Tuesday, December 18, 2007
It's beginning to look a lot like...Bangkok?
You know, I had hoped that my trip to Thailand would be a life-changing experience in some way, but what I never expected it to change my perspective on...Christmas shopping. But indeed, apparently the most lasting effect of my Thailand experience is that it's made me more tolerant of crowded shopping malls. This past weekend, I undertook the dreaded task of heading to Tyson's Corner, the biggest and baddest mall this side of the Potomac, to gather up the remaining items on my Christmas list. Given my previous nightmarish experiences with Christmas shopping in Birmingham, plus the fact that Tyson's seems to maintain a pretty high level of crazy on any given weekend, I was not looking forward to it at all. But I was pleasantly surprised: Getting into and out of the mall was amazingly efficient (Birmingham city planners should have come here and taken notes before designing their shopping centers, because spending an hour trying to get out of a parking lot during the holidays? Is ridiculous), and the mall itself, while definitely crowded and crazy, was still only about half as crazy as Bangkok's MBK Center, with its floors upon floors of teeny-tiny crowded stores, each blasting a different thumping dance song from its neon-emblazoned frontage. Each time I would start to feel overwhelmed by the crowds at Tyson's, I'd take a deep breath and tell myself, "This isn't nearly as crazy as MBK." And then, restored and revived, I was ready to continue my shopping expedition.
Oh, and? The gigantic poster of John Krasinski looking adorable in a striped scarf at the Gap also helped immensely in making the trip more tolerable.
You know, I had hoped that my trip to Thailand would be a life-changing experience in some way, but what I never expected it to change my perspective on...Christmas shopping. But indeed, apparently the most lasting effect of my Thailand experience is that it's made me more tolerant of crowded shopping malls. This past weekend, I undertook the dreaded task of heading to Tyson's Corner, the biggest and baddest mall this side of the Potomac, to gather up the remaining items on my Christmas list. Given my previous nightmarish experiences with Christmas shopping in Birmingham, plus the fact that Tyson's seems to maintain a pretty high level of crazy on any given weekend, I was not looking forward to it at all. But I was pleasantly surprised: Getting into and out of the mall was amazingly efficient (Birmingham city planners should have come here and taken notes before designing their shopping centers, because spending an hour trying to get out of a parking lot during the holidays? Is ridiculous), and the mall itself, while definitely crowded and crazy, was still only about half as crazy as Bangkok's MBK Center, with its floors upon floors of teeny-tiny crowded stores, each blasting a different thumping dance song from its neon-emblazoned frontage. Each time I would start to feel overwhelmed by the crowds at Tyson's, I'd take a deep breath and tell myself, "This isn't nearly as crazy as MBK." And then, restored and revived, I was ready to continue my shopping expedition.
Oh, and? The gigantic poster of John Krasinski looking adorable in a striped scarf at the Gap also helped immensely in making the trip more tolerable.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Because I said so
You know how when you're a kid, you think that being a grown-up will be so great because you can do whatever the heck you want, like stay up late and eat ice cream for dinner? Well, kids (I highly doubt there are any kids actually reading this blog, but just in case), I'll let you in on a little secret: It really is that great! It seems to me that far too many adults tend to look at their childhoods through rose-colored glasses, wondering why life can't be as simple as it was back then, before we all had to worry about jobs and taxes and car payments and all that crap. But you know what? Being a kid isn't all rainbows and puppies and afternoons spent roller-skating in your neighbor's driveway with your imaginary friends. (Yes, I had multiple imaginary friends, and yes, they were all as awesome at roller-skating as I was.) It's also homework and being forced to eat vegetables and clean your room. I had a great childhood, don't get me wrong, but I'd say that as a kid, I spent at least as much time worrying and being stressed out as I do as an adult, if not more.
Without a doubt, the most excruciating part of being a kid was waiting for Christmas. (Although any conversations my mom started with the words, "I looked in your closet the other day" are definitely a close second, as they almost always involved a massive cleaning project.) Believe it or not, the Christmas countdown was even more excruciating when I got older, as I was old enough to pick out my own presents, yet still young enough to have my mom's will imposed on me, namely that I was not allowed, under any circumstances, to wear or use said present until after Christmas. This was particularly painful the year I received a letter jacket, when I actually had to carry the thing home from school myself in its plastic wrapping and surrender it to my mom to hang in our coat closet for two months while we waited for Jesus to turn another year older. I felt I had a valid argument in that letter jackets have a limited shelf life as it is (because you want to wait until sophomore or junior year to get it so you have enough activities to put on it so that you don't look like a total loser, yet you can't wear it one day past graduation for fear of looking like a total loser), and therefore I really should have been milking every possible day of wear out of it that I could. But my mom was unwilling to bend on the no-Christmas-presents-before-Christmas rule.
While she does still adhere to this rule for Christmas presents she buys for me, in no way do I exercise such control over Christmas presents I purchase for myself. Case in point: Earlier this week I received an early present in the form of a $100 gift card from my freelance boss, which I promptly put toward the purchase of some very expensive boots that I have long coveted. The boots are due to arrive this weekend (via UPS, so they won't be at the mercy of my stupid postman, thank God), and instead of being wrapped and placed under the tree to linger for 11 more days, they will be going straight from the box onto my feet, where I suspect they will remain for much of the next week and a half. Merry Christmas to me!
You know how when you're a kid, you think that being a grown-up will be so great because you can do whatever the heck you want, like stay up late and eat ice cream for dinner? Well, kids (I highly doubt there are any kids actually reading this blog, but just in case), I'll let you in on a little secret: It really is that great! It seems to me that far too many adults tend to look at their childhoods through rose-colored glasses, wondering why life can't be as simple as it was back then, before we all had to worry about jobs and taxes and car payments and all that crap. But you know what? Being a kid isn't all rainbows and puppies and afternoons spent roller-skating in your neighbor's driveway with your imaginary friends. (Yes, I had multiple imaginary friends, and yes, they were all as awesome at roller-skating as I was.) It's also homework and being forced to eat vegetables and clean your room. I had a great childhood, don't get me wrong, but I'd say that as a kid, I spent at least as much time worrying and being stressed out as I do as an adult, if not more.
Without a doubt, the most excruciating part of being a kid was waiting for Christmas. (Although any conversations my mom started with the words, "I looked in your closet the other day" are definitely a close second, as they almost always involved a massive cleaning project.) Believe it or not, the Christmas countdown was even more excruciating when I got older, as I was old enough to pick out my own presents, yet still young enough to have my mom's will imposed on me, namely that I was not allowed, under any circumstances, to wear or use said present until after Christmas. This was particularly painful the year I received a letter jacket, when I actually had to carry the thing home from school myself in its plastic wrapping and surrender it to my mom to hang in our coat closet for two months while we waited for Jesus to turn another year older. I felt I had a valid argument in that letter jackets have a limited shelf life as it is (because you want to wait until sophomore or junior year to get it so you have enough activities to put on it so that you don't look like a total loser, yet you can't wear it one day past graduation for fear of looking like a total loser), and therefore I really should have been milking every possible day of wear out of it that I could. But my mom was unwilling to bend on the no-Christmas-presents-before-Christmas rule.
While she does still adhere to this rule for Christmas presents she buys for me, in no way do I exercise such control over Christmas presents I purchase for myself. Case in point: Earlier this week I received an early present in the form of a $100 gift card from my freelance boss, which I promptly put toward the purchase of some very expensive boots that I have long coveted. The boots are due to arrive this weekend (via UPS, so they won't be at the mercy of my stupid postman, thank God), and instead of being wrapped and placed under the tree to linger for 11 more days, they will be going straight from the box onto my feet, where I suspect they will remain for much of the next week and a half. Merry Christmas to me!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
A lawyer, two MBAs and three journalists walk into a bar...
This may sound like the setup for a bad joke, but it's actually a setup for the announcement that our new and improved quiz team WON the Stetson's Pub Quiz last night! This was due in large part to me calling in a couple of ringers, in the form of my old college chum Jason (whom I didn't even know lived in DC until last week, and had no idea was such a trivia whiz until last night) and his roommate, Anik, the two aforementioned MBAs. Because while Kirsten, Daimon, Autumn and I are pretty well-versed in things like sports, literature, pop culture and geography, we tend to not be so great at subjects like math, science and technology. Such was the beauty of the expanded team: By the time the quizmaster had said, "What's the name of a verb that acts...", I had already written down "gerund" (Anik: "Is that even a real word?"), whereas I couldn't help but be wowed by Jason's lightning-fast, Jessie-Spano-on-caffeine-pills reflexes in using the Pythagorean theorem. We started out tied for first place and slowly rose in the standings until we dominated with a commanding 4-to-5-point lead for the last few rounds. This definitely beats our previous pub-quiz highs of getting a perfect 10 on the TV theme songs round (thanks to Autumn's and my love for 21 Jump Street and Punky Brewster, respectively) and a tenuous first-round hold on the lead. The only downside? When we used to tie for fourth-to-last, the prize was a $75 bar tab. Now that we're actually winning, they've split the prize so that it's a $50 bar tab for first place and a $25 bar tab for second place. Sure, winning is its own reward and everything, but come on. That extra $25 would have gone a long way in paying for all beer we ordered as soon as it started to look like we might actually have a shot.
This may sound like the setup for a bad joke, but it's actually a setup for the announcement that our new and improved quiz team WON the Stetson's Pub Quiz last night! This was due in large part to me calling in a couple of ringers, in the form of my old college chum Jason (whom I didn't even know lived in DC until last week, and had no idea was such a trivia whiz until last night) and his roommate, Anik, the two aforementioned MBAs. Because while Kirsten, Daimon, Autumn and I are pretty well-versed in things like sports, literature, pop culture and geography, we tend to not be so great at subjects like math, science and technology. Such was the beauty of the expanded team: By the time the quizmaster had said, "What's the name of a verb that acts...", I had already written down "gerund" (Anik: "Is that even a real word?"), whereas I couldn't help but be wowed by Jason's lightning-fast, Jessie-Spano-on-caffeine-pills reflexes in using the Pythagorean theorem. We started out tied for first place and slowly rose in the standings until we dominated with a commanding 4-to-5-point lead for the last few rounds. This definitely beats our previous pub-quiz highs of getting a perfect 10 on the TV theme songs round (thanks to Autumn's and my love for 21 Jump Street and Punky Brewster, respectively) and a tenuous first-round hold on the lead. The only downside? When we used to tie for fourth-to-last, the prize was a $75 bar tab. Now that we're actually winning, they've split the prize so that it's a $50 bar tab for first place and a $25 bar tab for second place. Sure, winning is its own reward and everything, but come on. That extra $25 would have gone a long way in paying for all beer we ordered as soon as it started to look like we might actually have a shot.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Still itching after all these years
Right before Christmas when I was 7, I rode a carousel in a mall in Memphis, where I promptly contracted chicken pox from a kid who shared the teacup ride with my sister and me. (Or so my mom tells me. How she narrowed down the chicken pox culprit to this particular teacup, I have no idea.) Anyway, this meant that I spent most of my Christmas that year being itchy and miserable, with only my new Cabbage Patch doll to comfort me.
Fast-forward 20 years later, and I'm once again facing the prospect of an itchy Christmas. This time it's a sudden and persistent outbreak of hives, the source of which I can't seem to hone in on, apparently not having been blessed with my mother's powers of deductive reasoning. (Actually, I'm pretty sure it's some Bath & Body Works shower gel given to me by my grandmother last Christmas that I just got around to opening. My dermatologist warned me years ago about the dangers of Bath & Body Works, but did I listen? No.) Anyway, what I lack in deductive reasoning skills, I made up with my memory, as I was able to recall my mom's solution for combating itchiness: Aveeno. (Also recommended by my dermatologist, by the way. Why didn't I listen to her, again?) Dousing myself with the stuff in both the bath and shower has proved to temporarily halt the itching, but the hives still haven't disappeared completely. And this year, I'm afraid, I won't even have a Cabbage Patch doll to comfort me. But with any luck, I will have noise-cancelling headphones and My So-Called Life DVDs, the two items at the top of my Christmas list. And I know where all the old Cabbage Patch dolls are, just in case those don't do the trick.
Right before Christmas when I was 7, I rode a carousel in a mall in Memphis, where I promptly contracted chicken pox from a kid who shared the teacup ride with my sister and me. (Or so my mom tells me. How she narrowed down the chicken pox culprit to this particular teacup, I have no idea.) Anyway, this meant that I spent most of my Christmas that year being itchy and miserable, with only my new Cabbage Patch doll to comfort me.
Fast-forward 20 years later, and I'm once again facing the prospect of an itchy Christmas. This time it's a sudden and persistent outbreak of hives, the source of which I can't seem to hone in on, apparently not having been blessed with my mother's powers of deductive reasoning. (Actually, I'm pretty sure it's some Bath & Body Works shower gel given to me by my grandmother last Christmas that I just got around to opening. My dermatologist warned me years ago about the dangers of Bath & Body Works, but did I listen? No.) Anyway, what I lack in deductive reasoning skills, I made up with my memory, as I was able to recall my mom's solution for combating itchiness: Aveeno. (Also recommended by my dermatologist, by the way. Why didn't I listen to her, again?) Dousing myself with the stuff in both the bath and shower has proved to temporarily halt the itching, but the hives still haven't disappeared completely. And this year, I'm afraid, I won't even have a Cabbage Patch doll to comfort me. But with any luck, I will have noise-cancelling headphones and My So-Called Life DVDs, the two items at the top of my Christmas list. And I know where all the old Cabbage Patch dolls are, just in case those don't do the trick.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Hey, hey, wait a minute, Mr. Postman
It seems that I have a bit of bad luck when it comes to getting mail delivered to my house. In Birmingham, I had to contend with the mail thief, a resident of my apartment building who would routinely steal cards and small packages out of other people's mailboxes (which didn't have locks on them), tear them open looking for cash, and then discard what was left of them in the closet under the stairwell. It got so bad that, even after my attempt to thwart him or her with a strongly worded note taped to the wall by the mailboxes, I asked friends and family to send any important mail to my work address.
Here, I don't have to worry about mail thieves, but I do have to worry about my postman, who very well may be the most incompetent person in the history of the U.S. Postal System. And those of you who have ever set foot in a post office know that's saying something. I got my first hint of his incompetence last summer, when he would routinely stick my Netflix envelopes in my building's mysterious seventh mailbox (there are only six apartments in the building; God knows why there are seven mailboxes), forcing me to pry open the door with my car keys and slide the envelope out with the aid of a butter knife if I actually wanted to watch the Gilmore Girls episodes I had been looking forward to all day. After a couple of these shenanigans, and a couple of notes from me, he finally managed to start putting my mail in the correct box.
Other than a couple of other incidents here and there (like the time my across-the-hall neighbor went out of town for three weeks to get married and he forgot to stop her mail), he actually hadn't done anything astoundingly stupid for a while. Until now, when he managed to top even himself. At the beginning of last week, Bri mailed me a package containing some Britney Spears and Rilo Kiley CDs that she'd burned for me. Wanting me to get it before I drove to Gatlinburg to meet my family for Thanksgiving, she sent it Express Mail, since it was guaranteed to arrive by Wednesday. And, in case I had already left by the time it arrived, she requested that the signature requirement be waived so that it could just be left by my door and I'd get it as soon as I got back.
You can probably guess that this is not even close to what actually happened. First, as far as I could tell by the two package notices that greeted me upon my return last Sunday, the first time my postman even attempted to deliver the package was Friday. But no worries, the slip said that since it was Express Mail, they would attempt to deliver again on the next business day. So I signed the slip and left it sticking out of the mailbox on Monday morning, where the postman surely wouldn't miss it. When I came home on Monday evening, instead of the package at my door, I had the slip in my mailbox, and my postman had circled the post office address printed on the back, indicating that I would have to pick it up myself, and had also written another address next to it, which I took to be the address where my package was actually located.
At this point, I'm still thinking everything is hunky-dory. The new address is one on Washington Blvd., and the post office I usually go to (because it's open until 7 p.m.) is also on Washington Blvd. So, without double-checking the address (clearly, a little of the postman's stupidity was starting to rub off on me), I stop by on Tuesday night, only to be told that the post office I need to go to one is further down Washington Blvd. in Clarendon. Oh, and by the way, it's only open from 8:30 to 5:30 on weekdays, which pretty much does away with any chance of me getting my "express" package before Saturday, 10 whole days after it was supposed to have been delivered.
But still, it's fine. After I called Bri to ascertain that the package didn't contain anything time-sensitive, I formulated a new plan: I would go to kickboxing at 11 on Saturday, and since my gym is located in the mall on the way to the Metro station, I could just hop on the Metro and head over to Clarendon afterward, making it to the post office before it closed at 1. Plus, I needed to run a few other errands in Clarendon anyway, which I figured I could do after I stopped by the post office. Perfect.
Only not, because the entire plan was pegged on the post office actually getting something correct. Although they had assured me on Tuesday night that my package was, in fact, at this Clarendon post office, when I arrived there, they told me that the package was actually at the Buckingham office--the one three blocks from my house, and also the one printed on the back of the package slip, which my dumb-ass postman had indicated was not where my package was located. By the time I got this news, it was 12:50, and the Buckingham post office also closed at 1. Just as I was figuring on another week-long delay on my "express" package, the woman told me that she'd called and told them I was coming, so that I should get over there as quickly as I could and just beat on the door until someone called "Mr. Toe" let me in and gave me my package. Uh-huh. But I didn't really want to wait another week for the package, so I gave up on my other errands and decided to take a chance that this scheme would actually work.
I figured the Metro would eat up too much time, so I decided to just walk the mile or so between the two post offices. Normally, I love this walk, as it goes through a lovely little neighborhood, but it was kind of hard to enjoy it when a) I was not dressed to be walking for long periods in 40-degree weather, b) I was already about to keel over anyway from the kickboxing class, and c) I was cursing the entire U.S. Postal System under my breath the entire way. I arrived at the Buckingham post office at about 10 minutes after 1, and fortunately the doors were not yet locked, so the banging recommended by the lady at the Clarendon office was not necessary. However, the employees were already in shut-down mode, and immediately barked "We're closed!" at me when I tried to approach the counter. I breathlessly explained that they had called about me from Clarendon, which prompted one of the workers to yell out, "Smitty! The lady's here for her package!" After about 5 more minutes of intermittent yelling for Smitty, the mysterious Mr. Toe finally appeared and produced my package. And so, in the end, the whole ordeal turned out to be worth it--not only did I get my CDs (which are being uploaded to my computer as we speak), but I also got to meet someone named Smitty Toe.
It seems that I have a bit of bad luck when it comes to getting mail delivered to my house. In Birmingham, I had to contend with the mail thief, a resident of my apartment building who would routinely steal cards and small packages out of other people's mailboxes (which didn't have locks on them), tear them open looking for cash, and then discard what was left of them in the closet under the stairwell. It got so bad that, even after my attempt to thwart him or her with a strongly worded note taped to the wall by the mailboxes, I asked friends and family to send any important mail to my work address.
Here, I don't have to worry about mail thieves, but I do have to worry about my postman, who very well may be the most incompetent person in the history of the U.S. Postal System. And those of you who have ever set foot in a post office know that's saying something. I got my first hint of his incompetence last summer, when he would routinely stick my Netflix envelopes in my building's mysterious seventh mailbox (there are only six apartments in the building; God knows why there are seven mailboxes), forcing me to pry open the door with my car keys and slide the envelope out with the aid of a butter knife if I actually wanted to watch the Gilmore Girls episodes I had been looking forward to all day. After a couple of these shenanigans, and a couple of notes from me, he finally managed to start putting my mail in the correct box.
Other than a couple of other incidents here and there (like the time my across-the-hall neighbor went out of town for three weeks to get married and he forgot to stop her mail), he actually hadn't done anything astoundingly stupid for a while. Until now, when he managed to top even himself. At the beginning of last week, Bri mailed me a package containing some Britney Spears and Rilo Kiley CDs that she'd burned for me. Wanting me to get it before I drove to Gatlinburg to meet my family for Thanksgiving, she sent it Express Mail, since it was guaranteed to arrive by Wednesday. And, in case I had already left by the time it arrived, she requested that the signature requirement be waived so that it could just be left by my door and I'd get it as soon as I got back.
You can probably guess that this is not even close to what actually happened. First, as far as I could tell by the two package notices that greeted me upon my return last Sunday, the first time my postman even attempted to deliver the package was Friday. But no worries, the slip said that since it was Express Mail, they would attempt to deliver again on the next business day. So I signed the slip and left it sticking out of the mailbox on Monday morning, where the postman surely wouldn't miss it. When I came home on Monday evening, instead of the package at my door, I had the slip in my mailbox, and my postman had circled the post office address printed on the back, indicating that I would have to pick it up myself, and had also written another address next to it, which I took to be the address where my package was actually located.
At this point, I'm still thinking everything is hunky-dory. The new address is one on Washington Blvd., and the post office I usually go to (because it's open until 7 p.m.) is also on Washington Blvd. So, without double-checking the address (clearly, a little of the postman's stupidity was starting to rub off on me), I stop by on Tuesday night, only to be told that the post office I need to go to one is further down Washington Blvd. in Clarendon. Oh, and by the way, it's only open from 8:30 to 5:30 on weekdays, which pretty much does away with any chance of me getting my "express" package before Saturday, 10 whole days after it was supposed to have been delivered.
But still, it's fine. After I called Bri to ascertain that the package didn't contain anything time-sensitive, I formulated a new plan: I would go to kickboxing at 11 on Saturday, and since my gym is located in the mall on the way to the Metro station, I could just hop on the Metro and head over to Clarendon afterward, making it to the post office before it closed at 1. Plus, I needed to run a few other errands in Clarendon anyway, which I figured I could do after I stopped by the post office. Perfect.
Only not, because the entire plan was pegged on the post office actually getting something correct. Although they had assured me on Tuesday night that my package was, in fact, at this Clarendon post office, when I arrived there, they told me that the package was actually at the Buckingham office--the one three blocks from my house, and also the one printed on the back of the package slip, which my dumb-ass postman had indicated was not where my package was located. By the time I got this news, it was 12:50, and the Buckingham post office also closed at 1. Just as I was figuring on another week-long delay on my "express" package, the woman told me that she'd called and told them I was coming, so that I should get over there as quickly as I could and just beat on the door until someone called "Mr. Toe" let me in and gave me my package. Uh-huh. But I didn't really want to wait another week for the package, so I gave up on my other errands and decided to take a chance that this scheme would actually work.
I figured the Metro would eat up too much time, so I decided to just walk the mile or so between the two post offices. Normally, I love this walk, as it goes through a lovely little neighborhood, but it was kind of hard to enjoy it when a) I was not dressed to be walking for long periods in 40-degree weather, b) I was already about to keel over anyway from the kickboxing class, and c) I was cursing the entire U.S. Postal System under my breath the entire way. I arrived at the Buckingham post office at about 10 minutes after 1, and fortunately the doors were not yet locked, so the banging recommended by the lady at the Clarendon office was not necessary. However, the employees were already in shut-down mode, and immediately barked "We're closed!" at me when I tried to approach the counter. I breathlessly explained that they had called about me from Clarendon, which prompted one of the workers to yell out, "Smitty! The lady's here for her package!" After about 5 more minutes of intermittent yelling for Smitty, the mysterious Mr. Toe finally appeared and produced my package. And so, in the end, the whole ordeal turned out to be worth it--not only did I get my CDs (which are being uploaded to my computer as we speak), but I also got to meet someone named Smitty Toe.
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