Hate Me if You Must, but I Still Won

"Ooo, traffic jam, got more cars than a beach got sand..."

Driving home today along the beltway, a mile and a half from my exit, I came to a standstill. Hundreds upon hundreds of cars were busily clogging the two right lanes of traffic. As is my way, I hopped over to the left to scope out a better place in line.

I thought, surely someone will let me back in at the last second. In my many months of budging since I moved to DC, I’ve only had to wait twice for the whole line of cars to pass by. There is almost always a kind soul ready to wave me in or at the very least, someone on their cell or a Mack truck slowing things down. What’s that you say? I’m a huge jerk? Au Contraire! In fact, I’m an impatient genius.

After traveling a mile watching all these cars backed up like sardines, I wondered if I might damage my almost perfect record. I ran through Plan B in my mind: skipping the exit altogether. But then…WAIT! What do I see a few car lengths from the final turn-off? Neatly pushed to the far right break down lane?

An ambulance….a banged-up car….and a stretcher.

All those cars were crawling by in single file to take in the scene, while I casually slipped in front, on my way down the exit ramp with PLENTY of room, leaving all those polite suckers in the dust.

I bet they cursed me as I drove by. Half an hour later, I bet they cursed all those rubber-neckers as they finally passed. They should really be cursing themselves for not being as smart as me, because I don’t feel the least bit guilty.

Budging Rocks.

This Really Isn't a Fat Joke

I have this client. His brother is a surgeon. He says his brother complains every now and then after performing surgery on an obese patient. Apparently, he claims that everything gets greasy from the fat, and it can be difficult to work because the tools, gloves, aprons and table get slick and oily. I've never thought of that before, but it makes sense. Anyway, it's so gross I couldn't keep it to myself.

A Man and His Guitar

The other night I got to experience Ben Lee live for the second time. It was a fabulous show and absolutely not my last. Something about the guy melts my heart like a Dreamsicle on a hot summer day.

As a talented youth, Ben recorded his first album at 15. Here are some of the lyrics to the first song he ever wrote - “My Guitar”:

And when I’m sick of hearing noise
I sit right down with one ’my favorite toys

Well my guitar is love
And my guitar’s all I need

And my guitar’s so special
Cause it plays the songs - not me
It’s my guitar

Give him a break, he was a kid when he wrote that. But, fortunately for him, his cheesy, uncomplicated lyrics are part of the old Ben Lee charm (and fortunately for him, I'm a sucker for it).

A man and his guitar (and sometimes a chick named Lara who does background vocals and plays 10 different instruments). Although I think we all know men require at least a few more essentials for survival, this charmer needs little else to fill a room with life. In fact, Ben is his best raw. Alone on stage, he and his guitar are charming, honest and engaging. His satisfaction with life is contagious. Whether sharing enthusiasm for the new trousers he’s wearing, celebrating his ongoing tour, or encouraging the crowd to sing his cheesiest lyrics back to him, Ben Lee is happy just to be Ben Lee. And wouldn’t you be, too, if you had such a cool name?

After the show, I eventually worked my way through the crowd to get this picture. I told him I would post the photo on my blog, thinking maybe he would ask for the web address. He didn’t. But who knows, if I put enough links on here, perhaps he could be reading it... right.... now!

(I heart you, Ben!)

The Deal Breaker

I see a lot of naked bodies every day. I’m pretty tolerant of bodily functions of all kinds, so few things make me shudder. However, there is one that always sends tremors down my spine, and that is my biggest and grossest pet peeve: to come upon clammy feet and hands. I’m sorry for any of you that suffer from the inability to control or absorb the massive amounts of sweat flowing from your icy, soggy hands and feet (hereafter referred to as Clammy Hand and Foot Syndrome or "CHAFS"). I don’t hate you, I just hate how it feels. The experience of sliding around in someone else’s sweat is something I won’t go into detail about, even though I'm tempted to. While massaging my latest CHAFS inflicted client today, I thought seriously about going into explicit detail about how much I suffer.

Now it could’ve been fate, her über-Italian last name, or my keen ability to find irony, but for some reason as I began massaging this woman's feet, my thoughts wandered to a blog I recently read. This post about Italian-American culture made me think: “Hey, Italian-Americans sound pretty cool. I like to eat, I love my family, I’m not against chasing my husband around with a broom (was that one of the qualities?), and I don’t actually have to be in the mafia and get people whacked?! What a deal!”

Then sweaty feet suddenly brought me back to reality. "Eww," I thought, "I better dry girlfriend's feet off with this sheet for the third time. I wonder if she knows..."

“Sorry!” she suddenly interrupted, “I’m Italian, so when I’m hot my feet get sweaty.”

Hey, hold it there for one second, signora! Did you just say that sweaty feet are the side effect of a totally sweet Italian-American lifestyle? If so man, this deal is OFF. There’s no way I’m getting slammed with CHAFS.

Righting My Wrongs

Correction: Regarding a recent post, The Blog Tag.

Regrettably, I misrepresented my favorite foods. Or my #1 favorite food. Ever. Shocking, you say? I myself can’t believe I forgot something I love so much. Rather than let it slide, I decided to give credit where credit is due. Taco Bell, Thank You.

Thank you for your scrumptiously orgasmic Nacho Supreme. You hit the spot every time, and I’m addicted to your crunchy salty dish of love. The way a baby needs its binky, that is how I desire you. Seasoned beef, warm nacho cheese sauce, cool sour cream, green onions & fresh tomatoes, all on a bed of crunchy tortilla chips. Ahhhh. Heaven in a paper box.

WARNING:

Serious blog coming through!
Stop here if you were hoping for more underwear adventures or pictures of
Jäger’s dangerous bootie. Better luck next time!

In case you missed the memo, I co-teach a bunch of active 6 year olds every Sunday in primary. The kids are a handful, but I’m lucky to have a partner that I LOVE - she’s a lot of fun and the fact that she runs a daycare is really pretty convenient. She’s also from Liberia, so obviously, she’s black. WELL, last week one of the boys was acting nuts (as he often does; either he’s the sweetest kid ever-saying things that will melt your heart, or screaming he’s going to die if he doesn’t get a snack) and when I tried to send him to the other teacher he said this to me:

“No! I don’t like her! I like you because I only like white people!”

Wow.

Not trying to hide my shock, I reacted. I held the little boy in my lap, looked him in the eye, told him how horrible his comment was and explained how we’re all God’s children. I tried hard to make it clear he should never say something like that again. Needless to say, I wasn’t his favorite anymore and he went to cool off in the back.

I know this kid’s parents, they’re kind and loving and definitely not bigots, so I know he didn't learn any racism from them. However, this really made me think about where and how kids learn acceptance and tolerance - or vice versa. With so much prejudice still prevalent today, I feel the only way to make a difference is to teach children about diversity and tolerance when they’re young (and to get pissed at them when they make ignorant racist remarks). At the very least, parents need to take time to address these issues at home.

Nonetheless, the sad truth is that we all have the glorious gift of free agency and there will always be crazies in the world to pollute the minds of innocent children. It seems that all we can hope for is that as parents we don’t screw up our own.