charlotte harris

No food or drinks permitted in this waiting area out of respect for the patients.  The sign hangs on every wall of the surgical ward of Fairfax Hospital Center. 

My friend C hadn’t eaten in 24 hours in preparation for her visit, and I hadn’t eaten breakfast ’cause I knew I would want a coffee in the other hand when I finally dug the breakfast bar out of my purse.  It was 6:00am and all C could talk about was pancakes.  Someone walked by with a bottled water and she groaned in envy.  A visitor walked through with hot coffee, and I got weak in the knees.  Apparently he did not read the signs.

“We’ll come out to the waiting room and get you when she’s in recovery,” promised the nurse, then I beelined it downstairs to the hospital cafeteria and straight to the coffee bar.  Waiting in line, I looked around the room.  Salad bar, soup station, sandwiches, cereal, bananas, smoothies.  A decent cafe selection.  “So, where are the swedish meatballs,” I wondered.

My only memory of hospital food is of a plateful of yucky swedish meatballs fed to me during my appendectomy stay at Southside 22 years ago.  I also remember a Fribble.  My family stopped at Friendly’s on the way to visiting hours one day, bearing Fribble.  I will never, for the rest of my life, forget that shake, because it was the best thing anyone could have done for me. 

So I thought of the Fribble and I thought of C, and I waited for her to wake up in the recovery room to ask her how she likes her pancakes.  When they wheeled her downstairs this morning, I pulled the car around and made a quick phone call to the Silver Diner.  “I’d like to place an order for carry-out, please.  One order of blueberry pancakes!” 

Seems like ages ago I signed the contract on my new condo, and still 2 weeks to go before I close.  Although it will be November before my first mortgage payment is due, I am already freaking out about how to come up with an additional $800 a month (yes internets, that’s the insane difference between my monthly rent payment and my estimated monthly mortgage & condo dues).

My mom calls me “rich,” but my money doesn’t actually get me very far in this neighborhood, and I refuse to cut back on my retirement savings as a solution, so I am about to be very poor, at least until I am age 65.  I need to start thinking like an ol’ miser. 

I’ve already considered selling the Rubicon, but that will be a last-resort type of thing.  I started brainstorming on some other areas for potential cost savings.  In the spirit of Washingtonian Magazine’s clever In and Out lists (a rag I won’t be buying anymore because it costs $3.95), here’s my own In/Out list called Renter/Homeowner:

Out: Spanish theme night at Charlotte’s.  Complete with pricey chunks of artisinal garrotxa and manchego, accompanied by roasted marcona almonds, briny olives, crusty bread, and a nice rioja.

In: What 8 oz blocks of cheddar are on sale 2 for $3 at Giant?  Goes great with Saltines and chilled tap water.

Out: Gym membership, weekly session with a personal trainer, swim team dues, cool gear.  Race entry fees and USMS and USAT membership dues.

In: I need to get some mittens and a scarf (on sale, of course) ’cause it looks like I’m gonna be running and cycling outdoors all winter. 

Out: Dinner with friends? I dropped forty something dollars on burgers and fries for two last weekend.  That’s pretty typical.

In: I think Bungalow Billiards has a “hungry hour,” right?  Buy a dollar bottle Miller Lite and help myself to the AYCE happy hour buffet.

Out: I subscribe to a few magazines…

In: Get to my dentist appointments a ‘lil early to catch up on my reading.  Even better, stand/sit around in Borders reading books and mags then leave without buying anything!

Any clever cost-cutting suggestions are most welcome.  Thank goodness Worpress is free…

Some days that phrase means “what a coincidence,” like when I am walking through a street festival in rural Vermont and randomly see The Samples playing a few tunes.  When I tell my family about it, my Uncle is like, “oh no kidding, my friend knew I was coming up here this weekend and he told me to head over to the show say hi to his buddy who plays guitar in the band.”  The Samples are from Colorado, my Uncle is from Long Island, I listen to them back in Virginia, my sis used to listen to them at college in central NY, and the show was in Vermont.  Somehow there was a common thread there that made us say “it’s a small world.”

But most days “small world” means that I live in my own little bubble.  My “world” is comprised of only what’s relevant to me: my daily routine, the people I know personally, and the issues that affect me immediately.  It’s not that I am unconcerned or ignorant, but a busy person can process only so much information and I choose to cope with that by placing limits on what I’m going to let myself stress about.

Let’s take the war in Iraq, for example.  I oppose it because my smart, funny, hard-working, beautiful cousin is stuck in Baghdad, deployed there by the Army.  Sounds simple, but that’s all I need to know to decide I hate the war.  If she weren’t there, who knows what my opinion would be, or if I’d even have one.

Or my stance on Michael Vick?  Why on earth does ANYONE continue to make an issue of this?  The guy is a criminal and the justice system and NFL will take care of him.  Open and shut.  I don’t waste my time thinking about it because there’s no point in having an opinion about it.  There’s right and there’s wrong and he is wrong.  No grey area here, that’s all there is to it.  I don’t care - his woes don’t affect me.

I started thinking about all of this when I realized it was the two year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina.  And I asked myself what I actually know about the situation and how it affected me.  You want to know what I learned from the whole Katrina debacle?   This is crazy.  Ready? 

I learned from Katrina that I always need to keep my cell phone charged because if the power goes out like it did in New Orleans I am going to need plenty of battery to make calls for help.  I learned that I better stay strong and healthy in case I ever need to hoof it out of town in flip flops, carrying a suitcase and a kid (not my kid obviously, but ya know, if I need to help my sis or a friend or something).  I learned that I should keep fuel in my gas tank in case I need to evacuate quickly. 

See what I mean?  Me! Me! Me! Me! Me!   The situation just didn’t pierce me and it didn’t immediately affect me.  So instead of feelings of heartbreak and “I wanna change the system!,” I took away lessons on how I can best handle a similar tragedy if one ever happens in my own little world.   People might say that someone like me with brains and resources has a responsibility to take a global view of things.  Of course I am capable of being a “global citizen” but I don’t seem to find the time or energy. 

Sure, I felt shock and sadness and I sent a check to the Red Cross when Katrina first hit.  But then I didn’t follow up and learn anything more about the plight of the people in Ward 9.  I didn’t school myself on the ills of FEMA.  I wasn’t inspired to travel south and help build a house.  I don’t feel compelled to visit New Orleans and help revive the economy with my tourist dollars.   I won’t light a candle in remembrance this week.

I absolutely agree that the hurricane damage was devastating, and I am not suggesting that anyone else has made too big a deal out of it or anything.  I think the people of the gulf coast deserve every bit of attention, money, and other assistance they get.  I am just saying that I don’t have a spiritual opinion nor did I spend my time pondering any political lessons, is all.

BUT my cell phone is charging, my gas tank is full, and I am strong enough to carry your kid for miles.  If DC is faced with a big storm, you betcha I will be touched enough to care and to “do something” for the people in my “small world” here and you all can ride outta town with me and my full tank o’ gas.

Overheard today:  a (barely) 3 year old boy in the ladies room with his mom… singing Twisted Sister:

“…we no go no take it…

no we aint go no take it…”

Super funny because he totally had the melody right too.

“That looks good!” 

I was standing over the garbage pail, peeling open the cold leftover half banana that I had started snacking at home this morning but then tossed into my lunch cooler until I got to work.

“Ummm, OK, well I actually think it looks a little gross.”

“Really?  You don’t like it?”  Um, this is kind of a weird conversation.

“Well it’s just a browned leftover banana.”  Hmmm… well, my boss is kind of goofy sometimes, so maybe he’s just poking fun at my breakfast.

“Ha ha ha, no I mean your haircut.”

Oh!  Yeah!  I got my hair chopped off on Saturday.  Since my former hairdresser abandoned me I’d been avoiding taking the plunge at a new salon.  But Saturday morning, when I couldn’t get a comb through my wet hair, I decided I’d had it.  I drove to the mall, walked into the first salon I saw and said, “please tell me you have someone who can take a walk-in!”

A lady named Sandra shook my hand and led me to her chair.  I asked for a trim with some long layers.  “Take off as much as you need to remove the chlorine damage and I just don’t want to have triangle-shaped hair.”  She totally knew what I meant.

Inch after inch kept falling to my shoulders and fluttering to the floor.  Three pairs of fancy scissors later, I saw myself in the mirror with a layered bob.  Wow, short.  It was not a trim but a brand new style.  But hey, I am not vain about my hair and she’s the trained pro, so I thought, “just go with it, Char.” 

Sandra worked her magic with the blow dryer and when I saw the finished product I knew… I’ve found my new stylist.  Even after I “did” it for the first time myself before work this morning (always the real test of a new hairstyle), it still looks like the prettiest haircut I have ever had.  Oh, and my banana was good too.

A rant.

I need a USB to PCMCIA adapter.  I ordered the AT&T Wireless “Broadband Connect” service and their type 2 aircard doesn’t fit in my laptop’s express card slot. 

Since I’m only half-geek and I’m not gonna take apart my computer to remedy the situation, I want to buy this external adapter and be done with it. 

It’s really the only thing I promised myself I’d get done this weekend.  Primarily because I want to unplug my cable modem and take it back to Cox so they can stop billing.  Plus this eliminates the need for the mess of cables and routers that is my little home network.

I started my search close to home at Best Buy.  The salesboy there ”informed” me that I have a rather antiquated aircard, and most stores don’t stock that type of adapter.  “Everybody’s moving to express cards,” he explained.  OMG shuuut uuup.  Just tell me you don’t carry it and let me be on my way.  I don’t need you to try to wow me with laptop trivia.  Do you have the adapter or not?

I crossed the parking lot and popped into Radio Shack.  As I walked over, I contemplated the name.  “Radio Shack.”  I think the salesboy from Best Buy would say that’s sort of an obsolete name. 

Anyway, the dude at Radio Shack didn’t carry it and offered merely ”that sounds like a Google search type of thing.”  OMG shuuut uuup.  I work for a large and well known web services company and toil online all day, so naturally I thought of that already. 

How do you think I found out that I need this adapter in the first place?  Some nerd at Radio Shack didn’t tell me.  I found myself in a computer-related predicament and researched my way out of it all by myself.  Once again, just tell me you don’t carry it and let me be on my way.  Buh bye.

On to Micro Center.  I didn’t want to drive that far, but if anyone was gonna stock this adapter, it would be Micro Center.  Once again, I found the salesboys eager to help.  Thank goodness none of them tried to dazzle me with their techie color commentary.  They simply checked the shelf and the stockroom and apologized for being out of stock. 

I emerged from Micro Center, defeated.  I’d suck it up and order the adapter online, and my modem and router decom would have to wait until next weekend.

As I walked to my car, I scanned the other storefronts.  Bright green words jumped out at me: The Fractured Prune.  Oh heck yeah, I have been hearing about those donuts!  I’ll just pop in and get one little donut.  Just to taste.

I don’t think I did anything special except maybe drool on the menu a little when I remarked to the donut boy, “can you tell I’ve never been here before?  These all look so good and I can’t decide.”  The dude walked away while I studied the menu.  Two minutes later he slid a little paper plate under my nose.

It was a piping hot cake donut with honey glaze and cinnamon sugar.  “Here, try this,” he said.

I looked up at him, “The whole thing? For me?  Just to try?” 

He nodded. 

OK, but I only came in for one donut and he’s giving me one donut for free.  What do I do?  I can’t be like, ‘OK, well I really only wanted one donut anyway, so thanks, see ya.’

So I ordered two more just to be polite.  I came in for one.  Got three.  Paid for two.  This makes no sense.   Three donuts and all I wanted was a darn adapter.

“I’m meeting him at a place called the Java Hut.”

“OH! Like Jabba the Hut?”

“Ba ha ha, I guess I didn’t think of it like that, but yes!”

Well, when I got to the place, I found it was actually called the Java Shack. 

Shack.  Hut.  Same thing.

I was greeted with a handshake.  This was a date, not a business meeting, and I was looking way too cute for a handshake. 

I think even Jabba the Hut himself may have been more of a flirt.

“I’m gonna get in the pool with ya!  Yeah!  I’m gonna get in the pool with ya!” 

A young girl in the locker room entertained her baby sister in the stroller while mom got them ready for the pool.  I eavesdropped as she made up the song.  I reached in my purse and jotted the words to her little ditty on a piece of scrap.  The silly words were hers, the fun little melody she used was spontaneous. 

“I wanna get in the pool with you.  We can get in the pool together!”

Listening to her, I was absolutely cracking up on the inside.  Hilarious memories of my own sister rushed back to me.  It was an afternoon in a Paris hotel room.  Sis and I each lay flat-backed on a twin bed, exhausted from touring and likely defeated by some sisterly bickering. 

“Why’d you pee in the pool, Charlotte,” she sang to a silly little tune.  In between that nonsense (nonsense because I have never peed in a pool!), she rhymed silly improvised lyrics.  Each verse ended with that chorus: “Why’d you pee in the pool Charlotte.”  We laughed hysterically and I begged her to stop saying it. 

I wrote in my travel journal that day, March 13, 1998.  Later that evening, after we rid our systems of all that afternoon punchiness, Sis and I accompanied our new friend Gilles Buisson to a creperie near Saint Eustache where we drank Kirs and ate savory galettes.  From there, we visited a pub where they televised the concert of a French pop star named Mylene Farmer, whose CD I would buy the following day, and we drank 1664s while Gilles talked soccer.  We took a late night train back to the Maubert Mutualite metro stop near our hotel.

Today, I grinned at that whole family as they squeezed past me near the pool.  I waved at the baby as her big sis encouraged her to wave back at me.  I can tell those two girls are going to grow up to have some fun together.  I speak from experience.

So I said goodbye to my swim team this morning.  Not only is our summer “session”  over, but we’re completely disbanding because lane rental fees at the pool have become too high.   

I’ll be temporarily ”adopted” next week by another team run by my same coach, but in September I’ll join a completely new team.  New coach, new swimmers, new pool.

I’m excited because the new team practices at a gym directly across the street from my new condo.  That team is comprised primarily of triathletes swimming for fitness and endurance.  And I’ve heard they’re a pretty social group too.  That’s cool with me!

I emailed the coach and let her know that I can swim long and far but not fast.  I warned her that I don’t do flip turns and that I only really swim well using freestyle and backstroke and that my breaststroke is clumsy and spastic.  She wrote me back to say I’d be a great fit.  Ba ha ha ha.

I don’t swim fast but I swim pretty (in the pool, at least!) and I can swim for a long time.  I stop due to boredom long before I stop due to fatigue.  I won’t compete in any swim meets because I’ll always be the tortoise, never the hare. 

In fact, I have learned that about myself this summer and especially after the Musselman.  I didn’t race that race, I endured it.  I maintained pretty much my exact training pace throughout the bike and the run.   When I compete at General Smallwood next month, I’ll do the same thing.  Slow and steady finishes the race is my motto. 

I love being fit, but I don’t care about competition.  I can enjoy a 20 mile bike ride on the W&OD but the sprint intervals in spin class make my stomach churn, literally.  I kick ass when working on breathing and distance drills in the pool but loathe the laps where we try to beat the clock.  I can jog for like 75 minutes straight but cover only 6+ miles (seriously!).   Adding fartleks would take the fun out of it.

I dunno, maybe if I start to get in a rut, or if I can ever afford a HRM, perhaps I’ll change my tune.  For now I’m gonna set my sights on just finally learning flip turns one of these days.  Flip turnin’ with mah new swim team!  Yay!

My dear girlfriend who is facing divorce, having been separated for a year now, has decided to give online dating a try.  I went online and checked out her very sassy profile and showed her mine.

We “winked” at each other just for s#!ts and giggles.  Because we’re dorks and it doesn’t take much to amuse us.   

Then I realized that she’s probably the best option out of any the winks and emails I received this week.  Pitiful, yes, but it really cracked me up.  And that’s why we’re pals.  Made me grin to remember she’s out there too.  I love my friends.