Dear God

Y2K. Chicken Little's abound; the rapture is going to happen. People buy canned food in bulk and generators at a premium... Many forget to obtain gas to run the generators, figuring they'll run off the still-intact electric grid after Armageddon.

Me? I'm going to be at the epicenter of the global meltdown. I'm going to bite the dust at the LA Civic center millennium party. At the stroke of midnight, amongst 20,000 other glittering souls, I'm going to be swallowed up in a giant crack caused by a tidal wave of stone shattering earthquakes.

Or maybe... I'll just fall into a Japanese cartoon induced seizure from a laser light show. People around me will catch on, dropping to their backs, thus starting a dance fad worse than the Macarena. Either way, I'm going to have fun! By the way, my intensely devout Christian cousin, Saint C, is joining me.

Saint C, a remnant of Elizabethan England, is as sweet as sugar, pure as fresh snow, and as inexperienced as a student driver on the road of life. She's never been to a party larger than a tangy lemon in her mouth; she's never been to a party like this...

Stealthy piloting Ethel Mertz through Phoenix from Flagstaff, we arrive in the Santa Rosa Mountain range after two near death episodes, one bathroom stop, fifteen alien anal probes, six trucker honks, and 9,275 cacti. With Rod Sterling's blessing, we enter the Twilight Zone, traveling 500 miles in 4 hours, and arrive in the arid government reserve at pitch black midnight. The next day we make a pit stop to do some Tijuana barganing then head north to LA.

It's 11pm, we're in the car facing the gate. I pull on my flashy red acrylic pants and tight black shirt decorated with hand prints in various shades of metallic gold. A mushroom shaped puffy hat snug on my head holds bottles of water, stuffed animals, and a first aid kit. It was a large hat. Then, I start struggling with the bottle of reflective silver body paint.

With a booming *POP*, it explodes in my hand, and the iridescent powder suffocates the inside of the car. We hop out, billowing clouds of steel trailing our escape. The smoke clears, and we look at the aftermath. The red racer cockpit now looks like the Trimaxion Drone Ship from Flight of the Navigator; Saint C and I look like street performers imitating the Chicago Bean. Being the color of fine cutlery, we figure it's now a waste of time to continue getting ready, so we enter the civic center.

Inside, it's a feast for the senses. Club kids covered in candy, fire dancers covered in sweat, glow stickers covered in hallucinogens, and normal people covered in awe surround us. The music reverberates in our solar plexuses, and we immediately start running around, talking, dancing, and enjoying people with green platform shoes, torn white latex pants, cat eye contacts, and mardigras inspired handbags. New friends are made, dance partners substituted, and we approach midnight with a countdown in the center of the arena. 5...4...3...2...1... and there's an explosion of fireworks that rains sparkling embers down on the crowd. No end of the world, as everyone takes a deep breath, the music pumps back up, and the crowd goes tribal, lead by Saint C who had managed to crawl up on stage and appear on the mega screen.

Early the next morning, we start to head home, resting along the way. Arriving in Flagstaff, we get caught in a blizzard which hid our silver shame. At home, Saint C meekly says to my mom, "Auntie, I feel like I need to go pray."
Quizzically looking at her, my mom responds, "Oh? Why do you say that, C?"
"Well... I feel like I should repent."
"Ok. Did you do any drugs or drink alcohol?"
"No."
"Ok, and did you do anything bad?"
"No."
Looking at her with concern, "Then why do you feel like you need to pray, C?"
Head dropping as she shrugs and gazes at her feet, Saint C answers, "Because I had so much fun! I didn't know it was possible, but oh my god! I didn't know you could let go like that!"
Grabbing her hand, my mom gently consoles her, "You don't have to repent for having fun. You're entitled to some joy like that..." looking at her silver face, mom continues with a crooked nod, "just make sure you're the one opening the paint powder next time." A few days later, we stopped having soggy Kleenexes full of mercurial mucous.

Yes, Officer. No, Officer.

Day two, 2,661 more miles to go to reach my hallowed halls of higher education. It's just me, and my trusty red sports car, Ethel Mertz. Three more days before class starts, and I've got to pick O up in Sioux City, Iowa. I'm cruising along on a 158 mile 2-lane stretch of Highway 54. The windows rolled up, air conditioner and techno music blasting, I'm making rock star time going through the panhandles of Texas and Oklahoma.

Signs ahead

Seeing a construction zone, I slow down to what I subconsciously believe is a reasonable speed. More braking pressure, and the red bullet becomes a buggy, as I approach a school zone inside the construction zone. Cars pass on my left; the radar detector goes off as a police vehicle passes by. A few more yards, and I'm home free. I speed up again...

An hour and a half later...

Getting caught up in the 900 mile day-trip, I fly over a hill bopping my head to the beat, when the radar detector goes off. *Beep* Reflexively, I tap on the brakes. *Beep* *Beep* The sounds get faster. I see nothing. *BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP* The black box has a cataclysmic fit, and over the hill in the rear view mirror, I see the familiar red and blue of the movies. "Oh, they must be pulling someone else over, I should slow down," I think. 85, 75, 70, 66, 63, 60, 55, there I maintain speed. Red and blue approach.

Trouble from the back

The white police car rapidly approaches my rear bumper and holds steady. "Oh my god! He's pulling ME over! What do I do? What do I do? Ok... remain calm." Disturbing the roadside gravel, my hot tires give off a little steam. I kill the ignition, and start hyperventilating... the officer condescendingly saunters up to my car, hand on his gun. *tap tap tap* I roll down the window. Sternly, the aviator style glasses request, "Drivers license and registration. Now." I obediently produce them. Looking at the papers, he gruffly spouts, "Do you know why I pulled you over?" Hands becoming clammy, and the fleshy vibrance disappearing from my face, I respond, "Because I was going too fast?"

"Yes. Do you know how fast?"
Tears welling up in my eyes, my voice crackles, "I don't know! Maybe like 90? All I remember is there was a 0 at the end of the number! I'm so sorry, officer!"
"Ok. That's not why I'm pulling you over. An hour and a half back, I caught you speeding through a school and construction zone. It's 15 mph there, and I caught you going 35. I've been chasing you since then. I was about to call in a roadblock before you crossed the state line. Step out of the car, and put your hands on the top of your car. Don't move from that position."

My head racing, arms shaking, I miraculously find the strength to open the door. Eyes electrified, and legs of spaghetti, I do as I am instructed while the officer goes back to his car, presumably to get a baton to beat me with. Mentally screaming bloody murder, I think, "Oh no, I'm so screwed! I'm out in the middle of nowhere, no one to help me, I have to get to school, and pick up my friend, and now I'm going to jail. Help!" To make matters worse, I couldn't pull out my hair. A minute passes.

The officer approaches again and tells me to follow him to his car. I get in, and he calls the dispatcher, "I have a 19 year old BOY here," and transitions into unintelligible codes, with the dispatcher responding in a smokey array of static. He begins writing, as my peaked body anticipates the cold slap of hand cuffs, and becoming a hardened chain gang member.

His head turns toward me, glasses dark as night, "So what's your hurry?" Bursting into tears from fear and a surge of adrenaline, I bawl out, "I have to get to school!" He asks where. Head bent low, sniffling and white as snow, I point toward the east, and say, "Dartmouth. It's in New Hampshire! I'm so sorry!" His head jolts back, and asks, "When do you have to be there?" Rubbing mucous from my runny nose, "I have to be there Tuesday, and I have to pick up my friend in Iowa, and it's already Sunday! And now, I'm never going to graduate, because I'm going to be in jail, and I'll have to get a certificate through a mail-correspondence school!"

He jots down a few more things, contacts the dispatcher of the CIA, jots down a few notes, and looks forward. "You know, I could throw you in jail and get you in a lot of trouble. First, speeding in both school and construction zones, breaking the speed limit by 40 mph on a 2-lane highway, passing cars without signaling, and then not stopping for a member of the law." Then he turns to me and authoritatively says, "But, I'm going to cut you one hell of a deal. I'm going to give you a warning for the construction zone, and I'm not even going to mention everything else." Handing me the piece of paper, he continues, "Here you go. Now you slow down, and drive there safely. Do well in your studies," looking forward, "Now get out of my car. I have work to do."

He pulls away to fight the good cause. I wearily get back into Ethel, sit there for a few minutes, and then thank my lucky stars as I blaze off toward the Kansas Turnpike. The moral of the story? Stay in school, kids, even if it's 2500 miles away, oh, and don't speed.

Lubrication

So here I am, at 1:30 in the morning locked outside of Tasty Cakes, my car that reminds many of the 80's pop icon, Night Rider. I had just visited my friend J from out of town and he'd gone to sleep inside his cozy resort casita. It's 76 degrees in Paradise Valley, and the central Phoenix mountains visibly surround me as the glow of the city back lights their monumental silhouettes.

I tug forcibly on the handle, and the door doesn't budge. This time, the door isn't just stuck, it's actually locked, and the keys are chilling on the floor mat. Like a chimpanzee, I search around for a poking tool to use so I can press the button to release the latch. "Hmm... I need a fork, or a knife, or a branch, wire hanger... something!" After mulling around in the desert landscaping, I remember that resorts don't have things like that lying around. "Hmmm... ok, think BP, think... what else could I do?" Looking over, I notice my window is cracked open.

Stretching and straining my hand past the slit, my forearm gets caught, and I pull it back out with a loud *pop*. "Ok, that didn't work... well, maybe if I can find a stick, or a spoon, some chopsticks, or a light saber, I can push that button to unlatch the lock," at which point, I look around in the same vicinity again, and come to the previous realization that there still isn't anything around. "D'oh!"

"Ok, think, BP, think. Be creative here. I need to open this door, there are no poking tools around, and the window is partly cracked, but my arm won't fit through the crack." A light goes on over my head. "Oh yeah, I know what will work! I'm so smart!" I reach into my blue backpack, searching for the holy grail of the medical field... KY Jelly...

... ... ... Guess what happened?... ... ...

In my altered attempt at tackling the beastly car, I slather on enough lubrication to cover my right arm that I could've assisted in a horse birth. "Ok, on the count of three," I tell myself, "One! Two! Three!" My arm slides through the crevice up to the elbow *thunk*, my elbow goes past, and into the car. I rejoice, "Woo-hoo!!!!"

Promptly finding and pressing the lock button, the doors magically unlock, and I open the outside handle with my left hand. Triumphantly nodding to myself, I remark, "Score one for BP." The door opens, and I move with it... at which point I notice that my arm is still stuck between the door frame and the electric window. I smack my forehead with my free hand, letting out another, "D'oh!"

"Ok, think, BP, be creative..." Another light bulb goes on. Reaching over the door with my left arm, I go for the keys... my arm's not long enough. Under the door with my feet, my leg's not flexible enough. Around the door with my arms and feet - my body's not made out of enough rubber bands. Hmmm...

After standing there with the door open, keys on the car floor, and my arm turning blue from the scissored pressure, I remember that I have my cel phone with me, and fish it from my pocket. Hands still slick from the tube of lube, I get a grip on my phone by squeezing it. Inadvertently, my greasy hands press 'last call return', which starts ringing a mortal enemy of mine. I realize whats happening and squeeze to hang up. For some vague reason, the phone flies out of my waxy grip and onto the pavement a few feet away. Among other obscenities, I shout "MOTHER LOVER!!!!" as my enemy picks up the phone, and quickly hangs up, not knowing why, at such a late hour, someone would call simply to curse at them. It beats me.

Maneuvering my body, and stretching with the aid of Saint Gumby, I get the mini-phone on my shoe toe. With the care of a tight-rope walker, I get it back in my hand, and dial J, whom I'd just seen 45 minutes ago. "Hey J, can you come out here and help me?" "Yeah, what's up BP?" "Um... can you just come outside and help me real fast?" "Ok, let me get dressed."

J enters the scene. Looking at my car, then at me, J's eyebrows lift, and he says smugly, "So, what seems to be the problem?" "Oh, Tasty Cakes just decided to become a carnivorous automobile. Jeezy creezy, J, my arm's stuck! Come over here and help me out. Get in my car and get my keys, please!" J gets in the drivers seat, and after looking around, starts laughing, "Oh, I can't find your keys, BP. I think they must be outside somewhere." "They're right there on the floor! Get them!" J finds the keys, "Hey, BP, I can't figure out how to turn on your car." "It's right there on the steering column, J! Here, let me do it!" I shut the door, and follow suit, grabbing the keys, turn on the car and push the button for the window. My arm becomes unleashed. "Thanks, J, you've been a real pal, now I need to go home."

After a slippery jelly enhanced steering wheel drive home, my arm hurt, and I knew I was going to get a mammoth bruise. I had learned a few weeks earlier that if you put toothpaste where a bruise should develop, it won't develop. Don't ask. So, I cover my arm for the second time that night in a foreign goo. Sleep comes quickly.

Heading to the bathroom in the morning to brush my teeth, I look in the mirror and there's no bruise on my arm... however... there's tons of toothpaste on my face. Brushing was a little easier than normal tho.

For the record... I now have an extra set of car keys... everywhere...

On the Flip Side

Romantic relationships can be euphorically rewarding and intensely meaningful. However, when you exchange your lotioned tantric hands for brass knuckles and ski masks, or arrows of Cupid for ex-seeking missile launchers, then you need to watch out.

Whomever said, "All is fair in love and war" must have been one vindictive little gremlin. After all, why would you equate the suffering and struggle of millions with the most profound and exhilarating feelings you generate without using some form of a Schedule 1 substance?

Leaving the gym, B-Boo and I were searching high and low for Gerbils, B-Boo's "in car". Seeing as how we were at the gay gym, everyone had to have some sort of "in something" to demonstrate their trust fund status, sugar daddy gifts, over-extended credit limits, or bedroom postures. Gerbils fell into the blissful quagmire of juvenile credit.

B-Boo repeatedly presses her key less entry button to figure which of the ten identical Scions' was hers. A double meep, suggesting a Road Runner cartoon, beacons us and we head toward the silver box on wheels.

"Hey, that's a nice car," a wispy brown haired man enthusiastically remarks. Looking over her shoulder to a car identical to Gerbils, she responds, "Thank you." She takes a closer look at his car and asks, "Hey, what happened to your car?"

"Huh? Oh, that? That was my ex." We examine the driver side of his car. Where there was once a shiny silver layer of enamel, there was now a splattered canvas of dried runny brown paint. I exclaim, "Holy crap, batman!"

Responding, "Yeah, it's kind of the same color, isn't it?" Licking his chops and seductively eyeing Gerbils, the man goes on, "I'll trade you cars?" B-Boo pets Gerbils, and remarks, "Yea, but my car has this big ol' dent in the hood and in the bumper." To which the long-haired man responds, "Yea, but I'd rather have that bump than this paint. Freaking ex's..."

My hand goes up and points toward his caramelized vehicle, "See?! That's why I don't date!" My hand thoughtfully goes to my chin, "Tho... with Tasty Cake's paint job, I bet it would be an improvement..."

I laugh serendipitously as I open the door and climb into the front seat. In the car, B-Boo playfully snaps, "Well, BP, you probably wouldn't be down w/ someone trashy enough to throw paint your car."

"Yeah, you're probably right, B-Boo."

While we drive to the juice bar to have a Jambafied day, I'm thinking what New Girl would have done in this situation. Standing in front of the shop, there, sweet as rain, are two young kids lovingly displaying their affections. Quite a different site than the mock blood-splattered auto we had just seen. Stepping up on the curb, and stirring my cauldron, I look at them and say, "Oh, sure, it's all fun and games now... but wait until one of you is going bananas throwing outdoor paint on the other's car."

Shocked, B-Boo exclaims, "BP!!! Oh my god! (putting her hand over her heart) I can't believe you just said that... but it's so true!" Looking at the couple, she continues, "You better watch out girl, one of you is going to catch the other on the flip side."

Making an Enterance

An early grey Sunday morning, four Ivy League students: MD, H, M97, and myself stumble out of the Limelight's Church of Disco. H, smiling broadly and deaf from 9 hours of booty-quakeing screams, "Hallelujah that was a WILD night!" Dehydrated, low on blood sugar, sore, slightly buzzed, and mildly hallucinating, we make our way toward the green Subaru.

"We have to find the Queensboro Bridge to make it to my friend K's apartment so we can get some sleep!" MD exhaustedly says. As we start driving the salt covered vehicle, I hand out various chilled fruits, bottles of water, and road maps from the front seat.

Left turn, right turn, green light, red light, right turn, yellow light, u-turn, stop, scratch heads. Looking at the map, M97 says, "Um... so where is the Queensboro Bridge anyway?" I turn it around in his hands saying, "I think the map goes this way." Four right turns later, we end up in the same spot.

"Either I'm having a deja vu, or we're lost, because I think I've seen that pile of trash before..." H says from the back seat.

MD smartly suggests, "Drive east toward the sun until you hit the water... just don't go in." We head east and stop on a pier. "Oh, look," I exclaim, "There's a police car! Let's ask them for directions. Not it!" "Not it, either," both M97 and H yell out. Muffled, MD says, "Awww s**t. Ok, I'll go ask."

MD saunters up to the police car, banana in hand, and taps their window with the end of it. Asking for directions, she tears open the yellow handle and unwittingly gestures down the road with the half-empty rind, mimicking the officer's directions. They stare at her in puzzlement. Chiquita meat sticking on her lips, MD thanks the officers, and stumbles back into the car. Pointing with her empty peel, she decisively barks directions, and we cross the massive landmark. After getting lost on Queens Blvd, we arrive and stand at the apartment entrance.

One at a time, we each attempt to pull the doors open, but to no avail. We try again - they don't budge. ...Four minutes pass...

"I know! K lives on the 1st floor," MD says, walking around the corner, "I'll go yell at her window to wake her up." M97 and H opt for a cigarette break and sit down. Meanwhile, I stand at the glass doors, scratching my head. This calls for some industrial strength detective work.

BP's mental notes: 1) Saying "Open Sesame" doesn't work. 2) The call buttons are on the other side of this glass door. 3) Pulling harder on the handle doesn't work. ...Five minutes pass...

I closely examine the door frame. No clues appear. I continue on to where the double doors meet and should lock. I make a shocking discovery: the key hole is melted shut.

BP's Mental reasoning: A) "If the key hole is soddered, then no one can use it. If that's the case, and the door is locked, then no one lives in this building... that obviously has people living in it..." I ponder this thought for a bit... looking closer, I notice that there's no lock on the door. BP's Realization: 1) The keyhole has no real application! ... Six minutes pass...

I ask myself, "Why would you have a non-existent lock that doesn't work, yet still keeps people locked out? There HAS to be a way for people to get past this door to those push buttons. Hmm... maybe the door doesn't open at all. Therefore, no one lives in this building! Wait... I already thought of that." I consider the invisible lock five more minutes. "Ok, there's a lock that doesn't exist on a door that I can't open." I examine the door frame again, and for some reason, nothing changed.

Mental reasoning B) "If there's no lock, and pulling harder doesn't work, maybe it's a combination of pulling AND THEN pushing!" At which point, I gently push, and the gates of heaven fling wide open!

"OH MY GOD!!!! I FIGURED IT OUT," I scream, "LOOK LOOK LOOK!!! THE DOOR IS OPEN! I DEFEATED THE DOOR!!!" M97 and H Jump up and run over, excitedly asking how I discovered the secret, to which I recounted my in depth detective work. The three of us enter the small corridor, at which point we realize we don't know which button to choose. "Fiddlesticks! We need MD, but we'll get locked out if we leave," H ruefully states.

"Let's just wait until she comes back," I say, a smile growing on my face, "When she does, let's act like we're trapped inside since she doesn't know how to open the doors!" MD comes around the corner to see the three of us banging on the glass from inside, screaming to get out.

MD runs toward us. Quickly grabbing the handle, she pulls forcibly and blurts out, "OH MY GOD! How did the three of you get trapped in there?! I don't know how to get you guys out! Oh Jesus this is awful!" We raise more ruckus, then burst into laughter, rolling on the tiled floor. We show MD how to open the door, and she promptly calls her friend with the button. MD's blond friend, K, shows up and lets us in the second set of doors.

Walking inside, I notice an older Asian woman had been witnessing our door dilemma for the last 20 minutes. Cautiously approaching, her eyes clearly frightened, she defensively puts her back against the wall and swiftly escapes her building. Watching her scamper off, I ponder how long it took her to open the doors the first time she pulled on them.

Phone Call

*ring ring ring* "XYZ, this is BP," I answer, while typing on my computer screen.

"Hi, I need to make an appointment with Dr. A," the woman replies in a Spanish influenced accent.
"Ok. You would need to contact Dr A's clinic to do that, would you like the number?"
"Wait, wait, wait. I need to make an appointment with Dr. A."
"Ok. You will still have to contact her clinic. I don't make patient appointments," I reply.
"Well, I need an appointment. What's your clinic?" The woman asks, taking a laborious breath.

"I'm not a clinic, I'm administration. We don't take patients in administration. Would you like Dr A's clinic, or a different one?"
"Oh, ok. I need the clinic on Bethany Home Road."
"Ok, Bethany Home and what other cross street, so I can give you the closest one?"
"I need the one on Bethany Home."
"We don't have a clinic on Bethany Home. What part of Phoenix do you live in - what are your major cross streets?"
"I need the clinic on Bethany Home."

Lips pushed together, I mimic banging the phone on my desk.

I'm starting to get a little frazzled now. But, remembering that some people just process information a littler slower than I do, I take a hesitant deep breath and say, "Ma'am, I need to know where you are located in Phoenix to give you the closest clinic to contact for an appointment."
"Well, there's only one clinic listed, and this is it," she defiantly tries to prove me wrong.
"There's actually 13 different clinics you can go to, but you can't come here. This is not a clinic, it's a business office. What part of Phoenix would you like a clinic in?"
"I need the clinic on Bethany Home."

I stop typing to try and get her to understand."There's not a clinic on Bethany Home."

Finally, she says, "Oh, ok. Well, let me figure this out, and I will call you back."

Not sure what she has to figure out... maybe that there really isn't a clinic on Bethany Home, I say, "Ok, wonderful. Have a good-"

I get cut off by her squawk: "But are you going to answer when I call back in a minute? I always call YOU, and I just tried calling, and no one ever, ever answers."
Noting that I haven't received a phone call in three hours, I reply, "Well, I answered this time, didn't I," discounting her stubborn claim.
"Well..." her voice trails off, and she hangs up.

What just happened?

The Hospital

"Hello, I'm here for my appointment at 3:30," the short foreign woman says. She is dressed in a black frock, printed with faded yellow flowers.

"Ok, you will need to fill out these papers," the brown eyed receptionist says, handing the short woman a clipboard. Going on, the receptionist asks, "What is your name?"

The woman, rocking on her heels, says, "Ivanna Anus - spelled Enos," and produces a picture id. The astonished receptionist glances at the plastic card, and slightly chuckles to herself as Ivanna turns away, pen in hand.

You, dear reader, might ask, "This couldn't have happened really! Is it true?!" To which, I respond, "Undoubtedly true."

A lot of funny stuff goes on in hospitals that people never notice. Instead, most people choose to be bothered with their momentary life-threatening paper cuts, commonly exacerbated by a stack of medical forms, and quickly relieved with an unprescribed Vallium from their friendly pocket pharmacy.

My friend O has a friend who works at a hospital here in the Southwest. For some unknown reason, O's friend was named Peekaboo.

Perhaps Peekaboo's parents were incredibly talented infant psychologists, and simply got caught up on the work of Jean Piaget. Perhaps it was a number of all natural mind-altering substances her parents ingested during the 60's that influenced her naming. It wouldn't even be that far off to speculate that Peekaboo's parents were part of the group that changed Arnold (Gerry) Dorcy's name to Engelbert Humperdinck. Whatever the reason, I wonder if Peekaboo has ever stopped to question her job in the Intensive Care Unit at her hospital. I'd imagine it would go something like this:

*phone rings* Peekaboo answers it and says, "Peekaboo, ICU."

Now, everything being equal, I wonder how many people actually notice the double entendre that just happened over the phone, or how many simply blurt out, "Hi, I'm a new patient, and I need an appointment with Doctor Z." More than that, I wonder how many people realize they shouldn't make an appointment as an ICU patient... It's like making an appointment in the ER - it just invites bad juju.

Now in a department different than the ICU, we have J, who's completing rounds. One of his patients is an elderly man, about 65 years old. J walks into the room, going over Old Man's chart. "I noticed that you broke your leg, but you look to be doing well otherwise. So, how did you break your leg," J asks.

The old man, eyes slightly cloudy from age responds, "I was driving my car, and couldn't figure out how to stop it. So, I opened up my car door, and tried to stop the car with my foot. That didn't work, and I ran into my neighbor's backyard wall. My car stopped then."

One of J's eyes gets bigger as that brow rises, and the other one squints slightly, indicating unsure disbelief. "Huh? You tried to stop your car with your leg... like Fred Flintstone?" The old man's eyes glitter, as he smiles at J and responds, "Yabba-dabba-doo."

And last but not least, dear reader, besides listening well to medical things going on in your vicinity, you should read closely as well. You might end up with a notation by a doctor in your chart saying, "Rectal exam revealed a normal size thyroid." If you know only two things about human anatomy, they should be: you sit on your rectum, and your thyroid is located in your neck - usually a few feet away. I guess this patients doctor just had VERY long fingers to examine with. Oh boy... and could you get me the number to that doctor?

The Red Party

J's silver Ford Taurus expertly slices down slush filled streets lined with soggy trees. The ground is dewy, the air crisp, and the sky is a bowl of broken rain clouds. The car is filled with wild chatter as a Jew, an African American, a Korean, a Native American, and me wittily banter with each other.

Doesn't this sounds like the starting of one of those politically incorrect, yet pointedly humorous jokes people tell in hushed corners? Funny how life imitates humor sometimes.

We were going out after a long week of mentally debilitating college finals. We went out to be young and have fun - to paint the town red... Little did we know our youthful shenanigans would involve the Red Hat Society.

We arrive at the restaurant, wet brakes squeaking. Snatching the uber-umbrella from the rear seat, we walk toward the warmly illuminated door. Inside, we're escorted downstairs and sat near the closed off private party room.

The diet water, bread, and menus arrive. We playfully converse with one another; for the price of a two-for-one cocktail, we kept topping how terrible our tests were with more and more fantastic stories.

"Well, for my psych final, I had to bludgeon my lab partner with a DSM-IV manual so I could study how a catatonic state affects college students during an f-MRI scan."

"Oh yeah? Well, for my final, I had to learn how to speak Mohawk with Professor X, and then bootleg meds across the US/Canadian border using the 1952 Immigration and Naturalization Act."

"You two think those are bad? My physics professor had us develop a new mobile chair for Stephen Hawking that could travel through time without using a worm hole."

Dinner comes and goes. We are packing up the food, when suddenly, Native girl sees an elderly woman dressed in plum and cherry rush by into the party room. "Wow, how funky for an old upper valley lady," she thinks to herself. Then another woman pops out of the woodwork, this time with a red hat made of flowers. Then another, and another, and another, all dressed to the nines in violet suits, sashes, boas, dresses, shoes, purses, sunglasses, makeup, and topped off with rosy hats made of red feathers, apples, ostrich eggs, netting, and so on. It turns out there's a liberation army of funky red-hat wearing women, somewhat reminiscent of Carmen Miranda.

The instigation

So, Native girl picks up her red cloth napkin and decides to make a pirate hat. A few quick folds, and it's perched there, pointed to high heaven, on Native girl's head. Across the way is a ten year-old boy that looks at Native girl, then at the menopausal women, back at native girl, back at the women, and makes the connection. Immediately bursting into uncontrollable laughter, his fiery fore-head starts bouncing up and down, as he bangs it on the dinner table, attempting to squelch his laughter.

Noting the flush of blush through the young boy, I exclaim, "Oh, look at that kid! Maybe one of us could put him on our heads - his face is red enough from embarrassment." Meanwhile, his parents systematically look at him, wondering what he's cracked up on. The rest of us promptly grab our napkins and make red pirate hats as well, checking over our shoulders for hot and flashy danger.

A bony hand arrives unexpectedly on my shoulder. "Uh-oh, busted!" we all say in unison. The lady mutters something incoherent with a smile. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't hear what you said," I say, pulling off my half-folded red pirate hat.

"Anyone want to take pictures of us," she asks again with a smile. She glances at Native girl and screams, "Hey girlfriend! Come take some pictures WITH us!"

"I would love to take a picture with you and your phat red hat," Native girl responds, and follows the woman into the private party room. We enter. It's full of loud, laughing, vibrant energy, and a large violet cake. We weren't sure what to think, or what kind of group it was.

"WOO-WOO-ld you like some cake," one of the matriarchs says to our suited Jewish friend. He obliges. Charging the air with their unified voices, the women rejoice, whooping their battle cry, "WOO-WOO!!!!"

After a million and three paparazzi camera flashes, we ask them what exactly the red hat society is. "Don't worry, when you're older than 50, you'll understand, girlfriend," is all they can reply. So, we thank them, and make way toward the door, grabbing our black jackets along the way, smiling that we have now become our own club - the black jacket and napkin club, where we're all over 20. And, don't worry girlfriend, when you're over 20, you'll understand.

Awww, nuts!

Ah, the Phoenix Biltmore - a diverse, yet culturally relative area of the city. It's an area composed of high-end shopping, upscale attitudes, and mind-numbing construction. To some, it's a veritable kaleidoscope of celebrity sightings, gilded Versace walkways, Cartier nose studs, and gourmet dishes en flambe. To others, it represents a dirge of up-turned noses, full price sale racks, material hegemony, and platters of food you can't buy with WIC.

To me, it represents a coffee shop.

After parking M's black 4-runner, M, V, and I wearily step off the fresh pavement into the coffee shop. "Oh my god! I can't wait... I'm going to see if they have an Iced Spanish Latte with soy," M's eyes flash as she envisions her milky drink.

It's a little gloomy inside - they're getting ready to close in a few hours. V orders a hot cocoa and waits on the side. The 17 year old boy cashier asks, "So, what would you like," as I approach the counter, M by my side.

"I would like a double shot Americano with heavy whipping cream. Do you also have Spanish Lattes," I ask. He nods. "Ok, one of those too, please- medium, iced, with soy." M taps my shoulder, and motions to the bakery case.

"Hey, let's get a brownie. I know they're your faaaaaaaavorite," she says as her eyes grow to the size of hen's eggs.

"I know! I looooove corner brownies with walnuts and cranberries. But, I don't like just plain brownies." We look the bakery case over again, and there's brownies galore, which I give the once over. "Hmm... it doesn't look like they have any that aren't plain."

"Well, ask him if they have any other ones," M prods.

I slide down the counter to address the young cashier, "Do you have any nuts?" The boy's baseball-capped head pulls back, as an astonished and unsure look overcomes his face. I figure he didn't hear; so leaning in and putting my hands on the counter, I look him straight in the eye, and ask again, "Do you have any nuts?"

"Um... Excuse me?" He says, stepping back a little, glancing left and right.

"You know, nuts! Nuts! I need some nuts! It doesn't look like you have any nuts. Do you have any berries?" My hands turn skyward, rising toward my shoulders, fingers outspread, gesturing a shrug. He looks flabbergasted and can't respond. I glance over; M's mouth has hit the floor. "What? I just want to know if he has any nuts and berries. Geez. I need some nut lovin' if I'm going to enjoy it." Turning back, I ask him, "So, since you don't have any nuts or berries showing out front, can you turn around and search your back for some that might be hiding?"

"Um... what?" Sidestepping toward the bakery case, he defensively puts a larger barrier between the two of us.

"For the brownies. You know, the brownies in your case right here," as I point toward the brownie basket, "They're all plain. I want to know if you have any gussied up with nuts or berries or something. Are there any in the back?"

The barrista down the line spills soy milk from a shaking arm, his face locked in unbelieving laughter. My cashier looks over... then around the store, seeing other customers going nuts giggling. It finally hits him like a brick - that I'm asking for baked goodies - and he cracks a smile.

He quickly and energetically says, "Aw, nuts," snapping his fingers, "No, we don't have any nutted or berried brownies in the back, or in the front." Glancing toward my outstretched hands he continues, "And mine aren't up for grabs."

"Ok. That's all I needed to know. How much is the coffee then," I ask, as cashier boy starts laughing. Then it finally hits ME- what I was saying, and my face goes cherry red. "Oh... um... thank you... job well done." I pay and move down the line, M in tow, chuckling.

Satisfaction

"You know that D and I used to date, right?" C emphatically says, as his head jerks forward from the back seat.

"No, really? Well, that's awesome. Fantastic, really," I reply as I drive C's car, Big Bird, down the road toward C's house.

"Yeah, we dated forever!"

"Really? How long was that?"

C's face jerks to the side, flipping his black hair away from his face, "Oh, about two years and a day. I mean, don't get me wrong, D is really sweet - fun to hang out with, and we were kind of like the best of friends. But you know... sometimes it's just... Coyote Ugly."

"Coyote Ugly? What do you mean?" I ask, head tilted to the side.

"You know, 'coyote ugly'. Don't you know what 'coyote ugly' is?"

"Yeah, it's a bar in Las Vegas, isn't it?"

"Yes. But, the original is in Austin, Texas. I've been to it. It's at the corner of WalMart and McDonald's. Haha, I'm just kidding. But really, the original is on 5th street in Austin." C's head bobs to each side as he talks and glances out the side window.

"Ok, but what does that have to do with D? Did you two first meet there?"

"No, no, no," C responds with a flourish, "You know, COYOTE UGLY - when it's about someone."

"Oh, so you two liked to dance ON the bar, like in the movie," I say as I speed up to make a yellow light.

"UGH! Geez, BP, COYOTE UGLY! Like when you're with someone and it's just not at all pretty." In the rear view mirror, C's eyes bulge just a little, from lack of hydration and insistent exertion, "Like, I adored D and all, but D just left me... you know... unsatisfied..."

I laugh, as C continues, "Yeah. I mean, I'm a Scorpio and all, and I know what I want. NOW, imagine putting together your grocery list while you're in bed with someone, just so you don't have to look at them or concentrate on what's going on. It was THAT BAD. And then, you wake up in horror, wondering... no... Hopeing the other person doesn't want more. Coyote Ugly - where the other person is just so unattractive and unsatisfying that, in the morning, you're like a coyote with it's leg caught in a trap!"

My eyes squint with laughter and I swerve a tad, understandably nodding. "Ok, I've never been in that sort of situation, but I can imagine it. Go on."

"Yeah! Your arm is trapped under their head and you have to chew off your arm to get away from danger - just like the coyote. You don't want to disturb the other person, so they don't wake up and ask for MORE." C's animated gestures become hysterical as he mimics gnawing off his arm on a pillow without moving it. "You're laying there chomping on your arm so you can get the hell out. You're the coyote, the other person's the ugly. Coyote Ugly!"

"Wow," I exclaim, "was it really that bad?!"

C shrugs and looks out the window, "Not really. I just decided it was better being friends."

"After two years? That's a long time."

Quickly forgetting his train of thought, C asks for something to eat, and chirps up, "Yay! Let's go swimming!"

New Girl

It's amazing what goes on in the office when no one is around... or at least when you think no one is around.

It happens a lot around here. I'll get all my work for the week done before Tuesday, and the rest of the time I"ll be looking for something to do. *sigh* And to think it used to take two people to do the work I do, and they couldn't finish it in five days, let alone two days with TWO PEOPLE.

It's not as quiet now that we have New Girl. I'm in the front room. She likes the back room. I wonder sometimes if she jumps up and down in the back, swiveling madly in circles on her armless chair, bouncing around to her telephonic ringtones. She has two kids, and a husband that is too shiesty. One day, I said, "Tell me about you. Tell me about your life." Boy, I wasn't prepared for the three hour epic that composed the last nine months of New Girl's life. That's OK, I had some Cheetos to entertain me and add to the story with it's cheesy, crunchy sensations.

New Girl stands in front of my desk, leaning in to tell me about how her husband went to the Big House, and she had to bail him out - only to find out that he was shacking up w/ Another Woman. Another Woman kept trying to stir up a tussle with New Girl over the phone. Another Woman is too trashy.

So, New Girl shows up at Another Woman's house with her two kids and says to them, "Here's my phone, stay in the car and lock the doors. If I don't come back, call 911."

Crazyness ensues.

New Girl bangs on Another Woman's front door and asks for her husband for 15 minutes to which no one responds. New Girl yells to her kids, "Get my shovel from the trunk!"

Now, at this point, I'm thinking, "OMG, New Girl killed both Another Woman and her husband and buried them both in Another Woman's front yard! That's juicy!" More Cheetos, and a few Doritos enter my mouth.

She grabs her shovel and starts taking out her aggression. Poor truck didn't have a chance to look twice. Oh, the Automanity!!!

CLANG CLANG CLANG went the shovel,
SCRAPE SCRAPE SCRAPE went the paint,
OH MY GOD! went her husband,
At that moment he fell from being a saint.

...
...
...

That really didn't happen, you know. I have an overactive imagination, sometimes to the melody of old showtunes.

I don't remember what happened exactly; that's what the cheesy sodium overload caused me to believe what happened.

Apparently, New Girl's husband came running out to save his truck from marital armageddon and New Girl laid it down - "Get your S**t out of my house if you're going to be here, or come home NOW!"

More cheesy poofs.

Now New Girl's husband is at home. Guess who wears the pants in the relationship? New Girl comes home and says, "Are you going to start dinner?"
"Why don't we just get something to eat?"
"I don't think you heard me. Are you going to start Dinner?"
New Girl's husband's tail goes between his legs and he sulks toward the kitchen.

Remind me to never get New Girl angry...