Tag Archives: humor

From the Archives: Swimming Stream of Consciousness

11 Nov

Today, as the final day of my stay-cation, I was thinking about swimming for a little exercise, but I didn’t really feel like exercising. And since I’m participating in NaNoWriMo, I have a whole new appreciation for effective procrastination. So I combined the two (wanting to swim but not actually exercise + procrastination) and found myseld perusing the PP archives, having decided that READING about swimming would effectively take care of all desires at once.

Which is how I stumbled upon an old post that both provides frightening insight into how my brain works, and also cured me of any urge to walk to the pool today. Since it’s Friday, I figure you’re all looking to piss away a bit more time than usual during your lunch break, so here’s a repost from September 2010.

This locker room is what I would expect to find in a prison.

Except with more people in it.

And probably lice.

Soap on a rope!

Wow. That is one naked woman.

Why is she sitting on a chair in the shower?

Note to self: don’t ever sit naked on a chair in a public shower. Gross.

I’m glad the lifeguard didn’t ask for my ID today.

I must look urban.

I wonder if they would’ve stopped Alan.

Wow. The water is WARM.

I bet I’ll overheat.

Sweating in the water is weird.

But it happens.

Why does that sign say “Water Running?”

I don’t SEE any water running.

<Four laps later>

Ah ha! They mean “water running” as in “people running” in the water.

Not the water running.

That’s embarrassing. I’ve been here a half dozen times looking for running water.

That explains why the fat woman always hangs out in this lane and doesn’t swim.

Although actually, she’s not running. She’s water-standing.

I wonder if I’ll get kicked out of this lane?

I am hot.

I wonder if the water tastes saltier because I am sweating?

Is my key still stuck to my head?

<Patting back of head while breast-stroking>

It is! Good!

What would I do if it wasn’t there?

How ironic would that be?

If by trying to protect my stuff, I end up losing the  key.

Which would be worse: having someone steal my stuff because I left the key to my lock on the deck, or not being able to get to my stuff because I tied the key to my goggles and it fell off and disappeared into the pool drain?

Not sure.

Those girls have on the exact same suit.

I wonder if they’re on a team together?

If they are, then it’s not a good team because I’m faster than them.

I wonder if the lifeguard would actually notice if someone drowned?

Are they allowed to talk on their cell phones on duty?

I bet they are breaking the rules.

<Scanning bottom of pool to make sure no swimmers need to be rescued.>

How weird that I can’t wait to get out of the water to cool down.

I bet that’s why that woman was sitting on a chair in the shower: heat stroke.

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Clearly, I’ve seen too many movies.

10 Nov

Sunday, in the wake of the Oyster Festival, Urbanna was a different town. With only an occasional person on the street in comparison to the thousands from the previous day, it felt almost ghostly. Both Alan and I were mildly creeped out by it, which might explain why my brain gravitated toward paranoia.

The owners of the B&B were incredibly nice people, with an expansive sense of hospitality. They took a shine to Alan and me, so they offered to take us out on their boat Sunday afternoon.

The day was gorgeous – 70 degrees and sunny with a bright blue sky. The trees lining the river were vivid shades of red, orange and yellow. It was like being in a commercial for the Rappahannock River or – in keeping with my general paranoia – a horror movie.

So instead of simply relaxing and absorbing the scenery as we shuttled up the river, I started looking around nervously, imaging that they were taking us somewhere to kill us. Spotting a shovel on the deck, I envisioned our captain whacking Alan in the head with it, then pushing him overboard. The phrase “watery grave” danced in my head.

After we returned to the B&B (safely, I might add), I told Alan what I’d been thinking.

He laughed. “And what would their plan be with you after they killed me?”

“Human trafficking? Indentured servitude? Take your pick!” I was a bit indignant that he didn’t give me credit for having value to them. Alan just rolled his eyes.

So, before our next vacation, I have it all figured out. Depending on where we’re going, I’ll rent a few movies for him:

  • If we’re staying at a B&B again: Psycho 
  • Water-based vacation: Cape Fear
  • Writing/skiing retreat: The Shining
  • Iowa: Children of the Corn
  • Pennsylvania: Dracula (C’mon! It sounds kind of like Transylvania)
  • Camping: Blair Witch Project

Then we’ll see who’s laughing. And who’s holding a shovel.

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Shuck ’em if you got ’em!

9 Nov

This is just a random photo of someone in an oyster costume, not in Urbanna. Which means there are MULTIPLE people in the world dressing as oysters. Wouldn't have seen that coming.

When we originally decided to take vacation in November, Alan and I had our sights set on Argentina.

Then I looked at a map. 

For someone who is a pretty good (and relatively seasoned) traveler, I have a horrific grasp of geography for places I’ve never visited. Hence why I expected Argentina to be a) Due South of Washington DC, and b) About a five hour flight from DC. When I realized the time commitment needed to arrive in Buenos Aires, it made me shudder.

I’ve traveled a lot for work this year – Boston, Chicago, LA, New York, London, Sydney and Melbourne – so the idea of flying somewhere didn’t actually sound like vacation to me. Fortunately, Alan’s easy going, so we agreed to scrap a longer haul and explore by car within a three hour radius of DC.

Which is how we found ourselves rolling out of bed at 5am Saturday to hit the road and aim for Urbanna, where the annual Oyster Festival was underway. (And where, apparently, the roads into town close at 9am on festival day, necessitating our ass-early departure.)

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I suppose seatbelts are a moot point.

7 Nov

I can’t believe I lived in DC for 14 years without taking the bus. I love it. It’s always an adventure.

Why, take Thursday morning, for example. I usually walk to work for the exercise (1.5 miles each way, thank you very much), but that morning I was running late. (Let me qualify that: when I say late, I mean, I might have arrived only 45 minutes before my co-workers, rather than a full hour. And because I’m OCD, it’s important to me that I get there an hour before anyone else. STEP AWAY FROM THE LEDGE.)

So Thursday morning I hopped the bus to save time. Now, I don’t know if it was the chilly weather, or if the bus had been delayed, or what – but the bus was PACKED. It was so full that half a dozen people were standing in front of the yellow line that says “stand behind this for your safety,” and lining the steps; my face was pressed against the windshield for at least three stops.

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I only parlez-français when it comes to champignons.

2 Nov

Our Learning Services team supports our offices around the world. I tell you this to explain why I was dialing Paris at 10am.

I thought I was calling someone who expected my call. We had a meeting invitation on our calendars, and I’d checked our corporate directory to ensure I had her direct line. But somehow, between trying to remember the international exchange code and entering her number, I managed to enter the general office number.

So I was surprised when she answered with a flowing sentence of French, beginning with the only word I understood: Bonjour. I responded with a Bonjour of my own, before switching to English in a “let’s drop this joke” kind of tone and said, “Hey! It’s Alison. Are you ready for me?”

Silence on the other end. Then, “Bonjour? Repetez, s’il vous plait…”

Which is when I realized it was NOT the person I was trying to reach. So, digging deep into my dusty mental reference drawer, I called upon the French I’d learned eight years ago when I briefly lived in France.

I strung together a sentence which – roughly translated – was intended to communicate the following: “Hi. My apologies. I speak little French. I am American. I am searching for Perrine. Is she there?”

The woman on the other end exclaimed like she finally understood me; then I was put on hold. After a brief delay, another woman answered. “Bonjour?”

Cautiously, I answered. “Perrine?”

Apparently not, because her response was a long sentence which left me stumped.

In my defense, even at the height of my French comprehension, I heavily relied on visual cues. The phone was always my enemy. Taking a deep breath, I had flashbacks of two other French phone calls from my past.

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