Archive | April, 2011

My nephew is a tough critic.

13 Apr

My sister and her family came out to visit last week since it was Spring Break in Michigan. Sadly, DC didn’t deliver its usual dose of spring beauty – it was unseasonably cool (high of 50!) and rainy while they were here. Bummer.

The trip did allow for a revelation: I decided my youngest nephew (now eight years-old) should host a reality show. He’s cut from the cloth of Simon Cowell.

It was his first time visiting my new place, so he paced around inspecting it. “This is really nice,” he pronounced. “But you know what you need? You need a 48″ flatscreen right above your fireplace. That would make it better.”

“Nah,” I told him. “Televisions are for boring people who can’t entertain themselves.”

He considered that. “Not really. You could also use it to play Wii, and you can learn a lot from a Wii.” Noted.

The next morning I was sitting in the living room working on my laptop. “You’re boring,” he said. “All you do is sleep and work on your computer. You even have your groceries delivered. Do you ever leave your house?”

Ironically, I generally walk about 25 miles per week, but I didn’t bother to correct him. “Not really,” I said.

“Never?” he asked.

“Have you seen me leave?” I pushed.

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This doesn’t seem well planned…

8 Apr

In the O’Hare airport bathroom this week I encountered this sign:

Does anything about this strike you as odd?

How about the fact that it’s written in braille? Now, I might not be visually impaired, but I think it’s safe to assume that a blind person isn’t going to walk into a public restroom stall and start running her hands over every surface, looking for a plaque that tells her how the toilet works.

Once I processed that image, I thought about the alternative: imagine the poor person who comes in and blindly sits on this toilet without knowing the odd mechanics involved with this toilet seat.

First, it feels like it’s lined with plastic baggies.

Second, it’s quite likely that it will start moving while the person is sitting on it, since it’s triggered by a motion sensor.

I’m pretty sure that’s the kind of experience psychologists are talking about when they use phrases like “emotionally scarred.”

Now that’ve had a chance to think through it, I hope that the braille on that sign isn’t simply repeating the printed instructions that people can see. Instead, when the toilet seat rotates a seated blind person around it and she sticks out her hands for balance and finds this sign, I hope it says:  You might be disoriented, but at least you’re not sitting in someone else’s pee.

Or maybe even: Carnival ride is over. Please dismount and deposit a nickel in the bin on your right.

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In other news: Mom hates museums.

7 Apr

Last week when I posted about our trip to the Library of Congress, I was primarily fixated on the bitchy woman who worked security. I completely didn’t do the rest of the visit justice.

If you like books or architecture, then the LOC should be on your must-see list when you visit DC. It’s free (like almost every other cultural destination in this fine city), and it’s a gem.

I take any willing guest there if faced with a rainy day, but it’s been years since I took the guided tour. The building is loaded with symbolism, and over the years my explanations have gotten a bit thin.

“See that statue there? She represents travel, which is why she’s holding onto a train.”

<A docent sadly shakes his head as he walks by.>

So this time, knowing my dad is history buff, I suggested we all take the guided tour. Much better than me making shit up that he’d be able to call me on.

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I want to keep flying those friendly skies.

6 Apr

I know, I often bitch and moan about the little things on this blog. Not today. I am here to marvel for a moment in the fact that sometimes, people do not suck.

I flew home from Chicago last night and I have to say: from the moment I set foot in O’Hare, I did not encounter one sucky person. In face, everyone was actually pretty awesome.

First: security. It was a breeze. When I went through the “poofer” machine, the TSA person actually complimented me. “That’s the most perfect posture I’ve seen!” she exclaimed. “You could model this machine!” I took a bow upon exiting.

As I put my shoes back on, a young TSA guy approached with my bag. “Is this yours?” he asked. I confirmed and he said he needed to swab it. He opened it up, pulled out my white noise machine and swabbed it.

“Every time I fly they want to see this. Do you know what it is?” I asked him. He didn’t, so I explained it. He was cracking up by the time I was done telling him about the whishing sound of static it creates. Given his laughter, you would think it was a joke machine. I felt a wee bit proud of my device and it’s apparently jovial properties.

Then on to the gate. I was there early enough that I could hop a flight that left 60 minutes earlier – for $50. I chatted with the gate agent. “My opinion?” she looked at me. “Go spend the $50 on a nice dinner and some wine and you won’t care that you’re getting in an hour later.” Nice. I like the way she thought, so I took her advice.

Then when it was time to board my flight, I was surprised by the number of foreign passengers boarding. They all had Air Iberia boarding passes and were speaking rolling Spanish. Despite the fact that they had clearly just gotten off an airplane, they acted as if they weren’t quite sure how the process worked. But instead of being annoying, it was endearing.

Case in point: the guy boarding before me seemed rather superstitious. As we stepped from the bridge into the plane, he paused, rubbed the outside of the plane, knocked it three times, then kissed it. Yes, please! I like flying with people who are that eager to bestow good karma on the plane. (Especially since it was a 737 and I was imagining a huge gaping hole in its roof, a la Southwest’s flight this weekend.)

I think this poor guy had jetlag, so I took his picture, which might mean that I suck:

Once seated, I ended up next to a retired couple from Portland who were traveling to DC for the first time. They were excited and had only a loose agenda for everything they would like to accomplish, so we spent the majority of the flight engaged in a “tourist Q&A” of the city. When we got of the plane I walked them down to baggage claim and made sure they knew where the rental cars were. I’m pretty sure they wanted to hug me.

Finally, my cab driver was an older Muslim man who was very friendly. As we hit the first light in DC (after crossing the 14th street bridge), a homeless man was standing on the median. My driver pulled over, carefully picked through his ashtray and handed him some quarters. I wanted to hug him.

So there. I don’t constantly complain, and people don’t constantly suck. Happy hump day!

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I think my yoga instructor was Brittany Pierce.

3 Apr

Confession: I’m an avid follower of Glee. It’s not for the plots (though I have been impressed with they way they’ve woven gay acceptance into the storyline) and it’s not for the singing (not a big fan of Journey, thanks.).

What’s left? Well, Brittany, of course. If you don’t understand what’s compelling about her, I’ll save you some time: it’s her lines. She is the master of ditzy deadpan.

"I'm pretty sure my cat's been reading my diary."

So it makes me happy when life resembles celluloid and I run into someone who is Brittany-esque. Which is why my Saturday morning yoga class was pretty much awesome. I think my instructor was Brittany S. Pierce.

For starters, she was pretty bad at giving us clear directions, and I’m sure the newer students were scratching their heads through a lot of the sequences. But she called everything out with such exuberance and cheer that it was hard to get frustrated with her. She walked around grinning.

“You guys are doing awesome!” she encouraged us, right before telling us to, “Put your shoulder on your hip… um… I mean thigh!”

And there was definitely more than one, “Step forward with your left foot. I mean your OTHER left foot!”

It was like playing Twister with Gumby.

At some point, the sun came out and we heard her exclaim, “Oh look! The sun! Hi, Sun!”

While most yoga teachers use the sanskrit names for the poses (for example “chaturanga” is essentially a push-up), she didn’t even try. In fact, not only did she not use the sanskrit names, she didn’t use the standard English names either.

At one point she wanted us to lift into Virabhadrasana, known in English as Warrior Three. But instead of calling it either of those things, she said, “Now everybody do airplane!!” We all looked around at each other, confused. She beamed at us and said, “You know, AIRPLANE…” as she lifted up into this pose:

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But unlike every other yoga instructor I had, when she attempted this pose she couldn’t keep her balance. She immediately began wobbling around, and instead of the rest of us following her lead, we all just stood there and watched her as she toe-heeled her way around on her mat trying to keep from falling.

“Oh my gosh!” She exclaimed. “I drank coffee this morning and it’s totally affecting my balance! This is terrible!” Then, after a pause, “Oh wait. It’s not terrible. You’re never supposed to say something is terrible in yoga. But I don’t know what it is. It’s crazy!”

She finally wiped out, just as she finished her rant about coffee.

And then it was our turn to lift off into “airplane.” I think it’s the only time I’ve ever been smiling when I took flight.

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