Armed & Dangerous.

10 Apr

Star Wars Safeway?

The primary grocery chain in the DC area is Safeway, and most of the stores in the city have widely accepted nicknames. (Don’t ask me why the same can’t be said for their chief competitor, Giant.)

For example, the Safeway by me is known as the Soviet Safeway, because inventory often gets picked over, leaving bare shelves and long lines. (Admittedly, it has gotten better in the past 10 years, since Whole Foods opened five blocks away, but the nickname remains.)

The most popular Safeway is probably the Social Safeway, over on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. Perhaps because it draws younger customers from nearby Georgetown University, it has an openly flirtatious vibe. If you ask someone to help you retrieve a box from a high shelf, there’s a fair chance you’ll wind up on a date.

Meanwhile, in Adams Morgan, with its high Latino population, sits the Spanish Safeway. The Senior Safeway is located in the basement of the Watergate complex, and we all know that Monica Lewinsky was the only non-retiree to live there since the 1960s.

The Safeway where I shopped when I first moved to DC and lived on the Hill is known as the Un-Safeway, because it is located in the Southeast quadrant of town, where the majority of our city’s crime statistics come from.

There are others – the Sexy Safeway, the Secret Safeway, the Suburban Safeway – but I won’t bore you. That’s not actually the point of this.

The point is: there is a dude who works at the Soviet Safeway who fancies himself something of an on-air personality. I know when he’s working because he seeks out and seizes the microphone, making constant announcements while I shop.

Somehow, in three years together, Alan had never been treated to his schtick. So when we walked into Safeway last week, he heard someone chattering on the PA and said something like, “Oh Lord. Can we shut him up?”

But with my decade of acquired wisdom, I said, “Just listen,” as I pointed to the ceiling.

What started as a thank you for someone who made a check-out donation to Safeway’s cause of the month (testicular cancer?) quickly morphed into a rave about the Virginia Deli Ham that was on special in the back of the store. And then he kept talking. And talking.

Kind of like this. But smoother.

We largely tuned him out, but as we neared the checkout lane it proved more difficult. It also got more interesting.

“Leon,” he said. “Leon, just because you got to work 15 minutes late doesn’t mean the rest of us should have to wait 15 minutes for our break.”

Then, “Leon, the rest of us got here on time and deserve our break. Now come to the front of the store.”

Pause.

“Leon, man. We have customers here forming long lines who would like to pay so they can leave our store. Get. Up. Front. NOW.”

And finally…

“Leon. Maybe you don’t need this job. But some of us need breaks. This is not cute.”

We had to walk past him as we collected our groceries from the self-checkout area, and in doing so, we accidentally made eye contact. He shook his head with disgust. He looked at us as he spoke into the mike, “Some people!”

And we weren’t sure. Was he talking to us, or Leon?

I do know this: next time, I’m going to wear a smock and be prepared to work the register so someone can get a 15 minute break. If the universe values irony, that someone will be Leon.

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I can admit this because it’s Friday.

6 Apr

Dear Readers: I Love You. Seriously – I can’t believe you’ve hung in there, considering four of my last five posts were about bodily functions. (And I’m not talking hiccups and sneezes.) You. Are. Awesome. Or demented. But at least you’re my kind of demented. So thanks!

To reward you, I will post about something OTHER than scat for once…

…

Because it's Easter weekend

There are two things I simply can’t possess for more than three months: sunglasses and umbrellas. They either break or I lose them. Knowing that, I refuse to spend much money on them.

A few weeks back my office went bowling after work. It was a pretty posh bowling alley – the kind that has disco lights and velvet couches and is located next to a theatre so people can make an entire evening of it. As we were wrapping up and changing out of our shoes, I noticed a pair of sunglasses under the table.

“Hey – do these belong to anyone?” I asked. Apparently not. They weren’t the greatest sunglasses, but they fit my head so I kept them. (I suppose I should’ve turned them into Lost & Found, but that didn’t cross my mind since we were the first bowlers in there that day.)

Anyway. I was mildly jazzed to have picked up a pair of new sunglasses for free, considering I’m usually the one leaving mine places. Karma finally came around on this one!

It was sunny last night when I headed out to yoga, so I popped on the glasses before I headed out. And – like the other times I’ve worn them, I realized something weird was happening. Manhole covers were shimmery. (If I were a gamer, I might’ve tried to jump on one to see if they would explode and earn me points.)

Every fleck of stone in the asphalt seemed to pop out of the pavement. Cop lights in the distance seemed somehow more vivid.

And that’s when I realized: the sunglasses? Actually 3-D glasses from the theatre next to the bowling alley.

That’s right. I’ve been wearing 3-D glasses around as sunglasses.

Guess it’s time for me to touch up those highlights.

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Updated: Bottoms-Up! (Literally, unfortunately.)

3 Apr

For those of you who read this earlier… an update has been posted at the bottom. I survived! 

I’m posting from the hospital room, waiting for someone to come and wheel me down for a colonoscopy. I wish I were joking – or over the age of 60 since this would at least be par for the course. As it is, I’m sitting here with an empty stomach, clenching my ass checks and scowling at the empty gallon jug of GoLYTELY next to my bed.

Don’t know what GoLYTELY is? Consider yourself lucky. It sounds cute, and I was tempted to applaud the pharmaceutical pun-master who named it, since it’s a laxative with the explicit goal of “cleaning you out to the point that your stool becomes clear liquid.” Sorry, but something that does that definitely does not go lightly.

In fact, there were times in the past 12 hours where I was alternately curled in my bed, moaning, “What have I done to deserve this?”  and staring at the toilet paper roll thinking, “I feel like a POW.”

Quick backstory… I came to the ER yesterday because I’d had sharp abdominal pains for 24 hours and was thinking it might be appendicitis. I’d put it off for quite a while because I remember one of my friends who is an ER doctor telling me that most people who think they have appendicitis just need to pass gas. I did not want to be that person, forced to slink out of the ER with a can of Glade. Hence why I waited 24 hours.

Once I was admitted they did a CT scan. The nice guy who administered the CT scan had a thick Indian accent, so I couldn’t exactly understand everything he was saying. As he explained the procedure to me, I thought I heard him say the word “anus” but I quickly dismissed it. But then he was standing in front of me with something that looked like a whoopie cushion with a tube hanging out of it, saying, “Roll onto your side.”

What. The. F+ck.

Hours later, I received confirmation that my appendix was perfectly fine, but that they found something that might be an indicator of Crohn’s Disease. Next thing I knew, I was admitted overnight to prep me for a colonoscopy. I nodded my assent, thinking, “Katie Couric had a colonoscopy on TV. No big deal.”

Turns out? I kind of want to bitch-slap Katie for false advertising. That, or maybe rich people don’t have to go through the whole GoLYTELY prep. Maybe they just go in and let loose all over the table like a woman giving birth, but the hospital charges so much that it makes it worth their while.

Fortunately, the night nurse (who is about my age and awesome) prepared me for what would happen, so I was able in turn to prepare my roommate, whose bed (unfortunately) is right next to our shared bathroom. “Ma’am,” I told her. “I apologize in advance. They’re about to pump me full of something that will have me trotting in there repeatedly, and I don’t expect it will be silent.”

As it turns out, she’s using a bedpan, so while I may have beaten her in frequency, she’s the one who should’ve offered an aromatic candle as a hostess gift.

Also: I felt sorry for her when I checked in because her chart indicates that pain management is a top goal, whereas I’ve been in virtually no pain since getting to the room. This morning, however, when her breakfast arrived – filling the room with smells of bacon and coffee – I’m thinking I’d gladly trade places with her… I haven’t eaten anything since Sunday. This is like Torture, Part II.

Of course, I suppose I should be careful what I wish for or define as torture. I still have the actual procedure ahead of me. Wish me luck!

UPDATE: I survived! The actual colonoscopy was a piece of cake compared to the prep.

When they rolled me into the room for the procedure, I had two doctors, two nurses and an anesthesiologist surrounding me. I looked around before they put me under and said with a straight face, “I’m pretty sure you’re about to have an amazing experience.” 

As it turns out, they did. How do I know? Because I WOKE UP (no joke) halfway through, looked around and said, “Shouldn’t I be out for this?” right before they adjusted the drip and knocked me back out. Apparently my need to manage situations is a bit hard to give up. 

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What your lotto purchase says about you…

1 Apr

Last week’s record-setting MegaMillions jackpot dominated my Facebook feed for a few days. Photos of lotto tickets (cleverly posted by radio stations offering share the winnings with anyone who “liked” their photo) circulated wildly. Friends were speculating what they would do with their newly-won wealth.

I found it fascinating to see how much money people were spending on tickets. Alan cited a quote that was circulating to explain the multiple tickets people were snapping up: “You’re nine times as likely to get hit by lightning as win the lottery. Better buy nine tickets to improve those odds.”

I speculated that the MegaMillions could be used as a fairly accurate diagnostic for a workplace morale, though when I started to create the scale of interpretation, I realized it sounded more like a Lotto Horoscope:

  • Didn’t buy a ticket? You’re either a scientist, mathematician, or so over-worked you couldn’t get to the liquor store.
  • Didn’t buy a ticket but “liked” more than ten photos of Lotto tickets online that offered to share winnings with you? You’re probably unemployed or lazy or a sucker. Might want to spend less time of Facebook and more time reading self-help books.
  • Bought one ticket? You enjoy your job and co-workers and like to contribute to water-cooler talk.
  • Bought 20 tickets? Might want to pull out your resume and give it a little TLC. Sounds like you’ll be on the hunt for a new opportunity later this year.
  • Bought 50 tickets? Do everyone a favor and resign already.
  • Bought 100 tickets? Resign, sell your worldly possessions and travel the world to find yourself. You’re clearly not on the right path. You might want to consider a change of religion or marital status while you’re at it.

And employers – think it’s cute that your employees organized a Lotto Pool? I’d say it’s innocent fun – unless each person is willing to kick in more than the entry fee for a March Madness bracket. In that case, your company morale is in the toilet and you’ll need to do more than $50 spot bonuses to prevent a complete exodus before year’s end.

Oh. And while I’m on the topic of workplace lotteries, I encourage you to listen to THIS, a brief story from This American Life about the troop of Riverdance and what it means to them to win the lotto. I haven’t been able to watch a theatrical performance the same way since it aired five years ago. Now, neither will you.

Which is almost as awesome as actually winning. You’re welcome.

 

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Nice to meet you. Where’s your bathroom?

31 Mar

Last post about my trip to Atlanta, I swear.

The weather was gorgeous while I was in Atlanta, so Liz and I took a few long (five mile?) walks. Liz is in fantastic shape, so I’ve always found it hard to keep up with her when we walk. She’s an arm-pumping kind of walker. I’m more of a stroller. As a result, I’m usually winded, so my strategy is to lob questions at her so she’ll do most of the talking.

This time, when I saw her loading up Jackson in his stroller, I was excited because I thought it meant we’d be going at a leisurely pace. Silly me! She walks just as fast with a stroller – even going up hills and across rocky paths. She’s like a human tank that only weighs 100 lbs. It’s truly impressive.

So we ventured out for a long hustle, and about halfway through my stomach seized up. “Liz,” I asked nervously. “Is there a bathroom anywhere around here?” (We were on a pretty busy road lined by office buildings, but I wasn’t seeing anything that would be open on a weekend.)

“There’s a Starbucks up ahead of us, maybe a half mile,” she said. Then she looked at my face and said, “Oh. Do you think you can make it?”

“I sure as hell hope so,” I told her. “Or else this visit is going to live in infamy.”

I won’t keep you in suspense: I made it to Starbucks just in the nick of time. And I’ll no longer complain about the cost of a cup of coffee there. I now understand their cost structure: that seemingly huge profit margin actually goes toward toilet paper and janitorial services for random people who stop in to use the facilities.

Because we were a good 2.5 miles away from home, I was nervous about the return walk, so I pulled off about two feet of toilet paper and carefully folded it around my hand. Then, because I didn’t have any pockets, I tucked it into my sports bra.

Feeling very much the Boy Scout for my worst-case planning efforts, I met back up with Liz outside and we continued our walk. When we were about a mile from her home, she saw some of her friends out on their deck, so we waved and walked over.

We chatted with them for ten minutes or so, politely establishing how we all knew each other, where we work, etc.

As we walked away, I told Liz, “They seem really nice.” Then I looked down because something caught my eye. I stopped. “Liz! Look at me.” She looked and started cracking up. “Was this hanging out the entire time we were talking with them?” About eight inches of toilet paper was hanging out of the neck of my shirt, as if I were a walking dispenser.

Liz nodded. “I even noticed it,” she said, “but I just thought, ‘Oh yeah – there’s Alison’s toilet paper,’ like it was a normal thing for you to have hanging out of your shirt.” Which, given the weekend we had, probably makes sense.

Let’s agree: I certainly know how to make an impression.

Apparently, I roll like a celebrity.

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