Game Changers

They say the early bird catches the worm, and as such, I got up early Friday morning so I could begin the 10 hour drive to Maine at a reasonable time.  By 7:20 am, I was headed out the door of my DC condo to load up the  Jeep which had been parked the night before in an ever so fortuitous spot right next to my building.

As I headed to the Jeep, I quickly realized that this early bird would in fact catch no worms, but rather a fat ‘ol $100 parking ticket instead.  For what you might ask?  For failure to obtain a proper DC parking permit.  I guess all that parking at the Capitol and taking the metro to work had simply delayed the inevitable.  When I return to DC in ten days, I suppose I shall head to the DMV and “obtain a proper DC parking permit.” 

After this most unfortunate mishap, I finished loading up the Jeep, gave the vegetables in my refrigerator to Rachel (the building character), took the dogs for a walk and departed Q Street at 8 am.  I stopped briefly at CVS to pick up a sugar free Red Bull and then we were on our way – earlier than ever before.  I was sure I could make Portland by dinner time!

When traveling, I like to pass the time by making little references on Facebook when I enter a new state, taking great care to tie them all together in some clever theme.  This time, I would do musical numbers!  And for all of you wondering, most Facebook posting takes place at rest areas and toll booths – I simply push send at the appropriate moment - so please keep the don’t text and drive comments to yourself. 

As we drove through the Harbor Tunnel, I posted Good Morning Baltimore as I envisioned myself riding atop a big green dump truck.  

Heading over the Delaware Memorial Bridge into New Jersey, I posted Jersey Boys and tried to imagine the words to a song from a show I have never seen and don’t really care to, but hey, it’s all I could come up with.  It was then time to think about lunch and that meant only one thing – veer off the Jersey Turnpike at Exit 7A for the only Chick Fil A I have been able to find near one of the exits. 

Now I am well aware that the corporate powers to be at Chick Fil A do not share my social or political viewpoints, but neither do Exxon Mobile or Shell, and I still stop there for gas.  My $7 purchase at Chick Fil A a few times a year will certainly never become a game changer so I put it out of mind each time, throw caution to the wind, and have my 1,000 calorie meal of bliss.  This time – meal deal #2 it was – Chick Fil A Deluxe, waffle fries and a diet coke thrown in for good measure.  I also splurged and asked for two special sauce packets.  After checking in at Chick Fil Aon Facebook, I then braced myself for the deluge of nasty responses from my coterie of liberal friends.  Much to my surprise, I only got one and it took almost 5 hours.  It read, “You realize that Chick Fil A has funded ads against the boss, right?  My response?  “I’ve been waiting all day for some stank comment – I like their chicken – period.”

Chicken cutlet slap anyone?

By 11:40 am, we were back on the road grinding toward New York.  Normally these are quiet rides with time to think and regroup after days of stress at the U.S. House.  But this time, Hunter, like a petulant child, decided that Alex was invading his space in the back seat and howled every time it happened, sometimes incessantly.  At one point, I had finally had it, and yelled out, “For the love of Christ, shut up!”  And to no avail, the howling continued, but at least I felt better expressing my displeasure verbally.

Gliding over the George Washington Bridge, which we reached in a record 4.5 hours, I posted, “Remember me to Herald Square” and swiftly continued my way rather smoothly through Manhattan, the Bronk and other outliers of the “City That Never Sleeps.”   Arriving in Connecticut, we hit the first rest stop to allow the dogs to take a potty, stretch and water break, and I headed inside to McDonalds to get a $1 coffee.  While patiently waiting in line, this nasty woman from Ohio blurted out her order when the cashier asked me, “Hi can I help you?’  I politely but sternly informed her that I had been waiting in line as she then proceeded to complain about the line system to me and anyone else who would listen.  I suggested that perhaps she should go back to Ohio.  Oh and the Facebook posting for Connecticut? Nothing clever, just a shoutout to my Jrs’s buddy Jimmy Lee who hails from Connecticut. 

Back on the road after a second $50 gas fillup, we slogged through the two hour stretch that is Connecticut and finally hit Massachusetts.  I quickly posted, “It was the shot heard round the world, it was the start of the Revolution” from School House Rock.  Props to one of my longest running best friends, Miss Irene, for properly identifying its origin.  An hour later, we hit New Hampshire where again I couldn’t think up a musical selection, so I used the old “Live Free or Die” standby. 

And then, like a beacon in the night, the Piscataqua Bridge, which connects Maine and New Hampshire, appeared on the horizon.  Excitement, intertwined with pure exhaustion, surged through my body.  I crossed the green monstrosity of a bridge, and then I saw it – the game changer according Anya Trundy – the new ever so tiny sign attached to the far larger sign welcoming visitors and returning residents alike to Maine – the Way Life Should Be.  The new sign I would later learn had been attached only a few days before by our new Governor, and it read, “Open for Business.”

“Well thank God” I thought.  The economy has been fixed, all Mainers have health care, tax reform has been implemented, and hunger, poverty and homelessness have been eradicated all because of this new sign!  Businesses by the hoards must have flocked to Maine at Lepage’s urging and literally transformed our state’s economy overnight.  “Phew!”  I didn’t realize that one small sign could do so, so much. 

As I made my way through the streets of the Old Port, my home in Portland, Maine, the sun began to set, and the temperature which had been 68 degrees earlier that day quickly plummeted.  I headed to the fourth floor of 99 Silver Street, my Old Port condo, located in an old shoe factory replete with brick walls and exposed beams.  I opened the door to my hermetically sealed room from the past 6 weeks and nestled high upon my armoire next to the tv was the real game changer for my trip home – Ultimate Reds from my dear roommate Charlie, bookended by an Avitar greeting.  There’s nothing like a blast of anti-oxidants coupled with some fresh Maine air to eliminate weeks of accumulated DC stress.

It’s good to be home!  I'll be spending the week looking for game changers.

Poop!

Meet my two dogs:  Alex, a 13 year old lab/beagle mix, and Hunter, a 2 year old beagle/hound mix. 

I got Alex in a parking lot in Fryeburg, Maine, and he was the only blonde haired dog in the litter, the rest being black.  He does have a little black patch of hair on his back though as a shout out to his brethren.  Alex has been everywhere with me:  back and forth between Maine and DC, on a small plane out to North Haven, multiple campaign offices across Maine and every single piece of furniture I own, as evidenced by the trail of hair he leaves behind.  He’s a very mellow dog and permits me to sleep late in the morning.

I stopped at Wagtime here in DC to pick up treats for Alex one evening.  The owner Lisa asked me what kind of dog I had and after telling her, told me I should come out back and see the rescue dogs that needed a home.  I thought no way as I nervously walked into the back room.  Amongst all the yelping and frenetic activity, there was Hunter lying alone on a dog bed looking sad and lost.  Lisa explained that I could take him home for a night or two and that even if I didn’t decide to adopt him, any night outside of the shelter would do him good.   She also explained that Hunter had been rescued from a kill shelter in Virginia which absolutely made my heart break.

So I returned the following Friday and picked up Hunter for a doggy holiday in my Dupont condo with Alex.  Lisa posted a note on Facebook that Hunter was on a sleepover and said, “Be a good boy Hunter.  It’s up to you now.”  Well Hunter behaved perfectly, and he never went back.  Most importantly, he seemed to understand the first and foremost point of going outside for a walk.  I signed the adoption papers a week later, and it was then that Hunter yelled Gotcha! 

Hunter is polar opposite to Alex.  He sleeps right next to my head at night, and he is nervous and hyper.  He can put a flock of seagulls to shame with his high pitched warning howl.  He is starved for attention which admittedly I can’t always provide, but I seek solace in the fact that his life is far better with me than the shelter or the near fate he almost suffered in Virginia.

Lif e with the two dogs has been good except for the pooping.  Yup – I said it here on the blog – the first dirty word so to speak I have used.  While it is significantly better than when Hunter first yelled Gotcha and proved to be completely clueless to the point of going outside, we still have frequent issues with the concept.

Just this week during a 2 day rain a thon, Hunter refused to go to the bathroom outside, far preferring the comfort of a heated home.  If he was human, you know he would have a fur cover on his toilet just to keep his bum warm on the porcelain in winter.  They do work well I must admit because my grandmother used to have one.  Rather than go outside in the rain, Hunter would just look up at me after Alex had already gone 4 times with an expression of, “Are you kidding me?  I am not squatting out here in the rain.”

I love the looks I get when the dogs do in fact decide to poop outside.  One man recently said to me a minute or so after Alex let one rip on a patch of dirt between the sidewalk and the road, "Excuse me sir, can I ask you a question?"  I thought to myself that my answer didn't really matter seeing he had already asked me a question.  "Yes,"  I said.  "Did you pick up after your dog?" he asked.  I stared at him in disbelief and answered, "Um - of course.  Right here in the little red bag in case you missed it."  I love self righteous community policers.  I wanted to tell him to mind his own business, get back in his little yuppy Volvo and drive back to the suburb, but I refrained.

Then there was the woman last week who twisted her face in disgust as Hunter, for once, actually pooped.  I wanted to tell her, "Get a grip lady.  It's poop.  We all do it and just like my dog, I am sure yours stinks too."  Again, I refrained.

Back to the problem at hand.  I have tried everything from quarantining Hunter to the kitchen to only feeding him at night to longer walks.  Nothing seems to work.  Amazingly, Alex has learned how to push his way through closed doors which paves the way for Hunter to leave behind special treats in off limit areas like my bedroom.  Ugh!

But the problem now is I think that Alex has joined in the bad behavior and is content to let me think it is all Hunter.  Whenever I lecture Hunter, which sounds to him like the teacher in a Charlie Brown film, Alex just sits there all patronizing like Lucy and thinks to himself, “Silly Hunter, when will you learn?” 

I am considering putting different food colorings in their food to catch the guilty culprit.  If the poop is blue, it’s Hunter!  If it’s green, then it's Alex!  But if it’s purple, I am not sure what I will do!

I am really hoping that all of this too shall pass.  It’s frustrating, but in the end, all worth it.  Dogs provide you a sense of responsibility and keep you grounded.  They don’t talk back, and they are always glad you’re around.  I don’t consider myself the best pet owner on the planet, but they do help me to maintain a sense of purpose.

Are we there yet?  Hell no!  But like the signs in the Bible that indicate Armageddon, I am convinced that no poop for a month will be a sign that we’re getting close.

1000!

This weekend, Are We There Yet?, received its 1000th view!  Thank you so much for reading and for all the support and words of encouragement many of you have given to me. 

Also, I want to send a special shout out to those of you outside the United States who have tuned in:  China, Russia, Belgium, France, Italy, Canada, Vietnam, United Kingdom, Australia, Singapore and Iran!  I would love for you to leave a post and let me know how you found the blog, a little about yourself and what you thought.  Hey - you might even be featured in a special post!

And by the way, no parking ticket this weekend, and the Jeep is safely parked below ground at the US Capitol!  Have a great week everyone.

I Fought the Law and the Law Won

There isn’t much in common between my life in Washington, DC and my life in Portland, Me, except for the fact that I’m a marked man in both by parking enforcement.  The only difference between the two cities is that in Portland I know them on a first name basis.

“Hey Joe,”  I called.  “You can’t get me today.  I got one of the six residential parking spaces in the Old Port this time (which is a feat unto itself given that hundreds of people live in the Old Port).  Joe just smiled and thought to himself, “Maybe this time but I'll be watching you.”

One evening last year, my mom came to pick me up for dinner and saw Joe writing me a ticket on Milk Street.  She hailed Joe and said, “Is my son getting another ticket?”  Joe laughed as he introduced himself and said, “Tell your son to get down here quick, and he won’t be towed (thereby saving me $75).”  She called, I ran, and Joe thought to himself again, “Silly man - I told you I'd be watching.”

Double tickets!  

Here in DC, I could have bought a parking space with my condo for a mere $55,000 back in 2006 which is almost as much as I originally paid for the Maine pad.  Thinking this was a ridiculous price to pay, I told my realtor to break apart the space from the condo at closing and much to my disbelief, it sold for the $55,000 asking price, and the buyer paid cash!  I thought, “What an idiot!  That’s outrageous.  I’m the smart one!”

Well, the joke was on me apparently because 4 years later and I’ve probably racked up that much in parking tickets.  Hyperbole?  Maybe, but it’s starting to irritate me.

I now find myself in a constant game of cat and mouse seeing if I can stay one step ahead of parking enforcement and keep moving my red jeep to a new highly coveted secret location.  I’ve even been known to get up early just to move it to a new space with a note left behind that reads, “Ha Ha – fooled you again!”

Secret Location!

But alas – they always seem to track me down, and I’m tired of running.  Maybe it would help if I renewed my residential parking permit that expired back in the summer of 2010, but I digress.

So I’m waving the white flag.  I surrender.  Game over!  With what feels like the arrival of spring on this gorgeous DC morning, I’ve decided that on Monday, after one more park, move and hide episode, I am driving my jeep to the Capitol and leaving it there.  I shall join the masses and ride public transport.  I thought of the Ab Fab episode where Edina proclaims to her daughter that anyone can ride public transport to which her daughter curtly replies, “I know – that’s the point.”

Given the fact that the May 8^th Congressional Cemetery 5K is approaching, maybe I’ll even start running, er walking, the roughly 5K to and from work.    Until then, after I finish my coffee this morning, I need to walk the block to where my jeep is parked.  Perhaps I’ll be lucky, and there won’t be a $25 ticket.  Somehow I doubt it, but at least this will be the last one – that is in Washington anyway.  See you in Portland Joe in mid March!

I am sure I will be singing after that visit to Maine - I fought the law and law won!