Plain & Fancy

A few years ago, at a public meeting Dan was attending for work, a woman rose to comment. She had no discernible accent ... except when saying the name of our city, which curiously caused her to become British for just a moment before reverting to Yankdom at the next word.

Alex-ahn-dria. So elegant. So posh. Who wouldn't want to live there?

We've been saying it that way ever since.

Overheard at the Polling Place

Dan, nodding at albiness: There's that woman who's always so friendly to you and basically ignores me.

Michael: We're both despised by society. It's an unspoken bond.

Overheard by: Pariah Carey

Brothers in Arms?

It happened again the other evening.

Out with the dogs, we encountered a couple doing the same. They live up the block, but we'd never met them before. The man was easy on the eyes -- and very chatty.

"Are you brothers?" he asked.

"Partners," said Dan.

"Oh, partners," said the guy, then launching into a rapid monologue about how great gay people are and how it's all cool. "But you look just like each other. Same haircut, even."

This led to a more novel query: "Are you military?"

"No," Dan replied. "Are you?"

He's in the Navy, which he informed us is chock full o' gays, and that's A-OK with him.

Overheard in the Holler

Marty, peering out window: Your next-door neighbor looks like a '70s porn star. Or the Marlboro Man gone to seed.

Ooh Rah!

The most magical thing happened the other day.

We were just setting out for a walk when the Marine came back from a run. In one of his chatty moods, he lingered awhile to shoot the breeze and pat the dogs. No stroking for me, although he did wrap his beefy paw around my shriveled one with surprising tenderness.

Unfortunately, we'd just finished a two-hour appointment, and Sparkle, uncharacteristically businesslike, scurried past him when he crouched to greet her, scotching my chance to look up his shorts. But it was enough to bask in his virility as he stood there, a slight sheen on his perfect body, its light dusting of golden fur glowing in the late-day sun.

Little girls dream of riding unicorns over rainbows. I dream of moments like this.

Sorry I Asked

My father spent the first half of his childhood in Woodley Park, where his parents had a gracious semidetached house from the turn of the last century. It was across the street from the zoo, and one of Dad's fondest memories was spending summer nights on the sleeping porch, listening to the lions roar.


Later they moved out to Chevy Chase, trading a bigger house for a bigger yard. I once asked why.

“You want the truth?” Dad said. It was because black people had moved across the Calvert Street Bridge from Adams Morgan, which apparently signaled the end of civilization – at least to my grandparents. Ironically, Woodley Park remains to this day one of the whitest neighborhoods in Washington.

Here’s another irony, this one from the other side of the family. As my great-grandmother risked her life hiding Jews in occupied France, her daughter’s young family was settling into a restricted community in the “land of the free.”


This might never have occurred to me had I not met an elderly woman at a New Year’s party. She asked Dan and me where we lived, and it turned out that Parkfairfax had been her first home when she moved to the area in the ’40s. With housing incredibly scarce, her husband had come down from New York ahead of time to find a place. Parkfairfax, then new, was considered very desirable, but they informed him that they didn’t rent to Jews. Only after pleading his wife’s pregnancy and begging did he secure a lease.

As I mulled this over in the days after, I remembered the neighborhood handbook that I occasionally flipped through when I was young. Along with prohibitions on keeping livestock was a ban on renting or selling to “a Negro or member of the African race.” By the ’70s it was a shocking thing to see.

I called my mother, told her the story, and asked if our neighborhood had ever had a religious restriction.

“Oh, probably,” she said, quickly adding: “But it was never enforced.”

When she was growing up, there were exactly three Jewish families. They lived in the next block, all in a row, curiously. I don’t know what the count was a generation later, but there was only one black family the whole time I lived there, and I don’t think much has changed. Not that I’m casting stones. Parkfairfax may have dropped its restrictions, but it’s still Honky Hills.

Overheard in the Holler

Lesbian neighbor (on phone): Hey, could you do me a favor?

Dan: Sure.

Neighbor: Inside my door there's an axe and a sledgehammer. Could you take them and put 'em outside my door somewhere no one can see 'em? A friend of mine is gonna come pick 'em up.

Dan: Oh, that's boring. I thought you were gonna ask me to kill someone for you.

Now We Are Three

"Where's the little one?"

A week later, we still manage to bum someone out almost every time we go for a walk. One or two have even cried.

If we get another dog, maybe it should be churlish and ugly so no one's sad when it's gone.


Photo by Karen.

My Brother, My Lover

Dan ran into Tipsi Hedren on a walk the other day. As they chatted, he mentioned that we'd taken the dogs to the beach.

"Oh, your brother must have loved that!" she gushed.

Set for Life

It's been decades, but I still remember the first pair of moobs I saw. They belonged to a guy up the street, a lawyer who was probably about the age I am now. He was mowing his lawn shirtless, and I thought with a start: Oh my God, Mr. Metz has titties! They were pointy, and they jiggled as he went about his task.

I've seen acres of saggy manflesh since then, but you never forget the first time.

Disturban Living

My aide lives in the middle of D.C., and she sometimes remarks how quiet it is out here. It seems that way, I concede, but you might be surprised.

Not long after we moved in, a neighbor casually mentioned that our place had once been occupied by drug dealers. This explained why the front door was splintered through and held together with screws. (We replaced it pronto.) We had similar suspicions about a rough young trio who later rented the unit above our bedrooms. There was never proof, but I can't think of anything else that attracts a steady stream of sketchy-looking visitors for a few minutes at a time. Their more charming callers would shout up from the street to make sure it was worth the arduous trek to the door.

Our block has also been the scene of several car accidents. The worst two happened in the middle of the night and involved, shockingly, young male drivers and excessive speed. One guy managed to flip his Civic onto its roof, and the other took out a whole line of parked cars. Afterwards, as a bunch of us stood around gawking in our bras and panties, a woman wailed hysterically at the dazed driver: "You ruined my car! How could you do that?" Was the lamented conveyance a brand-new BMW? A vintage Mustang, perhaps? Try a crappy old Ford Tempo. She should have thanked him.

Then there was the woman across the street who went to the islands and came back with more than a tan. We've all had a holiday fling, but this gal brought hers home. Great idea, right? What could go wrong? Well, he could prove unwilling or unable to find a job. And you could have second thoughts and decide to break up with him. And then he could retaliate (rather effectively, I would say) by offing himself in your home. It's been known to happen.

The worst thing by far happened around the corner several years ago. A man decided his wife was having an affair and was going to leave him. As she prepared to fetch their young daughter from day camp, he grabbed a knife and stabbed her. She made it next door, where the neighbor called 911, but died soon thereafter at the hospital. Meanwhile, Prince Charming locked himself in the house and threatened to blow the place up, so the gas was shut off and the area evacuated. We had a police cordon out front well into the evening, but eventually they shot in a bunch of tear gas and hauled him out. That unit was home to the Nixons in the '40s, so it was already steeped in bad juju; I hope the owner brought in an exorcist after this.

We've often wondered if Parkfairfax has more than its share of crazy; unfortunately, that's impossible to quantify. We've known countless oddballs - a few with clinical diagnoses, most without - and we encounter tipsy neighbors with surprising regularity on evening walks. With apologies to David Sedaris, everyone seems crazy once you put your mind to it.

No Wake Zone

My uncle and aunt were in town not long ago and brought two of my cousins over for a visit. While they were here, my aunt and cousins took Zap and Devo out.

My mother did the next walk, and when she got back she reported that a neighbor had stopped her to ask if everything was okay, citing "all the visitors" and "strangers walking the dogs."

I don't really know the woman, but I realized right away what she was thinking, because my drama-hungry mind works the same way: long illness + family onslaught - holiday = death.

Mom assured her that all was well, and she expressed relief. I bet she was secretly a little disappointed, though. I would've been.

Tippler on the Hoof

I took advantage of our one-day "heat wave" to go on two walks this afternoon. Lots of others were out and about, including the drinker up the hill who always fawns over Zap and Devo despite having one of those cutesy little passive-aggressive signs asking you to keep your dogs the hell away from her garden. At least she finally took down the McCain-Palin signs.

Today she was sporting a pink ensemble that looked like terrycloth pajamas. I think she was fresh from church, hence the uncharacteristic clarity of her voice. But she's as chatty sober as she is drunk, and today's thesis was feline abuse. As she went on and on about old and abandoned and tortured cats, all I could hear was Sandra Bernhard in Without You I'm Nothing: "Would you please shut the fuck up? You are bumming me out, asshole."

News Flash

Some of our neighbors - how shall I put this? - stand little chance of ever appearing on the Nobel dais.

We were watching TV last night when something clattered through the mail slot. It was a photocopied article headlined: "'I Would Make A Bad President,' Obama Says In Huge Campaign Blunder."

Two portions were carefully outlined:

"... I think I would make a bad president...."

"My youth and inexperience would definitely make me an awful president," said Obama, whose seven-minute misstep was further exacerbated when he called himself "no expert" on the economy. "To be perfectly honest, I'd be worried about putting me in charge of the most powerful military in the world because I'm not any good when it comes to making important decisions. Also, I'm not sure how much I care about keeping this great nation of ours safe."

"I'm an elitist, I hate Israel, and I want to lose the war in Iraq," Obama concluded....

This precious lamb - or was it a whole flock? - took the time to make who knows how many copies, mark each one by hand, then deliver them door to door. Only one tiny detail eluded them: The source of their damning story was The Onion, a satirical newspaper.

I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I'm lying: I laughed. A lot.

Semper Fine

One of this neighborhood's downsides is the lack of eye candy. (That and the crushing suburban dullness.) But there are some exceptions, most notably the 26-year-old Marine who moved in next door a few months ago.

Strikingly handsome with a body that won't quit, you can almost sense women ovulating when he approaches. I know I do. And unlike the last stud-puppy neighbor, this one isn't unnerved by people in wheelchairs. He probably attributes the drooling to my medical condition, which is only half accurate.

His friendliness actually presents a problem: As Dan noted, it's hard to maintain eye contact with such a magnificent chest in your face. Straight guys aren't the only ones who appreciate a great rack.

I'm not even put off by seeing him head out every Sunday morning in a crisply pressed outfit, a Bible in his meaty paw. Somehow it works for him.

Can't get too attached, though; he's not here to stay. He bought the place for a song after its longtime owner died, and he's been busily fixing it up ever since. As soon as the market picks up, he likely will too.

Have Cocktail Will Natter

Remember the early-'80s song "Freaks Come out at Night"?

I don't know if it's the hot weather, but on our late-evening dog walks we keep encountering people in liquor-fueled states of chattiness. You could almost see the fumes rising off one of them. I was used to that in the city, but you don't often see it on display in the 'burbs.

Speaking of boozy neighbors, Dan ran into a notorious tippler this morning. (No word on her status at the time.)

"How's your brother?" she asked.

The first time she made that query, a year or two ago, Dan was momentarily nonplused, wondering: How could she possibly know my brother? Then he realized she must have meant me.

He set her straight, as it were, but evidently it was too much to grasp. Or maybe she just forgot. Heavy drinking takes quite a toll on the mind, you know.

We might have to do something more memorable - like making out in front of her. Which would give me considerable pleasure, not least because Dan reported that she was wearing a T-shirt today from the 1996 Republican convention.

Michael J.: 'Fox!'

Late this morning, I glanced out the window just in time to see a tiny red fox stride casually past.

I knew there were foxes around – one ran across the road right in front of Dan a few months ago – but I’d never seen one myself. And I was looking towards the street, not the woods, which made the encounter all the more surprising. It was quite a little thrill.

Most days all I see is birds, squirrels, dogs, and cats. And white people. Lots of white people.

Miss Match

Somehow our neighbor made it all the way to work the other day before she realized her shoes didn't match. It wasn't the common navy-black mixup, either: one shoe was green, the other a sparkly silver.

"Is that the new style?" asked her boss.

Signs of Spring

• Robins
• Budding trees and blooming flowers
• Longer days and warmer temps
• The reappearance of our Republican lobbyist neighbor on his patio, chain smoking, nattering loudly and constantly on the phone, and coughing up what's left of his lungs, all mere yards from my bedroom window

Exotic Leftovers

See what happens when you try to be a thoughtful dinner guest?

Last I knew, the proprietress of our dog-walking service had a dog and a cat in her freezer, deceased pets both. She didn't consider it at all strange to keep them there until she got around to burying them. In fact, she once picked up a friend's pet after it had been put down at the vet's and threw it in her freezer until the owner could pick it up. Can you imagine confronting Fluffy's frostbitten face every time you want some Haagen-Dazs?

She also thinks nothing of running sneakers and dog collars through the dishwasher. Needless to say, I've never been over for dinner.