So I know I shouldn’t go here, but this is just WAY TOO RICH to pass up. (Forgive the pun.)
As part of my annual physical, my doctor ordered a stool test. Yes folks, this is where I’m headed. Spoiler alert: I haven’t yet taken said test, so there will be no details in this post about the actual specimen itself. (Breathe a sigh of relief.)
My friend Holly was in Chicago this week for work too, so we decided to meet up on Friday, spend an extra night and explore the city together on Saturday before flying back to DC.
The highlight of our exploration today was Chicago’s Celtic Fest, which was held at Millenium Park. I’ll say it again: Chicago really takes advantage of its outside venues.
Aside from unseasonably cool weather (a high of 50 combined with winds of 15-25 mph made it feel like winter), the event was great. There were bands of bagpipers and drummers marching around making music in kilts, a tent filled with girls performing Irish dance, and a solid booking of entertainment on the main stage. (We managed to catch the performance of Vishten, which – in addition to being a great performance – reminded me that I actually own one of their albums and have somehow lost it in the shuffle of my iPod.)
By far, we found the most amusement in the dance tent. For starters, I just get a kick out of watching people do Irish dance. I find it totally odd that the upper half of someone’s body can remain rigid while their legs are shooting out in every direction.
Second, I think it’s totally bizarre that all these little girls have fake curly hair pinned to their heads. When did that become part of the outfit? And why don’t they try to at least match their natural hair color a bit better?
Finally, did you know that the dresses they wear are made overseas and generally cost between $2,500 – $3,500? WHAT? I know, right? My first thought was, “Good thing I’m not a parent. I’d rather have two new sofas than spring for a sequined dress for my kid.”
Earlier, when the smallest girls danced, we had noticed that one girl on stage was remarkably plain when compared to her dance-mates. She didn’t sport the fake curls, wasn’t wearing a tiara of any sort, and her dress appeared to be a simple cotton dress with a bit of embroidery on it. I had leaned over to Holly and said, “That girl is totally hating life right now. That would’ve been me when I was her age.”
After learning that her friends’ costumes were the approximate blue book value of my last car, I wanted to find her parents and give them a high five for not buying into the madness.
Around this time, Holly grabbed my elbow and said, “You HAVE to look over there. At your six o’clock. Do it right now.”
I suck at translating times into directions, so I swung around blindly and just started looking. “What am I looking at?” I asked her.
“That man over there. The one sitting down. In a kilt,” she whispered, even though her voice was drowned out by the clogging.
And all of a sudden, I knew EXACTLY who she was pointing out. Because it’s kind of hard to miss a fat sixty year old man in a kilt, sitting with his legs spread wide, getting some air. I wasn’t able to snap a photo (not because I wasn’t bold, but because the lighting was dim) so this photo (pilfered from http://www.travelpeach.com) provides a frighteningly accurate substitute:
I know. The first rule of kilt fashion is that you must go commando under it. But I would like to submit a second rule of kilt fashion: Don’t let your balls show if you’re in a tent filled with pre-pubescent girls. Or grown ones, for that matter. Wait – let’s make this simple: just don’t show your balls at all. Period.
Slainte.
I wasn’t raised Catholic, but having been in real estate, I’m all too familiar with St. Joseph.
If you don’t know who he is then you’re either a) not Catholic or b) haven’t tried to sell a home.
Based on my sources, I understand he’s the patron saint of families and homes. And he has developed one awesome cottage industry for himself and the Church.
So it looks like I’m one signature away from having my condo under contract. Woo-hoo! Let’s keep those fingers crossed.
This entire process has reminded me of my days as a realtor in DC, days that – previously – I had tried hard to forget. There’s no joy in remembering the 11pm phone calls from panicked clients, the conversations with shady agents, or the contentious settlements where people heatedly called the other party derogatory names.
However, in the midst of all these ugly stories, one bizarre anecdote re-surfaced that – at the time – I dubbed, “The Curious Case of the Missing Bathroom.” If you enjoy Sherlock Holmes mysteries (or better yet, an Encyclopedia Brown story), you’ll get a kick out of this…
Some people call me bossy. (You know who you are.) Maybe they’re right.
This is *exactly* what I looked like.
Today I was standing in Thomas Circle trying to cross traffic when I heard sirens blaring. An ambulance was bearing down on the circle, hellbent for leather, and the traffic was gridlocked. The ambulance driver tried to pull a slick trick and bypass traffic to get to an inner-lane of the circle, but ended up stuck, with only his horn to lean on.
Fewer than 20% of cars in the District are tagged with DC plates on a weekday, so there’s a solid 80% of drivers who (presumably) crap their pants when faced with a traffic circle. Even savvy DC drivers sometimes go slack when faced with navigating a circle, what with its flashing arrows and tricky yield signs. Add in a frenzied ambulance and expect IQs to plumment as otherwise intelligent people to freeze in terror.
pithypants 
