Tag Archives: Bathroom Humor

A day in my life, in Jeopardy format.

27 Apr

I’m too tired to write a fully-formed post. So instead, I’m going to share three of the random thoughts that have gone through my head in the past 24 hours. I’ll supply the thought first and the trigger second, in an attempt to drive Alec Trebek wild with enthusiasm.

Here goes…

Thought #1: “Well, I might be aging but you are too and at least I’m doing it with a roof over my head. Wait. I’m moving. Maybe I will be fired or won’t be able to afford my new mortgage and I’ll end up homeless. In which case this was not only a mean thought, but an ironic one. I want to take it back! I’m an evil, awful person for thinking that!”

Trigger #1: What is the one response to a homeless man, shouting, “Damn Sugar. Ain’t getting any younger!” at me today?

Thought #2: “I really need to find a new pool.”

Trigger #2: What is the appropriate reaction to finding a dirty (by which I mean USED) and water-logged tampon sitting on top of the soap dispenser in a shower stall at my pool? Enough said. (Vomit.)

Thought #3: “Is it my mat or the blanket that smells like fish?”

Trigger #3: What is a yogic mystery? Somehow I managed to choose a blanket at yoga tonight that smelled like it was washed with clam juice. Every time I did a downward-facing dog, I found myself pulling a few extra, curious drags of air to diagnose the odor. Halfway through class, I pinpointed the blanket, traded it for another and the problem was solved. Oddly, I was not craving clams casino when I left class.

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A Letter: to the woman next to me in yoga today…

19 Apr

Dear Lady:

(And I use the word “lady” loosely for reasons that will soon become evident.)

If you decide to hit a yoga class, how about you show up on time? Because the idea is to get relaxed and centered. And none of that is possible if a woman who is shaped like Sponge Bob comes to class ten minutes late, walking as if she has bricks strapped to her feet, and then proceeds to roll out her mat RIGHT NEXT TO ME, as if there’s not 200 sf of other real estate available in the room.

Further, if you ARE going to show up late (thereby calling attention to yourself and interrupting the channeling of my loving kindness) to nestle in close to me, then please, for the love of God and small puppies, SHAVE YOUR LEGS. Because the last thing I need to see, when I’m in a supine twist (my legs going one way and my head aimed in your direction) is a Hobbit-like leg, three inches from my face. It makes me want to find a grill lighter and start singeing your shin. Not very zen of me, but neither is your hairy drumstick.

I know, I should be all “I love Earth Mothers” and that – especially since I’m into yoga. But come on. If I can find the time to shave my legs (which are SIGNIFICANTLY less hairy than yours), you should be able to find the time to either a) shave, or b) don a pair of long pants so I don’t have to throw-up in my mouth repeatedly while trying to practice ujjai breathing.

Speaking of ujjai breathing – did you hear the song that was playing when you arrived? I think it was supposed to be “ujjai” that they were chanting, but by the time they mixed in the beats and repeated it quickly, it just sounded like “vaginavaginavagina” to me. Did you think so too? If you agree, I might be willing to cut you a pass on the hairy legs for one more session. I just want to know I wasn’t going crazy there on my mat.

Anyway. I’m sure you’ll be more punctual (and better groomed) next time. (See how yoga makes me more positive?)

Namaste,

Alison

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A rose by any other name… might smell like kielbasa?

15 Apr

So we all know people with unfortunate name combinations…. just start a conversation about someone you know whose name is Rose Budd (nee Bush) and inevitably, you’ll start hearing about other ironic pairings.

Last night at book club this very topic came up and I found myself talking about a girl I went to elementary school with, who – in the interest of anonymity – we’ll call Krista Hiney. (This isn’t her real last name, but it’s a close parallel, especially on the Hiney part.)

Her last name wasn’t just unfortunate, but something of a self-fulfilling prophecy: in fourth grade she crapped her pants during quiet reading time. Except instead of wearing pants, she was actually wearing a dress, so she had to be pushed out of the classroom while still seated in her chair because she was scared her underwear would fall down when she stood up.

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Michigan: Just needs a little CPR and a set of earplugs.

3 Apr

Talk to the hand.

I’ve been in Michigan this week for work. For some reason, people always apologize when they hear I’m here. The conversation usually goes something like:

FRIEND: Where are you this week?
ME: Michigan.
FRIEND: I’m sorry.

Poor Michigan gets an undeserved bad rap. Aside from Detroit (and the flat southeastern corner where I happen to hail from), the state is actually quite pretty. Last time I checked, it was the only state bordered by fresh water on three sides. What’s not to like about that? And the people here are ridiculously nice. Strangers actually say hi when you pass them on the sidewalk, or wave if they’re in a car. Definitely NOT something that happens in DC.

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Waxing poetic. Or just waxing.

11 Mar

OK. I really wasn’t going to go here. I swear. Please forgive me.

The other night – in preparation for my tropical vacation next week – I had an appointment with Nora at Corte Salon. Nora is famous in DC for being perhaps the best waxer inside the Beltway. (And no, that wasn’t a pun, and by famous I mean she’s actually had entire articles devoted to her waxing prowess.)

My two best friends also visit her, so whenever I have an appointment, among other things we spend the thirty minutes catching up on what everyone has been up to. That definitely helps distract from what could otherwise be an awkward experience.

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