Mom, can you pass the side of norovirus or gastroenteritis?

My SO and I rode north to New Jersey for Thanksgiving this year for her first turkey eating with her soon-to-be in-laws, while I return the family visitation over Christmas. There were two events of note this day…neither my sister nor I had to do any leaf raking and I voluntarily peeled all potatoes and apples (it helps that I negotiated a deal to watch football on the HDTV in the kitchen). We sat for dinner around 4, said thanks, released some tears, and enjoyed some laughs. The food was great (as usual) and I made sure to enjoy my can of cranberry sauce. After cleaning up, my mom’s friend visited and we enjoyed mommy’s homemade apple pie and (thanks to my SO’s request) pumpkin pie.

Friday was spent visiting friends, showing-off the ring, and finishing off my faithful Chicago reader’s chocolate chip cookies. Dinner was leftovers so when my SO and I arrived around 6:30 for chow, we saw that the leftovers were still leftover.

This was no match for my stomach virus.

My sister was upstairs where she got to view Thursday’s meal another time. My dad was in the same boat and occupied the other bathroom on the second floor. My mom had been showing signs since Thursday afternoon that she wasn’t feeling so hot either. I wasn’t feeling bad, but I also wasn’t hungry – something I should have been because lunch was seven hours ago. The only non-stomach virus members went to the store to buy soup, coca-cola (for its syrup), and some gaviscon. As we were checking out, my stomach started its freefall.

I left my SO around 10 to test my old bathroom’s flushing capability and share the company of my sister and mom. My sister and I were on a bike chain that was constantly in motion from her room to the bathroom. We took turns on 3-minute intervals and eventually worked our way to 10 minutes. By then I was trying to sleep in my old room, but still woke-up at least twice an hour to take care of business.

Rumble, rumble, rumble goes the tummy.

Flush, flush, flush goes the toilet.

Dawn broke on Saturday with my immediate family still feeling the wrath of gastroenteritis. Our plans to go into the city to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art and have dinner weren’t going to happen. I needed to rehydrate, but I only felt worse after a few sips of water. My SO showed no signs of the illness and was relegated to a day with her soon to be in-laws who felt horrible. She was a trooper though and stayed with us. By 4 that afternoon, my sister was feeling much better so she and my SO went to the mall to break their cabin fever. My mom was also feeling better, but my father and I weren’t 100%. My body still ached and my stomach could barely stomach (haha) two slices of toast. My dad got a violent case of hiccups and was taken to the ER by my mom. My sister and SO returned and we checked on my dad who was doing much better. We picked-up some Chinese food (white rice for my sensitive stomach) and waited for my parents to get back from the hospital.

The meal was without incident until 9. That’s when it became apparent that my SO’s hunger pains a few hours before weren’t hunger pains as she got to see her Chinese food again and again. She and I switched roles as I got some restless, but bathroom-trip free sleep and she was upstairs in my bedroom for quick access to the bathroom. This proved our theory wrong that it was the turkey’s white meat to blame. My SO only ate dark meat and since she hadn’t gotten sick we thought it was a combination of eating white meat, the turkey being organic, and the refrigerator not working well enough to prevent bacteria. Lo and behold, it was something beyond my mom’s cooking as she has never undercooked anything, always using a meat thermometer and a very sterile kitchen to prevent any illness.

You know it's coming back up.

By Sunday, my parents, sister, and I were feeling better so we had our reliable breakfast before leaving of lox, bagels, cream cheese, tomatoes, and onions. I thought my stomach was ready for the acidic combination, but I was uncomfortably wrong. My SO and I stayed later than we expected and left around 3 when we had a window of no nausea. The drive home only took an hour longer than normal and we timed it well so we missed traffic for the Jets, Ravens, and Redskins home games at 1. It also helps when you have zero desire to stop for dinner. From Friday's lunch through Tuesday, I had gotten by on some white rice, a few slices of bread, and soup. Things are better now having had a real lunch today, but I’m not about to be the first in line for any heavy significant food for a few more days.

I think this should be a new diet. The best way to lose weight over the holidays is to get yourself a horrible stomach virus, but at least we weren't on a cruise like these folks.

One-Shoulder Shirts: The Next Scarlet Letter

I know my limits when it comes to fashion and style since 99% of my clothing comes from stores found within every mall in America, but that doesn’t’ preclude me from asking a question…why do women still think one-shoulder shirts are attractive? Fashion fads come and go (they are fads after all) yet the one-shoulder shirt continues to be worn by all types of people…from the fashionably inept to those with even the most sensible fashion sense. What gives? I have five theories about this as I fail to comprehend the shirt’s attractiveness.

Theory #1: Different for the sake of being different. The shirt is so different from a normal (two-shoulder) shirt that you can’t help but be fashionably hip. The shirt looks like something on a fashion runway (preferably trampled). It could be confused with those runway designs that are completely impractical to mass produce and only serve to inspire a style made for the general public…or not. Just because it doesn’t align with the norm doesn’t guarantee greatness. A designer (or painter or writer or musician for that matter) working while on LCD doesn’t automatically mean their projects (though off-center) are worldly either. With plenty of one-shoulder shirts being worn, it’s neither rare enough, nor non-conformist enough, nor stylish enough to be hip. When the style is on sale at Old Navy, it’s safe to say that it’s not so unique that you have to go to a small boutique in SoHo to find one in your size.

You're better than this.

Theory #2: It’s sexy to tease with one shoulder. I really hope that this is not the case. Only someone with a serious shoulder fetish would be enticed by this. I have nothing against showing some skin, but why one shoulder? Nobody would ever say the sexiest part of their body was their shoulder…specifically the shoulder being shown fresh air. We’re not living in the time of Quakers where showing a shoulder was scandalous. Nobody ever tries to “put their best shoulder forward” (not that “foot” is much better) because nobody cares about one shoulder. It’s some skin covering your ball and socket joint…how hot is that?

Theory #3: 80’s exercise clothes are the latest fad. There is no need to buy a shirt that is so wide it can’t stay on both shoulders. You could probably save money by buying a smaller size that fits and rests on both shoulders at the same time. What a concept! If you wear a one-shoulder shirt, all you need to complete your “I’m a 1987 aerobics instructor” costume (Halloween is 348 days away) is a headband, leggings, and lots of spandex (preferably fluorescent for greatest effect).

Just add the shirt, mix well, and serve.

Theory #4: The wearer has poor equilibrium and must wear the shirt not to tip over. The first thing I think when I see a one-shoulder shirt wearer is that she’s going to tip over. The shirt forces her to counter-balance its gravitational pull. Since walking upright animals (let’s call them “humans”) have shoulders parallel to the ground and the shirt creates a diagonal from the top of one shoulder down to the opposite armpit, the wearer doesn’t appear to be level and is simply fighting the laws of physics by not falling over to either side. It has to be impossible not to favor one side over the other because the shirt isn’t equal.

Hurry...she's going to tip over!

Theory #5: It’s practical. Maybe the bare shoulder got too large from uneven weightlifting and can’t fit under cloth. Akin to guys wearing sleaveless shirts because their arms are too large (not that this couldn’t be avoided by just buying a shirt the correct size) (at least I have enough class to cut my sleeves off due to permanent deodorant stains), if a woman did enough shoulder presses with one arm, she would have no choice, but to cut the shoulder area out of the shirt before her over-muscled shoulder freakishly tears through when she lifts her arm. There’s a reason Hulk Hogan ripped his entire shirt from the center of his chest and not from his shoulder.

Listen to Hulkamania...no one-shoulder shirts!

The one-shoulder shirt is neither trendy, nor attractive, nor different enough from the norm that people just assume the wearer has tremendous fashion knowledge. Just as people use nicotine patches to quit smoking, it’s time to develop an over-the-counter cloth patch to repair all one-shoulder shirts addicts. We must break this addiction cycle and the first step is the offender admitting she has a problem with her eyesight and clothing taste. Now where’s my pitchfork and crazed mass of people to hunt these well-meaning, but poorly thought out one-shoulder wearers?

To the Rosslyn Metro Station: So Long and Farewell, Until We Meet Again

After nearly eight months, my daily Rosslyn Metro station visits have ceased. With new work comes a new commute around the Bethesda area with the occasional Metro ride. The Rosslyn station will be part of me and I will never forget what we shared together. From counting the stairs (160 for the large escalator, 24 for the small) to the delays when the blue or orange line was single-tracking, we had something special, but it’s time for me to move on to the bright lights of Maryland. I will miss watching people run to enter the already-cramped elevator during rush hour and the crowds gathering at my door after stalking my now empty space like vultures when I’d get off at Rosslyn. You were a rack to hang my shirts on those humid days and my cot for 3-minute naps.

Oh Rosslyn. I was not without my faults either, but I worked to overcome them. You did not. It was you who moved the up escalators at inconsistent speeds (a rider taking the 2^nd from the right finishes two stairs faster). It was you who had the unexplained smell that was a mix of burning rubber and plastic at least twice a week. It was you who allowed train operators to honk their Metro horns that echoed throughout the station. It was you who gave space to the drummer by the bus terminal who used a CD to play 98% of the sounds (music) coming from him, while only playing a live note or two every few seconds.

Despite our differences, you will always be the best “first/last transfer point for the orange and blue line” and always in my heart.

Damn You Pet Peeves!

The sound of fingernails scratching a chalkboard makes most people cringe and curl into the fetal position. This pet peeve doesn’t rankle me as much, but there are a few things that get under my skin and irk me to no end (that’s right, I wrote “irk”).

-Sound and feel of nail filing: When I am in the vicinity of someone using a nail file, I have to close my eyes and cover my ears. The texture of the file just rubs me the wrong way (haha). When I have my nails manicured (don’t laugh, even Juan Dixon has his done every week, though I’m good for one or two per year), I try to avoid nail files on my fingertips. Either my message is lost in translation, or the manicurist has too much professional pride at stake to not give me the best service and use the file, so I make the sacrifice for a better appearance. Whenever I see someone using a nail file, I run for the hills until the coast is clear.

Take your pick, they all give me goose bumps and hee-bee-gee-bees.

-Cross-handclapping: This pet peeve developed around the time I entered college and went to every MD football and basketball game I could go to, where I saw lots and lots of clapping. When it was time for more noise and people clapped, I couldn’t understand why anyone would cross their hands (forming an X) instead of clapping with parallel hands. Parallel handclapping is safer as you’re less likely to break your fingers because your hands are staggered (at contact, one hand is higher than the other so that the lower hand’s fingers strike the palm on the upper-hand). Parallel clapping is also louder because it is more difficult for air to escape the two-handed enclosure than when hands are criss-clapped (how many ways can I write this?). I think this is something for the next episode of Mythbusters.

Oh the humanity!!!

Back to the peeve at-hand (chortle, chortle, chortle), if I’m cheering with you, you had better not bring me down with clapping that isn’t up to its fullest potential. Go ahead and cross-clap in the privacy of your own home to turn-off the lights, but not around me. Cross-clapping is lazy and too yokel-like for me. We’re in this applause together so let’s give it all we’ve got. There’s no need to be the weakest clapper. Make it your New Year’s resolution to properly clap.

It's not too late to save the next generation from improper clapping.

-Feel of a popsicle stick on my tongue (especially wooden): This pet peeve began when I was young lad of 7 years and being tested for strep throat at the pediatrician’s office was a bi-weekly event. Having the doctor place a wooden stick on my throat made my gag reflex start sooner and sooner – eventually leading to my wooden stick disdain.

Oh sure, start licking a popsicle, but getting the last 2% isn't worth touching the wooden stick.

While a wooden stick is required for throat cultures, it is also the foundation for every ice cream popsicle in the land. Despite being lactose intolerant (or lactard for the un-PC out there), I love ice cream popsicles as much as anyone, but to eat 100% of the offering, I have to contact my tongue with the dreaded wooden stick. Talk about a double-edged sword. Like nail filing during a manicure, I remind myself that the pain is temporary and worth dealing with for the reward (the hand massage after the manicure (no happy ending) and the bonus ice cream stuck to the stick).

In retrospect (all of five minutes worth), my pet peeves aren’t too bad because they do offer rewards if I can stand them for the reward at the end (I’m not giving-up on clapping so easily). For the record, I will never be locked in a nail salon with the Good Humor man and people applauding the quality of manicures while making sure they eat every last drop of ice cream.

Missing: A Bus Driver Drop-off Lane for Wisconsin Avenue

The area around the Mazza (or Mazda as I always thought it was called) Galerie is a center for foo-foo, upscale, don’t have enough decimal places in my bank account to afford products (Saks Fifth Avenue, Tiffany’s, Prada, and Gucci). The not-so robust mall offers other shopping choices that are more expensive than what you’d find at, let’s say, Arundel Mills Mall. This is all fine and dandy (does anyone else my age write “dandy” anymore?) except during my rush hour drive on the three-lane southbound Wisconsin Avenue.

The dropoff lane in question is enclosed in the squarish-circular red line (that creates confusion instead of alleviating it).

Directly in front of the Hecht’s store (that’s now a Macy’s), there is a drop-off lane for cars that is separate from the three lanes, yet Metro buses do not receive any assistance. Of course a bus stop sign is placed at the corner of Wisconsin and Western Avenues (marking the MD/DC border). When a bus makes its stop, it blocks the right lane which is also a right-turn only lane. Since the left lane is left-turn only, those driving through the intersection may only use the center lane to get by. Thanks to those who don’t know how the lanes work, a forced merge from three lanes into one is created; guaranteeing a backup.

A Metro bus blocking the right lane occurs throughout the drive into DC and isn’t much of an issue, but when it’s combined with a backed-up left lane, it’s hard to crack 10 MPH through the area. If there was any foresight, buses would be allowed to use the right-lane drop-off and cars would have to fend for themselves without blocking Wisconsin Avenue. I won’t even start to complain about the people who cross well before the intersection’s crosswalk…well, I already did complain…I say they’re fair game.

How Not to Buy Cubic Zirconium For an Engagement Ring

Please accept my sincerest apology as I backblog a large event…my famed SO and I are engaged (as of 3 weeks ago)! If you so please, here’s 1,588 words on how I chose the ring.

This decision to purchase the ring and propose was very, very, very easy (as well it should), but finding the right ring required a lot more time, energy, and money (lots of it) than I expected. I regularly had to lie to my SO about staying late at work (when I was just taking the Metro to another jewelry store) or seeing a good friend from home to watch a football game at Rhino’s in Georgetown (when I was visiting several stores in four hours). When a friend would call and ask how the shopping process was going I had to give short and ambiguous answers because my SO was in the next room. I sent cryptic emails to friends and family. Researching the science and business of diamonds had to be done at alternate Internet terminals. All calls from jewelry stores were forwarded to my cell phone. I told a fellow couple while we are at a Nationals’ game and my SO was getting food.

Secretly asking my SO’s parents for permission required the same dexterity. I asked the mom while my SO was upstairs and asked the dad while my SO was inside the car. When my SO asked what her dad and I were talking about, I told her we were just talking about how great she is (all the while not making eye contact with her because I am the worst liar). In Swahili, it’s called “Cariboo Sahna” – (cutting it) very close. While I alerted those closest to us, I, in my typical way, over-researched diamonds and quickly learned the 4 C’s. When buying a diamond, determine what you can spend and then balance the size and quality. A larger stone isn’t necessarily a better stone because it may not have great clarity or color grades. Imperfections that decrease the clarity grade are typically only visible under 10x magnification and a trained eye, just as lower color grades usually aren’t too noticeable unless the diamond is placed next to stones of other color grades. However, when the ring is appraised, the clarity and color matter.

With my carat weights (which is not the diamond’s actual size), clarity and color grading scales, and required princess cut in mind, I was ready for some market research. I joked about buying a cubic zirconium stone on the basis that my SO should love me enough not to get it appraised, but it’s much easier to buy the real thing, lest I want to fear walking the entire plank each second we’re together.

That ring is not going anywhere.

I asked for suggestions from some friends and family and was told of a few stores, but most disturbingly my friends told me of several shady people to contact for a “really good deal”. Nevermind if I wanted to make a deal I’d have to be frisked, repeat a password, complete a secret handshake, and forget where I was the moment I left. I thought it was in my best interest (as in my life) not to deal with those people and find a reputable retailer. For the record, BlueNile.com didn’t beat most of the diamonds I saw and it’s crazy to mail your expensive diamond back to get it fixed, etc.; all the more reason to deal with a storefront. As part of the most important advertising demographic (male, 18-34), it was impossible to avoid hearing about several places to purchase a diamond as they all claim to be the biggest diamond importer and/or seller in the DC area.

After my “late day at work” alibi, I rode the Metro and started at the Jewelry Factory in Bethesda. Afterall, its ad shows smiling people who constantly wave for the last 10 seconds of the commercial so that effort at least deserves a visit. I knew it wasn’t the fanciest dealer, but it’s my first stop. All of my questions were answered and I received good attention, but I had to see what else was out there. The diamond that was offered was the right size and cut, but I felt I could find one with better clarity for the same price.A week and a half later, I was supposedly watching a Penn State game with my friend, but instead drove to Mazza Gallerie to checkout the diamonds there. I immediately dismissed Tiffany’s because there’d be a 20% markup just on the name. Tiffany’s is the best choice for silver, but a little blue box doesn’t make the actual diamond any better. I’ve always wondered if you could purchase a blue box and put some other jeweler’s jewelry inside to make it appear more valuable. One time in high school, I bought a girl some earrings, but didn’t like the box they came in from Bloomies, so I took one from my mom’s dresser, placed the earrings in the new one, and gave it to her. Well she really liked them…little did I know my $30 earrings came across as $100 earrings in their new box.

Before visiting any of the big advertisers, I went inside the mall to see if a random store would have a decent diamond selection. I took a chance on Charles Schwartz & Company (CS&C) figuring it didn’t have to advertise as much to gain steady business, or so I told myself. It looked nice enough from the outside so what the heck? I immediately felt comfortable and got a good vibe. From the fancy (and clean!) display cases to the fact it has been in business in some form or another since 1888 and it had “Schwartz” in the name (and we know diamonds), I took a seat and checked out the inventory. The sales associate was really knowledgeable and created a pressure-free environment. I made the mistake of telling him what I was looking to spend at the start (a big no-no), but the diamond he showed me was perfect. It had a spectacular cut, higher color and clarity grades than the Jewelry Factory’s offering, and was less expensive. I told him it looks like the perfect diamond, but I wanted to see what else was out there. He implored me to look around so I left (I did say pressure-free) knowing that that really was IT, but I had to compare for my sanity and wallet’s sake.

Step 1: Wear sunglasses to protect eyes from sparkles.
Step 2: Look at ring. And yes, I really took this picture of my, I mean her ring.

I went north to my second oversaturated advertising store…Ronnie Mervis or (Murvis). He has a unique accent and also claims (along with the Jewelry Factory, Charleston Alexander, and the Tiny Jewelry Box) to be a top diamond importer in DC. Before getting to the diamonds, I had to be let in by a rent-a-cop through two sets of doors. I’m all for jewelry store security, but entering a store should not require a manual. After waiting longer than I should, the diamond seller lead me to a small, glass-enclosed room where I was eventually shown diamonds. This reminded me too much of the glass offices in a car dealership. That, combined with the diamond selection that was of less quality than CS&C, only contained one diamond within 0.3 carats of the CS&C choice, Ronny Murvis had lost my business well before I figured out that I had to wait for the first door to close before the second would open.I was hungry so I decided to check Charleston Alexander’s inventory online and drove home for some food (since I would have ate at the bar).

I stopped at the McDonald’s near the White Flint Metro. Armed with superior diamond knowledge and marketplace research, I took a chance at Princess Jewelers in the adjacent shopping center. I didn’t get any positive feeling from the start especially when I compared the décor at CS&S to this retailer. Nevertheless, I sat down to see what they had. Though the salesman asked if I knew something about diamonds and I told him “yes”, he still felt the need to give me his sales pitch. I put up with the talk only to find diamonds that were of less quality than CS&S and weren’t much in terms of savings. Just as my gut instinct had told me, CS&S had won my engagement ring business. I briefly considered running to NYC’s 47th street to see what the tribe had to offer, but the logistics and alibi weren’t worth the trouble.

I returned home and quickly kissed my SO before heading upstairs to change. Because I had not gone to the bar, I didn’t have the requisite smoke smell and her nose would detect my lie in an instant. I made it upstairs, took a shower, and changed my clothes to ensure a clean alibi (hardy har har har). I gleefully called CS&C on Monday to tell them I’d return the next day to place my deposit. The stone cost a little more than I was budgeting for, but because this is something I’m going to have to look at everyday for the rest of my life, I’d hate it if I could think, “gee, if only I had spent that extra money, I would’ve have had an even better diamond.”

Just like purchasing a home, spend as much as you can because it’s something important to you that you’ll be dealing with everyday for the rest of your life. I picked up the ring a few days later and it looked spectacular! I had my solitaire princess cut diamond on a size six platinum band (just as she slyly made it clear would be the right ring for her). The story of the engagment later this week...

About that Army 10-Miler

After sleeping for all of 3 hours before I awoke from a terrible nightmare and deciding I’d rather stay awake to avoid returning to my imagination, combined with my headache that would only get worse from activity, my SO and I passed on the Army 10-miler. Though I feel guilty receiving the official shirt for my donation, but not participating in the run, I think this was a good move. I can’t stand without hearing an ankle and/or hip crack while my SO knee gives out on her on the slightest hill. We’re already an old married couple.

With Sunday and Monday now free because we wouldn’t be stuck recuperating from the run, my SO, her mother, and I made a run to the Maryland Renaissance Festival for its Celtic weekend. The first 40 minutes of the 45-minute drive went without conflict. We turned onto the single-lane, Rt. 450 (in Crofton) and hit a long backup. Maybe it’s just the traffic light at 424. We get through the light and resume normal speed until we reach another backup. Maybe this won’t last long because we’re within 4 miles of the Festival’s entrance. One hour and 3.5 miles later we turned around on 450 and grabbed a bite to eat. I called the Festival’s general number and was told that the backup was in both directions on 450 and we “picked a good weekend with the Annapolis Boat Show.” Thanks lady. It was 2:30, we were hungry, and even if we got to the Festival by 3ish, we would have to rush through the events and shows after forking over $17 (plus the cost of a turkey leg).

Because I don’t know the layout around the Festival (since I didn’t make it there), I can’t say if traffic direction from local police would’ve improved things. Whatever is needed, the Festival’s organizers need to make it easy enough to reach the parking lot. I suggest adding signs along 450 to let us know just how close we were getting. I did learn: the importance of leaving for the Maryland Renaissance Festival in the morning; when looking for sarcasm while in traffic, call the Maryland Ranaissance Festival; and to bring water and snacks to sell to trapped motorists inching their way to the Festival.