Color me content

Spring is officially here. My clocks have all sprung ahead, days are longer, and the studded tires are off my car. These are all good signs, but we all know what the number one sign is that it's spring.

I'll give you a hint: Thin Mints.

That's right. The girls are back, peddling their wares.

I love Girl Scout Cookies. And since I feel that my money is going to a good cause (what do Girl Scouts do? I actually don't know, nor do I care, as long as my Samoas keep a'comin'), I feel perfectly justified in buying multiple boxes.

This morning for breakfast, I had scrambled eggs and three Thin Mints. And I was so happy. Probably won't be as happy tomorrow when I feel that I need to add another mile to my jog to counteract the devilish cookies, but I say live in the now. And it's Girl Scout Cookie time now.

My All-O'Mear-ican Adventure

Ok, so I'm not dead. Not that any of you were probably thinking that I was dead, but you never know. I've just been busy. In the future, if you think I need to be posting more regularly (because we all like to be regular), I respond well to cash incentives. Just saying.

I think I'll quickly recap my trip to O'Meara's and then maybe later this weekend or next week I can get all caught up everywhere.

So O'Meara's isn't so much in D.C. as it is way the hell out there. Which means Metro doesn't do it. You have to catch a train. Which I did. And check with the conductor on return times. Which I also did. And actually listen to what he says. Which I didn't.

I blame the excitement of going to O'Meara's. Or my five-second memory. Or my borderline retardation.* Luckily, while at O'Meara's I had no clue of the trouble it was going to take to get back to College Park. So I enjoyed my lunch worry-free.

Good enough food. Excellent drinks. Decor, whatever. Saved by the gi-normous picture of Don. After eating, I purchased my souvenirs, bid farewell to probably my best chance of seeing Don, and headed back to the train station. I meandered through downtown Manassas, went into some stores, and thought about how the North totally kicked the South's ass. Sorry, you dirty rebs.

Then I waited at the train station for 45 minutes, before some guy informed my that on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, the Virginia Railway Express doesn't go back to D.C. after 3:15. It was Monday at 4:50. Do the math.

A cab to the nearest Metro would have been about $50, so this nice New Jersey-come-Southerner (whose name I can't remember, surprise, so I'll call him Rhett Soprano) offered to drive me. Remember how your parents always said don't accept rides from strangers? Great advice. Until you are stuck in Virgina with the looming possibility of paying a $50 cab fare.

So I hopped right into his car. No one tell my father. Rhett Soprano then drove me the 40 minutes to the Metro. How nice is that? Clearly, Father does not always know best. Hey, does that mean that I can start taking candy from strangers? I already take it from babies. It's pretty easy.

So that was my Don and Mike adventure. And since I forgot the coaster I had promised someone, some people might call this adventure a "disappointment." Something they probably won't repeat if they are currently enjoying their O'Meara's pint glass.

Sorry, we're out of time!

*Which, yes, is offensive. Welcome to my site and my world.

There's no place like the ghetto

D.C. Our nation's capital. Home of tall monuments, good restaurants, numerous museums, Don and Mike, and political naughtiness like there's no tomorrow. And two of the juicier naughtiness--Scooter's verdict and army hospital sanitary measures that make Christmas trees on my front lawn seem kind of okay--went down while I was there. And I'm proud to be an American. Oh, D.C.

Ok, so I researched. Crazy-exciting. Fill in the rest yourselves so I can move on to . . .

Ace's touristy escapades in the District. Hit the mall to see the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the Vietnam Memorial, and the Korean War Memorial (which is so creepy, by the way. I don't know why I go see it, since I always have nightmares about the larger-than-life soldier statutes coming alive and killing me). FYI, the reflecting pool, not so much reflecting as it was empty. So really just a long concrete ditch. Disappointing.

And I had to see the WWII Memorial, since that was new since my last visit. I was loathe to do so, because of its connection with Holier-Than-Thou Tom Hanks, but saw it I did. It was alright.

Then I went to the museums. The National Gallery is always of favorite of mine, even though it makes me feel that my stick figure drawings are less than beautiful. Apparently, my talents do not extend to drawing. Just ask Laura. She gets at least one drawing a day, telling her I'm hungry or I need coffee or I'm bored or all of the above.

Let's see. The American Indian Museum is excellent and Air and Space is always a winner. The Portrait Gallery might be my new favorite, if only for the portrait of Elvis. The Holocaust Memorial Museum is a must-see, but, shockingly, it is a bit of a downer. Waterproof mascara recommended for the ladies. And, so I don't look sexist, for some of the men.*

I'll post on my O'Meara's adventure later, but let me just mention two highlights from the overall trip. Number one, when flying home yesterday, I saw an Elvis Tribute Artis at O'Hare. Suh-weet. Number two, my hotel neighbors for the last two nights were newlyweds. On the bright side, they save me some cash on pay-per-view. Kidding.

I was pretty ready to be home. My cat was happy to see me. I wasn't sure if she would recognize me, and I was wondering if I was obligated to keep her if she didn't. But she did, so moot point. I did miss her, though. And it was nice to be greeted so happily by here when I walked through the door.

I'm deciding if I'm going on another road trip later this week. How sad is it that I'm basing my ultimate decision on how mad I think my cat will be if I take off again?

Welcome home, Ace.

*For the record, Robert Smith is the only man who can really get away with make-up. And we all know it.

Just desserts

I'm too tired to type today. Let's just say I had a bit of an adventure using local transportation to get to a certain radio personality's pub and had to rely on the kindness of a stranger. More on that later.

For now, I'll just say that Mississippi mud pie is delicious and I am the proud owner of an O'Meara's pint glass. For now.

Early Bird specials

All right. A week in D.C. (read: a week not in Pullman) quickly erases bad traveling memories. So people who think I'm being punished for my Blue Hawaii Tour 2007 are wrong.

Ok, I've worked every day until 5, but I have had great fun at downtown bars and restaurants. Except when bartenders, hosts, waiters, and every-goddamn-body-else calls me "Ma'am." I hate the South. And don't give me the Southern hospitality speech to justify people making me feel 80. It's not hospitality if it makes me die a little inside.

And if I wanted to feel 80, I could just remind myself of what time I go to bed, what time I get up, how much I enjoy crossword puzzles, and how I didn't know what an Mp3 player was until a few weeks ago.

Uh . . .

But D.C. is fun. That was going to be the point here.