Tag Archives: humor

Make your list. Check it twice. Then check it again.

3 Dec

I generally pride myself on being a pretty thoughtful gift-giver. I try to pay attention throughout the year when someone mentions a guilty pleasure or item they’re coveting. There is little more satisfying than seeing a person completely surprised by something they can’t even remember saying they wanted.

Clearly, a preface like that can only mean one thing, right? That I am an absolute, utter jackass. Let me explain.

My good friend Betsy came over for dinner on Wednesday. The last time I saw her was a few weeks ago, when we celebrated our birthdays. It’s become something of a tradition to make dinner together and exchange gifts.

The thing is, other than the year I had postage stamps printed featuring a photo of her dog, I always come up short when trying to think of creative gifts for her. She already HAS a lot of the things I would naturally think to give her, so I often find myself “giving an O’Connell* Gift,” as my family calls it.

[An O’Connell* Gift is when you give someone a present that you would like yourself. We call it this because as a high schooler, my friend Ryan O’Connell’s brother – drawing his pre-school cousin’s name in their annual gift exchange – gave her a subscription of Sports Illustrated. Yeah.]

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A Tip for the Yogis

27 Nov
Little Kitteh says “Namewste.”

For the yoga teachers who read my blog, let me offer you a tip: Keep the chanting simple.

We usually open and close class with a single group “OM.” I’ll admit, the first time I attended a yoga class, it freaked me out. For a minute I thought I’d accidentally joined a cult and they were going to shave my hair off while my eyes were closed.

But then I started to dig it. There’s something pretty powerful about people united in purpose, joining their voices together. It’s a good reminder of the interconnectedness of all life.

So now I’m cool with an OM, or even three OMs if we have an enthusiastic instructor, though sometimes I can’t stop my mind from focusing on the one clearly tone deaf person who seems to be willfully trying to create discord. (<–BTW, just me or does it seem like that word should be spelled “dischord?”)

However, one thing I am decidedly NOT cool with are the instructors who try to get all creative and work in full chants. I’ll use what is perhaps the simplest of chants to explain why chants – in general – are a bad idea.

Let’s take, “Om. Shanti. Shanti. Shanti.” It’s an invocation of peace, which is nice in theory. And the words are simple and easy to remember. The thing that makes it a mess is that the first two “shantis” go down tonally (like “Mary” in “Mary Had a Little Lamb) but the third “shanti” goes up.

While that seems pretty simple, inevitably there will be a new person in class who doesn’t know that. They try to play along and go with the crowd. They are timid on the first “Shanti” but then more confident on the second one since it’s a repetition of the first. But then, just when they’ve worked themselves up to full participation and go to belt out that third “Shanti,” the rest of the class throws a curve ball.

Now do you understand why it's called Porky Piggin?

It’s like we all told the person it was “No Pants Friday” but then when he shows up Porky Piggin, the rest of us are fully clothed.

This exact thing happened today, and the poor dude who got orphaned on the third “Shanti” scrambled to try to get his pitch to match the rest of the class. The result was that he sounded like Peter Brady when his voice was changing. And it struck me as ridiculously funny. So I started laughing. To the point where I had tears coming out my eyes.

When we opened our eyes and bowed to say “Namaste” (meaning “the light in me bows to the light in you”), I remained face-down on my mat, shaking with laughter. Someone else from class is probably home right now, writing her own blog entry about the crazy girl that was so moved by her practice, she wept.

I guess it depends how you define “moved.”

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I did that. Did I do that?

22 Nov

Have I mentioned that Alan and I enjoy wine? I would go so far as to say we’re oenophiles, but then I’d have to pronounce it. And as I’ve stated before, I’m not so hot when it comes to zee French.

We’ve each had our fair share of ridiculously amazing bottles, but we’re open to trying just about anything, as long as it’s wet and made from grapes. I momentarily forgot that last week after we drove from Urbanna to Williamsburg. We’d been in the car for an hour when we saw a sign pointing down a dirt road for the Williamsburg Winery. When Alan asked if I wanted to go, I made a weird gargling sound before saying, “Nah! Virginia wines aren’t very good.”

Fortunately, Alan ignored me and made the turn. But – because he’s a nice guy – he immediately stopped and, before proceeding, said, “Your call. But it’s a gorgeous day. Want to just check it out?”

When presented that way, how could I say no? Yet I continued to hem and haw as we drove through the vineyards on our way to the winery. “My thing with tastings,” I explained (because I always have a thing), “Is that I feel obligated to buy something. And if the wine sucks, I don’t want to. So I feel guilty, like one of those people who eats samples at Whole Foods as their dinner.”

Alan, being level-headed and understanding, said, “Let’s just check it out. If there’s a paid tasting, maybe we can do that without you feeling guilty. And if not, we can bail.” Good plan. And as it turns out? They did offer a paid tasting – $10 per person with a tour of the cellar and tastes of seven different wines — plus a few bonus pours.

I won’t keep you in suspense: I loved it. Who cares if Virginia will never be Napa? Not me. It was a gorgeous fall day – crisp breeze, bright blue sky, colorful trees, temperature somewhere around 65. And a retired college professor from William & Mary who loved wine was doing the talking and pouring. What’s not to like?

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Stream of Consciousness: Dude, Where’s My Bag?

16 Nov

Ah yes, Le Carousel. With bags on it.

I never travel with more than a carry-on. Never. Not even when I have a trip that covers three dramatically different climates and two continents. I consider myself a Master Packer and am confident that it – along with parallel parking – is a category in which I could easily medal at the Olympic level.

Waiting at the luggage carousel completely short-circuits my internal Efficiency Sensor, which is why I limit myself to a carry-on.  So imagine my consternation when I checked in on Sunday and was told that since it was a full flight, rollerboards were going to have to be checked.

Does. Not. Compute.

So, here is what went through my head while waiting to claim my bag:

Is this the right carousel? Or is that the right carousel?

Let’s see… do I recognize anyone from my flight?

Did I pay attention well enough to know who was on my flight?

Where is white-haired guy who sat in front of me and told jokes so loudly it was obvious he thought he was a comedian?

Oh – there he is! Along with the woman who fake laughs at everything!

Nice! They finally are serving a purpose other than annoying the shit out of me.

I must be at the right carousel.

Carousel? Who decided to call this a luggage CAROUSEL, anyway?

That makes it sound like it should have ponies on it carrying my bag. That would actually be cool. But messy.

I guess Lazy-Luggage-Susan didn’t inspire confidence.

Speaking of: Why Susan? What is it called a Lazy Susan?

This would've been me, if my bag hadn't appeared.

And knowing that word exists, why would anyone name their child Susan?

Way to handicap your child. Nice work, parents.

I wonder if they name Susan’s brother “Good-for-Nothing?” 

OK. So let’s get this lazy-luggage-susan moving. Why isn’t it moving?

We’ve been on the ground for over 20 minutes.

I’ve managed to deplane from the last row, pee and walk the entire length of the terminal and I still beat the first bag? What?

I should really be an efficiency consultant. I could help them get this party started.

[Luggage carousel screeches into motion and bags begin tumbling off conveyor belt.]

Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No.

Why is there a pair of boxer shorts riding around on the carousel? Gross.

Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No.

OK. Who packed THAT bag? It’s HUGE. I hope they are moving here and not just visiting.

I could be a packing consultant and help them travel lighter.

Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No.

Uh oh. I wonder if my bag made it? 

I am going to be pissed if my bag is missing. My new boots are in there! 

Did I throw away the claim ticket they gave me? Uh oh.

I hope they didn’t lose my bag. How will I get it back without the claim ticket?

Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No.

Why is there a five year old child clogging up valuable real estate right next to the carousel?

He’s going to be in my way when my bag shows up. IF my bag shows up.

Where are his parents? 

Someone needs to tell them to get their kid out of the way.

Somehow, I don’t think “parenting consultant” is something I’m qualified to do. 

Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag? No. Is that my bag???

YES! That’s my bag. FINALLY.

As I wheeled it away, I could feel someone’s eyes boring into me. It was a petite blonde woman who had claimed a gigantic suitcase that she could easily have fit in. I saw her eyeing my bag and my outfit with the same look of disdain I had probably been wearing when sizing up her bag.

And if I had to guess, I bet SHE was thinking, “Wow. I could totally be a fashion consultant and help that poor girl out. She hardly packed anything.”

Turns out, everyone’s a consultant.

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Photo Postcard: Los Angeles

14 Nov

As previously mentioned, I’m trying to play a hopeless game of catch-up on the NaNoWriMo front, so I’m cutting back on pithy posts and conserving my words for my would-be novel this month. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still have some pith in my life. I bring to you a few photos I’ve snapped with my phone since arriving in LA yesterday.

First: I’ve never noticed this before, but the elevators out here have EARTHQUAKE buttons. I’m not sure what the purpose is, but I’d like to imagine that if I press it, I will cause an earthquake. When I board the elevator, I think, “Hmmm. Where will my evening take me? Lobby? Roof deck? Earthquake?” Willy Wonka had a hand in this option.

Fancy vending machine! Only dispenses hats and earthquakes!

Second: I’m not sure how my hotel knew that I’d hit the Mexican buffet at WholeFoods, but I applaud their signage:

My kind of place...

Third: Margaret and I walked the Manhattan Beach pier, and she was attacked by a shark. A landshark.

Fourth: inside the aquarium exhibit, they had some tanks where you could actually handle starfish. But only with one finger. Here Margaret demonstrates proper technique for touching the “animals.” I hate to tell them, but I think “touching with one finger” is called “poking,” and no one likes that.

Who create THIS rule? One finger, sure. But two? We're going to have to ask you to leave.

Fifth: Also in the exhibit were two angry looking eels. They were NOT in the “gently touch” bucket. They were in their own area, with no other living creature near them. Probably because they ate them. BTW? You might not want to include these specimens in a “What Lives Under This Pier?” exhibit if you actually are trying to boost tourism. Because you’ve forever cured my urge to set foot in the Pacific Ocean now. Thanks.

This is what I will picture the next time someone feels "bitey."

Finally: After work tonight, I took a little walk to stretch my legs and work off one of the forty avocados I’ve inhaled since landing yesterday. Our office is right on Wilshire Boulevard at the start of the Miracle Mile, so my walk took me right by the La Brea Tar Pits. If you don’t know what those are, then go watch the Flintstones. I’m pretty sure this is where Fred worked:

"Oh sure, Earl. See where your thirst has landed you?"

And that’s how I spent my first 24 hours in LA. My schedule the rest of the week will be pretty intense on the work front, but I’m open to suggestions if anyone has recommendations of kitschy/random things I must see or do before returning. Anyone?

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