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When life resembles a cartoon…

24 Dec

Last weekend the weather was gorgeous, so I set out on a walk to get a bit of exercise. About two blocks south of my house, I slipped on something and almost fell. It happened so suddenly, I grabbed at a wrought iron fence to keep my footing, which explains how I didn’t end up completely biting it, but instead walked away with a significant bruise on my forearm.

Being across the street from the dog park, I mentally cringed as I turned to see what I had stepped in, imaging a pile of dog crap with a a footprint impressed in the middle of it. Instead, I found a smeared banana.

Yes, a banana. The fruit part. Not the peel. As if someone had peeled a banana and the banana fell out onto the sidewalk, and they just shrugged and kept walking. (Or, perhaps it was deliberate, and they were hiding in a nearby bush with a FlipCam.)

I stood there for a full minute with my mouth agape. I thought this only happened in the cartoons. Specifically, to Wile E. Coyote. Not to a human, and definitely anywhere but (potentially) in the produce aisle of a supermarket. Not on an urban street in the middle of December.

Having had a week to reflect on it, I’ve decided that – like how it’s good luck when a bird poops on you – slipping on a banana is a good omen for the year ahead. Because otherwise? I’m going to waste a lot of time looking out for the RoadRunner.

Next time, I'll be prepared.

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Wart: that’s such an ugly word.

21 Dec

Wart = Bad. Warthog = Better. Proof that bacon makes everything better.

Monday, for the first time in a long time, I headed to the pool to swim some laps. I’m pretty sure I pulled or tore a muscle in my shoulder at yoga last Thursday, so I was viewing the pool as “physical therapy” without a co-pay.

Unfortunately, I’m slightly out of practice, so when I got there I realized I hadn’t brought flipflops. Might seem like a minor detail, but when you’re swimming at an old public inner-city pool (that smells more like urine than chlorine), flipflops are actually clutch.

I sat down on the lockerroom bench and emptied my bag out, hoping that somehow, a microscopic/expandable flipflop was hidden in there. Even if there was just one – I was willing to hop. No dice. So I had to make a decision: walk the bare floor anyway, for the sake of a workout (aka physical therapy), or throw in the towel and return home?

Actually, lava would be preferable.

I decided to go for it. And as soon as I put my foot on the nasty tile floor, I swear I could feel plantar wart spores attaching themselves to the ball of my foot, much like how parasitic worms burrow through skin in Third World countries. Ack! 

When you think microbes are leeching onto you, you can’t help but look odd. And I did.

I came bursting out of the locker room like my ass was on fire and canonballed into the water faster than a fourth grader, but the real oddity came after showering, when I stood on the bench (as opposed to the floor) to dry off and get dressed. Which might not seem that weird until you realize that I was essentially putting my naked lady-parts directly at eye-level with everyone else in the locker room.

Even more awkward? In an attempt to explain why I was playing “The Floor Is Lava,” to a fellow swimmer, I pointed down and said, “I don’t want to get warts.” Only to realize that it might not have been clear that I was pointing at my feet.

I think I’ll stick with yoga.

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I did that. Did I do that?

22 Nov

Have I mentioned that Alan and I enjoy wine? I would go so far as to say we’re oenophiles, but then I’d have to pronounce it. And as I’ve stated before, I’m not so hot when it comes to zee French.

We’ve each had our fair share of ridiculously amazing bottles, but we’re open to trying just about anything, as long as it’s wet and made from grapes. I momentarily forgot that last week after we drove from Urbanna to Williamsburg. We’d been in the car for an hour when we saw a sign pointing down a dirt road for the Williamsburg Winery. When Alan asked if I wanted to go, I made a weird gargling sound before saying, “Nah! Virginia wines aren’t very good.”

Fortunately, Alan ignored me and made the turn. But – because he’s a nice guy – he immediately stopped and, before proceeding, said, “Your call. But it’s a gorgeous day. Want to just check it out?”

When presented that way, how could I say no? Yet I continued to hem and haw as we drove through the vineyards on our way to the winery. “My thing with tastings,” I explained (because I always have a thing), “Is that I feel obligated to buy something. And if the wine sucks, I don’t want to. So I feel guilty, like one of those people who eats samples at Whole Foods as their dinner.”

Alan, being level-headed and understanding, said, “Let’s just check it out. If there’s a paid tasting, maybe we can do that without you feeling guilty. And if not, we can bail.” Good plan. And as it turns out? They did offer a paid tasting – $10 per person with a tour of the cellar and tastes of seven different wines — plus a few bonus pours.

I won’t keep you in suspense: I loved it. Who cares if Virginia will never be Napa? Not me. It was a gorgeous fall day – crisp breeze, bright blue sky, colorful trees, temperature somewhere around 65. And a retired college professor from William & Mary who loved wine was doing the talking and pouring. What’s not to like?

Continue reading →

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Photo Postcard: Los Angeles

14 Nov

As previously mentioned, I’m trying to play a hopeless game of catch-up on the NaNoWriMo front, so I’m cutting back on pithy posts and conserving my words for my would-be novel this month. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still have some pith in my life. I bring to you a few photos I’ve snapped with my phone since arriving in LA yesterday.

First: I’ve never noticed this before, but the elevators out here have EARTHQUAKE buttons. I’m not sure what the purpose is, but I’d like to imagine that if I press it, I will cause an earthquake. When I board the elevator, I think, “Hmmm. Where will my evening take me? Lobby? Roof deck? Earthquake?” Willy Wonka had a hand in this option.

Fancy vending machine! Only dispenses hats and earthquakes!

Second: I’m not sure how my hotel knew that I’d hit the Mexican buffet at WholeFoods, but I applaud their signage:

My kind of place...

Third: Margaret and I walked the Manhattan Beach pier, and she was attacked by a shark. A landshark.

Fourth: inside the aquarium exhibit, they had some tanks where you could actually handle starfish. But only with one finger. Here Margaret demonstrates proper technique for touching the “animals.” I hate to tell them, but I think “touching with one finger” is called “poking,” and no one likes that.

Who create THIS rule? One finger, sure. But two? We're going to have to ask you to leave.

Fifth: Also in the exhibit were two angry looking eels. They were NOT in the “gently touch” bucket. They were in their own area, with no other living creature near them. Probably because they ate them. BTW? You might not want to include these specimens in a “What Lives Under This Pier?” exhibit if you actually are trying to boost tourism. Because you’ve forever cured my urge to set foot in the Pacific Ocean now. Thanks.

This is what I will picture the next time someone feels "bitey."

Finally: After work tonight, I took a little walk to stretch my legs and work off one of the forty avocados I’ve inhaled since landing yesterday. Our office is right on Wilshire Boulevard at the start of the Miracle Mile, so my walk took me right by the La Brea Tar Pits. If you don’t know what those are, then go watch the Flintstones. I’m pretty sure this is where Fred worked:

"Oh sure, Earl. See where your thirst has landed you?"

And that’s how I spent my first 24 hours in LA. My schedule the rest of the week will be pretty intense on the work front, but I’m open to suggestions if anyone has recommendations of kitschy/random things I must see or do before returning. Anyone?

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Clearly, I’ve seen too many movies.

10 Nov

Sunday, in the wake of the Oyster Festival, Urbanna was a different town. With only an occasional person on the street in comparison to the thousands from the previous day, it felt almost ghostly. Both Alan and I were mildly creeped out by it, which might explain why my brain gravitated toward paranoia.

The owners of the B&B were incredibly nice people, with an expansive sense of hospitality. They took a shine to Alan and me, so they offered to take us out on their boat Sunday afternoon.

The day was gorgeous – 70 degrees and sunny with a bright blue sky. The trees lining the river were vivid shades of red, orange and yellow. It was like being in a commercial for the Rappahannock River or – in keeping with my general paranoia – a horror movie.

So instead of simply relaxing and absorbing the scenery as we shuttled up the river, I started looking around nervously, imaging that they were taking us somewhere to kill us. Spotting a shovel on the deck, I envisioned our captain whacking Alan in the head with it, then pushing him overboard. The phrase “watery grave” danced in my head.

After we returned to the B&B (safely, I might add), I told Alan what I’d been thinking.

He laughed. “And what would their plan be with you after they killed me?”

“Human trafficking? Indentured servitude? Take your pick!” I was a bit indignant that he didn’t give me credit for having value to them. Alan just rolled his eyes.

So, before our next vacation, I have it all figured out. Depending on where we’re going, I’ll rent a few movies for him:

  • If we’re staying at a B&B again: Psycho 
  • Water-based vacation: Cape Fear
  • Writing/skiing retreat: The Shining
  • Iowa: Children of the Corn
  • Pennsylvania: Dracula (C’mon! It sounds kind of like Transylvania)
  • Camping: Blair Witch Project

Then we’ll see who’s laughing. And who’s holding a shovel.

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