no chance of getting pizza delivered, I guess

With my new-found free time, I enjoy experiencing things around the city that I've never done. You know, like using the laundromat. Today's New Experience was swimming at the Druid Hill Park Pool.

Now, I fully expected to be the only white person there. I fully expected to be the only one sunbathing rather than sitting in the shade. I wasn't shocked when a little boy asked me, "Are you a lifeguard?" despite the fact that I was wearing a blue and white bathing suit and carrying a towel. However, I was unprepared for the other cultural differences I would experience.

The place is like a maximum security prison! I payed my fee and walked into the locker room, about to waltz right through the showers and into the sunshine. I was stopped at every turn by a different bored teenage prison warden making me jump through some new kind of hoop.

bored teenage prison warden: You need to check your bag.
me: You mean...I have to leave my bag here?
BTPW: Yeah. And your dress and your shoes. You can keep your towel.
me: Can I at least bring my book?
BTPW: It's a pool...bring a book for what?
me: You know...I'll lie out in the sun for a while, read my book, get in the water when I get hot...

BTPW gave me a puzzled look and a shrug as if I had just told her I planned to conduct a seance or wrap myself in tin foil or some equally ridiculous yet ultimately harmless endeavor. Was she unaware of the habit of white people to work on their tans, twenty minutes per side before flipping over, then take a dip when they get overheated? Surely she must have witnessed this phenomenon in a movie or something. Apparently not, but she let the book pass.

Next, I had to go through the showers and get wet, front and back, as BTPW#2 told me. I held my book and towel high above my head while drenching the rest of myself in the showers, then walked, bare-footed, cameraless, telephoneless, penniless, into the pool area. I was stripped of every item I usually consider essential for a day at the pool. Thank God I hadn't tried to bring snacks, or even water!

I spread my towel out and plopped down with my book, nervous that I was breaking some hidden rule. No lying on the concrete! You cannot be out of the water for more than 10 minutes at a time. Did you actually wear glasses in here!? I got even more nervous when the police officer on duty started walking by me. Play it cool, Anna, play it cool.

I don't think I'll be returning to this particular pool. Someone please tell me that Patterson Park is not like this. Or at the very least, give me detailed, step-by-step instructions on how to enter the pool before I try.

police

I'm back in Maryland, a state which seems to be saying to me, Oh yeah? You spent a nice, relaxing, gorgeous, week on a cool lake with a constant, gentle breeze? Maybe Massachusetts boasts beautiful bodies of water, but you know what I've got? The most oppressive heat and humidity you've ever known, that's what!

Yes, Maryland. I get it. I didn't forget. As I sit here, lacking the modern wonder of air conditioning, I have to cool myself down the only way I can think of - by spreading out to create as much surface area on my body as possible, maximizing the amount of skin being hit by air from the fan. It brings me back to my days of living in Cumberland and Hagerstown, two of College Park's non air-conditioned high rises. I would lie on top of my covers and plaster one arm and one leg to the cinderblock wall, the coolest part of the room, until I was almost sideways. I'm also reminded of the hottest night of my life, the overnight train from Rome to Paris. That's a good memory.

Anyway, in honor of the heat, here are some temperature-related mad gabs:

• sew achoo cuff Ryan nag
• win elf Reese's sulfur
• my toss wallaby wok king Hawn thus hon
• police affix a rare corn dish awning

at least he scraped the lungs off

He came in and sat at the table across from me - a man with white hair and a wrinkled, ill-fitting, suit. In place of the suit jacket, he wore a sweater draped over his shoulders. The seat across from him was empty, and he looked down at a magazine, barely lifting his eyes and magazine when the waitress covered his table with brown paper.

This little scene takes less imagination to figure out than most of my observations. He's in town on business. He's not incredibly popular with his co-workers, but he's pretty sure of himself as a traveller. Instead of eating with the others at the hotel, he decided to find a restaurant renowned for its crabs and experience them all by himself. His status as an out-of-towner was sealed in my eyes when the crabs were delivered.

He picked up a crab and held its face towards him, poking it with a knife as I made no effort not to stare.

Oh, honey. That's wrong.

As he poked the crab in the face, he tried turning the knife between the top and bottom shell, as if it were an oyster, but of course to no avail.

So wrong.

After trying the 'pry it open with a knife' method, he picked up the mallet and whacked it near its bottom. Then he returned immediately to the knife prying at the spot he had just crushed. Seeing that this didn't work, he started to peel up the tab with his knife.

Yes! Yes, now you're onto something.

I cheered him on from the table, perhaps a little too loudly, excited that this novice was now on the right track and would soon be enjoying the delicious crabmeat that was locked away in front of him. Once the back shell was removed, he cracked the body down the middle pretty well, but my support for Mr. Businessman soon faded when I saw what happened next.

He lifted the crab half to his mouth and bit straight into the meat, attempting to suck it out of the body as if it were a crayfish. Well it wasn't a crayfish, and the result was that he had to spit out some shell, and most of the meat was still left attached to the legs. Rather than pick the remaining meat, he tossed the whole thing out with the leg, and repeated the process with the next one. I looked on in horror as he continued with the speed of a lion devouring its kill, blood on the face and paws, in too much of a rush to separate any one organ from another.

Next, he came to a claw and tried to crack it with his fingers. After one half-hearted attempt, he threw the entire thing into the brown paper bag next to his table, usually reserved for shells and lungs, but in this case filled with delicious yet untouched meat. All that salty claw meat would never even be tasted. The mauling of probably six crabs was finished in under fifteen minutes, and I was left sitting in judgment of this man, too sure of himself, yet unaware of all that he was missing.

Oh, honey. So wrong.

I have a lot of time on my hands this week

Today's new experience was using the laundromat around the corner. Our dryer's been broken for a while, so I figured now was a good time to try out a communal dryer, which I hadn't done since my sophomore year of college.

It was a typical laundromat, with people sitting around reading books as their clothes spun, including a little old lady in a housecoat washing several pet leashes. A big fan blew at our seats to balance out the dryer heat. Also featured in this laundromat was a Pacman machine. Interesting. As I sat there reading my book, I wondered if people ever choose to play Pacman while they wait. It reminded me the good old Dobbin Dental Center, with a darkened corner of the room to play video games while you waited.

As I reminisced, a lady in her mid-forties walked in. She did not have any laundry. She did not go to check a machine. She did not purchase detergent. She walked straight to the Pacman machine, quarters in hand, and began a game. She was on a mission.

I imagined this lady as a Pacman addict, keeping a mental map of every Pacman location in the city. She was headed back to work after her lunch break. She stopped at the Bank of America on St. Paul, knowing full well that there was a branch closer to her office. She pushed that thought out of her mind, telling herself that this ATM would have a shorter line. She was just being practical, that's all. No other reason or agenda. As she exited the bank, she turned left even though her car was parked up the street to the right. She was just trying to avoid the homeless man asking people for money. She didn't have time to waste talking to him; she had to get back to work. Now, standing in front of the laundromat, she felt that unavoidable pull. Before she could stop herself, her hand instinctually went into her pocket, fingers feeling for the ridges of a quarter. She had just enough for one game. I mean, what are the chances that she would end up here, with just enough money in her pocket? It's as if the universe were speaking to her. She might be a little late getting back to work, but no one would have to know why. She marched down the steps, past the counter, straight to what had been calling her all along. Before she knew it, the quarters were in the slot and that familiar electronic melody filled the room, drowning out the hum of the dryers and fans.

completion

I did it. As my last week of work was coming to an end, I began to worry that I would never get the chance to reveal to Transformer Guy the serendipity of our shared commute. I knew that if I saw him, it would be my last chance to make myself known. I saw him today and made a speedy catch-up, pulling up along side of him and motioning for him to roll down his window.

"We have the same commute!" I said. "I always see you all the way down to Old Columbia Road."

His response?

"Yup!"

...Classic Transformer Guy.

the simple pleasures abound (ie: might be more where this came from)

Ode to the Chillage and its Thrifty Residents

The other night at Brewer's Art,

A truth became quite clear:

Each item in which I was clothed,
Was cheaper than my beer.

My skirt was just a dollar,
And my shirt was only three.
My pendant: ninety-seven cents,
The chain that held it: free.

The only way my wardrobe could
Be cheaper's were it pilfered.
The truth, in fact, is once a week,
I just walk straight down Guilford.

(In summer on a Saturday,
You cannot beat the odds
That yard sales will abound before
Those colorful facades.)

Furniture, jewelry, clothes, and gifts,
Are things these sales do boast.
The simple joys in my neighborhood
Are the things that charm me most.

so good

spoonerism OTD

me: If our croths don't pass in a minute, then have a good night.