I’m Outdoorsy, I Swear

I’m having a hard time typing. Why, you ask? Because I fell. And my left hand is in a splint.

I wish I could say it was a tragic incident. Like, for example, I risked my own life scaling the side of a building trying to save an old lady from certain death. But no. It comes down to a simple tale of inappropriate footwear.

It was a gorgeous day. We were walking to the zoo. There was a trail. Oh fun! A trail, I said. I’m outdoorsy. Not a problem.

About five steps into this “trail,” my flip-flops decided that they no longer needed to carry me upright. And down I went. Right on my hand. Sunglasses and pride shattered, I sat for a good two minutes, trying to conceal the tears. And the nausea.

Now, I’ve experienced a good deal of trails. Hell, I’ve bouldered the sides of mountains. I’ve waded through flooded valleys. I’ve even hiked Tasmania. And this is the “trail” that defeats me?

If I was with my mother or my best friend, I think I might have milked it a little more. Or been more realistic. But I was with a guy. The guy I’m dating. Who, I might add, is very athletic. So what did I do? I gave myself those two minutes, and then I said, on to the zoo! I’m fine! What? There is blood streaming down my leg? Whatever. It’s fine! I'm an independent and strong woman, who, despite a possible broken wrist and a small gash on my leg, is totally and completely FINE.

I toughed it out for more than four hours. That is how “tough” I am.

Despite the throbbing pain, it was a great four hours.

However, the next day, after a precautionary trip to the ER, I realized both the silliness of pride… and the importance of ice packs.

Golf Elbow

I went to the driving range yesterday. It was a very pleasant early morning bucket o' balls, let me tell you. The wind was soft. The sun was warm. I was hungover, but it didn't matter. It was the beginning of the nicest day in DC this spring.

Now I am not what you would call a "golfer." I took summertime lessons at my grandfather's country club when I was little, but that was many years ago. I was decent at the time, but I didn't give it my all. You see, I always hated the pretension of "The Club." Little people with plaid pants and flipped collars. Yuk. Give me an ice cream cone, that's what I'd be saying. A firecracker, perhaps? Any sort of sweet treat would do.

But I did love diving for golf balls in the lake. It was far more entertaining than the golfing itself. You could paddle boat over to the cove, dive in the shallow water and see who among you could snatch the most balls. And then you'd race back for another ice cream cone. Oh, wait. That might have been just me. In any case, golfing was never "my thing."

Until recently.

I've learned that everything in life is exactly what you make of it. I'm not going to let some future investment banker with a flipped collar tell me that golfing is pretentious. Not anymore!

Golfing is fun for me now. And I'm excited to get better at it. I've already mastered the sand wedge, so there's really not too much else I need to learn. No doubt, by the end of summer, I'll be on a tour. Augusta National? Piece of cake.

Now if I could just get rid of this golf elbow. [Side note: I looked it up. It's like tennis elbow, but it's called "golf elbow" because you get it after you've "golfed." Tricky.] Once I'm healed, it's back to the range. Watch out Tiger Woods. Watch out little Asian prodigy whose name I can't remember. Here I come.

Busy Week, Excellent Friday

This has been probably one of the busiest weeks of my life. Monday through Thursday were jam packed not with jam (although that would be fantastic) but with several events, both for work and play.

It was a great week though. Wouldn't trade it for anything. And the cherry on top is my day off today. I woke up in the best place in the world and felt comfort and peace in the absence of a plan. The day is mine. I could do nothing. I could do everything.

Only a few hours have past and, after an unfortunately necessary trip to the office for my sneakers (I feel a lot better now that I have them in my possession again), I have done two loads of laundry, ran the dishwasher, went grocery shopping and made a delicious tomato soup.

It's a rainy day here in DC. Tomato soup seemed appropriate. I have to say, it's the best tomato soup I've ever encountered. And I've encountered my fair share, let me tell you.

Now, in keeping with my "lack of plan, this is a day for me" strategy, I am going to lay down and let myself doze in and out to the melodious voice of Paula Deen (of "Paula's Home Cooking" on the Food Network if you didn't know). It's my little guilty pleasure. She just made a homemade mac 'n cheese that makes me want to jump right through my TV screen. She's the best. I love her uninhibited use of butter and cream. And she makes me feel accepted, in a very maternal way. I'd like to give her a hug, I'm not going to lie.

Sorry to ramble. But I hope it proves the point that a lazy, plan-less day is sometimes the perfect end to a hectic week.

Smuckers

So I bought some jelly the other day. I'm trying to calm my addiction to the muffins at 7-11 by forcing myself to eat a breakfast of toast with cream cheese and jelly. Just seems healthier. One muffin a week. That is my new rule. Sorry, 7-11. I know I've been a valuable and loyal customer for several months now.

After perusing the condiment aisle at the IGA with careful thought, I finally decided on the Smuckers Simply Fruit. Turns out, it's quite delicious, not overly sweet. Good stuff.

I was looking at the bottle this morning, and, because of extremely effective marketing, their slogan instantly came to mind. "With a name like Smuckers, it has to be good."

Then I thought, does it? Does it really?

We all think of little cute children eating jam. Smuckers = little cute children.

But without the visual picture of the adorable TV commercial kids, I have to say that Smuckers could be something very horrible. Smuckers rhymes with suckers. Which reminds of an alien with tentacles. At the end of each tentacle is what I call a "sucker." These creatures, in the demented world that is my brain, are called "Smuckers."

Watch out! The Smuckers are coming! They don't just suck, they "smuck." I haven't defined what smucking is, but don't you agree it could be horrible? Who wants to be smucked? No one. That's who.

New slogan: "With a name like Smuckers, you better run the hell away."

FYI, this man is an alien if I've ever seen one. Check it out.

Holy Thursday, Batman!

I went to Catholic school for more than 16 years. Yes, it's true.

Surprisingly true, in fact. Sometimes it shocks me how anti-Catholic I can be. I seem to be a paradox when it comes to religion.

When they taught me about morals and values, I was listening. But bread turning into the body? Huh? We don't accept gay people? Women can't be priests, even if they follow the same rules? The pope man is infallible? Whoa! Rising from the dead? Mindless recitation of words written by humans? Passing the basket? Homilies about spaghetti dinners?

Don't get me wrong, I love spaghetti, but sermons about pasta don't exactly reach my inner soul.

Yet, at the same time, I love gospel music. I love stories about faith that turns people's lives around. I love the sign of peace. I love service for others. I love thinking about how I'm blessed, or lucky. And I love how a prayer's sole purpose can be to wish someone else something good (whether there are magical powers that make it happen remains a mystery to me, but the intention itself is powerful).

So, how does such a confused Catholic celebrate Easter week? Well, I am drinking a beer right now. Jesus had wine, so I figure that's ok. I wished a few friends and family members a "Holy Thursday, Batman!" And I'm listening to the soundtrack to Jesus Christ, Superstar. Don't do it, Judas! Something tells me this will not turn out well!

Jackie Chan

Last night, I awoke at 4 am to the sound of the loudest thunderstorm that ever existed. It was so loud that I resorted to my trusty earplugs reserved only for upstairs neighbor noises. Now they have two purposes: loud upstairs neighbors and crazy thunderstorms.

Usually I like thunderstorms. They tend to be peaceful in a weird way. The rain pounding on my window. The roar of the thunder. The comfort of being inside, under covers, in the midst of a violent war amongst the angels and demons. Wait, that was a flashback to grade school and the nuns. Sorry.

In any case, I did fall back to sleep and woke up to the sound of my alarm at 6:20. Not the best feeling in the world, but hey, I'm committed to my morning gym routine. So I stumble over to the WSC and sleepily discuss the night's storm with my friends at the front desk.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: "Dude, that thunderstorm was insane last night!"
Gym Woman: "Yeah, that was craaaaazy!"
Me: "It was so loud."
Gym Man: "I could barely believe it. I was like, Is that Jackie Chan? What's Jackie Chan doin' outside my window? You know what I'm sayin?"
Gym Woman: "Haha. Jackie Chan!"
Gym Man: "You know. I was like, what's that? Is that Jackie Chan?"
Gym Woman: "Straight up! Hahaha. Jackie Chan."
Me: (Awkward Laughter) "Haha. Yeah... Ok then. Catch you guys later."

Now, let me ask you. What does Jackie Chan have to do with thunderstorms? Am I missing something? I mean, I know he's a martial arts guru. He's very talented, been in several movies. But, does he make thunderous noises? Does lightning come out of his head? Really, I have no idea. It was so random to me. In my sleepy haziness, I just had to politely nod and walk away. Just walk away, I said. Uncomfortable laugh, and get out of there. So that's what I did. And that was the end of that.

If you have any insight to the correlation between thunderstorms and Jackie Chan, feel free to share.

Idealistic Cynic

Yes. It's true. I am an idealist.

I'm sorry if I offended anyone with my previous post. As you can tell, I'm not a fan of the current administration. But let me be very clear in saying that I support our troops wholeheartedly. And, when it comes right down to it, I'm not sure I'd be loving John Kerry either. As my grandfather would say, "They're all crooks."

In the end, I simply hate it when people suffer. And sometimes I get overwhelmed by that emotion. I want the world to be a happy place, one where everyone helps their fellow man and one where we don't shoot people with guns. One where people are accepted for their differences. One where people don't have to drink diseased water. One where there is no desire to be better than each other, only to be with each other. One where there is no hate. One where nobody dies. Ever. And unicorns and fairies frolic about distributing chocolate pudding to everyone. And if you want whipped cream, you can have it. And if you are lactose intolerant, there is a soy option. And it's sunny every day of your endless and eternally happy life.

See where I'm going with this?

Although my idealistic side dominates, I often come to the unfortunate conclusion that idealism is very far from realism. People can be greedy and narcissistic. And, the more I realize this, the more cynical I become. And depressed. I start to crave pudding. And then I think of the magical pudding delivery system in my head and I smile again... it's a vicious cycle.

Dear Mr. President

I have said that I would stay away from politics. And I have. I don’t think this is an exception, although some of you may feel that it is. A friend of mine sent this video to me last week and I can’t seem to get it out of my head, nor off of my computer screen. No matter on which “side of fence” you sit, please listen.

Every so often, the state of world overwhelms me. This morning, as I sat on the bus on my way to work, I saw a homeless woman pushing a shopping cart up a hill. She could barely move it. And no one helped her. I read an article in the Post about a soldier who died in Iraq. Only his story was a speck of print among the bigger stories of the day.

I don’t have all the answers, or any answers for that matter. I guess all we can do is spread the love. And we can hope that our daily acts of kindness, although small, will start a chain of goodwill, leading right up to the top. We just have to be careful when get up there. Dick Cheney likes to shoot people with guns.

Internet

For as much as I complain about spam, I realized over these past few weeks how much the Internet means to me.

You see, one fateful day a few weeks ago, a Comcast man called me at work. He explained that he was updating something and that I needed to come home so that he could reconnect my cable. As I was at work, I was unable to go home right that second. What ensued was a series of events inexplicable even for me. Something about wires.

Anyway, my Internet was out for what felt like years. I would come home from work and stare aimlessly into my desktop. I played some solitaire. I tried to read a book. I tried to watch public access television. I even made a pizza.

My life became different. I can't say it was all bad. I mean, the pizza was really good. I ate it right the heck up.

I went to bed earlier too. And I got to work in plenty time, unable to be distracted by morning cnn.com checks, iTunes downloads and mindless MySpace searching.

But something was missing. I felt disconnected from the world.

I thought a lot about this, wondering if my dependency on the Internet is a bad thing. Does it mean that I'm losing a desire for actual human contact? That I would prefer to type rather than talk? Or that my eyesight will deteriorate faster than normal?

The answers to those questions are decidedly "no." Well, I'll have to wait on the eyesight thing. But other than that, I think I keep in touch with friends and family more than a lot of people. And the Internet is what helps me do it. It also helps me stay on top of my job, world events, local happenings and, lest we forget, college basketball.

And I seem to strike a healthy balance. I love doing fun things and being outside. But how can I plan a trip to Great Falls without checking weather.com first? In a sense, the Internet helps me do more things away from it than within it. Deep thought of the day. It's good to be back online.

If you're just getting into the Internet, welcome. Here is a clip that may help you get acclimated.

Assumption

My mother, in her infinite wisdom, always told me that, "to assume was to make an ass of U. M. E." Get it? Like, "you and me?" What you're doing is taking apart the word assume and creating the phrase, "ass U. M. E.," which is not good, according to my mother. In any case...

Besides the fact that I thought it was cool that my mom cursed in front of me (she started saying that when I was about five), it turned out to be good advice.

We assume things every second of every day. I assume that if someone sneezes on me I will get sick. I assume that if someone with work clothes gets off of my bus in the morning at a certain stop they are going to the shelter for breakfast. I assume that if someone is snippy with me they don't like me. And apparently I assumed that Viagra spam emails actually came from Viagra.

To assume is dangerous. Some assumptions are innocent and merely create a little confusion. But some can be worse. Some can perpetuate a stereotype or a prejudice. Do you assume all Mexicans are lazy? Or that all gay men like Cher? Neither is true, FYI.

This past weekend I was sitting in a group of people and we were discussing someone else's recent strange behavior. This other person was not present. The group think bandwagon was in full force that night and, before I knew it, factual conversation turned to nasty gossip.

All of sudden, one participant blurted out, "You know guys, maybe there is something going on in her life that we don't know about."

And it made me stop. She was right. I was assuming that I knew the facts, but why would I? How could I? I had started to judge. And I had started to talk badly about someone who very well could be in a sad spot right now. Shame on me.

I can safely say that not a single person in my life knows every fact about me, so how can I be so presumptuous about other people? We only know what we know. Instead of getting angry, judging or assuming things about people, we should instead be open to learning more. Reach out and ask. Don't assume. Just care. Why is that so hard? Perhaps we feel threatened by what we don't know, or what may seem unusual.

I'm going to make more of an effort in my assumptions. However, I will still be annoyed when people sneeze on me. That's just gross.