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It’s only once a year so they can forget who I am.

20 Aug

Last week I had my annual visit with the OB/GYN. I challenge any woman to convince me that this is NOT an awkward visit. I don’t care how comfortable you are naked, or how unfazed you are by a virtual stranger massaging your breasts, there’s really no way to portray it as anything other than awkward.

Especially if you have my knack for enhancing awkward situations.

First off, there was the waiting room.  I sat, along with nearly two dozen other women, silently updating my paperwork, eyes darting around trying to guess if anyone else was there for something other than an annual physical. Anyone trying to get pregnant? Anyone trying NOT to get pregnant? Anyone worried about positive test results they’d just received?

I was noodling through the possibilities when – to my embarrassment – a robotic voice loudly announced from my pocket, “Time: 28 minutes.”

I’ve been using “MapMyFitness” to track my walks using the GPS on my phone. The latest version has a computerized voice that will NOT be silenced (or even adjusted using the volume buttons). As she started barking from my pocket, everyone looked around, trying to figure out where the mechanical gym teacher was.

Unfortunately, I knew where she was, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop her from completing the rest of her long data sequence, including my total mileage. So I did the next best thing: I fished out the phone and sat on it. It was the best I could do to muffle it, but even so, you could clearly hear her announce my pace.

Instead of hanging my head and furiously working on my paperwork, I looked challengingly around the room, deciding to own it. Anyone looking in my direction to figure out why my ass was seemingly announcing mileage was met by a nod that I hope silently conveyed, “Yeah, that’s right. I walked here.”

Mirror, mirror, on the wall…

Even so, I was relieved when they called my name and I was guided to a room. It was cheerfully set up – nice hardwood floors, cloth gown on the table, stirrups at the ready, mirror, … WAIT. Um. Seriously? A wall-mounted mirror at the end of the table?

“How often do people point out that that is a very unfortunate place for a mirror?” I asked the nurse. She looked up, surprised, as if she’d never noticed the mirror before. Turns out? I was the first person to say anything. INTERESTING.

Part of me wanted to walk over and lift it away from the wall to make sure it wasn’t a two-way mirror, like the kind marketers hide behind when observing a focus group. I was too lazy to do it though, so instead I found myself staring at it during the exam, making subtle hand-gestures – thumbs-up, peace, hang loose – in case I had an audience.

I would’ve worried that the doctor might see me and think I was odd, but this is the same man whose running commentary while giving a breast exam is, “Great. Good. Perfect. Beautiful. Good. Beautiful.” So I don’t think I really need to defend my potentially creepy behavior to him.

Fortunately, it was all over in under ten minutes, so I didn’t have another opportunity to make it more awkward. Well, other than making an “in-and-out” quip about the speed of the visit. Which – say what you will – really isn’t assisted by gesturing at the speculum when you deliver it. Just… don’t.

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Look ma, no wheels!

30 Jul

Yesterday I had planned to attend the anti-fracking rally Bill McKibben hosted on Capitol Hill, but at the last minute I decided to do something a bit more committed to reducing fuel consumption than simply carrying a sign: I sold my car.

In the four years I owned it, I put 15,000 miles on it. To reduce carbon emissions, I go out of my way to walk or take public transit, so I’d wager most of those miles were racked up driving to/from Michigan for holidays. It becomes more hassle than convenience to own a vehicle when you drive it that infrequently.

Since May, I’ve been preparing for a car-free life. I bought a bike and tested the ten mile commute between my place and Alan’s on 100 degree days. I started paying my car insurance on a month-to-month basis. And, demonstrating true commitment to the endeavor, I emptied the trunk.

This is what it contained:

  • A suitcase full of shoes I had forgotten about. I thought I’d lost multiple pairs when I moved two years ago. Turns out, I was driving them around to shoe stores to replace themselves. Doh!
  • A tent and camping gear. I’ve always liked the sense of freedom that comes with knowing I could just spontaneously decide to blow off whatever commitment I’m driving toward and end up at a campsite instead.
  • Brand new jumper cables. Alan gave me these after my battery crapped the bed two years ago. Murphy’s Law held true: The only times my battery died were when I didn’t own a set. They’re as good as insurance.
  • Three toothbrush/paste/picks and floss kits stashed after dentist appointments over the last year and a half.
  • Gobstoppers. It seems a box of them exploded back there. When I took a corner too fast, they would click around, kind of like a Driver’s Ed teacher tsking me. When it came to rounding them all up, I deduced that they must’ve come in a clown-car sized box, because they were endless.

So yesterday with an empty car, Alan and I headed to CarMax.

If you’ve never been to CarMax: It is a zoo. Especially on the weekend. It’s what I expect my ancestors encountered at Ellis Island: tons of hot, exhausted people with screaming kids clinging to them while playing an unacknowledged game of musical chairs for the few plastic seats that are available. Except I don’t think plastic existed when my family immigrated. And I don’t think they actually passed through Ellis Island. So in fact, the experience was probably nothing like anything my ancestors ever experienced. Sue me.

Alan and I attempted to pass the time by window shopping for a pretend new car, which prompted a debate about Cadillacs being “old people” cars (I said yes, he said no), a discussion of the merits of pick-up trucks, and the conclusion that if ever I buy a SmartCar, Alan will opt to meet me places.

Because it was approximately 200 degrees out, all of that transpired in about five minutes before I decided to duke it out for a seat in the air conditioned lobby. Alan continued to poke around, and after about 40 minutes the salesperson (buyperson?) found me to say they had an offer.

My palms were sweaty. What dollar amount would cause me to leave the lot carrying my vehicle tags in a backpack? I’d given it a lot of thought: Pretty much anything over one dollar, because I sure as hell didn’t want the time I’d spent sweating to be for naught.

Carmax may claim they don’t negotiate, but I’m going to say their strategy is pretty brilliant: I will accept whatever offer you make, as long as it guarantees I won’t have to come back here.

And so I took it.

My key ring seems empty without that huge Volvo key on it. I keep thinking I’ve grabbed Alan’s keys by accident. But you know what? It lightens my load, so it’s all good.

Otherwise, I might just buckle under the weight of my own self-righteousness. And nobody wants to see that.

Or maybe they do, if self-righteousness looks like this:

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You say Dorito, I say Derecho.

1 Jul

Alan found me standing in front of the thermostat at 3am Saturday, using my iPhone as a flashlight.

“I don’t understand,” I mumbled. “Why does it say 70, when it’s so hot in here?”

Alan flipped on the hall light so we could get a better look at it. But still we stood in the dark.

“Power’s out,” he said.

And then I remembered waking up only hours before to terrifying booms and bright lights. Actually, it’s somewhat surprising I’d even fallen back to sleep.

“The storm,” I started telling Alan, who gave me a blank stare.

“It rained?” he asked.

“You have no idea.”

The next morning I headed out on my bike to scout the neighborhood. In a half-mile alone, I saw downed power lines and three large trees on their sides. And lining every path were limbs. The street looked like a wood chipper had just driven down it, mulching everything in sight.

I rode back home, where Alan was sitting next to a radio, listening to weather and news.

“I’m not sure what happened,” I told him, “But it looks like a tornado or hurricane rolled through while we were sleeping.”

Since temperatures were forecast to top 100 again, we loaded up in Alan’s car and decided to try our luck at my place in the city. Say what you will about the efficiency of DC government, but I’ll rejoice that someone had the foresight to bury our power lines, because my building was humming along in air-conditioned goodness.

Considering some 3 million people lost power, I felt pretty lucky.

The drive in, however, had done nothing to inspire confidence in what we would find. Trees were down everywhere, and we saw more than one car buckled under the weight of a trunk. “I feel like this storm deserves a name,” Alan commented.

Later, courtesy of The Weather Channel, we would discover it had a name: Derecho. Well, technically it’s not a name like “Katrina,” but it’s a Spanish word that describes the condition that occurred Friday night – kind of like El Nino. Technically, a derecho is a sustained and powerful windstorm that spans at least 240 miles and exceeds 58 mph.

Sounds like a lateral tornado, if you ask me.

My favorite thing about the word (aside from the fact that Alan looks like he wants to smack me because I insist on pronouncing it  with a rolling “R” like I speak Spanish fluently) is that people stopped calling it “a derecho” and started simply calling it “Derecho.” As if it were the storm’s name.

On Facebook, my news feed morphed into two camps (those WITH power and those WITHOUT) faster than Twilight had created Team Edward and Team Jacob.

It was like a personality test. People with electricity either a) Invited their friends over, b) Gave thanks to a higher power, or c) Taunted people who were baking in the heat. People without electricity a) Complained about the heat and/or their power company, b) Checked in from mundane places (ie. the grocery store) excited to be in air conditioning, or c) Meticulously listed the contents of their refrigerators and how much longer until all was RUINED.

Slowly, as people began regaining power, my news feed sounded like Handel’s Messiah: Hallelujah, indeed!

Other people found their solace elsewhere. “Mr. H went out and bought us a generator this morning,” my friend Sara posted about her husband. “The first thing we hooked up? The beer fridge.”

Another friend wrote, “Actually looking forward to Monday: at least work is air-conditioned and the fridge works.”

Gotta love Facebook! And for more than one reason…

I mean, it’s kind of like a dividing rod. Based on what I’ve been seeing, I think it’s safe to make a prediction. This time next year: there will be a miniature baby boom. Housewives devouring the smutty best-seller “Fifty Shades of Grey” + three million people without power? Doesn’t require much math.

The only question in my mind: how many babies will be named Derecho?

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Artomatic: A Photo Essay

24 Jun

One of my favorite DC events is something called Artomatic. It’s a month-long art festival held every 1-3 years (depending on their ability to get organized and secure space) – usually in a building that’s under construction or slated for demolition. This year’s festival occupied ten floors of an old office building in Arlington and featured more than 1,000 artists.

Pretty awesome, right?

The event is not juried, so it’s a mishmash of stuff – some is Art with a capital-A, while other stuff looks like a classroom of kindergarteners could produce it.

Since the building is otherwise vacant, it’s easy to get lost. Fortunately they have bars on almost every floor, so you’re usually well fortified for your wandering. And there’s a stage area for entertainment on each floor – everything from poetry readings, to garage bands to fashion shows.

Last night was this year’s closing night, so my friend Betsy and I went over to check it out. Here are some of the more bizarre highlights:

There almost an entire floor dedicated to dioramas made from Peeps. This was my favorite because it was a fairly accurate portrayal of the Occupy movement in DC:

Peep Show

This was an entire room decorated bizarrely. Kind of what I assume a crack den looks like:

The End Is Near?

Not exactly sure what’s happening here, but it’s the only clown exhibit that didn’t completely terrify me:

Maybe because the hands are more creepy?

I took this mainly to taunt my sister, who offers to knit me things. If you REALLY loved me, you would make me a body-sized glove. Or a mitten. I’m not that picky…

Ain’t no needles large enough…

I’m pretty sure this is some kind of Cat’s Cradle reference, but I named him MC Knittin’ Kitten.

Let’s raise the roof.

I’m not sure what makes this art. Did the guy make Godzilla’s body from scratch? If so, I’ll put a tick in the “art” column. If he simply chopped holes and stuck frightening baby arms out of a dinosaur? Not so much.

How evolution really started…

Um… anyone want to attempt to interpret this one?

At least give her more nipples.

Forget about the goose who lays the golden egg. I want to birth a solid gold baby.

When gold-diggers get pregnant.

I didn’t take this photo for the message, though I do like the “Buy car, kick tires” idea. No. I liked this because the little drip of paint running down from his crown reminded me of the stick that holds up opera glasses. Very delicate for an Abe Lincoln skull.

Kick those tires!

Back on the Peep floor – someone had constructed a Peepmobile for kids to play with. What you may not be able to see – in this photo, it is a large fifty year old man in there driving.

When you can’t afford a corvette for your midlife crisis…

So Artomatic. Aren’t you sad you missed it? I swear – there is also REAL art there. It just didn’t photograph well.

Also? There was a fashion show with legitimate models walking a catwalk in ridiculous shoes. Knowing my obsession with models falling, any guesses what I spent my time doing? Standing with my iPhone filming, hoping I’d get footage for my own YouTube wipeout. Maybe next year.

A girl can hope.

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Your help is not needed. Or appreciated.

16 Jun

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.

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