Strange things are afoot at the Circle K

Dear God, what have I done?

You'd think...
...that it would be soothing to wake up to a classical music radio station. It's not. Classical music has no volume control; it's either blaring and bombastic or whispery quiet. You try to set the volume appropriately when you go to sleep but inevitably you end up jumping out of your skin at 7:15a.m. along with William Tell or your sleep through the alarm entirely to the sotto voce of Cavaleria Rusticana. Or you wake up to the obnoxiously un-soothing voice of the classical music DJs who couldn't be more condescending.

You wish...
...that you could have more times in your life when you could go swimming outside in a lake at dusk right at the moment when the air temperature changes so the air is cooler than the water and you're the closest you'll ever get to perfect homeostasis.

You'll wonder why...
...you decided to take kayaking lessons that necessitate swimming in the canal. Yeah, that's right, I swam in the canal. I'm reasonably confident that I now have a) an alien growing inside my chest, b) a budding third and possibly fourth nipple or c) the ability to glow in the dark. That said, I drank DC tap water for a good solid six years or so and seem to be fine. Or am I...

You speculate...
...that people would be just a little bit nicer to each other if they all had to listen to the opening strains of You Can't Always Get What You Want at the start of each morning.

You can't explain...
...your recent infatuation with R&B. I can't stop listening to that Mario song Let Me Love You. Pass the Courvoisier.

You can't wait...
...for the day when you stop being your jobs bitch.

Life in the fast lane

I: at the Comfort Inn in Pittsburgh, Kansas. The carpet: strangely sticky. How does a carpet, that otherwise does not appear to have any sort of substance stuck on it, be sticky? The bathroom: handicap accessible (flashback to senior year of college), meaning that there is no real boundary between the shower and the rest of the bathroom floor. There is, however, a lovely little seat that I tried to sit on in the shower that nearly broke my hip. I also forgot that the shower would shoot directly out into the middle of the bathroom floor once I turned it on. The bathroom floor: very, very wet, and most likely treacherous in three hours when I wake up to pee and forget earlier floor-soaking escapades. The "gym": cleaner than expected, points won. The treadmill: broken, points lost. Number of caffeinated beverages consumed today: 4 (which is alot for me). Number of bloody noses endured today: 1, Starbucks, Kansas City airport. Why can't airplanes put humidifiers on board? Is the technology honestly not up to snuff?

In other news, what in the world have I gotten myself into?

Standin' on a corner in Winslow, Arizona, such a fine sight to see

Last week, vacation, much of it a blur, but here are the highlights:

UNM Hospital Eye Clinic, Albuquerque, NM: Meanest doctor ever. May he rot in hell.

Water aerobics at the YMCA, Albuquerque, NM: My mother, me, and a pool full of octagenarians. The class? Taught by a man best described as the Navajo incarnation of Buddha himself, his breasts bouncing gently as the pool water lapped against his massive beach ball belly, leading his flock through kicks and twirls as the afternoon sun streamed through the vent shafts above. An oddly peaceful experience, I feel enlightened.

Grand Canyon, AZ: Europe can take it's fancy art and aarchitecture, its bars, its temples, and its massage parlors and shove it. No one does natural beauty like we do.

Albuquerque, NM: All the authentic Mexican food I can eat. I'm still trying to shake the last of a mean cheese hangover.

Hawk's Cay Resort, Duck Key, FL: The pina coladas weak, the siblings spoiled, and the smell of sulfur that won't be denied. This is how we are with family.

The Palms Hotel, South Beach, Miami, FL: No conditioner provided, what to do? Try some suntann oil. Result? A greasy head of hair that defies all conventional cleaning and styling products, and continues to plague.

Collins Avenue, South Beach, Miami, FL: A rash to rival all rashes. Walking progress halted immediately, but not before a homeless woman dropped trou and pissed all over the sidewalk directly in front of us. Did not see that one coming.

Nemo, South Beach, Miami, FL: Bad mojitos, terrific dinner. Few things in life rival a crusty bread dipped in a steaming bowl of mussles in a garlicky tomato broth. Parked illegally, no ticket.

Nikki Beach Cafe, South Beach, Miami, FL: Brunch on the beach, under palm trees, sand between the toes. A huevos rancheros frittata, challah french toast, and a mean basket of pastries. Possibly the highlight of the trip. Second instance of illegal parking, still no ticket.

Miami Convention and Visitor Center, Miami, FL: Unlocateable. WORST TOURIST CENTER EVER.

Miami Sequarium, Miami, FL:$25 admission. WORST AQUARIUM EVER.

The Biltmore Hotel, Coral Gables, Miami, FL: Beautiful. Why the hell didn't we stay there? Oh right, it's the Biltmore.

Sunset Place Shopping Mall, Coral Gables, Miami, FL: Dejected, and still with hours to kill before our flight, we surrender ourselves to the sanctuary of the movie theater to see The Interpreter. Sean Penn? Unable to overact, and thus terrible. Floor? Stickiest movie theater floor EVER.

Can we go home already?

Dulles International Airport, VA: We, shorts and flipflops. Weather? Cold and windy. Car? Possibly located in the blue lot. Possibly in the purple lot. A gamble if ever we've taken one. Thankfully it paid off.

And by the way, I did stand ona corner in Winslow, Arizona, and it was indeed a fine sight to see.

These are the days of the endless dancing, the true romancing

This is possibly the best time of the year to be in DC. The weather is stunning and the city reigns triumphant in its springtime majesty and splendor.

That said, I hate everything.

1) The tourists. The wintertime months of rain and frozen slush kept you away, but now you're back, your fanny packs bigger and better than ever, and arms legs and everything else akimbo just to get in my way. (We should use "akimbo" MUCH more frequently than is currently done.) The metro, the sidewalk in front of my office, the cab I wanted to hail. Great to see the seat of our nation's government, isn't it? Well, the government is big and corrupt and it doesn't care about you and your problems, so be gone with you.

2) The cherry blossoms. When are the countries of Asia going to give us something useful? Best I can tell, all we've gotten are fat lazy panda bears who, despite getting to watch porn all day long, refuse to mate and produce an heir, and cherry blossoms trees, those finicky bastards that just LOVE to blossom at any time except the stupid festival in their honor, and drive allergy sufferers haywire. Thanks for those, really. How about some free DVD players? And maybe a few hundred thousand people to drive rickshaws? I could definitely use more rickshaws. To cart all those tourists around and get them off the metro.

3) Metro sweats. Heightened by the presence of fat tourists, this lovely little inconvenience is also brought on with the onset of nice weather. I don't begrudge the warmth of the sun on my shoulders as I head off towards another day toiling under the fluorescent lights of my office, but I do begrudge the little dribble of sweat that starts to run down my back somewhere between Courthouse and Rosslyn. Come august, it's a veritable river, and I need a second shower by the time I get to work.

4) Pale gams. Metrosweats can be somewhat avoided by wearing skirts, as they promote positive air circulation. That said, skirts come with a problem of their own: my pale, pale legs. Homeless men take a break from their panhandling to laugh at me/avert their eyes lest I blind them. I hear that pale is the new black. Well that would be fantastic were it not for the fact that in addition to being pale, I'm splotchy. Of all that I could have inherited from my ancestors, fiery red hair, freckled cheeks, doe green eyes, I got splotchy pale skin. Any efforts to tan said skin increasingly result in immediate sunburning. Yeah that's right, all that damage you all have done to the Ozone layer with your aerosol hairspray (I'm looking at you, Steve-o), it all comes back to me.

5) Cupcakes. You haunt my dreams. I'm powerless to resist your charms. Today, I ate one nearly the size of my head, and have been feebly trying to stave off a diabetic coma ever since. I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

From your lips she drew the hallelulah...

Things Of Which I Currently Can't Get Enough:

1) Reading other people's blogs while not writing my own.
2) Charleston: The perfect blend of friendship, delightful delectables, and a faint whisper of racism. Ahhhhh...the South.
3) The Daily Show: Honestly, I would give Jon Stewart a kidney if he asked. No, I'd give him two, and then I'd go roof someone and give him their two as well. When the Daily Show is a rerun, it's like a small piece of me dies. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I feel totally unfulfilled. I can no longer absorb news from anywhere else. Except for Bill Hemmer. He's dreamy.
4) Fitting things in my car: Skis. Nightstands. Goats. 1000 pounds of cashews. You.
5) Risotto: The hushed awe when you mention that you prepared a successful one. The smell wafting through the wretched halls of your dorm-like apartment building.
6) Expensive skin products: They never work. Yet I continue to buy more, spend more. Most recent purchase baited me with catchy packaging that includes the word "Apothecary" on the front. Apothecaries know their stuff. This could be the one.
7) Mr. Brightside by the Killers: So 80s, so heroin chic, so disaffected adulthood.
8) Edamame: So hairy. So full of nutrition. Soon, I'll start having you for breakfast.
9) The Sea of Okhotsk: The double K. Gets me every time.

Things Of Which I Currently Can Get Enough:
1) I-95: You take without giving. We're in a big big fight.

I wanna touch you all over

Hello from the snowy peaks of Park City. I interrupt my blogging slumber to bring what I hope is an entertaining entry for you. The vacation is going swimmingly; the skiing is awesome (8 inches of fresh powder today), the hotel is fantastic, we end each day in the heated outdoor pool being served frosty beers by an adorable Aussie waiter...what more can you ask for? I thought to myself, "Self, what more can you do to make this vacation memorable?" I decided to get a massage. The first ever in my life. A stranger to all things decadent, I figured this was the moment to go for the gold and indulge myself.

I am a terrible candidate for a massage.

Here's why. (Reasons given in ascending order of contribution to this blog entry.) P.S. This is no offense to you Linda, really, I'm not sure you could have done anything any better than you did.

1) I can't relax. I am a big ball of tension all the time. Always looking, always judging, always worrying. You would think that someone like me would be a great candidate for a massage. Isn't that what massages are supposed to do? Relax you? Thus brings up the terrible paradox. I need the massage to relax, yet while I am in the massage, I can't relax. Why can't I relax? Read on.

2) I am too self-conscious. This manifests itself in two ways. I keep wondering through the entire thing what the masseuse thinks of me. I mean, honestly, she must see ten asses a day. Can you blame me for wondering how mine compares as she works my blubber around? Any self-respecting twenty something female would naturally feel the same way. Second, I am too self conscious to tell her when I want her to do something different, because I am afraid that little old me can't possibly know as much as she does about what's good for my achy muscles. I feel too self-conscious, in fact, to tell her that the hot stones she is currently using to work on my quad, while soothing and therapeutic, is in fact singing my leg hair.

3) I can't help but want to laugh at inappropriate times. This is the blogger's curse. Always on the lookout for something funny to write about, yet when said funny thing is encountered, you think about what you will later write, and laugh at it, failing to remember that you are still involved in the situation where others involved may not appreciate being laughed at for the sake of the five people who read your blog. A massage is rife with opportunity. You're naked and vulnerable. There's weirdo music playing that could be construed as easy listening K-lite 104.7 or, at times, the lead in to a porno. There's the fact that you end the massage as the human equivalent of a greased monkey. Towards the end, I was afraid of sliding off the table, out the door, down the hall, and into the cold, cold night. I still can't manage a door handle.

Perhaps the life of luxury just isn't for me...