What's in a Name.

Think over the many human acquaintances in your life, deep and shallow: all the people you've known, or sort-of known, or known about.

Across the great distribution of names that have floated in and out of your experience, perhaps some patterns emerge. A string of people share a few remarkable characteristics, you notice, and they all happen to have the same first name. You find yourself, consciously or not, developing a sort of personal name-based astrology, a grouping that tells you what a person might be like based on his or her first name.

It's not, of course, fair. You know there are probably plenty of people in the world who would not fit your perception of the name Susie, for example, and that "Susie" may call up a whole different set of associations for someone else. But a few Susies have defined the bunch for you, and there's nothing to be done about it.

I confess that I am predisposed against people named Dana. My Dana experiences have not been good. If I see or hear the name, before I can even stop myself, the lookup function in my brain produces the result: "a dangerous, possibly two-faced person who thinks she is more special than anyone else."

The most prevalent Dana in my life was someone I met in my sophomore year of college, when we were both admitted to a singing group at the same time. Dana, who had a disconcertingly intense relationship with cosmetics, left the group after only a few weeks because she wasn't being given enough of a chance to "shine," as she put it. She absolutely hated for anyone else to get attention, an unfortunate trait for someone who joins an ensemble performance group. When she sang, she had a tendency to push both of her hands out from her face in a starburst-motion, and if you say the name Dana to anyone who was in my group at that time, that is the gesture you will see.

Another Dana I knew was one of the people my best friend fell in with after she left our public high-school and transferred to a tony private school. This Dana acted as if everyone (including me) outside her private-school coterie was beneath notice or charity, and even when we ended up at the same college together freshman year and she turned into a nice person, she was still a Dana, and nothing could change that.

Then there is the sad shadow of a Dana I never knew, a woman who stalked her ex-boyfriend and tried to get him back, which I wouldn't have cared about, except I happened to be dating that same guy at the time. I only got his side of things, of course, so I only knew her as the psycho ex who treated him poorly when they were going out and then wouldn't let him go when he broke it off. She didn't get him back... and then within two years, word came that she had killed herself, causing my guy even more pain and making the whole story even more terrible.

Now, all of these associations make me feel bad when I think of a person such as the late celebrity spouse Dana Reeve, who by all accounts was a wonderful, courageous lady. But I didn't know her personally, so my Dana prejudice stands.

I have other ridiculous conceptions about certain names: Bens tend to be irresistible guys who can't help but break the girls' hearts. Alisons of all spellings I'm inclined to favor. My Bills have been lovable, great guys who are often emotionally underdeveloped in some critical way. My track record with Lauras is mixed at best, but I never met a Matt I didn't like.

Maybe there's a Dana right around the corner who will turn it all around for me. Does anyone have any name associations, positive or negative, to share? Please don't mention Christinas unless you find them to be universally fabulous.

Searching for Nancy.

One cold, sunny day in Washington, near the eve of the New Year, my husband and I walked through the West Building of the National Gallery. "You know what? You're psyched," M. said. "You're psyched, because after this, we're going to see Nancy Pelosi."

Unplanned, outcome-uncertain endeavors do not usually get a warm welcome with me. (For an explanation of this, see my 'About Me' tag.) I laughed nervously and didn't say anything.

"I'm serious," M. said. "We're going to see Nancy Pelosi."

"I don't think you can just 'go see Nancy Pelosi,'" I said.

"Yes, you can," M. said. He was serious. "We are her constituents, and this is a democracy. Plus, I was roommates with her daughter once."

I tried to distract M. with some lovely British landscape paintings by John Constable. Then, as we left the museum, I suggested a walk on the Mall. But he hadn't forgotten his mission.

"Come on," he said, headed toward the Capitol Building. "We're going to see Nancy and congratulate her on her victory."

It was no use. I sighed and followed.

At the Capitol, menacing-looking guards stood sentinel as tourists milled about on the white steps. "It's closed," I said, relieved.

M. hovered around for a bit. "Right, duh, Congress isn't in session now," he said. But he still didn't move or listen when I tried to get him to turn around for our Mall walk. "I'm going to go talk with that guard," he said.

I waited while M. affirmed with the guard that, indeed, there was no getting into the Capitol.

He set off for a building nearby. "Where are you going?" I said, nervous again. "We're going over to her office," he replied.

M. ignored me as we walked the perimeter of the Rayburn Building, looking for an entrance that was open. "She's probably not even in town," I whined. "Like you said, Congress isn't in session! I'm sure she's back in California! This building is probably closed!"

It wasn't. We found an open entrance and went through security at Rayburn, hopped on the elevator, and took a long walk down the halls, passing wooden door after wooden door with each lawmaker's name neatly posted on a plate outside.

Most of them were shut. Some had newspapers piled in front of them; others had cardboard boxes and makeshift signs posted, announcing moves to other buildings -- the aftermath of a power shift. We reached Pelosi's office. A white printout was posted on the door that read: "Nancy Pelosi's office has moved to 235 Cannon."

"Oh well," I said.

"Let's find the Cannon building," M. said.

By this time I had resigned myself to our mission and decided to change my attitude. After all, it had been kind of fun walking through Rayburn. We found Cannon, which was much prettier inside than Rayburn, and passed through another X-ray machine. More office doors: a handful of them were open and showed signs of life inside. "See?" M. said. "Some people are here!"

We finally reached Pelosi's office, where the door was open and light poured out into the hall. "She's here! See? I told you!" M. said. We stood outside the office, peering in. Talking was audible inside.

M. continued to stand there. "Well, you're going in, aren't you?" I said. "We're finally here."

"I don't know," M. said sheepishly.

"Is somebody losing their resolve?" I said.

"Maybe," he said.

"After all this, you're going in that office and talking to Nancy Pelosi," I said. "So start thinking of what you're going to say."

We edged toward the door and saw reception desks on either side of us. Pelosi's office was visible to the right, with the door open, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Is the speaker here?" M. asked a young worker at the desk, who looked confused for a moment, then brightened. "No, she's back in California," she answered. I felt both relief and disappointment.

M. explained that we were from California and wanted to say hi. "Oh! Well, I'm sure if she'd been here, she would have been very happy to meet you," the assistant said, actually seeming sincere.

M. made a bit more chit-chat with two of the office workers and then we left. "See, they have to be nice to us," he said.

"Even if we had turned out to be psychos who just wanted to heap abuse on her?" I said.

"I don't know. I think so," M. said.

Outside, we sat down on the steps of Cannon and looked at the Capitol and the Mall. I wondered what would have happened if Pelosi had actually been there. Could people really just wander in and say hello? You have to think she'd be too busy for that. But perhaps if we caught her in a down moment?

I felt a little bad for having been such a killjoy. It was a nice little adventure in the halls of democracy.

Happy New Old.

There's always a "reason" for surprise hangovers. You didn't drink enough water, the drinks were stronger than you thought, you must not have eaten enough, the moon was full, your hormones were off, the year was ending, absinthe was employed. "Those drinks must have been spiked with something!" you say, later. Yes, they were spiked with something: alcohol.

Extenuating circumstances aside, I had only myself to blame when last Sunday found me incapable of travel, or even walking upright, after a night out in New York City. Unfortunately this meant much more time in the lobby of Times Square's Muse Hotel than I would have liked. "I'm too old, too old," I moaned, fairly certain that this was the worst hangover I'd ever had. The rugs and marble floors of the Muse swayed in agreement.

It's tempting to digress further on the subject of aging, Times Square and the revelation that it can, in fact, be too late to save yourself with a meal after three extinction-level-event cocktails on a virtually empty stomach. The point here is to set the scene for day following my hangover, New Year's, when I had finally stopped shaking and was able to digest solid food. Revelling in my newfound stability, I was ready for breakfast.

"We're going to an awesome place. It's like a retro diner, only the food is spectacular," I was told. Given this endorsement, my confusion was understandable when we arrived at the front door of Schnäck in Brooklyn.

I had been dreaming of the previous day's visit to Cafe Luluc, where I could only down three bites of crispy-yet-fluffy pancakes dusted with confectioner's sugar, before sadly pushing them away. I was ready for those pancakes now, but we would have to meet again some other day. Instead, four of us (three adults and a toddler) sat down to a menu full of burgers, sausages, eggs, gratuitous umlauts and smugness. The room was dingy and festooned in '70s memorabilia, the waiter a study in nonchalance, the music collegiate, the soda selection random (no Coke or Pepsi). I frowned. "You took me to a hipster place," I said. My companions couldn't argue and gave me half-apologetic looks.

The table offered a coloring page with crayons. But instead of kid-friendly art, it was a finely drawn scene of diner apathy: scenesters slumped at booths and tables, cool and unsmiling. On the flip side of the page, a smirking soda-jerk accented with facial hair and an earring held up a milkshake. Grrrr. I took out the crayons and started drawing soul patches on the patrons.

Meanwhile, the other toddler at the table was restless -- but unlike me, he couldn't be entertained by the coloring page. He left his grilled cheese untouched, while I contemplated my scrambled eggs with purply-black onions and chewy smoked salmon, smeared with sour cream. Even the food here was ironic. Tofu Reuben or a Camelia Grill Chili Chz Omelet, anyone?

To be fair, the fries were good, and it was probably a better experience if you love kielbasa. But I was done before it started. And so was the toddler, who was wrestled down in his third attempt to make an escape, and in the process, smacked a full coffee mug off the table. It shattered on the floor, and the restaurant got noticeably quieter -- even more so when the offender got treated to a hearty, old-fashioned, over-the-knees spanking. The crying got louder. It was officially a scene.

I've never known what to do when witnessing parental discipline (especially a controversial version of it). Do you look away and pretend it's not happening? Try to soothe the child? Try to cheer the parent? Bow your head in silence and pray it will be over soon? I mostly opted for the last tactic, with some sympathetic glances for the child.

The waiter came and swept up the coffee mug, and we paid the check. The dad here was as visibly upset as his kid, and I felt sorry for them both. But for the grace of God, it could have been me and my kid (who doesn't and may not ever exist, but that's yet another digression). One young couple had smiled kindly at us as we left, which surprised our dad friend. "When you go on the subway, that's when you really see who likes little kids, by the way they react to them," he said. "Usually it's the hipsters who hate children."

"That's because they're mad somebody else is getting the attention," one of us said. We laughed and continued to deride the invisible hipsters some more. The whole scene -- the whole weekend, even -- amounted to one conclusion: We were old.

Let Me Entertain You.

Sunday night my family and I encountered a group of carolers, an event that would have seemed less remarkable had we been at home in the suburbs or out in a public square. As it happened, we were out to dinner at Clyde's Tower Oaks, a large restaurant in suburban Maryland that is a reasonable facsimile of a hunting lodge. The carolers progressed not from door to door, but table to table.

We eyed them apprehensively as each rendition of "Silent Night" or "Jingle Bells" brought them closer to us. "What should we do?" we asked each other. We amused ourselves by coming up with possible deterrents: burying our noses in our menus, claiming to be Jewish, claiming to celebrate Kwanzaa, staging a big argument.

I watched as the carolers -- who were talented, if unwelcome at our table -- visited each set of diners. People were smiling, seeming to really enjoy the music. "It would be much better if they were stationed in one place, so you don't have to... deal," one of us said, as we all nodded in agreement.

Their arrival was anticlimactic. They politely asked if we had a request for a carol; we declined with excessive cheer.

I was glad then to enjoy our dinner in peace, but part of me wondered whether we weren't too scroogeulous. Why couldn't we have been like the other families, and smilingly welcomed a tableside performance of "Deck the Halls"? Why was I relieved, yet a little sad, that we are not such a family?

The next night, at the Bethesda, Md., branch of the tapas restaurant Jaleo, dinner with friends was twice overcome by the brief but formidable entrance of flamenco dancers. The dancers did not demand eye contact and full attention, as the carolers did, but were much more effective at impeding conversation.

Two successive nights of kamikaze public entertainment? I began to feel less bad about the night before.

These kinds of interruptions never appear when they are desperately needed. On how many dates in my life would I have been thrilled to have a clown come out and start juggling my utensils, just to provide a diversion from the person across the table? How many meals would have been greatly improved by the sudden appearance of an accordion player, or a ballet troupe?

Yesterday someone in a coffee shop observed to me, "The Christmas commercials used to be for children. Now they try to get to the adults, too." That concept may or may not be new, but it did speak to an increasing sense that it is no longer acceptable for people -- child or adult -- to be left undiverted. We cannot be left to entertain ourselves, or assumed to be content with a lack of external stimulus, a lack of novelty.

I feel this way now, and yet I'm only 35. What kind of an old lady will I be, when restaurant chairs have their own TV screens and everyone in the park is on a WiFi connection?

Actual Lines from Job Ads.

These are direct quotations from employment advertisements that I have encountered in the last month or so.

• We are an international company with offices in Menlo Park, California and Kyiv, Ukraine.
  
• Want to be a part of the digital video revolution?
  
• What you bring to the game: An attitude that says, "Never settle for the ordinary."
  
• The Managing Editor should have a brain whose synaptic firing could power a favela slum.
  
• Are you up on the hottest job market trends? Do you enjoy discussing the latest career news with your friends and family?
  
• We don't have any intention of letting go of the reigns [sic] of this Blogging Battlestar Galactica completely, but we figured it's best to start looking for new talent now and empowering them with a venue "all their own!"
  

Who's getting their resumes ready?

Post-Rockwellian Warmth.

At the small market where I go to pick up my daily office rations, the staff members are used to seeing my puffy, pre-caffeinated countenance. I sleepwalk into the store almost every weekday morning, creating my own blend of granola from the bulk bins (call it OCD Mix), shuffling over to the dairy case for yogurt, and haphazardly picking up whatever else might serve as lunch.

Outside at that hour, the owner and other workers are usually supervising deliveries. The stockpeople are wheeling hand trucks around, and the co-owner spouse is at the register. Everyone says hello to me; we know each other by sight now, if not yet by name. It's a family-run store where people poke fun at each other a lot, and vendors or regular customers sometimes hang around to chat. I don't have to go there every morning; I just like to.

Being recognized as a regular is a bedrock pleasure in life, one that always takes me by surprise. I'm so reticent, and so inured to spells of urban loneliness, that when a connection does materialize, it earns an inviolable place in my heart.

In London, where I spent a desperately homesick and depressed college year, the man who ran the fruit stand near my dorm in Tooting Bec became so precious to me that I sent him a postcard during winter break. For awhile, I kept in touch by e-mail with the former owner of the frozen yogurt store I frequented in New York. And the chatty man who ran the liquor store across the street from my apartment in D.C. happened to be the only one who said anything remotely comforting after I carelessly put a gash across my car in a parking garage. ("Happens all the time," he said, waving his hand. "Go get it fixed: Pretend you're in college and it's your parents' car, they'll give you a better deal. Go home and relax." I don't know why that calmed me more than the words of my sympathizer-in-chief -- my mom -- but it did.)

On my current street of residence in San Francisco, every fifth person you meet is going to have a circuit short, so part of me wanted a little extra credit for just bringing something to the cash register besides insanity. I hoped that, amid the headshops and bars, this market might become a small haven of residential normalcy. Reassuringly, after six months or so of steady attendance, it did.

One holdout had me puzzled and kind of intimidated: a young guy, who I think is the owners' son, never acknowledged my presence, even in clear one-on-one encounters. Nearly everyone at the store would give me a sign of recognition, except for him. He wasn't rude about it, and it wasn't personal. He just wasn't interested.

When it comes to perceived rejection, my response has always been to fold, early and often. I'd greet everyone else, and quietly maneuver around him -- out of deference, not petulance.

Last week, the barrier inexplicably dissolved. "Cold enough for ya?" he said as he rang me up. I almost turned around to see if he was talking to someone else; eye-contact is not his forte. We proceeded to have a whole exchange about the weather and our home regions -- the most mundane bit of dialogue two people can have, but a fundamental one. Maybe it's because I have almost no friends here, or maybe it's because I'm just this pathetic, but it felt like a tiny triumph.

Anyone picking up what I'm putting down?

Things in Which I Place Unreasonable Confidence.

Every once in awhile, it occurs to me that I harbor an unquestioning, almost subconscious esteem for certain things -- and I can't say exactly why. If you put any one of the following items in front of me, I am predisposed to expect that my experience with it is going to be a positive one, even though evidence to support the assumption is uneven at best. Here are mine.

• Modern-Looking Restaurants
• Mickey Rourke
• Starbucks
• Burly, bearded men
• Alcohol
• Fine Jewelers
• Zach Braff
• Upscale gyms
• Airports
• Frasier
• Public radio
• France
• Rufus Wainwright

Anyone?

Foods I Am Ashamed to Admit I Like.

One recurring theme in my life is the wincing looks that people give me when I express certain tastes. If said preferences were for sweetbreads, pickled beef tongue, bacon ice cream or any of the other gourmet offerings that are all the rage these days, I could chalk it up to being on the culinary cutting-edge. I have no such recourse. These are the unadulterated truths of my palate.

Met-Rx Big 100 Colossal Bar (Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Flavor): To answer your first question: No, I am not a bodybuilder, nor am I in training for a triathlon. In fact, there is probably no circumstance in which my body would need this much whey protein in one sitting. So why do I eat Met-Rx Big 100 bars? That's right: for the pleasure. It's grainy, sticky, chalky, and the "chips" taste like carob pellets. And I like it.

Soft-Serve Frozen Yogurt: At one point in my life, I was such a froyo fiend that I considered the now-scarce brands of TCBY and I Can't Believe It's Yogurt inferior to other fake ice cream, calling them TCBYDoesItSuck and I Can't Believe It Sucks. Now, since I no longer live in the nation's Frozen Yogurt Capital (NYC) and can no longer feast regularly on CremaLita, Tasti D-Lite and other deliciously faux treats (Only 8, Wow Cow, Alpha-1... hollaaaa), I am happy to have whatever soft-serve frozen dessert I can get. What began as an often warped attempt to conserve calories has now mellowed into an ingrained taste, to the point that I actually enjoy a cone of froyo more than real ice cream. My preferred vendor in San Francisco has what might be the most genius combination of inventory ever established: liquor in the front, fro machines and fountain sodas in the back -- in the Marina. Rich manicured blonds push past slick-looking guys in leather jackets eyeing the wine selection, all to get their fix of grasshopper or angel food cake dairy goodness. It's divine.

G.T.'s Organic Raw Kombucha: Technically, this is not a "food," unless you count the solid matter floating in the bottle. I have described previously my devil's bargain with this beverage, and it can't be left out here. Ironically, the Gingerade variety is hands-down the only thing that will reliably settle my stomach (I mean, look how I eat). I like the tingly way it goes down, even though it smells vaguely like urine. I pay $2.96 per bottle for the privilege of ingesting this mysterious beverage, and that's with a gym discount.

Assorted Holiday Candies: To all of you who have wrinkled your noses at my consumption of such holiday treats as candy corn (it tastes better if you bite off each color separately), Peeps (I prefer fresh), Brachs Christmas Nougats and other controversial items, I say that's more for me and bollocks to you. I also am not too proud to eat anything eggnog-flavored.

Yogurt Parfait from Cafe Beyond: When I worked on 18th Street at Sixth Avenue in New York, I would walk through the Bed, Bath and Beyond, into the adjacent cafe, and buy a huge cup full of vanilla yogurt layered with granola and strawberries. Now, there's nothing inherently shameful about a yogurt parfait (in my opinion), and no one ever gave me a hard time about it. But I include it here for a few reasons. First of all, buying your breakfast at the same place you can buy plastic hangers and candles just feels weird. Secondly, it cost nearly $5, which according to my calculations is like a 500-percent markup. Thirdly, this breakfast made me feel nauseous every single day, without exception. And I ate it anyway, because I couldn't get enough of the sickly sweetness of the fruit and granola soaked in vanilla yogurt almost to the point of fermentation. This was before I discovered G.T.'s Kombucha, too.

Utz Party Mix: This is NOT to be confused with Chex Mix, bitches. Whole other ballgame. Despite the fact that I am no longer using on a daily basis, this probably goes down as one of the best salty snacks I have ever had the pleasure of ingesting.

I'm not done yet, just thinking. In the meantime feel free to confess your own disgusting food preferences.

Eye-Stoppers.

You've heard of buzzwords? I'd like to talk about buzz-kill words. These are the words, names or phrases that are the equivalent of cognitive white noise: When you see them, your immediate impulse is to nap, avert your eyes, scroll, press the "Back" button, or do anything other than read further. Here are mine of late:

XML Tutorial
J.T. Leroy
Privacy Policy
Approved Vendors
Kevin Federline
Bush Press Conference

I would welcome additions to this list, or antidotes.

Mrs.

You know how it is when you have a really good friend that you talk to a lot, sharing the details of your daily life, and then you grow apart some, but not for any good reason other than circumstance, and you each try to keep in touch but sometimes it just feels too overwhelming to tell them everything you want to tell them, but too weird to just keep it to a topline summary, and so you just don't write or call at all, and the distance only gets worse, and you keep telling yourself that you should write or call, but never get to a point where you have the energy to make the contact?

That's how I'm feeling about a lot of beloved but distant friends lately, and also about this blog. After returning from the honeymoon in Hawaii (yep, Hans, Four Seasons Maui indeed kicks ass), I was relieved to feel none of the post-nuptial blues that I've heard about. It was an amazing, beautiful day, a wonderful honeymoon, and I feel nothing but gratitude -- not only because it was a very happy event, but also because I no longer have to spend my free time worrying about things such as limousines, flower arrangements and ridiculously complex makeup configurations.