Archive | September, 2010

You say tomato, I say Gestapo.

28 Sep

Saturday morning we ran to the farmer’s market so I could pick up some fruit and greens for a salad. (Side note: I discovered kiwi berries, which, if you like kiwi fruit but HATE peeling them, this is the fruit for you – think of grapes that taste like kiwis.)

On the way there, we were breaking one of my pet urban rules: we were walking three-across on the sidewalk. Fortunately, my mom was tuned into our surroundings, and realized someone coming up behind us would need to get around. She stepped aside, grabbed my dad and me by the shoulders, and loudly announced, “Let’s wait a second so this gentleman can pass.”

The thing is, that gentleman had breasts. No sooner were the words out of my mom’s mouth, than my dad and I exchanged an uncomfortable look and my mom clapped her hand over her mouth. We dropped back a few paces and let the woman gain some ground before we spoke again.

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Some people use them for birdwatching. Not my mom.

27 Sep

My parents came to visit this weekend – their first time since I’ve moved.

My mom spends a large portion of her waking time observing (and commenting on) other people. My old place was HORRIBLE for her because it was on the top floor of a five-story building and had limited windows that really didn’t afford street views. She would pace like a caged animal trying to peek out the small windows in my turret, so visits would generally be planned around making sure she was outside and able to see people.

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You would see, the perfect gift would be from me…

24 Sep

Since I moved into my new place three months ago, I’ve had only one complaint: my upstairs neighbors charge around like water buffaloes at all hours of the night, squeaking the floorboards above my bed to such an extent that I’ve developed insomnia.

I’ll skip the back-story (mainly because it’s boring), but a few weeks ago we invited said-neighbors down for a glass of wine with the hopes of having a friendly discussion about their floor.

Somehow, one glass of wine turned into several bottles, and my couch turned into a confessional for my neighbors (two gay men who are partners in their early 40s). They started opening sentences with, “You don’t know this about me, but…”

By far, the best admission of the night was when Jude revealed that he had not only dated women in his not-so-distant past, but also then went on to profess his skill at (and enjoyment of) certain decidedly STRAIGHT sexual activities.

They were also into astrology, so we learned that Michael is a Pisces and Jude is a Cancer. Now if only Jude had proclaimed himself to be a paleontologist. I think I could’ve surprised him with the perfect birthday present:

Somehow, I think that if Jude started sporting that shirt, I might only have to tolerate ONE set of footsteps above me each night. On second thought, it’s not a BAD plan, even if he’s not into dinosaurs.

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Stream of Consciousness: Swimming at a DC Public Pool

21 Sep

This locker room is what I would expect to find in a prison.

Except with more people in it.

And probably lice.

Soap on a rope!

Wow. That is one naked woman.

Why is she sitting on a chair in the shower?

Note to self: don’t ever sit naked on a chair in a public shower. Gross.

I’m glad the lifeguard didn’t ask for my ID today.

I must look urban.

I wonder if they would’ve stopped Alan.

Wow. The water is WARM.

I bet I’ll overheat.

Sweating in the water is weird.

But it happens.

Why does that sign say “Water Running?”

I don’t SEE any water running.

<Four laps later>

Ah ha! They mean “water running” as in “people running” in the water.

Not the water running.

That’s embarrassing. I’ve been here a half dozen times looking for running water.

That explains why the fat woman always hangs out in this lane and doesn’t swim.

Although actually, she’s not running. She’s water-standing.

I wonder if I’ll get kicked out of this lane?

I am hot.

I wonder if the water tastes saltier because I am sweating?

Is my key still stuck to my head?

<Patting back of head while breast-stroking>

It is! Good!

What would I do if it wasn’t there?

How ironic would that be?

If by trying to protect my stuff, I end up losing the  key.

Which would be worse: having someone steal my stuff because I left the key to my lock on the deck, or not being able to get to my stuff because I tied the key to my goggles and it fell off and disappeared into the pool drain?

Not sure.

Those girls have on the exact same suit.

I wonder if they’re on a team together?

If they are, then it’s not a good team because I’m faster than them.

I wonder if the lifeguard would actually notice if someone drowned?

Are they allowed to talk on their cell phones on duty?

I bet they are breaking the rules.

<Scanning bottom of pool to make sure no swimmers need to be rescued.>

How weird that I can’t wait to get out of the water to cool down.

I bet that’s why that woman was sitting on a chair in the shower: heat stroke.

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I hope this means he has rhythm.

18 Sep

Ah, Facebook. What would I do without you? My life is so much richer for having you in it.

Case in point: without Facebook, I wouldn’t realize that my 12 year-old nephew is actually 68% black.

I know, I know. This might come as something of a shock to people who are familiar with his corn-silk white hair, blue eyes and creamy complexion. But according to a quiz he took on Facebook (titled, “How Black Are You?”), it turns out he’s 68% black.

Now, I haven’t seen the questions that led to this conclusion, but I’m pretty sure it didn’t involve a DNA sample. Perhaps he knows some rap lyrics and can appropriately attribute the “I have a dream” speech to MLK Jr?

I just hope he doesn’t take the result too seriously and think it means he is a good dancer. I made that mistake once myself, dancing wildly to Eminem at a discotheque in France shouting, “Detroit in the house! Right here!” and pointing at my chest. Fortunately, no one in France can dance, so it wasn’t as horrific if I’d made that claim in a NY club.

Another reason I love Facebook is because it allows me to crack myself up. Regularly. Last week I was practically in tears coming up with what I thought were funny comments to add when  “Alan is in a relationship” showed up in my news feed. My first response (which I refrained from posting) was, “…with his hand.”

That had me rolling on the floor, in no small part because I had stolen the phrase from one of my nephew’s pre-teen friends. (Yes, I’m admitting my sense of humor most closely aligns to that of prepubescent boys.)

When I told Alan how much this thought had tickled me, he said, “Good thing you didn’t post that, because my response would’ve been, ‘With YOUR hand.'” Which also cracked me up.

For whatever reason, when I get to laughing like this, it reminds me of how Snoopy would laugh on Peanuts, slapping the table with his paw:

So to all the Facebook haters, I offer: anything that causes that much laughter can’t be all bad. It has to be at least 68% good, right?

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