The road not taken

I kid. Lots of people take this road, I just didn’t know when or if I would be one of them.

Next week is my last week on the Hill, working for The Good Congressman. By the end of this month I will be at home full time with the little oyster and I. can. not. wait.

An old classmate who saw my announcement on Facebook sent a short note saying she and her husband are also considering what is next for their young family and asked how we arrived at this decision. Sometimes it is hard to sort through all the options, particularly when you’re in the middle of things, and someone else’s story or perspective can be helpful.

In the end, for us it came down to cost and quality of life.

This is our story:

On February 15, a friend asked if we had dressed the little oyster in a special outfit for Valentine’s Day, the day before. The sad fact was no, we hadn’t–I hadn’t even seen my daughter dressed that day. She was in pajamas when the husband and I left for work and she was in bed by the time we got home. That sucked and that day I applied for a job in Old Town Alexandria, two minutes from home.

I got that job–Director of Government Affairs–and the day the executive director was supposed to send a written offer, he instead emailed to say they were reassessing their needs and wished me the best of luck. Suddenly my raise-in-pay, closer-to-home, easier-hours work alternative was no longer on the table. Obviously God had a reason for that, although we didn’t see it in February.

That’s when our conversation began. I realized I didn’t want a new job at all, I wanted very badly to stay home with the oyster. The husband wanted that for us, too.

Easter came, and the husband, the oyster, the little sister, and I went to the old home state to see family. The husband and I both interviewed for very promising jobs while we were there and believed that either one of us getting either one of them would answer all our questions. I shushed the little voice in the back of my head that told me I would be sad to leave our little home near the Potomac so soon.

But we didn’t get either one of those jobs and then the conversation got serious. The little sister had plans to go full time at her weekend job in the spring and we would need a new care situation for the little oyster.

I called reputable day cares, near and far. The earliest anyone could get her in was next February. But who cares? The husband and I realized that we didn’t even want her in a day care. (Before she was born we had put ourselves on a Capitol Hill day care center waiting list, the shortest one we could find–we were #140.)

Next stop was a new nanny. I joined nannyshare websites and was quickly inundated with offers and pages-long biographies of women who promised to “love little child as my own, as you do, her mother.” Umm, no thank you. I removed myself from nannyshare websites.

Then one of our office interns offered to post an ad for me on her church’s listserv. Other moms at our own church who had posted ads for nannies had come up short. Alright, I figured–if the Presbyterians didn’t want the job, I’d try the Mormons.

Very quickly I had a short list of promising candidates. I emailed with them and one in particular stood out. I knew the asking price for a private nanny in this area was going to be a bitter pill to swallow. Still, this young woman seemed to be just what we were looking for. I again shushed the little voice in the back of my head that said figuring out logistics–from having enough building keys to how to pay for late days at work to how we would fit four adults, a baby, and a Rottweiler in the condo in the mornings before work–was going to be a nightmare. I also ignored the ulcer that was forming between the time I asked her required salary and the time she replied.

I shouldn’t have worried. Her answer was the last straw we needed to confirm the choice we had been leaning toward for a few weeks. Her asking price was my entire take-home pay every month. Plus some.

On top of the financial considerations was the very real feeling that our quality of life was suffering. As Congress has gained momentum this year (and they have, even if you don’t see a lot of progress back home), the number of bills on the floor increases and days in the office get later. Twice this week the husband and I have come home after the little oyster is in bed. The only reason I haven’t cried about that is because I know that starting next week it won’t happen again.

Regularly being at work late, being here physically and mentally, was bringing me down. Capitol Hill is a young woman’s job.

Such long days at work meant I haven’t been able to take care of my house and my family the way I want. I can’t keep things as clean as I would like. We eat out more often than we should. Our evenings are rushed. The laundry piles up. A simple Target trip means we don’t see the baby before she’s asleep.

Everything came together in the perfect storm and pointed us to our decision: My time and energy will be better spent full time at home. Once we decided I’d put in my notice and the husband will look for a new job that pays better, we had complete peace. And now I’m really, really excited for my retirement.

This is an expensive area of the country and we had to agree to changes in our discretionary spending but we’re confident we’ll be fine on that front–the little oyster isn’t the only frugal one in the house. There are no down payments in our near future and that’s ok for us; it’s nice that we live in a vacation spot in the meantime.

I want to be home with the little oyster. I like my job but I love being in the company of my little girl. Today The Good Congressman, in telling me goodbye and good luck, said that my analysis of today’s votes was further proof of his opinion that policy is my niche, I have hit my stride, and I will be missed. I told him thank you, it’s nice to leave on a high note.

Leaving the Hill to be home with our daughter was an easy decision for us to make and I’m ready for next week’s retirement. My recent diagnosis of sciatica, about which my doctor said the worst thing I can do is sit all day at a desk job, is, I think, God’s way of confirming we’ve made the best choice for our family. Recommended treatment for this sciatica? Walking and swimming. Our pool opens this weekend and the little oyster already has her suit. Bring it, future. We’re pumped.

How to ride an elevator

Working for the United States House of Representatives can make one an expert in any number of areas. Save the jokes about being an expert in spending money that isn’t yours, I’ve heard them all before. Har har.

At this point in my career I would like to consider myself an expert observer and if I can’t be the Word Police, I’ll settle for waxing eloquent about how to conduct oneself in an elevator. My keen powers of observation, sharpened to a fine point while working on the Hill, have taught me most people don’t know how to do this.

Here, I’ll help.

1. Don’t (try to) get on the elevator before everyone in it has exited.

Sometimes when an elevator opens there are people inside. In fact, expect people to be inside. Don’t charge into an opening elevator before anyone in it has had the chance to exit. Just wait. Just wait for .2 seconds and if there are people in the elevator, stand aside and let them leave before you try to stuff yourself in. Just. Wait. I’m shocked at the range of people who don’t observe this basic courtesy. There will come a day when I carry a TASER and hold it in front of me as a greeting to those who don’t allow riders to exit before plowing into an opening elevator as if the bulls of Pamplona are in pursuit. And when that day comes, and you walk into my rage and my TASER, you’ll wish it had only been the bulls behind you.

 2. Make like a gas and fill the space.

This is not an invitation to cram 15 people on an elevator built for 7 (real life story—if my arms weren’t pinned to my sides, I would shake a fist at you, tourists). What I mean is when you and your fellow riders are packed in to allow everyone to fit and then someone exits, move into the space now available. Not doing so is bad manners. And awkward. Make like a gas and fill the space. Now, speaking of gas…

 3. Don’t.

This should be a given, but sad experience has taught me that it is not. Hold it, either end. A silent burp is as offensive as a silent anything-else. Elevators are small, enclosed spaces with very little air flow. And while you think no one can tell where that pungent secondhand odor of food truck falafel is coming from, the rest of us know it’s you. Oh, we know.

4. Don’t talk about other elevator riders once they get out.

Last week I got on the elevator on the 5^th floor. Others followed me in. We stopped on the 1^st floor to let all but two of us out. Before the doors could close, two young ladies wearing flip flops (personal pet peeve, flip flops in Congress, even after hours) hemmed and hawed about whether this was the right elevator, literally stepping on and off twice before finally getting in, blathering all the while. The elevator stopped at the next floor down and the other rider from the 5^th floor left. As soon as the doors closed, these two talked about how it’s “so dumb when people take the elevator for only one floor” and neither one of them ever wants to be the person who does that because “OMG how embarrassing, just take the stairs.” Part of me wants to feel bad for such clueless ninnies but that’s for another day. Besides the fact that there ARE no stairs between those two floors, that other girl had been on for many floors (I, as you’ll remember, have been on the elevator for 100 years at this point) and what’s it to you anyway? Now you’ve displayed in public that you’re indecisive and inconsiderate. Where’s my TASER when I need it?

5. Don’t repeatedly and frantically push the Door Close button.

Allow me to use another example from my own life. Today I got on the elevator in the basement. Five other people got on, too. I pressed 5. Others pressed 1, 2, and 4. As we stopped at those floors to let these people out, the other rider going to 5 pressed the Door Close button frantically each time. As the floor 4 riders left, he announced to me that “no riding the elevator if you’re going to the fourth floor or lower” was his “new rule.” Want to hear my new rule? “No spastically pounding on the Door Close button because it doesn’t do anything except annoy your fellow riders and also, your fly is down.”

6. No jokes.

Oh come on, redwhiteandnew, who tells jokes in an elevator? Tourists and old man lobbyists who think they’re funny and are the first person ever to look at a full elevator and say, “We’re skinny, we’ll fit, hahaha” when really it’s the fifteenth time I and any other staffer crammed in the back of the lift has heard that “joke” today and, by the way, if you have to wonder if you’ll fit and then make a skinny joke about it, newsflash: You can’t fit. And you’re not funny. Now go away. That’s who.

The old “Haha, I’ll just hold my breath!” is a close second. Shut it.

To summarize:

Let people exit the elevator before you try to get on it. Once on it, maintain your integrity and that of those around you by respecting personal space, riding quietly, and not passing gas of any sort. If you have to wonder if you’ll fit, you won’t. Press the button to your floor only once. You’ll get there, I promise.

Helpful tips:

When to hold the door: If someone is running or reaching toward the elevator and you make eye contact. I saw a friendly looking man lunge not-too-gracefully toward the closing elevator a few weeks ago and my arm shot out of its own volition to keep the door open. I tend to err on the side of every-man-for-himself when it comes to getting to one’s office but I held the door because he made eye contact. Turns out he’s a Congressman.

When to talk: To strangers, almost never. A friendly “Have a good day!” as you leave often catches people pleasantly by surprise but discussion beyond that isn’t usually appreciated. If you’re riding with Hill staffers, an elevator ride is usually the only time they don’t have to make nice with others so please allow us 18 seconds of quiet respite.

When to press the button to your floor: When it hasn’t been pressed. If the little light in or around your floor button is lit, then someone else is already going to that floor. You don’t need to register your presence with the elevator gods by pressing 5 again. I kid you not, three men followed me into the elevator the other day and each. one. pressed the button that was already highlighted. Hey, maybe that’s what’s wrong with Congress.

By employing some simple powers of observation you, too, can ride an elevator with confidence and panache while avoiding an anonymous appearance on my blog.

Touch down!

The solo flight week is over!

The office is still not only clipping along but key surfaces have been Lysol-wiped and the constituent response cards that need to be entered into our system are stacked somewhat neatly all together and out of the way.

Imagine my surprise and temptation to panic when most of these arrived on the same day. Even the mail lady couldn’t believe the pile she dropped off with the morning delivery. There are well over 1,500 postcards here and each one will be entered into our system and receive a response.

FYI, to those of you who write to your representatives, the letters do get to their offices, but mail services opens them first. That’s mostly for the safety of reps and staffers, so that we don’t get anthraxed. When your letter arrives in our office it has a white sticker over the part of the envelope that has been sliced open, holding the contents inside.

And so five days, a gazillion postcards, a hundred phone calls, 10 media requests, one press release and a few gallons of water (I kept track on the water cooler counter) later, the solo flight has touch down.

I missed my office friends and I missed being able to run to the bathroom without locking the door behind me. Looking forward to next week!

Is that a parking garage or the Mexican Embassy?

Are you new here, too?

Today the husband and I had lunch on the Hill and made a day of seeing a selection of sights. Selectively seeing sights. Seeing selected sights. However you want to say it, we wandered around to some of the museums we wanted to check out and did so at a leisurely pace, knowing we can always go back tomorrow. We didn’t look at everything or even read the signs in front of exhibits, so bold we are in our new surroundings.

Lunch was at A, dinner was at B, and the afternoon was the scenic 3.5 miles in between.

One thing that strikes me is the astounding number of tourists–often with eastern European accents–stopping and stooping to take pictures of squirrels around here. A bit of research into the matter confirmed two things: first, squirrels do in fact exist all over the world and are not unique to DC and second, we aren’t imagining the constant photo ops.

I hate squirrels. They are twitchy, mangy, unpredictable, carry disease, their ugly beady little eyes don’t blink, and they have sharp teeth and a lot of nerve for creatures the size of a slipper.

Not only do people take photos of these nasty and entirely pedestrian little turds, but they FEED THEM. This disgusts me. One squirrel scaled the fence it was behind and stood on top, eye-level with the young Russian woman taking his picture. She had the sense to back away quickly, which was more sense than the two kids nearby had, as a squirrel they were chasing with a snack turned around and chased them because the filthy little thing no doubt saw them as a snack. Squirrels are gross. In DC they are a gross and aggressive and a large part of the reason I wear boots when strolling on the Hill.

"This is our year!" he exclaimed loudly. Twice.

In the American History Museum, the husband proudly added his sticky note answer to the question of the day board. First person to guess the husband’s favorite player gets a private Capitol tour. I know a guy.

For dinner we chose Founding Farmers; the husband is still talking about it. Now we’re hoping I get a job soon not only because I’m going to get bored and lonely if I don’t, but because we want a celebratory excuse to go back. Anyone reading is welcome to join.

Me: What does it take to get into a foreign embassy?
The husband: I don’t know. Which one do you want to get into?
Me: The Canadian one.
The husband: Why?
Me: Because I want to see what it’s like. OH! And because I have that $20 in Canadian money and I wonder if they would change it for me!
The husband: I can ask someone in the office.
Me: Don’t worry about it, I’ll find out myself. I’m working from home next week. Speaking of embassies, is that the Mexican one?

On our way to dinner, the husband and I stopped in our tracks and put my iPhone to use to determine if the small and outdated-looking building across the street from us was the Mexican Embassy or a parking garage. It was the Mexican Embassy.

It's the small building with the large flag. Not the white house-type building that stands out, but the brown building that is actually part of the parking garage that borders it on two sides.

For the record, this is the Canadian Embassy. Where hopefully I can trade in my Canada money.

Just in case you weren't sure whose embassy it was.