This is what happens when you give me nerd glasses, some sort of furry hat, and precisely two thirds of a vodka and soda water mere hours after I’ve run nearly 14 miles.
I am such a hotdog cocktail wienie.
Also On Tap for Today:
What’s your go-to photo pose? Fish face? Deer in headlights?
Before you get too involved in this post, I need to warn you that I am about to reveal just how much of a dope I am. And you may never want to hear from me again. So quickly peek at a few videos of Clark, grab a book recommendation, check out my guest post for Real Fit Mama… read this post, and prepare to be horrified. And thennnn, delete On Tap for Today from your Google Reader.
If you make it the end of this post, however, there’s a giveaway with your name on it, so-and-so! Isn’t bribery fun?
The Trouble with Pedometers
There are some many days when I don’t make it to the gym, there’s no race on the schedule, and I can’t find my yoga mat. To be sure I am not being a lazy donkey, I make sure I get some extra walking in. Studies have suggested that 10,000 steps a day is a reasonable target for staying active. More often than not, my end-of-the-day count is closer to 20,000, thanks to the puppy and living in such a walkable city as Boston. And the fact that our office mailbox is located a mile away.
Having a pedometer in my pocket keeps me on track. If I leave the office with only 3,000 steps logged, I know I need to take the long way to the garage. Or chase Clark around the condo with a squeaking hippopotamus. Or go for a run. Or take a long walk along the beach. Or all of the above. You get the point.
I’ve tried a few different models, including the clip on kind. For some reason, the battery rattled around and the clip was absurdly large. Who wants to walk 10 steps, let alone 10,000 steps, looking and sounding like you’ve got an econo-size package of Tac-Tacs hot glue gunned to your waist? Not me.
Wanna go for a swim?
Two pedometers later, I stumbled upon this little beauty. Slim, well designed, and easy to use. It’s perfect, and relatively inexpensive. Unless you’ve bought nine of them. Yes, nine. And yes, this is where you become horrified with me.
I like to think that I have my act together. I work extremely hard, I am mature and responsible, and I take life rather seriously. I try to watch my spending and avoid being wasteful. My misadventures with pedometers, however, have revealed a character flaw I was previously altogether unaware of: I am a complete boob.
If habitual irresponsible handling of pedometers (and then immediately replacing them) were a crime, I’d be locked up right now. Pacing in my cell. With no way to track those paces.
To win a pedometer of your very own, please leave a comment below before midnight on Thursday. If you win, you can break it, or use it like a normal person– the choice is yours alone! For an extra entry, please feel free to tweet or blog about this giveaway and then leave a comment indicating you’ve done so. I will announce the winning hot stepper on Friday.
Also On Tap for Today:
What is your most out-of-character characteristic? Where do you like to stroll? Or, how do you sneak in exercise?
Sorry, 'tweens! I had to decapitate your beloved Justin Bieber in order to make this magical photo possible.
…And you’d be justified. Here are a few Ludacris ideas I’ve dreamed up as of late:
Getting a second dog
Not some day when we have a big yard, or when I move to Alaska to become a competitive musher and need something with a bit more power than a Frenchie to move my sleigh thing. Like, immediately. I tried to trick Nick into getting a girl French bulldog, just in case “Clark needed his own pet.” Demented and crazy? Yes, I am aware. And don’t get me started on the bunk beds I’ve imagined them sharing.
Giving up caffeine
I went over two weeks without sippin’ on a single Diet Coke. Concurrently, I went over two weeks without being a normal human being. I assumed the headaches and irritability would dissipate after a few days. They did not. I’ve scaled back to less than 1 can a day (most days I just have a few cups of green tea), so I suppose that’s worth celebrating. (Cue my Price is Right announcer voice) …With an ice coooold Dieeeet Coke!
Climbing a tree that has no low-lying branches
I am barely 5’4″. This was an idea destined for failure and disappointment. Plus it smelled sort of weird over by the tree. And it was nighttime. Did I mention I had consumed a glass of sangria or two?
Writing a book
This is something I’ve daydreamed about since I learned how to read. The only things stopping me from executing? Lack of subject, patience, ability, and time. All very minor issues. (I find sentence fragments to be very alluring to prospective agents and publishers.)
Sometimes, our most luda’ ideas become our most proud accomplishments. I don’t think this is one of those times.
Also On Tap for Today:
What’s the wildest idea you’ve dreamed up lately?
Make way for Clarklings.
Before I get in over my proverbial head, I should probably ask that– if you are any sort of law enforcement agent, PETA member, park ranger, or run-of-the-mill concerned citizen– kindly stop reading now. If you insist on continuing, I beg you to show mercy on my soul. And on my dog.
This is probably when Clark hatched his fur-brained plan.
Nick’s brother gave us a professional photo session for Clark for Christmas. We met Maria*, of White Whiskers Photography, at the George Washington statue at the Arlington St. entrance of the Public Garden, promptly at 9 o’clock yesterday morning. The light was gorgeous, the lawn and flowers freshly watered, and the heat had not yet peaked. Clark took to Maria quickly; within minutes he was eating from the palm of her hand. Literally. That’s how most dogs eat.
I am not certain how things took a such a turn, but I know it was fast and I know it was noisy. One minute Clark was posed regally by the edge of the Swan Pond, and the next, he was swan diving into the Swan Pond, presumably in an effort to catch and eat… a swan. There were ducks and swans and geese quacking and dogs barking and people screaming and Nick emptying his pockets and removing his shoes, poised to jump in after Clark. It was complete chaos.
Swan: the other, other white meat.
Fortunately the chaos was short lived. Clark turned around and frantically doggie-paddled back to the edge, looking both shocked and proud of himself for executing such a bold sequence. Without having had an EKG, I am fairly certain my heart stopped, and that the Swan Pond incident shaved months, if not years off my life, but the dog is fine and the swans are fine and Maria had the wherewithal to stop taking pictures until Clark was safely ashore. Could you imagine if that ended differently? Oh look, here’s a picture of your dog drowning. Oh and what’s this? A mutilated swan! Lovely.
Impromptu swims are exhausting.
All parties bounced back surprisingly well. Perhaps we should be cutting back on swimming lessons, though. And I am rethinking the duck treats we regularly give him.
*If you, or a friend with a furry friend, are looking for a talented photographer, we highly recommend you contact Maria at White Whiskers Photography.
Also On Tap for Today:
How was your weekend? Break any rules?
I sent a special delivery to the Bruins this week. A secret weapon, if you will. If you watched last night’s game, you know as well as I do that the secret weapon did not reach the B’s in time. As time wound down in the third period, friends and family members wondered where I was. And I wondered why I will still inside a hockey bag in the back of a Fed Ex truck. I specifically checked off priority overnight, not standard overnight.
It's gettin' hot in herre.
Signed, sealed, delivered. I'm a dingbat.
The grizzly hat: an accessory for all seasons.
Do these shoulder pads make me look... never mind.
I'm an animal. And/or something smells.
If you like it, then you shoulda pinned a flower on it. Sorry that I'm not sorry for disgracing the uniform.
Aaaaand, the grand finale: Imagine our carpeted hallway is actually the Garden. Rene Rancourt and his awkward confetti vest have just left the ice. With the fury of a thousand suns, I come flying out of the locker room ready to rumble. Or, whatever.
I have a newfound respect for hockey players. Putting that stuff on is not easy. Fortunately, I had Nick’s help. I understand from him, however, that teammates usually do not help one anther in and out of their gear. And yes, I did remove the pink flower before returning the jersey to its rightful owner.
Also On Tap for Today:
Who would you mail yourself to, if that was a. possible and b. acceptable and c. legal?
When I was younger I wanted to be a detective. In middle school, a friend and I ran an imaginary detective agency. Our breakout case involved the (imaginary) kidnapping of Joey McIntyre. Yes, the New Kid. We had notebooks, laminated ID cards and referred to each other by our backwards names. Htebazile is a pretty amazing detective name. Amazing and suspicious, which is good, because suspicion is a very important component of detective work.
We stopped playing detective agency after a brown kidnapper van started lurking in the cul-de-sac between our neighborhoods. I don’t mean to, quite literally, give box vans a bad name, but they’re extremely creepy. Especially when you’re ten.
My fascination with true crime dramas and an overactive imagination are not the healthiest combination, but old habits die hard. Speaking of dying, the serial killer marathon Meg and I watched on the Cape, the summer after graduating college, illustrates perfectly what a dingbat I am… and why I’d be the worst real detective in the history of the universe.
After watching hours and hours of History Channel and Court TV documentaries on John Wayne Gacy and Ted Bundy and assorted others, I drove a half mile down the road to the cottage, which was empty, as my parents were driving down early the next morning. I propped chairs under every single doorknob, placed a wiffleball bat (bam! lethal!) next to my bed and lay awake until I heard my parents pull down the driveway eight hours later.
I then had to spring from my bed and unbooby trap the cottage, greet my mom and dad and pretend that I wasn’t psychologically profiling our neighbor, who happened to be unloading groceries next door.
I was walking from my office to a meeting early this morning, about to pass through our garage, when suddenly a passing bird pooped directly on my forehead.
The parking attendant on duty caught the tail (feathered) end of the situation, seeing me holding my head and looking panicked, and misjudged the situation, thinking I was about to faint.
Maybe I did temporarily faint (so quickly that I didn’t have the chance to fall over) because I have no idea what happened for several minutes after that.
Regardless, the lovely attendant gave me a tissue from his pocket and I made a mad dash for my car to um, wipe the crap from my forehead. Mind you, I had exactly three minutes before I was supposed to meet a colleague. I Purelled my face with reckless abandon, which felt not unlike bathing in chemicals, and tried to pull myself together.
I doubt that anyone who believe getting bird poop on you is good luck has ever been shat upon. Take it from me (I am now a two-time veteran in the war on bird turd): there’s nothing lucky about it.
It is a little funny, though. And it’s totally okay if you’re laughing at me, not with me, in this moment.
Also On Tap for Today:
What’s the most mortifying moment you endured this week?
I like to misuse corporate jargon whenever possible. I try to integrate phrases or buzz words like circle back, best practices, taking a 10,000 ft. view, and my most favorite, subvert the dominant paradigm, when least proper or sensible. If I were playing Buzzword Bingo against myself, I’d probably… always win.
Speaking of winning (even though the good guys lost), there was a BC v. Stinks to BU hockey game on Friday night. Unfortunately my older brother was sick, but fortunately, he offered us his tickets for the game. Thanks, Jimmy! Here’s the really cool (Awful pun? Intended!) part: the game was outdoors, at Fenway Park.
Frozen Fenway
And this, folks, is why I took a layered approach:
I bundled up to the point of being smoking hot. And who knows, I may have even looked good. Layering up inside, with the heat on? Not the most comfortable plan.
That's the hood to my Fenway Parka... get it?
I packed a few snacks and a bottle of water (which, surprisingly, was not promptly confiscated at the Park), my digicam, an extra pair of gloves, a winter hat and–most importantly–my winning attitude. Off we went to Fenway to watch the boys in maroon and gold play ball. With a hockey puck.
Also On Tap for Today:
What’s your favorite corporate buzz word? Please misuse it in a sentence.
My New Year’s cold has now taken up residence in my chest as a hacking New Year’s cough. I sound like Walter Matthau. While picking up Tylenol PM for my older brother yesterday (I can’t tell you why, because I want him to tell you why*), I actually paused in the first aid aisle of CVS and considered buying one of those SARS masks. Or three. One for me, and one for each of my friends. And then I remembered I needed Chapstick and mosied on to the next aisle.
I feel sickly enough that I thought about making a doctor’s appointment, but didn’t, because I think my doctor is a complete weirdo. Does anyone else wish they could still see their pediatrician? No? Anyone? My pediatrician was my primary care physician until I turned, like 24 or something. Mom, remember that time you took me to the doctor right after my college graduation? Now that was a good time. I thoughtfully explained my symptoms (headache, lack of appetite, general lethargy and grouchiness), right before my mother announced that I had been drinking from a beer funnel before graduation. Fantastic. Someone must have leaked those pictures to the five o’clock news!
This photo predates my discovery of the beer funnel, when I was the appropriate age to be seen by a pediatrician.
By the way, I think I was diagnosed with a hangover (or, fellow Eagles, life after Senior Week). Meanwhile, there was a two year old in the room next door getting a booster shot. Not okay. So now I have this bizarre doctor who sees approximately 7,900 patients per day and is hiding approximately 12 birds in her giant hair. I found her, not surprisingly, on the internet. I have another new year’s resolution to add to the list: break up with Doctor Strangehair.
On a totally different note, Doc was my grandfather’s nickname. His BFFL (and they really were best friends for life) gave him the name when they were really little, after Grandpa saved an injured squirrel. Or was it a bird? I don’t know, but I bet he would have been a really good doctor. Mostly because he was a really good man.
*I am being vague because a. my brother had the most unbelievable day of all time yesterday and b. I want to trick him into being a guest blogger, exploiting his story to drive up traffic on ohcrapnottoday ontapfortoday.
Also On Tap for Today:
Do you have an adorable nickname? Or a normal doctor?
wikipedia
Dear Editor,
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?
–Virginia O’Hanlon, 115 W. 95th Street
You probably know how the second paragraph (quick summary of the first paragraph: V.’s little friends are dingbats; full text here) of F.P. Church’s thoughtful and famous response begins: Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.
This exchange holds special meaning for me. As a three year old, I got in a bit of trouble for telling my pre-school little friends that Santa was fake. A reasonable person would assume I was speaking specifically of the “Santa’s helper” that came to school for a photo opportunity (he was, after all, not Santa), but I can imagine that the words Santa and fake, regardless of the semantics, would not go over well in a room full of pre-schoolers and their keepers.
Regardless, I wholeheartedly encourage you to read the editor’s full response. Does a more perfect answer to the Santa question exist? Church captured the wonder and spirit of Christmas and the holiday season, and reminds us year after year (when his editorial pops up in Macy’s commercials, TV specials, holiday books and is reprinted in newspapers across the country) that “the most real things the world are those that neither children nor men can see.”
That does not necessarily mean that the Boogie Man is the most real thing in the world. It means, I think, that Peace and Charity and Compassion and Thoughtfulness and L-O-V-E (while I’m spelling words, Aretha Franklin, let’s not forget R-E-S-P-E-C-T) are the most real things. Not material things or just plain old materials, like burlap or felt.
This being 2009, the Virginias of the world may need more high tech proof that Santa exists. Fortunately I received the most magical email of all time earlier this week:
Yes, Virginia, he is on Twitter
Now might be a good time to assure you that I am not under the influence. This post was fueled by a tall glass of Christmas cheer, and I don’t mean the peppermint schnapps kind. I do feel a bit like I’ve been sniffing candy canes or huffing glitter, though. I may or may not have DVR’d Carrie Underwood’s holiday special on Fox last week. OK. I fully did.
My shame level hasn’t dipped quite low enough to warrant actually watching it yet, but I have a feeling we’re not too far off. You’ll have to wait with baited breath to hear how magical it was. Or wasn’t. I’ll get swept up in anything Christmas related. I just can’t help it.
Also On Tap for Today:
Tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus in your life?
