The evening of Wednesday, June 15, 2011 was shaping up to be, in one word, unremarkable. I returned home from a run in the sweltering June heat with the intention of eating 6-10 Otter Pops to help regulate my core temperature, and was looking forward to catching up on some stimulating, educational television (READ: Modern Family and Next Food Network Star). What a nice, quiet evening at home, I thought, as I wiggled out of my sweaty t-shirt and snipped the top off of a Louie-Bloo Raspberry. I took the commercial break following a particularly cutthroat kitchen challenge to step onto the balcony to water my flower pot, and that’s when my quiet evening at home turned into an urban rendition of 127 Hours.
I was so busy telling my flowers how proud I was of them for (finally) growing and flourishing that I didn’t hear the door click shut behind me. I turned to go back inside, anxious to watch the judging panel reduce the emotionally-unstable blonde chef to a blubbering ball of tears, and that’s when I realized that I had been locked out. Relax, I thought. I’ll go in through the bedroom, fully aware that I keep my bedroom door locked at all times to ward off predators. Both doors leading back inside were LOCKED. And that’s when it sank in that I was in my jog bra, trapped seven stories up, on a balcony roughly the size of baby’s playpen.
My first reaction was to laugh at myself, quietly at first and then heartily. I truly am Amelia Bedelia in the flesh! Wait’ll the girls get a load of this! It was only when I stopped laughing to seriously consider how I was going to get back inside that the severity of the situation settled in. Following is my exact train of thought:
“Oh, I’ll just call someone”. (Phone was inside.)
“Okkk, I’ll just wait for Michelle to get home and let me in.” (Michelle was obliviously crooning away at Mumford & Sons, and wouldn’t be home until morning.)
“Ugh, I didn’t want to have to do this, but I’ll just pop over to the neighbor’s balcony and tap tap tap on his door.” (Pretty certain the neighbor uses his condo as a second home and likely wouldn’t be returning for months.)
“Fuck it, I’ll just break the glass and let myself in.” (With what, you idiot, your bare hands? Did you wanna wrap them in your jog bra first? You’ll surely bleed to death on your own balcony. Not an ideal way to go.)
At this point, panic rose in my throat like an unstoppable rebel force. I AM TOAST!!! But wait – hadn’t I watched enough Man vs. Wild to get me through this? It’s not like I was in the Sahara; I was on my own, lovely patio! THINK, DAMNIT. But it kind of felt like the Sahara – that unforgiving summer sun beating down mercilessly on my scantily-clad bod. God it’s hot. A nice shower from my watering can would sure be a good morale booster; I cursed myself for having wasted all the water on my plants. I hope you’re happy, you good for nothing – NO. Don’t turn on them. They’re all you’ve got and you may end up having to eat them soon. I paced frantically between the two doors, violently shaking the handles. I was struck by the irony of hoping that one of the locks I had grown to rely on might be faulty. And then there was the momentary consideration of launching myself onto the patio below, but I knew that was just the heat talking, and I sat down on my chair to compose myself.
As the sun began to set over the Rocky Mountains to the west, it got very quiet, and a sense of peaceful helplessness replaced the frenzied terror I had been choking on. I slumped over the railing, watching cars drive by in the distance, thinking how beautiful the city looks at that time of night, vaguely aware of the occasional gun shot in the bail bond district a couple blocks away. Sleeping out here wouldn’t so bad, I thought, pondering the absurdity of doing so while staring at my bed 3 feet away on the other side of the door.
I heard them before I saw them: VOICES, and not just the ones in my head for once. Real voices! And then, like a mirage they appeared – three bikers riding down the street towards my building. I stood up, wobbly on my feet, and cried down like a modern-day Rapunzel.
“HELLOOOOO! UP HEEEERE! I’M LOCKED OUT OF MY CONDO, PLEASE HELP!!!”
They blinked at each other, baffled, and then looked up at me again.
“WHAT SHOULD WE DO?” they yelled back.
“GO TELL DOUG IN THE LOBBY THAT HE NEEDS TO COME UP AND UNLOCK MY DOOR! AND STEP ON IT!”
I used the last bit of my strength to yell my apartment number to them and then slumped back into my chair, exhausted. The next five minutes were excruciating, and I was convinced that the bikers had dismissed me as a crazy person and ridden into the sunset. But then Doug – sweet, adorable, helpful Doug – appeared inside and turned the door handle to let me in. I doubt he’s ever been so amused in his life. And the bikers were there too – my heroes! They had come up to enjoy the spectacle. I thanked them all profusely, painfully aware of my lack of clothing and the melted Otter Pops on the table. Soon all 5 of us were in stitches, and I was sad when they turned to go. “You are a fine group of people”, I said, as I locked the door behind them.
I’m not sure Bear Grylls would have been super proud of my performance on the balcony, and I don’t think I’ll be getting a call from the producers of I Shouldn’t Be Alive anytime soon. But an hour of looking in on my life from the outside was enough to be a bit of a perspective changer. And that Louie-Bloo never tasted so sweet.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Monday, May 23, 2011
Lakewood Vacation
If you’d ever like to see a very real and horribly raw cross-section of humanity, head to the lazy river at Elitches, or better yet – an insurance licensing class. I was fortunate enough to have a two-day vacation last week in scenic Lakewood, CO completing some pre-licensing education for my Property & Casualty designation. After a wild goose chase that led me onto virtually every highway in the state, courtesy of MapQuest, I arrived at my destination with just enough time to spare for a watered-down gas station coffee and $52 fill-up.
Imagine my surprise to find Courtney (having arrived early) with her notepad already out, sitting in the front row, wearing the exact same outfit as me. She was a real doll to save me a middle seat, which I had to twist and contort my body to get into in the interest of not spilling my overweight neighbor’s Venti Carmel Frappucino all over her ample bosom.
The morning started off nicely – I was learning things and taking copious notes with a really neat pen. I couldn’t help but notice that the gal directly in front of me loved snacking; the sound of the spoon meticulously scraping the sides of the Activia carton (ACTIVIAAAA!) was a bit distracting, but no matter; my penmanship was exquisite and my twin and I were quickly becoming the teacher’s pets.
Then something disturbing happened on our first break. We had 10 minutes to make phone calls, stretch, and/or use the facilities. Like a herd of wild wildebeest, the women in the class flocked to the bathroom adjacent to the classroom, forming a line that snaked into the hallway. LET ME BE CLEAR: There is no anticipation more excruciating than waiting to see who comes out of the bathroom stall you are about to enter, and there is nothing more distressing than the previous occupant telling you in an apologetic and panicked voice that “it’s not flushing”. Choking back tears, I wiped the seat down and vowed never to put myself through this again, and subsequently climbed the stairs to the fourth floor on every other restroom break. Why more people in the class didn’t use bathrooms on other floors is beyond me and is likely indicative of the passing rate on the exam.
The staleness of the classroom grew exponentially with each passing hour, and it was indescribably refreshing when the teacher opened the window, even with a group of tweens chain-smoking directly outside. The man in front of me had a tattoo on his head, and against my will, I began to fixate on it. What an odd place for a tattoo, I thought. The Snacker produced – you guessed it – more snacks; a Tupperware full of strawberries, a baggie of chips, a string cheese. Her snacking began to weigh on me, and my hand was getting tired; I was fading – fast. Thankfully, lunch arrived as I was on the verge of blacking out. Court and I peeled out of the parking lot, desperate for an hour away from the herd. Despite the fact that it was sleeting slightly, we picked a table on the patio at Chipotle and ate in silence, savoring the quiet and fresh air. In unison, our eyes met and we knew it was time to get back.
Upon return, we discovered that the office next to our classroom belonged to a woman named Carol Poos-Wilson, which begs the question: If your last name was Poos, and you got married and had the opportunity to drop the name, wouldn’t you? Or would you hyphenate it? This was hilarious to us, and we laughed. Then we remembered that we were in Lakewood for insurance licensing, and the laughter ceased.
The afternoon went much like the morning, and the second day went very much like the first – a blur of notes, second-hand smoke, snacks. I begged my sweet sister to give me the aisle seat for a couple of hours, and derived some sick pleasure out of watching her repeatedly bump elbows with Frapuccino Face. There was some police activity in the parking lot, which was briefly exciting for a couple gals from Greenwood Village. We made the amateur mistake of bringing a bag of Jolly Ranchers back from lunch – a very noisy candy to unwrap – and this sent the snacker into a frenzy. She asked if she could have one and proceeded to pick out all the cherries. The nerve! Did it ever occur to her that I might like a strawberry, or a peel of her string cheese? Nooo, she didn’t want to share, but she had no problem pilfering all of the cherries, which happen to be my favorite. I had two choices: Scream very, very loudly or bury my nose in the books and ace every in-class exam. I chose the second, because I am a lady, and the rest of the course was punctuated with high scores and high-fives.
We emerged at 5:00 on Day 2 with full minds and a newfound appreciation for the world outside of those suffocating classroom walls. Although my pursuit for bathroom cleanliness left me feeling like I had been on a Stairmaster from hell, I decided to run around Wash Park to center myself and reflect on my Lakewood vacation. The strangest thing happened: I began to miss The Snacker and the man with the weird head tattoo; I mean I spent two full days with these people, and now what – I’m just never going to see them again? Not to mention they just don’t make coffee like that in the Tech Center. Lakewood doesn’t get enough cred, I thought. Ah, well… another chapter closed in the life of an insurance slanger.
The next morning, we passed all four of the P&C exams with flying colors, leaving me with two questions: Would you have any objection to me reviewing your auto insurance, and what the F is Carol-Poos Wilson up to these days?
Imagine my surprise to find Courtney (having arrived early) with her notepad already out, sitting in the front row, wearing the exact same outfit as me. She was a real doll to save me a middle seat, which I had to twist and contort my body to get into in the interest of not spilling my overweight neighbor’s Venti Carmel Frappucino all over her ample bosom.
The morning started off nicely – I was learning things and taking copious notes with a really neat pen. I couldn’t help but notice that the gal directly in front of me loved snacking; the sound of the spoon meticulously scraping the sides of the Activia carton (ACTIVIAAAA!) was a bit distracting, but no matter; my penmanship was exquisite and my twin and I were quickly becoming the teacher’s pets.
Then something disturbing happened on our first break. We had 10 minutes to make phone calls, stretch, and/or use the facilities. Like a herd of wild wildebeest, the women in the class flocked to the bathroom adjacent to the classroom, forming a line that snaked into the hallway. LET ME BE CLEAR: There is no anticipation more excruciating than waiting to see who comes out of the bathroom stall you are about to enter, and there is nothing more distressing than the previous occupant telling you in an apologetic and panicked voice that “it’s not flushing”. Choking back tears, I wiped the seat down and vowed never to put myself through this again, and subsequently climbed the stairs to the fourth floor on every other restroom break. Why more people in the class didn’t use bathrooms on other floors is beyond me and is likely indicative of the passing rate on the exam.
The staleness of the classroom grew exponentially with each passing hour, and it was indescribably refreshing when the teacher opened the window, even with a group of tweens chain-smoking directly outside. The man in front of me had a tattoo on his head, and against my will, I began to fixate on it. What an odd place for a tattoo, I thought. The Snacker produced – you guessed it – more snacks; a Tupperware full of strawberries, a baggie of chips, a string cheese. Her snacking began to weigh on me, and my hand was getting tired; I was fading – fast. Thankfully, lunch arrived as I was on the verge of blacking out. Court and I peeled out of the parking lot, desperate for an hour away from the herd. Despite the fact that it was sleeting slightly, we picked a table on the patio at Chipotle and ate in silence, savoring the quiet and fresh air. In unison, our eyes met and we knew it was time to get back.
Upon return, we discovered that the office next to our classroom belonged to a woman named Carol Poos-Wilson, which begs the question: If your last name was Poos, and you got married and had the opportunity to drop the name, wouldn’t you? Or would you hyphenate it? This was hilarious to us, and we laughed. Then we remembered that we were in Lakewood for insurance licensing, and the laughter ceased.
The afternoon went much like the morning, and the second day went very much like the first – a blur of notes, second-hand smoke, snacks. I begged my sweet sister to give me the aisle seat for a couple of hours, and derived some sick pleasure out of watching her repeatedly bump elbows with Frapuccino Face. There was some police activity in the parking lot, which was briefly exciting for a couple gals from Greenwood Village. We made the amateur mistake of bringing a bag of Jolly Ranchers back from lunch – a very noisy candy to unwrap – and this sent the snacker into a frenzy. She asked if she could have one and proceeded to pick out all the cherries. The nerve! Did it ever occur to her that I might like a strawberry, or a peel of her string cheese? Nooo, she didn’t want to share, but she had no problem pilfering all of the cherries, which happen to be my favorite. I had two choices: Scream very, very loudly or bury my nose in the books and ace every in-class exam. I chose the second, because I am a lady, and the rest of the course was punctuated with high scores and high-fives.
We emerged at 5:00 on Day 2 with full minds and a newfound appreciation for the world outside of those suffocating classroom walls. Although my pursuit for bathroom cleanliness left me feeling like I had been on a Stairmaster from hell, I decided to run around Wash Park to center myself and reflect on my Lakewood vacation. The strangest thing happened: I began to miss The Snacker and the man with the weird head tattoo; I mean I spent two full days with these people, and now what – I’m just never going to see them again? Not to mention they just don’t make coffee like that in the Tech Center. Lakewood doesn’t get enough cred, I thought. Ah, well… another chapter closed in the life of an insurance slanger.
The next morning, we passed all four of the P&C exams with flying colors, leaving me with two questions: Would you have any objection to me reviewing your auto insurance, and what the F is Carol-Poos Wilson up to these days?
Monday, February 7, 2011
"Working From Home"
10AM on a Monday morning: I lay on the couch sneezing uncontrollably, wearing my Norwegian sweater and ski socks for warmth, sniveling like a pathetic little ball of germs. I can’t cough without imagining the Mucinex family being dislodged from my lungs in a hurricane-like blast. How did I get here? Wasn’t I healthy as a horse just a few days ago? Let us revisit my journey down the head cold highway.
It started as an innocent little tickle in the back of my throat, which I attributed to the dry Colorado air and the second-hand smoke courtesy of the hipsters outside of Red Square. I dismissed the scratchy throat as just that, and went about living my life. Let the records show that I RARELY fall ill. In fact, I am somewhat judgmental of people that are constantly sniffling; their parents obviously protected them from germs with OCD vigor when they were children, ironically gifting them with the immune system of a premature panda cub. Do parents not realize that exposure to germs eventually renders children immune to disease? When I have babies, I am going to let them roll around on the floor and encourage them to eat fistfuls of dirt. Alas, I digress.
The tickle in my throat quickly escalated into a full-fledged, diabolical head cold. Coughing, sneezing… the works. For someone that rarely falls ill, the first day or two of a sickness are somewhat of a novelty: Drinking tea, lounging around watching movies, eating chicken noodle soup and milk shakes with a great deal of self-indulgence. Poor me, poor me, so sick. Ideally, you have a miraculous recovery after two days of milkshake binging and that's the extent of it. This time around, I was not so lucky. This is DAY FOUR of couch lounging. I am tired of soup. I am sick of watching TV. If I see one more Proactiv commercial, I might roll off the couch onto a bed of used Kleenex and adult sob. I was actually excited to go to work this morning – I awoke from a Nyquil-fueled slumber and convinced myself I felt sooo much better. I was at work for less than an hour when I sneezed directly on a co-worker while making coffee in the communal kitchen, prompting a look of true disdain. Everyone agreed that I should go home and “take it easy” (code for “get the F out of here before you get us sick, you selfish, sniveling brat"). I agreed, promising that I would be working from home, and just like that I was banished back to the couch. Blah.
Let me just say that the idea of “working from home” is preposterous. Let’s call a spade a spade: Working from home is sending one e-mail per hour while eating Bagel Bites and sinking into a Food Network trance. It’s always funny to hear people justify the concept. “I have a fully-functional office at home. You won’t even know I’m working remotely!” Yea right, and Kim Kardashian really got that ass wearing Shape-Ups. You might as well just say, "I've decided I'm done working for the day. I think I'll go home and blatantly disregard my professional obligations until tomorrow." At least that would be honest.
I know what you’re thinking: I’m over exerting myself with all of this profound, meaningful writing. If I stand a chance of getting off this god-forsaken couch anytime soon, I’d better heed my coworkers’ advice and take it easy. I think I’ll take a nap and then do some work. Cough cough.
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