Smelly Elliptical Man

Most of the time I'm ok. Most of the time, I avoid what has, on a few occasions, forced my face into a look of disgust for an entire evening... or longer. But tonight, I had no choice. I had no other option. If I wanted to stay at the gym and complete the workout that I had looked forward to all day, I had to do the unthinkable. I had to... it's almost too painful to relive... I had to work out next to... dun dun DUN... smelly elliptical man!

I've done it before, one time. But that was before I knew the horror. And I kid you not, it's pretty frickin' horrible. I've been camping, I know what normal body odor should smell like. This is beyond that times a really high number.

I arrived at the gym, some good country music on my ipod, just about ready to switch over to the dance genre, and I spotted him from the corner of my eye. A short little hairy man. Actually kind of cute. But looks are deceiving!

So I do my ladies room routine, take off my fleece, all that stuff. And I return to the cardio area. Prime time at the gym. God damn it. Not a treadmill or elliptical in sight, except, of course, the one free machine next to... dun dun DUN... smelly elliptical man!

I waited 10 frickin' minutes. Nothing. Oh god, I thought. Not again. Please, god, no. I'll do anything. I'm sorry I curse. I'm sorry I'm not a good little Catholic girl anymore. And I'm really sorry I organized a family karaoke party on the day of your son's resurrection, the holiest of all holy days! But why this? Did I really deserve this?

Reluctantly, I boarded my machine for what was sure to be 30 minutes of grimacing. And it was, no doubt. I tried to distract myself with some Cher, a little Madonna, DJ Sammy. But I couldn't stop the waves of his god-awful scent from filling my nostrils. I thought, well maybe he's European. Perhaps. Maybe he can't afford deodorant.

But you know, after all my over-analysis of this incredibly smelly man, I took a closer look. And he was smiling. Very jolly guy. And despite the fact that he could clear a room after five minutes on a cardio machine, he was loving his life. And then I thought, good for him! Wouldn't want to share the sauna with you, but, smelly elliptical man, you keep smiling. Be proud of who you are. 'Cause you know what, even though I'd rather hang out in the elephant pen of the National Zoo in the dead of August than be next to you in the elliptical line on a cool spring day, you rock. Amen.

The Simple Life

I was speaking with my cousin the other day over instant messenger. For the sake of anonymity, let's call her "Lana."

We started reminiscing about the good 'ole days growing up on our grandparents' lake. Playing regular hide and seek. Then playing our suped up version of hide and seek (which was pretty intense) and inventing all kinds of things. As Lana recalled our genius idea to sell skipping rocks, I was reminded of how simple life had been.

We were probably between the ages of 8 and 15, collectively, at the time of these adventures. We created a club called the BDC (I will not reveal what those letters stood for as I took an oath). We had club colors, and a club song. We - my cousin, my sister (whom I shall call "Schmadri") and I - were the primary members. Occasionally, we'd let in an "honorary member" such as my grandfather or Sister Whatshername. Yes, there were nuns in my childhood. Lots of them.

We conducted intellectual experiments such as bug collection and classification. I don't remember what book we used to "classify" the bugs, but there was definitely a system, no doubt.

Our advanced version of hide and seek included a series of clues, each one leading to the next until you found the hiding BDC member. This took a great deal of patience on the part of the hidden person, believe me. Those games would last a loooooong time. I remember one game when my grandmother was a special "real life" clue. She got a kick out of it. And so did we.

We had planned to sell drinks at a slightly cheaper rate than my grandfather's restaurant. The concept of putting him out of business of course never crossed our minds. We were just proud that we thought of the idea.

And the skipping rocks? Apparently Lana had a bag full of them, which we individually tested for smooth and long-lasting skipping capabilities. Our slogan - "Pre-tested. Guaranteed to skip." Who in their right mind wouldn't buy something with that solid of a guarantee?

We had it made. Those summers were some of my most fun times ever. And then we grew up.

I've been thinking a lot about the complication of everyday life, now that I'm older. What changed? Was there a turning point? How did I go from selling rocks to paying rent? How did I go from feeling free and secure... to feeling free and really really worried?

Recently, I've come to realize that it is useless to stress about things out of my control. And that's really comforting. I've been able to let go of a lot. And my body feels calmer.

But I can't escape the fact that life is frickin' complicated now! Back in the day, there was no rent. There was no "life plan." There were no relationship issues, no long-distance friendships, no deadlines, no major heartaches...

I would eat Cookie Crisp for breakfast and mac n cheese mixed with Chef Boyardee for lunch. Diets? Never heard of 'em.

We would dive for golf balls in the lake, over by the golf course. The concept of tan lines wasn't even a thought. Just good clean fun. Oh, and an occasional angry man in pastel plaid.

I wish I had some great conclusion, but I don't. I guess life changes, and we change with it. Lana, Schmadri and I grew up, at least a little. :) We have a new bond now. We are the young women of the family. It's an exclusive membership. And we pretty much still rule. For real.

Love Notes? Or God Notes?

I write this post with some hesitation - not because of what I will say, but more because, in doing so, I will have to admit that I listen to "Love Notes" on the local soft rock station. Yes! It's true! I like soft rock! Please don't judge me.

Anyway, after rockin' out to some quality Bryan Adams, Delilah, who is the host of "Love Notes," interjects with an on-air interview. You all know Delilah, I know you do! I am NOT the only one. That soft, melodious, reassuring voice... haha. Little did I know that she had an agenda.

A woman calls in with, of course, a dedication. She wants to send a song to her husband because their marriage is falling apart. She says that her husband is never home. He's always out with the guys. He comes home very late and he's always drunk. He doesn't spend enough time with his wife and their young child.

Sad, right? You know what Delilah's advice is? Pray. Yep, pray. These are rough times, she says. But surround yourself with people who love you, see a counselor if you can, wait... and pray. He'll grow up. It'll get better. I'm like, what the f***?

Keep in mind I had just listened to Goodbye Earl on my way home, so I'm in a completely different frame of mind. Praying is great, don't get me wrong, but I think there are some other, possibly more effective, solutions. At least she got the word "counselor" in there.

During the same broadcast, in between some Shania Twain and some classic Phil Collins, she comments that she is here for us to find "our path" and our meaning in life. How do you wake up in the morning? What do you live for? Live for HIM. I'm thinking, for who, exactly?

Upon further research on her Website, I learn that she's not so much an outward religious fanatic, but rather somewhat closeted. A 16 year old girl wrote in, asking what do because she was pregnant and she was scared. Delilah's first tidbit of advice, "Take care of that baby!" Seek medical attention, and then decide if you want to consider an adoption service. I'm thinking, yes, adoption is wonderful, but there are other options - other "choices" - before that step. And this girl needs to at least be presented with them.

I have no problem with God. In fact, this past year, I've found great inspiration in the music of Yolanda Adams and Kirk Franklin, who, by the way, is a self-proclaimed Jesus freak. I'm not against spirituality. I'm just against the misrepresentation of choices, and the truth.

But I still support soft rock.

There She Is, Your Ideal

What does it mean to be a princess? Is it a good thing? Or a bad thing? Does it mean you are of a noble class, a lady? Or does it mean you are of the spoiled kind, a pompous brat? Why do little girls want to be princesses? Is it because they want to feel special and adored? Or is it because they just... want?

Odd questions, especially coming from me. I was a tomboy and a nerd (actually I prefer the term "dork" because there is, at least, some element of cuteness there). I played with legos and blocks. I liked the occasional stuffed animal. But Barbie? Ewwwwww. And princesses? Um, yeah, no.

So, 20 years later, I'm walking to work. It's a great spring morning. I get my coffee and yogurt loaf and I'm about to enter my building. Then I hear the popular DC sound of sirens. Police cars. The motorcade. Again. I'm a little curious, and not in a huge rush, so I stop. Is it Cheney? I hope not! I'm wearing my camouflage bag and I forgot my bullet proof vest today.

No! It's not Cheney! It's not Rumsfeld. It's not Dumbshit. It's... the Cherry Blossom Princesses? Holy crap, it's totally the Cherry Blossom Princesses. In a bus that says, appropriately, "United States Cherry Blossom Princesses."

FYI, according to the National Conference of State Societies Website, "the Cherry Blossom Princess Program is a weeklong cultural and educational opportunity for young women from across the U.S. and around the world. Women between the ages of 19 and 23 are chosen by the 50 state and 5 territory societies and the international embassy community for their leadership, academic achievements, interest in social, civic, community and world affairs... the Princess Program continues to spawn women of accomplishment."

Haha... spawn.

Anyway, it's like Miss America invades DC. Miss American dignitaries. Women "leaders" who are told to wear certain attire, certain colors. They all look the same. They all promote an image. They are our "role models." Role models in high heels and pastel gowns. Ha. The next Laura Bush? Condi Rice? Actually both of those women would be honored by the plastic hair styles.

Well, who am I to judge? I am friends with a former CBP, and she rocks. Shout out to Oregon.

But is this the image we really want to give our children?

I have a friend who is getting married and she refuses to be treated like a princess, even though we all insist she deserves it. No special treatment though. No silly crowns. No extra attention. Got it, ok. But in this case, I want to treat her like a princess. The good kind.

It's funny how we can accept something's good qualities and ignore the bad ones. I want to be a princess! But not in any bad way, of course. I will be a "good princess." A Princess Diana princess, if you will. But how do we separate? Maybe we just shouldn't judge at all. Who knows, maybe underneath all the hairspray and pastel there lies a princess who will change the world with a radical thought. Or maybe she'll just wave and make all the little girls smile. Or hurl. You know, whatever.

Stressing about Paper

What do you stress about? Oh, excuse me, about what do you stress?

Obviously, grammar would be one of my answers. Ha.

Lately, though, it’s been very refreshing to realize one simple thing – it is useless to stress over things that are out of my control.

In any given situation, I’m starting to consciously think, “Ok, what can I realistically change here? What do I want to change, or have the right to change?” Turns out that most times it comes down to ME. That’s it. I can’t change what someone says or how someone is acting towards me. What I can do is perhaps choose to leave the situation … or change the way I allow myself to feel and react to it.

In this crazy high-anxiety world, there is a tremendous peace in that.

It used to really stress me out when coworkers didn’t put the whole ream of paper in the printer. The point of a ream of paper is that it’s made to fit perfectly in the printer drawer. Just the right amount of paper. Sure, it looks like too much. But it’s not. Just put the whole damn thing in there, people. I swear to god it will fit. And you’ll be a lot happier because you won’t have an awkward extra bunch of sheets lying around.

That’s a perfect example of how my mind used to work. OCD. Scary. I know.

But now, even though I still support using the full ream, I know that I can’t change the way other people feel about it. What I can do is maybe add the sheets myself, if I feel so inclined. Or I can send out an email to the team enlightening them of my ream knowledge. But if they don’t care, what can I do?

I know reams of paper are not that important. But my other option for an example was “fear of death” and how we shouldn’t stress about dying because we have no control over it and can’t prove one way or another whether it’ll be good or bad. But, it’s a Friday, so I went with the ream thing.

Happy New Year

To all of my good friends, family and, yes, even the random mean guy who sends me nasty comments, Happy New Year.

New Year’s kind of baffles me to be honest. It’s just another night… and then another day. But, for some reason, we use it as an excuse to “start over” … to make the imminent New Year’s resolution. It’s funny how we need that. How we need to feel like everything has an end, and therefore a new beginning. The thought of trudging through life without certain periods ending and beginning is almost unbearable to us. We think, great! New Year’s is here! 2005 is over! 2006 is here! And, oh the possibilities…

Possibility is a great thing, don’t get me wrong. But it’s the build-up that gets to me. The expectations. We quite literally count down to a moment that is just like the moment where we started.

It’s supposed to be a magic “poof” kind of moment. Out with the old and in with the new! But, you know what? It’s still me.

So I wish everyone not only a Happy New Year, but a Happy Right Now and a Happy Forever.

Do you get my point? I’m not really sure I do. In any case, it was nice to see Dick Clark up and working again.

A Bit Better

I saw Santa Clause this morning.

A man about six feet tall, wearing big boots and a red puffy jacket, sporting a white beard and a wind-burned nose, walked past me as I rounded the corner of 19th and K streets. He was jolly looking. A slight belly and a delicate grin. Almost a smirk. And we made eye contact, at which point his smirk blossomed into one of the most comforting smiles I’ve ever seen.

Now I’ve never been a huge proponent of the merit of “signs,” but this one struck me. In a city where few barely look up and where everyone seems to be in a constant rush, a sincere look can touch you, and can make you stop.

I actually turned around and watched him walk in the opposite direction for a few seconds. And then he magically disappeared into thin air. Just kidding! I don’t think he was really Santa Clause, but I swear to you he resembled him. Maybe he was an elf, like the ones in the mall.

In any case, that moment reminded me that a simple gesture can change someone’s day, perhaps even unknowingly.

Emerson...

To laugh often and much,
to win respect of intelligent people
and the affection of children,
to earn the appreciation of honest critics
and endure the betrayal of false friends,
to appreciate beauty,
to find the best in others,
to leave the world a bit better
whether by a healthy child,
a garden patch, or a
redeemed social condition,
to know even one life
has breathed easier
because you have lived.
This is to have succeeded.

Around the corner

I've decided to stop being a complete slacker... more posts to come. ASAP... by COB. :)

Disposal Cheese

I just realized that my disposal has a name. You know, the disposal, as in the thing that chops up all the food you don't want and flushes it down your drain. Yeah, mine is called, "The Insinkerator."

You too can become great

Person 1: I went to the concert last week.
Person 2: Oh, you too?
Person 1: You were there?
Person 2: No, why do you ask?
Person 1: You asked if I was also there, as if you were there too.
Person 2: No I didn't.
Person 1: Yes, you did.
Person 2: Let's just forget it. I'm tired.
Person 1: Me too.
Person 2: So, you too?
Person 1: Yeah man, why do you keep asking me if I'm also something that you are? It's really annoying.
Person 2: Dude, you need to chill.
Person 1: Oh yeah???
Person 2: Yeah!
Person 1: Well so do you!
Person 2: YOU TOO!

And so U2 continues to create controversy and incite deep thought... both on a bigger political level and on a very personal one, such as above.

Ha. Point? U2 makes you think. At least they made me think. My seat was in the upper level of the MCI center, to the left of the band. I could still see Bono well enough to be completely moved and affected by the music, which seemed to fill the stadium and rise above the distractions that dared to present themselves... such as the drunk people a few rows in front of me. How can you have a loud drunken conversation during "One?" Seriously... it's like using your cell phone in church. Disgraceful. Oh well. It's all good. After all, we've got to carry eachother... carry eachother.

Ok, so I got a little "into" the concert. But it was U2! Not only can they still completely rock out, but they have a higher purpose. Some say it was a little over the top, a little cheesy. Well, I say bring on the cheese! What's wrong with a little cheese when you're promoting human rights and an end to poverty? What's wrong with a little cheese when you're fighting for what should be such a simple concept? I say the cheesier the better. Well, except if you're lactose intolerant. Then you might want to take it easy on the cheese. But you get the idea. Take some lactaid and rock on.

Together, we can end malaria in Africa. We can support a greater effort for human rights for ALL people. We can end poverty and disease everywhere! We can all COEXIST.Yahweh, Mohammed and Jesus... together again. Sunday Bloody Sunday? No more! Peace to all my brothers and sisters of the earth! Screw Hillary. Bono and Edge 2008!

Haha, ok, so through my sarcasm I hope you can see that I also admit to a slight "over the top" element. However, you have to give them credit. You have to admit that their campaign is a noble one. And, without idealists and social activists, where would we be? Sometimes we need to be inspired, to be challenged. End malaria in Africa? Is he for real? Well, according to Bono, it's possible. So maybe you look into it. Maybe you go to onecampaign.org and look around. Maybe you sign the petition for human rights. Maybe you give some money. Maybe one kid, just one kid, in Africa doesn't die because he had the right medicine. Maybe you feel good about that. Maybe you let an old man take your seat on the Metro. Maybe you go to work on Monday with a better understanding that the world is not just in your five mile radius. Maybe this knowledge calms you down with a deeper sense of what is real. Maybe that calm actually causes you to smile.

Idealist? Maybe. Did Bono have lunch with W the day of the concert. Yep. Did I eat too much bad stadium food that night? Oh yeah. So nothing's perfect. But a little inspiration never hurt anybody. I'm a cheeseball, what can I say.