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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That awkward moment when…

7 Jun

Sometime in the past year it has become popular to share a status update that begins with, “That awkward moment when…” and then recount something horribly embarrassing. Apparently it’s become so pervasive that my brain now does real-time narration of situations to let me know it’s been an awkward moment.

Or perhaps I’m just lucky enough to always find myself in awkward situations, and I now have a catch-phrase for it. In any case, without further ado, here’s my list from just THIS WEEK:

That awkward moment when your male boss walks out of the women’s room. And you realize the bathroom is actually mislabeled and you’ve been peeing in the men’s room for three months.

[Smack your head moment: So THAT’S why the toilet seat is always up!]

That awkward moment when everyone is trying to pinpoint where the “patchouli” smell is coming from and after proclaiming that you HATE patchouli because it reminds you of stoners who don’t shower, someone produces your new vial of perfume and says, “FOUND IT!” 

Perhaps I should start smoking weed. 

That awkward moment when you’re surrounded by a 55 Scottish bagpipers and you realize you’re a) the only woman, b) the only American accent, and c) likely the only person wearing underwear in the room. 

Well, I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to be a minority. 

That awkward moment when someone identifies the odd smell on the elevator as BODY ODOR right as you call it out as BASIL.

Kind of makes people wonder a) what you eat for dinner and b) what your armpits smell like. Perhaps this explains my attraction to the nasty patchouli perfume? 

That awkward moment when the gap in the stall door is wide enough for you to see someone sitting on the toilet – and you realize they are praying.

True story. Happened to me in Logan Airport. Fortunately, my flight had just landed. Otherwise, I would’ve thought some jihadist was in there making her peace before getting ready to take out my plane. And I would’ve had to kick her stall in. But since I’d landed safely, I figured, “Probably just a nun pooping.”


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The Legend of Baggy Pants.

30 May

I’ll admit: I’ve never been a Fashionista. I come by it honestly.

When Jordache jeans (with their distinctive script label) were popular in the 80s, my mom found a batch of fabric labels that used the same font to spell, “Who Gives A Shit” and stitched them on her own pants. (Or actually, maybe my dad did that – since he’s the one who taught me to sew.)

The highlight of my middle school fashion was a t-shirt featuring a jogger running past a gas station with the caption, “Passing Gas.”

And as a young professional sporting what I thought was a very chic, all-brown suit, I had my confidence shaken when one of the guys on my team (now a good friend) casually remarked that he knew it was going to be a bad day for everyone when I showed up wearing, “The Turd Suit.”

Correct. Apparently all of my fashion influences come from Uranus.

So it should come as no surprise that I still rarely nail my wardrobe. This is fresh on my mind because every time I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror today, I would shake my head and think, “The Legend of Bagger Vance.” Or jump and think someone had let a man from the 1920’s into the bathroom.

If you’re not familiar with Bagger Vance, I’m talking about a golf movie set way back in the early 20th century. The people in it dressed like this:

Knickers and Cardigans. What’s not to love?

Yes. Something about my outfit – knickers and an Izod shirt – looked like I should be talking tee times with a bag slung over my shoulder. So I posted something to that effect on Facebook.

And almost immediately, people wanted photos. Partly because they’re bored with their jobs, but also because everyone loves witnessing a fashion disaster. And also because my friends are kind of assholes. In a good way.

I asked one of my co-workers to snap my photo. Since Los Angeles is super-fashionable, I thought I’d start by seeking out the harshest criticism first, so I sent the photo to my friend Sharon, who works in our LA office. But she politely pointed out that golfers do not wear high heels, that my pants were capris not knickers, and that I didn’t have a golf cap on, so I needed to stop beating myself up.

I felt good for a few minutes, glowing from her endorsement of my fashion, until I trekked to the bathroom. And almost screamed to find a man in there. Then realized it was me. And then I realized that the photo I sent Sharon was deceptive: it was dimly lit and framed by an office, so it might be hard to make the Bagger Vance connection.

About this time I remembered that my sister (who loves Photoshop) was stationed Up North (which means north of Ann Arbor, Michigan) for the week, probably relaxing since she left her kids at home bored out of her mind. So I sent her the photo and asked her if she could feel the Bagger Vance vibe I was rockin’.

This is what she sent back:

I am pretty sure I might have just started a fashion revolution. FORE! 

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I seriously need a balcony.

27 May

Although we’re committed to each other for the long haul, Alan and I maintain separate homes. My place is smack in the heart of DC and surrounded by parks and restaurants and yoga studios and nightlife. His place is in a quiet, professional community in Arlington with a pool and balcony.

We tend to spend more time at my place in the winter (easy to walk to everything, cozy fireplace) and then log our hours at his place from Memorial Day to Labor Day so we can maximize the pool.

I LOVE being outside, so this morning I took a mug of tea and my laptop out on his balcony. And I realized: holy shit, I really need a balcony. It was more entertaining than a seal juggling screaming babies television.

First, at 9:30, I noticed a woman – wearing only a bathing suit – stomping determinedly down the foot path. Without the context of the pool nearby, that would seem totally bizarre. Even so, it still was a bit odd – because the pool doesn’t open until 11am. “Oh honey,” I thought to myself, “You are about to be soooo disappointed. Early bird gets the worm shaft.”

Sure enough. Her pace slowed as she approached the locked gate. She shook it, testing it. Then she shifted her focus to the rule board, where it’s clearly written that the pool opens at 11. Without turning to actually engage another human, I heard her yell, “What time is it??”

I’m not sure whom she expected to answer her, so I wasn’t surprised when she received Radio Silence as a response. I debated yelling back down to her, but I was half concealed by a tree and thought (for her sake) she might want to believe no one had actually noticed her strutting around in a bikini as if she were crazy.

About this time, a young couple appeared on the tennis court directly below me, toting racquets rackets rickets Rockettes? tennis gear. The guy clearly thought he was Hot Shit, as evidenced by his flowing mane of curls (pulled back in a girly-looking headband) and Ray Bans.

Within two minutes of hitting the court, he devised some sort of calisthenics routine for them, which involved running in forward/backward zigzags the entire length of the court.

He demonstrated it for his girlfriend. “Like this,” he called to her, as he ran in a way that looked like he was avoiding sniper fire.

She mirrored his motions and together they covered the length of the court.

“No,” he called again. “Like this.”

And started another demo for her benefit. She gamely joined in, following after him.

After two more rounds – during which he continued to correct her and shout out tips about her form – she finally cried Uncle. “Dude! Are we here to run around or play tennis?”

Good question. He looked startled but nodded and ran to the tube of balls he’d left at one end of the court.

And then I realized why he’d been stalling: Dude could not play tennis. He’d been trying to wear her down with ridiculous drills beforehand. So of course I pulled my chair closer to the railing and began clapping as if I were at Wimbledon any time she scored on him.

Interestingly, they both pretended I wasn’t there. I assume he did it from a sense of shame and she did it to help save her relationship, so I decided not to press it overtly. But I did kept cheering and shouting the score. It gave me a sweet sense of pride to loudly declare, “Love – Love!”

But then I realized I didn’t actually know how to score tennis, so I found myself yelling, “One – Love!” as if I were a stoner worshipping Bob Marley. And at that point I decided just to take a stance on their relationship, so I stopped even trying.

“Douche – Love.”

“Love – Nothing.”

“Loser – Love.”

About this time, Alan (who was inside making coffee) cracked his window and started listening to me.

“WHAT, exactly, are you doing?” he asked, seconds later, as he came charging out on the balcony.

I shrugged. “Nothing. Just keeping score.”

And that’s why I might have a career at Wimbledon. Or need my own balcony. Because apparently Alan won’t let me use his any more. Where I come from, we call that Selfish.

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Rub, rub, barf. This one’s all over the place.

23 May

There was a moment during my most recent massage (the one following the fire-alarm facial) when I’m pretty sure I heard my masseuse gag. She was pregnant, in her first trimester, and – as I lay face-down on the table – I heard her swallow a wave of nausea.

It got me wondering how many people have ever been barfed on in the middle of a professional massage.

I mean, surely it’s happened to someone. I want to interview that person.

Suddenly, my massage was mentally hijacked… in my best Barbara Walters’ voice, I imagined myself prompting, “So Donna. You were face-down, expecting a relaxing massage. Take us back to that moment. When did you realize you were bathed in vomit rather than massage oil?”

At some point, I realized that it was probably not natural to spend a portion of one’s massage contemplating a half-digested shower, so I tried to push the thought from my mind and relax. But then another – equally horrifying – thought occurred to me. What if it wasn’t her pregnancy that made her gag? What if it was ME?

I started a paranoid accounting of myself. Toe nails… trimmed and painted… No flabbier than the average client. No warts on my feet… Legs shaved… I’d showered right before my massage so no chance of my feet smelling funky.

And then it occurred to me: SPIDER BITES.

I’d woken up the night before with itchy legs and found two huge welts (dare I say HIVES) on my leg, each with a perfect dot in the center. They were bigger than mosquito bites, so – even though it was 3 am – I woke Alan up, turned on the light, and tossed the bed looking for whatever bit me.

I didn’t find it, but I figured I’d probably either killed or displaced it with my flurry of activity, so I was able to go back to sleep.

But lying on the massage table with two huge welts on my legs that looked like botfly larvae might burst forth at any moment? A person wouldn’t need to be pregnant to want to puke.

Speaking of – I actually don’t think I can finish this post. I just bounced over to Google images to see if I could find a “funny botfly larvae” photo to illustrate this story. That was a HORRIBLE idea. Those words should never be in the same search string. Take my word for this.

And so it is… only in my world can a massage lead to a fantasy that ultimately tracks to parasitic worms. No wonder I never seem relaxed.

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