charlotte harris

My pal Doug and I enjoyed a lovely dinner Saturday night at an Italian place out in Loudoun County.  The evening was all class, and our server was obviously a career hospitality person, and we thought a good one, until…

…until after the meal, while Doug and I joked that although we were stuffed from dinner, he amazingly had room for a treat in his “second dessert stomach.”  Our server overheard him say “second stomach” and came over and asked me, “does he have a second stomach?”  I laughed and said “no of course not,” and explained that we were just teasing that we always seem to find room in the “dessert pockets” in our bellies. 

She grabbed me by the shoulder and started to tell me about one of her regular customers who was an able-bodied man when she first waited his table, but has since lost both legs and added a stomach.  Yes, she said he has a second stomach in the form of a bag and that he jokingly asks her if she’d like to empty it.  !!!!!

I was too sickened and horrified to ask her for further details.  Did she really just tell us (strangers and paying customers!) a disgusting story like that at the end of an expensive meal?  Yes, and I feigned laughter as she told the story but I really just wanted to leave the table.

Today the shock has worn off and, after more thought, I realized I don’t have a clue what she was trying to tell me, so I pulled up the ol’ Google and searched for

second stomach external bag

Plenty of links were returned, and as I scrolled through the search results, perusing the three lines or so of text that was attached to each link, I had already read enough.   Disgusting.  I didn’t click on a single link to learn more.  I don’t want to know.   But apparently our waitress thinks it’s a hilariously great way to save room for dessert!

Ooooh there is a tasty little treat nestled in with the Marie Antoinette special features!   Jason Schwartzman as Louis XVI takes us on a tour of the Palace of Versailles.  A la MTV Cribs.

In the Hall of of Mirrors, he explains that they’re there so he can “check myself before I wreck myself.”  He describes how the marble was imported “from way far away, outside of France… where I’m from.” 

In the “family room” he stops at each of the large scale oil paintings and points out his peeps and bros.  “Everything you see is original.”  “I had this done… all hun’d p’cent real paintings.”

It wasn’t especially clever or funny, but it showed me Jason Schwartzman in a different light, as a cute and playful regular guy, not the twirps he played in both I Heart Huckabees and Shopgirl.

Apparently I don’t yet find the whole fumbling dorky white guy awkwardly mocking thug-speak to be too played out, because I was charmed.  Yeah, I now have a celebrity crush on Jason Schwartzman.

So I left work today, found my car in the parking garage, and climbed in.  I looked over on my passenger side and saw some loose papers folded on the seat. 

My first thought?  Honestly?  Aww, I have a secret admirer and he left me a love note.  Yes, I am full of myself.  My second thought, more realistic, was that my pals around here know that I always leave the Jeep unlocked, and probably left a note to be funny and say “hi.”

I was wrong.  I don’t have a secret admirer or any clever coworkers.  And NO, I did not get into the wrong Jeep.  I have a colleague with a khaki Wrangler who must have gotten into the wrong car at some point today, realized his mistake, and made a hasty exit, leaving his disappointingly boring paperwork in his wake. 

I had a good laugh, relieved that someone “broke into” my car and not only didn’t steal, but actually left something behind.   But now I am left wondering why I don’t have a secret admirer. 

(No, that is not an invite to my F/F to tease me and leave anonymous comments on this post, either.  Ha ha!)

… continued from …

Almost six miles later, my chain popped off when I naively switched into a gear too far apart.  (No, I do not yet know how to fix this for myeslf.  Yes, I know it’s supposed to be easy.) 

I had my cell phone but figured I’d better save calling in favors for when I am stranded reeeeallllly far out.  I devised a strategy.  1.  Turn around and head back towards Sterling, obviously.  2.  Coast the downgrade portions of the trail and walk the flat/upgrade portions of the trail.  My reaction was mild irritation, but more just acceptance of my circumstances.   While not the workout I set out to do, I thought to myself, thank goodness I am in such great shape, and that I have a full camelbak, because I have an almost six mile walk (while managing a bike) ahead of me.

I was foiled on my first downhill coast.  At the top of an overpass, I hopped on and started to pick up ridiculous speed.  I would have easily made it to end of the hill and probably would have picked up enough momentum to coast another flat 1/8 mile… if there weren’t two damn power walkers side-by-side at the bottom of the hill with headphones on.  I couldn’t alert them I was passing, and although I would have passed them anyway, there was oncoming traffic the other way, and the timing was NOT going to work out.

I had to brake as I came up behind them.  I lost allll momentum and had to hop off and walk, my right hand guiding the center of the bike, and my left arm powering me along.  I walked a couple miles like that until my heroine came along.  I am going to call her “Blue” because she wore a cool blue bike tank top.  Actually, I noticed that it was very cleavage-enhancing, and I now wish I had asked her where she got it, because I could really use one of those next time I am broken down on the trail and need to flirt my way into a little help instead of walking a couple miles waiting for a samaritan like Blue to come along. 

Anyway, Blue slowed as she passed me from behind and said “are you alright?”  I shouted, “My chain popped off.  Do you know how to fix that?”  She stopped and told me, “oh sure, that’s easy.”  I held Blue’s bike while she popped my chain back on, and while she rode it a short stretch to get the bike back into a middle gear.   We traded bikes back and I thanked her repeatedly.    She rode off ahead and I climbed back on and started my easy ride back. 

Immediately I was smiling again… I cruised all the way back to Sterling with that grin just plastered across my face.  My setback really just made my great day even better… first by reminding me that I was strong enough to make it back on foot if I had to, and second because I had just experienced kindness from a stranger.

Saturday evening, I was biking on the W&OD trail.  Pedaling west towards the warm afternoon sun, I reflected on my day, a smile on my face, thinking simply ”life is good.”

I was having the best day, and it wasn’t even over yet!  I picked up my good friend Pia at 8am and we headed up to the Ikea cafeteria.  Pia and I have been maintaining a birthday breakfast tradition since the fall of 1991, when we were college roommates.  We walked downtown to Sammy T’s early one morning and sat there with our ciggies and eggs, and we’ve done it that way ever since,  well except for the cigs.  Sammy T’s no longer opens for breakfast, but we carry on the tradition anyway.  There was the year she lived in Charlottesville and I in Fairfax and we agreed to meet at a diner in between.  I never showed –  Just completely spaced — no good reason at all.  I still feel guilty, but you bet I have never missed another date with her.  Then it was another year over breakfast-for-dinner at the Silver Diner in Tysons that Pia told me she was pregnant with her first daughter. 

Yesterday it was her belated birthday celebration, and we decided to have our breakfast at the Ikea cafeteria so we’d be there and all fueled up when the store opened at 9.  I don’t wanna give away our secret, but this really is the most relaxed way to shop that store.  NOBODY was there on a Saturday morning at 9am.  Breakfast for two cost $3.85 (a little embarrassed it was so cheap, Pia can we do two birthday breakfasts for you?) and coffee was free until store-opening. 

After successfully finding two-thirds of the items on my list, filling the empty space in my shopping bag with impulse buys and encouraging Pia as she filled three big yellow shopping bags of her own…  I suppose we weren’t quite done.  Next on to the DSW on Democracy where we bought cute girly spring shoes.   I could have shopped with Pia all day… it was fun!

After we parted ways, I had a light lunch at home, tinkered around with some chores, and geared up for a ride on the W&OD.  I drove up to the Sterling trail access point, hopped on my bike there and headed west, grinning from ear to ear.  Good friends, fun memories, great weather, feeling strong and fit, it was such a perfect day….

… to be continued…

I saw a Keith Haring bumpersticker on the road this morning.  I had forgotten about Keith Haring, about the Pop Shop, and about Greenwich Village!  I haven’t thought about that little part of my life in years.  Specifically the summer that Amanda and I took a class at F.I.T.

We registered for a brief summer session, geared towards teens interested in the fashion business.  My dad gave me a LIRR pass, and every morning we’d hop on the train at Babylon and commute into Penn.  We’d walk the several blocks to class and spend the mornings working on fun little projects.  The one assignment I remember was a marketing exercise, and we divided into teams to mock up ads to market ice cream for dogs. 

After class, we’d race outside and wait for another friend, Shenan, at our meeting spot out on 7th avenue.  The three of us would walk all the way down to the village and have lunch at DoJo on St. Mark’s Place.  They made a soyburger sandwich with Japanese style tahini dressing, and oh my buddha, I have never loved a sandwich more.  We’d sit at the outdoor tables, where bums constantly panhandled, but there was some gooood people-watching to be done.

After lunch we’d just make our way up and down the side streets, checking out all the well known stores, like Antique Boutique, Bleecker Bob’s, Stussy, Urban Outfitters, Canal Jeans, and exploring other small vintage clothes boutiques and cosmetics shops for the first time.  Day in and day out we were never too tired to walk all those city blocks, discovering Village/SoHo culture.  If we needed a rest, we could sit our butts down in Washington Square Park.

It was during one of those afternoon urban adventures, that we discovered the Pop Shop.  We all bought oversized Keith Haring t-shirts and assorted funky stickers and stuff.  Keith Haring died a year or so later, and the Pop Shop closed a couple years back.  It was cool to see a little reminder of the artist this morning, and even cooler to remember all those fun times as a teen on the loose in the city.

It was just Monday night that I was complaining aloud ”those teenagers are so disgusting!”  The Westfields crew team was sharing some space in the  gym I go to, and they had left behind dirt and sticky spilled Gatorade on the floor. 

Tuesday morning is when the news broke that the VA Tech shooter and two of his victims were Westfields graduates. 

Then it was Tuesday night leaving the gym (which shares a driveway with Westfields High School) when I saw that the kids had already painted over three of their spirit rocks to read:

Erin

Reema

4-16-07 (in Tech’s school colors)

I wish I could take back my words.  Instead now I’d say, “those teenagers are beautiful.” What a contrast to the way we adults deal with the horror of what happened. 

I am so sad, and when I think about the shootings, my chest aches and my eyes well up with tears for a minute, but then it passes.  I won’t talk to anyone about how I feel, I will just let it go.  This will happen several more times in the coming weeks, but eventually it won’t feel so raw.  And one day I will mostly forget. 

But these teenagers put their emotions on display.  They paint them in orange and maroon for everyone to see.  They embrace one another and sob openly.  They talk to each other about their feelings.  They stop and take a moment to tell their friends, family, and teachers that they love them. 

The passion that has teens spilling Gatorade and not even noticing is the same intensity that has them pouring out their emotions during this tragedy.   It’s brave, it’s honest, it’s compassionate, and it’s the beautiful heart of the teens of Westfields High School.

This weekend I watched Almodovar’s Volver.  I love this movie!  I love that it’s all about the women who TCB for themselves and for each other.  Raimunda needs to move a fridge?  She gets Regina and a couple skinny mujeres from down the street and they move it themselves.  I want to move to La Mancha and pass the time with all the crazy lady vecinas. 

I love the color everywhere: in the apartments’ decor, in Raimunda’s vestidos, at the restaurant, and the metaphorical color of the characters personalities.  I want to start dressing like Raimunda, although I have a feeling those outfits looked good mainly because they were on Penelope Cruz’ body.  I probably couldn’t pull off a purple flowered skirt topped off with a pink and white checked sweater with a turquoise bra peeking out after all.

I thought back to 10th grade Spanish class when Senora Born showed us scenes from another Almodovar film, Mujeres al borde de un ataque de nervios.  It was all so new to me then, and I remembered being struck by the flamboyant color in that film as well.  Again, of the costumes and the hilarious oddball characters.  I’d never seen an American  comedy where the characters were allowed to be so realistically flawed and still so funny.  Keep in mind I was only 15 and probably so far only exposed to less mature material.

I love how Almodovar is so connected to his culture and so influenced by the strong women who raised him, that he proudly incorporates these themes into his films.   Because his culture is so different from mine, it fascinates me.  I love the Spanish language… as spoken by Spaniards.  I love the location, because I feel like I am seeing, from a distance, all the other places in Spain I WILL visit one day.

Senora Born also showed us another film in its entirety that year, this one from Argentina, Hombre mirando al sudeste.  My exposure to that film opened a new door for me.  I had never known that movies were made in other countries.  Then I learned that I could ride my ten speed to the video store and rent a foreign film if I wanted to.  I felt like I had discovered a cool new interest that would set me apart from everyone else.  (An  insane compulsion I still have today.)  It was genuine and it has remained so. 

I have loved foreign films ever since, especially from France and Spain.  I realize that the foreign films I have access to are probably the more mainstream, critically acclaimed, and that they are released in the US because they’re expected to appeal to our tastes. 

Even so, I think there’s a difference between Hollywood productions and films like Almodovar’s or the screenwriting and direction of Jean-Pierre Jeunet (Delicatessen, Amelie) and Francois Ozon (Swimming Pool, 8 Femmes).  If Hollywood made a film about a cannibalilstic butcher, it would be just another teen movie.  But a Frenchman created it, and it’s a cleverly stylized futuristic dark comedy.

Anyway, I am inspired now to watch more foreign movies.  I rarely have the patience these days to sit still and stare at the TV for two straight hours, but I’ve decided that when I do, I will re-watch some Almodovar films and rent some others for the first time.  An Almodovar marathon of sorts, except it will have to be spread out over some months.  When I am finished, I think I’ll go back to my teenage method of selection and just indiscriminately work my way through the foreign film shelf at the video store and hopefully discover a few gems to add to my list of favorites!.

I popped into my neighborhood bakery yesterday.   Just wanted one serving of something to satisfy a sweet craving, and I walked out with a slice of fresh red velvet cake with some dee-lish cream cheese icing.

Anyway, while I was there, I saw in the display case a polite platter of perfect little petits-fours, iced and decorated to remind me of the special dessert my mom commissioned for my confirmation 20 years ago.

When I was 13, I was about to be confirmed at church, and my family was planning a little party.  My confirmation is still a special memory because of the way my parents made me feel so grown-up.  They presented me with a small and simply adorned gold cross on the most delicate chain.  When planning the party, my mom approached me and asked “what do you think about serving petits-fours instead of cake?”  I had never heard of a petits-fours, and she described them pretty much as little squares of cake.  I concocted a mental picture of a plain old cake cut into squares (ha ha) but I was OK with the idea.

Well, my imagination did not do these little squares justice, because when mom and I went to the bakery to pick them up, I couldn’t believe how beautiful they were.  I felt so special having such a glamorous dessert. 

The petits-fours were created by a local baker.  They were baked light and fresh and iced delicately, very unlike the ubiquitous pre-packaged squares of dense cake covered in a too-thick fondant-like layer of pasty sugar.  I can still imagine how they all but melted in my mouth. 

When I saw the gorgeous little tea cakes this weekend, my mouth not only started to water, but I felt all warm and fuzzy because of my memories of Confirmation day.  My parents have left a trail of special memories like these for me by offering so many unique gestures of love.  Awwwwww.

So I had just merged out of traffic and into the exit lane to get off near my home when a car in the traveling lanes suddenly came careening across two lanes of traffic, as if he just realized he needed to get off at this exit too. 

It happened so fast and it was very scary because I didn’t think he saw me there, already in the exit lane.  But he did.  The guy stopped short to avoid sideswiping me and as he barely merged out behind me, I passed him on the right.  When I did, I looked over at the car to see was behind the wheel.  I’m sure I had a look of terror combined with ”what the hell were you thinking!” on my face.

As this guy merged behind me, I watched him in the side view mirror,  making sure he was in control of his vehicle and not about to rear end me too… when I saw him give me the finger.  Oh no he diiiii’n't!

“Oh NO you diiiii’nt” I mouthed back to him in my side view mirror and flipped the bird right back at him.  

Now at the top, the exit ramp just becomes the right hand turning lane for my neighborhood and for some restaurants and stuff.   I just hung out in that lane and turned right.  So did Psycho. (I was gonna nickname him Road Rage but he was really cutting across traffic and driving like a psycho before he got all road-ragey) 

I definitely noticed him behind me but didn’t necessarily think it unusual, as tons of people make that same right turn to get to the restaurants, or I considered that maybe he even lives in my ‘hood.

But when I made another right turn (which only actual residents of my street would ever take - not a through street) and he followed me, that’s when I started to freak out.  I remembered my dad telling me when I was 17 years old, “If you ever feel like someone’s following you, do not drive home.  Drive to the nearest police station instead.” 

I had to make a hasty decision.  In the matter of about 5 seconds, I considered the following 3 options:

1.  Continue on home and pull up to the gate to my building.  Nope.  He will know exactly where I live. 

2.  Pull up to the gate on the opposite side of the street (which I can open with my gate-zapper, making it look like I belong there).  He’ll still know this is my general neighborhood, but if I fake him into thinking I live on that side of the street and if he ever comes back to vandalilze my car, he’ll be looking in the wrong spot. 

3.  Drive to the police station.  But he already knows my neighborhood, so if I don’t pull into either gate and he comes back later, he has a 50-50 guess of finding me again.  If I choose option #2 and fake him out, he will never think to try the real gate.

So I went with option #2.  While I was waiting for the (wrong) gate to open, he pulled up perpendicular behind me and gave me menacing looks which I could see in my side view mirror.   He drove off, and I drove through the gate and all the way around back and hid there for a few minutes.

Once the coast was clear, I went back across the street, deadbolted myself in, took a shower, and headed back out to meet my friend Courtney for lunch.  She’s worried about this guy but I think he’d have to put a LOT of thought into coming back for me, and I’d like to hope this psycho isn’t clever enough.