The Salon In My Office Building is Advertising a $400 John Edwards Presidential Special

I think I'm going to have to deem DC the soggiest place on Earth. Everyone says the weather we've been having is great, that it is such a relief from the hellish humidity of the summer. Coming from the cool ocean breezes of SoCal, though, my body has forgotten how to self-regulate in high temperatures. I thus can't seem to make it through the day without my face sweating so much that I fantasize about Neutrogena.

On my second day on the job, I had to book it to the Hill to cover a hearing one of our senators would be present at. I clopped into the room, sure I was going to be late, and was about to set up my laptop at the press table when one of the senator's staffers saw me and approached me for an introduction. It was then that I realized my skirt had shifted to being completely sideways. This might not have been an issue had the hem been straight, but it looked more like this, with a longer hem in back than in front and pockets sticking out my rear and front ends. I surreptitiously tried to shift it back to its original position while talking with this lad, but it stuck fast, glued by my sweat.

The next day I was trying to locate the room of our other senator's press conference when I discovered I was in the wrong building. Already late and fearing I'd missed the whole thing, I scrambled to the Capitol with images of having to tell my boss of my incompetence dancing in my head. Thankfully I was only a few minutes late, but beads of sweat dripped from my forehead and smudged the notes I was furiously scribbling. By the way, West Virginia Sen. Jay Rockefeller is a giant of a man.

In closing, I will give you a story of what occurred when I rode the metro last night, in keeping with my obsession with the friends I make on public transportation.

It was dusk on a Saturday night and I descended into the metro station amongst hordes of revelers to go to a friend's to eat Chinese food and "watch" (read: sleep through) two movies. I was sitting in an aisle seat, conspicuous of my revealing clothing (a tank top and skirt are not the most desirable choices when one is a woman of virtue traveling alone, but it was hot as the blazes), reading a novel about Queen Elizabeth I.

Two burly, beefy dudes boarded the train a few stops down the line, and one proceeded to do pull-ups on the overhead rail, his crotch swinging dangerously toward my face. The man in the window seat left and I dutifully scootched over to his spot. Crotch Man swooped in next to me, putting his arm on the back of my seat. My muscles tensed as my body went into fear mode, and I tried to reason with myself that he could not easily rape me on a train full of people. He leaned over me as if to sneak a peek down my shirt and said, "Sorry to disturb you, but isn't that an oxymoron?" in reference to my book's title.

"It's about Queen Elizabeth," I said severely, simpering at his crudeness as I stood to exit the train. And that, my friends, was that.