Most of us are taught, from a young age, that telling a lie (even a small lie) often leads to larger problems.
My parents taught me well and anything I didn’t learn at home or in my father’s Sunday morning sermons was re-enforced by “The Facts of Life”, “Family Ties”, “The Cosby Show” and, of course, “Saved By the Bell”…Zach lied a lot and it never worked out well for him.
Somewhere along the line, though, it seems I turned my back on the good advice of my parents, Mrs. Garrett and Mr. Belding and ventured down the slippery slope of liar-dom.
Before you judge, let me clarify – we are not talking about earth-shattering lies (I don’t have a secret identity, a crime-ridden past, or even an overdue parking ticket).
The lies I find myself telling are only to people who I don’t know… in grocery stores and restaurants…who are trying to force me/guilt me into registering for some variety of a club/bonus card.
How is it that something designed to make my life easier, has driven me to ignore the wisdom of my own parents, Bill Cosby and the Keatons? Let’s just call it “card overload”.
I have a card for the drug store, a card for the ice cream store, a card for the video store, a card for the place I buy my running shoes, a card for the coffee shop, cards for 5 gazillion grocery stores, 2 pharmacies, a card for the book store, a card for the pet store, cards for at least 3 clothing stores and (the real kicker) two of my doctors’ offices (yes, doctors’ offices!) have even recently initiated a card system. My wallet is bulging, I’m getting more junk mail than ever before and I’m tired…so, so tired…of cards. I’m tired of having them, of registering them (even online) and of using them (and no, Giant Foods marketing team, the size of the card does not make a difference – the fact that you make a tiny card that fits on a key chain, while an improvement, is not the answer I’m searching for).
***Note: This little rant is in no way a critique of the following types of cards, which I have deemed as necessary: credit cards, debit cards, driver’s licenses, social security cards, metro cards, health insurance cards and any form of Target cards (right Carly? ). It should also not, in any way, be considered a critique of gift cards, which are lovely and which I am more than willing to carry around in a bulging wallet.
By the time Cosi started pushing their Cosi Cards I buckled down for a fight. I’m a value-oriented kinda girl and believe-you-me I could easily see how it would make complete money-saving sense to obtain and utilize the card (who am I to say no to the occasional free salad?), but I also knew myself and was well aware that just one more card could hit and exceed my card-carrying tolerance. One more card was going to push me completely over the edge.
Now we get to the lies:
I go to Cosi a lot. About 4 blocks from where I work/live and a favorite restaurant of both the people I work for and a favorite of the person I live with, it’s a nice chance to get out of the office or the apartment and see the friendly (albeit slightly flustered and often overwhelmed) faces of my friends behind the Cosi counter. It’s a crowded and chaotic place to be (especially around 12:15) but being a regular who generally orders the same thing, they know me well and my Shanghai Salad is practically made by the time I even say “Shanghai”.
The entire process is comfortable, familiar, and nice…until I get to the register. It’s there, at that counter, where I come face to face almost every visit with a very nice girl who asks me about my Cosi Card…and it’s there, my friends, where they lying begins.
The first 100 (that would be a rough estimate) times I was faced with the Cosi Card discussion, it went something like this:
Cosi Lady: Hello ma’am, what do you have today? (normal question)
Faith: A Shanghai Salad. (same old answer)
Cosi Lady: What kind of bread would you like? (normal question)
Faith: Wheat please. (same old answer)
Cosi Lady: Do you have your Cosi Card today?
Faith: No, not today. (“today” – implying that I do indeed have one but I just don’t have it with me today – this tactic often works when dodging the card situation)
Cosi Lady: Oh that’s too bad, your total is ____.
End of conversation – pay – go back to the office without a card.
Lie Count: 1
1) I did not have a Cosi card. (technically, this is more of an implied lie as I never actually stated that I had a card, but merely made it sound that way)
Life was good – we seemed to have an understanding.
Then, one day (completely out of nowhere) she pushed it a little bit further with…..
Cosi Lady: Do you have your Cosi Card today?
Faith: No, not today.
Cosi Lady: Ma’am, do you have a Cosi Card?
(Wait. What? Crap!)
Faith: Ummm……I,well, I think I took the form home with me once…didn’t fill it out…lost it….blah, blah, blah.
Cosi Lady: Would you like to register for a Cosi Card? You will get every 10th sandwich or salad free. (or something like that)
Faith: Oh gosh I would really like to but I can’t today because I’m running a little late.
Cosi Lady: Oh, ok, well maybe next time. Your total is ____.
End of conversation – pay – go back to the office without a card.
Lie count: 1
1) I wasn’t running late. (Again, not exactly a lie as I am often in a hurry to get back to the office. In too much of a hurry to fill out a registration form? Well, that’s debatable.)
This excuse lasted for another 25 or so visits until….
Cosi Lady: Oh good news, now you can take the card with you and register online! (Crap!)
Faith: Wow, that’s great. I’ll definitely do that.
Cosi Lady: Ok, here you go, just go to cosi.com to register - your total is ____.
End of conversation – pay – go back to office…this time with an unregistered card.
Lie count: 1
1) I had no intention of registering the card that had just been forced upon me. In fact, upon arrival back at the office, the card was immediately placed into my desk drawer never to be seen again.
(Not a lie- I honestly have not seen it since… even a month or so after when I actually looked for it. It’s officially been lost to the god’s of office desk drawers).
Well, she now knew that I was both in possession of a card and had the ability to register it. I quickly had to alter my story…
Cosi Lady: Do you have your Cosi Card today?
Faith: Oh no! I must have forgotten it! (doing my best to look truly upset as I rummage through my wallet and bag)
Cosi Lady: That’s too bad – well, remember to bring it next time so you can start collecting free sandwiches and salads.
Faith: Oh I definitely will. I can’t believe I keep forgetting it!
Cosi Lady: Ok, your total is ____.
End of conversation – pay – go back to office…without using card.
Lie count: 2 1/2
1) I did not forget the card. It was lost in a desk drawer.
2) I most likely would not have it the next time.
2 ½ ) I’m not nearly as absent-minded as I portrayed myself to be. (the ½ is to signify that this lie is slightly opinion-based)
The “I’m kind of flighty and keep forgetting my silly card” strategy worked for a while but then, again, the game changed…
Cosi Lady: Did you register your card online ma’am?
Faith: Yes. (Nope – lost in the desk drawer)
Cosi Lady: You know, I can actually use your telephone number to look up your card information and credit your purchases for today.
(Crap!)
Faith: Wow….that’s great. 703-340-2971 (I have no idea whose number this is)
Cosi Lady: Nothing seems to be coming up for that number. (shocking)
Faith: That’s so weird, I think that’s the number I used.
Cosi Lady: Hmmmm, well, maybe you should just go online and check when you get back. (with a look of judgement)
-Gosh, yes I definitely will.
(with a look of guilt)
Busted.
Lie count: 4
1) I didn’t register the card online .
2) I completely made up a telephone number. I probably wouldn’t have even needed to but the question kind of caught me by surprise and, being trained not to give out my number, I just started spitting out random digits. I guess there was an outside possibility that whoever actually had the phone number I gave her did have a Cosi card and would have gotten credit for the purchase of my salad – that would have been a pleasantly positive outcome.
3) It wasn’t weird that my information didn’t coming up because a) I never registered and b) It was not my telephone number.
4) I wasn’t going to check online when I got back - that would be pointless since I was positive that I hadn’t registered the card….a card that had been lost in a desk drawer for 6 months.
And that, boys and girls, is how even the smallest of lies can create an ever growing web nearly impossible to untangle. In a desperate attempt to redeem my Cosi reputation, I went to a DIFFERENT Cosi location (where they don’t know me) and picked up a card, which I registered immediately (yes, using my actual telephone number) and now carry faithfully, in my overflowing wallet, with my 300 other cards. I’m expecting the rush of junk mail from various soup and sandwich/semi-fast food restaurants any day now but that is merely my penance – the price I have to pay in order to walk in the door and order my salad with dignity.
It’s not totally my fault – where was the very special episode of “The Facts of Life” in which Tootie or Natalie lied to get out of signing up for a bonus card?
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
a little bit of 5:30 am
5:30 am just isn’t what it used to be.
When I was a DC resident, my 5:30 run involved conversations with bored security guards, motorcades , a National Mall at its emptiest and most peaceful, police helicopters, occasional protests, and, most importantly, random meetings with the wide assortment of characters you meet wandering around downtown DC at 5:30 am (sometimes good, sometimes bad and always a little bit strange).
As an Arlington resident, my 5:30 run involves doing my best to not acknowledge the other stone-faced runners who are doing their very best to ignore me as well, running around all of the overachievers rushing to be the first in the office (yes, there are actually people going to work at 5:30 am), and dodging cars pulling in and out of the Gold’s Gym parking lot (there have been a couple of close calls). That’s about it – guarded interactions with people who are basically just like me….introverted, focused on completing the task at hand, and, (let’s face it) a tad unfriendly.
Yes, it’s probably a safer run and, yes, I’m still getting the same workout, but I do miss the feeling of taking those first few steps out the door and wondering just what (or who) I was going to run into….just what (or who) was going to force me out of my comfortable me-centered universe…just what (or who) was out there in the “great unknown” of early morning DC.
The “great unknown” of Arlington is pretty much whether or not there will be something new in the window at Ann Taylor Loft. Now, I’m not saying that’s not exciting because it totally is, but the answer to the big question has been the same for the past 3 weeks - an unnaturally thin model wearing skinny jeans (just in case you were curious).
It was that poster which led me, one day last week, to spend the majority of my run thinking about clothes – more specifically about what I was going to wear to work that day.
It went something like this:
The black skirt? – it’s dirty. The other black skirt (with white stripes) – I don’t really like the shirt that goes with it. The black pants? – I think I may wear too much black. You know, black is just easier because you can mix and match but I don’t want people to think I’m depressed because I’m totally not. I do have some brightly colored shirts so it doesn’t seem as blah. How about the green blouse? It’s going to be pretty hot today, so the green blouse may be too warm and sweat marks are gross. It is pretty cool in the office with the a/c so it could work, but what if I have to run an errand or something.
(Are my thoughts boring you? Yeah, they are pretty boring to me too…which is why I miss the DC run.)
The gray skirt? No I already wore that this week – on Monday (duh). The purple skirt is nice but the shoes that go with it are uncomfortable. The gray pants – gray isn’t much better than black (blah).”
“Don’t do it!”
Stunned out of my very important internal dialogue, I came to a halt mid-stride while leaping off of a curb and into the street (which is, as you can imagine, is a little bit awkward…especially for somebody who can fall pretty easily in the best of conditions) and looked up to see a woman staring at me with a stern look on her face. She was much older than me and wore a big yellow hat (a bit of a shock that early in the morning). She was carrying a very full looking purse, which I imagined was full of massive amounts of Kleenex and hand sanitizer.
She was not happy with me.
“I’m sorry…what?”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you – I wouldn’t cross that street when the sign says do not walk.”
She was completely correct…I was at an intersection and was about to cross a street against the light. I was about to do something illegal and I acknowledge that.
The thing is, this particular intersection is a light at the top of a one-way off ramp. Cars come off of a road (a road which can be busy at times, but generally isn’t at 6 am), drive slowly up a long hill and arrive at the intersection. Basically, you can see any cars coming from a good distance away and they are usually coming very slowly because they know there is a light at the top of the hill.
So, yes, crossing against a light is illegal and unsafe, BUT if you’re going to cross against any light in the country, this one isn’t a bad choice.
“Oh, well I didn’t see any cars and….”
“God is watching you. God is always watching.”
Oh boy...here we go.
“He sees everything and He remembers everything. Are you a Christian?”
From the mixing and matching of black pants and green blouses to the existence of God is kind of a big leap at 6 in the morning and I was still trying to recover from the effort it took to not fall flat on my face in the process of stopping the moving object (that had been my body) in mid air.
Now, I am a Christian and I do have things say about my beliefs…and my personal view of God…and even maybe God’s feelings about crosswalks…but, given my confusion and the time of morning, all I could muster up was a half-hearted “…yes ma’am, I am”.
“What kind?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What kind of Christian?”
“Umm…I’m Lutheran.”
The look on her face suggested that this was the wrong answer – or at least an answer of which she did not approve (understandable – this is Virginia, not Minnesota).
“Are you baptized?”
“Yes”
“Do you go to church?”
“Yes”
At this point, another morning runner came running up to the light, glanced over at the woman (who was 100% pre-occupied with me at the moment), listened for a second, and bounded across the street as fast as possible, smiling at me as if to say “better you than me”.
Jerk.
“Do you go to church regularly?”
“Pretty much every Sunday" (completely true, by the way, I was not lying - although, I would have said it even if it weren’t true because this lady was not messing around) "...and my father is actually a pastor so…”
“I hope you are speaking truthfully because God is a just God - He sees and He judges and He knows and…”
I missed a bit of what she was saying at this point. I was trying really hard to remember all of the books of the Bible, all of the commandments, and maybe a Creed or two (I expected a few questions to test my authenticity – we were clearly moving in that direction) when the light turned and the woman in the yellow hat and I crossed the street (legally). She blessed me as I took off for the rest of my run, which was very nice and, apparently, something she felt I was very much in need of (but, who isn’t right?).
It would be kind of cool if I could end this blog with a story about how later in the run, thanks to the words of the woman in the yellow hat, I stopped at an intersection (one that I would normally run through) and a MAC truck came out of nowhere, plowing through exactly where I would have been running had I not met her. That would be an excellent way to tie everything together with the revelation of a presence (whatever that presence is for you) larger than all of us can oftentimes be seen at the least likely times and in the least likely places.
The truth is that I ran through the next light, and the next one, and have run through many more since without incident.
Don't count out miracles, though - after all, someone managed to bring a little bit of DC back into my 5:30.
When I was a DC resident, my 5:30 run involved conversations with bored security guards, motorcades , a National Mall at its emptiest and most peaceful, police helicopters, occasional protests, and, most importantly, random meetings with the wide assortment of characters you meet wandering around downtown DC at 5:30 am (sometimes good, sometimes bad and always a little bit strange).
As an Arlington resident, my 5:30 run involves doing my best to not acknowledge the other stone-faced runners who are doing their very best to ignore me as well, running around all of the overachievers rushing to be the first in the office (yes, there are actually people going to work at 5:30 am), and dodging cars pulling in and out of the Gold’s Gym parking lot (there have been a couple of close calls). That’s about it – guarded interactions with people who are basically just like me….introverted, focused on completing the task at hand, and, (let’s face it) a tad unfriendly.
Yes, it’s probably a safer run and, yes, I’m still getting the same workout, but I do miss the feeling of taking those first few steps out the door and wondering just what (or who) I was going to run into….just what (or who) was going to force me out of my comfortable me-centered universe…just what (or who) was out there in the “great unknown” of early morning DC.
The “great unknown” of Arlington is pretty much whether or not there will be something new in the window at Ann Taylor Loft. Now, I’m not saying that’s not exciting because it totally is, but the answer to the big question has been the same for the past 3 weeks - an unnaturally thin model wearing skinny jeans (just in case you were curious).
It was that poster which led me, one day last week, to spend the majority of my run thinking about clothes – more specifically about what I was going to wear to work that day.
It went something like this:
The black skirt? – it’s dirty. The other black skirt (with white stripes) – I don’t really like the shirt that goes with it. The black pants? – I think I may wear too much black. You know, black is just easier because you can mix and match but I don’t want people to think I’m depressed because I’m totally not. I do have some brightly colored shirts so it doesn’t seem as blah. How about the green blouse? It’s going to be pretty hot today, so the green blouse may be too warm and sweat marks are gross. It is pretty cool in the office with the a/c so it could work, but what if I have to run an errand or something.
(Are my thoughts boring you? Yeah, they are pretty boring to me too…which is why I miss the DC run.)
The gray skirt? No I already wore that this week – on Monday (duh). The purple skirt is nice but the shoes that go with it are uncomfortable. The gray pants – gray isn’t much better than black (blah).”
“Don’t do it!”
Stunned out of my very important internal dialogue, I came to a halt mid-stride while leaping off of a curb and into the street (which is, as you can imagine, is a little bit awkward…especially for somebody who can fall pretty easily in the best of conditions) and looked up to see a woman staring at me with a stern look on her face. She was much older than me and wore a big yellow hat (a bit of a shock that early in the morning). She was carrying a very full looking purse, which I imagined was full of massive amounts of Kleenex and hand sanitizer.
She was not happy with me.
“I’m sorry…what?”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you – I wouldn’t cross that street when the sign says do not walk.”
She was completely correct…I was at an intersection and was about to cross a street against the light. I was about to do something illegal and I acknowledge that.
The thing is, this particular intersection is a light at the top of a one-way off ramp. Cars come off of a road (a road which can be busy at times, but generally isn’t at 6 am), drive slowly up a long hill and arrive at the intersection. Basically, you can see any cars coming from a good distance away and they are usually coming very slowly because they know there is a light at the top of the hill.
So, yes, crossing against a light is illegal and unsafe, BUT if you’re going to cross against any light in the country, this one isn’t a bad choice.
“Oh, well I didn’t see any cars and….”
“God is watching you. God is always watching.”
Oh boy...here we go.
“He sees everything and He remembers everything. Are you a Christian?”
From the mixing and matching of black pants and green blouses to the existence of God is kind of a big leap at 6 in the morning and I was still trying to recover from the effort it took to not fall flat on my face in the process of stopping the moving object (that had been my body) in mid air.
Now, I am a Christian and I do have things say about my beliefs…and my personal view of God…and even maybe God’s feelings about crosswalks…but, given my confusion and the time of morning, all I could muster up was a half-hearted “…yes ma’am, I am”.
“What kind?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What kind of Christian?”
“Umm…I’m Lutheran.”
The look on her face suggested that this was the wrong answer – or at least an answer of which she did not approve (understandable – this is Virginia, not Minnesota).
“Are you baptized?”
“Yes”
“Do you go to church?”
“Yes”
At this point, another morning runner came running up to the light, glanced over at the woman (who was 100% pre-occupied with me at the moment), listened for a second, and bounded across the street as fast as possible, smiling at me as if to say “better you than me”.
Jerk.
“Do you go to church regularly?”
“Pretty much every Sunday" (completely true, by the way, I was not lying - although, I would have said it even if it weren’t true because this lady was not messing around) "...and my father is actually a pastor so…”
“I hope you are speaking truthfully because God is a just God - He sees and He judges and He knows and…”
I missed a bit of what she was saying at this point. I was trying really hard to remember all of the books of the Bible, all of the commandments, and maybe a Creed or two (I expected a few questions to test my authenticity – we were clearly moving in that direction) when the light turned and the woman in the yellow hat and I crossed the street (legally). She blessed me as I took off for the rest of my run, which was very nice and, apparently, something she felt I was very much in need of (but, who isn’t right?).
It would be kind of cool if I could end this blog with a story about how later in the run, thanks to the words of the woman in the yellow hat, I stopped at an intersection (one that I would normally run through) and a MAC truck came out of nowhere, plowing through exactly where I would have been running had I not met her. That would be an excellent way to tie everything together with the revelation of a presence (whatever that presence is for you) larger than all of us can oftentimes be seen at the least likely times and in the least likely places.
The truth is that I ran through the next light, and the next one, and have run through many more since without incident.
Don't count out miracles, though - after all, someone managed to bring a little bit of DC back into my 5:30.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
free coffee and cable tv (6/17/09)
It’s been about 8 months since I made the move from my studio apartment in NW DC to a “roomy” 1075-square foot apartment in Arlington Virginia (which I share with a wonderful boy named Dave and a cute cat named Mo…or maybe it’s a cute boy and a wonderful cat…it works either way). The differences have been notable - here are a few important (albeit slightly superficial) examples:
1) I no longer have to deal with a particular type of insect***
2) The elliptical machines and treadmills in the fitness center have individual televisions (with cable!)
3) There is coffee waiting for me in the lobby every morning as I walk to work (a walk which is, by the way, approximately 2 minutes – including an 8 floor elevator ride and not including a car)
4) I don’t have to pay $2.75 a load to do my laundry.
***someday I will be able to talk in more detail about my year-long battle with this hateful, horrible, un-killable, blood-sucking, sleep-depriving, insanity-causing, horrific, nightmare-causing, did I say un-killable?, devil of an insect ….but I haven’t fully recovered yet from the trauma of the entire experience. When I do eventually recover, I assure you that it will make a very, very, very entertaining blog....or horror movie...one of the two.
I needed and wanted the move and, with everything I loved about DC only a short metro ride away, life on this side of the Potomac really has been the best of both worlds.
Still, every now and again I find my mind wandering back to the 36th block of 16th Street and to the building I used to call home – The Woodner Apartments.
It’s hard to define what it is exactly that I loved so much about the Woodner and my time in apt 643. Roughly 5 seconds on apartmentratings.com will pull up about a gazillion reasons why any normal person wouldn’t want to live there. In fact I have picked a few of the more colorful posts, and I quote:
“The Woodner is THE WORST PLACE a person could ever live!! Unless you are practically homeless don’t move here.”
“Living here has made me absolutely miserable.”
“the halls are basically freakshows”
Hmmmm…not exactly glowing reviews…
Do we have here yet another example of Faith falling prey to sentimental attachments that don’t make sense to anyone else?
Quite possibly, yes, but I maintain that there are things about that crazy building to love, most notably the total randomness of the tenants all living in one big building – from the elderly men and women who probably moved in when the building was still considered high living (a LONG time ago), to the neighbors playing mariachi music late, late, late into the night, to the recent college graduates who just needed an apartment in the District that they could actually afford on a Capitol Hill intern budget…and only found one possibility.
Yes, it’s true, very few things about the Woodner in its present state could be considered easy or nice or even (in some people’s eyes) livable, but everyone claiming a 3636 16th Street address is in it together and, if you watch and listen, there are a lot of stories to tell.
In fact, one of my favorite Woodner stories is a story of persistence.
It’s the story of a woman who taught me the importance of fighting for what you believe in,
the importance of standing your ground,
the importance of defending yourself in the face of a society forever working against you.
Well, ok, maybe it's just a story of persistence.
I’m pretty sure she was a fellow tenant because I only ever saw her in the grocery store, which is located on the first floor of the building and is only really accessible to residents, as the guards at the front door never, ever, ever let anyone through without a keycard (say what you will about pest control and management practices, the place was DEFINITELY secure…think Fort Knox). Every single time I saw her over the course of 2 ½ years, she was attempting to return a pack of cigarettes (a pack that had usually been opened and was generally missing at least one cigarette…but often missing 2 or 3). Standing there with her open pack (and usually buying a 40 ounce or two - you know, while she was at the grocery store) she fought and fought and fought and fought, despite growing lines of people behind her and despite the obvious inconsistencies in her story, to convince whoever was running the register that it was her God-given right to exchange the used pack for a new one. Her most common explanation was that the clerk who was on duty when she bought the cigarettes hadn’t handed her the pack she wanted (she smoked the dark blue pack and they consistently gave her the light blue pack). Since this particular shade-of-blue miscommunication seemed to be a frequent issue, you would think she would pay very close attention to the process at the time she was buying the cigarettes, but strangely she never seemed to realized the mix up until she got up to her apartment...and opened the pack...and smoked anywhere from one to three.
In my 2 1/2 years there, she never convinced a single clerk of anything and never got an exchange or any money back. Most often, she debated until the clerk started ignoring her and rang up the next person in line. She would say a few bad words and leave in a huff, swearing to never again step foot in the store – EVER.
So, as nice as my current building is, and as much as I do love having my very own tv (with cable) when I’m running on the treadmill, there are little things missing.
Maybe it’s the free coffee in the morning or the absence of pest issues – whatever it is, the stories here just aren’t as good.
Maybe everyone here just gets the right colored pack of cigarettes the first time.
1) I no longer have to deal with a particular type of insect***
2) The elliptical machines and treadmills in the fitness center have individual televisions (with cable!)
3) There is coffee waiting for me in the lobby every morning as I walk to work (a walk which is, by the way, approximately 2 minutes – including an 8 floor elevator ride and not including a car)
4) I don’t have to pay $2.75 a load to do my laundry.
***someday I will be able to talk in more detail about my year-long battle with this hateful, horrible, un-killable, blood-sucking, sleep-depriving, insanity-causing, horrific, nightmare-causing, did I say un-killable?, devil of an insect ….but I haven’t fully recovered yet from the trauma of the entire experience. When I do eventually recover, I assure you that it will make a very, very, very entertaining blog....or horror movie...one of the two.
I needed and wanted the move and, with everything I loved about DC only a short metro ride away, life on this side of the Potomac really has been the best of both worlds.
Still, every now and again I find my mind wandering back to the 36th block of 16th Street and to the building I used to call home – The Woodner Apartments.
It’s hard to define what it is exactly that I loved so much about the Woodner and my time in apt 643. Roughly 5 seconds on apartmentratings.com will pull up about a gazillion reasons why any normal person wouldn’t want to live there. In fact I have picked a few of the more colorful posts, and I quote:
“The Woodner is THE WORST PLACE a person could ever live!! Unless you are practically homeless don’t move here.”
“Living here has made me absolutely miserable.”
“the halls are basically freakshows”
Hmmmm…not exactly glowing reviews…
Do we have here yet another example of Faith falling prey to sentimental attachments that don’t make sense to anyone else?
Quite possibly, yes, but I maintain that there are things about that crazy building to love, most notably the total randomness of the tenants all living in one big building – from the elderly men and women who probably moved in when the building was still considered high living (a LONG time ago), to the neighbors playing mariachi music late, late, late into the night, to the recent college graduates who just needed an apartment in the District that they could actually afford on a Capitol Hill intern budget…and only found one possibility.
Yes, it’s true, very few things about the Woodner in its present state could be considered easy or nice or even (in some people’s eyes) livable, but everyone claiming a 3636 16th Street address is in it together and, if you watch and listen, there are a lot of stories to tell.
In fact, one of my favorite Woodner stories is a story of persistence.
It’s the story of a woman who taught me the importance of fighting for what you believe in,
the importance of standing your ground,
the importance of defending yourself in the face of a society forever working against you.
Well, ok, maybe it's just a story of persistence.
I’m pretty sure she was a fellow tenant because I only ever saw her in the grocery store, which is located on the first floor of the building and is only really accessible to residents, as the guards at the front door never, ever, ever let anyone through without a keycard (say what you will about pest control and management practices, the place was DEFINITELY secure…think Fort Knox). Every single time I saw her over the course of 2 ½ years, she was attempting to return a pack of cigarettes (a pack that had usually been opened and was generally missing at least one cigarette…but often missing 2 or 3). Standing there with her open pack (and usually buying a 40 ounce or two - you know, while she was at the grocery store) she fought and fought and fought and fought, despite growing lines of people behind her and despite the obvious inconsistencies in her story, to convince whoever was running the register that it was her God-given right to exchange the used pack for a new one. Her most common explanation was that the clerk who was on duty when she bought the cigarettes hadn’t handed her the pack she wanted (she smoked the dark blue pack and they consistently gave her the light blue pack). Since this particular shade-of-blue miscommunication seemed to be a frequent issue, you would think she would pay very close attention to the process at the time she was buying the cigarettes, but strangely she never seemed to realized the mix up until she got up to her apartment...and opened the pack...and smoked anywhere from one to three.
In my 2 1/2 years there, she never convinced a single clerk of anything and never got an exchange or any money back. Most often, she debated until the clerk started ignoring her and rang up the next person in line. She would say a few bad words and leave in a huff, swearing to never again step foot in the store – EVER.
So, as nice as my current building is, and as much as I do love having my very own tv (with cable) when I’m running on the treadmill, there are little things missing.
Maybe it’s the free coffee in the morning or the absence of pest issues – whatever it is, the stories here just aren’t as good.
Maybe everyone here just gets the right colored pack of cigarettes the first time.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
*SPAM* - not the canned meat product (5/26/09)
I never used to have a spam problem.
I mean, sure, every now and then I would excitedly click to my inbox to see what new and exciting mail was waiting and find instead a notice that I had won the lottery and could claim my money (once a credit card number and ss# were provided, of course), or an offer for a free trip to Hawaii (once a credit card number and ss# were provided, of course), or a personal and confidential email from a prince in Nigeria/an attorney in London (on behalf of his client in Dubaii)/a soldier in Iraq, all with eerily similarly tragic stories and, interestingly, all offering to share a small fortune with me (once a credit card and ss# were provided, of course). The soldier was actually hiding the money under a rock in Baghdad (which is apparently why his message was marked urgent).
Other than these occasional “opportunities”, my inbox was squeaky clean.
I always used to hear people complaining about “that stupid *&*(&%$ spam” and I agreed with them and looked annoyed for the sake of conversation, but I never really actually understood what the big deal was. So you get an occasional piece of junk email? Just hit delete and move on!
Somewhere along the line, though, something went terribly, terribly, horribly wrong (or my email just landed on an unfortunate mailing list) and, in the past few months, my spam problem has becoming bigger than I could have ever, ever, ever, imagined (hundreds of email a week bigger than I could have ever, ever, ever imagined).
Of course, like every responsible email user, I have a spam folder which makes everyday life possible, disguising my little problem quite convincingly. In fact, the casual observer of my inbox probably wouldn’t even notice that I have a spam problem as from simply looking over my email you would really only find correspondence with coworkers, staff memos and instructions from my boss, all neatly arranged and organized.
Yep, on the surface you would never guess that ½ inch down on my outlook main page is another folder, a folder that I don’t like to talk about, a folder full of….SPAM.
It’s to this folder that the vast majority of the junk mail is directly forwarded upon receipt. Once there, it sits in a sort of purgatory before the exciting moment each Friday afternoon when I hit the special button signaling a mass deletion. Up until that particular moment, I avoid this folder as much as possible (you just never know what kind of evil viruses are lurking amongst the hundreds of free offers). But then, last week an important email found its way into the scary part of the inbox (the Anacostia of my email world). The time had come and I was forced to pull up my sleeves, hold on tight to my mouse and, with one click, take a leap of faith into the folder where unwanted bad emails go.
Well, it took about 5 seconds to find the lost email but I wound up spending another 10 minutes in the formerly feared folder.
As it turns out, junk mail subject lines can be extremely entertaining. Don’t worry I didn’t open any (I’m not THAT brave) but I spent a good deal of time reading the subjects and laughing out loud.
I have chosen and categorized a few of my favorite headings for your reading enjoyment.
Please see below:
The “make recipient think the email is actually important so she will open it” subject line:
Confirm your sample.
Mike in trouble!
Our common secret.
Newsletter. Dr's Vankilsdonk.
(Not that I wouldn’t want to help Mike but….oooooh - What could the common secret be?.....Dr. Vankilsdonk? Well, I guess if he’s a doctor he must have something important to say, despite the fact that his last name ends in –donk, which is very very funny.)
The “guilt the recipient into opening the email” subject line:
Answer is needed…
Don’t block me!
I need you to read.
Open mail or get problems.
Reply now, bastard.
(I admit to having felt a little bit guilty up until the last two examples– there’s no need to be rude.)
The “throw in the name of a celebrity or current event and see if the recipient opens it” subject line (this is my favorite category):
America against swine flu!
Jolie caught swine flu.
Obama joked about holocaust.
German tourist threw up in White House.
(Those crazy German tourists.)
The “don’t even do spell check and see if the recipient still opens the email” subject line:
Useful potions, approved pilules
Where did the internet kinky lfie go?
Kissing Mishtakes You Are Making
(What exactly is a “pilule”? - and I’m pretty sure there is plenty of kinkiness left on the internet, regardless of what “lfie” means)
The “no comment…it speaks for itself” subject line:
Your big proud friend in the pants will overshadow the Empire State building
If watering your device doesn’t help it become bigger we know what helps.
We know how to wake your small fellow up.
(No comment…they speak for themselves)
And, finally, an email came today that pretty much sums up the entire junk mail issue. The subject line wasn’t super interesting (I think it was something like “message for you”) but you will never guess who it was from! My old friend – Bull*&$^ Kelliher!
I mean, sure, every now and then I would excitedly click to my inbox to see what new and exciting mail was waiting and find instead a notice that I had won the lottery and could claim my money (once a credit card number and ss# were provided, of course), or an offer for a free trip to Hawaii (once a credit card number and ss# were provided, of course), or a personal and confidential email from a prince in Nigeria/an attorney in London (on behalf of his client in Dubaii)/a soldier in Iraq, all with eerily similarly tragic stories and, interestingly, all offering to share a small fortune with me (once a credit card and ss# were provided, of course). The soldier was actually hiding the money under a rock in Baghdad (which is apparently why his message was marked urgent).
Other than these occasional “opportunities”, my inbox was squeaky clean.
I always used to hear people complaining about “that stupid *&*(&%$ spam” and I agreed with them and looked annoyed for the sake of conversation, but I never really actually understood what the big deal was. So you get an occasional piece of junk email? Just hit delete and move on!
Somewhere along the line, though, something went terribly, terribly, horribly wrong (or my email just landed on an unfortunate mailing list) and, in the past few months, my spam problem has becoming bigger than I could have ever, ever, ever, imagined (hundreds of email a week bigger than I could have ever, ever, ever imagined).
Of course, like every responsible email user, I have a spam folder which makes everyday life possible, disguising my little problem quite convincingly. In fact, the casual observer of my inbox probably wouldn’t even notice that I have a spam problem as from simply looking over my email you would really only find correspondence with coworkers, staff memos and instructions from my boss, all neatly arranged and organized.
Yep, on the surface you would never guess that ½ inch down on my outlook main page is another folder, a folder that I don’t like to talk about, a folder full of….SPAM.
It’s to this folder that the vast majority of the junk mail is directly forwarded upon receipt. Once there, it sits in a sort of purgatory before the exciting moment each Friday afternoon when I hit the special button signaling a mass deletion. Up until that particular moment, I avoid this folder as much as possible (you just never know what kind of evil viruses are lurking amongst the hundreds of free offers). But then, last week an important email found its way into the scary part of the inbox (the Anacostia of my email world). The time had come and I was forced to pull up my sleeves, hold on tight to my mouse and, with one click, take a leap of faith into the folder where unwanted bad emails go.
Well, it took about 5 seconds to find the lost email but I wound up spending another 10 minutes in the formerly feared folder.
As it turns out, junk mail subject lines can be extremely entertaining. Don’t worry I didn’t open any (I’m not THAT brave) but I spent a good deal of time reading the subjects and laughing out loud.
I have chosen and categorized a few of my favorite headings for your reading enjoyment.
Please see below:
The “make recipient think the email is actually important so she will open it” subject line:
Confirm your sample.
Mike in trouble!
Our common secret.
Newsletter. Dr's Vankilsdonk.
(Not that I wouldn’t want to help Mike but….oooooh - What could the common secret be?.....Dr. Vankilsdonk? Well, I guess if he’s a doctor he must have something important to say, despite the fact that his last name ends in –donk, which is very very funny.)
The “guilt the recipient into opening the email” subject line:
Answer is needed…
Don’t block me!
I need you to read.
Open mail or get problems.
Reply now, bastard.
(I admit to having felt a little bit guilty up until the last two examples– there’s no need to be rude.)
The “throw in the name of a celebrity or current event and see if the recipient opens it” subject line (this is my favorite category):
America against swine flu!
Jolie caught swine flu.
Obama joked about holocaust.
German tourist threw up in White House.
(Those crazy German tourists.)
The “don’t even do spell check and see if the recipient still opens the email” subject line:
Useful potions, approved pilules
Where did the internet kinky lfie go?
Kissing Mishtakes You Are Making
(What exactly is a “pilule”? - and I’m pretty sure there is plenty of kinkiness left on the internet, regardless of what “lfie” means)
The “no comment…it speaks for itself” subject line:
Your big proud friend in the pants will overshadow the Empire State building
If watering your device doesn’t help it become bigger we know what helps.
We know how to wake your small fellow up.
(No comment…they speak for themselves)
And, finally, an email came today that pretty much sums up the entire junk mail issue. The subject line wasn’t super interesting (I think it was something like “message for you”) but you will never guess who it was from! My old friend – Bull*&$^ Kelliher!
Thursday, April 30, 2009
The gu dilemma (4/30/09)
An abnormal number of my blogs are about running: things that happen while running, people who I meet while running or thoughts that I have while running. (see 10/18/07, 11/9/07 or 1/27/09)
This leads me to believe I’m a rather one-dimensional person who is perhaps a little boring and may need more interests or a new hobby
…but then thinking about my faults stresses me out
…so I go for a run to de-stress
…and something funny happens or I meet a funny person or I have a funny thought
…so I write a blog about it
…Sigh.
(note: this is where you are supposed to say “Faith, don’t say things like that! You are a very interesting person with varied interests and an exciting and dimensional life.”)
Awwww, thanks!
So guess what my blog is about today? Yep, running (so stinking predictable).
Actually, now that I think about it, this isn’t so much of a blog as it is an announcement - a clarification - a public statement of explanation - to all runners or spectators at the 2009 Boston Marathon.
*It is specifically directed to everyone who may have seen me (5’4”ish, purple top, black shorts, goofy-looking crinkled forehead, bib #2853) at any point between mile 8 and mile 26 and particularly from the back.
The announcement/clarification/public statement of explanation:
It was gu – regardless of what it looked like, it was chocolate gu.
A little background information:
The grossness you see over the course of 26.2 miles-
Real marathoners (the really good marathoners - the kind who fly in from other countries because they might actually win the race) can be so dedicated to/focused on winning that things like personal hygiene are, shall we say, secondary. Things that the rest of us may take care of in private (by, perhaps, sacrificing a minute of our final clock time to step into one of the many port-a-johns conveniently located at various points along the course) simply happen right there, right then, mid-stride, while running down the middle of the street. They keep running.
Of course, this is really just heresay, as I’m generally a good distance behind those ridiculously, unbelievably, crazy-fast runners so I’ve never actually seen the nastiness first hand. However, it’s not always the superstar 4 minute mile runners who sacrifice their hygiene to the marathon gods- I once found myself running behind a woman who had unfortunately mis-judged her monthly schedule and was (also unfortunately) wearing white running tights. She kept running. Another time, I came upon a man who had gotten sick while running but didn’t stop along the side of the road to throw up (and the evidence was on his shirt).
The point is, when it comes to marathons it’s not completely out of the question to see things that aren’t pleasant because, no matter how unfortunate the circumstances and regardless of whether you are an elite runner or one of the many of us simply running for our personal best, nobody wants to stop. Once you have crossed that starting line, your only goal is crossing the finish line– that’s the spirit of the marathon.
Gu –
Gu is 100 calories of as much energy as you can possibly squeeze into a tiny 32 oz packet. It’s sort of a mix between icing and pudding and comes in various flavors (with names like Espresso Love and Chocolate Outrage), all attempting to hide the fact that you are eating it ONLY for the sake of keeping your body in motion. The first three marathons I ran were gu-less and I was sick for days afterwards with some sort of nasty mix of dehydration/lack of food thing. Basically, my body was mad at me for putting it through 26.2 miles of ridiculousness and not giving it any fuel along the way…and it’s NEVER good to piss off your body because payback is hell.
In the 7 marathons since, I have learned that 1/4th of a pack of gu at every even mile marker can do amazing things for your race (and can virtually guarantee not spending the following 24 hours with a migraine and your head in a toilet, which is a beautiful thing). The only problem with this wonderful plan is the juggling of gu packets and, in particular, the containment of the remaining gu once a new packet is open.
I’ve tried a few methods -
You can roll the top down and stick it back in your pocket – but it leaks all over your pocket.
You can hold it in your hand, trying to keep it squeezed closed – but it leaks all over your hand.
I thought I had found the perfect solution when I bought a little plastic squeeze container that clipped onto my shorts (holding up to 6 packets of gu!) – the gu made the bottle kind of heavy and, besides slowly pulling my shorts down over the course of the race, the bottle actually fell off a couple of times, skidding across the road.
If you want to see some really angry runners, just throw an object –such as, oh say, a little plastic bottle of gu - in their path while they are running shoulder to shoulder in the early stages of a race.
If you want to see those same runners even angrier, proceed to run after the object – it’s kind of like crossing 5 lanes of traffic on a crowded freeway. There is serious potential for a 10+ runner pile-up. It can get ugly.
So, after every race I make a little promise to myself to find, before the next race, a more efficient way to handle my gu dilemma. Unfortunately, in true Faith fashion, roughly 24 hours before every race I find myself without said “more efficient way to handle the gu dilemma”.
I finished my 3rd (and hardest) Boston last week feeling exhausted, incredibly happy and a little sticky as my hands were uncomfortably gu-covered (yep, I opted for the “hold it in my hand , trying to keep it squeezed closed” method for this race). Crossing the finish line I then proceeded though the sea of “awesome job!”s and “Congratulations!”s (a runner secret: the real reason everyone wants to qualify for that particular race is that the people of Boston make you feel like a freaking rock star every step of the way – but especially at the finish line). I felt really, really good and was maybe a little full of myself…ok, VERY full of myself (you know, the whole rock star thing).
It wasn’t until we got back to the hotel room that Dave saw the back of my leg and said something along the lines of “What the heck is on the back of your leg?”
It was chocolate gu (a lovely brown color) that had apparently dripped down the back of my leg at some point during the race and hardened into a crusty nastiness. It was definitely chocolate gu…but that’s not what it looked like (if you need explanation as to what I mean by “what it looked like” please see the above section entitled: “The grossness you see” and use your imagination).
To make matters worse, only 1 of my 3 gu packets had been chocolate and it was the first one of the day. So however the gu got on the back of my leg (and I’m still not completely sure how it did), it had been there since mile 8 at the very latest but possibly even earlier. That’s at least 18.2 miles of runners coming up behind me and spectators watching from the sidelines, who saw something brown and nasty-looking on the back of my leg…and probably thought the worst.
Back to the announcement:
If you were at the Boston Marathon last week, or if you know anyone who was at the Boston Marathon last week, or if you overhear somebody telling a story about last week when they were running/were watching the Boston Marathon and saw this disgusting runner who…
please, please, please help me set the record straight. IT WAS CHOCOLATE GU!
So much for being a rockstar.
This leads me to believe I’m a rather one-dimensional person who is perhaps a little boring and may need more interests or a new hobby
…but then thinking about my faults stresses me out
…so I go for a run to de-stress
…and something funny happens or I meet a funny person or I have a funny thought
…so I write a blog about it
…Sigh.
(note: this is where you are supposed to say “Faith, don’t say things like that! You are a very interesting person with varied interests and an exciting and dimensional life.”)
Awwww, thanks!
So guess what my blog is about today? Yep, running (so stinking predictable).
Actually, now that I think about it, this isn’t so much of a blog as it is an announcement - a clarification - a public statement of explanation - to all runners or spectators at the 2009 Boston Marathon.
*It is specifically directed to everyone who may have seen me (5’4”ish, purple top, black shorts, goofy-looking crinkled forehead, bib #2853) at any point between mile 8 and mile 26 and particularly from the back.
The announcement/clarification/public statement of explanation:
It was gu – regardless of what it looked like, it was chocolate gu.
A little background information:
The grossness you see over the course of 26.2 miles-
Real marathoners (the really good marathoners - the kind who fly in from other countries because they might actually win the race) can be so dedicated to/focused on winning that things like personal hygiene are, shall we say, secondary. Things that the rest of us may take care of in private (by, perhaps, sacrificing a minute of our final clock time to step into one of the many port-a-johns conveniently located at various points along the course) simply happen right there, right then, mid-stride, while running down the middle of the street. They keep running.
Of course, this is really just heresay, as I’m generally a good distance behind those ridiculously, unbelievably, crazy-fast runners so I’ve never actually seen the nastiness first hand. However, it’s not always the superstar 4 minute mile runners who sacrifice their hygiene to the marathon gods- I once found myself running behind a woman who had unfortunately mis-judged her monthly schedule and was (also unfortunately) wearing white running tights. She kept running. Another time, I came upon a man who had gotten sick while running but didn’t stop along the side of the road to throw up (and the evidence was on his shirt).
The point is, when it comes to marathons it’s not completely out of the question to see things that aren’t pleasant because, no matter how unfortunate the circumstances and regardless of whether you are an elite runner or one of the many of us simply running for our personal best, nobody wants to stop. Once you have crossed that starting line, your only goal is crossing the finish line– that’s the spirit of the marathon.
Gu –
Gu is 100 calories of as much energy as you can possibly squeeze into a tiny 32 oz packet. It’s sort of a mix between icing and pudding and comes in various flavors (with names like Espresso Love and Chocolate Outrage), all attempting to hide the fact that you are eating it ONLY for the sake of keeping your body in motion. The first three marathons I ran were gu-less and I was sick for days afterwards with some sort of nasty mix of dehydration/lack of food thing. Basically, my body was mad at me for putting it through 26.2 miles of ridiculousness and not giving it any fuel along the way…and it’s NEVER good to piss off your body because payback is hell.
In the 7 marathons since, I have learned that 1/4th of a pack of gu at every even mile marker can do amazing things for your race (and can virtually guarantee not spending the following 24 hours with a migraine and your head in a toilet, which is a beautiful thing). The only problem with this wonderful plan is the juggling of gu packets and, in particular, the containment of the remaining gu once a new packet is open.
I’ve tried a few methods -
You can roll the top down and stick it back in your pocket – but it leaks all over your pocket.
You can hold it in your hand, trying to keep it squeezed closed – but it leaks all over your hand.
I thought I had found the perfect solution when I bought a little plastic squeeze container that clipped onto my shorts (holding up to 6 packets of gu!) – the gu made the bottle kind of heavy and, besides slowly pulling my shorts down over the course of the race, the bottle actually fell off a couple of times, skidding across the road.
If you want to see some really angry runners, just throw an object –such as, oh say, a little plastic bottle of gu - in their path while they are running shoulder to shoulder in the early stages of a race.
If you want to see those same runners even angrier, proceed to run after the object – it’s kind of like crossing 5 lanes of traffic on a crowded freeway. There is serious potential for a 10+ runner pile-up. It can get ugly.
So, after every race I make a little promise to myself to find, before the next race, a more efficient way to handle my gu dilemma. Unfortunately, in true Faith fashion, roughly 24 hours before every race I find myself without said “more efficient way to handle the gu dilemma”.
I finished my 3rd (and hardest) Boston last week feeling exhausted, incredibly happy and a little sticky as my hands were uncomfortably gu-covered (yep, I opted for the “hold it in my hand , trying to keep it squeezed closed” method for this race). Crossing the finish line I then proceeded though the sea of “awesome job!”s and “Congratulations!”s (a runner secret: the real reason everyone wants to qualify for that particular race is that the people of Boston make you feel like a freaking rock star every step of the way – but especially at the finish line). I felt really, really good and was maybe a little full of myself…ok, VERY full of myself (you know, the whole rock star thing).
It wasn’t until we got back to the hotel room that Dave saw the back of my leg and said something along the lines of “What the heck is on the back of your leg?”
It was chocolate gu (a lovely brown color) that had apparently dripped down the back of my leg at some point during the race and hardened into a crusty nastiness. It was definitely chocolate gu…but that’s not what it looked like (if you need explanation as to what I mean by “what it looked like” please see the above section entitled: “The grossness you see” and use your imagination).
To make matters worse, only 1 of my 3 gu packets had been chocolate and it was the first one of the day. So however the gu got on the back of my leg (and I’m still not completely sure how it did), it had been there since mile 8 at the very latest but possibly even earlier. That’s at least 18.2 miles of runners coming up behind me and spectators watching from the sidelines, who saw something brown and nasty-looking on the back of my leg…and probably thought the worst.
Back to the announcement:
If you were at the Boston Marathon last week, or if you know anyone who was at the Boston Marathon last week, or if you overhear somebody telling a story about last week when they were running/were watching the Boston Marathon and saw this disgusting runner who…
please, please, please help me set the record straight. IT WAS CHOCOLATE GU!
So much for being a rockstar.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Naming of Cats (4/8/09)
“The naming of cats is a difficult matter, It isn't just one of your holiday games”
If you recognize this quote, we may have had similar childhoods – did you spend your pre/early-elementary school afternoons dancing around your living room to the soundtrack (on LP of course) of the musical “Cats” too?
I don’t know if it was because I was so young and impressionable or because I listened to/sang along with that particular record so often (almost as often as “Annie” … poor, poor Mom and Dad were forced to listen to “Tomorrow” and “A Hard Knock Life” more than any adult should ever, ever, ever have to) but that particular gem from musical theater lyrical history stuck in my mind well beyond anything sung by a little curly haired girl in a red dress, a creepy guy wearing a mask and hanging out underneath an opera house, or even, and I know this sounds crazy, but even more than anything from Rent (although I do still have that whole show memorized…I mean, what progressive 90’s high schooler didn’t?).
While Andrew Lloyd Webber (with the lyrical help of TS Elliott) did not successfully convince me that cats can sing and dance, he did teach me to believe with everything in me that they not only know the name you give them but know whether or not it is a cool name. Said name, and it’s coolness factor, then molds the cat’s entire impression of your competence as an owner (an owner, in cat terms, being merely the person who does whatever necessary to make them happy).
In other words, give your cat a dumb name and he/she will hold it against you FOREVER.
Now, many decisions ( ok, MOST decisions) are painfully difficult for me:
-Which combination of bagel/cream cheese this morning? – plain and plain, plain and strawberry, cinnamon raisin with maple walnut (the clear winner…but can lead sweetness overload)
-Whose name should I get on the back of my Caps jersey? – this, by the way, is a question that has been debated over several hockey seasons as my favorite players either get traded or have names like Alexander Semin (yeah, you may have to think like a junior high boy for just a second to understand why I can’t get "Semin" written on the back of a jersey)
-What do I want to do when I grow up (a decision that probably won’t be made until retirement)
…and Dave and I together are even worse:
-What’s for dinner/ Where are we going for dinner? (one of the most important and difficult questions in our relationship)
The naming of our cat (now with us almost two weeks), however, has been an especially difficult decision as it affects not just me and not just Dave but the cat herself, a very unique little individual who, while she cannot say it in words that either of us can understand, clearly has an opinion (based mainly on the tone of her meow, whether her tail is waving or twitching, and the look on her face).
The evolution of our cat’s name started before we even had her, when cat ownership was and “if” and not a “when”:
*Chairman Meow – The name of one of Dave’s friend’s cats (probably one of the best cat names I’ve ever heard) which set the bar high for coming up with something funny/clever/sophisticated.
*Cornbread – Dave’s original pick for our hypothetical cat. It’s a character from a movie (the title for which he couldn't remember) who gets shot and dies. Hmmmm...
*Salmonella – My original pick for our hypothetical cat. It’s the bacteria that causes foodborne illness, I know this, but take away the context of peanut contamination, diarrhea, fever and possible death and the word itself sounds very cool and original…ok, ok, settle down, it was rejected…her name isn’t Salmonella.
Of course, the cat who finally came along, being 6 years old, already had at least one name that we knew of:
*Precious – The name they gave her at the rescue organization (cheesy, cheesy, cheesy…the look in her eyes said it all - “I can deal with being given up….but this name! I’m begging you - give me back my dignity.”).
After just a few days, we started to wonder if we may have adopted a cat who is in training for some sort of top secret government agency – always watching, always following, always sneaking up on people while they are doing yoga:
*Mata Hari – A famous female spy from the early 1900s. She would be Mata for short – not bad, not bad, but not quite right.
*One of the various female characters from the James Bond movies – it could have worked, but their names are all a little too, shall we say, driven by double-entendres (she is, after all, fixed).
*Sydney or Bristow – “Alias” reference…but we didn't have her when Alias was popular (what if she wasn't a fan?)
After the first full week, we knew something else about her:
*Stinky – She has a gas problem…not sure if it’s the change in setting, or the food she was fed in her foster home, or the food we are feeding her now, or (lord help us) a permanent problem, but this name is both accurate and easy to say (just not very nice).
*Chicago, the windy kitty – quite funny but would require a full explanation every time, essentially giving a name that is 4 words long (and, like Stinky, not very nice)
Gender issues:
*Boggle – the only game at which I have a shot at beating Dave. I love it as a cat name but Dave thought it sounded like a boy name…and would remind people of Wade Boggs…therefore leading them to believe we are Red Sox fans…which would apparently be a bad thing.
Friends came up with some fun suggestions:
Ponzi, Fluffy and Sprinkles to name a few, but none of them seemed exactly right.
Another suggestion was to look on different pet-finding websites to get some name ideas (a really good option if you are ever struggling with a pet name…also kind of entertaining – the names people come up with!). Here are some examples:
Frisby*, Sassy, Riley, Tallulah*, Magic, Motley, Georgia, Tangy, Gizmo, Ragu*, Sundrop, Smudge, Flicker, Reese’s, Zoe, Haiku*, Spike, Tillie, Callie, Duchess, Pudge, Ariel, Buttercup, Blossom*, Torpie, Stormie, Codi, Aspen, Harley, Pookie, Lil Bit, Pumpkin, Tortilla*, Annabelle, Cookie, Lola, Tess*, Scooter*, Izzie, Bessie, Gracie, Moonbeam, Chloe*, Chili, Jalepano
(the * signifies my personal favorites)
Still, nothing sounded right.
Then, one evening as I was watching tv with the still un-named and gassy cat, eating the last of the 2009 girl scout cookies and bemoaning the fact that it would be another whole year before the next box of Samoas.....wait!
-Samoas are the best cookies ever and make people very happy.
-She came to live with us during girl scout cookie season.
-Mo is an excellent nickname.
-It's just simply the perfect name for her - it's her name.
So, there you have it "Samoa" has been chosen and approved by Faith, by Dave and by many friends (most of who were just glad we didn’t go with Salmonella).
The cat herself? She acts aloof and doesn’t respond when called which, let’s face it, probably means she likes it.
If you recognize this quote, we may have had similar childhoods – did you spend your pre/early-elementary school afternoons dancing around your living room to the soundtrack (on LP of course) of the musical “Cats” too?
I don’t know if it was because I was so young and impressionable or because I listened to/sang along with that particular record so often (almost as often as “Annie” … poor, poor Mom and Dad were forced to listen to “Tomorrow” and “A Hard Knock Life” more than any adult should ever, ever, ever have to) but that particular gem from musical theater lyrical history stuck in my mind well beyond anything sung by a little curly haired girl in a red dress, a creepy guy wearing a mask and hanging out underneath an opera house, or even, and I know this sounds crazy, but even more than anything from Rent (although I do still have that whole show memorized…I mean, what progressive 90’s high schooler didn’t?).
While Andrew Lloyd Webber (with the lyrical help of TS Elliott) did not successfully convince me that cats can sing and dance, he did teach me to believe with everything in me that they not only know the name you give them but know whether or not it is a cool name. Said name, and it’s coolness factor, then molds the cat’s entire impression of your competence as an owner (an owner, in cat terms, being merely the person who does whatever necessary to make them happy).
In other words, give your cat a dumb name and he/she will hold it against you FOREVER.
Now, many decisions ( ok, MOST decisions) are painfully difficult for me:
-Which combination of bagel/cream cheese this morning? – plain and plain, plain and strawberry, cinnamon raisin with maple walnut (the clear winner…but can lead sweetness overload)
-Whose name should I get on the back of my Caps jersey? – this, by the way, is a question that has been debated over several hockey seasons as my favorite players either get traded or have names like Alexander Semin (yeah, you may have to think like a junior high boy for just a second to understand why I can’t get "Semin" written on the back of a jersey)
-What do I want to do when I grow up (a decision that probably won’t be made until retirement)
…and Dave and I together are even worse:
-What’s for dinner/ Where are we going for dinner? (one of the most important and difficult questions in our relationship)
The naming of our cat (now with us almost two weeks), however, has been an especially difficult decision as it affects not just me and not just Dave but the cat herself, a very unique little individual who, while she cannot say it in words that either of us can understand, clearly has an opinion (based mainly on the tone of her meow, whether her tail is waving or twitching, and the look on her face).
The evolution of our cat’s name started before we even had her, when cat ownership was and “if” and not a “when”:
*Chairman Meow – The name of one of Dave’s friend’s cats (probably one of the best cat names I’ve ever heard) which set the bar high for coming up with something funny/clever/sophisticated.
*Cornbread – Dave’s original pick for our hypothetical cat. It’s a character from a movie (the title for which he couldn't remember) who gets shot and dies. Hmmmm...
*Salmonella – My original pick for our hypothetical cat. It’s the bacteria that causes foodborne illness, I know this, but take away the context of peanut contamination, diarrhea, fever and possible death and the word itself sounds very cool and original…ok, ok, settle down, it was rejected…her name isn’t Salmonella.
Of course, the cat who finally came along, being 6 years old, already had at least one name that we knew of:
*Precious – The name they gave her at the rescue organization (cheesy, cheesy, cheesy…the look in her eyes said it all - “I can deal with being given up….but this name! I’m begging you - give me back my dignity.”).
After just a few days, we started to wonder if we may have adopted a cat who is in training for some sort of top secret government agency – always watching, always following, always sneaking up on people while they are doing yoga:
*Mata Hari – A famous female spy from the early 1900s. She would be Mata for short – not bad, not bad, but not quite right.
*One of the various female characters from the James Bond movies – it could have worked, but their names are all a little too, shall we say, driven by double-entendres (she is, after all, fixed).
*Sydney or Bristow – “Alias” reference…but we didn't have her when Alias was popular (what if she wasn't a fan?)
After the first full week, we knew something else about her:
*Stinky – She has a gas problem…not sure if it’s the change in setting, or the food she was fed in her foster home, or the food we are feeding her now, or (lord help us) a permanent problem, but this name is both accurate and easy to say (just not very nice).
*Chicago, the windy kitty – quite funny but would require a full explanation every time, essentially giving a name that is 4 words long (and, like Stinky, not very nice)
Gender issues:
*Boggle – the only game at which I have a shot at beating Dave. I love it as a cat name but Dave thought it sounded like a boy name…and would remind people of Wade Boggs…therefore leading them to believe we are Red Sox fans…which would apparently be a bad thing.
Friends came up with some fun suggestions:
Ponzi, Fluffy and Sprinkles to name a few, but none of them seemed exactly right.
Another suggestion was to look on different pet-finding websites to get some name ideas (a really good option if you are ever struggling with a pet name…also kind of entertaining – the names people come up with!). Here are some examples:
Frisby*, Sassy, Riley, Tallulah*, Magic, Motley, Georgia, Tangy, Gizmo, Ragu*, Sundrop, Smudge, Flicker, Reese’s, Zoe, Haiku*, Spike, Tillie, Callie, Duchess, Pudge, Ariel, Buttercup, Blossom*, Torpie, Stormie, Codi, Aspen, Harley, Pookie, Lil Bit, Pumpkin, Tortilla*, Annabelle, Cookie, Lola, Tess*, Scooter*, Izzie, Bessie, Gracie, Moonbeam, Chloe*, Chili, Jalepano
(the * signifies my personal favorites)
Still, nothing sounded right.
Then, one evening as I was watching tv with the still un-named and gassy cat, eating the last of the 2009 girl scout cookies and bemoaning the fact that it would be another whole year before the next box of Samoas.....wait!
-Samoas are the best cookies ever and make people very happy.
-She came to live with us during girl scout cookie season.
-Mo is an excellent nickname.
-It's just simply the perfect name for her - it's her name.
So, there you have it "Samoa" has been chosen and approved by Faith, by Dave and by many friends (most of who were just glad we didn’t go with Salmonella).
The cat herself? She acts aloof and doesn’t respond when called which, let’s face it, probably means she likes it.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
The Race 3/12/09
My run this morning was pretty typical - out the door, up the hill, gosh it's chilly today, past the CVS, ouch - wind in the face, hey there's Starbucks..wish I could run and drink coffee at the same time, wave at the night security guard at the Apple Store, turn the corner back to the main road, hello to the random guy running in the opposite direction who I always pass at this exact point in my run, any new cars in the used car dealership?, look behind me to see if anyone is coming, SPLAT...and I'm on the ground.
I barely ever fall when I walk - I can ride a bike without tipping over - I can't remember the last time I tripped on stairs - I convincingly balance my way through 2 or 3 weekly yoga sessions (even when I have to stand next to that guy who makes distracting grunting noises and smells funny) but when I run, any of the following could happen (have happened):
*Falling - I fall mid-run probably once a month on average - no, I don't trip on anything, I just fall. It's a little embarrassing but it doesn't usually hurt.
*Getting hit by random objects - I was once hit by a flying trashcan as the trashcarrier was throwing it back after dumping the contents into the garbage truck. It didn't hurt....much. At least it was empty.
*Getting caught - One time I ran too close to a gate in front of a row house and my sweatshirt sleeve got caught on the gate door. The door swung open and hit me in the face. (I know it doesn't make sense logistically but, to be honest, the whole thing is a blur and this was the only way I could account for finding myself standing in a daze in the middle of the sidewalk with a hole in the sleeve of my sweatshirt and a face full of gate). That did hurt.
It's not a matter of balance or lack of coordination - I fall, get hit by trashcans, get caught on fences, and tend to lack coordination in general when I run merely because I'm constantly looking behind me. That's right, I live in a constant fear of being passed.
How would one develop such a strange and irrational fear? Take a step back with me to the fall/almost winter of 1995.
It's an early Saturday morning in a high school natatorium (aka indoor swimming pool). Can you smell the chlorine in the air? It's the Wabash River Conference (WRC) swimming tournament and the 200 freestyle is about to begin.
Being a swimmer was part of my identity in high school (and we all know how important identity is in high school) but I had a love/hate relationship with the sport.
I loved the practices and the hours spent swimming laps with my teammates - swim swim swim (turn) swim swim swim (turn) swim swim swim (turn). We were a small but dedicated group of girls, most of whom had been swimming together since we were 4 or 5 years old - bonding over pre-meet spaghetti dinners, hours of practice and an overall feeling that swimming was wholly under-appreciated by the school athletic department and by our peers (as was our yearly winning record, thank you very much).
The hate part came on the days of swimming meets....some people get excited by the anticipation of competition but I just remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach when it was time to step up to the block and start a race. I believe it all stemmed back to being 5 years old and getting disqualified at a summer swimming meet because I somehow inexplicably managed to unknowingly swim underneath a lane line and swim 1/2 the race practically on top of the girl in the next lane. I don't think I actually knew what "disqualified" meant at the time, but in my 5 year old mind it was a scary, scary word and it meant that I didn't get a pretty ribbon to put in my scrapbook for completing the race. I cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and swimming meets were never fun again.
Anyway, back to 1995 - it was my junior year and I was favored to win the 200 yard freestyle at the conference tournament. Judging by who was entered in the event and the times everyone they turned in up to that point in the season, the race appeared to be mine. As the buzzer went off and the race began I dove off the block with the pit of my stomach feeling in overdrive. I was in first place and remained in that position through the first lap, the second, the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh...but then came lap 8 (the last lap of the race). At that point the swimmer next to me in lane 4 (whose name I remember but will not reveal...although I do have to share that she was from Seeger High School because that simple fact will add a very real sense of tragedy to the story for anyone from the greater Attica area) suddenly and unexpectedly made her move.
I can still see that last lap in it's entirety - it's just the two of us swimming, everything is in slow motion and I'm pretty sure the music from Rocky is playing in the background (for her, not for me). In my memory it kind of looks like a "Hoosiers" moment, as the underdog comes from behind to defeat the unsuspecting favorite...unless, of course, you are the unsuspecting favorite, in which case it kind of sucked.
She breezed past me effortlessly (well, it looked effortless from my lane) and won the conference title (my title) in the 200 freestyle (my race).
I climbed out of the pool feeling a bit like the 6 year old Faith who didn't get her pretty ribbon.
So, in conclusion (and on the off chance you didn’t completely follow my always logical train of thought):
I fell while running this morning at the corner of Veich and Wilson because I was looking back to see if anyone was running behind me out of an irrational and uncontrollable fear of being passed, a fear stemming from having been passed on the last lap of the 200 yard freestyle (a race I was supposed to win - my race) 14 years ago by a girl from Seeger High School, who shall remain nameless.
It makes sense to me and I believe the swimmer in question owes me an apology for this morning's fall....as she does for all of my running falls... and for the trashcan and gate incidences as well.
The swimming official who made the disqualification call when I was six probably owes me an apology too (once I figure out which of my adult issues stems from that particular incident).
I barely ever fall when I walk - I can ride a bike without tipping over - I can't remember the last time I tripped on stairs - I convincingly balance my way through 2 or 3 weekly yoga sessions (even when I have to stand next to that guy who makes distracting grunting noises and smells funny) but when I run, any of the following could happen (have happened):
*Falling - I fall mid-run probably once a month on average - no, I don't trip on anything, I just fall. It's a little embarrassing but it doesn't usually hurt.
*Getting hit by random objects - I was once hit by a flying trashcan as the trashcarrier was throwing it back after dumping the contents into the garbage truck. It didn't hurt....much. At least it was empty.
*Getting caught - One time I ran too close to a gate in front of a row house and my sweatshirt sleeve got caught on the gate door. The door swung open and hit me in the face. (I know it doesn't make sense logistically but, to be honest, the whole thing is a blur and this was the only way I could account for finding myself standing in a daze in the middle of the sidewalk with a hole in the sleeve of my sweatshirt and a face full of gate). That did hurt.
It's not a matter of balance or lack of coordination - I fall, get hit by trashcans, get caught on fences, and tend to lack coordination in general when I run merely because I'm constantly looking behind me. That's right, I live in a constant fear of being passed.
How would one develop such a strange and irrational fear? Take a step back with me to the fall/almost winter of 1995.
It's an early Saturday morning in a high school natatorium (aka indoor swimming pool). Can you smell the chlorine in the air? It's the Wabash River Conference (WRC) swimming tournament and the 200 freestyle is about to begin.
Being a swimmer was part of my identity in high school (and we all know how important identity is in high school) but I had a love/hate relationship with the sport.
I loved the practices and the hours spent swimming laps with my teammates - swim swim swim (turn) swim swim swim (turn) swim swim swim (turn). We were a small but dedicated group of girls, most of whom had been swimming together since we were 4 or 5 years old - bonding over pre-meet spaghetti dinners, hours of practice and an overall feeling that swimming was wholly under-appreciated by the school athletic department and by our peers (as was our yearly winning record, thank you very much).
The hate part came on the days of swimming meets....some people get excited by the anticipation of competition but I just remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach when it was time to step up to the block and start a race. I believe it all stemmed back to being 5 years old and getting disqualified at a summer swimming meet because I somehow inexplicably managed to unknowingly swim underneath a lane line and swim 1/2 the race practically on top of the girl in the next lane. I don't think I actually knew what "disqualified" meant at the time, but in my 5 year old mind it was a scary, scary word and it meant that I didn't get a pretty ribbon to put in my scrapbook for completing the race. I cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and swimming meets were never fun again.
Anyway, back to 1995 - it was my junior year and I was favored to win the 200 yard freestyle at the conference tournament. Judging by who was entered in the event and the times everyone they turned in up to that point in the season, the race appeared to be mine. As the buzzer went off and the race began I dove off the block with the pit of my stomach feeling in overdrive. I was in first place and remained in that position through the first lap, the second, the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh...but then came lap 8 (the last lap of the race). At that point the swimmer next to me in lane 4 (whose name I remember but will not reveal...although I do have to share that she was from Seeger High School because that simple fact will add a very real sense of tragedy to the story for anyone from the greater Attica area) suddenly and unexpectedly made her move.
I can still see that last lap in it's entirety - it's just the two of us swimming, everything is in slow motion and I'm pretty sure the music from Rocky is playing in the background (for her, not for me). In my memory it kind of looks like a "Hoosiers" moment, as the underdog comes from behind to defeat the unsuspecting favorite...unless, of course, you are the unsuspecting favorite, in which case it kind of sucked.
She breezed past me effortlessly (well, it looked effortless from my lane) and won the conference title (my title) in the 200 freestyle (my race).
I climbed out of the pool feeling a bit like the 6 year old Faith who didn't get her pretty ribbon.
So, in conclusion (and on the off chance you didn’t completely follow my always logical train of thought):
I fell while running this morning at the corner of Veich and Wilson because I was looking back to see if anyone was running behind me out of an irrational and uncontrollable fear of being passed, a fear stemming from having been passed on the last lap of the 200 yard freestyle (a race I was supposed to win - my race) 14 years ago by a girl from Seeger High School, who shall remain nameless.
It makes sense to me and I believe the swimmer in question owes me an apology for this morning's fall....as she does for all of my running falls... and for the trashcan and gate incidences as well.
The swimming official who made the disqualification call when I was six probably owes me an apology too (once I figure out which of my adult issues stems from that particular incident).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
