Yesterday I stopped by the library on my way home from work to pick up a book. My least favorite librarian, Rita the Regulator, was manning the check out desk. I’d actually surmised that before I set foot in the library, when I called from across town to see if they would be able to use my license rather than my library card.
This is how she answered the phone: “This is the Z- Branch of the District of Columbia Library. This is Ms. X- speaking. Go ahead.”
Um: Go ahead? Are we on walkie-talkies?
Anyway, fifteen minutes later I was in line, waiting to check out a book. Rita was informing the young woman in front of me that she had two fines she’d need to pay before she could borrow another book.
“If you’re going to pay cash, you’ll need to go to the main library – the Martin Luther King branch. Or if you’re going to pay here you’ll need to bring in a certified check or money order. Or you can go online if you’d like to use a credit card.”
The woman looked stupefied. “Well, how much is the fine?” she asked.
“Ten dollars,” Rosie told her. “Five for each item.”
The woman paused, looking thoughtful, then asked, “Will you accept canned goods?”
SERIOUSLY? I think you’ve gotten your wires crossed, ma’am. This is not a high school dance, a pub crawl or an office holiday party. Where else do cans constitute currency unless you’re ten years old?
To Rosie’s credit, she didn’t berate the woman. In fact, her literal interpretation of the world must not leave any room for humor, because she simply said, “No. I’m sorry. We cannot accept cans.”
WHY isn’t the state tourism board putting me on their payroll? Oh wait – probably because they don’t like to waste taxpayers’ money, which is YET ANOTHER reason you would enjoy living there…
The only thing dangerous about this is the possibility that I might poop on beach-goers.
I never understand why people love oceans. I mean, I enjoy water of any variety, but if I could choose, I’d pick a lake any time. It might be that those are simply my Michigan roots shining through (Hello, Great Lake State!), but let me share my logic and you tell me if it’s flawed.
First, when is the last time someone was attacked by a shark in a lake? Pretty sure the answer to that one is NEVER. (Actually, wait – just found this article and apparently it does happen. But I’d like to point out that it’s in Nicaragua. So if you’re visiting there, you’ve probably already come to terms with an untimely death anyway. A bull shark in a lake isn’t the worst end you could meet.) Nicaragua not withstanding, let’s assume your odds of encountering a shark in a lake are next to nil.
Second, no salt in your eyes. (Unless you’re talking about the Great Salt Lake, but that’s like an oxymoron. Let’s agree to call that Utah’s Ocean from here on out, ok?) Tell me this isn’t one of the most annoying things about the ocean… spend any amount of time out in the waves and you look like a stoner with bloodshot eyes. Not in a lake.
Third, not as many jellyfish. Sure, there are some freshwater jellyfish, but I can’t remember the last time I ran into one in a lake. Whereas at the ocean? They’re like landmines dotting the beach. Landmines that make people pee on each other for relief. In other words: not very friendly landmines.
Fourth, you can generally find GRASS near a lake, rather than sand. Some sand is fine, but having to walk through miles of sand? Having sand get in your drink? Decidedly NOT cool. Also: have you ever burned the bottoms of your feet on grass? I’m guessing NO, because grass is awesome.
But you can’t SURF in a lake, my ocean-loving friends claim. WRONG. The Great Lakes have waves, people. Don’t believe me? Check this out:
See? What else are you waiting for? NOW is the time to love the lakes and visit Michigan. Or any other lake in any other state for that matter. Just as long as it’s not in Nicaragua.
The other weekend Alan and I hit a Nats game. If you don’t know what that means, you probably A) Don’t live in the United States, B) Hate Apple Pie, or C) Were home reading The Communist Manifesto.
Actually, I’m not a huge baseball fan myself, but I do love any excuse to sit outside in gorgeous weather with something resembling a purpose. And it turns out? The Nats are actually pretty great this year. Although they ended up losing the game, the first two at-bats resulted in home runs, which is an amazing way to kick off a game.
The over-arching theme of the day, however, was not baseball. It was unhelpful jobs. As Alan said, “This whole idea of re-training the workforce might have gone a bit too far.” Everywhere we turned, there was someone in a somewhat unnecessary job, trying to demonstrate their expertise.
Maybe I’m over-reacting? Here are two examples – tell me what you think…
…
When we popped up out of the Metro station, a woman was standing in the middle of the closest intersection, indicating when it was safe for pedestrians to cross. It’s no secret that I have no use for crossing guards – usually they’re about 20 seconds behind me in realizing the light has changed, which breeds an inefficiency that drives me nuts. This woman did nothing to help the cause.
We stood at the corner, obediently waiting, despite the fact that there was no traffic. I’d normally just jaywalk, but with cops everywhere, I was worried I might actually get a ticket. (It’s worth nothing that we were in something of a hurry because we were supposed to meet someone in front of the stadium to pick up tickets, and we were cutting it pretty close.)
So we stood. And waited. And watched the minutes tick off. And in my mind I could practically see the ticket dude (whose only descriptor was that he had an all-white beard and would be wearing a Whole Foods beanie) scalping our tickets. Or – even more dramatically – just holding a lighter to them when we no-showed the rendezvous on time.
As soon as the light changed, I stepped off the curb, deciding to obey the crossing signal rather than the crossing guard. And of course I wasn’t disappointed. No sooner had I done that, than the woman blew her whistle and yelled, “Ma’am! Ma’am! Back on the sidewalk. You have to wait for the light!”
And without slowing down, I pointed at the light and said, “We’re good,” as I kept walking.
Alan apparently felt I was being an ass, because he yelled out, “Thank you for looking out for us.” I shook my head.
…
Once we were in the stadium, we scored a sausage and a beer just as the game was getting underway. We headed to our seats and were stopped by an older man wearing a jersey that said, “Ask me” on the back.
Without my asking, he said, “Can’t let you down while there’s a batter in the box,” he told us.
Alan and I traded a confused look. We’d never heard of that rule before, but it sounded polite, so who were we to argue? We waited patiently while the batter swung, and swung and swung. It might seem like a batter is up for only a second, but if you’re holding a sausage and feeling it grow cold while you wait, trust me: it feels like an eternity.
Meanwhile, a line of people was building behind us, all of whom were equally confused. “Can we slide past you to get to our seats?” one man asked, thinking we were just hanging out for shits and giggles. We explained why we were waiting. “Wow. I’ve never heard of that,” he said. “Didn’t realize we were so polite at the ballpark.”
We shrugged and shared a smile, looking at Mr. Ask Me for permission to proceed. He shook his head. Behind us, more people piled up. “Do you suppose there are places in the ballpark where this rule isn’t in effect?” I asked Alan.
He nodded. “Yes. It’s called Everywhere Else.”
…
You might expect me to round out an entry about useless stadium-related jobs by highlighting the mascots. But I’d actually argue that they serve a purpose. If I can define “purpose” as “entertainment.” Especially in DC, where the Presidents’ Race is a game day favorite. (Not familiar with it? Check out this Wikipedia entry and specifically read the section about Teddy Roosevelt.)
Also? Sometimes they do stuff like THIS, which is why I’ll always petition to fund the mascots:
In fact, perhaps if Mr. Ask Me or the Ms. Traffic managed to moonwalk off a dugout, I’d be defending their jobs too.
Yesterday at 10am, this city stood still. People in suits poured from buildings, mingling with tourists who flock to the Capital year-round in patriotic attire. Photographers had impressive equipment perched on tripods pointed at the White House, framing what they hoped would be the perfect shot. Everyone looked to the heavens in anticipation.
And then she appeared – the Space Shuttle Discovery strapped to the top of a modified 747, cruising over the National Mall in what is normally restricted airspace. The crowd erupted in cheers.
As I stood watched Discovery take her final victory lap, I had goosebumps. I turned to the White House cop standing next to me and said, “It looks like they’re having a blast,” referring to the pilot who I assume had a shit-eating grin on his face as he did THREE fly-bys that required sign-off from the FAA, Homeland Security and the Secret Service. “Hell,” he responded, “I’m having a blast!”
Just taking the sight at face value – a friggin’ Space Shuttle strapped to an airplane – is jaw-dropping in a physics-defying kind of way. But it was more than that. It was one of those moments when you realize you’re witnessing history, that – just as I remember where I was when I learned the Challenger blew up (Mrs. Lockery’s sixth grade writing class); I will now never forget the day the Shuttle program ended. Because I saw it with my own two eyes.
In middle school, I was a member of the Young Astronauts Club. It used the sex appeal of space to interest kids in math and science, with the unstated promise that if you excelled in both, you just might get to ride in a Space Shuttle some day. With the retirement of the Shuttle, I wonder: what will fuel this generation’s curiosity?
As I walked back to my office, I couldn’t help but smile. And I noticed that everyone else I passed was also smiling. I suppose you can’t help but share a feeling of awe and pride and hope when you’ve just seen something that left our atmosphere 39 times receive a well-deserved salute.
Last night over dinner, Alan and I discussed it. I told him I overheard an intelligent-looking guy on his phone right after the fly-by, saying, “I need you to explain the physics to me. How can an airplane take off with a Space Shuttle on top of it? How does it not flip over when it is in the air?”
We laughed, then Alan said, “Just think. I don’t care how scary a flight is now… you can always reassure yourself by saying, ‘At least we don’t have a Space Shuttle strapped to the roof.'”
I pictured the first pilot who was told he’d be flying a 747 with, oh, um, a SHUTTLE attached to the top. “You want me to do WHAT?” I can imagine him asking, incredulously.
“Don’t worry,” the engineers would’ve said. “Just think of it as having an extra set of wings.”
Then, once he floored it down the runway, they would’ve looked nervously at each other and said, “I can’t believe we talked him into that. Here’s hoping it actually works!”
Last week’s record-setting MegaMillions jackpot dominated my Facebook feed for a few days. Photos of lotto tickets (cleverly posted by radio stations offering share the winnings with anyone who “liked” their photo) circulated wildly. Friends were speculating what they would do with their newly-won wealth.
I found it fascinating to see how much money people were spending on tickets. Alan cited a quote that was circulating to explain the multiple tickets people were snapping up: “You’re nine times as likely to get hit by lightning as win the lottery. Better buy nine tickets to improve those odds.”
I speculated that the MegaMillions could be used as a fairly accurate diagnostic for a workplace morale, though when I started to create the scale of interpretation, I realized it sounded more like a Lotto Horoscope:
Didn’t buy a ticket? You’re either a scientist, mathematician, or so over-worked you couldn’t get to the liquor store.
Didn’t buy a ticket but “liked” more than ten photos of Lotto tickets online that offered to share winnings with you? You’re probably unemployed or lazy or a sucker. Might want to spend less time of Facebook and more time reading self-help books.
Bought one ticket? You enjoy your job and co-workers and like to contribute to water-cooler talk.
Bought 20 tickets? Might want to pull out your resume and give it a little TLC. Sounds like you’ll be on the hunt for a new opportunity later this year.
Bought 50 tickets? Do everyone a favor and resign already.
Bought 100 tickets? Resign, sell your worldly possessions and travel the world to find yourself. You’re clearly not on the right path. You might want to consider a change of religion or marital status while you’re at it.
And employers – think it’s cute that your employees organized a Lotto Pool? I’d say it’s innocent fun – unless each person is willing to kick in more than the entry fee for a March Madness bracket. In that case, your company morale is in the toilet and you’ll need to do more than $50 spot bonuses to prevent a complete exodus before year’s end.
Oh. And while I’m on the topic of workplace lotteries, I encourage you to listen to THIS, a brief story from This American Life about the troop of Riverdance and what it means to them to win the lotto. I haven’t been able to watch a theatrical performance the same way since it aired five years ago. Now, neither will you.
Which is almost as awesome as actually winning. You’re welcome.
pithypants 