June 28, 2016

June 28, 2016

iFlew

When it comes to celebrating my wedding anniversary, I set the bar high with that trip to Iceland last year. Probably too high. It’s hard to top Iceland. (Amiright, England? Ooh, SOCCER BURN.) Nevertheless, you only live once and all that, so we decided this year to try indoor skydiving.

Yep. Skydiving. Indoor skydiving. In layman’s terms, you hover over a jet engine that’s pointed up. I researched it a bit before a trip to Vegas some years ago but couldn’t fit it into my itinerary—David Copperfield and all-you-can-eat buffets came first, obviously. But when a branch of international indoor skydiving chain iFly opened near us, I had my helper hippo make the booking.

Phase 1: Travel and Registration

iFly recommends that you arrive an hour before your reservation time to allow for prep time. The DC location of iFly also happens to be located an hour from civilization. Simple math tells you that this involved leaving home Quite Early on flying day. It’s all good, though; I’m sure any paratrooper would agree that the best skydiving is done when you’re a leetle groggy.

Once you arrive at iFly, you sign-in at a kiosk, resist (or don’t) the staffer’s attempts to up-sell you, and sign a number of waivers. After all this has been completed, you get an approved-to-fly wristband and realize you’re feeling a little queasy. Hoo boy.

Wings? What wings?

Phase 2: The Flight Deck

You’re sent up to “the flight deck” at this point. That’s where the main attraction is: the wind tunnel. It’s enclosed in acrylic so that everyone in the vicinity can watch the action. Since we were about 45 minutes before our reservation time at this point, a staffer told us to sit, watch, and enjoy the group currently flying. (If you haven’t noticed, iFly does a good job of slowly and repeatedly exposing you to what’s about to happen.) It appeared to be a family grouping—three to four adults and several kids—and they displayed various levels of excitement and ability. Main takeaway: Anyone can do this. Hoo boy.

Phase 3: Instruction

After 15 or so minutes of observation, we were called into the training room by our instructor. (If you think I wasn’t treating this like my very own real-life Top Gun, you’d be wrong.) We watched a short video that showed us what was going to happen, and then our instructor reviewed the hand signals he’d be using to communicate with us in the tunnel.

For the rest of my life, I'll never know whether I'm getting the peace sign or the legs straight sign.

So after approximately 10 minutes of training, we were apparently fully-qualified to enter the tunnel. Hoo boy.

Phase 4: Gear

iFly provides a flight suit, helmet, goggles, and earplugs. You’re about as sealed and protected as possible, short of inserting yourself into a body bag. Once I was all suited up, my glasses immediately started to fog. Delightful.

We nervously milled about while waiting for the group before ours to finish their flights. Hoo boy.

Phase 5: It’s Tunnel Time

10 o’clock rolled around and it was GO TIME. We had eight in our group, and I ended up in eighth position. As a result, I got to watch six randos and TheBoy go through their turns before me. The only really notable bit was when person number one’s helmet FLEW OFF towards the end of her flight. (She was fine, if a bit shaken.)

But enough about other people. How did MY flight go?

ENTER THE MATRIX.

I enjoyed it, while unconsciously channeling my inner crouching tiger.

Would I go again? Sure. I think it’s a unique enough experience to be worth the cost. Far cheaper than dying after your parachute fails to deploy.

May 9, 2016

May 9, 2016

No Lunch Left Behind

Recent Hamilton/Tubman/Jackson news aside, the images on American currency can be somewhat of a mystery. Play pub trivia for a while and you’re sure to be asked who’s on the front of the $1000 bill, what’s on the back of the twenty, or the word that appears in addition to the phrase “In God We Trust” on the obverse of coins.*

For something most of us handle every day, money is hard. I get it. Plus Americans are Americans. I get it. But I read something like this story and my fists of fury pop right out:


Last things first: The saddest sentence I have ever read is “The child missed lunch that day.” I don’t know this kid—heck, I don’t even like kids—but I am a firm apologist for NO LUNCH LEFT BEHIND.

Even if you’ve never owned one, you know that the $2 bill exists, right? Also, we’re talking about something that costs no more than $2—how about someone floats that kid a lunch while things are being sorted out? Teacher? Lunch monitor? Cop? Bueller? Anyone?

Let’s imagine the reaction the banker had, which must have included a brief moment of suspicion that this was some kind of prank.

“Nobody was charged.” Yeah, no kidding. Sigh.

Lunch ladies of America, we can do better.

And by “ladies,” I mean “people of any gender.”

And by “we” I mean “you.”

* I really only get to use the word “obverse” in this circumstance, so you bet your bottom dollar (ha) that I’m going to use it.

April 22, 2016

April 22, 2016

Someone Tell Jimmy McMillan About This

For me, the best part of vacationing is hunkering down in the hotel room, flipping through the endless cable package. Straight talk: The only reason I’m not a cord cutter is that I never had a cord in the first place. I pay for a great many things, but television programming is not one of them, amen.

Lately, it seems that every vacation of mine coincides with the discovery of yet another House Hunters spinoff. Last time, it was Tiny House Hunters:


This time (because these words are coming to your eyeholes straight from my hotel room), it’s House Hunters Off the Grid. Frankly, the first word I’d use to describe it is bewildering. Rather than the HH parameters I’m used to, I’m hearing things like “the leeches could be a problem,” “we’d like to stay under $80 a month for rent,” and “there’s no running water.” None of those phrases should be associated with housing, people. Ever. EVER.

I appreciate that not everyone lives as I do, from a corner of a couch to which food and supplies are delivered regularly from various websites ending in –crate. Things like high-speed internet, parking, and even air conditioning are negotiable. You know what’s not negotiable? LEECHES. It’s 2016, people. If we can put a man on the moon, we can find places to live that don’t entail leeches.

Perhaps the worst part is that the people on this episode of HHOTG (even the acronym is discomforting) have children. Children that will be subjected to aforementioned leeches. However your parents botched the gig when you were growing up, I daresay your nonconsensual leech exposure was minimal. (I added the “nonconsensual” bit after my helper hippo informed me that some people willingly swim in bodies of water that also contain leeches. I’m pretty sure he’s making that shit up because COME ON, but okay.)

Ugh, I think they just showed literal poop buckets. These people (Australians, of course they would be Australians) are willingly embracing a poop bucket situation.

I’ll stick to Million Dollar Listing.

March 29, 2016

March 29, 2016

Everything's Bigger



Guys. It’s been too long, I know. New job is kicking my butt. (In a good, consensual way.) I took a little time off recently to visit TheBoy’s hometown of Houston, Texas. While Orlando remains the furthest south I’ve even been, Houston is a close second. Weather-wise, it felt kind of what I expect the surface of the sun to feel like. Hot? YES.

The main reason we went was the rodeo, because the best way to lure me to anything remotely outdoorsy is deep fried food on a stick.

I went with the brownie balls. They were delicious.

It was literally my first rodeo, so I had no idea what to expect. The answer turns out to be crazy animal hijinks, fewer rope tricks than you’d think, and the insanity that is the calf scramble. Oh, and Little Big Town, a country act I could (pretend) to get behind (for a few hours).

But the greater Houston area is so much more than the Astrodome NRG Stadium rodeo. It’s the Museum of Natural Science:


The Museum of Fine Arts:


Bayou Bend:


The Kemah Boardwalk:

 
And mother-freaking NASA:

“I wish I could quit you.”

Me and Scott Kelly say “Hey girl.”

The biggest revelation, though, was neither the palm trees nor the TV stations that start with K nor the rampant appearance of unironic cowboy hats. It was Luby’s.

Forget Huckabee’s: I heart Luby’s.

It’s a cafeteria chain and I would legitimately live there if that were remotely possible.

This meal was so cheap, it was like THEY paid ME.

Don’t mess with it, people. Don’t mess with it.

February 28, 2016

February 12, 2016

February 12, 2016

Playlist for the Affirmative

In the moments before the most recent Republican debate (and the unfortunate series of events that was the introductions), one of the candidates* had earbuds in. While I suppose he could have been playing inspirational historical oratory or the voices of his kids or whatnot, I like to think he was pumping himself up with some magnificent tunes.

Which naturally got me to thinking: What would my pre-debate playlist be? A quick back-of-the-envelope calculation resulted in this:

            1. Lose Yourself, Eminem
            2. My Shot, Lin-Manuel Miranda
            3. Bulletproof, La Roux
            4. Rolling in the Deep, Adele
            5. Kryptonite, 3 Doors Down
            6. No Rain, Blind Melon
            7. Hit ‘Em Up Style, Blu Cantrell
            8. Clocks, Coldplay
            9. Stereo Hearts, Gym Class Heroes
          10. Hey Jude, The Beatles

What about you? You needn’t be a Presidential candidate to play—everybody has to perform at some point. What would motivate you to get on the stage/in the seat/what-have-you and absolutely CRUSH IT?

* I'm not going to say which, since Duly Noted is an apolitical safe space.

January 11, 2016

January 11, 2016

Check Engine, Check Yourself

Cars, in my opinion, are a necessary evil. I don’t like to drive them. I don’t like to ride in them. They get me from here to there at best. So car people, you’ve been warned: Look away.

As little as I like cars, I have one because I’m an upwardly mobile city dweller with a warehouse club membership and weak arms. I can’t lug the club size of anything on public transit, people. I need to tote the pallets of Diet Coke home, along with my boxes of Ikea furniture. The sum total of this driving equals about 500 miles a year. Not a typo. Five hundred. A year.

Nevertheless, I get oil changes and safety inspections and emissions tests as required by law and common sense. I don’t hate the player (the car). I hate the game (having a car). Sure, I may have let the safety inspection slide a month. Or two. In my defense, Wisconsin doesn’t even HAVE safety inspections, so how vital to the general welfare could they really be?

Anyway, I took the day off work on Friday to get all the car-related reckoning out of the way. I needed an oil change, a safety inspection, and—this is the kicker—a stop lamp switch replacement as necessitated by a Hyundai recall. I honestly almost threw away the letter from Hyundai about this, because a) it looked like an ad and b) if it were really serious, Lester Holt would have told me about it. But TheBoy insisted, so I scheduled an appointment with the dealership. Ugh.

I was dreading the entire experience in the same way I assume most people dread the dentist. It’s a semiannual invasion of privacy, wherein you’re hoisted up and examined, hoping they find as few problems as possible. Because you KNOW they’re going to find something. At my last oil change, the guy gave me EIGHT PAGES of recommended services. At which point I fell back on the excuse routine I’ve been using since approximately 1998: “I’ll have to ask my husband about that,” “My husband needs to approve any big spending,” pitiful eyelash bats, etc. FEMINISM LIVES.

Because when else does an expert take advantage of the situation to suggest other services?

“Sure, we scheduled you for an appendectomy, but this left kidney isn’t looking so good, man.”

“I know you asked for a mole removal, but should we do a tattoo while we’re back here?”

No. Thanks. Particularly after the guy checking me in at the dealership commented on my low mileage. He literally said, “Wow, low mileage. You know, we recommend you replace the timing belt, regardless of mileage. Bad timing belt, you lose the engine. It’s $645.”

Ain’t nobody got time for that, son. Ain’t nobody got time for that.