Archive | April, 2013

Hey Girl: That’s Not Pretty

30 Apr

Image Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y4yDNWlvK6s

If you’re friends with me on Facebook, then I apologize in advance: You’ve already had to weather this rant. And yet, it is worth repeating. To make it somewhat more bearable, I’ll try to channel Ryan Gosling. Indulge me.

Hey Girl,

I see you there with your super-firm thighs. Thighs that say “thank you” for attending pilates throughout the week. Thighs that could make Gallagher cry because they can split watermelons like a cashew in a nutcracker.

Those thighs? They got my attention.

But not just because they’re attractive. No.

Girl, I know you’re asking those thighs to do double-duty. That in addition to looking fine stacked up on a pair of Manolo Blahniks, they’re punching the clock doing overtime. Know how I know?

Because of that fine spray of pee all over the toilet seat in your office building’s communal bathroom. That’s right.

I can picture you there, standing like crane ready for construction, feeling the burn as you unburden yourself. 

And Girl, you must be exhausted from that effort. I mean, it is WORK to perch there like a hovercraft.  So no wonder you can’t find the strength to grab a tissue and clean that toilet seat off. Honestly, how could you?

I can’t fault you for that. But Girl, think of all the other ladies whose thighs aren’t as strong, who must sit on that toilet seat to relieve themselves. They end up sitting in a puddle of your pee. And I don’t know if you’ve seen these women, but their reaction to that isn’t one of loving kindness. No, Girl: It’s fury.

They make water cooler jokes about how they’re going to stalk you and hug you and pee on your legs. And these women? They’re a bit off-balance, so I’m concerned they might try. They’ve even gone so far as to use the office printer to make a note to hang in the bathroom, though they got distracted by a box of Girl Scout cookies before locating the tape to hang it. I’m telling you, they’re one step away from psychotic. I’m concerned for you.

But I don’t want to weaken your resolve or your thighs. I’m not proposing something dramatic, like expecting you to – God forbid – wipe the toilet seat after yourself. No, Girl. You’re too precious for that.

I have a better plan: Girl, we gotta work on your aim.

Kisses,

Ryan

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Relax: easier said than done

27 Apr

Image Source: http://gifsoup.com/view/1228906/cat-massage.html#prettyPhoto

It’s been a stressful week. By Tuesday evening, I’d already clocked 30 hours of work… and if you count Sunday, which is theoretically a day off, the tally was closer to 36 hours.

By the time Thursday afternoon rolled around, I was spent. On a whim, I picked up the phone and called to see if my massage place had any cancellations that evening – they did. So an hour later I found myself stripping down for a massage.

Normally I get massages on the weekend, walking the five miles to the studio in yoga clothes. Thursday, however, my routine was totally thrown off since I was coming straight from work.

When my masseur – a big, burly guy named Errol who contagiously giggled like a girl – left the room so I could change, I panicked. My outfit was COMPLICATED to remove, and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to strip down before he came back to knock.

For starters, I was wearing a collared button down shirt with half-pearl buttons, which are slippery and tough to work back through the holes. Knowing I was up against the clock only made me fumble more. Then came my socks. In and of themselves, they weren’t that tricky. But I’ve started wearing fluorescent orange compression sleeves over them (don’t ask) which are a feat to remove.

I felt like I was in a race. I tried to reassure myself, knowing he’d knock to make sure I was ready before re-entering the room. But I’ve always found that exchange to be a bit like a conversation with an adult from Peanuts: I hear the knock and a muffled question, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to say, “OK” or nothing. Whatever I choose, they seem to come in regardless, so I decided the knocking wasn’t much of an insurance policy.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m actually not modest and wouldn’t actually care if someone walked in on me naked. But it’s awkward. Like when I was at the gynecologist a few weeks back and the nurse whipped in the room to see if I’d been given a gown – only to find me already bare-assed in the middle of the room, stepping out of my underwear.

“Oh geez!” she said, clearly startled. “I’m so sorry!”

See what I mean? She was going to see me naked only a few minutes later, so it wasn’t my nudity that bothered her – it was that I wasn’t where she expected me to be. It was as awkward as if she’d walked in and found me crouching on top of a filing cabinet. So that’s what was going through my head as I changed for my massage. Must. Get. Under. The. Sheet.

Fortunately, I made it. But in the process, I forgot to run my fingers between my toes. I always do that to make sure there’s no random sock lint, because I think if I were a masseuse, I’d puke if I had to rub someone’s feet and I encountered toe jam. Before I could remedy the situation, Errol reappeared. Crap. Whatever.

Errol was awesome, and I’m not just saying that because he complimented me on having well-developed lats. Which, now that I think of it, might actually NOT have been a compliment.

In any case, we’d established a chatty rapport, so when he got to my feet I said, “Hey, I’m sorry – I totally forgot to check for lint.”

He had only my right leg and foot exposed at that point, and he responded, “Please. Your feet are in great shape. You should see some of the dogs I have to walk. I just close my eyes and jump right in.”

“Careful,” I cautioned, “You haven’t seen the left one yet.” And because this is how my brain works, I continued, “How awesome would it be if it was all snarled and I was missing toenails? You’d feel horrible.”

Apparently, Errol didn’t share my sense of humor, because he was pretty quiet after that. Lesson learned: Never relax so much that you think strangers will appreciate your warped mind. It will just make them sit in silent judgment. Which – if you’re getting a massage – actually turns out to be OK.

Or maybe he’d seen this clip and thought he was on a hidden camera:

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Unwanted Perspective

16 Apr
From our office window...

From our office window…

Like most Americans, I’ve spent much of the last 24 hours trying to process the Boston Marathon bombings. When there is so much to love about living, it is truly mind-boggling to realize there are other humans in this world – structurally built from the same materials as the rest of us – who not only can’t feel humbled before it, but feel entitled to strip others of that gift.

I’ve felt this way before. After Columbine. After 9/11. After the DC sniper. After Newtown…

What is new to me is how personal this attack feels. Even though the scale is smaller (at least from a fatality standpoint), this event has rocked me in ways that the others haven’t.

Maybe it’s because my company’s headquarters is smack-dab between the two explosions.

Or because I have more than a hundred colleagues (dozens of whom I consider friends) working in that building.

Or because I’ve mindlessly walked past the two bomb sites countless times in the last few years on my way to pick up lunch.

Or because my  friends were posting photos of the finish line from the office window that morning, celebrating how lucky they were to have such prime seats.

Or because it’s all too real to imagine my co-workers cowering under their desks, waiting for the third blast.

Or because I’d tried to fly in that morning but the hotel costs were prohibitively high – so I pushed my arrival back a day.

Or maybe it’s because all the news coverage shows my hotel and my office building… landmarks that previously made me think “home away from home,” when I saw them pulling into view.

I really don’t know.

Regardless of why this events hits me square in the gut, there are a few things I am certain of:

Those runners won’t stop running because a coward tried to steal their glory.

We should stop using the term “mastermind” when referring to a terrorist. Masterminds are people who find elegant solutions to difficult problems. Killing innocent people? Pretty much the opposite.

The bravery of the first responders – the people who turned to run into the smoke instead of away from it – only serves to underscore the cowardice of the person (or persons) who set those bombs.

The goodness of humanity far outweighs the few random assholes behind events like this. 

Just watch the news or check out your social media channels and you’ll see that last point affirmed over and over again:

The Bostonians who coordinated a directory of private homes where homeless runners could stay.

The outpouring of blood donations at Mass General and the Red Cross.

The stranger who gave his race medal to a first-time marathoner who was unable to finish because of the blast. 

The spectators who rose to the occasion and found themselves pushing wheelchairs and tearing away fencing to get to victims.

The locals who – walking home from their evacuated office buildings – took runners home with them and gave them warm clothes and helped them reconnect with their families. 

Life is good. People are good.

Those beliefs are fundamental differences that separate us from the people behind attacks like this.

Cling to it. Celebrate it. Embody it.

© 2013 Aaron Tango Tang

© 2013 Aaron Tango Tang

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TIP: Just because it’s called a Basin doesn’t mean you should wash in it.

13 Apr

© 2013 pithypants

Remember back in the 1980s, when women had their “colors done” and were labeled with a season? As in: “I’m a Fall, so Earth tones look best on me.” Remember that?

Well, if Washington DC were a woman of the 1980s, she would definitely be a Spring. This season is working for her.

I’d be so bold as to claim that there really aren’t any other cities that do spring quite as beautifully as DC. And it’s not just the cherry blossoms – there are the tulips, the daffodils, the  redbuds, the dogwoods, the magnolias, the azaleas. The entire city is awash in bright colors.

Admittedly, the main event is the cherry blossoms. We obsess over them here. People begin forecasting “peak bloom” as early as February, and near the end of March the news provides a daily “bloom update.”

This week they were deemed to be at their peak, so one morning I got up at 5am and walked down to the Tidal Basin, hoping to see them in their full glory before work – and before the area was overrun with tourists.

Apparently I wasn’t the only early bird in the crowd. Some observations, advice, and random thoughts:

Observations

I never knew how many people owned tripods. I also don’t know how necessary they are. I’m probably twice as happy with my photos (posted here and snapped with my iPhone) even if they’re half as good as what I could’ve done with a tripod, because I didn’t have to lug a tripod on my back.

Advice

To the couple in their seventies who packed a picnic basket and were toasting the sunrise with mimosas: you’re doing it right. To the women with a box of Dunkin’ Donuts and two liters of soda: you are not.

To the Japanese women getting your picture taken as you cup handfuls of petals you’ve scooped from the ground: I’m not sure what you’re doing. To the teenage boy repeatedly performing ballet leaps so your parents can film you with a backdrop of cherry blossoms: Might not want to upload that to YouTube.

Random Thoughts

I’m glad the Park Police didn’t bust the old couple for drinking in a national park. That would be kind of sad. Maybe the Park Police don’t work around the clock – or maybe they slept in today.

Spring is sprung actually makes no sense at all.

Maybe I’ll make a bumper sticker that says, “iPods, not tripods.”

The bank of port-o-johns smells oddly like Wintergreen lifesavers. It kind of makes me regret eating an entire bag of them for lunch yesterday.

I wonder how many people actually fall in love in the springtime? I wonder how many people fall in the Tidal Basin during cherry blossom season? Answer: Not enough.

© 2013 pithypants

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Go ahead, make a wish.

8 Apr
NOT my aunt.

NOT my aunt.

I was largely offline this last week because I was in Florida with my family for my aunt’s 85th birthday. She’s a rockstar.

We celebrated her big day over a large lunch on Easter. Sitting at the table together, we saw an ambulance pass through the parking lot of her complex, followed by two police cars. “What’s going on?” someone asked.

“Meat wagon,” my cousin (her son) responded.

“Huh?” I was confused.

“You’re in a senior community. People drop like flies around here. One a week,” he explained between bites of honey-baked ham.

My sister and I exchanged an uneasy look. Um, isn’t it a bit awkward to talk about death when the reason we’re together is to mark someone’s advanced age? 

The meal continued and mercifully, the topic changed. Until we got to dessert.

Just as my aunt prepared to blow out her candles, her partner (who had run over to their other place to fetch ice cream from their other condo) came through the door and said, “Guess what?”

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I usually expect those words (especially when uttered at a birthday party) to introduce an exciting/surprising/generally positive follow-up statement.

So we all looked up in anticipation. “The ambulance?” he continued, gesturing over his shoulder to a unit down the way, “It was here for Karen. Turns out she died last night.”

Awkward silence.

Followed by blowing out the candles.

Pretty sure we can all guess Auntie Fran’s wish.

Image Source: http://www.nomorefriends.net/

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