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Half my workout was just getting to the water.

17 Jan

The pool where I swim is a 15 minute drive from my house, so if I forget something mission-critical (like goggles or my bathing suit), I forfeit my workout rather than make the roundtrip twice.

That precise problem reared its head this weekend, when I arrived at the pool only to realize I’d forgotten my photo ID, meaning I wouldn’t be admitted to the pool. GRRRR. Fuming, I drove home completely irked.

When I got home, however, I saw that my towel was still hanging on the back of the bathroom door knob, so my missing ID was actually a blessing in disguise. I can’t imagine wrapping up a workout completely soaked with no ability to dry off before heading out into freezing temperatures.

This wasn’t the first time I’d forgotten something important, and it reminded me of another time recently when I got to the pool only to realize I’d left my flipflops at home. If you don’t understand how flipflops could be critical, then you clearly haven’t spent much time in a public lockerroom.

Remember playing “lava” when you were a kid, trying to avoid touching the floor when you walked? That’s kind of like me navigating a lockerroom without flipflops. I look at the nasty floor and all I can think is, “Plantar’s Warts!”

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New year = new bed. A big girl bed.

2 Jan

There are some purchases that make a person feel adult: like one’s first car or first home. For me, it was a new bed. (Ironically, I realized I also purchased a Blanky Boo Boo this week. We call that a “juxtaposition,” people.)

I’ve been sleeping on the same mattress for 12 years. Which would be impressive even if it were a pimped out Posturepedic I received as a hand-me-down from my parents. Unfortunately, this bed’s pedigree is even more dubious… I bought it for $50 off a girl whose room in a group house I took over in DC.

Nothing says high-class like a no-name mattress bought in cash off a stranger.

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There’s only one situation in which a cold shower is appropriate.

30 Dec

Last night I had a massage appointment at 8:30. (I KNOW – if you’ve been reading closely, that makes THREE massages in THREE weeks. Sheer awesomeness as I deplete my Flex Spending Account.)

Anyway, I started the day with sunrise yoga and was planning to cap the day off by hitting the pool for a half hour workout of kick laps before my massage.

I drove there.

I parked.

I changed.

And because the DC pools insist on everyone showering before entering the pool, I went to the showers (nevermind that I had taken one at home about three hours prior). But here’s the thing: the shower was FREEZING.

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My dinner is less interesting than your panties. Probably.

13 Dec

One of the interesting acoustic features of my condo is that the wall separating my kitchen from my neighbor’s kitchen is strictly a privacy shield. It does nothing to block the noise.

Fortunately, of all the rooms in my place, that’s the one in which I’m most comfortable with eavesdropping (or being overheard). A few months ago I posted on Facebook something along the lines of, “It sounds like my neighbors have a pet goat.” This weekend I got to the bottom of that mystery. It is my neighbor, singing.

Apparently the guy is tone deaf. Saturday night we was in the kitchen loading the dryer and I heard him trying to belt out some hiphop. And it sounded like a goat bleating. Bless his heart.

He interrupted the song to tell someone that it was a good thing he was doing laundry because he was out of clean underwear. He went on to inform us that he had considered turning his underwear inside-out to get a few more days out of them, but had ultimately decided that would just make his pants dirty.

Whew.

I thought about pulling up a chair and just sitting there to see what else I could learn, since the guy was cracking me up, but it was about that time my fire turned all kinds of ape-shit crazy in the living room, forcing me to run out and get my fire extinguisher.

Fast forward to Sunday night. I’m in the kitchen alone, frying up bacon, onion and mushrooms in a skillet. And I find myself saying – to absolutely no one other than myself – “Oh hells yeah. This is some awesomeness right here. A skillet of bacon, onions and mushrooms for dinner? Who’s jealous? Who’s jealous?”

Except, I wasn’t exactly SAYING it. I was kind of shrieking it because I was excited. And that’s when I heard the distinct sound of my neighbor’s dryer starting. Which means he was probably over there pointing at the wall so his girlfriend could hear me going bananas for a non-nutritional dinner.

At least he’s clear: I’m not a goat. Hells no.

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The fire log from hell tried to kill me.

12 Dec

Perhaps I'm being melodramatic, but it felt like a forest fire in my living room.

Give me a chilly winter night, and it’s a lock you’ll find a fire in my hearth and a glass of wine in my hand. I’m a sucker for fires. IN THE FIREPLACE.

Sorry, had to clarify that, because last night I was 98% certain I was going to burn my entire apartment building to the ground thanks to a Hell Log from Pine Mountain.

One down-side to condo living is that I don’t have wood pile out back that I can access on chilly nights. And storing a pile of wood in my place is not an option… anyone familiar with termites?

I am. The first place I rented in DC had an infestation. I came home from work one day to see what looked like black blood running down the wall of the dining room. Turns out, it was mass of termites trying to flee, their writhing bodies looking oddly fluid. Yes, I’m haunted. It’s nothing short of scarring.

So the solution is store-bought, 4-hour fire logs. And not only are they termite-free, but they also come with a pre-determined burn time so you can plan your evening. Want to go to bed at 10? Fine, pop that log on at 6. Voila!

This year I’ve been buying Pine Mountain brand, because they’re (allegedly) more environmentally-friendly. Last night, I think I figured out why: they try to kill anyone who starts a fire.

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