One of the nice pleasures of eating out in D.C. is the likely happenstance that your waiter has probably served a table with deaf people before. So you’re safe. You don’t have to work on “educating” the waiter or just mumble along, pretending to understand the specials and instead go straight to the entree menu.

And if you’re the waiter’s first deaf patron, no matter. DC waiters are so well-seasoned by the vibrant international flavor here that they shouldn’t be fazed at all, right? Worse comes to worse, you can just point to the thing you want on the menu.

Not last night. I went with a group to Lauriol Plaza for a nice dinner and margaritas. The five of us were shown to a table that had place settings for eight or nine people. It was such a weirdly-constructed table that we needed a few minutes to orient ourselves and figure out who got the bench and who got the chairs.

And as soon as we were pulling the napkins across our laps, our spiky-blonde waiter was hovering over us, beaming with enthusiasm. Never mind that we hadn’t even placed a finger on our menus.

He said something at about 100 words per second. One of us managed to squeak out “A Diet Coke, please.” The rest of us wanted margaritas and normally, that involves looking at the margarita menu first. But our waiter was not to be denied his drink order. After several awkward pauses and aborted attempts at communication, we shooed him away and told him to come back in a few minutes.

And like the proud, faithful waiter he is, he did return. The only problem was that our faces were buried in the menus, so we had no idea how long he had been standing there before one of us noticed. But who cared - he looked so happy to be in our presence that he probably didn’t mind waiting for a bit.

We ordered our frozen margaritas (via the aforementioned point-at-the-menu method) and then he said something, again at the absurdly quick pace. You know those CSD VRS commercials where the guy’s sitting there with his tie flying off? That’s how we felt.

We were absolutely flummoxed. We could not understand a word he was saying, much less how many words he was saying. Maybe he was trying out his Mandarin Chinese skills in honor of the Lunar Near Year? Recognizing the fluency gap, he seized upon whoever appeared to be the “most hearing” of our group, and desperately communicated his message. Se habla ingles?

Finally, one of us made the International “I’m-Deaf,-So-Write-It-Down!” Gesture. This particular message was not lost on him. He took out his waiter’s pad and wrote down something, and turned it around to show us.

“Salt?”

Oh boy. To skip to the end of the story, we got our meals, which were all right. We recommend the La Loma/La Lomita/La Lomitas Dos restaurant family instead. But a couple of us were boiling at the waiter’s astonishing incompetence in dealing with deaf customers.

So I took it upon myself to write down a list of instructions on the back of one of the receipts. Let me repeat them for you to the best of my recollection:

“When serving a table with deaf people, it is a good idea to remember the following:

1. Speak slower.
2. Tap one of us when you approach the table; it’s okay.
3. Write things down.
4. Often, we’re just pretending to understand, so make sure we actually understand.
   

Thanks for a great meal!”

Diplomatic, no? I left it on the table for him to read. Hope he took our advice to heart. If we’ve true biz created another deaf-friendly waiter in this great metropolis, I’ll be happy.

I’m not going to settle.

I promise you I do not have an ideal* guy in mind.

Wait, that’s not true. I lied.

I used to. Please take note of the word USED to.

One of my best friends was my ideal guy. So why didn’t I date him? I wasn’t a believer or a fan of long distance relationships. I didn’t think they could work. We managed to stay in touch for about 5 or 6 years before we actually saw each other again. The second, and I swear, it was the second I saw him, I snapped back to reality.

I knew he wasn’t my ideal guy.

That made my dating life a thousand times easier. I didn’t have to compare my dates to him anymore.

Sure I do have some kind of list of what I’d like in a guy, but I don’t hold anyone to that list.

But I do have a couple of deal breakers that would make me think twice about dating the guy.

Are you a smoker? I wish you luck. I really do. it’s the breath, and the teeth stains. Horrible! Someone that’s gonna preach to me about their religion, I’m just not a fan of that. I rather just be who I am. I like you for a reason, not because of what you believe in
Someone who has kids. Don’t get me wrong I don’t have any problem with kids, but It just seems it’s going to add to the drama in my life and his. Completely unnecessary.

So once I snapped back to reality, I’m much less picky about who I meet. I try to give the guys a chance, but if I’m not impressed by the end of the first date or conversation**. There’s a chance that I won’t want to see you or talk to you again. Sometimes it ends up being I’d much rather be friends with them than date them.

Now, I’ve had friends tell me to settle. Why should I? They think I have my standards too high. I don’t think so. I completely disagree.

There were some moments that I would get frustrated and think to myself, just MAYBE I should make some changes as to who I should or want to date***. That’s when I even mentioned this to my mom. And thank god she is my mom because she told me, don’t settle. you’ll find the right guy when it’s your time. Boy, did I breathe out in relief.

I don’t care if all your friends are off getting married. They got lucky with finding the one they want to spend the rest of their lives with. But they’ll still be living enviously through the single folks as we traipse around the city with our best girl/guy friends. As for you, enjoy what you have now. Treasure it. When it’s your time, it’ll come. I had better believe that too, after all I’m always saying, “It’ll happen when it happens.” I simply have to believe that.

Especially if I don’t want to settle. I want that “THE ONE.” and I know the rest of you do too.

* Tall, dark, handsome
**Conversations with online folks.
***Even though I have no clue who I want to date

Location: PBS Line, toward Documentary.

The flourescent lights shiver as the predator swishes its way through the crowds of prey. Its brown, white, and black camouflage serve it well, enabling it to hide throughly. The hard concrete ground below it is unyielding as the predator prowls past an ancient, shuffling specimen. It turns up its nose and continues on.

Ah! It detects an opening in the teeming masses of prey! It acclerates and with the grace of an eel, darts perfectly in the opening. The prey scatter in front of it like cornstalks in the path of a tractor. It is looking for the perfect prey — someone who it can cut in front of. Someone who will exhibit the perfect balance of anger and fear, so it can drink in the taste of sweet victory. It is almost time to consummate his master stroke. It gathers its energies, Akira-like and massively darts and cuts in front of someone.

Of course, that someone was me. Apparently this portly and balding line-cutter thought I exhibited the “perfect balance of anger and fear” and he smiled ever-so-slightly as he passed by. Even his back seemed self-satisfied. Can someone explain to me why line-cutters cut in the Metro? I mean, everybody is going the same direction and, just relax, you will get on the train or get off the train in time. No need to cut lines.

In this case, he cut in front of me as I was exiting the train. He was on the train with me. Behind me. But he got it in his head that I was simply going too slow (even though there were people in front of me) and just slooped in front of me blatantly and obviously. I mean, I’m shuffling behind a woman with 3 handbags and there’s someone behind me. What good is that going to do? There’s plenty of room to stand next to me and walk out. No need to insert your back in front of me.

That’s another Metro hazard for you. Darting Line-Cutters.

Just in case you haven’t heard the deaf-reported story about the D.C. cop riding on the hood of a squad car, you can read about it here. Reported by deaf bloggers Jason Lamberton and Ricky Taylor, the tale of joy-riding cops quickly made its way around the local blogosphere. While it’s died down, we musn’t leave our DC readers out of the loop, so here you go.

And speaking of the loop - what do you think about extending the Yellow Line? DCist broke this story about last night’s public meeting sponsored by Councilmember Jim Graham (Ward 1). WMATA is sort of entertaining the idea of a Yellow Line that extends to Georgia Ave/Petworth, Fort Totten, or all the way to Greenbelt.

Aside from having to rename Greenbelt Yellowgreenbelt, I’m cool with this idea. It’d make the Yellow Line a bit longer, earning it greater respect from its differently-colored, farther-reaching siblings.

There are two other proposals on the table, too. One is just beefing up Green Line service so people don’t have to wait up to 20 minutes during off-peak hours. The last proposal may just be the oddest.

Oh, weirdd. 5 Blue Line trains per hour would bypass Rosslyn and go straight to Greenbelt. So people could theoretically ride from Franconia-Springfield to Greenbluebelt without changing lines. Aside from making L’Enfant Plaza an utter mess where the Blue Line goes through BOTH platforms, I’m also amazed at the graphic designer’s atrocious skill in making that map. But that’s just me.

In any case, exciting times for WMATA lay ahead. One person at the meeting suggested just having the Yellow Line run through Logan and Adams-Morgan, then to a new stop in Georgetown, and then up north through Bethesda and northeast ending in Silver Spring, creating the much-loved Purple vaporLine. Too bad it takes $100 million just to tunnel a quarter-mile.

I’m one of those “people.”

Single.

And I don’t have a clue what to do when it comes to dating. Apparently I must’ve missed the memo that you’re supposed to get serious with someone in college. I didn’t do that.

Actually, I went into college with the mindset of, “I’ll just date,” but I won’t get serious with anyone. Good enough, I was too busy with school, working, and being with my friends, that I didn’t really date. Sure, I had a few dates here and there, but I didn’t commit to anyone. I wouldn’t commit.

Slowly, but surely, I’m starting to get a clue when it comes to dating. It’s a rough path, but someone’s gotta do it.

Now, I’m living in the dc metro area, which makes my choices, when it comes to dating, slim to nil. Okay I’m exaggerating. But it’s not quite as easy as everyone makes it out to be. I’ll give you the options of how I can meet people.

My first option is to meet someone at my job. Yes, I can meet people there. There’s a mixture of young, middle aged, and old people. Almost everyone is in a relationship. Only a handful of us are single, and yes I’m one of them. I’m not going to date anyone at work. I don’t really hang out or go out with anyone at work, so I can’t meet anyone through my coworkers (although that’s an idea…but do I really want to mix business with pleasure?)

Next option: the gym. Strike that. Who wants to meet someone when you are sweaty and well, the reason why I go to the gym is to work out, not to meet guys. Although I will admit that I do scope out guys, but I do it subtly, thankyouverymuch.

The third option is meeting new people through your friends. That might be able to work, if you went to college in the area, so there’s a higher chance that quite a few of your friends stayed in the area. That’ll definitely make it easy for you to meet more people through them. But, I didn’t go to college here. I went up there, where it’s too cold to mention. And I keep a small circle of friends, which is how I like it. So it’s not that easy to meet people through them.

Uhm, I need a fourth option. Oh yeah, I’ve even resorted to asking my sisters (after all, they’re only 2 years older/younger than me) to hook me up with some of their friends. Only problem is most of their friends are attached, or if they aren’t attached, they live in philly. That was almost too easy. Or they’re just too weird for me. *grins*

Option number 5. Go out to bars/clubs to meet people. Now I know a lot of people say, how would you meet people at a bar or club. I just do. Granted that 90, er, make that 95 percent of the time, when you exchange numbers or emails, you’re not likely to hear from that person ever again. But it’s always a blast to meet people there. When you’re out, you’re definitely less inhibited, and quite possibly, plastered by alcohol. I would think we’d be much more friendlier and more willing to approach people under the influence. Now I know what some of you are going to say, but why would I want to meet those “people” at bars? I used to say the same thing, why does anyone want to meet one of those guys at the bar? But honestly, when I go out to bars and clubs. I never go out with the intention of I’m going to meet someone tonight. I go out because I enjoy the music, I want to go dancing. I just want a change of environment, and this gives me the opportunity to be somewhere else for a change. Sometimes i do meet people, sometimes i don’t. And sometimes something comes out of it. So I’m those “people” and you know what I’m okay with that.

This is my last option, and it is online dating. Everyone has tried it. Well, I have. It’s not that bad. I’ve met a couple of people from online. No one crazy, at least not yet. But I’d like to think I have good instincts as to deciding whether I should meet the guy that I’ve met online or not. So a couple of good friendships have blossomed from meeting them online. But there have been a couple of “interesting people,” which I’ll tell you about one time or another.

Here’s the thing, it took me a long time before I even ‘fessed up to my parents that I was doing the online dating thing. When my mom found out, she said “cool.” Now when my little sister found out, she laughed, and said, “what you are doing the online dating thing?!” I gave her a dirty look, but then she thought about it for a second. She told me she wouldn’t have a clue as to how to meet people if she didn’t meet her husband in college. So she understands that a girl’s gotta do what she’s gotta do.

At least I do have options, even though they’re not the greatest of them all. Right now, I’m not dating anyone. I’m not even looking. I’m just being single. And guess what, I don’t mind it (at least not right now, but, when valentine’s day swings around…but that’s another day.)

For those of you who clicked on this hoping to read about Harry Potter or even my very good friend Dorothy, sorry - you’re outta luck.

Here’s a small Sidekick snapshot of the certain wizards I’m referring to:

Thanks to a buddy of mine, I had the pleasure of witnessing my very, very first professional NBA game ever at the MCI Center on Sunday - the Washington Wizards took on the Memphis Grizzlies (BTW, according to my friend, my having seen the Harlem Globetrotters as a kid doesn’t count as having experienced professional basketball. Hmm, and all these years, I thought these Globetrotter guys were pretty good even with their crazy antics!)

Granted, one doesn’t think of professional sports very often when thinking about things to do in DC as museum-hopping is usually what comes to mind first. Maybe people do think about sports - and it’s just me who doesn’t. Yeah, that’s probably it.

Anyway. It was a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon - had good company, conversation, big hotdogs and beer. The bunch of seemingly underage cheerleaders was the only thing out of place. Watching them do their routines had me thinking, “So which strip club do they work for? and “Have any of the female basketball fans ever filed a complaint?” These half-naked girls just didn’t belong there - it was Kids Day at MCI too and aren’t we already in the 21st century where it’s just plain unacceptable to ogle at women as if they’re objects?

Gee, wiz.

So last night a friend and I hit up the Consolidated Majestic 20 in Silver Spring to see why George Clooney won a Golden Globe for his work in Syriana. The both of us had been looking forward to it; we originally planned on seeing it Tuesday night but neither of us wanted to miss Commander in Chief…good stuff! Hence, our Wednesday night outing.

The movie started off slowly–a lot of things were happening at the same time. There were big-oil corporate meetings, a member of the Saudi Royal Family hosting a party, a commentator/corporate sales rep and his daily life (Matt Damon played the commentator; Amanda Peet was his on-screen wife) and Matt draws the duty of travelling to Spain to cover this party…George Clooney plays a CIA agent, and he was wrapping up a covert arms (weaponry) sale in Tehran, Iran.

I know that all these events are tied together somehow–I was waiting for the “click” to happen. Meanwhile, Matt has a private interview/sales pitch with one of the Saudi Princes at the party. He’s trying to get them to contract his company for a phase of the oil drilling…there’s a snag. At the party, something devastating happens. (see the movie for more…)

So, the Prince ends up awarding the contract to Matt’s company and George is back at Langley reporting on the recent deal in Iran. The big-oil corporate meetings continue . Somehow I’m getting a feeling that Matt, George and big-oil will all wrap up together. I’m excited!

George gets another assignment, this time in Beirut (if I remember right) but he has to meet with Hezbollah to get permission. The last time George was in Beirut, there was a big stink involving Hezbollah and George was lucky to get out alive. He clarifies that the purpose of his visit has nothing to do with Hezbollah–the ayatollah says as long as that is the case, George is welcome in Beirut.

George then meets with his CIA case officer in Beirut to get more information on the op. The target is the same Saudi Royal Prince that Matt made his sales pitch to. After the meeting, George heads back to his hotel room for a rest. Unfortunately, he is ambushed…

And this is where we stop.

Why?

Because the captioning was cut off! To our dismay, my friend and I found out from the movie technician that “for some reason the machine is not reading the captions …”

I left the movie theater feeling robbed, although for a small consolation, I had a complimentary pass for the next movie I wanted to see.

Sigh. Sometimes being deaf has its pitfalls.

At long last, here I am once again. Mea culpa for staying away so long. It’s 2006! Happy 2006, everyone! I know this is such a cliché but each time I say it to someone, a little spark ignites within me. Maybe it’s the concept of trying to pass on a tidbit of goodness in this world. We all could use more of it, especially our politicians.

Speaking of pols, mama gave me a book for Christmas (it’s a family tradition, by the way)…but let me tell you a little something first. My mother and I are very close, but when it comes to politics…*imitating sounds of earthquake & a great big chasm forming* she’s on one end, and I the other. Naturally, mama is so far right on the continuum that you’d think you ran out of space on the right-end! Yours truly, however is a bit aloof; my politics follow on a issue-by-issue basis. Now, for the story.

I was shocked when I saw what my book was–Tell It Like It IS. This book talks about many votes that famous politicians espouse, since they represent their constituents. Makes sense, right? You’d think they would also apply the same precepts to their own individual families. *beep* wrong. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200. These same pols who may vote pro-choice (for instance) are acutally pro-life. God forbid that they go against their spiritual ideals and defy karma with their own family! But it’s just fine to vote en masse, to keep their constituents happy, and consequently, keeping the pols in their lavish offices.

OR, take Halliburton. Guess who is on the stockholder list? One Michael Moore. Yes, the same Michael Moore that rushed to the Bush-bashing front and pulled apart the stage-curtains for the world to see. He accuses the President of having ulterior motives, blah blah blah…as well as Cheney’s ties to Halliburton…the ethics involved within… YET, our Mr. Moore holds stock in the very same company & ideals he eschews. I guess that’s the great thing about being an American. You can lead causes and still make money in the back pocket without anyone looking…or knowing (at least for some time).

There are many more examples that span history within that book…if you haven’t heard of it, google it and pick it up. I haven’t read it in entirety yet, but thought it’d be a great resource, especially for those of us who make D.C. our home.

Politicians…can they really be counted on to represent the ideals, values and beliefs of their constituents? Can they trusted? It’s hard to sift through the concept of “practice what you preach” when I see rampant moral and ethical conflicts within the ranks of those that we “choose” to govern our country.

Funny thing is…I love the fact that I’m an American citizen. Democracy at its best :)

*shutting door*

I’d like this to be the very first thing you read in this post: I won the family lottery. I have some of the coolest, most loving family members in the world. But still… Oh, there I go. I used the phrase “But still…” in reference to my hearing family members. I’m no better than any other fickle little snit of a wife/daughter/sister.

To complete my sentence: but still, they’re hearing. And it never amazes me how, even after sharing their lives with an incredible son/brother who I’m honored to marry, — or with me — they can be so clueless sometimes about having a deaf family member.

What, have 20-something years taught you nothing? Out of all the annoying hearing people who perpetuate ignorance in the world, you’d think family members would be the last suspects.
Here it is, after much brewing in the cesspool that is in my head: the top six most… umm… be tactful, be tactful, be tactful… idiosyncratic things my hearing family members do to us:

6) Deaf Envy: We’ll be somewhere noisy and all of a sudden an relative says to me (the one who’s stolen her husband’s hearing aid), “Can you hear that? The baby crying, can you hear that? Can you hear the music? And how loud it is? It’s hard to hear you two.” I nod, nod, nod, waiting till we can get this hearing-ism out of the way and get on with our family visit. But no, it’s not over.

The relative shakes their head at me either in wonderment or sympathy, I’m not sure which, and then says, pointing to my hubby, “He can’t hear any of that.”

Um, I know. I stole his hearing aid because I’m too lazy to go to the audiologist, remember? Since you’ve spent the last 20-something years with him, I’m pretty sure this isn’t news to you, either. And, uh, we’ve been together for years and years now – by now, we’re pretty aware of each other’s hearing status. And, frankly, we couldn’t care less. It would certainly never be fodder for conversation.

I’m really hoping it’s over now. But no…

“You are so lucky you can’t hear this. I wish I could be deaf too!” And this is succeeded by laughter. I roll my eyes because this is the umpteenth time I’ve heard this and I already know there’s no humor, tact, or awareness to be found in that statement. Relative sees this, and apologizes.

And then relative says it again. Oh, shoot me now, please.

5) The unneccessarily helpful hearie: I’m a big tea drinker. So I almost always have a pot of water ready to boil. Here’s what I’ll do: I’ll go turn on the water, come back to the computer for a couple minutes, pay some bills like they do on that Bank of America commercial, and then I’ll go back to the oven and my water’s ready to pour me a nice steaming hot cup of throat-lovin’.

If my hearing relatives are visiting, though, here’s what happens instead: I turn on the water, go back and do a couple minutes of my thing, and get up again and walk toward the kitchen. As I’m on my way there, one of the relatives stops me in the doorway of the kitchen, having walked all the way over to me from the living room to tell me this: “Your water’s boiling.”

I know, okay? Where do you think I was going? I do this every single day, even – gasp – when I don’t have any hearing people around me to help me with all the challenging tasks of life that being deaf makes even harder, like, you know, boiling water. Thanks, though.

4) Pager Paranoia: We like leaving our pagers on our desk. No big deal. It’s a central location where we can check and see if we’ve got messages on our way to the bedroom or to check on our laundry. If we see each other’s pager go off, we’ll wave and say, “Hon, you got a message,” and go right back to what we were doing. But there must be something about the vibration that drives hearing people nuts like Mariah Carey’s high notes rile up dogs.

Without fail, this happens every single time: a pager somewhere will go off. Hearing relative do-do? Run to us, say, “your pager’s going off!”

I swear, the first couple times this happened, I thought they were going to tell me the house was on fire or CK had fallen down the stairs and broke his neck and needed me to call 911. Took me a while to get used to the urgency with which they tell me I have a freakin’ e-mail message.

And when we say, “Oh, okay, thanks,” I can’t decide whether I should be irritated or amused at the blank stare they give us when we don’t jump off the couch to check our pagers. People… we control our electronic devices, not the other way around. It is NOT a cell phone, and the person on the other end of that message knows it could be anywhere from a couple minutes to a full day before getting a response. Sometimes, these messages are purely informative and don’t even require a response.

Actually, maybe I should consider this a hearing quirk: Lord knows those hearies can’t drag themselves away from their cell phones. It’s even part of our [non-deaf] culture now – “Can you hear me now? …Good.” *nod head like a chimp*

3) The obnoxious answer: So we’ll go out shopping. The relatives are famous for doing this with us. Must be the little red-head we live with who has absolute need of an extra seven pairs of shoes or fifteen fancy new tops. Anyhow, we’ll go in a store or someone will walk by and ask us something. If we happen not to be looking in their direction when they say it or, on the off-chance we don’t understand them, the relatives – without fail – commit the cardinal sin of deafhood: they answer for us.

Usually it’s just to tell us that our little girl has beautiful red hair, which we already know. But it still pisses me off.

But it makes me even angrier when it’s a waiter asking us what the little lady would like to drink and I find out five minutes later that a hearing relative has ordered for her instead of consulting with her parents, who are, of course, us, sitting right there.

One day I’d like to jump in before they have a chance to answer and say something like, “Oh, he’ll take the red one in a size 34, thanks. Not the pink one, the red one. Yeah.” Yes, it’s an incredibly simple thing to say, but incredibly emasculating when you aren’t even given a chance to say it yourself. Of course, the humiliation is tripled with the revelation that these people have lived with you and loved you for more than two decades and still haven’t learned that you’re not a blathering idiot or that you’re capable of taking care of yourself.

2) “No fair, you can’t leave us out!” This one’s a classic deaf cliché, but it keeps happening no matter how many times we remind them how rude and offensive it is: we’ll attend a family dinner, and chattering commences, minus visual communication. We are absolutely excluded.

Sometimes someone will volunteer some brief and insufficient information, like, “Oh, we’re talking about how so-and-so has a new girlfriend.” Fine. No problem. We’re used to this; we grew up with this. Heck, it’s probably a large part of why we married each other: at long last, a guaranteed chat partner at family dinners. So we start chatting too – with each other.

Suddenly, the table is quiet, and one of the relatives waves at us. Says one of any number of things:

“Hey, not fair! What are you saying?”
“That’s really rude, to talk like that when you know we can’t understand sign language.”

Um… duh.

But if we ever say anything like that to them, no matter how nicely couched the language is, we get smacked back in the face.

Saying, “You know, it’s really hard to feel like part of the family when no one makes an effort to include us in what’s going on,” might garner any of the following responses:

“Well, you can’t blame us. That’s what happens when you’re deaf.”
“I know, but I’m trying!”
“I tried to explain that to them, but they don’t understand. I’m so sorry, I wish I could do more.” (And this said right before a sympathetic look and a rush back to the hearing conversation).
“Oh, they’re not saying much important.”
“Then why don’t you ask what’s going on?”
“Well, you need to teach me some sign language!”

1) The Deaf Announcement: And this is the burner I’ve been saving for last:

We’ll go to a restaurant. Waiter comes up. We’re actual living breathing citizens of this world who do, on occasion, patronize restaurants. We know the drill. Hi, my name is blah blah and the specials are blah blah and can I get you some drinks?

But no, before anything can happen, the relative jumps in:
“Just want you to know: these people [gestures to all of us] are all deaf, so you have to look at them and let them read your lips.”

We are absolutely mortified. So is the waiter, who senses our discomfort. We order our drinks, waiter goes away. We yell at relative. Is there a tattoo on our forehead saying “deaf?” No. Do we walk around warning everyone we’re deaf? No. So… what the heck was that?!

Relative apologizes.

Waiter comes back. We commence ordering, but relative jumps in once again – repeating to us everything we’ve already heard the waiter say.

We cringe. Waiter cringes. We order. Waiter goes away. We yell again. What, do you think we need an interpreter every time we go to a restaurant? Do you think we can’t survive without your help? Are we five years old?

Relative apologizes – again. “Sorry, I’m still learning. You have to educate me.”

*Ahem* We do? Still?

We fume for the rest of the meal.

And the kicker is… the very next visit, same exact thing happens.

Oh, what fools these hearies be. I swear, if it were up to them, we’d be living in an assisted living community. But yes, I stand by what I said earlier.

I did win the family lottery. Even if they make me wince.

Location: Orange Line, toward New Carrollton.

Ok, today is the time to talk about fatty twoseaters. As non-politcally-correct as it may be for me to say this, but these large denizens of the Metro do exist–and will, on occasion, forcefully remind you of this fact. I feel I must preface this entry with some further words about obesity. “In 1962, research statistics showed that the percentage of obesity in America’s population was at 13%. By 1980 it has risen to 15%–by 1994 to 23%–and by the year 2000 the obesity progression in America had reached an unprecedented 31%!” (quoted from americansportsdata.com)

Unfortunately, that means that approximately one out of three people in the United States is now obese. Obesity is defined as having a body mass index (BMI) of over 25 (meaning you are 25% fat). So, what does this mean for the average Metro rider? More fatty twoseaters.

Here, I’ll explain what I mean so you can understand the dilemma of an compassionate Metro rider. I realize that the path to obesity is paved with McDonalds and malfunctioning thyroid glands, but it does have consequences for riders that simply have a bit of a spare tire (like myself).

The other day, I was sitting there, minding my own business. I was doing what I do almost every day–the Express crossword puzzle. We hit up Metro Center, and I look up to see who’d get on. As it happens, the seat next to me was vacant, and I was sitting next to the window. An obese woman enters the train and I see her face light up as she notices the empty seat. She moves forward with unerring aim and walks towards me.

This is where the consequence happens. She tries to sit down next to me. As all of my friends know, I’m a pretty big boned man (5″11–6′) and I do happily use up the space of one (1) metro chair with about 20% left over for some shifting and moving around. However, this obese woman who easily weighed three times what I did attempted to sit down next to me. This is not something you want to see, ever, in your lifetime.

In fact, I didn’t just see it. I felt it. She pressed into me with all of her weight as she tried to sit down. I felt every single roll on the left of her body. Now, you may look at me and say, “You’re being mean to obese people.” But I’m not. I understand some of what they feel as I’ve also struggled with some weight problems (as everyone has…) but there are simply some things that cannot be done. And trying to fit 400 pounds in a space meant for far less is just embarassing.

So, I’m sitting there, suffocating in her obese glory… and she is still shifting around, trying to fit in the space. I swore I could feel a rib in there somewhere. Finally, she gives up jiggling and wiggling and simply puts her legs out in the aisle and leans out and sits there, tilted, and holding onto the opposite seats for support. I sit there, squeezed in a womb of fat and hard Metro seats.
The biggest thought in my head was, “How am I going to ask her to move when I have to get up at my stop?” Aha! I thought of a plan. I will ask her to move before the stop so she has time to mobilize herself and move out of my way. And that plan succeeded. Note to self: If you see a fatty twoseater approach… retreat and surrender seat!