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Thursday, May 29, 2003
Cardinal virtue
An e-conversation today with Friend Bob wherein he complained of carpal tunnel like symptoms (turns out to be more likely cubital tunnel syndrome though) made my own carpal tunnel-y wrist ache, so I fashioned an impromptu wrist-rest out of a Beanie Baby bird that normally perches atop my monitor. Since I use a PC, it is a tad ironic that the bird in question is called Mac the Cardinal.
And yes, when Bob told me about cubital tunnel syndrome, hitherto unknown to me, I made the requisite "Ri-i-i-i-i-ght. What's a cubital?" response.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
4:24 PM
Rolling Blunder
Memorial Day in Washington DC means, among other things, a marked increase in motorcycle traffic, because of the annual Rolling Thunder event to raise POW/MIA awareness (I hope I got that right.) This makes one, well me anyway, extra-cautious on the road, lest I inadvertently piss off a guy and his Harley, causing him to punch my car in retaliation. Last night I found myself behind an older biker couple riding double. The graying ponytails poking out from their helmets and the facial wrinkles I could see reflected in the extra-large side view mirror did little to allay my fear of inadvertent pissing-off and subsequent car-punching so I kept a respectful distance for a mile or two. Then I noticed something: the entire time that I followed them up several miles of straight road they had their turn signal on.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:42 PM
Playing ketchup
Right, nobody panic. I'm here. Excuse my recent silence; nothing dire or drastic is afoot; I merely took an impromptu blog break. Here's some catchup stuff to make up for lost time:
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
3:10 PM
Vaya con queso
The lady behind the counter at the snack bar at my office building will look at you disapprovingly and shake her head "no" if you ask for a grilled cheese sandwich. Fair enough, it's not actually on the menu. But I learned today that if you order the cold cheese sandwich that is on the menu and ask her to pop it in the toaster oven for a few minutes before serving it to you, she'll do so. Cheerfully. Too bad they have plain toast on the menu. I'd love to go all Jack Nicholson on her one time and order it like he did in Five Easy Pieces.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
1:58 PM
A mystery wrapped in an enigma surrounded by a plastic bag
Ok, who, I say who buys up 100 copies of Sunday papers (that's $150 worth to you and me) and only takes the inserts? No, wait. I want to know why. I just sifted through the stuff in the packet of inserts I managed to cop at the third store I went to and I find no contest game piece nor anything else that seems worth having a hundred of. At least a hundred of, I should say. There were two other stores between the first and second I hit that may well have been visited by the Mad Insert Snapper-Upper. Anybody out there have an idea?
Let's save the who question for who at the two stores I went to that had sold 50 copies apiece to the same person and let them just take the bits they wanted thought that was a good idea? If I were Sandra Giant Food or Sandra Eckerd Drug, the rule would be "You buy 100 papers, you take 100 papers." That way I wouldn't have to spend the rest of they day answering the same question over and over with "No, none of the copies have inserts. Someone bought them all." The cashier at Eckerd did say I could just take a copy of the remaining news and features sections for free, so at least they weren't going for a double profit.
Truth be told, I was after the inserts as well, for my own reasons. Oh, I scan the front page and check out the Style section but my quality time is spent with the magazine (crossword puzzle, Below the Beltway and Dave Barry, baby!), the comics and the TV Guide. Heck, I even glance through freaking Parade. So a Sunday paper without inserts, free or not, simply will not do.
Oh, I hear what you're saying. "Home delivery, Sandra. Seriously, check it out." Matter of fact, I did get Sunday-only home delivery until a few months ago, when my deliveryhuman sent two letters, one announcing that he was giving up the route and another telling me that my account was cancelled due to non-payment. Wha-hunh? Dude, I mailed a check, after it went unclaimed when taped to my front door. If you climbed the stairs instead of flinging the paper uphill you would have found it. I have a sneaking suspicion that insufficient tippage, and not insufficient funds, was to blame. Whatever. Since it's so easy for me to just pick up a copy of the Sunday Post in person -- usually -- and in fact it gives me a reason to leave the house, I haven't been in too much of a hurry to check with the bank to see if the check was cashed and argue my case with the fine folks at the Post's circulation desk.
After today's adventure? I'm in a hurry.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:01 PM
Tired and true
This time of year plays havoc with my sleep. I don't know if it's the loss of an hour in April or the unstable weather changes or just the inevitable effects of spring, but I find myself struggling to stay awake in the afternoon while longing for quitting time and the chance for a quick after-work nap, only to get home and remain up and about until past midnight. Eventually this catches up to me and I do crash early, like I did last night. How tired was I? I fell asleep while watching The Full Monty.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:55 PM
Viva Zapatos
This lunch hour I stopped by the shoe store at the mall in search of warm weather footwear. I found 3 darling pairs of sandals in black, brown and red. I also found that shoe store carpeting has some anesthetic effect on one's feet, although it might possibly be that the freebie footies are impregnated with Novocain. See, my foot problems dictate that I always try on both shoes in a pair and take an extended walk around the store in them. Did that today. Verdict: Comfy. I elected to change into one newly-purchased pair before leaving the store, as the sandals I had worn in were worn out. By the time I had crossed the street back to the office I had changed my verdict to Will Be Comfy When Broken In. Perhaps it was the harder flooring surfaces or the fact that I was actually walking rather than mincing around a store with limited floor space, but in any event the spots where the strap rubbed against my foot were rosy red. They're all leather shoes and so will conform to my will and to my foot shape eventually so I'm not worried. I just wonder why those things are never apparent when you try on the things in the store.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:27 PM
100% Perspiration
Sunday was my third improv class workshop show. Of the three I've done, this was the smoothest (if not necessarily the funniest) but sadly it played to the smallest crowd, around 25 people watching 8 of us. Stupid Mothers Day. Of course, the show would have been scheduled for the week before had it not been for stupid Easter.
I had worried a little about this particular class' ability to work together cohesively -- a few of us were down with that concept, some of the others not so much -- but overall both teams played well. Players knew what they were supposed to play, there were some good lines uttered and lots of laughs laughed. The only down side for me was that God in his infinite sense of humor had seen fit to 1) make it a particularly humid day at a time when the AC is not on full-time in the mall and b) cause me to forget to have on hand a clean pair of lightweight cotton pants that are perfect for cavorting under hot lights in, thus forcing me to wear heavier jeans. My tiny cranium is topped with thin, babyfine hair and a very active sweat gland; when I get overheated my hair gets soaked very quickly. To that end I usually wear it tied back during shows (listen to me -- I'm such a veteran of the boards now.) At least its lack of thickness means it dries quickly, too, once I cool off. Too bad it was so hot onstage that I spent the entire show looking like a swirlie victim. Ironically, the rest of me was bone dry. Like my humor!
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
2:18 PM
Direct appeal
My current favorite commercial, meaning I will stop what I'm doing or even postpone a trip to the bathroom to watch it every single time, is the American Express spot where director Martin Scorcese is agonizing over photos from his nephew's birthday party ("I've lost the narrative thread! Unavoidable. I'll have to reshoot.") Other than the humor that comes from that unlikely situation, I have finally realized why the stupid advertisement is so goshdarn appealing to me: Scorcese is a dead-on look- and sound-alike for a man I worked with from 1989 to about 1994. Same short stature, same staccato New Yawk delivery, same self-deprecating sense of humor. It's that last thing that usually draws me to people; I have a hard time trusting anyone who has no discernible sense of humor.
The office where the Scorcese twin and I worked was staffed by executives who were almost exclusively ex-military and support staff who were college educated and bilingual (it was a French company). He fell in the former category, I was in the latter. The class struggle between management and support staff was nothing new then yet the pervasive military culture in our nonetheless civilian office meant that it was abundantly clear where you stood in the pecking order, no matter how many degrees you held or how many languages you could speak; your status was determined by whether your desk was located in a private office or just outside the door to one. The male executives expected to be addressed as "Mr." yet referred to all support staff by their first names. The few female executives were also referred to by their first names, but that's another rant.
The Scorcese twin was different. Perhaps he had never been in the military -- I was painfully aware of what branch the other execs had served in and what ranks they had held but I never knew his. Perhaps his height and health problems kept him out. He would look you in the eye when he spoke and talk to you like you were a person and never came off as condescending or patronizing, even if you were but a lowly support staffer. You were absolutely free to call him by his first name, although the other execs would frown at you if they heard you doing it. He possessed intellect and humor and appreciated it in others, so we quickly became coffee-room and hallway chat buddies. When he learned that I was often printed in a newspaper contest where you had to invent a word based on a situation he began calling me "Wordsmith" and seemed genuinely delighted that I had an affinity for language and a creative bent. We joked around and talked movies, books, whatever, as equals. There was nothing sexual going on here (he was as old then as Scorcese is now and if anything I thought of him as a kindly uncle); we were simply two smart, witty people enjoying those qualities in each other in an atmosphere that was decidedly anti-smart and anti-witty.
Our paths diverged in 1993 or 1994 when he went back to an affiliated New York office and I got laid off and found another job in DC. The process of getting on with my life and career eventually blurred the memories of those days in a soulless corporate office. Until another soulless corporation brought them back by hiring a certain director to appear in a funny ad.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
1:16 PM
Don't bogart that mist, my friend
I've had a little chestal congestion and a barking cough for a few days ("Everybody run! She's got the SARS!") so last night I finally thought to set up the cool mist vaporizer on a chair next to the bed. Mmmmmm, lung-clearing mist. Mmmmmm, white noise to fall asleep to.
Two problems with the setup:
1. I usually sleep on my right side. The chair with the humidifier is on my left side. The right side of the bed is against a wall. Ergo, for most of the night the mist swirled around the back of my head. Years of being a classroom instructor have given me eyes back there but no breathing apparatus.
2. Whenever I did think in my sleepy state to turn my breathing apparatus toward the mist, I got a faceful of fur. Seems my calico cat Esme enjoys the mist machine as well so she spent the night stretched out between it and me.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
10:11 AM
So very wrong
A remake of The In-Laws? The family took a vote and we want it out.
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:05 PM
Here's that show info
My ComedySportz workshop show will be at 3:00 pm on Sunday, May 11. Persons wishing to attend should call reserve seats by calling 703-486-HAHA. The workshop show will NOT, repeat NOT, be listed on the recording, so don't panic. Press 1 for Reservations then leave a voice mail saying you want to attend the 3pm workshop show on Sunday May 11. Just leave your name and the number of warm bodies in your party. Cost is $5 per person. Seating is limited so CALL NOW!
"The Old Vic"
Ballston Common Mall, 3rd Floor
4238 Wilson Blvd
Arlington, VA
703-486-HAHA
Directions:
http://www.cszdc.com/directions.html
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
8:44 PM
With words that tear and strain to rhyme
I blew off this week's improv assignment of practicing rhymes for the "Da Doo Ron Ron" game. That's where players line up and sing a line each of a "met him on a Monday and his name was Bill"-type song, made up on the spot of course. I hate it, even though it's very similar to the game of "Beastie Rap," which I do like. Go figure. Today we choose what games we'll play in next week's workshop show, so if "Da Doo Ron Ron" is suggested I am prepared to object strongly and, if necessary, throw a tantrum. Naaah. I will not either. I'll do the game if I have to, and with a smile on my face as well. That's what I'm learning about this improv stuff; you gotta go with the flow, even if it's not flowing in the direction you want it to.
If you'll be in the area next Sunday (5/11) and want to attend the show, I'll post info after class, once I have the details. I know it's gonna be Mothers Day; we'll put on the mother of all shows.
Speaking of rhyming, here's a haiku (I know it doesn't rhyme, give me a break) composed cut-and-paste-like of search terms folks have used to find this here blog. It brings to mind some dates I have endured.
Romantic Quizno's
Post, mime dry hump, miss lady
Cream-o-wheat dresses
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
2:17 PM
Hey, you
In the van in front of me on N. Glebe Road. Yes, you, sweetheart. Since you brought up the subject by displaying a bumper sticker saying "Killing a Baby is a Bad Choice," how about that choice you just made to drive your honking big vehicle along a busy street without touching the steering wheel because both of your hands are busy combing your hair and putting it up in a ponytail? Don't you see those kids on the sidewalk?
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
9:45 AM
Which one is man with beard?
The terrace renovations continue. Background: a design flaw in the garden-apartment buildings that make up my condoplex meant that the top-floor terraces tended to leak into the units below in times of heavy rain or snow meltage. This called for eternal vigilence on the part of us terrace-unit owners, until early last year when a sealant solution was found and implemented. Thus ended the leakage problem, but in its place welled up a standing-water problem, as the new design failed to provide adequate drainage. I mean, water may have been ruining downstairs neighbors' wall coverings before, but at least it was going somewhere. Time previously spent chilling out in one's outdoor living room was largely given over to swabbing a stagnant wading pool cum hotbed of mosquito breeding. A fix for the fix is now in the works and this week is my terrace's turn. The results are currently unaesthetic, involving lots of PVC piping that clashes with the 1940s brick exterior, but I'm hoping this will be camouflaged once all the pieces are in place.
Last year my terrace's turn for the sealant application fell on one of those Monday holidays that is not universally observed. Luckily my employer observes it and so I was enjoying a lie-in -- until I was startled out of bed by loud voices and clomping footsteps out on the terrace. The terrace is off the bedroom. The bedroom is on the 3rd floor. News flash: hearing voices right outside an upper-floor window will wake a body up in one quick hurry. Clearly, entering the terrace from inside the unit was way too wussy for the workdroogs, who opted instead for a ladder-assisted over-the-wall approach, implements of construction in tow. At least I hadn't been obliged to leap out of bed to open the door for them. This time around they are coming and going over the wall as well. Again, I'm glad that my indoor living space (not to mention my indoor-only cats) is spared the intrusion but I'm a bit put out that the orelly men* leave the ladder on the ground next to the building after they leave for the day, an engraved invitation to opportunistic, not to mention musclebound, would-be burglars.
My address? Why do you ask?
* (see Fawlty Towers, "The Builders" episode)
this piece woven by Sandra Hull @
11:32 AM