Of the few things I've come to learn in my wise age of 34 is this, no way in hell will I ever be telling a story that begins with, "Well Phil and I met at the gym one night, it was love at first sight and we've been together ever since."
That my friends, is not in my future. And here's why...
It's a Wednesday night and I'm at the gym, (the day is irrelevant really, I'm just trying to give a sense of freshness to this whole scene), on the treadmill doing my thing. I believe in previous blogs I've established the fact that no one wants to see me when I run. It's a hot, messy, sometimes salty display that no one should witness. Well tonight it got even better and I can add the word RUNNY to that list.
Now before I can tell you the treadmill story you need to know some background about me and my make-up routine. I grew up with 4 sisters so make-up lessons were taught young. I was fascinated at an early age by the world of mascara, shadows and my favorite, eye liner. As I evolved from teen to twenty-something to now thirty-something so has my eye make-up. I've tried them all and varied the applications more often then I dare to remember. For instance, just eyeliner on the top lid, half way across the top lid and full bottom, no top and inner bottom lid, to my latest full top and full bottom. The one thing that has remained the nemesis of my eyeliner fetish is the long lasting effect. No matter what I do I feel like it doesn't stay on all day. Unless of course you use liquid liner. So today I decided to go back to the liquid liner. I checked on it periodically throughout the day and there it was, still on in full black effect. I think, hmmm, maybe I just need to throw those kohl pencils away after all? Well, not so fast....
So I'm on the treadmill and I'm feeling it. I mean I'm sweating up a storm. I crank that baby up for the last 2 miles and feel great when I finish my 10K. As I do my cool down walk I see some long stares from people walking in front of my machine. I assume it's the sweat rings that conveniently and oddly form around my boobs when I run or the fact that I'm just a pile of hot funk. Sadly, it was neither.
I finish my cool down and go to grab the towel and spray which lucky for me are stationed in front of a mirror. When I looked in that mirror I audibly gasped, as if I saw a ghost, but really it was my own reflection. I couldn't believe my eyes, literally. I stood there paralyzed in a state mixed with equal parts embarrassment and bewilderment. My eyeliner, my black liquid eyeliner that I had been so proud of all day had quit on me. It couldn't handle the workout and massive amounts of sweat and it RAN ALL THE WAY DOWN MY EFFIN FACE!!!
I was a walking Rorschach test. Each eye was an inky kaleidoscope of black liner gone wrong. I looked like a rejected date from Brett Michael's, "Rock of Love". Multiple black rivers of sweat and make-up covered my face. It was awful. My only choice was to hide under my towel so that's what I did. I threw the towel over my head like a boxer about to go in the ring. I quickly cleaned the treadmill and walked fast to the locker room.
The fluorescent lights of the women's room just added to the dramatic effect. They were out of tissues so my only option was water and paper towels. By the time I got done removing it from my face and eye area I looked like a raccoon with a bad case of pink eye because of all of the redness from rubbing. Anyone who saw me exiting the gym after this incident would have only one question for me, "What did you do to get your ass kicked so bad?"
As I walked down to Connecticut Ave. I began to think, who the hell meets their soul mate at the gym anyway? It's impossible to look good and I officially throw in the towel. The only person who could've ever been attracted to me in there would be Robert Smith from The Cure.
Now there's someone who could probably recommend some decent effin' eyeliner for me!
Work Hard/Play Harder/Laugh the Hardest, and if you can't laugh at yourself you can always laugh at me!
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Welcome To Zeeps, How May We Help You?
Standing on line I analyzed the customers in front of me. At the first counter was a woman who had so much dry cleaning to drop off that she had to use a garbage bag to haul it all in. And not just a normal garbage bag, one of those extra tall, "Lawn & Leaf" bags. It was out of control and the clerk's eyes were just rolling as he kept turning around to find more stuff set on the counter.
The second lady, I'm guessing she was a librarian, maybe a teacher. Extremely organized. She had all of her clothes perfectly folded like she just bought them from the Talbot's shelf. She stacked them neatly on the counter at a right angle. Her purse was crossed over her shoulder from left to right for efficiency, and what she couldn't hold in her purse would cleverly fit inside one of the utility pockets on her cargo pants. She was neat to a T. She perfectly deposited her cash and coins into her wallet in the time it took for the clerk to hand her the receipt. In and out, just like she planned.
The third lady was a new Mom, you could just tell. Her dry cleaning was transported in a Whole Foods brown paper bag. She precariously balanced her baby on the front ledge while she balanced her purse on the opposite knee fiddling for cash. "You don't take credit cards?" she asked. "No" replied the clerk and pointed to one of the many signs around the store which clearly stated, CASH ONLY. Her shoeless baby clung on to the clothing pole while she bent down to get another bag. I watched with anticipation of diving to the floor in case the tike decided to make a jump for it. He looked like he knew what he was doing though and that he had done this routine before.
Alas, it was my turn. Only picking up no dropping off or I would be carrying my pink dry cleaning bag. The bag was a gift from my friend Laurin and it holds photos in the front. I have a picture of her dog, Annie in it. My bag is far more superior than any of these dry cleaning bags. It's pink so it has to be cool, right?
Mw: Hola
Jose: Hola (he gives me a wink)
Mw: (Handing ticket) Como estas
Jose: Muy Bien, E tu?
Mw: Multo Ben, Gracias!
*that's all the Spanish I know btw*
Jose: (leaves to get my threads)
He returns with the plastic covered hangers, scans them and I pick them up from the pole. Something is not right. I look down and see that one hanger is outside the plastic bags. I place my hand on the article and feel something hard and lumpy. (So not how your dry cleaning should feel.) I turn the hanger over and I stood there speechless. My grey shirt with the beads on the front was wadded up in a ball and one arm was through the hanger. It looked, (and felt), like someone blew their nose on it and then hung it up to dry.
Mw: What happened?
Jose: Que?
Mw: *No time for Spanish at this point, I could tell the people in back of me were in no mood to hear my dialogue* What happened to my shirt?
Jose: Uno Momento
Mw: What mimento?
Jose: UNO MOMENTO! *He says grabbing my shirt*
Mw: Un mimento?
Jose: UNO MOMENTO! UNO MOMENTO! *He says shouting*
Mw: Oh, un momento. *Mea Culpa Mea Culpa, I wanted to shout back*
Gone are the winks and flirtatious Spanish banter. Jose was heated that I was questioning the authority of Zips, pronounced, "Zeeps".
He comes back with his boss.
Boss Man: Ma'am this shirt says Do Not Dry Clean, see the tag inside?
He holds the shirt 5 inches from my face and I see the tag, "DO NOT DRY CLEAN". Mother F*cker I wanted to yell, but I resisted.
Mw: Well, why didn't you guys do that before you cleaned it then if that was so easy?
Boss Man: Ma'am it's not our responsibility to check to see if your clothes are dry cleanable, you have to do that yourself.
Mw: What do you mean I have to do that myself? You just read the tag to me that says you can't dry clean it. I made an honest mistake and threw this in the bag by accident.
Boss Man: We don't read tags. See our policy. He points to the sign.
The first line stating, "Zips assumes all clothing dropped off is dry cleanable."
Damn, they got me there.
Mw: So you guys have no QC process? *I'm desperate to find justice*
Boss Man: QC?
Mw: QC.
Boss Man: What's that?
Mw: Quality Control. You have no one back there that reads the tags before they are dry cleaned so they don't get ruined like my shirt?
Boss Man: Ma'am, you've got to read your own tags. We deal with a lot of clothes here, we can't read every tag.
Mw: Ok, ok. Mea Culpa!
Mw: Well do you have any other solutions b/c I'm not a satisfied customer.
Boss Man: I can offer to throw some chemicals on your shirt in hopes of undoing this knot that melted all of the fabric together, do you want me to do that?
Mw: Chemicals? Throwing? That process sounds dangerous and besides what is the end product going to look like?
Boss Man: Oh, I have no idea. It will most likely melt the rest of these beads and dis-color the fabric. But at least it won't be in a knot.
Mw: But the shirt will look like I was a victim of a violent attack and someone threw chemicals on me. That doesn't sound very pretty.
Boss Man: I'm not sure if it will be pretty or not, but it won't have the melted metal on the front. Do you want me to try to peel them off?
Mw: How about this, you just give me a refund for the cleaning b/c I notice that this was not taken off my bill. I sure as hell don't plan on paying for this "melted metal look". *It looked like a bedazzled project gone wrong*
Boss Man: No problem Ma'am. Again sorry about your shirt. Just try to read the tags from now on. Let me know if you change your mind and want me to get rid of that metal knot on the front, too.
And with that I walked out of Zeeps with my $2.10 in hand. I wadded up the grey shirt and stuck it in my back jean pocket Bruce Springsteen style. The Boss and The Boss Man would have been impressed.
The second lady, I'm guessing she was a librarian, maybe a teacher. Extremely organized. She had all of her clothes perfectly folded like she just bought them from the Talbot's shelf. She stacked them neatly on the counter at a right angle. Her purse was crossed over her shoulder from left to right for efficiency, and what she couldn't hold in her purse would cleverly fit inside one of the utility pockets on her cargo pants. She was neat to a T. She perfectly deposited her cash and coins into her wallet in the time it took for the clerk to hand her the receipt. In and out, just like she planned.
The third lady was a new Mom, you could just tell. Her dry cleaning was transported in a Whole Foods brown paper bag. She precariously balanced her baby on the front ledge while she balanced her purse on the opposite knee fiddling for cash. "You don't take credit cards?" she asked. "No" replied the clerk and pointed to one of the many signs around the store which clearly stated, CASH ONLY. Her shoeless baby clung on to the clothing pole while she bent down to get another bag. I watched with anticipation of diving to the floor in case the tike decided to make a jump for it. He looked like he knew what he was doing though and that he had done this routine before.
Alas, it was my turn. Only picking up no dropping off or I would be carrying my pink dry cleaning bag. The bag was a gift from my friend Laurin and it holds photos in the front. I have a picture of her dog, Annie in it. My bag is far more superior than any of these dry cleaning bags. It's pink so it has to be cool, right?
Mw: Hola
Jose: Hola (he gives me a wink)
Mw: (Handing ticket) Como estas
Jose: Muy Bien, E tu?
Mw: Multo Ben, Gracias!
*that's all the Spanish I know btw*
Jose: (leaves to get my threads)
He returns with the plastic covered hangers, scans them and I pick them up from the pole. Something is not right. I look down and see that one hanger is outside the plastic bags. I place my hand on the article and feel something hard and lumpy. (So not how your dry cleaning should feel.) I turn the hanger over and I stood there speechless. My grey shirt with the beads on the front was wadded up in a ball and one arm was through the hanger. It looked, (and felt), like someone blew their nose on it and then hung it up to dry.
Mw: What happened?
Jose: Que?
Mw: *No time for Spanish at this point, I could tell the people in back of me were in no mood to hear my dialogue* What happened to my shirt?
Jose: Uno Momento
Mw: What mimento?
Jose: UNO MOMENTO! *He says grabbing my shirt*
Mw: Un mimento?
Jose: UNO MOMENTO! UNO MOMENTO! *He says shouting*
Mw: Oh, un momento. *Mea Culpa Mea Culpa, I wanted to shout back*
Gone are the winks and flirtatious Spanish banter. Jose was heated that I was questioning the authority of Zips, pronounced, "Zeeps".
He comes back with his boss.
Boss Man: Ma'am this shirt says Do Not Dry Clean, see the tag inside?
He holds the shirt 5 inches from my face and I see the tag, "DO NOT DRY CLEAN". Mother F*cker I wanted to yell, but I resisted.
Mw: Well, why didn't you guys do that before you cleaned it then if that was so easy?
Boss Man: Ma'am it's not our responsibility to check to see if your clothes are dry cleanable, you have to do that yourself.
Mw: What do you mean I have to do that myself? You just read the tag to me that says you can't dry clean it. I made an honest mistake and threw this in the bag by accident.
Boss Man: We don't read tags. See our policy. He points to the sign.
The first line stating, "Zips assumes all clothing dropped off is dry cleanable."
Damn, they got me there.
Mw: So you guys have no QC process? *I'm desperate to find justice*
Boss Man: QC?
Mw: QC.
Boss Man: What's that?
Mw: Quality Control. You have no one back there that reads the tags before they are dry cleaned so they don't get ruined like my shirt?
Boss Man: Ma'am, you've got to read your own tags. We deal with a lot of clothes here, we can't read every tag.
Mw: Ok, ok. Mea Culpa!
Mw: Well do you have any other solutions b/c I'm not a satisfied customer.
Boss Man: I can offer to throw some chemicals on your shirt in hopes of undoing this knot that melted all of the fabric together, do you want me to do that?
Mw: Chemicals? Throwing? That process sounds dangerous and besides what is the end product going to look like?
Boss Man: Oh, I have no idea. It will most likely melt the rest of these beads and dis-color the fabric. But at least it won't be in a knot.
Mw: But the shirt will look like I was a victim of a violent attack and someone threw chemicals on me. That doesn't sound very pretty.
Boss Man: I'm not sure if it will be pretty or not, but it won't have the melted metal on the front. Do you want me to try to peel them off?
Mw: How about this, you just give me a refund for the cleaning b/c I notice that this was not taken off my bill. I sure as hell don't plan on paying for this "melted metal look". *It looked like a bedazzled project gone wrong*
Boss Man: No problem Ma'am. Again sorry about your shirt. Just try to read the tags from now on. Let me know if you change your mind and want me to get rid of that metal knot on the front, too.
And with that I walked out of Zeeps with my $2.10 in hand. I wadded up the grey shirt and stuck it in my back jean pocket Bruce Springsteen style. The Boss and The Boss Man would have been impressed.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Tell Me Something I Want To Know
All of you politicos out there may have noticed my reference to the Chris Matthews Show from the title of this entry. His show has a segment called, "Tell Me Something I Don't Know". All of the guests on his panel take turns going around the table giving their own prediction or revelation for the week to come. I want to take this segment and change it to Tell Me Something I Want To Know and apply it to the newly revealed..."Mw's Dating 101: What Not To Talk About."
Every guy out there thinks that they are a great conversationalist and that in a few carefully honed "openers" they can swoon most women. I disagree completely. If these men exist they certainly do not live in DC. From my very sparse dating experience I've noticed that every guy asks the same questions and it's soooooo predictable where the conversation is going to go.
Rule 1: Don't Ask Me What I Do For a Living.
This has to be one of the questions that I despise the most. Why? Because when I say I'm an Interior Designer I get one of two responses back. 1. "Ohhh? That sounds like fun?" Or 2. "My Mom is a decorator, too. She makes window treatments and pillows." Well my Mom can certainly make window treatments and pillows, too, but Dorothy doesn't call herself a "decorator". Just because I'm not a lawyer or lobbyist or work on the Hill doesn't mean I have a useless "fluff" job. My job is stressful and you know what it's probably just as "fun" as anyone else's. My office however is fun b/c I work with a lot of great people and we choose to make it a fun place to be, how else would we survive crazy deadlines and unrealistic clients? My co-workers are my friends, they make me laugh everyday which makes work enjoyable.
Rule 2: Don't Ask Where I Live and Expect Specifics.
Look "Tom" we just met, how the hell am I supposed to know if John Walsh didn't just call you out on America's Most Wanted? I live in the District and that's my story, no need for the neighborhood or for heaven's sake even the street. You don't need to know this. I live in a box under the bridge down by the river. How's that for location?
Rule 3: Don't Ask Me "How Important Is a Checking Account?"
Yep, I've actually been asked this question. In fact just this Friday at a Happy Hour in DC. When I responded, quite honestly, "Well you need money to survive in life and it sure makes things easier. As long as you have a job and you get a paycheck that's all that really matters." The follow up question was even worse, "Well, would you ever date someone who made A LOT LESS money then you do?" My response, "Why would you ever ask me this question?" His response leads me to my next rule.
Rule 4: Don't Go On a Rant About Your Ex.I don't care that your ex was a physician who made A LOT of money and was the bread winner. Good for her, but I'm not her. Remember, I said I was an interior designer; completely different pay scales here. Your past is your past and I wasn't in it. But I am in the present so lets talk about that, not your ex.
Rule 5: Be Able To Sell Yourself In 5 Ways.No one wants to answer the questions I listed above. Why, because they are superficial parts of our life. Meeting people is about marketing yourself. The product you are selling is YOU. You would never get people to buy something if you disclosed the defects or the bad parts right away, (i.e. Man who was recently divorced by physician with uber bucks.) If there is a future, there is plenty of time to talk about the ghosts in the closet and all of the bad stuff. Hence the phrase Tell Me Something I Want To Know. Someone dating me may want to know I'm the youngest of 7 children and I have 2 brothers and 4 sisters. Those are a part of me as much as the color of my eyes. That will never change and will always be a part of my life. My job, my career, my address, all of those things are fleeting and easily transferable. But what do they really signify? Nothing. The real parts that make us unique are the parts of our life that have been there since the day we were born. Those are the parts I like to market...and also the fact that I'm highly sarcastic and I love to make people laugh. Remember, don't be fooled by fancy packaging.
So the next time you're out and someone asks you, "What do you do for a living?" Come up with a creative response that makes them have to ask a few more probing questions to get to know the real YOU. My answer is going to be, "I work with buildings and paper."
Work Hard. Play Harder. Laugh the Hardest...and ask great questions!
Every guy out there thinks that they are a great conversationalist and that in a few carefully honed "openers" they can swoon most women. I disagree completely. If these men exist they certainly do not live in DC. From my very sparse dating experience I've noticed that every guy asks the same questions and it's soooooo predictable where the conversation is going to go.
Rule 1: Don't Ask Me What I Do For a Living.
This has to be one of the questions that I despise the most. Why? Because when I say I'm an Interior Designer I get one of two responses back. 1. "Ohhh? That sounds like fun?" Or 2. "My Mom is a decorator, too. She makes window treatments and pillows." Well my Mom can certainly make window treatments and pillows, too, but Dorothy doesn't call herself a "decorator". Just because I'm not a lawyer or lobbyist or work on the Hill doesn't mean I have a useless "fluff" job. My job is stressful and you know what it's probably just as "fun" as anyone else's. My office however is fun b/c I work with a lot of great people and we choose to make it a fun place to be, how else would we survive crazy deadlines and unrealistic clients? My co-workers are my friends, they make me laugh everyday which makes work enjoyable.
Rule 2: Don't Ask Where I Live and Expect Specifics.
Look "Tom" we just met, how the hell am I supposed to know if John Walsh didn't just call you out on America's Most Wanted? I live in the District and that's my story, no need for the neighborhood or for heaven's sake even the street. You don't need to know this. I live in a box under the bridge down by the river. How's that for location?
Rule 3: Don't Ask Me "How Important Is a Checking Account?"
Yep, I've actually been asked this question. In fact just this Friday at a Happy Hour in DC. When I responded, quite honestly, "Well you need money to survive in life and it sure makes things easier. As long as you have a job and you get a paycheck that's all that really matters." The follow up question was even worse, "Well, would you ever date someone who made A LOT LESS money then you do?" My response, "Why would you ever ask me this question?" His response leads me to my next rule.
Rule 4: Don't Go On a Rant About Your Ex.I don't care that your ex was a physician who made A LOT of money and was the bread winner. Good for her, but I'm not her. Remember, I said I was an interior designer; completely different pay scales here. Your past is your past and I wasn't in it. But I am in the present so lets talk about that, not your ex.
Rule 5: Be Able To Sell Yourself In 5 Ways.No one wants to answer the questions I listed above. Why, because they are superficial parts of our life. Meeting people is about marketing yourself. The product you are selling is YOU. You would never get people to buy something if you disclosed the defects or the bad parts right away, (i.e. Man who was recently divorced by physician with uber bucks.) If there is a future, there is plenty of time to talk about the ghosts in the closet and all of the bad stuff. Hence the phrase Tell Me Something I Want To Know. Someone dating me may want to know I'm the youngest of 7 children and I have 2 brothers and 4 sisters. Those are a part of me as much as the color of my eyes. That will never change and will always be a part of my life. My job, my career, my address, all of those things are fleeting and easily transferable. But what do they really signify? Nothing. The real parts that make us unique are the parts of our life that have been there since the day we were born. Those are the parts I like to market...and also the fact that I'm highly sarcastic and I love to make people laugh. Remember, don't be fooled by fancy packaging.
So the next time you're out and someone asks you, "What do you do for a living?" Come up with a creative response that makes them have to ask a few more probing questions to get to know the real YOU. My answer is going to be, "I work with buildings and paper."
Work Hard. Play Harder. Laugh the Hardest...and ask great questions!
Monday, May 11, 2009
The Things You Overhear When You Don't Wear an Ipod
Mw True Hollywood Story
Walking on the escalator at Dupont.
I'm going up, listening to the random parts of conversations that I overhear while passing people going the opposite direction next to me.
Random person on cell phone sounds really heated and says:
"Well, I'm gonna guess that you're calling me from a bar 'cause you sound drunk again, oh, and b/c you're an 'EFFIN alcoholic!"
This was a guy by the way, not a girl. He looked very clean cut, sporting a suit, and a laptop bag and this was at 8:55 AM!
His day was off to a good start.
Walking on the escalator at Dupont.
I'm going up, listening to the random parts of conversations that I overhear while passing people going the opposite direction next to me.
Random person on cell phone sounds really heated and says:
"Well, I'm gonna guess that you're calling me from a bar 'cause you sound drunk again, oh, and b/c you're an 'EFFIN alcoholic!"
This was a guy by the way, not a girl. He looked very clean cut, sporting a suit, and a laptop bag and this was at 8:55 AM!
His day was off to a good start.
DC=Dirty Citizens
It's not my fault I'm obsessive compulsive about germs. It's a serious disease and I can't help the fact that I don't want to touch something that a dirty person touched. But honestly, who does? Some of us are just slightly more aware of germs than others.
Exhibit A:
Polo Fashion Show on Friday night with sis. It was so muddy outside from the 6 days of rain that we had all week. It was one big mud bath for your feet. (And to think my sister got a pedicure prior to going out for the evening.) Shoes, feet and clothes were all dirty all night. It was driving me crazy. Combined with the equally, if not even dirtier, element of the port-o-john I could have not been more in need of a hot shower when I got home. I actually walked straight into my shower with all of my clothes and shoes on----it was that muddy.
I was proud of myself though. I survived. I even shook hands with lots of people, not something I like to do with that whole Swine Flu going around.
Exhibit B:
This may require reading this next one twice.
Let me set the scene. Cleveland Park Metro Station. (It's an underground test tube for breeding germs basically.) I'm walking up the steps and I see something that actually made me slow my pace and almost trip:
Women walking down the escalator while BREAST FEEDING.
I told you that you would want to read that one twice.
Where do I begin? So many adjectives to choose from. This was not only dirty and disgusting, but dangerous for the baby and the Mom. I mean, she's walking while another human is latched onto her nipple, feeding! I'm all for multi-tasking, but this is just ridiculous. Anytime something is attached to your nipple I would think that should be the task you should focus on. There really is no need to add more to your plate at this moment. Just chill with the feeding part. But to add walking to it, then the extra concentration required for walking on a MOVING STAIRCASE that's descending by the way, in all places as the metro station??? Now that's just insane! Someone needed to ask this women why she was in such a rush. Was she going to get a tattoo while balancing this juggling act at the same time? Her husband was a good 20 steps ahead of her. He was running down the escalator steps with their son who looked like he just learned to walk. I have a feeling both of those kids have stitches in their near future.
I'm not a Mom and trust me, I give big props to all my friends and sisters who have kids of their own. I really have no idea how they raise children, manage the household and organize the lives of multiple family members all while working full time. I can barely take care of myself. I don't think any of my girlfriends or sisters would attempt said feat above though. And if they did, I would be the first to say to them, "You need to slow the 'eff down. Because you're gonna trip, lose a nipple, or pick up the Swine Flu in the process."
And whatever you do, do not let your kids touch that rail on the train then touch their food or worse YOU....
Exhibit C:
Dirty man on metro who was coughing and sneezing profusely then grabbing the rail. I give him credit for grabbing the rail actually. If I had to watch him "metro surf" for one more stop I was gonna make him sit down. He was all over the floor barely escaping from falling full force a couple of times. Then the sneezing started, followed by the coughing. I watched his grimy hand touch the rail. All I could I utter to myself was, "Gag." I was transfixed on this gentlemen for the two stops we traveled together. Partially b/c I wanted to know just how many things in a train one dirty person could potentially contaminate. The other reason was b/c I couldn't remember the last time I saw someone sporting one of those calculator watches. I think it was like 6th grade, definitely middle school. But there one was, staring me straight in the face, an old school calculator watch. Do you remember them? They were quite the rage for a short span. His was black, full keyboard and yes, the band was Velcro. And you know what else that watch probably had all over it, GERMS. I wanted no part of the ebola this guy was selling and steered clear of him while exiting.
This is why I'm a germaphobe, because people are dirty.
God Bless the inventor of hand sanitizer!
Exhibit A:
Polo Fashion Show on Friday night with sis. It was so muddy outside from the 6 days of rain that we had all week. It was one big mud bath for your feet. (And to think my sister got a pedicure prior to going out for the evening.) Shoes, feet and clothes were all dirty all night. It was driving me crazy. Combined with the equally, if not even dirtier, element of the port-o-john I could have not been more in need of a hot shower when I got home. I actually walked straight into my shower with all of my clothes and shoes on----it was that muddy.
I was proud of myself though. I survived. I even shook hands with lots of people, not something I like to do with that whole Swine Flu going around.
Exhibit B:
This may require reading this next one twice.
Let me set the scene. Cleveland Park Metro Station. (It's an underground test tube for breeding germs basically.) I'm walking up the steps and I see something that actually made me slow my pace and almost trip:
Women walking down the escalator while BREAST FEEDING.
I told you that you would want to read that one twice.
Where do I begin? So many adjectives to choose from. This was not only dirty and disgusting, but dangerous for the baby and the Mom. I mean, she's walking while another human is latched onto her nipple, feeding! I'm all for multi-tasking, but this is just ridiculous. Anytime something is attached to your nipple I would think that should be the task you should focus on. There really is no need to add more to your plate at this moment. Just chill with the feeding part. But to add walking to it, then the extra concentration required for walking on a MOVING STAIRCASE that's descending by the way, in all places as the metro station??? Now that's just insane! Someone needed to ask this women why she was in such a rush. Was she going to get a tattoo while balancing this juggling act at the same time? Her husband was a good 20 steps ahead of her. He was running down the escalator steps with their son who looked like he just learned to walk. I have a feeling both of those kids have stitches in their near future.
I'm not a Mom and trust me, I give big props to all my friends and sisters who have kids of their own. I really have no idea how they raise children, manage the household and organize the lives of multiple family members all while working full time. I can barely take care of myself. I don't think any of my girlfriends or sisters would attempt said feat above though. And if they did, I would be the first to say to them, "You need to slow the 'eff down. Because you're gonna trip, lose a nipple, or pick up the Swine Flu in the process."
And whatever you do, do not let your kids touch that rail on the train then touch their food or worse YOU....
Exhibit C:
Dirty man on metro who was coughing and sneezing profusely then grabbing the rail. I give him credit for grabbing the rail actually. If I had to watch him "metro surf" for one more stop I was gonna make him sit down. He was all over the floor barely escaping from falling full force a couple of times. Then the sneezing started, followed by the coughing. I watched his grimy hand touch the rail. All I could I utter to myself was, "Gag." I was transfixed on this gentlemen for the two stops we traveled together. Partially b/c I wanted to know just how many things in a train one dirty person could potentially contaminate. The other reason was b/c I couldn't remember the last time I saw someone sporting one of those calculator watches. I think it was like 6th grade, definitely middle school. But there one was, staring me straight in the face, an old school calculator watch. Do you remember them? They were quite the rage for a short span. His was black, full keyboard and yes, the band was Velcro. And you know what else that watch probably had all over it, GERMS. I wanted no part of the ebola this guy was selling and steered clear of him while exiting.
This is why I'm a germaphobe, because people are dirty.
God Bless the inventor of hand sanitizer!
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