Just Watch Your Mouth, or I'll Sit on You

So yesterday's Facebook status, in case you didn't see it, was:

Mary's work day began with someone asking her if she was pregnant, on account of her "pooch." No, just fat, thankyouverymuch. Now please go lick an electrical socket.

Now that I've had 24 hours to stew over this, I'd like to add on to my suggestion that she go lick an electrical socket...and I'm including my dear, beautiful pregnant friend Sara on the "Vindication List." Why do people think it's OK to touch/comment on your body when you're pregnant? If I'm ever pregnant and some stranger walks up to me and reaches out for my stomach with their hand, they're going to lose it. All I'm saying.

Anyway, this lady can also lick:

-the subway pole
-the inside of the office microwave
-the football-sized rats running around the alley behind our building
-Glenn Beck

Jeremy had suggested I punch her in the face. Tempting, but I like to think a little more creatively...say, emptying the contents of a Ped Egg in her tea, or replacing the contents of her iPod with this.

I am open to other suggestions, as long as they are nefarious.

And now, evil co-worker who will forevermore be known as "Evil Co-Worker," me and my "pooch" are going to get a cup of coffee, glaring at your office as we walk by. Suck it.

That'll Do, Pig.

So Jeremy and I have long suspected that our shelter dog, Tilly, is a Lab/Border Collie mix. She mostly looks and acts like a lab, except she has longer hair and hates the water. So when we took her with us to the junior high lock-in last weekend (we're adult supervisors for the youth group at church…man, I feel old writing that), we expected a lot of this:

The girls especially (and there were a lot of them—I think 14 girls and 3 boys, bless their hearts) loved Tilly. And while Tilly loves attention and kids, I think it was a pretty anxiety-ridden night for her. Why, you ask? Well, it turns out her "herding instincts" are MUCH more prominent than Jeremy or I knew.

Imagine trying to keep up with and herd 17 tweens. I think cats would have been easier.

Every time a kid left the big room we were all in and went to the bathroom, Tilly would hop up and follow. She would then wait outside the bathroom door until the kid emerged, and escort them back to the group. If there were two people in the bathroom, she would escort one back, then return to the bathroom to fetch the other one.

When the kids started playing Manhunt in the dark, empty church, I thought her little head was going to explode. As it was, any time a kid ran by, Tilly would run after—not in an aggressive, nip-at-their-heels way, but I don't think she was really playing, either. You could almost hear her saying, "Hey! HEY! You get back to the flock!"

The only time she stayed still was when Jeremy closed her into the office he was sleeping in for the night. Needless to say, my puppy was beyond pooped the next day. Still, I can't help but have a certain amount of pride in owning a dog that is almost as Type A as I am.

No, no, it wasn't a wax thing--it was moving and it was freaky looking!

So it turns out that receptions in wax museums are simultaneously incredibly creepy and incredibly entertaining. First, all I could think of while walking through the closed museum was how it must get even creepier when all the lights are off. Second, we walked through some of the museum, but most of the food and drink was congregated in one small area. This was highly confusing for all…I kept staring at real humans and wondering, "Who's that supposed to be?" (until they started moving, of course). And some of the more inebriated attendants started talking to some of the wax figures. And then there was the inappropriate touching…someone bragged to me that he had felt up Carrie Underwood for a photo op. Dude! If you're going to feel up a wax figure, how about Britney Spears, who is hanging from a stripper pole over there? Don't manhandle the chick that sang "Jesus Take the Wheel!"

A Daily Show bit involving goats (don't ask) reminded me of one of my favorite stories to tell from college. Clemson is, somewhat aptly, known as a "Cow College" (meaning there's lots of agriculture/animal husbandry stuff). My roommate and I had an apartment off-campus, up behind an old stone church and pretty isolated from the main drag. One day we look out and realize, "Hmm…there's a goat in the parking lot." Discussion ensued. Where did this goat come from? Should we approach it? Who do we alert to the fact that there's a farm animal out front? Barbara finally decided to call the "non-emergency" police number. After explaining that there was a goat in the parking lot, we both expected an incredulous response…but instead, we got, "That durned goat! We been chasin' that thing all day!" Ah, Clemson. And to head off some of the redneck jokes…no, I DON'T use the word 'varmint,' I've never milked a cow, and I am NOT my own grandmother.

On a completely different note, I'm planning an itinerary for a visiting Israeli delegation in a few weeks. One of the delegates is strictly kosher, which would be no problem if they were staying in Montgomery County, but in the city? I can find only three options – Eli's Restaurant, the JCC Café, and the cafeteria at the Holocaust Museum. What fun that would be: Hello, welcome to our country! Let us eat among stark reminders of the genocide of your people!

Yeah, my job is weird sometimes.

Dear Stinky Man at the Gym

Editor's Note: This is a reprint of something I wrote a few months ago.

Dear Stinky Man at the Gym,

Hi! We've never formally met, but you'd probably know me as the bleary-eyed brunette on the elliptical machine in the mornings who yawns excessively (sorry about that--it's a side effect of my medication). Now, I understand that people aren't supposed to smell good at the gym--no pain, no gain, right? However, your odor is unique in that it is all-pervasive even before you begin to exercise.

It's not a typical body odor smell, either. I can't quite put my finger on it--maybe like a sea otter that has bathed in Aqua Velva? Or the love child of one of those discount perfume stores and the floor of a bus? Maybe you even have some weird medical condition. Whatever. The origin of your odor does not concern me.

Here's my issue: your unfailing proclivity, no matter how empty the cardio room may be, to hop on the machine right next to me. I know I'm being a wuss when I move to a machine across the room--hey, I try to be polite and wait at least a couple of minutes so that you don't pick up on the correlation between my leaving and the arrival of your all-consuming stench. Still, because I detest the treadmill and must flee the row of elliptical machines like a right-wing Conservative flees reason, I end up on the stationary bike, which is not a great calorie burner.

Thus, I must come to the conclusion that you, Mr. Stinky Man at the Gym, are the root cause of my recent weight gain. I'm going to have to ask you to make some changes. Of course, I am not a dictator! You naturally will have several options, put forth by me, in containing your malodorousness:

1. Stop coming to the gym for your exercise. How about an outdoor activity? Perhaps a sport that requires you to be out in a large body of water all by your lonesome?

2. Replace the cologne you hose yourself down with in the morning with Febreze.

3. Devise some sort of self-containment system--something akin to wearing one of those hamster balls to the gym. I recommend watching The Boy in the Bubble for inspiration.

And finally:

4. Soap: It's Not Just for the Ladies.

I do hope you understand that your cooperation is necessary for my continued health and fitness. I wish you only the best (as long as you keep your distance from me). I'm sure that somewhere out there is a colony of olfactory-challenged villagers who would be glad to welcome you into their fold.

But still: Soap. Seriously.

I've been around... Well, all right, I might not've been around, but I've been... nearby.

Sometimes when I get bored, I make up scenarios in my head. Like, "What if I'd been born in a third world country," or "What if my dog could talk," or "What if my feet weren't so huge." Does anyone else do this?

Lately one that's been roaming around my head is, "What if I was single—where would I meet people to date?" (And Jeremy, to be clear—I don't want to be single!) Because I look around, and there's not much out there that I run into in my day-to-day life. I spend a great deal of time commuting, which is, first of all, a weird way to meet people. Second of all, there are probably two single men under the age of 40 that ride the VRE. And thirdly, I'd have to abandon my much-beloved "Quiet Car" for a regular car, thus subjecting myself to numerous loud and inane cell phone conversations. All this assuming that I would actually go up and speak to a stranger (which, as those of you who know me know, would really never happen).

Then there's walking the dog. It is a great way to meet people who already have a dog (something in common!). But assuming my fictional single self would be living the same place my happily married (see, Jeremy?) self is living, I'd meet mostly stay-at-home moms and single women with little girly dogs. It is a plus that I have a friendly, non-girly, able-to-roughhouse dog that I imagine would appeal to a lot of guys. On the downside, about 50% of the time I'm out walking Tilly, I'm also holding a bag of poop. Which may appeal to some guys...but not guys my lovely fictional self would want to meet!

Then there's church. Sadly, it seems that most churches that have active singles groups are also the huge mega-churches that tend to be on the conservative side (I could throw in a snide comment about how it's hard to attract a mate around here when you're slightly to the right of Attila the Hun, but I wouldn't do that).

Work? Fraught with difficulties, of course: policies about fraternization, the whole "what if we break up but I still have to make his copies" thing...and, once again, assuming there's someone around that you'd actually want to date.

So, what's a fictional single girl to do? I guess she'd turn to the internet. I haven't been single since the eHarmonys and Match.coms of the world became mainstream, and I have to admit I'm incredibly curious what they'd come up with for me (I mean, fictional single me). I'm doubtful that they would put me and Jeremy together, although I have at least two friends who met their spouses this way. It's an unknown world to me, and always will be.

So the conclusion I've come to? Fictional Single Mary would be...the Cat Lady. Except with a dog. And bigger feet.

And I'll Never Have That Recipe Again

So I’m listening to Avril Lavigne in the shower this morning. And yes, I can hear you mocking. It's not that I like most of her stuff, it's that I knew it would be pointless to try and find a better option. There's the Jack Diamond Show, which best I can tell is a tiny room overflowing with interns whose sole job is to guffaw loudly at his "jokes." DC 101 always seems to be talking about someone's STD. The guy on 100.3 seems to get his material directly from People magazine, with the extra annoying benefit of ending each "news tidbit" with a long pause followed by a bad punch line. Ergo, Avril Lavigne.

Often I'll point out something about a song's lyrics, and Jeremy will say something like, "Oh, I never listen to the lyrics." Well, I do. Most are horribly predictable and silly. Some, however, are more inane than others. I give you:

When You're Gone

I always needed time on my own
I never thought I'd need you there when I cry
And the days feel like years when I'm alone
And the bed where you lie is made up on your side

*OK, uninteresting and cheesy. No surprise there.

When you walk away I count the steps that you take

*OCD much? Do you also make him flick the light switch a certain number of times when he leaves?

Do you see how much I need you right now

*Hello?? Are you listening to yourself? He just walked away. He can't see you.

[Chorus]
When you're gone
The pieces of my heart are missing you

*OK…have you somehow managed to extract your heart, cut it into pieces, and remain living? Did the pieces hold a vote on whether or not to miss him? Is a consensus needed, or just a majority?

When you're gone
The face I came to know is missing too

*Ew. Taken literally, unless this is some kind of Frankenstein's monster situation, this is really disturbing (actually, in both cases it is really disturbing).

When you're gone
The words I need to hear to always get me through the day and make it ok

*Uh…ever heard of a phone?

I miss you

*I think you've made that clear.

I've never felt this way before
Everything that I do reminds me of you
And the clothes you left, they lie on the floor
And they smell just like you, I love the things that you do

*OK, assuming the clothes remain where he left them (what a pig, BTW)…you can smell them from the floor? What does he do for a living—Zoologist? Garbage man? Manage a sulfur plant?

[Chorus]

We were made for each other

*More evidence for the Frankenstein theory.

Out here forever

*Out where? Do you live on a nature commune? House boat? Dude ranch?

I know we were, yeah
All I ever wanted was for you to know
Everything I'd do, I'd give my heart and soul

*All of your heart, or just a few pieces?

I can hardly breathe I need to feel you here with me, yeah

*You're doing a lot of screeching for someone who can "hardly breathe."

[Chorus]

***********************************************************************

Appalling, right? But sadly, still loads better than listening to Jack Diamond. Even more sadly, "When You're Gone" doesn't hold a candle to the inanity that is "Hey There Delilah." It rhymes "good" with…wait for it…"good." And yet, both songs made millions.

Perhaps I am in the wrong profession.

Stop, or my mom will shoot!

It's Phun with Photos! A random selection from my iPhone photo library:

If you look closely, you can see 5 microphones set up on stage. This is the New Kids on the Block concert. My friend La and I squealed throughout. It was awesome. However, none of them spotted me from a distance, pulled me up on stage, and asked for my hand. Didn't quite live up to the fantasies of 11-year-old Mary.

I stepped out of my car at the VRE one morning, and this is the sight that greeted me. How does this happen??

Earl! The toilet's broken!

Bring the truck around...we'll dump it at the train station! There's a lovely picnic bench there...it'll be real convenient for somebody.

As you can of course tell, here Jeremy and I are in front of Parliament in London. Jeremy is in the process of having his head sucked up by aliens. I am 3 hours into a crystal meth bender...okay, okay, no. It's a really bad attempt at an arms length portrait.

And finally:

My Tilly, rooting for her favorite team (or maybe watching squirrels on the deck while her favorite team plays). I'm sure she was at least listening to the play-by-play.

Well, Now I Just Feel Bad.

OK, well it turns out that the giant creepy pigeon was trying to build schools in Africa. So I am forthwith issuing a formal apology to Chris the Pigeon. Well done, old chap.

And now, a tribute:



Of course, every time I see Bert and Ernie lately, I think of Rod and Nicky from Avenue Q:



I guess it's a good thing I don't have kids, because after watching that musical I'd have a hard time not pointing out all the gay innuendo on Sesame Street.

How could we possibly hope to fight them?

I don't share Jen's loathing of birds, but even I found this rather disturbing:




That's a giant pigeon, standing on a platform in the middle of Trafalgar square, throwing something out to the crowd below.

Wanted: Unemployed ninny with no sense of pride. Must like crowds, heights, and tights. Should be able to fight off/run away from possible angry hoard of pigeons defending their territory. Master's degree preferred.

I think I killed a duck!

Some tidbits from our recent trip to Stockholm & London:

How Not to Behave as an American Abroad...or, "Get away from me before people realize I'm not Canadian, you obnoxious freak."

Since it was August recess for Parliament (those wacky Brits - they steal everything from us), Jeremy and I were able to do a full tour of the Houses of Parliament. In our tour group was a large man, with a large camera, who wanted to talk to everyone. That's fine. Be friendly. But at some point, you should just shut up.

• Asking the small child in front of you if she wanted to run for Parliament one day, when she was actually from St. Vincent and the Grenadines?
  
• Asking us where we're from, then proclaiming, "Hey, I know that place - no poor people live there!" WTF?
  
• "Subtly" acting the know-it-all by asking questions such as: "Isn't it true that [insert non-related and obscure British history fact here]?"
  
• And, my favorite - when I try to be friendly and tell you about our trip to Sweden, and you ask if the groom or the bride was Swedish, and I say the groom, and YOU say, "All those beautiful Swedish women, and he marries an American?"And I say, rather snarkily, "Well, she's beautiful too," and you still keep talking to me?
  

Just. Shut. Up.

Experiencing Flying into Reagan National Airport through the Eyes of a Geeky UK Adolescent...or, "Wedgies transcend continents, don't they?"

He was sitting behind us, and honestly quite a sweet boy (even though you knew he probably spent a lot of time with his underwear pulled over the back of his head). The older lady sitting next to him, who was American and not traveling with him, kept patiently answering his questions and trying to point out the sites. My favorite moments:

• Him mistaking an apartment complex for the Pentagon--then calling out "Pentagon, Pentagon!" in this lovely cockney accent when we actually did fly over it a few minutes later
• The lady sitting next to him thought he said, "I haven't seen any mountains," to which she tried to explain that DC is not a mountainous area, to which he replied, "No, no, Mountain Dew. I haven't seen any Mountain Dew yet."
• Anyone who has flown into Reagan knows how close you get to the river and the monuments. At one point, as we approached the runway, he cries out, "We might have to ditch!"

Other sites seen during our trip include Skansen (think Colonial Williamsburg meets zoo meets gift shop), Stockholm City Hall (lovely but disappointingly young in age--built 1911), Westminster Abbey (with audio tour narrated by Jeremy Irons--think Scar from The Lion King saying, "Welcome to Westminster Abbey,"), the Tower of London (complete with Beefeater named "Dickey"), the British Museum (eww, mummies!), and Avenue Q (Wow. Those puppets are having sex.)

All that, and somehow the only souvenirs we came home with were clothes from the Gap (it was hotter than we expected in London and we hadn't packed correctly), some Christmas ornaments ("Look, cute little Danish people!" I exclaimed, to which Jeremy replied, "Um, I think they're probably Swedish,") and a moose in a Swedish scarf. Using our extremely limited Swedish vocabulary, we named him Hiss Tack (Elevator Thank You).

It was a lovely vacation...but next time, I think we're due for a"lie on the beach and drink margaritas" holiday.

Do you have seventeen dollars and a good watch?

Lesson the First: The quickest way to London Gatwick airport is not Grosvenor House—Paddington Station—Heathrow—Paddington Station—Victoria Station—London Gatwick.

Lesson the Second: Sprinting across London while lugging a giant suitcase, during rush hour, and on an empty stomach, is absolutely no fun.

Lesson the Third: Lugging said suitcase through the London Underground is particularly not fun given the absence of intra-station escalators.

Lesson the Fourth: If you and your spouse are particularly OCD and arrive at the (wrong) airport 2 hours early, you can still make your flight. It involves a taxi, roundtrip on the Heathrow Express train, the underground, a London-Gatwick train, check-in staff willing to work with you, and a sprint to the gate, but you can make it. If the flight is delayed.

Lesson the Fifth: Both parties should be aware of all traveling details, particularly if one member of said party has a history of air travel gaffes (say, booking a flight on the wrong day and not realizing until you arrive at the airport to fly down South to visit your brand new nephew for the first time). But don't worry, Jeremy, I'm not pointing fingers.

Lesson the Sixth: After such a traveling nightmare, that $8 Budweiser you buy on the plane tastes pretty damn good.

En gång i Sverige

My favorite quote from my recent trip to Stockholm: "If I've learned anything walking around this city, it's that the Vikings did everything naked." Thanks, Sean. If I learned anything walking around Stockholm, it's that the Swedes never met a legging they didn't like.

Of course, Stockholm was gorgeous. Seventy degrees, clear blue skies, a light breeze…although I am assured that it is not quite so lovely in, say, January. The people are out of this world—friendly, English-speaking (hooray), gorgeous and…tan? How does that happen? As if the women weren't beautiful enough, they're naturally tan? Sweden is also in the midst of a baby boom. I am convinced that they are breeding an army of blond, leggy soldiers to woo us all into submission.

The real reason for the trip was my friend Red's wedding. Everything was beautiful, and a nice mix of Swedish and American tradition. I loved that, since the letter 'V' doesn't really exist in Swedish, the minister led them in an "Exchange of Wows." Also, at one point the toastmaster, who had just finished telling us about some of the Swedish Prime Minister's gaffes in English (thanking someone from the heart of his bottom, etc.), proceeded to tell us to "shave ourselves." I'm still not sure what he was actually trying to say. I didn't think we were a particularly hairy group.

I think the turning point for the festivities was after the white wine course and the Akvavit course (some kind of liquor made from potatoes), but before the first food course was served. Since I had signed up to give a toast, and I didn't know when my time would come, I held back a bit on the alcohol. I could just envision myself launching into a Swedish Chef impression while telling embarrassing stories about the bride. Thankfully my time slot turned out to be pretty early in the evening.

After my toast it all becomes a bit of a blur. Red wine, Bailey's on ice, Swedish drinking songs which required us all to link arms and sway back and forth…not to mention champagne on the boat ride over and seabreezes upon our arrival at the reception site. At brunch the next morning, I had to admit that I wasn't quite sure how we'd gotten back to the hotel the night before. I'm told that the same group that had marched through Stockholm to the pier, following the beautiful bride and groom with balloons and greenery (Exhibit A), had upon its return from the pier devolved into a mad Swedish/American mass of drunkards stumbling about in dress shoes (Exhibit B).

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

It was a time that I will always remember (well…mostly, anyway)! Congratulations, Red and Nils!