You know how some people are magnets for crazy things happening to them? My friend Alison (whom I refer to as “The Other Al”) is one of those people. I’ve decided it’s time to start featuring some of her adventures in my blog for the greater amusement of mankind.
With Thanksgiving bearing down on us, it only seems appropriate to start with this anecdote, which she shared via Facebook this morning.
She commutes into DC everyday by way of the Rosslyn Metro station, which is just over the river in Arlington. Apparently she’s developed a friendship (of sorts) with one of the homeless people she sees regularly.
This morning he greeted her with, “Happy Thanksgiving. Where the f*ck is my turkey at?”
Because she’s The Other Al, she responded with, “Where the f*ck will you cook it?”
And lest you think this was mean-spirited, the guy cracked up and told her she was his favorite commuter. There’s something to be said for keeping your sense of humor, regardless of your circumstances.
About seven years ago, I canceled my gym membership and started using the money on yoga studios instead. I love yoga and believe in its healing benefits, but – no matter how much I sweat or how many push-ups I do – it is NOT a gym workout.
My body has been reminding me of that lately, most frequently when I go to wave goodbye to someone and smack myself in the face with the loose skin wagging under my tricep – something my childhood friend, Ryan, always referred to as a, “Yoo-hoo.” You know what I’m talking about.
So a week ago, I bit the bullet and joined a gym. And I can’t believe how much I’ve missed it. It feels like freedom to go whenever I want. There are three locations within a mile walk of my home, and each has something different I love: a salt-water pool, a robust class schedule, a steam room.
That said, my return has not been painless. Yesterday, for instance, I made a collosolcolossol HUGE mistake. I saw that there was a 45 minute “BodyPump” class and thought, “That sounds like a great alternative to just lifting on my own.” FOOL.
Tip: anything that rhymes with “Shoddy Dump” is probably a horrible idea.
If you’re not familiar with BodyPump (clearly I wasn’t!) it’s 45 minutes of lifting/squatting/pressing free weights and barbells to techno music. The music is key because it makes you do it quickly, which means that not only are you stressing your muscles, but you’re also getting all sweaty and out of breath.
It looked harmless when I walked in, though in hindsight, I should’ve realized that there was not a single YooHoo! in sight. I arrived close to the start time, so I looked around and tried to copy the props of the women around me. A step, a yoga mat, a bar with some weights clamped on, some free weight discs…
Notice how vague I was about how much weight was clamped on to the bars? Yeah, probably should’ve paid more attention. In my rushed attempt to mirror what was going on, I didn’t actually think about how much weight I’d be lifting – or the fact that the other people in the class probably weren’t brand spankin’ new.
Let’s just agree: Bad idea. About twenty minutes into class, my mouth started salivating like I was going to vomit. Since I’m competitive, I kept powering through. Finally, at the thirty minute mark, I started stripping plates off my bar, tossing them to the floor like frisbees, ego be damned. And I STILL almost fell down the stairs when class was over.
Today I’m hobbling, which doesn’t bode well for tomorrow, since everyone knows that full soreness sets in 48 hours after the activity. I’m just hoping the worst of it is behind me by Thursday so I can do arm curls with a turkey.
Everyone bitches about Mondays. Even though I love my job, sometimes even I am guilty of it. But not this week. I’m pretty sure I had the best Monday known to man. Here’s why…
We left our motel in San Simeon at 8am. (In case you’re curious: there are still places in this world where you can enjoy a good night’s sleep near the ocean in a clean room with a fridge and microwave and remodeled bathroom for $55. I didn’t think it was possible, but there you go. Just do your research and book with Hotels.com.)
We attempted to stop at a place called Sebastian’s that was highly reviewed on TripAdvisor for breakfast, but – to our dismay – it isn’t open on Mondays or Tuesdays. Their loss – I’m sure we would’ve been their best customers ever.
To recover from this disappointment, I asked Alan to keep driving north for a few miles because I’d heard there was a place to see elephant seals, and I was hell-bent on seeing at least one seal after getting my hopes up about lifting one the day before. Knowing that breakfast wasn’t in the cards and since we both tend to have blood sugar crashes that get ugly, while Alan drove, I began doling out cashews and beef jerky.
Within minutes, we were screeching into a gravel lot behind a motorcycle gang (Alan says it was actually a “club” but I don’t think you should use that word in the same sentence as “seals”) to look for seals. If Monterey had left us high and dry on the seal-front, then San Simeon was our tonic. We peered out at the ocean, shading our eyes. “Alan! Look! Right there!” I pointed to a rock some hundred yards out where there were definitely seal heads in the water.
Then the old couple next to us pointed and said, “Look – right there!” and pointed down some thirty feet off-shore.
Then, as I looked more, I was like, “HOLY SHIT. THEY ARE EVERYWHERE.” Which normally would be an exaggeration when I say it, but this time it wasn’t. There were seals EVERYWHERE. We began counting and estimating and couldn’t keep up. There were thousands of heads bobbing in the water.
And then, when I moved a little bit, I saw hundreds of seals beached on the shore, snuggling, fighting and snoring. They smelled like an elephant house at the zoo, but they were fantastic to watch. MISSON ACCOMPLISHED. (As a side-note, I’m now curious to know who would actually try to pick up a seal. They were HUGE and – according to a sign – weighed between 3,000 – 5,000 pounds.)
After an hour of seal-watching, I glanced at my watch and realized we needed to hustle over to the visitor’s center at Hearst Castle if we were going to get the tour I’d already booked.
If you’re not familiar with Hearst Castle: Think of the movie Citizen Kane, or think of Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch. W.R. Hurst had this estate built during the first half of the 20th Century, and it is spectacular. Especially the swimming pools.
Here are a few photos from the tour to show you what I’m talking about:
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There was an older couple in a group who immediately caught our attention not only because they moved at a snail’s pace, but also because they were dressed in identical outfits: purple “Hearst Castle” t-shirts covered by hot pink fuzzy fleece pull-overs. Had we somehow managed to NOT notice them for these reasons, they certainly would’ve drawn our attention with the utter nonchalance they demonstrated while farting audibly as they walked. It was impressive. In fact, Alan and I coined a term so we could warn each other of their activity: HEARSTING – to audibly crop-dust an area while walking.
Back to the castle: it is NOT located right on the ocean. Instead, it’s up on top of a mountain a few miles away. I thought Hearst was batshit crazy to build up there instead of directly on the water, but the views are pretty great. What is NOT great is the drive getting up to the castle. It’s so shaky that the Foundation doesn’t trust you to do it on your own, so you have to park at the bottom at the Visitor’s Center, then ride a bus up.
That was fine on the ride up. They had a soothing soundtrack narrated by Alex Trebeck telling you what you were seeing out the windows. To wit: “Out the right-side windows, you can see zebras grazing – a hold-over from Hearst’s zoo.” And yes, there were really zebras out our windows just roaming around on the side of a mountain, eating dried grass.
After the tour, we hopped a different bus back to the base of the mountain. It is nothing short of a miracle that you aren’t reading about our fiery death in a newspaper right now. Our driver didn’t seem to know where the right tires of the bus were – which would be fine in a lot of scenarios, but not when you’re barreling down switchbacks without guardrails and a sheer drop-off to the right.
There were two specific turns where I white-knuckled on Alan’s arm, then tried to calm myself by looking at the faces of other passengers for reassurance. When the jaws of the people in the first few rows are also hanging open and women are palming their rosaries, however, you can’t find much comfort in the belief that perhaps your own alarm system is just faulty.
It was so bad that I joked with Alan, “They need to have Alex Trebeck come back on and say, ‘If you shit your pants during the descent from Hearst Castle…'” And because I was so overwhelmed with relief, I couldn’t even finish my sentence because I was laughing so hard I had tears coming out my eyes.
Relieved to survive the descent, we stopped in the quaint small town of Cambria for lunch, where we demolished some great fresh Mexican food. Then it was on to San Luis Obisbo for a quick look at the Mission. Directly in front of our parking spot was a public restroom. I used it as soon as we arrived, accidentally walking into the men’s room, where I encountered a sketchy looking guy walking out. We excused ourselves and I found the ladies room.
Later, as we were getting organized to leave, we sat in the car for five minutes. The guy was still loitering there, ducking in and out of the restroom periodically. I thought maybe he was in charge of cleaning it. Alan, however, came up with the more probable explanation: drug deals. Sure enough, in the five minutes we were watching, two different guys ducked into the restroom after a furtive glance over their shoulders and were back out faster than any human could’ve peed.
So now I’m suspicious of SLO’s motto, which proclaims it the happiest city in the United States. I think everyone is just on drugs.
Finally, we ended our day at a hotel in Pismo beach, right on the ocean with a great balcony. Falling asleep with the windows open, hearing the surf crashing? Not a bad way to end a Monday.
Our second day in California was started out a bit rough because of the time difference. Between the time zone difference (three hours) and daylight savings (lose another hour), we were four hours off our regular baseline. Maybe not a big deal for most people, but since I’m an early riser by default, I think Alan found it problematic that I was ready to start our day at 2am.
It ended up working out fine because we spent a few relaxed hours writing and drinking coffee before stepping out for the complimentary hotel breakfast. Fueled and ready to go, we headed to the Monterey Aquarium, which was one of Alan’s Top 3 things to do on this trip. (When prepping for this trip, Alan and I each defined our “Top 3” sites to see or things to do to make sure this trip would have a bit of something for both of us.)
The aquarium did not disappoint. We got there right as it opened, and spent the first half hour watching the sea otters. The big event of the morning was their feeding, so as the time approached, the viewing area started to get packed. Kids crawled through people’s legs to get up to the front near the glass. The guy in front of us was a douche who pretended he couldn’t see the kids and held firm with his front row vantage spot, so Alan and I opened a little aisle and helped the kids move up to the front so they could wedge themselves in front of him. AND I DON’T EVEN LIKE CHILDREN.
Four things about sea otters: 1) They’re larger than I think of them as being, 2) I’d like to have one as a pet, 3) I love how easily they float around on their backs with their legs crossed and their eyes closed, and 4) I’m glad their poop doesn’t resemble dog turds. Would’ve ruined the entire experience.
They have some really nice “touch pools” in the aquarium, where you can handle things like starfish, sea anemones, and bat rays. Of course, I’m too squeamish about textures to bring myself to touch anything (much to my naturalist father’s disappointment, I’m sure), but Alan petted a good number of things.
Interesting segue: They had an awesome jellyfish exhibit, and Alan took a slew of photos. At the time I thought he was crazy, but in hindsight, they’re actually pretty gorgeous. While I don’t want to encounter jellyfish while I’m swimming, they really are a testament to the natural art that exists in this world. I’ve decided to call them Nature’s LavaLamps from here on out. See?
My highlight of the visit was watching a school of anchovies. One word: Mesmerizing. Also, kind of justifies why I won’t eat them, so I can sound noble when I’m really just opposed to their fishy taste. Here’s a snippet someone else shot that can kind of give you the idea:
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After leaving the aquarium, we went to Point Lobos State Park and hiked for a couple of hours. The trails are well-maintained and follow the coastline, so you get some pretty epic views. When we entered the park, the ranger handed us a flyer. I assumed it would be a map of the various trails. Alas, no. Apparently the State of California is as OCD as I am and prefers to communicate rules. Looks at all the DON’Ts on this list:
Signs led me to believe I would see some seals and be tempted to try to lift them, so I spent our hike scouting for seals. At one point, I had Alan believing that there were hundreds of them in the waters below us, until his Lasik-vision kicked in and he showed me that it was just kelp and driftwood. Maybe the state should change its signs and encourage people to drag seals out of the water so they can get free hauling on driftwood and kelp?
These must be gang seals based on all their gun-shot wounds.
Once the hike was behind us, we took the Pacific Coast Highway down to San Simeon for the night. Everyone raves about Route One and the views. It was gorgeous and gave us a spectacular sunset view, but I was ready to hurl by the time we finished the two-hour drive because of all the twists and turns. I’m also pretty sure that Nova Scotia’s trail was as beautiful but had more generous shoulders and guard rails – which should never be underestimated.
When we pulled up to our hotel – nay, MOTEL – at 6pm, Alan said, “You’re shitting me. We’ve only been driving for two hours?” Indeed. This is how I make a week-long vacation feel like a life-time. It’s all part of the strategy. You’re welcome, sir.
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NEXT UP: We actually FIND seals, tour Hearst Castle, and almost plummet to our deaths when a bus driver forgets he’s not driving a motorcycle.
Unless you want this cat in a box to become a dick in a box, you better feed it.
Alan and I are getting ready to venture to California for vacation. It’s the first time we will both have been out of town together, so we need to get a cat sitter for Miss Moneypenny. Sure, I have friends who would probably help me out, but I don’t want to saddle someone with kitty care for a full week, so I decided to bring in a professional.
Specifically, the professional is a woman named Mike who lives a mile from me and seems to love cats. (Actually, I wrote that sentence before she came over for the intro visit, so I was making a few assumptions, not least of which was that she loves cats. And also that Mike is a woman. As it turns out, Mike confessed to being somewhat allergic to cats, but I remain optimistic that Miss Moneypenny will charm her into some snuggles.)
So at this point, she has come and met Miss Moneypenny, and I think they’ll get along well enough. I mean, Miss Moneypenny is a cat and Mike will be feeding her. For most cats, that’s enough, right? Cross your fingers, because I don’t want to come home to any revenge pee.
Anyway, I jotted down some notes from my conversation with Mike, in case YOU ever want to catsit Miss Moneypenny. Here are the highlights:
So this is Miss Moneypenny. But you can call her whatever you want because she doesn’t really respond to her name.
She likes to play with this rainbow toy, and this feather toy – but don’t tug too hard when she has it in her mouth because I’m scared you might rip her tooth out.
Here’s her litterbox. I scoop it in the morning and the evening so that my place doesn’t smell like cat shit. And please go straight to the garbage chute down the hall and throw it away so it doesn’t sit in my trash can. Also – this Swiffer duster is so you can sweep any random dots of litter back to the box so it doesn’t get tracked around my place.
And here’s her food area. She gets this hairball control dry food, with a bit of this protein kibble sprinkled on top for kicks. And this dish here is for her wet food, which she gets twice each day. A few things on that – and this probably sounds OCD, but it’s why I’m paying you instead of just leaving a pile of food out for her…
Please recover the tin of food using this piece of saranwrap and rubberband between meals rather than using a new piece of saranwrap each day. When you finish a tin, please rinse it out so I can recycle it. And you’ll need to add water to the food, stirring it until it’s the texture of runny refried beans. She likes it that way. Oh – and please only use THESE forks. I don’t like anything that touches human food to touch cat food.
When you get here, she’ll probably be excited to see you, so if she runs toward my bedroom, it means she’s going to flop down on the rug and roll around so you can pet her.
And I forgot to tell you… she is very talkative, so be sure to ask her lots of questions. She’ll answer you, but her response always sounds like she’s saying, “No,” or, “Now,” so you’ll probably want to come up with questions that work with those responses. Unless you want to sound crazy.
PS: When I just spell-checked this, here’s what WordPress accused me of misspelling: rubberband, refried, kibble and chute. I’ll admit, chute made my scratch my head. But then I remembered “Chutes & Ladders” and knew that I was still smarter than my computer. For now.
You know how some people are magnets for crazy things happening to them? My friend Alison (whom I refer to as “The Other Al”) is one of those people. I’ve decided it’s time to start featuring some of her adventures in my blog for the greater amusement of mankind.
pithypants 