Orange you glad I shared?*

Every now and then, my grad school classes will remind me of something I haven’t thought of in years. Things I didn’t even know I remembered.

Case in point: in my class last night, the professor brought up Idi Amin’s rule in Uganda. She’s talking about this terrible dictator, and truth and reconciliation commissions, and what comes to my mind?

Idi Amin used to eat oranges to increase his sex drive.

I can’t source it. I  know I was in high school, possibly a sophomore, though I don’t remember what class I was studying Idi Amin for. But I can tell you that my high school self found it both absurd and entertaining. And might have giggled upon discovery.

I didn’t share that tidbit in class last night, but I encourage you to bust it out at your next dinner party.

As a conversation starter, how could it fail?

*I know, I know. I couldn’t help myself.

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Maybe this is why I’m not allowed to control the remote

While in San Jose this past weekend for Wedding #1 of the 2011 season, during a brief moment of downtime, the boyfriend and I were flipping through the TV channels in our hotel room.

(And by “the boyfriend and I,” I mean “the boyfriend.” We all know I don’t operate the remote.)

Anyway, after one particular flip I saw Don Johnson’s familiar face.

“Nash Bridges!“

The boyfriend looked at me with a mixture of concern and disbelief. “My mom watched this show,” he informed me, emphasizing mom.

“So? I loved it! Nash and his yellow Barracuda…” I trailed off as he kept looking.

“Wait a minute.” He took a deep breath. “Did you also watch Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman?“

I could feel my face light up. “Yes! It was so good! We used to watch it as a family!“

He sighed again, almost in resignation. “Okay. What about the one in a hospital with the guy from Mary Poppins?“

“Diagnosis: Murder! Yeah, I didn’t watch it on a regular basis, but sometimes.“

“But you still knew what I was talking about. These are all shows that my mom loves. How old are you?”

To be honest, he has a point. I may be 25 on the outside, but I do have an 80-year-old soul. Apparently I’ve had one for quite a while.

And that 80-year-old soul would still gladly watch Dr. Quinn and Sully over Jersey Shore any day.

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I’ve gotten weird comments before, but this takes the cake

Friday evening we were out with friends in Adams Morgan, just having drinks and a general good time. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Until she joined our group.

A couple of the guys had met her outside the bar, found her entertaining, and invited her inside for a drink. Harmless. And she was friendly enough. She spent most of the night talking to J and Sergio, but during a break in conversation, she sidled up to me and sat on the adjacent stool. She then leaned in, as though she had something super important to ask me, and I assumed she’d be asking me about the guys. But no.

“I just have to tell you,” she said, “I have this huge desire to put elf ears on you. I think you’d look really great in them.“

Is there a proper response to that? I looked around, wishing someone else had heard it, and kind of laughed awkwardly. And she continued.

“I just think you have such a cute face for it, and it would be so perfect! You should really think about it.“

I laughed again, and made another awkward comment about whether or not I could take that as a compliment.

“You should! I’m a child of Tolkien,” she replied, “It’s totally a compliment! Just think about it for a costume some time.“

And all throughout her comments she kept motioning to both her ears and mine, trying to demonstrate just how she thought the elf ears should be shaped or how high they should be.

Now, I know Adams Morgan attracts some oddballs, but this is the first time I’ve ever been approached about my ears.

And honestly, I hope it’s also the last.

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What is sexy

I have to ask your opinion about some terminology that I’ve been hearing at work that keeps throwing me for a loop.

You see, I work in survey research doing both background research and number crunching, and I do find it interesting, but one of our senior fellows described it as something else at a recent staff meeting. He was reporting on his project, highlighting the findings, and he said, “This data is really sexy. I’m really excited to release it; I think it’ll be a big hit.” I’d been zoning out, as per usual, but that phrase caught my attention. The data is sexy? Really?

I admit it – I giggled a little bit to myself. And then I just chalked it up to this fellow being a little odd (and me being a little immature).

But then, in another recent meeting, I was talking to my supervisor about a project that I’m working on and he told me that he really wanted to “sex up the report.“

I didn’t giggle this time (too obvious), but I did realize that my maturity level could use some work.

But it also made me curious – is it just me, or does it sound strange to call data/numbers/a report sexy?

Even if it doesn’t, and it is just me, I still think I’ll refrain from that terminology in a staff meeting. At least, if I want to keep a straight face.

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How quirky can you be before it’s a problem?

Part of my responsibilities when I’m home for big holiday family dinners (aside from making the desserts) is to set the table. We break out the good dishes, the silver, the water goblets, etc. and my job is to pull it all together and make it look good. Of course, this also appeals to my OCD-like neuroses, wherein I feel the need to make sure that every plate is evenly spaced, every utensil is straight, and every glass is lined up above the proper utensil.

Emily Post would be so proud.

Credit

But, apparently, this year I went a little overboard.

I was setting the table Sunday morning – for 11, mind you, which already threw me off because then there wouldn’t be an even number of people on each side – when my mom came into the room and saw me tweaking one of the place settings. She started asking if I had an idea of where I wanted people to sit, or where I was going to sit, and I told her, “Well, I think I’ll just sit in the same seat I’m always in, otherwise it’d just feel weird.” Which probably wouldn’t have been too strange, in and of itself, but as I said it, I continued to adjust the place setting, trying to get it to line up exactly with the seat it was intended for.

So, I guess I should have seen it coming when my mom said, “Now, no offense, and don’t take this the wrong way, but when you were in therapy, did you ever touch on possibly actually having OCD?“

I hadn’t, because we were working through a whole other set of issues, but I also never would have thought to bring it up. Because I’ve always been under the impression that everyone has at least some slight form of OCD, and we all just chalk it up to quirks.

But, who knows, maybe I’ve finally moved from quirky to neurotic. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

What little quirks do you have, that you might find getting more and more pronounced? Please tell me I’m not the only one here.

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What Megan Fox and I have in common

Dear Megan Fox,

Guess what? We have something in common! No, it’s not an appearance on Maxim’s top 100 list – I’m still waiting for them to call. And it’s not a mutual love for Brian Austin Green. Though, I was a David Silver fan – once he grew into himself, naturally. No, it’s something much more personal.

It’s our thumbs.

Mine...

...and Megan Fox's. (I know it's hard to focus on her thumb here, but please, try.)

Now, I know it can be rough growing up with toe thumbs – the endless teasing, the deformity jokes – but it’s something I’ve learned to live with. And almost, almost even love. But, most importantly, I’ve learned to NOT be ashamed of it.

So, imagine my surprise when I learned that you used a thumb double in that Motorola commercial!

Et tu, Megan?

You have to own that little oddity – make it yours. For instance, do you have any idea how much these little digits have helped my thumb war game? They’re small, but mighty. I’m practically unstoppable.

So, please, the next time you do a commercial, don’t let anyone make you feel ashamed. Go au naturel and use your own thumbs. At least think about it, please. For me, and for anyone else who has ever been told they have “hot dog thumbs.”

Your fellow toe-thumb-er,

Liebchen

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TGIF

Honestly, does anyone else feel like this week just dragged on and on?

Unbelievable.

With any luck, you have an easy Friday ahead of you, perhaps with enough time to test out this neat little program from MIT. I found it through a friend and feel like it’s the next step up from googling yourself. (Don’t act like you haven’t done it.)

You type your full name in, the program scours the interwebs for information, and ultimately breaks down your online presence into categories, like so:

You can see how utterly boring mine is. What I can’t figure out, though, is why I get different results each time I type my name in. What’s up with that, MIT?

And now I have categories for medicine and illegal? What?

Give it a shot and let me know – do you think it’s an accurate representation?

Happy Friday!

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At least he’s not throwing shoes

Running outside has always been a little bit of an adventure for me. When I was traveling after my semester abroad, I used my morning run to explore whatever city we were in at the time. Sometimes that would lead to getting lost, but I still maintain that that’s all part of the exploration. And running outside is SO much more rewarding and entertaining than running on the treadmill – which is why I decided to take advantage of the unseasonably warm D.C. weather this weekend and last.

When I started out, my biggest worry was my inherent lack of gracefulness and the uneven sidewalks – I once turned my ankle mid-run and had to walk most of the way back to my apartment. Not pleasant. These past couple times, though, I met far more interesting interruptions.

Not pretty. Also, not necessary in 60 degree weather.

1) The route that I run takes me down by the Mall. I understand that D.C. is a tourist mecca, but I didn’t quite expect the crowds that I saw, considering it’s only February. Clearly, everyone was thinking along the same lines of taking advantage of the weather. But tourists, as glad as I am to have them here, are a very “interesting” bunch to judge observe. I saw more fanny packs, open maps, and combinations of long denim skirts and furry clogs than I ever have (or, really, ever should) in one place. I know that some tourists can blend in with their surroundings – but those tourists weren’t at the Mall this weekend or last. At least, I didn’t see them.

2) As I continued my run up 15th Street, I could feel my energy flagging. And I suppose Abe Lincoln could tell, too. What? What’s that you say? He’s dead? Well, not downtown he’s not. Somewhere on 15th Street, a man dressed as Honest Abe leaned in toward me as I ran past, urging me to, “Come on in [to the souvenir shop]! Take a break!” while trying to hand me a coupon. The encounter fueled my energy reserve, partly from the laughter, partly because he was bordering on creepy and I wanted to get away.

3) This one was really the kicker. Going up 14th Street, I saw a couple up ahead of me, and saw something small fly into a trash can immediately to their right. As I got closer and pulled up nearly level to the trash can, I realized what it was, because a similar small “something” had flown right past my face, not an inch from my nose. A ketchup packet! Ketchup! When I looked in the direction it had come from, I saw a bum (is that not PC?) sitting in an alcove, with a stash of ketchup packets that he apparently liked to throw at passersby.

I may not be the most city savvy, but I don’t usually consider myself too easily surprised. Point to the ketchup thrower.

If you, too, decide to run in the city, let me offer you some advice: enjoy the tourists; laugh at/run away from Abe; and watch out for the flying ketchup – with all that practice, I’m sure his aim is getting better.

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“Quirky” would be putting it nicely

Doing a little Facebook stalking perusing a while ago, I saw someone’s bumper sticker that read:

After laughing, I thought, Oh my god, that’s me! And it was not a comforting thought. I thought back to instances ranging from any time from my childhood to the previous day and realized that I, without a doubt, have CDO.

Let me ‘splain. No, there is too much, let me sum up.*

1. When I was a kid, we always had placemats on the table. ‘Cause kids are messy. I wouldn’t start my meal until my plate or bowl was in the *exact* center of the placemat. And the utensils were evenly spaced on either side. (Mini-confession: I still need perfect placement and even spacing when I set the table for holidays.)

2. Until I was about nine years old, my hair was so long that I could sit on it. This meant that my mom was responsible for fashioning it in any number of braid or ponytail styles. BUT (and I’m surprised she didn’t kill me) if I felt that the braid or ponytail was off center (or, if pigtails were uneven), I would take it out and make her start all over again. (Refer back to #1 and realize that I had very exact notions of where the center was – which resulted in, usually, no less than five attempts each hair-styling.)

Now that I think about it, I don’t know why she didn’t make me get my hair cut. When I got it all chopped off, it was all my idea.

3. A slightly different example: I was helping my mom arrange the hors d’oeuvres before Thanksgiving dinner, and she had three different colors of cauliflower to set out with the dip – orange, purple, and white. She asked me to mix the colors in one side of the serving basket, thinking it was a simple task. Oh no. I didn’t want any one color to be over represented or stand out too much. (i.e. Even if I had the same number of each color, but put white on the bottom, then orange or purple would be uber prominent.) So I took little handfuls of each color over and over again – white, orange, purple; white, orange, purple – so that they’d be evenly mixed. My mother watched me, shaking her head, and wondering (out loud) where she’d gone wrong.

YES!

4. Finally, every day at work I take a handful (or five) of peanut M&Ms from their dish by the printer. When I get back to my desk, I separate them by color, and then proceed to eat one color at a time.

Seriously, if this isn’t a cry for help, I don’t know what is.

*You know what this is from. Think about it…

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