Sparkle Motion

Our Nation's Capital: the place where drunkards freely puke in the subways and no one cares.

I have seen at least three people vomit in the metro stations in the past two weeks, as well as seeing numerous splashes of someone's big night out. What amazes me is the lack of trash cans in the metro. One would imagine that after mopping and sanitizing the floors even three nights in a row, someone might get the idea that a waterproof container at one end of the platform or the other might be of some use.

Also- in case you're inclined to follow stereotypes and blame this on the homeless, it's all nicely-dressed college idiots. Ahhh... the way some people spend mommy and daddy's money.

On a brighter note: this has been yet another day spent in a Smithsonian museum and I couldn't be more pleased. Today, we ventured into the Museum of Natural History where you can see giant skeletons, learn about (gasp!) evolution, watch people video tape the Hope Diamond (and everything else that will provide hours of non-entertainment), see a mummy named, um, Mr. Cunningham (or some other equally insidious anglicized name), touch a meteorite or, my favorite: smell the bees.

Hidden in one tiny corner is this ridiculously awesome display of a bee hive with live bees in it (Thank you Orkin Bug Zoo!). It was merely "cool" until I got really close and smelled the smell of bee's wax and honey. Then it became "awesome." Then I touched the glass and it was warm from the movement of a hundred bees rubbing against it and it became "frickin' awesome." And then I pressed my ear to the glass and I could hear them buzzing like white noise and then... there was a pissed-off lady behind me who wanted to see the bees and I was forced to move on to the African Widow Spiders.

For anyone who's ever seen the episode of King of the Hill where Bobby (The boy ain't right.) gets brain-washed by ants and starts eating sugar and hearing voices... that was me and the bees. Except I ate a jumbo New York-style hotdog instead.

I've pretty much come to terms with the fact that I have to go back to France on Tuesday. It's kind of like coming to terms with having your birthday party at the skating rink instead of at Chuck E. Cheese. I'd rather stay here, play in the ball pit, wear a funny hat and eat pizza until I pass out, instead of listening to bad 80's music and going around in circles for four hours (I don't even know how to rollerskate)-- but in the end I suppose there are still presents and cake and someone has to pick up the bill.

I'd just rather be here with Tim than hanging out with Dirty Sanchez and the crazy Anti-Laundry Lady.