Walt-O-Matic

So I’m visiting my sister’s church, and after the service I go into the nursery to see if she needs help cleaning up. There’s one little girl left who’s about two years old and cute as a button; she takes an instant liking to me, sharing with me her impression of a lion right after accidentally bouncing a toy off my head.

The adults clean the room and my sister says she knows the parents and scoops the kid in her arms, heading back to the sanctuary to find them. The little girl waves to me playfully as she’s carried out the door to come join them.

When we get to the destination, there’s still a lot of people standing about and having conversations. My sister puts the little girl down who then looks up at me with doe eyes and says “Chase me!”

I tell her I’m tired. But, she insists, “Chase me!”

Fine. I take a false step toward her, and she squeals in delight and goes running down the aisle a few steps before she notices I’m actually not in pursuit.

Stomping her little foot, she declares, “Chase me!”

So, complying, I start to chase her at a slow pace where she’s sure to get away safely. She’s giggling and having the time of her life. She turns the corner, looks over her shoulder, and sees me.

“I’m gonna get you…” and I wiggle my fingers at her. She grins and runs off, with me slowly following.

Then the unexpected happens.

She turns the next corner, goes running up to some set of couples in a post-service conversation, and declares “He’s chasing me! Protect me.” Next thing I know, they’re putting themselves between her and I in a very “I need an adult” kind of manner. I quickly discover that this is one of the pastors’ daughter. While, I, on the other hand, am a stranger that no one at the church recognizes.

Great. Just great.

“She told me to…” I start to explain, and now it’s clear that it’s my veracity that is being tested. The fact that people have cell phones in their hands and 911 on speed dial isn’t helping.

That’s when I see my sister and the pastor who’s the father having a really good laugh at my expense across the room.

Once the group saw that, and joined in, the little girl’s asylum was forfeit; now the chase was real.

So, I’m leaving Rita’s of Ashburn, and outside there’s a dad holding on to a very young child who’s trying to escape his arms to crawl on the table to go after the colored iceies. He, meanwhile, is boastly bragging to the group of people at the table with him how smart his kid is.

“Well, my kid isn’t even one, and he can talk.”

The other members of his group are rolling their eyes and shaking their heads.

Then, suddenly the dad, barks a command at the kid, jolting everyone - “TALK!!!”

The kid, who’s reaching for a red slush freezes in place, silent, unsure if the appropriate response is to burst into tears at being startled.

Then, as if on delayed command, the kids speaks. One word softly: ‘ow.’

Completely seriously, he exclaims, “There, you see! I told you he was smart.”

As I’m stepping off the curb, I hear someone else at the table say, “Dude, come on. First of all, that’s not even baby talk. Second of all, I saw you pinch him.”

Yes, it’s true. I was pwned by an 8 year old.

I went to visit my niece this weekend; we were out in the court to try her new Estes Hydrogen Fuel Rocket.

This thing is amazing as it is educational. It splits water into hydrogen and oxygen, and then electronically ignites the gases in an enclosed space, sending a rocket soaring into the air 200 feet or more. No special igniters. No solid fuel cells. In other words: safe, reusable, fun.

Well, right in the middle of the launch sequence, she looks at me and asks, “is that your phone ringing?”

I was pretty sure I had my phone on vibrate, but I pulled it out to double check. “Nope…”

Before I could continue, she said, “It must be mine,” and she pulled out a cell phone from her back pocket, nods that it was her, opens it, and excuses herself to take the call, stepping back toward her driveway.

Meanwhile, the rocket was still bubbling and the launch pad was spewing out verbal facts about Hydrogen.

But I wasn’t paying attention. I was trying to figure out if she had her mom’s cell, but she didn’t. It certainly wasn’t a toy. And at that point, I’m pondering between the wisdom of giving a child a cell phone to call home or be reached, versus the certain insanity that would result come billing cycle if a child didn’t understand cell plans.

She comes back, closing the cell phone and putting it in her pocket, “it was my friend; she was letting me know she’s has a sleep over. Where are we at in the launch?”

I had to pause, we weren’t at the launch phase yet, “Uh, maybe another minute.” I was still thrown off guard that she was that entrusted.

Then I got to thinking, why don’t I have her number? Or why doesn’t she have mine, for that matter.

“What’s you number?” I asked.

“Huh?” She shrugged. “I dunno.”

Ah! Perhaps that what the parents did. They got some special plan where she can receive inbound calls or something. Now I was determined to figure out what it was.

“Do you have my number in your phone?”

She thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You want it?”

“Sure!”

I pull out my cell phone, retrieve my number and show it to her.

“I don’t know how to add it to my address book.”

Fine, what I was really after was her number. I’d get her to call me, caller ID would save the number, and I’d save it.

“Can I get you to call me.”

“Ok.”

She looks at my number, types it in, and holds the phone up to her ear.

My phone’s dead and lifeless.

“Ring ring.” She says, waiting.

I’m still waiting for the call to connect.

“Ring ring.” She’s looking impatient.

Still nothing.

Before I can deduce that perhaps she misdialed the number, she starts giggling. “Why aren’t you answering?”

“My phone isn’t ringing.”

“Yes it is, I’m saying ‘Ring ring’.”

Then it hits me, her parents gave her a dead cell phone to play with. And at this point she realizes I thought she was serious the whole time and bursts into laughter at my foolishness.

“I thought you said you had a cell phone!” I exclaimed, trying to dig myself of out the trap with a logical justification.

“I do,” she said, “my parents gave it to me.” And with that, I realized I’d been set up from the beginning.

She hit the fire button, and the rocket shot upwards with a loud bang, startling me. I had been paying more attention to the phones than the rocket. Clever kid.

Coastal Flats has an enjoyable sense of humor.

I walked up to the hostess desk, and they recognized me immediately. Jokingly, I was asked, “What name shall we put you under as, Walt?”

I attempted to make up a name that would require horrific use of Unicode, if not make it look like a terrorist convention was occurring.

I got a smile as they handed me the pager.

But as I passed by their computer, I noticed they planned to turn the joke at my expense. Here’s how I was paged…. and, boy, did the staffer who seated us look confused.

Moments ago the phone just rang, and the caller ID showed some fairly foreign sounding name.

Me: “Hello?”
Them: “Hello?”

Me: “Yes. Hello?”
Them: “Uh, did I just dial the wrong number?”

Me: “I don’t know, that would depend if you were trying to reach me or not.”
Them: (long pause)

Them: “I think I dialed the wrong number.”
Me: “Well, thank you for calling, as I was kinda bored any how.”

Them: “Oh….” (And then she just sat there on the line saying nothing and then decided to hang up.)

Too bad, she seemed quite nice.

When it comes to describing the DMV, Dane Cook’s description perhaps does the most justice.

That said, I went in to renew my license today. It was my third try.

The first time I went to the DMV in Sterling, and it had a line of people wrapped around the building, despite the website saying it was a 21 minute wait. So I threw in the towel.

Yesterday, I took off work to go visit, only to discover that they were closed on President’s day. Something about the empty parking lot should have clued me in.

Today, I went to the one in Leesburg, VA, and was quite surprised to find the parking lot was pretty sparse.

It seems the advice of the day is wait until the day after a federal holiday, then go to the DMV. Your co-workers will be putting in face-time immediately after a holiday, and that’s enough to thin things out in the morning.

As I got there, there was a lady in a leopard coat trying to pull her huge SUV out of a parking space, but was having problems turning the steering wheel one handed while she talked on the cell phone. This just cements what’s wrong with drivers these days.

As I entered the building, a kid walked out cursing he hated the place.

But my experience was much different. I have to give the DMV credit where credit is due, and don’t think saying that doesn’t leave a bitter taste in my mouth.

I was second in line at the Information center, and with two windows open was seen immediately. I got my number, and no sooner than it was literally in my hand, several windows down immediately called it. The information person walked me to the correct window.

All I said was “I’m here to renew my license and possibly get a vision test,” and instantly I had a form in front of me, highlighted fields, was handed a pen, and I filled in out in 30 seconds. The vision test was immediate and consisted of reading 12 characters and detecting blinking LEDs. Done. Passed. Finished.

I handed over a crisp $20 bill, got a receipt, and was told I’d have my picture taken in a moment. I barely had time to take my coat off. The picture was digital, and therefore quick. The license was printed and handed to me, and I was out before I knew it.

I then looked down at my license, jumped in the air, and clicked my heels. Why?

I WILL NEVER HAVE TO VISIT THE DMV EVER AGAIN!!!

The renewal date for my license is 2013. And we all know the world ends on Dec 21st, 2012.

While visiting Wendy’s, my friend and I noticed that there was a small line going from the cashier to the door.

It was evident what had happened. The cashiers were slow, and being pre-lunch time, the first few people in line simply stood around the little sheep herding devices.

Most likely, this was caused by a welcome sign slightly blocking the entrance to the guides.

As we stood in line waiting, it got closer to lunch time, and a long line of people started to arrive, extending out the door.

It was at that point I turned to my friend and said, “watch this.”

As we approached the herding device, I deliberately took the long way around.

Now the interesting point about this was that I ended up exactly in the same spot that I would have been standing if I had just taken one step forward.

However, the guy behind me, and everyone else, blindly followed my path like ants on a sugar trail.

The line rerouted itself into the marked area, clearing the log jam of people.

But, I couldn’t leave well enough alone…

During the course of our lunch, I figured I’d take things one step further. “Watch this,” I said as I left the table and approached the counter. I had noticed the line had disappeared from a lull in traffic.

So, I went to the wrong side of the crowd herding devices and waited.

When the next two people walked in together, the moment they saw me, I made sure they saw me nod to the cashier, and I stepped up pretending that I was ordering, by pointing at the menu, but in the end getting a refill. They, in turn, took the position “in line” that I had just vacated.

And, because I’m evil, I held up the line enough for a few more people to arrive, thus establishing a line that ended up looking like this…

And, that’s how we left Wendy’s. A long line of people trailing out the other door, and people arriving getting into the queue backwards.

Meanwhile, over at Chic-Fil-A…

Chic-Fil-A has a bunch of stand alone tables in groups of two.

When I last went there with a party of six, rather than trying to squeezing into a booth, I decided to conduct an experiment and alter the environment.

I simply rearranged the tables at our end into an elongated configuration that suited our party. And, rather than putting them back the way they were done, neatly pushed in the chairs so that they could accommodate another party of that size.

The obvious advantages were two fold. One, there was a larger aisle allowing for more room, better passage, and improved safety. Two, by sliding the tables up and down the line, any size party from 2 to 18 could conceivably be constructed.

And that’s how I left things.

Upon returning about two months later, I found something interesting had happened. The tables had all been rearranged in the configuration I placed them.

And, to the best of my knowledge, this is the only Chic-Fil-A in the area that has them setup this way. It’s also the most comfortable to eat at.

Having achieved 74 hoops using a mirror, Rob figured out how get the controller just right that he was confident he could pull a decent score blindfolded. We were shocked when he actually started making baskets, stunned when he passed his prior mirror score, floored when he crossed 100 points, and were astounded when he kept going.

Yes, the video is real. Yes, it’s really him. Yes, he’s holding the real controller doing the shooting. Zero trickery involved.

My brother-in-law, Rob, scored a 74 shooting hoops in Party Games …using a mirror.

The other night I had the most sublime hot dog. I don’t mean it was good, I mean it turned straight to gas.

The place was the MCI Center, and I got to see the Wizards play the… oh, who am I kidding. I was trying to make out the cheerleaders from four stories up while eating 6 oz of cotton candy from a plastic $5 bucket. Which, I might add, I refused to throw out since I paid so bloody much for it.

The most enjoyable part of the evening was not the game, but the ride home. As we were waiting for the metro train to arrive, an old lady sat down next to my friend Mike and started to listen in on our conversation.

“So, Walt, we’re thinking of having you over for Christmas. Have you ever had lamb before?”

“Yeah…”

“Oh. What’d you think?”

“I didn’t care for it that much,” And as I noticed the old lady listening in, I quickly added, “but the Bar-B-Que kittens were delicious.”

This prompted the look I was after. And she instantly engaged Mike in conversation to check the veracity of our conversation. At least enough to ascertain that we were good friends.

As the conversation took a turn to prior places lived, it turns out Mike and the old lady had both been to Germany. And, much to the confusion of those around them, started speaking in German. And they did quite well, I must say.

Too well. Cutting me out of the conversation, along with every other eavesdropper in earshot.

I informed Mike that this was America, and that we spoke English here; then I asked to see his legal status. Normally, I don’t engage in this kind of bold maneuver with an armed officer of the law, but by now the overpriced confections instilled a bravery that only spun sugar can do.

Naturally I backed down as he has more ways to kill me in his little finger than a pissed off villain in a James Bond movie.

At this point the train arrived, and I sat down next to the nice little old lady. And her friend. And some other chick who thought it might be the wiser move to ignore me.

“So,” asked the little old lady, “how do you know each other?”

“Him?” I glanced to Mike. “He’s my parole officer.”

Mike over heard enough to flash his handcuffs at me. The little old lady looked mildly uncomfortable and changed the topic.

“Where were you seated?” she inquired.

I explained we were in the 400’s. She then wanted to compare ticket prices (like that mattered now). And then we compared how many times we’ve been to a game at the MCI Center.

There’s a lot of promotional stuff going on at these events, whether it’s Chipotle throwing burritos into the crowd or t-shirts being dropped from parachutes to lucky winners below.

“So,” she continued, “have you ever caught anything at a game?”

“A cold.”

While I got a polite chuckle for quick delivery, she had enough and said, “get your friend; I want to talk with him.”

I yelled over to Mike, who was standing by the door. “She wants to talk with you, apparently I said something again.”

The chick to my left had vacated at the prior stop, so I slid into her old spot, and Mike took mine in front of the old lady.

And immediately, she switched into German again. Clearly, she wanted to practice.

I leaned over and said, “excuse me, you’re talking in code again.”

Mike turned to me and said, quite loudly, “I’m sorry. She said you had a nice ass.”

Without missing a beat, I addressed the old lady, “It’s true. You may be wondering why I’m covering my lap with a bucket.”

Mike, it turns out, wasn’t the only person to bust out laughing, seems a lot of people were riding our conversation, not just the train.