I've always been a little paranoid about my "man hands," especially after seeing that episode of Seinfeld when that chick's monster mitt is invading Jerry's personal face space. Whatever, just because I can palm a basketball and cover a few octaves on the piano doesn't mean I'm a freak.
But then certain experiences remind me why I have this paranoia. Like my interview today. I entered the room and shook the interviewer's hand.
Interviewer: Are you an athlete?
Me: No, just a bit out of breath from running up the stairs (thinking he was referring to my near-panting)
Interviewer: Oh, you have a very athletic shake.
What the hell does that mean? My hands are not only large, but also muscular? Dammit! But I got the job!
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Not Quite Cancun
I met a lovely chap at Cap Scrounge last night who survived gastric bypass, lost tons of weight, and then managed to stretch his stomach completely out and regain more than he'd lost originally. That is just so wrong. I told him that beer was for lightweights (no pun there) and he returned with a tall glass of bourbon for me. Judgment begins to become impaired. He insisted on driving me home and I merrily hopped in the car and chatted away until I realized we were driving really fast. Far faster than one drives in DC. Because we weren't in DC; we were well down 395 south. What? He was like, "oh, sorry. You can just stay here and I'll drive you in tomorrow." No fricking way, buddy! In true dramatic wasted Bean form, I grabbed the door handle and threatened to jump out, which scared him into turning around. He pulled a bunch of "I don't know where Adams Morgan is" BS, so I kept barking directions.
By the time we'd reached A-M, I was starving and I also had forgotten the car ride horrors to the point that I thought it would be funny to see fatboy eat. So we went for street pizza, I smothered mine in garlic, chatted with the gangstas (who else hangs out there at 2am on a Tuesday?), and basically tried to horrify him to any extent possible. I polished off my pizza and used serious restraint to not pick up his discarded crust (See, I do have control! There's no way I was eating leftovers from such an obvious diet failure. Though it did look tempting!). He insisted on driving me the two blocks home (okay!), and then tried the "oops I missed your check" gig TWICE! Idiot. I'm too fast for you, fatso.
I woke up this morning in a tangled mess of cables and electronics. Guess I thought transferring all of my new musicals to computer to ipod was a fun late night idea... Mr. Bean did not. Nor did he find any of my adventures funny. Even the third time I told him. Whatevs!
SPRING BREAK 07!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
By the time we'd reached A-M, I was starving and I also had forgotten the car ride horrors to the point that I thought it would be funny to see fatboy eat. So we went for street pizza, I smothered mine in garlic, chatted with the gangstas (who else hangs out there at 2am on a Tuesday?), and basically tried to horrify him to any extent possible. I polished off my pizza and used serious restraint to not pick up his discarded crust (See, I do have control! There's no way I was eating leftovers from such an obvious diet failure. Though it did look tempting!). He insisted on driving me the two blocks home (okay!), and then tried the "oops I missed your check" gig TWICE! Idiot. I'm too fast for you, fatso.
I woke up this morning in a tangled mess of cables and electronics. Guess I thought transferring all of my new musicals to computer to ipod was a fun late night idea... Mr. Bean did not. Nor did he find any of my adventures funny. Even the third time I told him. Whatevs!
SPRING BREAK 07!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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