They're Everywhere, They're Everywhere!

We make our way to the Elipse, enjoying the beautiful day, taking in the sights, and discussing homelessness. Yay. I am totally perturbed that I have said too much and yet not enough. I don’t want the kids to think I judged Mr. Homeless for being homeless. (Hell, J. was practically homeless and probably would have been if he’d been less crafty about hiding his alcoholism. His mother, who had maybe one 7&7 in 1972 would have been far less tolerant of his shenanigans when he asked to move in.) I don’t want homelessness to be the theme of the trip either and keep talking about it.

Thankfully, there is enough to distract us as we make our way, zig zagging through town. Looking at beautiful hotels and museums and planning to return to this place or that some day. Eventually we are at the Elipse and sit for a moment. Pat puts a Band-aid on his heel. I put one between my big toe and my next biggest toe on each foot. We slather on sunscreen. And while we do, we see a man filling a water bottle at the fountain. He is dumping it on various parts of his body.

Hil says, “That guy must really be hot.”

I say, “He’s washing. He’s homeless.”

"Oh."

The conversation goes on. We talk about what it is like to have things and what it is like to have nothing. Not even the basic, taken-for-granteds. We are bandaging and sunscreening there in the park. What separates us from him? Choice. We have one. He does not.

We bop through town, lamenting that we can’t visit the Washington Monument and wondering when it will reopen. It was cracked in an earthquake this time last year and no one has ridden to the top since. And I am sure the people who were at the top when the quake shook the foundation are still straightjacketed and medicated. No one is even allowed on the hill. God forbid a big chunk should bonk someone on the head. It actually looks lonely.

We stop just outside the American History Museum for a few sunlit pictures. The kids by the fountain. Me with Hil. Me with Pat. I post them to Facebook and check in.

And all Hell breaks loose.

Hil thinks she looks like a dork in the picture I've posted and is mad as a hornet.

It is turning out not to be so much fun to have us both on Facebook. She spies on me. (And I on her, though that’s allowed.) She also overreacts to what I post. Like Justin Bieber is going to see what I write and decide not to ask for a date.

She’s also, I’ve noticed, listed herself as a cashier at American Eagle Outfitters (which is very cool, I’m sure, when you are in middle school). I caution her about truthfulness on social networks. I tell her that everyone is their wittiest, coolest, smartest, funniest version of themselves on Facebook, but that isn’t being false (well it is for some of my truly unhip acquaintences). But factual information needs to be shared factually (replace cashier with Babysitter for Hire in the Work section) or omitted (no one expects you to work, you are in 8th grade!) or joked about (part time movie star and astronaut). Suddenly Facebook has become a job.

How do I explain that what you state on FB is the truth to people who don't know any better (as in everyone but your mother.)  The cashier statement makes me worry that people will assume she is older. Even if the assumption is that she’s a working-papered 16 year old. It is still 3 years older than she is. And that means 17 and 18 year old boys who see her adorable profile picture will pay attention. Unless I continue to post pictures that make her look like a dork.

I redirect the conversation only by going into the museum. Had we sat one more minute we’d still be debating. We make a bee-line for our favoirte section. In two adjoining wings, there is an exhibit on the American Presidency and one on the Innaugural gowns of the First Ladies and their various accoutrements. (I snap a photo of Hil with a cardboard cut out of Mrs. Obama. I ask if it is too dorky for Facebook. She rolls her eyes.)

This is where Hil and I are in synch. We agree on everything. We love the Obama Innaugural gown. We love the Bush II china and the Clinton China. We think Mrs. Johnson wore her bathrobe to the party. That Jackie Kennedy had exquisite taste. That Nancy Reagan wore a gorgeous, enviable gown but at 59 was much too old and hangy for a one shoulder dress.

And from there, we seem to forget about homelessness and focus on the history of our country – from pop culture like the Ruby Slippers and Julia Childs’ kitchen to war history, including the hand edited Pearl Harbor speech (Roosevelt added the part about the day living in infamy himself, how cool) and the Star Spangled Banner exhibit, with the real flag that inspired the song, displayed in mood lighting to prevent further fading.

NOW we are in our groove, and getting into the right frame of mind for our Big Visit to the White House. At least for now.