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Why real life is not like the movies.

1 Jun
Me and technology: what it looks like.

Me and technology: what it looks like.

The other night, seemingly out of the blue, Alan said, “I really need to remember what my computer password is.”

I gave him my best, “Whachewtalkinbout, Willis?” looks.

“You know,” he explained, “So you can log into my computer when I’m not here in case you want to stream something on the flatscreen.”

I nodded slowly, appreciating that he was looking out for me. “But why do you need a password?” I asked. “Doesn’t your computer scan your thumbprint?”

It was his turn to nod slowly, waiting for me to find the flaw in my logic. “It does… but it’s my thumbprint. It won’t work for you.” 

I shook my head. “I’ve seen this on Mission Impossible. We just need to cut off your thumb and leave it here. That way neither of us need to remember a password. Everyone wins!!”

And ever since then, I haven’t been able to find a knife in this house.

C’mon, Alan – it was a JOKE. Kind of.

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At least I come by it honestly.

5 Feb

Image Source: funnycoolstuff.com » 2008 » November

On the weekends, a van drives around to the parks in DC and serves warm meals to homeless people. Yesterday when I was out for a walk, I passed a group of people ladling out soup just as the line finished. I didn’t stop to ask for confirmation, but I’m pretty sure that the woman with the ladle was starting to dish me up a bowl until she gave me a full once-over.

And I’m pretty sure the only reason she decided I wasn’t homeless was because my fleece had a NorthFace logo.

It was a smack-my-head moment, when I realized I had just been assessed as homeless. In my defense: It was FREEZING out so I was wearing two pairs of pants and two hoodies. And I had a ski hat pulled down to my eyebrows. And I was wearing an old, stained backpack that smelled like wet sneakers. (Don’t ask.) And I hadn’t  showered after yoga, so I probably didn’t smell exactly like a rose.

But really? My eyes were focused, I wasn’t talking to myself, and I was moving at a pretty quick clip. C’mon!

This case of mistaken identity forced me to realize four things:

  1. I can totally relate to celebrities who get unflattering photos snapped when they run to 7-Eleven for a soda.
  2. I now feel better about the time I kept trying to hand my left-overs to people who were not actually homeless.
  3. Alan is a saint for never saying, “You’re going to leave the house in that?”
  4. I’m now the second member of my family to be mistaken for homeless.

Yes – you heard correctly. I’m not even the first person in my family to have this happen.

My dad and I share the compulsion of walking (and tracking) a set number of miles. He targets 100 miles per month. I shoot for 25 miles per week. Since (as I mentioned), we’re somewhat compulsive about it, we often find that we’re walking in less than ideal weather. In DC, that’s still pretty mild, but in Michigan – where my parents live – it can be sub-zero and hailing and he’ll still head out to hit his mileage.

Another thing you need to know for this story to make sense: my dad is an ardent environmentalist. As a result, instead of outfitting himself with a snowmobile suit to make walking more comfortable  when the weather turns, he simply layers on old clothes to give himself many layers.  Also, he often picks up trash as he walks. And he has a full beard, which I suppose could be interpreted as not having access to a razor.

Image Source: Zazzle.comMy parents live in a small town, and since my dad taught there for many decades, almost everyone in town knows him. I won’t say he’s a celebrity, but he’s definitely a character. (Pause for a moment and think about it: which would you rather be? My vote goes to character.) People usually just honk and wave when they see him scrambling down a ditch to grab an errant soda can – nothing to see here folks.

In recent years, however, the town’s population has grown, so not everyone is a former student who immediately recognizes him. So it was that on a particularly cold day, his route took him down the alley behind the town’s main grocery store. As he passed the dumpsters, an employee dragging out a sack of garbage spotted him and called out, “Well now! Today’s your lucky day!”

My dad, thinking she was just being friendly, hollered back, “Really? And why’s that?”

Her answer? “This bag has a whole slew of pastries in it that are practically untouched!”

Yes. She. Did.

I have no idea how he responded, because I was laughing too hard by this point in the story. But if I had to wager a guess, I’m thinking my parents enjoyed a windfall of donuts that week. Waste not, want not, after all!

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The Nutcracker: Bah Humbug!

7 Dec
Image Source: http://b5media_b4.s3.amazonaws.com/28/files/2006/11/nutcracker-girl.jpg

Boring. Sigh. Zzzz….

I’m just going to put it out there, even though I realize this isn’t going to be a popular statement: I’m not a fan of the Nutcracker.

I’ll add this to the list of things I don’t like – such as pumpkin pie and babies – that make people regard me with some combination of horror and disgust. Get over it. More for you. (Note: My friends’ babies are exceptions. Their pies are not.)

Anyway… I had a vague recollection of being bored stiff when seeing the Nutcracker as a kid, so I was curious to see if I’d enjoy it as an adult. Alan’s daughter is dancing in it for the first time, so we went to watch her performance last week.

Five Reasons I’m Not a Fan:

  1. I have no tolerance for mimes. I know, the thing is a ballet, so they’re primarily dancing, but a lot of the first act relies on people acting without talking. Also known as miming. I find it physically painful to watch a family of characters cross the stage pretending to have an animated conversation, moving their mouths like they’re chewing on the largest hunk of bubble gum known to man in an attempt to show us they’re talking.
  2. The story is lacking.  In case you’re not familiar: a rich family throws a Christmas party, their daughter receives a Nutcracker that she loves, her brother breaks it, a magician mends it, the Christmas tree grows like it’s on steroids, and then she dreams that a bunch of people are dancing for her. Someone needs a lesson on plot development. And less LSD.
  3. The Sugar Plum Fairy is full of herself. The one thing the Nutcracker does pretty well is provide an opportunity to showcase a LOT of dancers. The scenes can accommodate a seemingly limitless number of dancers, so it’s the perfect show for making sure everyone has a role. Until the Sugar Plum Fairy takes the stage. Once she arrives, it turns into her show and you realize that all the other parts were just humoring the parents in an attempt to sell more seats. She single-handedly undermines the adage that, “There are no small roles, only small actors.”
  4. Really, a NUTCRACKER? When is the last time you saw a child get excited by a nutcracker? Probably NEVER, because they are inherently boring and hardly qualify as a toy. I know this story was developed long before American Girl Dolls were on the scene, so I’m not proposing they replace the title character with a modern toy. But SURELY there’s something more compelling from those days. I mean, even a corn husk doll (circa Little House of the Prairie) would be more exciting. Which says a lot.
  5. The Magician is creepy. I find it interesting that a holiday/children’s classic includes a character who is clearly a pedophile. His arrival with a trunk full of tricks would’ve been only marginally creepier if he’d pulled up in an ice cream truck. And has no one ever asked why he’s hiding behind a clock watching little Clara sleep?

So I might revise my opinion of The Nutcracker if someone would stage a version where Chris Hansen (from Dateline’s ” To Catch a Predator” series) made a cameo and busted the magician, and Kristen Wiig repeatedly photo-bombed the Sugar Plum Fairy’s scenes. Until that production is available, I’ll stay home.

Unless, of course, Alan’s daughter remains a ballerina. In which case, I’ll dutifully attend and clap during her scenes… and secretly try to enlist her in my battle against the Sugar Plum Fairy.

Now *this* I would pay to see.

Now *this* I would pay to see. (Image: courtesy of my sister, Alicia.)

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What’s the definition of a pet?

30 Nov
Pretty much.

Pretty much.

Last week, driving to Thanksgiving, we had Alan’s kids in the back of the car. They’re close in age and both under 10, so their primary goal in life these days seems to be to irritate the living shit out of each other. At least when they’re in the car.

As a result, we try to distract them by asking questions to force a conversation. During this particular drive, Alan asked, “So, how many pets do you guys currently have at home?”

At the same time, his daughter said, “One,” and his son said, “None.”

“So which is it?” he asked.

They started a verbal tug-of-war between One and None. Alan threw up his hand, “Hang on. Let’s figure this out.”

Then he asked his daughter, “Who do you consider a pet?”

To which she quickly replied, “Ladybug.”

His son, outraged, jumped in. “Ladybug is NOT a pet. It’s an insect.”

Now THIS definitely counts as a pet.

Now THIS definitely counts as a pet.

This launched another argument, so Alan hopped back in. “Whoa! There are a few simple questions that will help us determine if Ladybug is a pet. First: would it be in your house if you hadn’t deliberately brought it in?”

Yes: Ladybug was brought into the house.

“OK,” he continued. “Do you feed it?”

Yes: Leaves, a few times a week.

“And last question, does it have a name?”

Yes: Spotty.

“Well,” Alan scratched his chin. “Sounds like it’s a pet.”

His son, not accepting the verdict said, “But it doesn’t have any personality!”

To which his daughter replied, “Does too!”

Then after a minute, she added, “You just don’t hang out with it enough.”

Fair enough.

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Tourism is cheesy, so you’ll have to indulge me.

7 Oct

Want to know why I haven’t written recently? Because I’ve been busy entertaining. I know, hard to believe, but it happens.

For the record, I’ve had visitors the last two weekends – first my sister,  then two childhood friends – Steph and Kelly. And although my OCD-self was running the washing machine twice as much as usual to stay on top of the bedding situation (and my environmental-self was stressing about the excessive energy consumption), it was really great to have such a slice of my history under this roof for a few days.

Yeah, Ben Franklin cautioned that visitors and fish stink after three days. Apparently everyone who visited me must have known that rule, because no one was with me more than 72 hours, so they left before they stunk. My washing machine and I salute them. And wish the rest of you would make a note right now. [Seriously, write that down – I’ll wait.]

Here’s a quick run-down of the highlights of their visits:

Between the two sets of guests, I walked 37 miles. I love that DC is such a walkable city. Also? My sister and I turned in a 17 mile bike ride. She’s five years older than me, but she smoked me on the final uphill climb. [I’d like to point out that she weighs approximately fifty pounds, whereas I am shaped like Jessica Rabbit and need to rest my breasts on the handlebars so my back won’t give out. Or something like that. Let’s just agree: she was better equipped for the ride than I.]

Bummed we didn’t think of this.

Speaking of rides, Steph, Kelly and I rode the bus to Eastern Market to give our feet a rest. The bus, as always, was *quite* the experience. One man who got on smelled so strongly of urine that all the passengers started clawing for windows, trying to get some fresh air circulating. It was so bad that I saw Kelly discreetly breathing through her hair (like a mustache) to help filter the oxygen through the calming scent of hair products.

Eastern Market was fantastic, as always. Steph and Kelly bought jewelry, and we all had pretzel dogs for lunch. [Who doesn’t love an all-beef frank wrapped in a pretzel? I think even vegetarians would go for it, since we all know hot dogs are just, like, toenails and nipples and stuff.]

The weekend before, when my sister, Alan and I had walked up to Eastern Market, we managed to stumble upon a nearby street fair – the Barracks Row festival, hosted by the Navy Barracks, as well as the DC State Fair, which – as best I could tell – primarily involved a donkey walking down the street on a leash. But then again, DC really isn’t a state, so we can’t really be offended that they don’t take something like a state fair seriously.

My sister, Alan and I logged a few hours at the Library of Congress Book Festival. As always, I was inspired to hear authors such as John Green, Jeffrey Eugenides and Tayari Jones speak. The tents were packed, so we were spread out in different rows. I’d catch my sister’s eye periodically and she’d give me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

“Did you like it?” I asked as we walked home.

She nodded emphatically. “The sign language interpreter for Jeffrey Eugenides was AWESOME,” she gushed. “I wish we could invite him to dinner!”

Leave it to my sister to attend a book festival and be impressed by the signers rather than the authors.

Although really, I’ve given up  trying to give up what will make a mark on people. During Steph and Kelly’s visit, we saw a cyclist almost slice a squirrel in half with his tires. I’m pretty sure that factored into Kell’s Top Ten List of the weekend.

And as for me – what was my over-arching impression from these visits? It wasn’t an animated ASL interpreter or an almost-disembodied squirrel – as memorable as those would be. It was a feeling of gratitude. Grateful to have a sister who has become a friend, and grateful to still be friends with people who knew me before I had breasts to heft onto the handlebars of my bike.

Because, as they say: you can’t make old friends.

Pretty sure *I* am that friend.

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