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“Lazy” might not be the best descriptor.

20 Aug

Alan’s taken the last week off from work to spend time with his kids. Yesterday I joined them for an afternoon at Splashdown Waterpark in Manassas, VA. While I like water, places teaming with children are generally not high on my list of places to go.

As it turns out, my instincts were right: they had to evacuate the Lazy River because it was “contaminated.”

That’s about as descriptive as they would get, but it’s pretty clear someone either pooped or threw up in it. Since vomit would likely scatter, I’m guessing the former was the culprit. Well, my guess is based on that and the fact that I’m pretty sure I saw three turds bobbing along the river with lifeguards pointing at them as we left the park.

Once you know someone has taken a dump in the Lazy River, it’s pretty hard NOT to think about the amount of pee swirling around your legs. To put myself at ease, I persuaded myself that the pools had been treated with a chemical that would turn all pee hot pink (as we were led to believe might happen when we were little), so that I could pretend I was not, in fact, in a large toilet.

Bathroom concerns aside, it was actually a pretty great day. The weather cooperated. The kids enjoyed themselves. And even if what you’re splashing in is pee, it beats a day at the office. Sign me up!

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Animal Farm + Stephen King = The Stuff Nightmares Are Made Of

5 Jul

There is a reason you are not supposed to feed the animals.

I think I might have some nightmares about peacocks tonight. I know, it sounds ridiculous. “A friggin’ peacock?” you’re probably saying to yourself right now. “But they’re just birds!”

Well, let me warn you: hot dog buns are to peacocks what crystal meth is to rednecks. Their natural state may be harmless and dumb, but introduce hot dog buns and you will end up with crazed peacocks chasing you, pecking at you, and screaming bloody murder for, “MORE MORE MORE” hot dog buns.

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Club Quarters: Where you get a quarter of the room for half the price!

2 Jul

People who know me well know it’s a point of pride that I’m frugal. I like sniffing out a deal and can rarely justify a splurge on something that isn’t going to be with me for least five years. When I travel for work, people think it’s funny that I routinely seek out cheap hotels even though I’m not footing the bill. I can’t help it – it’s just not in my DNA to waste money.

I will say that this frugality has led to a few choice lodging options along the way – like when I awoke flea bitten in Los Angeles or thought I’d picked up bedbugs at a place in Chicago – but overall, it works out just fine. That is, until someone in my company asks for a recommendation of where to stay.

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Tell you what, I’ll worship your god, if you…

14 Jun

I think this couch, with someone sitting on it, was still lighter than mine.

Friday I moved the majority of my stuff from my old place to the new one. Well, I shouldn’t say I, because all I did was sit dejectedly on the steps trying to stay out from under foot. Although I’m a) only moving four blocks and b) only had a one bedroom condo full of stuff to move, I hired movers. You might think me a wimp, but had you witnessed the Herculean task of getting my heavy-as-shit sofa bed up five flights of stairs and into my place ten years ago, my decision would be obvious.

While the guys carried my sofa down the stairs, I sat on the front steps keeping an eye on the truck to make sure no one stole my stuff. (At some point it had occurred to me that an unattended moving truck would be a perfect target, and I became paranoid that no one was watching it. Founded or irrational? You be the judge.) Anyway, while I was sitting there, I noticed a group of well-dressed senior citizens slowing making their way down the street, stopping to ring every doorbell along the way.

Witnesses, I thought to myself, then puzzled on the idea that in 13 years of living in Washington DC, I had never been “witnessed.” It was a fairly common occurrence in Michigan (where I grew up, and I even got “witnessed” while on vacation in Florida in middle school. (My mom and her sisters had gone on a day’s cruise in the Bahamas, but I stayed home sick. When the doorbell to my aunt’s house rang, I answered it. I was both polite and sick, my defenses completely worn down, so I invited the Witnesses in for tea because I wanted to sit while they talked.) Continue reading →

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And in my next life, I’ll come back as a…

25 May

Last night I met my old college roommate Karen at Millenium Park to watch a concert and enjoy the gorgeous weather. (Getting to see Karen more frequently is definitely one of the up-sides of a crazy travel schedule.)

The band was very loud and the lead singer’s voice sounded like someone was squeezing his testicles with varying degrees of pressure. (I’m thinking the event organizer might not want to invite them back next year.)

Even so, the people watching was fantastic. I was obsessed with this girl who looked like she was about eleven and fancied herself a ballerina. She was transfixed by the music, doing all kinds of leaps and pirouettes and kicks in the grass. She clearly takes lessons (she wasn’t that bad) but it was her willingness to show off her moves in front of strangers that struck me. She had a look of such fierce determination on her face, I felt like I could read her thoughts: “Please, God, let someone here be a talent scout who will discover me and invite me to dance with a professional troupe!”

The reason I felt confident about her thoughts is because it wasn’t *that* long ago (if you consider 25 years ago a blip in time) that I was indulging in similar fantasies. Note: I said similar. As a child, I would choreograph ridiculous moves on roller skates and cruise up and down my driveway, pretending I was a rollerskating dance instructor. Because A) That’s a real job and B) There’s clearly a labor shortage in that area. Note: I said fantasy.

Sigh. If only that’s the way my brain worked these days. Instead of fantasizing about an amazing career doing something utterly creative, I spend my nights tossing and turning under the stress of an all-too-real job. The fantasies I have are more about clients suddenly expressing a willingness to truly partner with me instead of trying to score the best possible “deal” for their company.

Alas. It’s probably too late for me to resuscitate my dreams of being a professional rollerskating dance instructor, but maybe I should not have been so quick to smirk at the girl dancing wildly in public. Dreams are a good thing.

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