I dub the following the Tweet of the Day:

Who the hell sprays Glade French Vanilla in a stinky bathroom? Everything smells like frosted farts now.

I’ve been encountering a few foul scents myself lately. Yesterday at the Fruit Stand™, the back hallway reeked of something like a combination of raw sewage and fried chicken. It didn’t help that one of the garbage bags leaked something rather goopy. On the bus this morning, I could smell the faint odor of poo, possibly dog and hopefully not human.

Once I alighted the bus, I found myself checking my shoes like everyone did in the movie Clue.

Then on the train, someone smelled of stale ramen noodles with chicken flavoring.

Either my sense of smell is unusually heightened or everyone I encounter is in dire need of a shower.

Last night at happy hour, I ran into a friend I hadn’t seen in years. We spent some time catching up and at one point the conversation turned to the online world.

During our chat, I learned that we share a pet peeve: people who refer solely to there online presence when asked, in person, how things are going. By this I mean they respond with a specific question.

“Have you read my ___?”

Fill in the blank with whatever online system of self-expression you like: blog… Twitter… facebook status… virtual tea leaves….

The list could go on.

And on those occasions someone asks if I read their whatever, my answer is a sometimes exasperated, “No. Why would I ask if I did?”

Have we become that lazy — or at least that dependent on online communications — that talking to someone in person is too much to ask?Apparently so. I thought social networking and blogs were supposed to enhance personal relationships, not replace them.

I’ll admit that I’m guilty of asking the “Did you read” question in the past, but the first time someone asked me that I realized, “Wow, that’s slightly pretentious.”

Granted, there may be times when it’s completely appropriate, but not when it’s preceded by “How’s it going?”

A few days ago, I got an email prompting me to reply for a chance to get passes for an advance screening of Burn After Reading, the new George Clooney/Brad Pitt flick officially opening tomorrow. As luck would have it, I replied early enough to get a pass. I’m totally for anything where Clooney gets to be funny, so I figured I’d enjoy it.

But the film gods conspired against me. I couldn’t secure a plus one in time, so I ventured out alone. The Metro faced multiple delays one the very line I needed to travel, including one that forced me to get off one train and wait another ten minutes for another. (I already waited 20 at the height of rush hour to get on a train in the first place.) And after waiting nearly 75 minutes in line at the theatre itself, the screening room filled up to capacity.

Oh, well. At least I didn’t have to be at the Fruit Stand™ tonight. It was a pure stroke of luck that I had the night off in the first place. And I’ve been to many advanced screenings before. This certainly won’t be my last chance to see one.

… Unless the gods are pissed at me.

Months ago, I stupidly left my umbrella sitting in the food court of the mall where my part-time job — the Fruit Stand™ — is. Since then, I got by without an umbrella of my own. That is, until about a couple of weeks ago.

My friend Mike from New York was in the D.C. area with his partner, and wanted to have lunch with me before he headed back. The forecast called for afternoon sprinkles and I was, of course, without a brolly. When the sky got heavy-looking enough to warrant an umbrella purchase, we ducked into the Dupont Circle CVS so I could break down and buy one.

Easier said than done, lemme tell ya!

The two of us scoured every aisle to no avail. Finally, Mike spotted them, tucked away in an obscure corner by the pharmacy counter. The only people who would have seen them otherwise would have been sitting in the prescription waiting area.

Fast-forward a couple of weeks to yesterday. Once again, rain threatened to fall and once again, I had no umbrella. The umbrella I purchased during Mike’s visit either went missing in the house or someone borrowed it because no others were available. No biggie, really; it was cheap and kinda small for my taste anyway.

On my lunch hour, I set out to CVS, this time on 17th Street, east of Dupont Circle. I had other things to purchase there anyway, and while I was at it I’d pick up yet another new umbrella, hopefully a bigger one. Once again, I scoured every aisle with no luck.

I swear, looking for an umbrella at CVS is like going on a lame-ass scavenger hunt with no hope for beer afterward.

Starving for lunch, I called off the search and proceeded to the cashier to pay for my other items. From the corner of my eye, I spotted the rack of umbrellas tucked away in a shadowy corner. Another spot most people probably wouldn’t venture to look. If I were so inclined, I could have easily just grabbed one and walked out without paying for it. I didn’t of course; I got back in line and paid for it, but a small part of me thought it would serve ‘em right for hiding them.

Now I want to start going to random CVS locations to find out if they hide their umbrellas, if for no other reason than to be able to find one in an emergency.

After going to happy hour and then dinner, Brian, Michael and I hit the Metro to head to our respective homes. I was originally going to catch the bus, but when I found out not only that I’d have a long wait but that Hanna was fast approaching, I opted for the train as well. I met up with them only a little dampened.

While we were on the train, the three of us caught some strange activity behind us. A couple of people were standing between the windscreens by one of the doorways at the head of the car. We presumed they didn’t know each other. One of them leaned against one of the windscreens. The other had a large umbrella and he had visible trouble closing it.

In his attempt to close it, he bent down in front of the first guy in a rather suggestive manner, leading me into a massive fit of giggles. It didn’t help that only 20 minutes earlier, we were talking about my recent word find in PathWords.

At any rate, I was intent on catching a cab at Union Station, and as luck would have it, two Amtrak trains arrived the same time I did. The line for cabs was far too long to make the wait worth it, so I opted for the bus.

Since it was raining thanks to Hanna, I devised a plan. I’d stay under shelter at Union Station until my bus was slated to arrive. When I saw a bus from my vantage point, I got myself across the street to the stop as quickly as I could. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the one I needed. I got thoroughly soaked on the way. Five minutes later, my bus did arrive.

Oh, and by then the rain had stopped.

Once I got home, I stripped off my wet clothes and hung them to dry. This morning I found them tossed onto the floor, I presume by whomever took a shower between the time I got home and the time I woke up. They wouldn’t have fallen where I found them on their own.

And they were still wet.

I’m due to work at the Fruit Stand today, so hopefully I won’t get too wet along the way.

I have an email address on file with nearly every service and vendor I use. (Thank goodness for the feature on Gmail that allows me to append +whatever to my user name!)

Every now and then, one of these yahoos sends me an email that makes me scratch my head, like the one from BMG Music dated August 11.

Now, first of all, I’m not exactly what you’d call a fan of country music. Sure, there are a few songs here and there that I like, but overall I find country music obnoxious and twangy, and it’s not something I go out of my way to enjoy. Further, in my umpteen years as a BMG member, I have not once ordered any CD even closely resembling country music. How they concluded that I not only like country music, but that I get a chubby for Toby Keith (*shudder*) is beyond me.

This was preceded only a couple of days earlier by an email I received from Dish Network reminding me about the then-forthcoming Olympics. In Korean.

Baffled, I shot off a quick note to Dish to ask them why I got an email composed in Korean. I even touched on the fact that the text wasn’t even set as text, but as a graphic which is generally a no-no. I received a response from a Michelle C.

Thank you for your e-mail. We apologize for the inconvenience. The problem has been identified and will be rectified.

Um. Okay.

And really, this is nothing. What offends me more are the assumptions companies make about me solely based on my last name, which is obviously Spanish in origin. This probably wouldn’t be such a big deal if I actually spoke Spanish. Since I don’t, their assumptions become increasingly annoying.

Sometimes, on calls to vendors I (or someone calling on my behalf when I’m not able to for whatever reason) will get transferred to a Spanish-speaking representative when I gave no indication otherwise that I need to speak to one.

Until a few months ago, I received offers written entirely in Spanish for credit cards and other services. Last month, I received a subscription to Hispanic Magazine, which greeted me with a “Thanks for requesting your subscription” message attached to the first issue.

I never requested it. I stopped subscribing to magazines about a year ago.

When I was in college and selected my courses, I was required to pick a foreign language course. I picked an intermediate Spanish course to pick up where I left off in high school. The school placed me in a native speaker’s course which I barely passed in the fall and dropped out of in the spring (and then mostly because the professor was a dick).

Despite reminders to them to the contrary, it happens all the time. Sometimes, that makes me feel out of touch, and I really don’t think I’m that off.

My T-shirt addiction continues.

While I’m still awaiting the arrival of several shirts from Woot (at least two should have been here by now), Threadless came through with a couple of new shirts I picked up on sale last week. Of the two, I’m most excited about the brown one that says, “Miss Scarlet. In the Hall. With a revolver.”

This is especially true after recent news about the forthcoming changes to the classic Clue board game.

My cat Petunia has a thing for sunning herself.

From the moment the sun rises, she gets herself over to a sunbeam filtering it’s way through a window. She starts in the dining room, in the back of the house, where the uncurtained windows allow light to splash down onto the floor. She’ll stay there for extended periods of time. That is, unless someone comes down to that level and then she gets up and makes a beeline for her food bowl. At that point, she circles around until she’s either fed or petted.

Eventually, the sun makes its way to the front of the house, its beams of light poking through blinds and curtains and window clings that offer privacy. With a window fan exhausting warm, stagnant air out of the bathroom, more light comes in and lands on the bathmat, where I found Petunia yesterday, sunning herself.

Two slices of New Haven style apizza and a pint of hard cider at Pete’s in Columbia Heights, Washington, D.C. (Photo: FredoAlvarez [flickr])

Despite my (thus far) 16-year stint in the D.C. metro area, I still consider myself a dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker. Before my boss — also a native of the Big Apple — took off for maternity leave, we talked about the deli down the street from our office, and how they have some of the best bagels either of us have ever found in D.C.

I later found out from the owner of the deli that the bagels are delivered every morning from New York.

And as a native New Yorker, I’m also kinda particular about another food item: pizza. New York style pizza has always been a favorite of mine. A crust that’s thin, but not too thin. Crispy but still flexible. A lip that makes holding the pizza easy.

It wasn’t until after I met my ex that I was introduced to New Haven style pizza. Correction, apizza (pronounced ah-beets). The crust is thinner. There’s more olive oil involved. It’s good, but in my mind it never stacked up to my beloved New York style pies.

After a few hours of shopping in Columbia Heights yesterday afternoon, I decided to stop somewhere for a snack before I headed downtown. I’d heard about Pete’s New Haven Style Apizza from a couple of people — the ex included — and figured I’d stop in for a slice.

I wound up ordering two and a pint of hard cider. Much to my chagrin, I enjoyed it. Like, really enjoyed it. I’ve had pizza from several different joints in D.C. — chain and independent alike — and the slices I had at Pete’s were the best I’d had anywhere in D.C.

The ex is gonna give me a lot of shit for this entry. He’s from New Haven — the “center of the universe” as I sarcastically referred to it for years.

Of course, someone else gave me shit for this already, but for a totally different reason. He lives nearby and I didn’t contact him directly to find out if he was doing anything and wanted to grab a bite. I hadn’t originally planned to go to Columbia Heights, but I still could’ve made the effort.

At any rate, Pete’s is up for a second visit from me. Maybe next Sunday.

The majority of my cousins on mom’s side of the family exhibited some sort of artistic talent at one point or another. A few examples: Natalie in Puerto Rico is a dancer; Alex in Miami, a painter; and Joe in New York, a drummer and actor. (I don’t intentionally mean to leave people out, but these are the ones that immediately come to mind.) As for myself, I sang, I acted, and I drummed in two different kinds of marching bands. (Oh, and there was that one-day gig in a kazoo band, but that was for a television gag, so it doesn’t count.)

Then there’s Chris, pictured above and also in New York, who this week wraps up a stint with the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival. He’s even featured prominently in the local paper up there.

Not only that, but according to the article, New York City’s PBS station will air a one-hour special on the festival hosted by Kristen Chenoweth, followed by a presentation of Twelfth Night. Chris is snare drumming in that production.

So this leaves me very proud of him. And very jealous. But mostly proud.

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