A Heavy Day In DC

I began my 'day' to this.

Herself was at work downtown and even though neither of us use the Red Line frequently you just never know.

Tragedy visits us here in Washington from time to time and this has not been the first time I've anxiously awaited a call.

I tried her cell and it dumped into voicemail . Nothing unusual there I told the scrabbling and as yet unformed fears that rose out of my mind like a miasma.

Then I tried her office. Same deal. No biggie. She might have stepped away for a minute. I leave a message asking her to call me back. You have nearly five and a half million people in the Washington Metropolitan area according to my rational mind. The trains were coming in to the city. Why would she be on one of them? Still though...

I can't help flashing on 9/11 and pulling up to the Springfield station to see her sitting on the kerb. Safe and sound. On that terrible day she had been at the Pentagon City station when the plane hit the Pentagon (one stop along the line). We held each other for a long time.

I'm snapped out of it by my phone and all of the fears and doubts are evaporated when I see it's her number.

"Hi..I got your message. I'm fine. What happened?"

"Hiya. Bad accident on the Red Line...I just wanted to...you know.."

"I know."

Afterwards I sat on the steps to our back yard with my tea and watched the fireflies in the twilight.



Update: Death toll is now 9 according to CNN

The Replacement Killer

I don't normally leave my building during the course of my 'day'. The Entity I work for is a little touchy about security and a forgotten ID or proxy card can leave the inattentive out on the sidewalk. Managers have to be roused from their slumbers and promises of proper bollockings made before I make the sheepish trudge back to my desk.

In short it's a pain in the hole.

Every now and again though I have to deal with a complete fuckbake of a client and an escape becomes necessary. One of our people in the Middle East (can you guess which country?) wanted admin rights to install an unlicensed bit of software she had picked up in the local fucking bazaar. SMS push and/or diplomatic pouches being 'unacceptable and ridiculous options'.

Um...that would be a 'No'.

Half an hour of histrionics (from the client) later I deploy the I'm Telling Teacher option and all resistance is crushed. Sweetness and light is restored and there is suddenly a 'pressing need' and a willingness to 'take another look at the options'. What was previously ridiculous now became 'very doable' and I fucked off for a bit of a break.

At 3 AM the 7-11 on 19th St. is probably the best defended convenience store in the city. When I walked in the door I counted no fewer than 7 cops from nearly as many agencies. That Slurpee machine is se-fucking-cured ! It was like that scene in Reservoir Dogs when Tim Roth walks into the jacks filled with cops. Two University cops (GWU) were covering off the snack cakes and a Metro P.D. cop was throwing shapes with a couple of comely students. A Smithsonian cop was explaining to beardy student type that the exhibits don't actually come to life at night.
There was even a stormtrooper from the Secret Service in full ninja/batman gear in the queue with an ice-cream cone. Sort of spoiled the effect there.

The usual bum/wino/student matrix was a bit more subdued than normal because of this Peeler Party. I wasn't in the mood to be fending off panhandlers nicely but I could feel a pair of eyes on me all the same. Now if a have a bit of change I'll part with it gladly but there have been times when the two or three bucks in a bum's cup is a bit more than my net worth. Sometimes though you just don't want to deal with it. I did a quick circle of the coffee bar and fixed a Bill Hicks-sized coffee. Instead of a bum it turned out to be a somewhat familiar face in a very familiar uniform.

"Sarge? Is that you?"

This particular Pauncho Villa was the man who filled my old position back at the Hangar. He had lamped me right enough. Chalk one up for his observation skills.

"Not anymore Pauncho."

Then it got weird. He went from coffee grabbing slouch to the Field Interrogative Stance (hands loosely clasped over belt buckle yet very close to the things ON the belt, a slight turn to the side and keeping a very specific distance between us.) I couldn't stop myself from laughing.

"Like that now is it?" I ask.

"Like what?"

"Good luck to you now Pauncho. I'd say "Be careful out there" but I can see you already are."

" Aww Sarge....Don't be like that."

" I'm a Sergeant no more. Thank Fuck."

Contra-Versa

This little list has been bouncing around in my otherwise empty head these last few days. I should say right from the outset that it is not meant as a whinge or a shopping list of regret. It was actually a bit of a laugh for a couple of them.

Just a few facts. That's all.

I am a woman until I speak on the phone. Then it's 'sir' 100% of the time.
Both my parents are alive but they have made me an orphan.
I'm an only child with two siblings.
I 've fathered three kids but I'm female.
I can be legally fired in 30 US states for being gay and/or transgendered. I do not work in any of the 30.
I can marry a man in Virginia but in Texas (of all places) I can only marry another woman. The Lone Clue State allows marriage between genetic males and genetic females. As my genes were not changed...........
I am Irish. Unless I'm being American that week.
I am physically burned out. Mentally I'm in better shape.
I am a blogger but increasingly have less and less to say.
I'm stone broke but in my friends I have a Golconda.
I am not alone but I am lonely.

Earlier this week I held my friend's new born baby in my arms and was completely present for them in their joy. There were no ifs, ands nor buts about my total happiness and sincere love for them all. I was no longer a partial presence, a bulky shade of myself, in my friend's contentment.

I have no rational basis for this but I am going to make it. Maybe not the way I had hoped or planned or even imagined for that matter. It might get messy and confusing and seven kinds of fucked up but that's OK. It's just stuff. No matter how bad it gets it cannot be as bad as what went before.

I'm a woman with a fucked-up past but a future of some type awaiting her. Just like everyone else.

The trick is getting past this stern present.

While We're Waiting

This fella is also a bit handy at the fitba.

This ones for you Jimmy.

Little Miss Bloomsday

Lauren fired off a text to me just before 10 o'clock.

It seems that contractions have commenced. I'm keeping vigil here at my office but will hop over when/if I'm needed. Besides the whiskey and cigars won't consume themselves.

Lauren and Scott are never far from my thoughts anyway but they are very much front and centre this night. I love you guys.

Massive love.


UPDATE!
All's well. Little Miss Thing took her own sweet time but has arrived safe and sound and is a fine child altogether. Guess it's Little Miss Bloomsday +1.

Blah-sphemy!

Breaking News!! Irish Son Walks On Water! Irish Mammy Claims ''No Surprise There''

Dilemma

I had the honour of speaking here on Saturday. A great day with some great people and even though I sucked at least it was in front of a lot of people in a very fine ballroom. I mean if you must go down in flames.......

Naturally enough I retreated afterwards to a dark ,cave like bar in the bowels of the hotel. There were not many people about and I had the actual bar to myself to commune with Sam Adams and jot down some notes. A piano tuner was torturing a baby-grand in the corner and 'twasn't too much of a hardship to listen to it. Maybe that's why the bar was empty. I have a knack for tuning out things that bother most people and that can be a blessing at times. Sure enough some dapper little man materializes at the bar to complain about the piano-tuner to the bartender. Normally this wanker would fall into the 'things I tune out ' category but not that day.

"For God's sake. It's five o' clock and you tune the piano NOW !"

1. He was a wanker
2. He was whining about someone doing their job
3. He was giving shit to a blameless barman instead of whoever was responsible for the piano-tuning schedule.
4. He didn't have to sit there. There was a large and comfortable lobby for him to be a shit in.
5 He was inside my blast radius.

"Just pretend it's Philip Glass or some other avant-garde stuff" I'd been thinking along those lines when I initially exiled the plinking to the background.

There was some ineffectual mouth flapping at this point that eventually resolved itself into a shaky "Excuse me?"

"It's not his fault. You should take it up with the management."

" I-I wasn't talking to you."

" Funny how I could still hear you then.....over all this noise and all."

Yes folks. I was on my picky right enough.

This results in the barman and I becoming instant comrades and we get chatting. Eventually he gets around to asking what brought me to the hotel and I give him the bare minimum about speaking at an event at the hotel. It's a big venue with a lot going on. Even though the bar was quiet I was hoping to be lost in the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye I spy a very fine young man take a seat at the corner of the bar. We have precisely one half of the bar between us. A not inconsiderable distance. As my new pal goes to serve him I go back to my notebook and scrawl away.

A muted telly was showing baseball and I glanced up to see the football results come in. Ireland's 1-1 draw with Bulgaria got a shrug and a 'meh' from me but it was duly noted by the Fine Young Man. He asks a question that I fail to hear due to distance and my new enemy the piano-tuner. To make this story less tedious I go over to hear what he had to say. He was a bit of football fan and we get into it for a few minutes. My hero the barman sees my new location and ,bless his heart, decides to play Cupid. He moved my drink,notes,pen and bag down next to F.Y.M.

"Siddown you. Dis guy needs to talk to a preddy lady"

Indeed he did. I resolved to send one his way as soon as I found one. In a very strange stroke of luck this fella was attractive,intelligent, funny and single. We talk for ages (at one point advanced mathematics and translating 3-D mapping imagery onto 2-D media made their appearances..as they do) and I sort of tippy toed around the usual chit-chat. This is when being someone like me is a bit shit. Does this guy know? If he doesn't is he blind and/or deaf? Come to think of it why is he here? What do I do next? I had danced around my reason for being here with the barman but even that much evasion was tiring. I truly hate having to be on my guard like that. I haven't had to in some time ( I keep unsociable hours) but it was easy enough to slip back into the vague smokescreen of half answers and mobile truths. I retreated to the toilet to have a bit of a think.

When I return FYM is settling up and preparing to jet. We chat a little more but there is a palpable shift in tone and reserve. It's not as easy as before. Something has happened. We do the ritual email exchange and he leaves. As I finish my drink the barman appears. There is a puzzlement on his face.

'Where did yer boy go?"

"Something spooked him" I reply only half joking.

Crushed into a ball where he was standing was a list of speakers for the event taken from one of the welcome packets.

I guess it was me, being on that list, that did it.

Brokeback Capitol Hill

The Capitol Hill dive looked a hell of a lot better through the bottom of a glass. The Cute Detroit Lesbian agreed .
'Too many hipster assholes in here Lady. Wanna go to a gay cowboy bar?'

This was not the oddest question I been had asked that day. Not by a long shot.

'What's the hipster percentage at this gay cowboy bar?'

'Zero!' beamed C.D.L.'It's a real shithole.'

'I might so.'

This got me a glare. I got off light. She's the only woman I know (apart from me) that could swear for Olympic gold.

'You might what?'

'Want to go to this wonderful gay cowboy bar with it's wonderful shortage of loud hipster scum.'

'Ooooh..think you can handle the six block walk in those (points at my ridiculous shoes) or should I get you a fucking cab.'

'If I can't walk straight it won't be the shoes *hic* fault'

The CDL and I share a odd penchant for grotty little neighbourhood bars where an actual conversation can be held. We hadn't seen each other in ages and had some catching up to do. Our rendezvous location was more a matter of convenience than preference. I had walked to Capitol Hill from the White House like a complete fucking fool and those ridiculous shoes had taken their toll. She had walked a similar distance from a different part of the city but was comfily shod. If the stereotypes continued on cue she'll arrive with a moving van for our next meet up.

It's a sad remark on my jaundiced outlook that I was surprised that this new bar was exactly as CDL had described it. It looked like a 70s era piano bar that been badly renovated in the 80s with mirrors in lieu of taste and common decency. Clearly the work of heterosexuals. An odd setting indeed for the posse of non-heterosexual cowboys (and odd cowgirl) that were two-stepping around the dance floor. I suppose the surroundings were marginally better than the prairie.

It was a friendly and welcoming place. No shortage of willing volunteers to teach a newcomer the basics not to mention cheap booze and, rarest of rare, friendly barkeepers. Now as many of you know I am not the country music type and I reserve a special vial of ire for New Country.

'New Country? Hi, I'd like you to meet my friend New Napalm'
FWWOOOOOMMMPPHHHHFFFFFSSSSSS!!

Yet there was a real fun vibe to this place that took me by surprise. CDL and I actually gave a moment of earnest consideration to coming back some night with sensible footwear (Lots of cowboy boots stomping around would make shit of open toes). This was in the middle of the usual drunken shite talk that goes hand in hand with unexpected good times.

'Will we come back some night ? It's kinda fucking hard dancing without a partner'

' I might so.'

'You might what?'

'Come back here. Can't have you making an arse of yourself'

'Oh yeah. Well I might kick your ass!'

'Ha! You really need both feet on the *hic* ground right now'

'Ha-HAA! Watch this then' (plants a round boot on my backside)

'Ow..that fucking hurt! C'mere ta fuck!'

We did the Tango out the door and down the street.