When life resembles a cartoon…

24 Dec

Last weekend the weather was gorgeous, so I set out on a walk to get a bit of exercise. About two blocks south of my house, I slipped on something and almost fell. It happened so suddenly, I grabbed at a wrought iron fence to keep my footing, which explains how I didn’t end up completely biting it, but instead walked away with a significant bruise on my forearm.

Being across the street from the dog park, I mentally cringed as I turned to see what I had stepped in, imaging a pile of dog crap with a a footprint impressed in the middle of it. Instead, I found a smeared banana.

Yes, a banana. The fruit part. Not the peel. As if someone had peeled a banana and the banana fell out onto the sidewalk, and they just shrugged and kept walking. (Or, perhaps it was deliberate, and they were hiding in a nearby bush with a FlipCam.)

I stood there for a full minute with my mouth agape. I thought this only happened in the cartoons. Specifically, to Wile E. Coyote. Not to a human, and definitely anywhere but (potentially) in the produce aisle of a supermarket. Not on an urban street in the middle of December.

Having had a week to reflect on it, I’ve decided that – like how it’s good luck when a bird poops on you – slipping on a banana is a good omen for the year ahead. Because otherwise? I’m going to waste a lot of time looking out for the RoadRunner.

Next time, I'll be prepared.

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Wart: that’s such an ugly word.

21 Dec

Wart = Bad. Warthog = Better. Proof that bacon makes everything better.

Monday, for the first time in a long time, I headed to the pool to swim some laps. I’m pretty sure I pulled or tore a muscle in my shoulder at yoga last Thursday, so I was viewing the pool as “physical therapy” without a co-pay.

Unfortunately, I’m slightly out of practice, so when I got there I realized I hadn’t brought flipflops. Might seem like a minor detail, but when you’re swimming at an old public inner-city pool (that smells more like urine than chlorine), flipflops are actually clutch.

I sat down on the lockerroom bench and emptied my bag out, hoping that somehow, a microscopic/expandable flipflop was hidden in there. Even if there was just one – I was willing to hop. No dice. So I had to make a decision: walk the bare floor anyway, for the sake of a workout (aka physical therapy), or throw in the towel and return home?

Actually, lava would be preferable.

I decided to go for it. And as soon as I put my foot on the nasty tile floor, I swear I could feel plantar wart spores attaching themselves to the ball of my foot, much like how parasitic worms burrow through skin in Third World countries. Ack! 

When you think microbes are leeching onto you, you can’t help but look odd. And I did.

I came bursting out of the locker room like my ass was on fire and canonballed into the water faster than a fourth grader, but the real oddity came after showering, when I stood on the bench (as opposed to the floor) to dry off and get dressed. Which might not seem that weird until you realize that I was essentially putting my naked lady-parts directly at eye-level with everyone else in the locker room.

Even more awkward? In an attempt to explain why I was playing “The Floor Is Lava,” to a fellow swimmer, I pointed down and said, “I don’t want to get warts.” Only to realize that it might not have been clear that I was pointing at my feet.

I think I’ll stick with yoga.

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I’m now multi-lingual. When it comes to Christmas.

17 Dec

LOSER.

I’m here to tell you that any song, no matter how great, can be ruined by the “repeat” function on your iPod. So now, imagine what that function can do to a song that’s not great. In fact, imagine what it can do to the entire Glee album. THE HORROR.

[I’m embarrassed to admit that I own more than one Glee album, so I need you to be loving, kind and gentle with me during this post. No judgements, and no derisive remarks suggesting I add “Fame” to my Christmas WishList. I’m trusting you here.]

Even worse than a language I don't speak: squeaks.

Anyway. Last weekend I got in the Christmas spirit. After making some holiday-ish desserts (by which I mean a tub of frozen brandy slush), I selected “holiday” as the genre on my iPod and kicked back with a stack of cards to write. The music started great with Peanuts Christmas by Vince Guaraldi. Then it transitioned to some indie holiday tunes (This Warm December) by mixed artists, and I was still smiling.

And then… it cycled into an album titled something like “Christmas Around the World.” For some reason, these songs were 20% louder than everything else on the playlist. And in languages I couldn’t understand. And featuring slightly obnoxious guitar lines. And maracas.

The first time they came on, I scratched my head thinking, “This is awful. I can guess the words because I know the tune, but really? El Niño de Tambor? Sounds more like a tropical storm than a little drummer boy.”

Then, the second* time I heard the playlist, I thought, “Wow. This is just obnoxious. Each country should be forced to come up with their own unique melody to add lyrics to, instead of repurposing the classics in other languages.” Then I remembered “Oh Tannenbaum” and felt guilty.

Next* time around: “What IS this album? Where did it come from? How do I even own it?”

And the last* time: I was singing along. As it turns out, I can now wish you Christmas in Spanish, French, Portugese and some African language I assume is Swahili. Also, if anyone need a little niño with or without a tamborine? I can totally hook you up.

* = sequence/accuracy of events might be comprised due to brandy slush consumption.

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Who has the Christmas spirit? Hint: might not be me.

14 Dec

I will be buying you some of these. You're welcome.

I recently posted about a gift exchange that jumped the rails due to my keen observational skills. If you missed that post, I’ll summarize: I’ve repeatedly given earrings to a good friend who doesn’t have pierced ears. Blam!

Rolling into the holidays, you might think that I’m operating with a high degree of anxiety, knowing that another gift exchange is in my near future. You couldn’t be more wronger™. Nope. I’m not stressed at all. Know why?

Because instead of exchanging gifts, Betsy and I have decided to adopt a DC family in need and spend our money on them instead. Brilliant, right?!

Well, at least, I thought it was brilliant, until I received the family’s wish list. It’s a single mom with two sons. The boys have legitimate items on their wish lists. But the mom? Know what she wants? A gift card to Victoria’s Secret.

Please excuse me while I go all judgmental and decidedly un-charitable for a moment.

You. Must. Be. Shitting. Me.

Let’s rewind. You have two children that you’re struggling to support, so you think the answer is to… buy sexy lingerie and have more sex and potentially create another baby? No. Way.

I want to sit this woman down and say, “Honey. I’m a bleeding heart liberal. I am happy to be taxed if it means a better standard of living for everyone. But you? You’re going to ruin it for everyone needing assistance by asking for shit you do not need.”

“I mean, I’m happy to help give your kids a good Christmas, and I’m happy to help you pick up some essentials for your household. But Victoria’s Secret? That’s a luxury, not a necessity. If you need underwear, there are many, many other stores that sell them. For a fraction of the price. And with more fabric.”

Actually, it’s the holidays. I shouldn’t judge. This is my opportunity to be someone’s Christmas miracle. I think I’ll take that sentiment to heart, and go beyond what’s on her wishlist. In fact, I already have a perfect idea for a stocking stuffer:

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Or as I call it: Stink Eye.

12 Dec

Last Thursday I woke up to find my left eyelid swollen and crusted shut. Ah, Conjunctivitis – or, if we’re going with your less pretentious rap name – Pink Eye. Did you really need to pay me a visit? Besides, isn’t Pink Eye a disease that only five year olds get? From not washing their hands? Ew.

This is a head-scratcher, because (as I’ve previously stated) I’m somewhat OCD. And – thanks to my friends who spoil me – I have the world’s best-smelling hand soap so I probably have a tendency to over-wash my hands, if anything. And yet: my eye? It’s decidedly pink and goopy. I think the word for it is angry.

The last time this happened, multiple people posited a hypothesis as to the cause. So this time, when I made my announcement to the land of Facebook, I tried to head that theory off at the pass: “Nothing says happy holidays like Pink Eye. And no, Alan didn’t fart on my pillow.”

My sister – whom I’ve educated on a wide array of topics, including ceviche, dutch ovens, upper-deckers, kicking kangaroos and honeybadgers – not surprisingly, popped up in my chat window later the same day. “What’s that about Alan farting on your pillow???”

It took me a minute to respond, so added a few lines of: “???????????” to demonstrate her urgency.

Alicia tends to be gullible (as evidenced by our high school track coach getting her to swallow a huge multi-vitamin, then claiming it was a dog’s heartworm pill and writhing in laughter as she freaked out, trying to make herself vomit).

[I’m not actually sure if I got all those details right, but you get the idea. It’s at least 85% accurate.]

So for a minute, perusing all the images she’s Photoshopped to include crossed eyes on my Facebook Wall, I seriously considered telling her that yes, pink eye is commonly spread through flatulence trapped in bed sheets. Followed  by calling her husband to bribe him to fart on her pillow just after she closes her eyes.

But what can I say? It’s Christmas and I have the holiday spirit, so I really couldn’t lie. So I sent her this [NSFW] link (from the movie Knocked Up) and left her to draw her own conclusions:

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