Let Me Pee in Privacy, Please

Yes. I used the word "pee" in the header of a blog post.

But seriously? It's because sometimes I want to have this stamped on my forehead. Okay, not my forehead, because if it was, people would have to get awfully close to me to read it, and I think by the time they were that close it would already be a major invasion of privacy. So perhaps I should say that sometimes I want to yell this through stall doors when I am trying to have a personal moment. Because it seems that more often than not, my personal moments are interrupted by some dumbass woman who is blissfully unaware that not only is the bathroom stall she is trying to enter closed but also locked and attempts to barge through anyway.

And to me? That is a cardinal sin in the 10 Commandments of Public Restroom Etiquette.

I'm well aware that I'm more...how shall we say..."Type A" than the average individual. I get upset when people write "there" when they mean "their" or when they walk on the left side of the sidewalk instead of the right (c'mon - would you drive down the left side of the road? When you are not in London? No. So why would you walk on the left side and mess with the man-made order of things?). I am irritated with incorrect pronunciations of simple (and ubiquitous) brand names (really? Ambercrombie and Finch?) and people who wear too-small watches on too-chubby wrists (okay, this has almost nothing to do with a Type A personality, but it is an irrational annoyance that plagues me daily). But even so, with all these personality quirks, I don't think it's too much to ask of other women that I be allowed to pee in relative privacy.

Here follows Kelsey's 10 Commandments of Public Restroom Etiquette:
1. Thou shalt never barge into the bathroom without looking around first for other patrons and/or closed stall doors.
2. Thou shalt not choose the stall with the closed door.
3. Should there be no other option, thou shalt always elect to peek under closed doors to ensure no pair of heels, flip flops, Doc Martens (God forbid) or fabulous boots are present before entering.
4. Thou shalt always KNOCK before entering, should it be unclear on any level whether a woman is actually present in the stall.
5. Thou shalt never select the middle stall of a bank of three, thus leaving other potential patrons no other choice but to pee on either side of the middle (and now occupied) stall.
6. When available, thou shalt ALWAYS close the toilet seat lid before exiting the stall.
7. More importantly, thou shalt always FLUSH the toilet before exiting the stall.
8. However, thou shalt never use one's foot to flush the toilet.
9. Thou shalt never speak publicly (particularly to strangers) of anything that happens in the stall to other patrons.
10. As a matter of fact, thou shalt never speak to other patrons in a public restroom. Ever.

As you can imagine, with this list of detailed commandments, I am more sensitive to public restroom situations than probably anyone else. But the thing is, it's because I get walked in on more than anyone else. Even with all my precautions. Even when I choose the stall furthest from the bathroom door (as I'm convinced women - in a hurry - go for the nearest stall to them, which is when embarrassing moments tend to happen for less vigilant patrons than I), walk into the stall, lock the door, make a lot of noise, hang or set my purse on the door (in such a way that even if someone were to just barge in, the purse would create a modicum of resistance first, thus allowing me time to react appropriately), grab a wad of TP (thus reducing the amount of time in the stall with my pants down), do my business with a hand on the door (hopefully to keep anyone from barging in) and race to finish - even with all the time and effort spent attempting to prevent barge-ins...they happen anyway.

Case in point: my luxury hotel has a lovely public restroom that is available to our guests as well as our restaurant patrons. And considering our restaurant is one of the more popular dining spots in town, you can imagine our guest restroom gets a lot of action. As a manager in the hotel, I often elect to use this restroom to ensure that our housekeeping staff is keeping everything up to par. But this proves to be a risky move each and every time I need to use the restroom, as the frosted glass doors of the stalls are evidently very confusing to the general public. 9 times out of 10, rather than going for the open stall door nearest the door, they beeline for the ONLY CLOSED DOOR IN THE WHOLE RESTROOM, which often contains me as its occupant. Not only that, but upon attempting to open the door and finding it locked, they more often than not also continue to jiggle the handle, as though behind door #2 there will be a cash prize instead of an embarrassed - and actually, now furious - hotel manager. Why is this? The logic escapes me on every level.

And this happens to me in many other public places as well. I recently participated in the Race for the Cure, which (as you might imagine) had an overwhelming number of women entrants. Knowing this, the thoughtful staff of Qwest Field took it upon themselves to convert several men's restrooms to women's for this specific event. A good idea in theory, but one that proved illogical in the long run, as unsuspecting women went to get in the "women's" restroom line and found themselves waiting 20+ minutes to gain access to a bank of 7 stalls and 10 urinals (thankfully, unused by any waiting women). Even in this scenario, in which all stalls were visibly occupied and two full lines of women were waiting on either side for their turn, I found myself having a small heart attack when some intrepid woman came to my stall to see if it was available - somehow assuming that alllllll the other women in the line were simply standing around, rather than taking advantage of an open stall. Again, I was then - as I am now - completely bewildered by this logic (or lack thereof).

So I implore you, ladies, the next time you have to pee, take a moment and look around. If you see a closed door and an open one, go ahead and take the road less traveled and beeline for the open door. It's true that you never know what might be behind an open door...but at the very least, you already know there won't be another woman.

Dating Disaster #37 (Or, Why Do These Things Always Happen to Me?)

I don't really date a lot. As a matter of fact, I haven't "dated" anyone (seriously or otherwise) in...well, a while. And it's not because I'm jaded about guys, or sad about ex-boyfriends, or super bitchy to new guys I meet. I'm pretty laid-back, down to earth, sometimes funny, kind of cute (I'm aware that's completely subjective), socially competent, professionally successful and willing to take new adventures (I'm also aware this is beginning to read like a personal ad, but bear with me here). The point is: there's no good reason for my lack of dating, other than I'm just really not focused on it right now. But when I meet a guy who interests me (and who's interested in return), I get kind of excited about the whole dating process: the first call, the exclamation of delight over shared interests, the silly embarrassments of a first dinner, the awkwardness of a first kiss and the anticipation of the next time you meet.

However, I'm only surmising all of this "first date" stuff from what I've seen in romantic comedies, because none of that ever happens to me.

It all began a few Fridays ago...

I went out for my fellow hotelier friend's birthday (let's call her..."Joy") to a local karaoke bar in Seattle. Couple of things about the evening should be noted:

1. I went out by myself. Yes, I was fine with this. I wasn't going to invite a friend (as my other friends don't know Joy, and anyway I'm comfortable-ish by myself) and as I'm not dating anyone, it was either go solo or stay home. So I figured I would go out, and the worst case scenario would be that I would've spent an hour getting ready only to come home again if I wasn't having fun...right? (Keep reading.)

2. I don't really "do" karaoke. I have a decent to above average singing voice, but I'm often not quite confident enough to feel good about my performance, particularly when followed by other, better singers/performers.

3. I had no intention of "meeting" anyone.

So. I arrived at the bar and was immediately "introduced" (read: Joy shouted at the group of 15+ at large, "Hey everyone, this is Kelsey, say hi!") whereupon people looked up, smiled (some) and mumbled a couple of names I promptly forgot. I settled myself down in the only available space and made new friends with the people around me, ordered a drink, and began to enjoy the raucous, silly madness of a karaoke- and booze-filled evening. A few Bud Lights in, I decided to put my name in the queue to sing one of my fave old school country songs, "Every Little Thing" by Carlene Carter (June's daughter). I waited with baited breath each time a name was called, and felt a little "oh shit" pang when mine was eventually called - but decided to go for it anyway.

The tiki-themed scene of the crime.

My "performance" started off slow because I was nervous (so my voice was shaking a little) and as I don't usually sing karaoke, I had the mic too far from my mouth so I think the first 16 or so measures were probably only heard by my immediate audience (thank god for Joy pointing that out and correcting me before people starting booing and throwing tomatoes. Or drinks.). I was embarrassed and tried to make the rest of the song fun, entertaining and upbeat...but I just don't think I ever got it back together. Upon the song's final measures, I was able to make my exit (mercifully) and was congratulated by the group for a song well sung (liars!). I accepted their praise semi-gracefully and made my way to the bar to hide my shame in another drink.

The rest of the evening passed quickly but began to deteriorate for me, as I watched guys that I had felt potential interest in turn their attention toward other women, and listened to confident karaokettes rock the house with their surprisingly powerful voices and crowd-pleasing song selections. I decided I'd spent enough time with the group to be socially acceptable for a birthday event and needed to jet before my mood really started to turn. Just as I had paid my tab and was getting ready to make my way home, I heard a voice next to me saying, "Going home already? I was hoping you would sing again." In surprise, I turned to meet "Marlon", a Hula Hula regular with a gravelly voice and infectious smile. I laughed (somewhat more derisively than intended) and as he introduced himself I felt a little connection, and decided perhaps I wasn't quite ready to call it a night. We exchanged pleasant, humorous conversation over a couple of cocktails the rest of the evening and generally had a rather delightful time.

Yadda yadda yadda, we decided to meet for breakfast the next morning at a great hangover-type bar in lower QA. Okay, so it wasn't exactly "first date" material. I mean, I didn't even shower from the night before (nor did he). But this felt okay, as it seemed like the kind of spontaneous situation that's better than primping for a "real" date, because it was so in-the-moment (and also, I was fresh as a daisy with a quick makeup touch-up). We were chatting pleasantly, if not deeply, and all in all it felt...comfortable.

A few mimosas into breakfast, we were both feeling a little tipsy (before you judge, remember: I'm single. And had nothing to do that Saturday.) and decided to hit another bar.

Which is where everything began to go downhill.

Suffice to say that this is the part of real life that rom-com movies skip right over - the part where there are no butterflies, or roses, or cute chance encounters but instead drunkenness, embarrassment, a too-hot day (rendering the lack of shower a bad idea in the long run) and complete disillusionment in the idea that meeting someone in a bar ever works out.

Long story short, Marlon got wasted (well, what did I expect? Even for a guy, a couple of mimosas, a full shot of sipping whiskey and several Jack & Cokes will probably put someone under.) and I ended up taking care of him. Which means...
-I hauled him out of the bar where he was pissing off a bitchy bartender,
-took him to the scene of the crime from the night before to get food (I don't know lower QA well enough to know where else to go) where
-I was ridiculed by that bartender for getting stuck with Marlon to begin with (evidently this is a pattern of behavior he's seen over time), and
-I paid for Marlon's food (as he got mad at me for not wanting to make out with him in the bar and walked out on the tab), whereupon
-I got into a drunken argument (on his part, not mine) with him, after which
-he decided I was being a bitch and was going to go home, where after
-I got really angry and ran into the street after him (as it was evident he was going to drive home) and
-finally, finally cajoled his car key out of his hand (so he wouldn't kill someone or himself) and at last
-stalked home in a furious rage, leaving him to get home by his own means with the texted instruction to call me in the morning to get his goddamned car key.

Does any of this sound like romantic first date butterflies?!

No. There were no butterflies - only a wasp's nest full of angry buzzing in my head that I'd been so stupid to let this whole situation get so out of control to begin with. In hindsight, I'm well aware of the many wildly waving red flags that - had I been willing to see them - would've alerted me to impending disaster. For example, the fact that Marlon knew all the morning bartenders at the restaurant. Or that he'd ordered a full shot of sipping tequila at 10:30 AM. Or that we went to breakfast immediately after meeting, instead of waiting to get to know each other on another level (via phone? Email? Whatever.) and then going on a date (if, indeed, a date was warranted by other conversation). So, okay, it's mostly my fault. But I threw caution to the wind, and...well, you read the story.

On the one hand, I see why things like this happen to me, because I'm a nice girl. If I'd been more of a bitch, I would've left him in the street without going through all drama of assuming responsibility for someone else's actions and let fate take him home, safely or otherwise. But you know what? I can't have that on my conscience. I can't know that I willingly allowed someone so clearly incapacitated to take care of himself to potentially drive away and put other people's lives in danger. So I took the ethical high road, and I feel good about it - but I wish I hadn't traveled down that path to begin with.

More on the end of that story to follow, but the point is this: lesson learned. It's okay for nice girls to have plain old nice dates instead of dating adventures. In the future, when I'm ready to go home and a guy hits on me at the end of the night, I'll give my number and let him call. And if he does? Great. We'll talk, and maybe email, and maybe meet up. But not for karaoke.

Getting Going

Okay, so it makes good sense that I'm "re-starting" blogging on a Sunday, as that's when I began blogging oh-so-long-ago. Tough to say what the major malfunction has been in my lack of inspiration for blog content (and/or simple motivation to sit down and actually do it), but I think probably a combination of simple frustrations and deeper-rooted internal issues. A few possibilities:

1. My goddamn laptop. Yes, this piece of modern technology is a source of irritation worthy of public cursing. You see, it was gifted to me (thanks, Mom!) for the simple reason that it did not have the internal wireless card necessary to make it functional for her business, which is now the exact same reason I find myself unwilling to spend dedicated time on the internet - because it has to be connected to the DSL cable, which is connected to the wall, which is too far from my plush chair to make relaxed, lazy blogging either comfortable or possible. Instead, I have to sit in my too-short chair at my desk that faces away from my 3rd Ave window, which means that not only am I unable to multitask (ie, watch TV and blog) but also that I'm uninspired to write because the view into my tiny kitchen just really doesn't provide a lot of fodder for creative activity. I'm well aware that all of these things are simple fixes, but somehow I can't "find the time" (read: motivation) to make a change.

2. My goddamn blog background. Yes, this is also a source of cuss-worthy frustration. Why? Well, I ask myself that question I every time I look at my own blog. Somehow, I can't figure out how to make a great header (I really, really hate being limited to Verdana, Times New Roman and Courier fonts), and my blog colors never seem to come together, and I don't really like the layout, and this is all depressing enough that I don't even want to look at my own blog, much less imagine how others could or would want to spend time having to read it. (sigh) This is the creative perfectionist in me emerging, and I really, really don't like her very much - she's a pain in the ass that prevents things from getting done at all.

3. Creative drought. Call me Lake Mead, because creative inspiration seems to be drying up at an exponential rate, leaving only a history of better days behind. Interestingly, when I have to be "on" with other people, I seem to be able to paint a picture of hilarity in the things that happen to me in my life, and it's all very funny in the moment and ultimately I'm able to see my situation in that same way, so why the crushing introspection when I'm alone? And why the inability to put that same face to face conversation onto "paper" in a similar vein? Perhaps it's the immediate vocal and physical reaction of my live audience that spurs me to continue amusing them with candid and self-deprecating stories.

In any case, the blog is back, because damned if I'm going to let a wireless card (or lack thereof) and a couple of bad blog entries prevent me from doing what I actually love to do every day, which is talk about me - I mean, write.

Under Construction

I feel like my blog should have a great big flashing sign on its home page:

**WARNING! BLOG UNDER CONSTRUCTION! CREATIVE ROAD BUMPS AHEAD!**

Finding the right style - both aesthetic and literary - has been a bit of a challenge for me. What do I want to say? Is my blog content interesting? Humorous? Relevant and relatable to other people's lives and experiences? These are the questions I'm working on answering.

Trouble is, I'm finding that a good amount of my creative genius comes to me in the middle of the day (i.e., while my mind is wandering at work) and I'm having a hard time getting the really good content down fast enough. For example, yesterday I was standing at the copy machine with several documents in hand that needed to either be faxed, scanned or copied and sent to one of my 75 wedding clients (yes, I actually have 75 groups this year - not bad for a little hotel) and as my mind was circling aimlessly (when I should have been thinking about the other many and varied tasks on my plate) I began thinking about my failed Almond Roca bars from the night before, which got me to thinking that many of my cooking/baking experiments turn out poorly, which lead to - flash of genius! - a blog inspiration (soon to follow). Then, of course, it was difficult to focus the rest of the day, as my twitchy little fingers were just itching to blog away the afternoon in creative bliss. Alas, I finished the day with commendable work ethic (I don't think I can say the same for today) and went home, where I promptly lost all the great ideas I'd spent the afternoon concocting about my newest blog entry.

Sigh.

In any case, I'm feeling a little intimidated about my blogs now that I'm following some of my friends and being followed in return! This is exactly what I wanted, of course, but now that I know people are actually reading my stuff...well, I'm on a mission to produce my best work.

So bear with me as I test the literary waters with a timid toe. I know I ought to just dive right in, but if you know me at all...you know that's just not me.

Is There Anybody Alive Out There?

"I want a thousand guitars
I want pounding drums
I want a million different voices speaking in tongues.

This is radio nowhere
is there anybody alive out there?"

-Bruce Springsteen, Radio Nowhere

I've been thinking a lot lately about The Unanswerable Question: What are we doing here, anyway?

Nothing like starting a weeks-long blogging hiatus on a light-hearted note.

But I can't help myself. What, exactly, is it that I am doing here - on this earth, in this apartment, at my job, in my family, for my friends, for the "greater good" - on any given day? I've become brooding and moody lately because I don't have the answer to this question. There are days when I feel like all I am doing is going through the motions, wasting the earth's resources and depleting other people's time and energy with my very existence. I wonder what it is I produce every day, and then weigh that perceived "production" against its actual value and importance. I see my daily "production" on a bell curve, with human factors on one end and socio-economic factors on the other, meeting in the middle at the apex of the curve to provide the ultimate measure of my worth. For example: bringing in revenue for the hotel falls somewhere in the middle range of the socio-economic side of the curve, as it's both part of my job and provides, indirectly, additional revenue to our hospitality partners in Seattle, bringing positive growth to the city and (in theory) happiness to its inhabitants as it sustains jobs, etc.... Doing the Race for the Cure today is high on the human side of the curve, as it was an activity that provides emotional and financial support for those struggling with breast cancer, and keeps me connected to close friends and family that I love so much.

However, knowing what my bell curve looks like isn't the same thing as knowing what gets me to the apex and brings value to my existence. What's the magic level of commitment to career, hobbies, activities, causes, family and friends that makes us feel needed, important, powerful, successful, positive, truimphant? Nobody knows. Springsteen's lyrics, though, make me think that we're all in the same place, to some extent - searching for more in our lives ("I just want to hear some rhythm") and trying to achieve the life balance that brings us to the apex. I take a small measure of comfort in thinking that maybe some others are wondering the same thing: "Is there anybody alive out there?" Hm.

Am I?

B2B, A Procrastinator's Nightmare

Downtown San Francisco, before the race...and so it begins!

Okay, so I'm back from B2B, and have allowed myself just enough slacking/indulgence/down time/Twilight obsession to feel finally rested after the trip (including a luxurious sleep until 8:45AM today...ahhhh). I needed both a mental and physical break from the run, because the stress of preparing (when I knew full well I wasn't really going to be prepared) was so exhausting that I think I was more tired after the race from the mental release of the task than from the 7.5-mile run itself. This was my second Bay to Breakers, and for the second year in a row I let the perceived enormity of the run build and build and build and build...to the point where I couldn't bear the thought of training for it. Even one measly mile felt like it was going to be too difficult (what a wuss), because what good was one mile going to do me when I had to run seven? This kind of logical fallacy is exactly why I continue to procrastinate on even the smallest of tasks: because the perfectionist in me feels like it's not enough to do something halfway. As a result, I usually get so stressed about having to do something perfectly that I slack and put off training/wrapping/reporting/mailing/buying/calling/whatever it is for so long that I end up doing the task halfway anyway. It's a vicious cycle.

Unpreparedness aside (for the record, I did run before the race - just not as much as I should have), it was a still a GREAT day. My older bro and I got up early on Sunday morning and caught the ferry from Tiburon to the Embarcadero, where the madness and mayhem of the race was already in full swing (a purple-clad girl dressed as a bunch of grapes walked by us on the ferry, and my bro turned to me and said, "Bet the rest of the Fruit of the Loom crowd is wandering around here somewhere!") with costumes, stretching "serious" racers, raging drunkenness (a few people were being escorted out of the chutes before the race even began), nakedness and an amazing crowd filling the streets of downtown San Francisco literally as far as the eye could see. There's no real way to determine when the race actually begins, because the crowd is so thick...even as you cross the "start" line, it's all you can do to push your way through the crowd and actually begin running. Will led the way in a crazy game of duck-and-dodge, zig-zag racing for the first couple of miles - we sprinted around costumes (giving the naked racers a wide berth), strollers, street signs and garbage cans, weaving in and out of the crowd in order to get ahead where the running would be clearer.

"Salmon" swimming upstream - a B2B tradition.

Then, we hit Hayes St. hill.

The masses at Hayes St. hill.

I harbor a measure of resentment against Hayes, which kicked my ass last year. However, my procrastination (read above) left me unprepared to retaliate this year, and it kicked my ass once again. I would make a terrible superhero, if after my nemesis basically destroyed me once I went back for more without even the measliest of weapons to defend myself. In any case, while Will was dancing circles around me I was laboring up the hill, doing everything in my power to keep my legs running but so slowly that I was basically walking at one point. Finally I succumbed and trudged to the top. This was the point at which I realized that: a) I need to do more hill runs, and b) I can't let my 12-years-my-senior brother shame me this way in the future. In any case, Will ditched me at the top (same deal as last year) while I took a short rest...and then made myself keep going. And, as always happens with me, riiiiiiight at about 3.5 - 4 miles in, I really hit my stride, and jogged along easily for the rest of the race until I hit the 7-mile mark, where I picked up the pace and fully sprinted down the chute to the finish line.

After a quick beer at Footstock (easily the best part of the race!) we headed back to meet the fam for some pool time in Tiburon, splashing around with the kiddos and a couple delicious margaritas. Sundays really just don't get no better'n that.

All in all, a great weekend, because it's not about the race as much as the time with family. I had really quality time with all four nieces and nephews, as well as my sister (whom I could spend 2 hours on the phone with and it still wouldn't be enough), my brother- and sister-in-law, and of course my brother.

And now that the race is over, I actually feel more inclined to go to the gym, because there's no immediate pressure to work toward a goal. Funny how that works. But, I am going to keep working on a consistent regimen when it comes to the running, because I'll be back next year...in better shape than ever.

I Heart Yoga

Urban Yoga Spa, on the corner of 4th Ave & Stewart St. Note the faint blue sign in the back left of the photo...Hotel Andra, just 1 block away!

As with so many other activities, epiphanies and experiences in my life, I am a late comer to the yoga scene. I'm mostly okay with this, because while I don't believe in "fate" per se, I do believe that opportunities present themselves when the recipient is most open to receiving them, welcoming them and embracing them. In this case, yoga happens to have come into my life at a time when I am finally ready to take it on as the mind/body experience it is meant to be.

So last night I attempted hot Hatha yoga for the first time ever...an ambitious first step, as it was 90 minutes of varying poses (which proved challenging for a notoriously inflexible individual such as myself) in a studio set at a sweltering 107 degrees. (I do have to mention here that while I was pretty much DYING of the heat, I did have the thought in the middle of my warrior pose that I was grateful to be living in Seattle, where the weather would be a cool 60-something upon emerging from the studio, where as if I was still living in Arizona, the weather outside would probably be exactly the same as in the studio). The classes are held in this fantastic, very metropolitan loft-style building at the new Urban Yoga Spa in the heart of downtown - it's all so clean and white. It feels very New York to me (not that I would know) and lends an air of sophistication to the city's traditionally dark-paneled and woodsy Northwest decor. It's the kind of place I'd normally be a little intimidated by except the fact that the staff is so welcoming and committed to the practice - they seem to just want you to be there.

The uber urban lobby of the studio/spa.

Overall, it was an excellent experience - so excellent, as a matter of fact, that today I am signing up for their 30-day challenge, which is 30 days of yoga every day (and naturally, a chance to win a prize - year-long yoga, anyone?). It may seem a little hard core for a first-timer - and it is - but for me, I think diving in downward dog first may be just the way to go. During the course of the class, I felt more connected to my limbs than I think I've ever felt, and it was a nice awakening to truly appreciate the capabilities of my body rather than punishing it for not being Gisele Bundchen. So I'm ending the day and starting my yojourney with a restorative class...and looking forward to a month of flexing, reflecting, stretching, sweating and connecting with this body that has carried me so faithfully for 28 years.

Namaste.