And then it's like the scales have fallen from my eyes and I realize that there are dark, dry stains all over the sidewalk -- on a curb, next to a tree, next to a (how cliche is this?) fire hydrant. A veritable epidemic of canine piss stains, baking and calcifying in the sun until the next rain. Check it out for yourself in your neighborhood. I swear, once you know where those stains are coming from, it'll change everything.

Also, I saw a man wiping his dog's asshole with a paper napkin. Seriously? Get a life.

Another Idiot with a Keyboard

WHO KNEW this would be so painless? I'd been considering starting a blog for awhile now, but held off, thinking blogging would require a level of technological sophistication beyond my limited capabilities. But I guess it's true what they say: any jackass with an internet connection and half a brain can vomit their thoughts out for the world to see.

Hello Internet, nice to meet you. Let me apologize in advance about your shoes. Do you promise to hold my hair back when the going gets rough?