Gunpowder River & Westfield 'Shopping Town' Wheaton
...are dangerous and scary places, respectively.
Beginning with the first of the two: yesterday, I went with my friend K and his family down the Gunpowder River (or "Little Gunpowder Falls" - I don't know which bit it was, although I think we passed under I-83). Just for a change, his father decided to start a little further upstream than before so we could go through a little of the Class III rapids. In spite of K's mom's reservations, I, being the guest and not experienced with the river, decided to go along with it.
Actually, correct that. I, being not experienced at all, went along with it. For what it's worth, K capsized first (and since his boat had the lunch and the dog, that was quite a major deal). That said, I capsized twice, and the second time ended up traversing the fourth of the four sections of Class III on foot. It cost me, first, my prescription sunglasses, and second, my watch and one of a pair of socks (the one with the smaller holes).
Other than that, though, it was a pretty nice day. Besides, the glasses were cheap, the watch old, and I was planning to get new socks anyway.
Thus segueing to the second item in the title: going to the mall to buy socks today. Remarkably, the 'socks-buying' bit was fine (although finding U.S.-size-16 socks was a bit of a hassle). It was coming out of the sock shop that I got in trouble.
I'm walking down the hall, minding nothing in particular (hey, I'm sleepy!), when suddenly I am accosted by a short, vaguely East-Slavic looking (not that I can judge ethnicity) woman who steps in much too close to me and asks if I'm married.
I, being too dumb to flee, reply with the it-seemed-clever-at-the-time "I'm busy."
She asks again. (Or maybe she asks if I have a girlfriend - I am an Unreliable Narrator™.) The scent of chocolate on her breath is both evident and oddly disturbing.
"Uh, who are you?"
She turns to her accomplice and pronounces that This Guy (meaning me) Is Funny. She then drags me over towards the table to offer me a demo of some plastic-and-thick-wire contrivance that looks vaguely like the ribs of a basket, and, in my bewildered state, appears inexplicably threatening.
"Uh, hey, I have to go, and I'm not buying anything..."
She insists that this is a free demo, and throws some lump of fabric into an inexpensive recent-model-year microwave that is incorporated into the cart-stand-thing.
I continue babbling ineffectually as the whatever-it-is nukes. Then, as she opens the microwave, I spot the box of aromatherapy pillows (or something) that this obviously is one of.
I announce I am leaving as I back away. (Aromatherapy, like chiropractic treatment, is as a rule too easily adopted as a cover name for pseudoscientific practices. It is a reflection of my lack of experience in the 'hard sell' that it is this that leads me to suspect chicanery, rather than the patently nonkosher actions of the salesperson.)
She thrusts the pillow in my face. (Literally. Physical-contact-with-nose-and-mouth literally.)
I, still babbling, flee.
And so I have two new rules.
Beginning with the first of the two: yesterday, I went with my friend K and his family down the Gunpowder River (or "Little Gunpowder Falls" - I don't know which bit it was, although I think we passed under I-83). Just for a change, his father decided to start a little further upstream than before so we could go through a little of the Class III rapids. In spite of K's mom's reservations, I, being the guest and not experienced with the river, decided to go along with it.
Actually, correct that. I, being not experienced at all, went along with it. For what it's worth, K capsized first (and since his boat had the lunch and the dog, that was quite a major deal). That said, I capsized twice, and the second time ended up traversing the fourth of the four sections of Class III on foot. It cost me, first, my prescription sunglasses, and second, my watch and one of a pair of socks (the one with the smaller holes).
Other than that, though, it was a pretty nice day. Besides, the glasses were cheap, the watch old, and I was planning to get new socks anyway.
Thus segueing to the second item in the title: going to the mall to buy socks today. Remarkably, the 'socks-buying' bit was fine (although finding U.S.-size-16 socks was a bit of a hassle). It was coming out of the sock shop that I got in trouble.
I'm walking down the hall, minding nothing in particular (hey, I'm sleepy!), when suddenly I am accosted by a short, vaguely East-Slavic looking (not that I can judge ethnicity) woman who steps in much too close to me and asks if I'm married.
I, being too dumb to flee, reply with the it-seemed-clever-at-the-time "I'm busy."
She asks again. (Or maybe she asks if I have a girlfriend - I am an Unreliable Narrator™.) The scent of chocolate on her breath is both evident and oddly disturbing.
"Uh, who are you?"
She turns to her accomplice and pronounces that This Guy (meaning me) Is Funny. She then drags me over towards the table to offer me a demo of some plastic-and-thick-wire contrivance that looks vaguely like the ribs of a basket, and, in my bewildered state, appears inexplicably threatening.
"Uh, hey, I have to go, and I'm not buying anything..."
She insists that this is a free demo, and throws some lump of fabric into an inexpensive recent-model-year microwave that is incorporated into the cart-stand-thing.
I continue babbling ineffectually as the whatever-it-is nukes. Then, as she opens the microwave, I spot the box of aromatherapy pillows (or something) that this obviously is one of.
I announce I am leaving as I back away. (Aromatherapy, like chiropractic treatment, is as a rule too easily adopted as a cover name for pseudoscientific practices. It is a reflection of my lack of experience in the 'hard sell' that it is this that leads me to suspect chicanery, rather than the patently nonkosher actions of the salesperson.)
She thrusts the pillow in my face. (Literally. Physical-contact-with-nose-and-mouth literally.)
I, still babbling, flee.
And so I have two new rules.
- When boating, everything you value should be either tied to you or tied to your boat. (My pack, which was the latter, survived wet but intact.)
- When someone accosts you to sell you something, leave. Don't say anything, don't even break stride, leave. Even if they're zaftig.