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Keep it classy, Captain Schettino.

29 Jan

I’m still mildly obsessed with the cruise ship that sunk tipped over two weeks ago, for one reason: Captain Schettino.

The guy sounds like a real piece of work, doesn’t he? First, the accident was allegedly caused because he deviated from the course to provide a show for the people on land. Apparently no one taught him that pride cometh before a fall. Also? I now know where the term “show-boating” comes from.

Then, in response to having beached his vessel like an awkward whale, what does he do? Does he take charge and give his crew orders to organize passengers for evacuation? Does he begin a role call to assure all passengers are accounted for? No. If the rumor is to be believed, rather than do either of those useful things, he called down to the kitchen (galley?) to order dinner for himself and a woman he was entertaining.

Wow. I think we can agree on two things: #1: He demonstrated fantastically bad judgement; #2:  This guy takes “calm in a crisis” to a whole new level.

By the way, how mortified do you think his date was? We’ve all been out with that guy – the one who tries too hard to impress you, who ends up making an ass of himself with grandiose gestures that completely backfire. I’m thinking the conversation in the cockpit (or whatever you call it on ship – the bridge?) went something like this:

Captain: You really MUST see the port up-close. Let me zip in a bit for you.
Date: I’m good. We should probably just stick with the regular route. 
Captain: No! I insist! You must see this. 
Date: Um. What was that shudder? Why aren’t we moving?
Captain: Ah, that’s totally normal. Here, let me call down for a bottle of wine and some food.
Date: Actually, I just remembered – I left the iron on at home. Gotta roll! 

…

And then, when he does realize there may be grave consequences, rather than spring into action to save the lives of his passengers, he’s one of the first people off the boat. Granted, he claims he “tripped” and fell into a lifeboat, so we’re not supposed to fault him for that, but if you’ve read the Coast Guard transcripts, you know that he didn’t exactly mount a campaign to re-board the ship and take command of the situation.

Don’t get me wrong – self-preservation is a biologically driven urge, and it would take some serious over-coming to force yourself to stay on that ship. But when you’re the person who caused the situation, it’s kind of your responsibility to make sure you aren’t killing people.

I’m sure we’ll learn more in coming months when the lawsuits start to mount. Given his track record for chivalry, I’m waiting for him to throw his date under the bus and claim she was actually the one driving when the ship ran aground. And in keeping with his character, he’ll shrug and say, “What? Everyone knows women can’t drive.”

I actually was in the car with a client once when this exact move happened. I'd like to note: the driver was a man in that instance.

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Surprisingly, I’m not a natural blonde.

21 Jan

You know that sports expression about “leaving it all on the field?” (Or as we say in yoga: leaving it on the mat.) Well, I had that kind of week at work.

In fact, I left so much on the mat, it appears I didn’t save anything for the weekend. In an uncharacteristic move, I spent most of today on the couch, napping and listening to an audiobook (repeatedly, since I couldn’t stay awake).

I finally peeled myself off the couch at 4:30 to go to yoga. There was a class in session, so I took my shoes off and plopped on a seat, waiting for it to end. Then, self-doubt kicked in. What time is it? Is that MY class? Am I late? 

I pulled out my cell phone to check the time. Nope: still five minutes until class. Whew.

But I couldn’t remember there being a class on the schedule immediately before mine, so I pulled my phone back out to check. And that’s when I realized: I had hoofed it to the studio for a class that is scheduled tomorrow. Awesome.

Perhaps I need a pedicure?

Shaking my head, I put my shoes back on and sheepishly walked back downstairs. As I passed the front desk, I shrugged and explained, “I’m a dumbass.  I was thinking today was Sunday. See you tomorrow instead!” The girl just laughed and waved me out.

I walked half way home before realizing I didn’t have my yoga mat with me any more. So I had to turn around and go back to the studio. When I walked through the door, the girl said, “Sunday, already?” Clever. Ass-whooping time, already? 

I retrieved my mat and headed back home, returning to the couch I never should’ve left in the first place. Turns out ? There’s a fine line between leaving it all on the mat, and just plain leaving the mat.

 

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Yes, another fart post. There goes *that* resolution.

16 Jan

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My entire life, I’ve been told I “seem wiser than my age” or “have an old soul” or “am mature beyond my years.”

Boy, that “Playdoh with Plato” class my parents enrolled me in as a preschooler was money well spent. Actually, no, there isn’t really a class named that.

But as a kid I often did enjoy conversing with my parents’ adult friends more than kids my own age. When I first started working, I was given responsibility that aligned to someone 10+ years my senior because everyone assumed I was older. That trend continued for years.

So it’s somewhat ironic, then, that I function like a twelve year old when it comes to fart humor. I was reminded of this yesterday at yoga, when the girl next to me was clearly not having a good workout. When we started the ab portion of the class and began doing crunches, she squeaked out an audible fart. I would’ve been able to rise above it, were it not for one thing: her reaction.

Instead of continuing with her workout in a way that could’ve cast doubt as to who the culprit really was, she immediately collapsed onto her back and lay as still as a corpse while the rest of us continued hammering out crunches. It was the equivalent of seeing a football official throw a flag on a play, directing everyone’s attention to the field to spot the problem.

This gave me the giggles. I might have worked past them, had two other things not happened.

First, she did it again, the next time we did sit-ups. (Have you learned NOTHING?!) I’m thinking we need another version of the the, “Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice…” adage to help this poor girl learn from her mistakes.

And second, later in the workout, when we shifted from down-dog to plank (a very routine move) she collapsed. She hit the floor with an audible thud/moan combo. Half the class stopped and turned around, thinking they would see teeth scattered around on her mat.

I know, this really isn’t funny. And it’s mean of me to laugh at someone else’s embarrassment. I really do try to be a better person, to rise above it. But if it’s any excuse, I think things like this tickle me so much not because I’m enjoying her misfortune, but rather because I’m relieved it’s not me. Because another day, in another class, it has been very well could be.

 

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Crust be with you. And also with you.

24 Dec

I’m mildly obsessed with efficiency, so it’s not surprising that the madness surrounding the holidays – all the people and all the lines – brings out the worst in me. Fortunately, it brings out the best in others, or I would’ve found myself in a real pickle this morning.

My parents sent me to the grocery store to pick-up a last minute item, and I located it quickly. But then, when it came time to pay, the checkout lanes were overflowing with people. I looked down at the single item in my hand and then – miraculously – spotted an opening in the self-checkout area.

I bolted for it, just beating out a slowly moving couple headed in the same direction. Triumphant, I scanned my pie crust, thinking I’d model efficiency for everyone standing behind me. Except, just after the scanner registered my item, I realized there was already a PILE of groceries sitting in the bagging area.

About that time, a guy came over and said, “Hey there! I’m almost done,” not realizing that I’d already scanned my item.

I fell over myself apologizing, as I pointed to the screen. “I’m so sorry, but I think it already scanned it…”

He looked, and – sure enough – my pie crust was among the forty other items he’d rung up. “I’ll get a cashier to come void it,” I suggested. He glanced at the line forming behind him.

“Nah,” he said. “Forget it. It’s Christmas. Your crust is on me. Merry Christmas!”

And Merry Christmas to you, sir. Or – as I’m going to start calling December 24: Crustmas.

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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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