Nothing says romantic getaway like…

3 Jan

During the three years we’ve been together, Alan and I have established a nice tradition of celebrating Christmas on New Year’s Eve. We grab a stack of books, some good bottles of wine, a bag of board games and go somewhere rural with a fireplace. This year, that place was Gramercy Mansion, just north of Baltimore in Maryland horse country.

The house was beautiful and the staff was friendly, and the added bonus was the resident cat, a huge white footstool of a thing named Romeo, who purred like an idling freight train. Don’t believe me? We pet him on the upstairs landing of the staircase while an elopement ceremony was being performed on the main level and they could hear him. Here’s Romeo:

Since I don’t have a television at home, when I stay in hotels, I enjoy browsing around to see what sort of stuff is on the more obscure cable channels. Which explains how we ended up watching “High Hitler” the History2 channel Sunday afternoon. Three interesting things I learned during this show:

  1. Hitler was regularly injected with meth by his personal physician, who claimed it was a multi-vitamin.
  2. Hitler is believed to have contracted syphilis from a prostitute in his teens, which would explain why he a) railed against the disease (calling it an enemy of the people) and b) was crazy.
  3. Hitler was vegetarian and had serious digestive issues, which his doctor treated by dosing him with a mixture of peasant feces.

Image Source: OMGFacts.comFascinating stuff. In fact, so fascinating that it gave rise to the following discussions with Alan:

Me: They just said he may have been in the final stages of syphilis. Was it deadly? 
Alan: Yeah, I think so. I don’t think it’s treatable.
Me: It must be treatable. Otherwise, we would hear about celebrities battling syphilis, right?
Alan: Fair enough. Let me google it. 
Alan googles it then shows me the entry. We both recoil at the photos of lesions. 
 
Image Source: http://www.pitch.com/binary/9519/buried_body.jpgMe: Remind me, how did Hitler die?
Alan: Shot himself.
Me: Right. And Eva Braun? 
Alan: Cyanide, I think.
Me: Yowsas. Cyanide isn’t immediate is it? I mean, it’s painful, right?
Alan: Pretty sure. Let me google it. 
Me: You better hope nothing happens to me this weekend. Because if they search your technology, you’re f*cked. 
 

Who says I’m not romantic?

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I think *someone* needs a New Year cleanse.

2 Jan

I closed out 2011 by hitting a vinyasa yoga class Saturday morning before Alan and I left for our mini-getaway. Man, am I glad I did: it’s not every day your yoga instructor is drunk.

At least, I assume she was still buzzing from the night before. That’s actually giving her the benefit of the doubt. Otherwise, I’m not sure how I’d explain this class to a first-time yogi…

She walked in and said, “So. Wow. It’s New Year’s Eve. Well, not eve. But New Year’s Day Eve. Eve Day. You know what I mean, right?”

People were giggling, but generally going with her. Then she began her soliloquy.

“So the new year is a great time for reflection. And introspection. There are milestones and this is a big milestone. I mean, it’s a WHOLE NEW YEAR. Right? And how great is that? I don’t know about you, but I’m glad to see 2011 done. It was a weird year for me. Just really, really weird. Man, I hope 2012 is better. Because this is a time to reflect about what we want. And I want a better year. And we are all humans, and our energy joins together and if we raise it up… I’m getting choked up! I’m choking on my words!”

I wish I could tell you I took artistic license with that quote in the interest of humor. But I didn’t. That’s more or less what she said, though I think my version is less rambling than the actual speech. I’m pretty sure this is why yoga gets a bad rap.

And for the two people who weren’t smirking after this babble-fest, she took it up a notch. “I mean, a new year is a big deal. But this year? Not to be freaky or anything, but it’s 2012. You know: 2012! The world might be ending! Dom-dom-dom! Seriously, I quit my job because I was like, ‘If the world really DOES end in 2012, I want to LIVE now. Pretty intense, right?”

(c) FullChordPress - by Tim Garrett (www.fullchordpress.com)

After she “re-centered” herself, she continued. “So I had a whole lesson planned for this morning’s class, but I got an email on my way here from another yogi who teaches at another studio across town with 20 questions for reflection. So I thought it would be good to read these to you so you can meditate on them during today’s practice.”

She then went on to read all 20 questions rapid-fire. I barely had time to process one question before she moved on to the next. The only one I was able to fully digest was, “What was a source of unexpected joy in your life this year?” And reason I retained that one is because she paused and said, “Right? Like my sister had a baby this year. And that was totally unexpected. Huge surprise. Huge.”

Much like that yoga class. Unexpected joy, though probably for the wrong reasons.

Call me Nostradamus, but I think it’s safe to predict what her biggest source of unexpected joy will be  2012: waking up to realize the world didn’t end. In fact, I’ll go one further. Biggest lesson learned in 2012? Not to max out her credit cards based on the Mayan calendar.

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I have *just* the gift for you.

30 Dec

What? It's just a foot spa.

Backstory: I live below an otherwise nice guy (Matthew) who makes a ridiculous amount of noise. I’m convinced he and his partner (Jack) actually stable a horse and lead it from room to room with bowling balls dragging behind it periodically. Did I mention that they have hard wood floors?

The following is a transcript from my chat with Alan this morning.

Alan:  hi there! how was yoga this morning?

me:  great! matthew helped ensure i made it by firing up the stomping machine around 5am.

Alan:  i guess he’s good for something once in a while

Alan: maybe we should have gotten him and Jack christmas presents – like weight loss videos?

me:  or amputatations  😀

Alan: do they have gift certificates for that? or would we just offer to do an amateur job for them?

me:  give them a wood chipper

Alan:  nice

me:  and tell them it’s a foot spa!

Alan:  maybe we should have gotten them really big, fluffy slippers with super-padded soles

me:  filled with razor blades!

Alan:  okay. we’re not going the compromise route this morning. I get it. 

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The History of the Word.

29 Dec

"I talk funny? YOU talk funny."

When I was little (and I mean really, REALLY little), I struggled to pronounce my S’s. The less sensitive readers among you might even call that struggle a Lisp. Oh, I never had to attend speech therapy, and no one ever nicknamed me Thindy Brady, so it all turned out fine. Actually, you wouldn’t even know it had happened, were it not for my nickname: Wis.

Or potentially the fact that my blog is named PithyPants. When in fact, my pants are more often dotted with… nevermind.

That’s right. I couldn’t say my own damn name right. Instead of Alison, I was Awison. Which, cutely, got shortened to Wis (which – coincidentally? – rhymes with piss). And my sister? Alicia? Became Aweeta. And thus her nickname – Weet – was born.

To this day, we’re known to our immediate family as Weet and Wis. It’s a comfortable name and not anything I think about, until I refer to myself in a story as “Aunt Wis,” (which is how my nephews know me) and I find myself explaining the whole etymology of the name to a stranger. Sort of like this.

Ironically, the first time my eldest nephew heard someone say, “Alison” while I was home, he looked around in confusion and said, “Who?” then completely cracked up when I responded. It was the best joke he’d ever heard. He couldn’t fathom that my real name was anything other than Wis.

Why am I telling you this? Because tonight I received a thank you note from my youngest nephew, with the best opening line ever:

Now I bet you’re wishing YOU had a cool nickname like Wis. Sorry, it’s taken. It’s mine. And you know…

I’ll be back.

—

BTW – can someone tell me why that Corgie puppy on the stationery is using a pillow like a yoga bolster? 

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Crust be with you. And also with you.

24 Dec

I’m mildly obsessed with efficiency, so it’s not surprising that the madness surrounding the holidays – all the people and all the lines – brings out the worst in me. Fortunately, it brings out the best in others, or I would’ve found myself in a real pickle this morning.

My parents sent me to the grocery store to pick-up a last minute item, and I located it quickly. But then, when it came time to pay, the checkout lanes were overflowing with people. I looked down at the single item in my hand and then – miraculously – spotted an opening in the self-checkout area.

I bolted for it, just beating out a slowly moving couple headed in the same direction. Triumphant, I scanned my pie crust, thinking I’d model efficiency for everyone standing behind me. Except, just after the scanner registered my item, I realized there was already a PILE of groceries sitting in the bagging area.

About that time, a guy came over and said, “Hey there! I’m almost done,” not realizing that I’d already scanned my item.

I fell over myself apologizing, as I pointed to the screen. “I’m so sorry, but I think it already scanned it…”

He looked, and – sure enough – my pie crust was among the forty other items he’d rung up. “I’ll get a cashier to come void it,” I suggested. He glanced at the line forming behind him.

“Nah,” he said. “Forget it. It’s Christmas. Your crust is on me. Merry Christmas!”

And Merry Christmas to you, sir. Or – as I’m going to start calling December 24: Crustmas.

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