I admit it. I am not the world’s most patient person when it comes to things I can change. If I want the new Paramore CD and I have nothing else going on, the music store is the most logical destination to my mind. And usually there is no deterring me. I am a woman on a mission. No freeway too crowded. No mall too mobbed.

As for other people, I can’t control them or their circumstances. Things happen. But I have to admit that I am more than a little frustrated at the really anti-serendipitous circumstances surrounding my last few dates. And, it’s enough to convince a girl that either the boys aren’t interested in second dates or the powers that be think they are saving me for a virgin birth. What? They didn’t know? Anyway.

So how does one choose between “He hates me.” and “The universe hates me.” (hate is a strong word but I have never been accused of being anything BUT a hyperbole-proficient writer)? Now would be a great time for me to stick to that “I can’t control the circumstances of other people.” Mantra. But it’s hard when time has been set aside FOR you and fate cuts in. Usually only infringes on the time I spend with people I want to see. I have PLENTY of time for things or people I don’t want to do or see.

The last guy I was excited about had to deal with ex-wife drama an hour before he was supposed to pick me up. I’ve gotten stood up more times IN A ROW than I count. The most recent guy’s texted to tell me that his sister is having her baby today, 20 minutes before he is supposed to pick me up. Before that, our Thursday night date was canceled because of a last minute work meeting out of state. And really, maybe all that did happen. The but the timing, oh the timing is just so, stilting. Like hitting that brick wall you didn’t see while you are cruising along at a comfortable 45 mph. Like a dog on a short lead chasing a free roaming cat.

And I get it. Women have babies. I can’t not date a guy because one of his female relatives is pregnant and may drop sprog any day. I can’t not date men with ex-wives because, really? They make up a large part of the dating pool in DC. There’s nothing to learn from! No obvious lessons aside from trusting implicitly that they are genuinely interested in me. Stop. Breathe. Remembering past behaviors. Boys you’ve met only a week prior, do not stop by and have lunch with you if they don’t like you. They do not text you every morning just to say hi.

But I have problems with it. Just trusting. Taking things at face value. The cynic in me doubts and questions like she always does, because of past experience. The girl in me is REALLY beginning to think that people think she smells.

I really hate dating. You don’t want to press, but you don’t want to come across as blase. I used to have a handle on it. But I must have passed an invisible barrier at 30 while I was dating El Senor. And when passing through that portal it is assumed that you have married and are no longer in need of your skills. They are removed donated to other younger more deserving women and replaced with something more earnest and tired of all the stupidity of “The Rules.” You come out on the other side more real, less angry and a hell of a lot more vulnerable and self-doubting.

It’s nice when the rain that is becoming a near in the DC area fixture pays off: 

I’ve seen more rainbows in the last month than I have in the past few years. And for the record? This one looked like it ended in Rosslyn.

That’s easy.

She’s awake. At her house. Doing laundry and every thing she SHOULD have done earlier this week. All this trouble is to facilitate her packing for Puerto Rico. That’s right. Puerto. Rico.

My flight leaves in four hours and it looks like sleep will not be an option until I settle into seat 24A. Note to self: Pack pink neck pillow as you WILL be comatose the ENTIRE four hour trip. Thank god for no layovers.

This will have to do in the way of a post (*coMattugh*) because I am woefully behind even after dropping off the zoo at their various places and starting laundry at 10PM. Yeah, don’t hire me for any pressing organizational engagements. It would be… unwise.

But in the pipeline for next week will be:

• The saga of the crooked AC repairman (has a happy ending) and I still have no AC. Can I tell you how many places I did not know it was possible to sweat?
• Birthday plans (involves a vineyard that has a WINEMOBILE. THE WINE. IT COMES. TO US.)
• An opinion on new immigrant-specific legislation. Especially relevant to the DC Metro area.

But until then I pack my bags and pull a four day disappearing act. Talk to you all when I get back.

I have been remiss in my shoe blogging. But there hasn’t been much to tell. This second ACL surgery has been sensitive to everything, much more than the last one. Stairs annoy it, extended walking makes it cranky, and heels just amplify the complaints. 

And there is no running. Before I was just lazy. Now, running is painful.

I walked more than 12,000 steps every day (and more) I was in London. And when I came home I had bursitis bad enough that I thought I had blown another graft. I told my doctor that I would not be having another ACL surgery if that were the case. Screw my ACL. I was obviously NOT meant to have one in my left knee.

So I have been looking more at flats. I bought a pair of Delman flats in bronze leather. And the picture above was my latest purchase, wine metallic satin Rocket dog flats with converse-esque rubber toe. the same shoes that were in a box next to my new lens. They are so comfortable and cute. Bought for at steal for $40 at solestruck.com.

Thanks, Daddy. Love you.

The only thing better than playing Softball at the foot of the Washington monument is watching classic movies in the shadow of the Capitol Building. The list for this year’s screen on the green has been released by the Washingtonian Magazine:

July 14 - Dr. No (1962)

July 21 - The Candidate (1972)

July 28 - Arsenic and Old Lace (1944)

August 4 - The Apartment (1960)

August 11 - Superman (1978)

Every year Kate and I pick one to go to and we get there early to get a good spot. Last year I saw Casablanca for the first time. Yeah I know, please feel free to interject your indignations here. And this year? I am DOING the HBO dance: here is the Brief Tutorial, and the actual dance as performed in Bryant Park.

I ran across an interesting news article today:

“For the first time ever, the thrashed and jumbled innards of the notorious San Andreas Fault are now available online for anyone to see.

The new Google Maps-based “Core Viewer” allows scientists and the general public to peer at high-resolution images of the rock cores drilled and extracted directly from the steadily slipping section of the infamous fault two kilometers (1.2 miles) beneath Parkfield, Calif.”

Core Samples From The San Andreas Fault

And how.

After just a really long day at work where I could feel myself getting sick, had a huge workload and imminent deadlines, then on a Friday I was one of the last if not the last person in the office. Which, considering the alacrity with which federal employees abandon ship for the weekend, is not all that surprising.

Mercifully, my drive home was uneventful in an untrustworthy car (Now with new and exciting noises and motions!!) and I was rewarded by not one, but two boxes. I know how shallow it sounds that my mood is lifted by material things.

But the box on the Left contains the cute Rocket Dog shoes I was expecting to get today, and the box on the right is my new Sigma 70-300mm lens that I wasn’t. Two of my favorite things is a great way to start the weekend.

I know I got all chatty on you for a bit and then shut up again. I am trying this thing where I listen more and talk less because I see the awkward Claire of old re-emerging. The one who gets strange looks when she really should have stopped speaking about, oh say, 30 seconds prior. It’s a place I don’t like being. Brother Drew says when he gets those looks (it must run in the family) he breaks the tension by saying, “And then I found five dollars.” Which doesn’t necessarily always help.

And then I found five dollars.

Anyway, Mars asked me to update after this busy weekend when I had my first paid photography shoot. One of my co-workers hired me to capture his motorcycle practice and races this weekend. He had seen my portfolio of London and was mightily impressed. I told him I’d do it, but I wouldn’t charge for my time because everything I had shot up until this point had been holding still. And I don’t need to tell you the  difference in difficulty between shooting objects at 0 mph and at 150+ mph. It’s a lot.

Regardless of how I think the photos came out, what matters is that Chris was happy. So that is most of what I will be doing today. Here’s a start:

Lessons Learned:
- NEED MORE ZOOM (check, bought a 70-300mm lens with my earnings)
- Fiddle with settings dependent upon bike class
- Even with zoom, closer is better.
- Easy on the pan, you aren’t skeet shooting. They don’t need that much of a lead.
- Learn to use a pit bike.
- Wait for the look. Full visor is more dramatic than a profile.
- Ear plugs.

The rest of the set is HERE.

Chris, despite his best efforts, was thwarted in his attempts to find me a “nice boy.” I pointed out to him that females don’t trump mechanical interests. Especially if they go fast. I told him that every last man there is enamored of his bike and I wasn’t even going to try and compete. But it was just a great experience being there, the biking community is very tight knit and friendly.

Bruno and Tempy were also welcomed. I did not mention to people who thought them charming that they are consummate shredders and wreakers of havoc.

Do kisses happen in real life like they do in the movies? Do men actually do the thing with the thumb across the cheekbone? The fingers of a hand lazily cradling your neck? Resting your head against the bend of their elbow like in Casablanca?

Ugh.

Suffice it to say, the next movie I received in my Netflix queue today was a poorly timed event. On the tail end of the end, it definitely did not help the healing process… or the puffiness. I managed to head off all the mush in the Netflix queue that I set months ago. Except for this one, it had already been sent to me. And it was entirely my fault that I held onto the previous movie for almost half a year.

I wish I were kidding.

This is the reason I avoid chick flicks altogether. Aside from being highly implausible and pandering to the general princess complex, nothing like that ever happens. You can tell that I’m not exactly comfortable with that range of my emotions.