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Red, white and blood?

8 Jul
"Do you think I need to go to the Emergency Room?"

“Do you think I need to go to the Emergency Room?”

I mentioned in my last post that our Fourth of July became a bit of an adventure when Alan came for me at the community pool, squeezing his finger as blood flowed down his hand.

(You’re WELCOME, fellow residents, who previously only wondered if children had peed in the pool.) 

He opened with, “I don’t think it’s anything major…” but the fact that he’d walked down to find me meant that he actually did think it could be major and wanted a second opinion – or a driver to take him to the ER.

I quickly gathered my items and followed him back to his place. We examined his finger under running water, and every time he stopped cutting off circulation to his finger, blood gushed out in time with his heartbeat.

Some people might be squeamish, but we’re both pragmatic. I hated to even ask the question. “Do you think you should go to the emergency room?”

Alan took a deep breath. I knew what he was thinking. We hate the emergency room and will go to great lengths to avoid it because it’s inefficient and generally requires a minimum of a six-hour time commitment. And on a heavy drinking holiday like the Fourth? It’d probably be overflowing with dumb drunk injuries and mean an overnight.

“I’m actually not sure,” Alan concluded.

So we talked it out. We should go to the ER if we couldn’t stop the bleeding. Or if it seemed infected. Otherwise, there was nothing to be gained, we reasoned. After all, he’d shaved his entire fingertip off, so it’s not like there were “edges” that could be stitched together. Short of grafting skin to the area, the doctors wouldn’t be able to do anything we couldn’t do at home.

Plus, we had two fat rib-eyes ready to throw on the grill. If there had been any doubt about our ER avoidance plan, this factor effectively killed it.

Later in the evening, as I tidied up the kitchen, I spotted a number of paper towels in the trashcan from the earlier drama. At the top of the pile was a cocktail napkin with Amtrak’s logo on it in blue, surrounded by red blood drops. “You should carry that on your next trip to New York and stumble off the train with it in your hand, commenting, ‘Hell of a ride…’ to anyone you see.”

Alan shook his head. “Actually,” I reconsidered, “It looks rather patriotic, what with the red, white and blue motif. You certainly know how to honor Independence Day!”

“Well,” Alan said, “As Jefferson said, ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time, with the blood of patriots.'”

Good point.

Just not sure Jefferson envisioned combat taking place with potato peelers.

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Introducing… Miss Moneypenny!

2 Jul

I got a cat.

I know what you’re thinking: Aren’t you ALLERGIC to cats? Didn’t you give BACK a kitten once? How will a cat work with your OCD tendencies?

Or maybe you’re not thinking that at all – maybe I’m projecting?

To answer your (my) questions:

  1. Yes. I am allergic to cats. But my intestines are apparently allergic to food and I haven’t stopped eating. At least I can pet a cat. And a cat will never cause me to shit my pants or need surgery. So overall, I think the cat wins this one. Did I mention I can PET it?
  2. Yes. Factually, speaking, I did once give back a kitten. But in my defense: my co-worker had found a litter in her garage and pawned them off on people for “trials” hoping we’d get attached. And the particular kitten that I got was something of an asshole. So of course I gave him back.
  3. Way ahead of you on this one. I’ve set up a lidded litter box with a swinging door, and it’s perched on a litter mat that grabs loose litter of my cat’s paws. Also? I deliberately chose a cat that matched my couches and rug so that fur would blend in. (That is: any fur that I miss during my twice-daily wipe downs.)

So now that we’ve resolved your (my) initial concerns, let me introduce…

Miss Moneypenny © 2013 pithypants

OK, I’ll admit, her given name is “Squeaky.” And as Alan has pointed out, it’s probably ridiculous to try to rename an animal something that involves five syllables. But I think we all agree that “Squeaky” requires updating for obvious reasons. So why not go with a James Bond character?

Alan actually first suggested (to one of my co-workers, nonetheless) that we were naming her Pussy Galore. I’m sure I don’t have to explain why Miss Moneypenny seems a tad more fitting, but in case you’re slow on the up-take: because I’ve always wanted a secretary.

Duh.

One step closer to becoming a crazy cat lady. Wait for it.

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Nice save, New York!

25 May

I was in New York this week to launch a new website at Internet Week. Except the website doesn’t exactly exist yet, so I guess I was just in New York.

Meanwhile, Alan was taking a week’s vacation in Michigan to celebrate his birthday. And I would’ve been with him, celebrating and vacationing, had I not been launching a non-existent website in New York.

Does that make any sense? No, it doesn’t.

Which is why I was a bit of a sourpuss when I boarded the train on Sunday for New York.

Alas, great city that she is, New York was prepared to provide some redemption.

I’ll admit, it didn’t seem that way at first – when I stepped out of Penn Station, there was a steady drizzle. I was soaked by the time I arrived at my hotel in Chelsea. After helping set up our space at the event, I had a list of things I wanted to do that afternoon (a “Me Party” of sorts, as my sister calls it) to treat myself to a mini-break before diving back into work.

On my list:

  • Check out the Highline
  • Walk up to the Green Flea Market
  • Scout out the new food hall at the Plaza
  • Hit the TKTS booth and snag a seat at a show that evening

All of that was scrapped when I realized I was not only drenched, but didn’t have proper clothes for zipping around a wet city. I contemplated crawling in bed and indulging in a pity party, but instead, I texted my old roommate, David, from Capitol Hill, whom I hadn’t seen in four years and who lives in Manhattan.

Lady Fortune was with me, because he promptly wrote back and offered to meet at a restaurant near my hotel. An hour later, we were hugging at Markt, David appearing to have come straight from a duck hunt: he was wearing jeans, Wellies, a button down shirt and a quilted vest. It was very Dick Cheney. And he’s one of my few friends who would consider that a compliment.

We parked ourselves at the bar, ordered a bottle of wine, some mussels and a crock of French onion soup, and shrugged off the rain.

As we neared the end of our meal, David looked past me and said, “I think that is Chef Todd English sitting next to you.”

Interestingly, that name would have meant nothing to me only four hours earlier, but in researching restaurants in NYC, I’d noted that Todd English was something of a celebrity.

“No way,” I told David. “I can’t believe you would recognize a CHEF. Who does that?” (Actually, Alan would also do that because he watches the Food Network, but I don’t have a television, so I’m a bit clueless.)

“I’m pretty sure,” he said, doing a Google image search on his phone. “Doesn’t he look like Chef Todd English?”

I verified that the photo looked like the guy next to me, nodding. Then said, “You keep saying his name like it’s officially three words: Chef Todd English. Just call him Chef. Or Todd. Or Chef English. But not all three. Right?”

David shot virtual daggers at me, leaning forward with an eyebrow raised to say, “Chef Todd English?”

Which prompted the guy next to me to look up and say, “That’s me.”

Which prompted me to say, “Oh my gosh. I didn’t even know who you were until a few hours ago.”

Which is a discreet way to say, “Please don’t even begin to pretend you’re the shit.”

Mr. English didn’t seem to know what to make of being both recognized for and denied his celebrity status simultaneously. But I’ve never let an opportunity go to waste, so I decided it was a good time to interview him.

Even though I knew nothing other than that he was the brain behind the Plaza’s Food Hall I’d intended to visit, I rambled off a series of questions.

Here’s a loose one-way transcript of the wine-fueled interview:

I would imagine being a chef is weird, like being an author.

People know your work and respect you, but you’re not easily recognized so you don’t have to mess with the trappings of celebrity.

Do you find that to be true?

<Answer that you can probably find on Wikipedia>

 

Do you like it?

<Answer that you can probably find on Wikipedia>

 

How would you change things if you could in this regard?

<Answer that you can probably find on Wikipedia>

 

Clearly we just recognized you.

Does that irritate you when you’re just trying to have a beer?

<Don’t need to look at Wikipedia to find the answer>

 

Wait – why are you just sitting here drinking a beer?

<Probably NOT available on Wikipedia>

 

You’re waiting on your girlfriend?

Do you need to go pick her up?

<Still not available on Wikipedia, but his cell phone indicates YES>

 

Don’t let us keep you.

But I will keep asking questions until you get tired of us and leave.

How did you get into cooking?

<Answer that you can probably find on Wikipedia>

 

Were you an only child?

<Answer that you can probably find on Wikipedia>

 

Why can’t your sister cook?

<Answer was probably on Wikipedia until his sister edited it>

 

Is she envious of your success?

<Sister probably isn’t even mentioned on Wikipedia after she’s done editing it>

 

Do you miss playing baseball?

<Answer that you can probably find on Wikipedia>

 

Was it a rotator cuff that sidelined you?

<Answer that you can probably find on Wikipedia>

 

Did you have surgery?

<Answer that you can probably find on Wikipedia>

 

Don’t you need to go meet your girlfriend?

<Yes. End of Twenty Questions.>

 

As it turns out, he’s a nice guy. Especially for someone with three names.

Good save, New York.

(And thanks for brightening my day, David. Next time, though, I expect you to take me here. Though I’m not a fan of ladders.)

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West Virginia: Maybe not the best place for a massage.

2 Jan
Image Source: everydayfunnyfunny.com

How’s the pressure?

I used to believe that massages and fried food were similar: There was no such thing as a bad one. I now know differently, thanks to the “spa” at Berkeley Springs State Park.

If you’re not familiar with Berkeley Springs, West Virginia, here’s what you need to know: 1) It is to West Virginia what Austin is to Texas and Ann Arbor is to Michigan: a random little island of liberalness in an otherwise gun-loving region; 2) It’s named for its natural springs, which are believed to have healing properties and maintain a constant 74˚ temperature; 3) Alan and I follow in the steps of George Washington, coming here regularly (in our case – for New Year’s) to chill and recharge batteries.

This year, we decided to check out the spa at the state park. We booked ourselves a soak in a Jacuzzi tub filled with natural spring water, followed by an hour-long massage. Sounds good, right?

Until you realize: whoever designed this experience has likely never actually visited a real spa. Here’s how I know…

First, when I was ushered to the women’s area, there were a half dozen employees (all women) standing around. One led me into a space with lockers and handed me a sheet. “Everything off, then wrap yourself in this.” I did as I was told, then stepped out. Another woman led me to a Jacuzzi tub that was already filled with water.  We stood side-by-side, looking at it. “Hand me your sheet,” she commanded.

What I'll wear for my next massage.

What I’ll wear for my next massage.

I did. Then I proceeded to climb in the tub with her watching. Can’t remember the last time a woman has seen me in a bathtub, but I’m thinking it was probably when I was still of an age when I might poop in it. (When I told this to Alan, he raised his eyebrows, as if to say, “And that’s no longer a possibility?”)

So I floated in the tub for 15 minutes, wondering if Alan was having a parallel experience on the men’s side of the house… imagining I’d soon hear some explosive language if a man commanded him to strip then watched as he slipped into the tub.

When my bath was done, another woman came in, bringing a towel. I climbed out of the tub, thinking, “Hmm. Half of West Virginia will have seen my tits by the time this is done. Good thing I’m not modest.” She led me to a room for my massage, then pulled my towel off me and told me to lie down.

The table was covered with a sheet and blanket. As she turned to hang my towel, I peeled the sheet back and quickly got under it. Turning back around, she said, “What have you done? You’re supposed to be on TOP of the sheet. Here – let’s get that fixed.”

So I rolled to my side, thinking she could simply tug and straighten the sheet.  Alas – she couldn’t. The next thing I knew, I was squatting on the end of the massage table, buck naked, while she straightened out the sheet.  I’m pretty sure other women only ever assume that position when they’re trying to birth a baby.

When we finally got everything squared away and I was on the table, face up, covered by a loose sheet, the massage commenced. Or – rather – something akin to hyper, superficial rubbing began. I would be willing to bet my next paycheck that this woman was not a licensed masseuse.

In hindsight, I should’ve done more than scratch my head when I noticed that the website referred to them as “massagers” instead of masseurs.

OK, it could've been worse.

OK, it could’ve been worse.

Her idea of a massage was to take her hands and quickly cover as much territory as possible, not actually exerting any pressure. Initially I thought, “This is an interesting way to warm-up.” But then, as she moved from one arm to the other, and then my shoulders and neck, I realized: this was no warm-up – this was the massage.

I knew she was massaging in earnest based on the amount of oil she used. A regular masseuse will put a small amount on her palms and rub them together to pre-heat the oil. Not this lady. The oil was in a container similar to a ketchup bottle, and she drizzled it directly on my body as if she were preparing a hot dog. I felt a bit like a turkey getting basted.

I tried to think of ways to salvage the massage. My best idea was to ask what style massage she practiced (knowing damn well it wasn’t a recognized style) then saying, “Does anyone here know deep tissue? I have a sports injury I need worked?” Of course, by this time I was feeling sorry for her, so I couldn’t bring myself to actually execute this plan.

Also? I’m pretty sure she normally only gets booked for 30 minute treatments, because she did every part of my body TWICE. Alan aptly summarized it by saying, “So she did two laps?” Exactly.

When it came time to settle up, I faced the awkward decision of the tip.  I considered taking a page from Bazooka Joe and leaving a written slip of paper that said, “Tip: Find a new vocation.” But I couldn’t bring myself to be that mean.

I can only hope that she’ll use the money I left her to go to a real spa and get a massage so she knows how it’s done.

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So you thought YOUR Monday was bad?

16 Nov

Photobucket
I was working from home, sitting in the living room, immersed in a project on my laptop. Curiously, down the hall it suddenly sounded like my shower was running. But with much more water pressure than usual.

After a split second pause in which my thought bubble would’ve said, “Does. Not. Compute,” I hopped up, ran down the hall and turned on the light – just in time to see water pouring through my bathroom fan and on to my toilet. Um.

I raced upstairs and pounded on my neighbor’s (of Mr. Stompy fame) door. As soon as he saw me he said, “We have it under control,” before I could even tell him I had water coming through my ceiling. Then he said, “I’ll be right down.”

I nodded and left. [When telling Alan this story he suggested that I should’ve said, “Control? Your definition of control involves water pouring through my fan? I think we need to revisit your grasp of the word.”]

When I got back downstairs, I was glad to see that the flow had reduced to a trickle, so I started mopping up the water. But although it was clear, it had a certain, suspicious eau de parfum to it that made me think of sewage.

When this dawned on me, I froze and stared at my hands, simultaneously kicking myself for not being the type of person to use yellow rubber cleaning gloves and wondering how scalding I’d have to make the water to feel my hands had been adequately cleaned. About this time, there was a knock on my door.

I opened it and my neighbor came in. “Let me see what’s happening,” he asked, moving  toward my bathroom without waiting for an invitation. “So what happened,” he explained, “Is that Jude clogged the toilet. But he doesn’t understand how things work – I’m the fixer in this relationship – so he freaked out and tried to plunge it but then flushed before it had worked.”

I stared up in horror. “So this is an overflowed toilet?”

Michael nodded, taking it in stride. “Yeah. We just need to give it a minute and let it go back down before we plunge it. This toilet is so finicky. I could flush a BRICK down my other one – and sometimes I practically do – but this one? Not a chance!”

I was still looking at the ceiling, trying to understand how something overflowed so dramatically into my bathroom. And trying to process that I had, in fact, been sopping up my neighbor’s fecal water.

Apparently Michael thought I was staring at the ceiling because of the incessant squeaking come from the floorboards. “I need to get back up there – I can hear Jude pacing,” he gestured. “This has him really upset.”

Really upset? Upset that he doesn’t know how to work a plunger? Or upset that he essentially took a shit in my bathroom? Because I’d be willing to let him feel better if he wants to come down and scrub this joint.

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