Ever experience those beastly people in restaurants who are obnoxiously loud? You know, the hyena pack that cackles around a fresh dinner meal. You peer at the troop from behind plated garnish leaves, across taupe savanna carpeting, and your own neatly camouflaged white table cloth just to examine what's going on. "Within ear shot," for the loud group means being able to communicate across any expanse of $200 bottles of wine, of which there are many. Then, did it finally occur to you that this same legion of raucous supper personalities, with their hungry outbursts of laughter, and colorful displays of celebratory bags and boxes is a birthday dinner party?
Here we are at Elements, in Sanctuary, Paradise Valley. Guess who's birthday it is?! Yes, it's mine. Woo-hoo! Like the cattle we're assumed to be, we're herded to our seats and given some grass and fresh water. Oh, the grass is to refresh your breath, you say? That's interesting. And we're paying how much for it? Fantastic, I love when money grows on trees!
Our chic group settles in, and I reach for the card labeled: "Caution: Hotness Inside!"
...I really should have paid more attention to the warning...
Asking the table for a non-existent letter opener, and not thinking to manhandle my butter knife through the envelope, I seductively slide my keys between the sheets of paper, and work open the seam, exposing the card with my fingers.
At that precise moment, the manager of the restaurant comes to our table with a waiter in tow to greet us before our meal, all the while I slide the card out of it's crisp sleeve. "OH!" I exclaim, to which everyone anticipatingly look toward me. Peering down at my hands, the waiter chokes on a gulp of rapidly entering air, and the manager grabs her stomach like she'd just been punched.
On the front of the card was an attractive, yet marginally... no, that's the wrong word... extremely excited model with a ginormous pink member poking toward his chin gingerly smiling back at me.
Caution: Hotness exposed.
I don't think that's something they see every day in a restaurant on top of the hill. "Could I have some more water, please," I ask the disturbed waiter, who had spilled his pitcher on the table from focusing on my paper friend. Looking around, and noticing the manager had disappeared, I say, "And, looking at the menu, I'm glad you don't have sausage on there for appetisers. I do see that you have fish tho. How wonderful."
Duck and cover, pass the card to your left, have some water after viewing, and then remember to thank your friends for their sense of humor.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Older than 12
In celebration of my birth-week, here is an adaptation of an oldie but a goodie:
In the first gift of birthday, Angel sent to me: a meditation CD.
In the second gift of birthday, little S sent to me: two coffee cups, and a meditation CD.
In the third hour of birthday, cell phone rang to me: three messages, two coffee cups, and I was meditation needy.
In the fourth gift of birthday, a pharmacist gave to me: four small muffins, three messages, two espresso shots, and I was meditation needy.
In the fifth act of birthday, New Girl threw in the air for me: fiiiiiive pounds confetti, four small muffins, three texting lines, two espresso shots, and meditation on my knees.
In the sixth hour of birthday, my mother woke me with: a six A.M. phone call, fiiiiiiiive pounds confetti, four tasty bakes, three texting lines, two sugar packs, and meditation on my knees.
In the seventh sin of birthday, my friends all bought for me: seven shots a liquor, a six A.M. phone call, fiiiiiiive white little lies, four tasty bakes, three cell phone buzzes, two sugar packs, and a re-alignment of my chi.
In the eighth joke of birthday, Muscle Calves should a seen: eight balloons a poppin', seven shots a liquor, a six o'clock wake up, fiiiiiive white little lies, four muffin films, three cell phone buzzes, two ounces cream, and a re-alignment of my chi.
In the ninth gift of birthday The mail girl gave to me: nine ounces chocolate, eight balloons a poppin', seven kamikazes, a six o'clock wake up, fiiiiiive paper packages, four muffin films, three happy birthdays, two ounces cream, and something elementary.
In the tenth act of birthday, the doctors stole from me: ten low-fat cookies, nine ounces chocolate, eight blow-up dolls, seven kamikazes, a "six is too early", fiiiiiive paper packages, four gooey treats, three happy birthdays, two sniffs of coffee, and something elementary.
In the eleventh hour of birthday, I should've given me: eleven work days off, ten low-fat cookies, nine chocolate chips, eight blow-up dolls, seven scooby snacks, a "six is too early", fiiiiiive present filled bags, four gooey treats, three "we love BP", two sniffs of coffee, and one super happy BP.
In the twelfth happy birthday, what I wished for me: twelve smiling faces, eleven work days off, ten reimbursements, nine chocolate chips, eight batteries, seven scooby snacks, six more massages, fiiiiiive present filled bags, four brand new tires, three "we love BP", two less shots of coffee, and one super happy BP.
In the first gift of birthday, Angel sent to me: a meditation CD.
In the second gift of birthday, little S sent to me: two coffee cups, and a meditation CD.
In the third hour of birthday, cell phone rang to me: three messages, two coffee cups, and I was meditation needy.
In the fourth gift of birthday, a pharmacist gave to me: four small muffins, three messages, two espresso shots, and I was meditation needy.
In the fifth act of birthday, New Girl threw in the air for me: fiiiiiive pounds confetti, four small muffins, three texting lines, two espresso shots, and meditation on my knees.
In the sixth hour of birthday, my mother woke me with: a six A.M. phone call, fiiiiiiiive pounds confetti, four tasty bakes, three texting lines, two sugar packs, and meditation on my knees.
In the seventh sin of birthday, my friends all bought for me: seven shots a liquor, a six A.M. phone call, fiiiiiiive white little lies, four tasty bakes, three cell phone buzzes, two sugar packs, and a re-alignment of my chi.
In the eighth joke of birthday, Muscle Calves should a seen: eight balloons a poppin', seven shots a liquor, a six o'clock wake up, fiiiiiive white little lies, four muffin films, three cell phone buzzes, two ounces cream, and a re-alignment of my chi.
In the ninth gift of birthday The mail girl gave to me: nine ounces chocolate, eight balloons a poppin', seven kamikazes, a six o'clock wake up, fiiiiiive paper packages, four muffin films, three happy birthdays, two ounces cream, and something elementary.
In the tenth act of birthday, the doctors stole from me: ten low-fat cookies, nine ounces chocolate, eight blow-up dolls, seven kamikazes, a "six is too early", fiiiiiive paper packages, four gooey treats, three happy birthdays, two sniffs of coffee, and something elementary.
In the eleventh hour of birthday, I should've given me: eleven work days off, ten low-fat cookies, nine chocolate chips, eight blow-up dolls, seven scooby snacks, a "six is too early", fiiiiiive present filled bags, four gooey treats, three "we love BP", two sniffs of coffee, and one super happy BP.
In the twelfth happy birthday, what I wished for me: twelve smiling faces, eleven work days off, ten reimbursements, nine chocolate chips, eight batteries, seven scooby snacks, six more massages, fiiiiiive present filled bags, four brand new tires, three "we love BP", two less shots of coffee, and one super happy BP.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Greatest Common Animal Crackter
Dr. G is training to run a marathon; she runs about 10 miles a day. Measured in metric time, that's 8 million miles a month. I'm lucky if I can cover 30 feet of office floor with my desk chair in a year. According to one of the Laws of Fractions I learned in 8th grade, 1/2 of you don't understand what you just read, the other 3/4 of you just don't care.
Now, because of her long distance training, Dr. G is constantly eating. For example, she'll be in a face to face meeting, when all of a sudden, this blank stare will curtain down her face; her nose will start twitching in anticipation of her next meal - kind of like a mouse looking for a block of cheese. Her head will follow her darting eyes looking for any morsel that she might pick up with her heightened olfactory sense. Below her name on her gold office plate, and etched out of teeth indentations, is the phrase, "Are you going to eat that?" Her assistant should have informed Dr. G that it wasn't a golden wrapped chocolate bar before she so gracefully bit into it.
So, here we are at dinner, Dr. G, Dr. L, Mr. Detective, and myself. We had just finished a meeting regarding medical education and how we'll train students successfully while giving them a run for their money. Dr. G surveys the whole table, remarking on our fish dishes, "Oh my! This is good fish. You know, I wish my cat ate more kinds of fish. She only likes one type. My cat weighs about 18 pounds. Poor thing."
I finish chewing a piece of spinach, swallow, and turn to Dr. G. "Wow, that's a big fur ball. That cat weighs as much as... a 9 month old child! What kind of fish do you feed your cat? I mean, is the only kind of fish your cat eats deep fried and beer battered fish sticks or something?"
Mulling over her poached sole, Dr. G continues, "Oh, heavens no! haha. I guess she takes after me, I'm constantly eating since I'm training for a marathon."
Dr. L looks at Dr. G. "Oh, that's interesting." Dr. L asks for a to-go box, and puts 1/2 of an appetiser, 1/3 of his chicken, 1/4 of Mr. Detective's dinner, and an ice cube in the box. He looks up at us, and remarks, "Oh, this is for my dog. My dog is very particular with his food. He's a Chihuahua Doberman mix. Here's a picture of him." He asks Mr. Detective for his phone, and an electronic picture of a bat looking household pet appears before our eyes. "Oh, that's wonderful! It's a little bat dog," I exclaim. "Yes, yes it is," Mr. Detective chuckles, "A hungry bat dog."
Dr. G laughs at the picture, and continues about her cat, "Well, yes, just like your bat dog, my cat is picky about what she eats. I'll offer her vittles of salmon, shark, mahi mahi, and other exotic fish. She snubs me. But I open a can of tuna, and SHOOM! my cat is right there at my ankle."
I look down at my lap, lamenting about the fact I don't have a pet, but start in, "Listening to your animal stories makes me kind of sad for the dog at my house. Poor thing is allergic to everything - no soy, no fowl, no lamb, no rice, no wheat, no dairy, no fruits or veggies. He basically has to eat puffed air. What's even more tragic is that he's allergic to most things in air too, like smoke, general allergens, and smog."
Dr G's head sympathetically turns toward me, "Oh! Poor thing, he must be miserable!"
Getting a bite of food from my plate, I respond, "You know, I forgot to ask him how he's been feeling recently, but thank you for reminding me." Mr. Detective's eyes light up, and he bowls over from laughter, noticing that my comment went over both doctor's heads. I smile politely and look at the dessert case.
Now, because of her long distance training, Dr. G is constantly eating. For example, she'll be in a face to face meeting, when all of a sudden, this blank stare will curtain down her face; her nose will start twitching in anticipation of her next meal - kind of like a mouse looking for a block of cheese. Her head will follow her darting eyes looking for any morsel that she might pick up with her heightened olfactory sense. Below her name on her gold office plate, and etched out of teeth indentations, is the phrase, "Are you going to eat that?" Her assistant should have informed Dr. G that it wasn't a golden wrapped chocolate bar before she so gracefully bit into it.
So, here we are at dinner, Dr. G, Dr. L, Mr. Detective, and myself. We had just finished a meeting regarding medical education and how we'll train students successfully while giving them a run for their money. Dr. G surveys the whole table, remarking on our fish dishes, "Oh my! This is good fish. You know, I wish my cat ate more kinds of fish. She only likes one type. My cat weighs about 18 pounds. Poor thing."
I finish chewing a piece of spinach, swallow, and turn to Dr. G. "Wow, that's a big fur ball. That cat weighs as much as... a 9 month old child! What kind of fish do you feed your cat? I mean, is the only kind of fish your cat eats deep fried and beer battered fish sticks or something?"
Mulling over her poached sole, Dr. G continues, "Oh, heavens no! haha. I guess she takes after me, I'm constantly eating since I'm training for a marathon."
Dr. L looks at Dr. G. "Oh, that's interesting." Dr. L asks for a to-go box, and puts 1/2 of an appetiser, 1/3 of his chicken, 1/4 of Mr. Detective's dinner, and an ice cube in the box. He looks up at us, and remarks, "Oh, this is for my dog. My dog is very particular with his food. He's a Chihuahua Doberman mix. Here's a picture of him." He asks Mr. Detective for his phone, and an electronic picture of a bat looking household pet appears before our eyes. "Oh, that's wonderful! It's a little bat dog," I exclaim. "Yes, yes it is," Mr. Detective chuckles, "A hungry bat dog."
Dr. G laughs at the picture, and continues about her cat, "Well, yes, just like your bat dog, my cat is picky about what she eats. I'll offer her vittles of salmon, shark, mahi mahi, and other exotic fish. She snubs me. But I open a can of tuna, and SHOOM! my cat is right there at my ankle."
I look down at my lap, lamenting about the fact I don't have a pet, but start in, "Listening to your animal stories makes me kind of sad for the dog at my house. Poor thing is allergic to everything - no soy, no fowl, no lamb, no rice, no wheat, no dairy, no fruits or veggies. He basically has to eat puffed air. What's even more tragic is that he's allergic to most things in air too, like smoke, general allergens, and smog."
Dr G's head sympathetically turns toward me, "Oh! Poor thing, he must be miserable!"
Getting a bite of food from my plate, I respond, "You know, I forgot to ask him how he's been feeling recently, but thank you for reminding me." Mr. Detective's eyes light up, and he bowls over from laughter, noticing that my comment went over both doctor's heads. I smile politely and look at the dessert case.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Houston, We have a Problem
I always thought that your gag reflex is less reactive in the morning. Ok, maybe I didn't always think that, but at least for the last few years.
Perhaps I just haven't had enough practice swallowing chokeable size objects... Maybe I just haven't really had the desire to teach my body to dull the explosive lunges when something too large and foreign gets mixed in the milieu of what enters my pie hole. I mean... c'mon, there's a reason why we have such a reflex - it's to save our life in times of crises and such. Besides, it's not like I'm some kind of daily carnival sword swallower or fire eater - although some of my friends may disagree from time to time - just in very different circumstances. (Watch your dirty little minds there! That's not what I meant!) I've also determined that I don't have GERD, anorexia nervosa, or anxiety issues.
So, on the same note, I also love brushing my teeth. Don't mix up the previous paragraph with this one - I don't enjoy swallowing vibrating power toothbrushes either.
Now this morning, while cleaning my pearly whites a second time, I learned something new. Apparently, heavy caffeine ingestion decreases gag reactionary time, while increasing the intensity of your forward lurch. These are two things you should never mix, especially when you're in a small doorway, going down stairs, in front of a wall, or a mix of all three.
I had gotten a little carried away 1/2 an hour earlier while stirring my cup of artificially sweetened motor oil, and accidentally splashed some coffee onto my shirt. I go home to change, and brush my teeth the second time this morning. *bbbbbuuuuuuuzzzzzzzz* the electric toothbrush sings as I walk around the house looking for a new shirt. The vibrating head touches the side of my tongue, and BAM! Gag reflex!
Silly me, I forgot there were things like walls at home.
I careen forward and smack my forehead on the painted surface, then, ambulance lights quickly flashing in front of me, I stumble backward from the 3rd Newtonian Prophecy out the doorway. Right next to the doorway and bruised wall, there's a staircase. Losing balance, I practically tumble down the staircase, but grab the hand rail in the nick-of-time to prevent a brutal six o'clock news story.
Learning from a previous experience, I quickly apply toothpaste to my forehead to prevent any bruising. Time to head back to work... just remember to wipe the toothpaste off before going through the front door, and preferably before I step out of my car. Although... I might be able to pull the look off if I had cinnamon toothpaste.
Perhaps I just haven't had enough practice swallowing chokeable size objects... Maybe I just haven't really had the desire to teach my body to dull the explosive lunges when something too large and foreign gets mixed in the milieu of what enters my pie hole. I mean... c'mon, there's a reason why we have such a reflex - it's to save our life in times of crises and such. Besides, it's not like I'm some kind of daily carnival sword swallower or fire eater - although some of my friends may disagree from time to time - just in very different circumstances. (Watch your dirty little minds there! That's not what I meant!) I've also determined that I don't have GERD, anorexia nervosa, or anxiety issues.
So, on the same note, I also love brushing my teeth. Don't mix up the previous paragraph with this one - I don't enjoy swallowing vibrating power toothbrushes either.
Now this morning, while cleaning my pearly whites a second time, I learned something new. Apparently, heavy caffeine ingestion decreases gag reactionary time, while increasing the intensity of your forward lurch. These are two things you should never mix, especially when you're in a small doorway, going down stairs, in front of a wall, or a mix of all three.
I had gotten a little carried away 1/2 an hour earlier while stirring my cup of artificially sweetened motor oil, and accidentally splashed some coffee onto my shirt. I go home to change, and brush my teeth the second time this morning. *bbbbbuuuuuuuzzzzzzzz* the electric toothbrush sings as I walk around the house looking for a new shirt. The vibrating head touches the side of my tongue, and BAM! Gag reflex!
Silly me, I forgot there were things like walls at home.
I careen forward and smack my forehead on the painted surface, then, ambulance lights quickly flashing in front of me, I stumble backward from the 3rd Newtonian Prophecy out the doorway. Right next to the doorway and bruised wall, there's a staircase. Losing balance, I practically tumble down the staircase, but grab the hand rail in the nick-of-time to prevent a brutal six o'clock news story.
Learning from a previous experience, I quickly apply toothpaste to my forehead to prevent any bruising. Time to head back to work... just remember to wipe the toothpaste off before going through the front door, and preferably before I step out of my car. Although... I might be able to pull the look off if I had cinnamon toothpaste.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Stress Tests
I used to have a fear of my teeth exploding. You know, from extreme temperature changes. Like when you have a mouthful of lasagna straight from a hot oven and then grab a glass of ice water and chug it - that's an extreme temperature change. I figured that my teeth would shatter, much like a hot glass in cold water or soda can experiment. Very frightening stuff, when you're a spitefull youth, and even worse when it's (warning - this link has a popup) reinforced by cartoons! As everyone knows, cartoons always tell the truth.
So, when I was at my dentist last, I looked at the hygienist very seriously and asked her straight up, "Will my teeth shatter? Be truthful with me, because my teeth are very important to me." She give me a curious look, "Um... what do you mean, BP? Why would your teeth shatter?" I sit up in the pseudo leather operation chair and throw my hands to high heaven, "You know, like when a glass that's hot and then gets cold really fast, aren't teeth the same way? I've never mixed hot and cold foods because of that. I don't want my teeth to burst!"
She looks at me again like I've had too much morphine, and I'm seeing Elvis in my refrigerator. "No, BP. I don't think that's possible I've never had anyone schedule an appointment, or show up emergency wise with teeth that have exploded from hot coffee and ice cream." I ask her if she's serious, and then if I can ask the dentist to make double sure - it's always important to get a second opinion, especially if there's a chance of a mushroom cloud emerging from an oral detonation.
The dentist gave me the same 'you should be placed in a padded cell and viewed through a small window' look when I asked her. Even tho I feel a little better about their answers, I still don't mix hot and cold foods. Kind of funny how some fears aren't ever really vanquished.
On the other end of the spectrum are fears of external babbles. My friend Muscle Calves has an incredible fear of balloons. I didn't know this until I brought out my latest purchase - a fuscha box labeled "Super Loopy Balloons". It's a kit that shows you how to make balloon animals, which has always interested me, even tho I'm not part of a circus or a random person selling my skills to patrons of local restaurants during dinner.
I walk out into the dining room, bag in hand. "Hey guys! Look what I bought today! Isn't this so fun?" I pull the cardboard box from the bag, and Muscle Calves instinctively jumps up and out of the way, knocking his chair over. Even tho I'm across the room, fear wells up in his eyes, and he screams, "Get that thing away from me!!!!"
I take a step back. Then I hold the box up to him. He winces. "Are you ok, Muscle Calves? It's just a box of balloons." "BP, I've always had a fear of balloons. Sometimes at work, they have these shindigs where the room is full of balloons, and they're floating down the hallways. I go through the offices on those days, and take the stairs. I can't stand balloons. Keep those away, or I'll have to strangle you."
I rub my chin, considering options. I figure it's best to leave well enough alone, tho I'll leave the box next to my door if I don't want Muscle Calves in my room.
So, when I was at my dentist last, I looked at the hygienist very seriously and asked her straight up, "Will my teeth shatter? Be truthful with me, because my teeth are very important to me." She give me a curious look, "Um... what do you mean, BP? Why would your teeth shatter?" I sit up in the pseudo leather operation chair and throw my hands to high heaven, "You know, like when a glass that's hot and then gets cold really fast, aren't teeth the same way? I've never mixed hot and cold foods because of that. I don't want my teeth to burst!"
She looks at me again like I've had too much morphine, and I'm seeing Elvis in my refrigerator. "No, BP. I don't think that's possible I've never had anyone schedule an appointment, or show up emergency wise with teeth that have exploded from hot coffee and ice cream." I ask her if she's serious, and then if I can ask the dentist to make double sure - it's always important to get a second opinion, especially if there's a chance of a mushroom cloud emerging from an oral detonation.
The dentist gave me the same 'you should be placed in a padded cell and viewed through a small window' look when I asked her. Even tho I feel a little better about their answers, I still don't mix hot and cold foods. Kind of funny how some fears aren't ever really vanquished.
On the other end of the spectrum are fears of external babbles. My friend Muscle Calves has an incredible fear of balloons. I didn't know this until I brought out my latest purchase - a fuscha box labeled "Super Loopy Balloons". It's a kit that shows you how to make balloon animals, which has always interested me, even tho I'm not part of a circus or a random person selling my skills to patrons of local restaurants during dinner.
I walk out into the dining room, bag in hand. "Hey guys! Look what I bought today! Isn't this so fun?" I pull the cardboard box from the bag, and Muscle Calves instinctively jumps up and out of the way, knocking his chair over. Even tho I'm across the room, fear wells up in his eyes, and he screams, "Get that thing away from me!!!!"
I take a step back. Then I hold the box up to him. He winces. "Are you ok, Muscle Calves? It's just a box of balloons." "BP, I've always had a fear of balloons. Sometimes at work, they have these shindigs where the room is full of balloons, and they're floating down the hallways. I go through the offices on those days, and take the stairs. I can't stand balloons. Keep those away, or I'll have to strangle you."
I rub my chin, considering options. I figure it's best to leave well enough alone, tho I'll leave the box next to my door if I don't want Muscle Calves in my room.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Hot Cross Buns
"Did you know the other day I got spanked?" HB says to me while picking up an ornamental trinket off the department store display table.
"Um... what?" I reply, my head crooning around at breakneck speed.
Putting the knickknack aside and promenading along the aisle, HB continues, "Yes. It was rather interesting. I've never tried it before, and I figured, 'why not'?" She flashes me a dazzling bleached smile.
HB is a fascinatingly beautiful and brilliantly educated woman. Surrounded with a cool air of accomplishment, she has a world class demeanor and oceans deep enjoyment of new indulgences (read: she's humorously kinky at times). Much like Samantha on Sex and the City, HB has the kind of self-confidence to schmooze and canoodle with anyone, and also possesses the farcical self-delusion to actually attempt it. Yes, HB's all that, and can even eat a bag of chips... usually because she'll run a few miles afterward.
"Oh realllllyyyy? Do go on, my dear HB. Do go on," I prod, knowing it's going to be a doozy of a story.
"Yes, so there I am, in a little role play. Apparently I was a school girl being punished for something, or maybe I was being initiated into a college meat mixer, or risque sorority. I really can't remember." We stroll along, and I notice other shoppers are giving us sideways glances, since HB doesn't whisper. "So, I'm being spanked with Mr. S's hand and he stops and gets what I figure is a frat-boy paddle. Anyway, he starts using his 'paddle'," she holds up her fingers to mimic a quotation by twitching them up and down,"and I'm playing along, making sure it's not too rough, because as we all know, if any one's going to be brusque, it's going to be me." She twinkles her eyes at a family passing by.
I pinch my lower lip between my fingers and look away, but tell her to go on. "And I'm calling out my hail Marys and such, then I look back and notice something is amiss. I had one of those 'what's going on back there?' moments."
"Oh, what happened?"
"I say, 'Wait, wait wait, stop!' and ask Mr. S, 'Is that a bread board you're spanking me with?'" HB smiles broadly, "He looses a little bit of color and gives me an affirmative answer. I give him this incredulous look. Then I smile and tell him I'll be right back."
I chuckle a little, knowing that HB was about to do something clever, and imagining HB tapping Mr. S's nose then walking out the bedroom door. I ask, "What did you do next? And how did you know it was a bread board?"
"Oh, BP, you know me and cookware;" nodding toward me with raised eyebrows, "Who else would know a breadboard when they see one - even if it's in the bread, I mean bedroom? So, I went straight to Mr. S's kitchen and grabbed a wooden spoon and a stick of butter from the counter and walked back. I look him straight in the eye and boldly say, 'Here, why don't you just butter up my buns next? But, my dear, that bread board in your hand isn't cutting it.'" HB tilts back in laughter and places a delicate hand over her chest, "He stopped immediately because I could not stop laughing at how ridiculous it was. Honestly, a bread board? Come on! If you're going to do kinky things, at least get the right equipment, or someone is going to call you on it."
"Hahahahah! I can't believe it! What happened next," I expectantly inquire.
"Well, since I couldn't stop laughing, I had to leave. After all, you know what they say," HB holds up the sleeve of a man's suit, "clothes make the man, leather makes the daddy; novelty breadboards just make you hungry."
"Um... what?" I reply, my head crooning around at breakneck speed.
Putting the knickknack aside and promenading along the aisle, HB continues, "Yes. It was rather interesting. I've never tried it before, and I figured, 'why not'?" She flashes me a dazzling bleached smile.
HB is a fascinatingly beautiful and brilliantly educated woman. Surrounded with a cool air of accomplishment, she has a world class demeanor and oceans deep enjoyment of new indulgences (read: she's humorously kinky at times). Much like Samantha on Sex and the City, HB has the kind of self-confidence to schmooze and canoodle with anyone, and also possesses the farcical self-delusion to actually attempt it. Yes, HB's all that, and can even eat a bag of chips... usually because she'll run a few miles afterward.
"Oh realllllyyyy? Do go on, my dear HB. Do go on," I prod, knowing it's going to be a doozy of a story.
"Yes, so there I am, in a little role play. Apparently I was a school girl being punished for something, or maybe I was being initiated into a college meat mixer, or risque sorority. I really can't remember." We stroll along, and I notice other shoppers are giving us sideways glances, since HB doesn't whisper. "So, I'm being spanked with Mr. S's hand and he stops and gets what I figure is a frat-boy paddle. Anyway, he starts using his 'paddle'," she holds up her fingers to mimic a quotation by twitching them up and down,"and I'm playing along, making sure it's not too rough, because as we all know, if any one's going to be brusque, it's going to be me." She twinkles her eyes at a family passing by.
I pinch my lower lip between my fingers and look away, but tell her to go on. "And I'm calling out my hail Marys and such, then I look back and notice something is amiss. I had one of those 'what's going on back there?' moments."
"Oh, what happened?"
"I say, 'Wait, wait wait, stop!' and ask Mr. S, 'Is that a bread board you're spanking me with?'" HB smiles broadly, "He looses a little bit of color and gives me an affirmative answer. I give him this incredulous look. Then I smile and tell him I'll be right back."
I chuckle a little, knowing that HB was about to do something clever, and imagining HB tapping Mr. S's nose then walking out the bedroom door. I ask, "What did you do next? And how did you know it was a bread board?"
"Oh, BP, you know me and cookware;" nodding toward me with raised eyebrows, "Who else would know a breadboard when they see one - even if it's in the bread, I mean bedroom? So, I went straight to Mr. S's kitchen and grabbed a wooden spoon and a stick of butter from the counter and walked back. I look him straight in the eye and boldly say, 'Here, why don't you just butter up my buns next? But, my dear, that bread board in your hand isn't cutting it.'" HB tilts back in laughter and places a delicate hand over her chest, "He stopped immediately because I could not stop laughing at how ridiculous it was. Honestly, a bread board? Come on! If you're going to do kinky things, at least get the right equipment, or someone is going to call you on it."
"Hahahahah! I can't believe it! What happened next," I expectantly inquire.
"Well, since I couldn't stop laughing, I had to leave. After all, you know what they say," HB holds up the sleeve of a man's suit, "clothes make the man, leather makes the daddy; novelty breadboards just make you hungry."
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Doorknob Principle
Did you know: It's possible to lead a cow upstairs, but not downstairs? The truth's crazy, huh? For one of those fabulous senior pranks, we were going to goad a cow or three up to the top floor of the oldest building on campus, only to have the authorities show up and try to lead the large meatball down... not going to happen. Fortunately for them, it didn't happen. They'd best keep their fingers crossed.
Yes. So, much like cattle, B-Boo's black and white Great Dane, Anubis, has no opposable thumbs. Giant Panda's have thumbs. Too bad Anubis isn't a giant panda, although that's probably a good thing, since there isn't much bamboo here in the desert. However, even though Anubis lacks thumbs to cook us dinner or open his closed toy chest, it's always fun to observe his anthropomorphic qualities.
B-Boo, like all animal owners in any city, is crazy about her four legged child. She's dressed him up as a convict and even pranced around as a milking cow. I do admit, I participate every now and then...
The other day I'm in B-Boo's plum-walled living room. There's a large grey sofa with rolled arms, and a smaller chair next to it. Sitting on the sofa, my neck hairs raise. Someone's watching me; I look over my left shoulder. It's Anubis. The jackal dog's eyes move. He gazes up, head not budging an inch. He's depressed. Grabbing my Freudian glasses, I decide I'll get to the bottom of dog psychology.
I ask if he's being punished. Maybe B-boo found out he was caught by the FBI while ordering Anthrax fraudulently through the mail, pretending to be a cow named Daisy. I imagine the letter went something like Eddie Izzard's: “Dear Sir, my name is Daisy, and I am a cow. I wish to take my own life, so please send me three buckets of Anthrax, as Anthrax is designed to kill cattle and I want to end it all right now. P.S.: I cannot shoot myself as I have no opposable thumbs.” Nah... it couldn't be that, since the dog just shook his head.
I bite my lip trying to read his body language. Should I grab the meal bell? Maybe he didn't like someone watching him go #2 outside. Before starting, he always checks over both shoulders, confirming the coast is clear from all sides. Nah, that's a little far fetched, I mean, who likes watching a dog void himself in the grass?
He continues to lie there in a ball of dichromatic fur, head sadly propped on the chair arm. I speculate he got caught sneaking out of the house in B-Boo's car, Gerbils, to shack up with the prissy poodle down the street. His shoes and rain coat are missing after all, so it's plausible. His eyes move again, indicating that my reasoning is off - it hasn't rained for a few months.
I ask if his hidden poochie boudoir pictures were absconded from under his bed by the local squirrels. No... that couldn't be it either, not even tree rodents are that cruel. I look around, searching for clues. Then I notice he has his doggie mitts on and a black mask lying next to him. Looking at the hallway door, I see that there are dirt marks about the size of his paws, but no actual paw prints for identification. That sly beast, the shoes prevented him from leaving prints.
Jumping up, I point a finger toward the ceiling and say, "AH-HA! I know what it is! I bet you're imitating the raccoons again, and playing 'Cat Burglar' while no one is around. You're trying to figure out how to turn door knobs without thumbs again, weren't you!?" He must have been sent on an undercover mission to gain further knowledge of the mysterious Doorknob Principle. Humans with opposable thumbs have been using this principle for centuries. Now... the dogs are conspiring against us. I execute a suspicious glare at him, letting him know I've caught on to his shenanigans.
Just then, B-Boo comes around the corner, leash in hand, and cheerfully calls his name for a walk. Getting up, he shows me his hind leg shoes, and she tells me they're to protect his feet from the hot sidewalk. Riiiiight. I know they're in cahoots.
They go to the door and I follow. Just before walking out, he looks back at me and deliberately gives me a coy eyebrow raise, lifts his tail to expose his buttocks, "You don't know me!" he seemed to say, and they leave. I go back to inspect the door knob to see if its been tampered with, only to discover suspicious prints the size of cat feet...
Yes. So, much like cattle, B-Boo's black and white Great Dane, Anubis, has no opposable thumbs. Giant Panda's have thumbs. Too bad Anubis isn't a giant panda, although that's probably a good thing, since there isn't much bamboo here in the desert. However, even though Anubis lacks thumbs to cook us dinner or open his closed toy chest, it's always fun to observe his anthropomorphic qualities.
B-Boo, like all animal owners in any city, is crazy about her four legged child. She's dressed him up as a convict and even pranced around as a milking cow. I do admit, I participate every now and then...
The other day I'm in B-Boo's plum-walled living room. There's a large grey sofa with rolled arms, and a smaller chair next to it. Sitting on the sofa, my neck hairs raise. Someone's watching me; I look over my left shoulder. It's Anubis. The jackal dog's eyes move. He gazes up, head not budging an inch. He's depressed. Grabbing my Freudian glasses, I decide I'll get to the bottom of dog psychology.
I ask if he's being punished. Maybe B-boo found out he was caught by the FBI while ordering Anthrax fraudulently through the mail, pretending to be a cow named Daisy. I imagine the letter went something like Eddie Izzard's: “Dear Sir, my name is Daisy, and I am a cow. I wish to take my own life, so please send me three buckets of Anthrax, as Anthrax is designed to kill cattle and I want to end it all right now. P.S.: I cannot shoot myself as I have no opposable thumbs.” Nah... it couldn't be that, since the dog just shook his head.
I bite my lip trying to read his body language. Should I grab the meal bell? Maybe he didn't like someone watching him go #2 outside. Before starting, he always checks over both shoulders, confirming the coast is clear from all sides. Nah, that's a little far fetched, I mean, who likes watching a dog void himself in the grass?
He continues to lie there in a ball of dichromatic fur, head sadly propped on the chair arm. I speculate he got caught sneaking out of the house in B-Boo's car, Gerbils, to shack up with the prissy poodle down the street. His shoes and rain coat are missing after all, so it's plausible. His eyes move again, indicating that my reasoning is off - it hasn't rained for a few months.
I ask if his hidden poochie boudoir pictures were absconded from under his bed by the local squirrels. No... that couldn't be it either, not even tree rodents are that cruel. I look around, searching for clues. Then I notice he has his doggie mitts on and a black mask lying next to him. Looking at the hallway door, I see that there are dirt marks about the size of his paws, but no actual paw prints for identification. That sly beast, the shoes prevented him from leaving prints.
Jumping up, I point a finger toward the ceiling and say, "AH-HA! I know what it is! I bet you're imitating the raccoons again, and playing 'Cat Burglar' while no one is around. You're trying to figure out how to turn door knobs without thumbs again, weren't you!?" He must have been sent on an undercover mission to gain further knowledge of the mysterious Doorknob Principle. Humans with opposable thumbs have been using this principle for centuries. Now... the dogs are conspiring against us. I execute a suspicious glare at him, letting him know I've caught on to his shenanigans.
Just then, B-Boo comes around the corner, leash in hand, and cheerfully calls his name for a walk. Getting up, he shows me his hind leg shoes, and she tells me they're to protect his feet from the hot sidewalk. Riiiiight. I know they're in cahoots.
They go to the door and I follow. Just before walking out, he looks back at me and deliberately gives me a coy eyebrow raise, lifts his tail to expose his buttocks, "You don't know me!" he seemed to say, and they leave. I go back to inspect the door knob to see if its been tampered with, only to discover suspicious prints the size of cat feet...
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Racers, Start Your Engines
My name's BP. My favorite smell is air, favorite taste is water, and my blood type is coffee. In a state of emergency, or out of medical necessity, this information will come in handy. Thank you for choosing heebe-jeebie emergency transport today.
I never used to drink that much coffee. Nowadays the oil colored liquid just happens across my plate out of boredom - translation: only at work. Apparently, the jittery concentration, required to calm the microcosmic body rumbles, keeps me awake. Today I ordered something called a "Red Eye" with heavy cream and four sugars. Lord, take pity on us all. Take mercy on the overactive kidneys and excited colon that I will surely experience in about 30 minutes.
Now, don't get me wrong - I have a glorious history with the smile inducing stimulant known as caffeine. In high school, I had an involved love affair with energy drinks and sexy little white friends known as caffeine tablets. Modern science is a true wonder when you can consume the caffeine equivalent of six cups of coffee in something smaller than a grape. Even better than said grape, is that you don't have chew the energy eliciting pellets, and you can wash it down with caffeine infused liquid sugar. Isn't that fantastic - all the spunk, without the funk!?
Because of the caffeine IV I had permanently attached to my forearm back then, had I been a young wholesale scarlet woman, I'd have had miscarriages left and right, up and down, in and out. Good thing I wasn't, and the only Miss Carriage I know is no more than a racy drag queen I met on the street one snowy night in Montreal.
Besides getting more done in two weeks than I have the rest of my beautiful life, I remember one thing from high school. In class one day, I noticed the teacher stopped lecturing and the class had turned around to eye me. I asked what their problem was, then noticed that bolts were coming unscrewed and falling off of my desk from nervous shaking. I stopped using my little over-the-counter friends and their liquid gang bangers a few days later.
It's different now. Today's quadruple shot infused drip coffee is more of a hobby - an exploration in the limits of other people's psyche and taste buds. Mousy asks what I want. I say, "Get me a Red Eye with heavy whipping cream." Bewildered, Mousy searches through her mental Rolodex of drip and espresso drinks, only to come up blank faced. "Ok, I'll see if they know what that is." She returns a few minutes later, handing me a brown, heat insulated cup. Mousy says, "I asked for one, and they just started buzzing around the machines turning knobs and letting steam go every which way." I gleefully eye it and add my sugar packets. New Girl stands at the front of my desk complaining about how tired she is, even tho she went to sleep at 10. I went to sleep at 2.
While looking for a cup, I smirk and respond, "Well here, have some of this. You'll wake up in a few seconds." Not finding a cup, I get a Styrofoam bowl and pour her two ounces. She looks at me and scoffs, "Ok, I'll just lick it out of the bowl like a dog." Noticing her tongue isn't long enough, I find a colorful espresso cup on my desk and transfer the warm liquid. "Drink it!" I order. She takes a sip and makes a face like a cat's ass. I guess she didn't like it. But, she finishes it and immediately starts puttering around. I greedily throw the last 10 ounces down my gullet. Wait five minutes, and we have liftoff!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go work, and then visit the lou every five minutes. While working at godspeed, I'll remind myself that I'm glad I'm not a cafe-fiend anymore - it's all in the namesake of keeping awake and entertained... during the workday.
I never used to drink that much coffee. Nowadays the oil colored liquid just happens across my plate out of boredom - translation: only at work. Apparently, the jittery concentration, required to calm the microcosmic body rumbles, keeps me awake. Today I ordered something called a "Red Eye" with heavy cream and four sugars. Lord, take pity on us all. Take mercy on the overactive kidneys and excited colon that I will surely experience in about 30 minutes.
Now, don't get me wrong - I have a glorious history with the smile inducing stimulant known as caffeine. In high school, I had an involved love affair with energy drinks and sexy little white friends known as caffeine tablets. Modern science is a true wonder when you can consume the caffeine equivalent of six cups of coffee in something smaller than a grape. Even better than said grape, is that you don't have chew the energy eliciting pellets, and you can wash it down with caffeine infused liquid sugar. Isn't that fantastic - all the spunk, without the funk!?
Because of the caffeine IV I had permanently attached to my forearm back then, had I been a young wholesale scarlet woman, I'd have had miscarriages left and right, up and down, in and out. Good thing I wasn't, and the only Miss Carriage I know is no more than a racy drag queen I met on the street one snowy night in Montreal.
Besides getting more done in two weeks than I have the rest of my beautiful life, I remember one thing from high school. In class one day, I noticed the teacher stopped lecturing and the class had turned around to eye me. I asked what their problem was, then noticed that bolts were coming unscrewed and falling off of my desk from nervous shaking. I stopped using my little over-the-counter friends and their liquid gang bangers a few days later.
It's different now. Today's quadruple shot infused drip coffee is more of a hobby - an exploration in the limits of other people's psyche and taste buds. Mousy asks what I want. I say, "Get me a Red Eye with heavy whipping cream." Bewildered, Mousy searches through her mental Rolodex of drip and espresso drinks, only to come up blank faced. "Ok, I'll see if they know what that is." She returns a few minutes later, handing me a brown, heat insulated cup. Mousy says, "I asked for one, and they just started buzzing around the machines turning knobs and letting steam go every which way." I gleefully eye it and add my sugar packets. New Girl stands at the front of my desk complaining about how tired she is, even tho she went to sleep at 10. I went to sleep at 2.
While looking for a cup, I smirk and respond, "Well here, have some of this. You'll wake up in a few seconds." Not finding a cup, I get a Styrofoam bowl and pour her two ounces. She looks at me and scoffs, "Ok, I'll just lick it out of the bowl like a dog." Noticing her tongue isn't long enough, I find a colorful espresso cup on my desk and transfer the warm liquid. "Drink it!" I order. She takes a sip and makes a face like a cat's ass. I guess she didn't like it. But, she finishes it and immediately starts puttering around. I greedily throw the last 10 ounces down my gullet. Wait five minutes, and we have liftoff!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go work, and then visit the lou every five minutes. While working at godspeed, I'll remind myself that I'm glad I'm not a cafe-fiend anymore - it's all in the namesake of keeping awake and entertained... during the workday.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Mama Bear and the Hobbit
"Here, BP, read this book," C shoves the hardbound book, For One More Day, into my hand.
"Oh, ok, thanks. What's it about?"
"It's a good book, read it. It's about this guy and his life and stuff."
"Sounds interesting," I say as I open the book's back cover to a well used Black History Month bookmark. Seeing it, I inquire, "Oh, did you read this book for Black History Month?"
"Yes, I did," C reports while fixing his hair for a house party we're headed to. Turning over the bookmark, I find a picture of the author and let out a snicker.
In a Mean Girl's moment, I straightforwardly ask him, "Um, C... if you read this book for Black History Month, why is the author white?" Not knowing that the author is Caucasian, he looks at me like I just shot the pope, then looks at the picture and laughs.
"Haha, shut up, BP. Just get the book, and let's go get in the car."
We jump into Tasty Cakes and hop on the interstate. At the edge of the world, where the freeway ends and suburbia begins, we arrive at a punk rock party in the middle of Mormon land that's four lots away from the abandoned neighborhood crime house. No, the punks did not do it, and yes, I was dressed in white at the party.
Inside it's a bona fide house of leather and levi's, motor-oiled blue-black hair, and tarted up motorcycle tube tops... and then there was C, Skinny boy, and myself in our not-so-punk get ups. Warmly greeted along the way by nail studded wrist bands and shouts of "Hey, BP! You made it!", I introduce C and Skinnyboy to everyone - including those I don't know. We deftly high five our way to the wine and cheese island. That's where I make the acquaintance of Mama Bear...
Eyeing their unease, I ask my over 21 partners, C and Skinnyboy, "Ok, kids, so what do you want for a refreshing beverage?" Like a salsa dancer being twirled around, a woman next to me swiftly turns toward me, her hair mimicking the flailing of her skirt and faces the three of us.
She shouts out over the blaring music, "Oh my god! I say that too, 'ok, now kids'! What's your name, you're absolutely beautiful!"
Broadly showing my pearly whites, I reply, "Yeah! I'm BP. Isn't it so much fun when you say it, it just makes you feel like you're a big teddy bear or something." She nods in excitement. Going on, I say, "See, here, these are my baby bears," gesturing toward C and Skinnyboy, "so, for tonight, I'll be papa bear, and you can be Mama Bear!" At which point, she puts down her iced margarita, opens her arms, and grabs the three of us like we're rag dolls and squeezes us into her ample breasts. I felt at home.
Just then, Scandalous Sally bounds up the stairs holding the hand of a real life chubby version of Elijah Wood. The gracious hostess follows them, turning heads away, and grabbing a few rubbers from her purse. Minutes pass. Scandalous Sally comes downstairs, hair a mess, grabs me away from Mama Bear, and leads me outside to watch her smoke a cigarette.
"Oh, BP! You're my best friend here. That guy was cute, right? I mean, he was like a chubby Elijah Wood from the hobbit movies, right?"
Gazing at the stars, I bite my lower lip and say, "I'm glad your happy, baby. I need another drink."
"Oh, ok, thanks. What's it about?"
"It's a good book, read it. It's about this guy and his life and stuff."
"Sounds interesting," I say as I open the book's back cover to a well used Black History Month bookmark. Seeing it, I inquire, "Oh, did you read this book for Black History Month?"
"Yes, I did," C reports while fixing his hair for a house party we're headed to. Turning over the bookmark, I find a picture of the author and let out a snicker.
In a Mean Girl's moment, I straightforwardly ask him, "Um, C... if you read this book for Black History Month, why is the author white?" Not knowing that the author is Caucasian, he looks at me like I just shot the pope, then looks at the picture and laughs.
"Haha, shut up, BP. Just get the book, and let's go get in the car."
We jump into Tasty Cakes and hop on the interstate. At the edge of the world, where the freeway ends and suburbia begins, we arrive at a punk rock party in the middle of Mormon land that's four lots away from the abandoned neighborhood crime house. No, the punks did not do it, and yes, I was dressed in white at the party.
Inside it's a bona fide house of leather and levi's, motor-oiled blue-black hair, and tarted up motorcycle tube tops... and then there was C, Skinny boy, and myself in our not-so-punk get ups. Warmly greeted along the way by nail studded wrist bands and shouts of "Hey, BP! You made it!", I introduce C and Skinnyboy to everyone - including those I don't know. We deftly high five our way to the wine and cheese island. That's where I make the acquaintance of Mama Bear...
Eyeing their unease, I ask my over 21 partners, C and Skinnyboy, "Ok, kids, so what do you want for a refreshing beverage?" Like a salsa dancer being twirled around, a woman next to me swiftly turns toward me, her hair mimicking the flailing of her skirt and faces the three of us.
She shouts out over the blaring music, "Oh my god! I say that too, 'ok, now kids'! What's your name, you're absolutely beautiful!"
Broadly showing my pearly whites, I reply, "Yeah! I'm BP. Isn't it so much fun when you say it, it just makes you feel like you're a big teddy bear or something." She nods in excitement. Going on, I say, "See, here, these are my baby bears," gesturing toward C and Skinnyboy, "so, for tonight, I'll be papa bear, and you can be Mama Bear!" At which point, she puts down her iced margarita, opens her arms, and grabs the three of us like we're rag dolls and squeezes us into her ample breasts. I felt at home.
Just then, Scandalous Sally bounds up the stairs holding the hand of a real life chubby version of Elijah Wood. The gracious hostess follows them, turning heads away, and grabbing a few rubbers from her purse. Minutes pass. Scandalous Sally comes downstairs, hair a mess, grabs me away from Mama Bear, and leads me outside to watch her smoke a cigarette.
"Oh, BP! You're my best friend here. That guy was cute, right? I mean, he was like a chubby Elijah Wood from the hobbit movies, right?"
Gazing at the stars, I bite my lower lip and say, "I'm glad your happy, baby. I need another drink."
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Showstopper
It's 11:30pm and has finally cooled down to 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Welcome to summertime in Phoenix - the American metropolis cleverly built three feet away from the sun. Even though you may not be able to fry an egg on the sidewalk it's still oven like, irrespective of the hour. As harsh as the natural conditions are, and amazed that the 3,700,000+ inhabitants here haven't mummified and joined the ranks of Emperor Qinshihuangdi's terracotta warriors, I'm still gingerly sweating down the thermonuclear concrete to a Friday night club. Go figure.
Inside the glass door I meet a few friends, their drinks already in hand. Surveying the bar, CPouch sharply points out minor fashion faux pas of the plastic-enhanced elite. FYI, CPouch is a lifetime member of that eccentric group... he just lacks the augmented breasts. Flaring into disgust, he turns around, an icy finger jutting out from his body and screams,"FAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!"
In two monumental waves, the crowd of gays in designer labels part. Laser eyes burning through the divided crowd, CPouch spots something small and unnoticeable to the untrained eye. Glaring at a woman 35 feet away, in a dark corner, partially obscured by three tables, five chairs, and three gay men, CPouch highlights a small tan colored moniker the size of a stamp. Bar patrons turn to see what all the hullabaloo is about. Without a periscope or his specialized retail training, no one sees anything. I ask, "Look at what, CPouch?" The woman guiltily peers back at us across the expanse of open bar floor.
To save his own hide, CPouch sidesteps out of the way and leaves B-Boo standing there face to face with the fake maker. Tossing his head back to the group, CPouch dramatically continues, "OH! The nerve of some of these people! I mean, come on! That is not a real Louis Vuitton bag! How are you going to walk around like you're the shit with something made from Designer Impostors?! Geez people! Have some dignity and get that thing out of my sight." Feigning pain he grabs his forehead, "now I think I'm developing a case of pink eye AND a migraine." He finishes his martini with one gulp.
B-Boo faces off with Ms. Made in China, then turns to face the group again, skeptically looks at CPouch, and comments, "You're crazy CPouch. Stop acting like the Moses of overpriced handbags - leading people away from the desert of fashion blunders. If it matters that much, I'll put a brick inside my purse and you can knock the leather daylights out of that poor girl without taste. Otherwise, just accept that there are some clueless people that act like their stuff doesn't reek with cheap imitations. After all, consider what bar you're standing in. Everything here is fake. You could probably detach half of the noses in here with one breath. It's a waste of time."
Thinking that I'm on subject, I jump in, "You know what New Girl at my works thinks is a waste of time? Pooing. She hates wasting time doing the deed."
Conversation stops. The group stares at me. Innocently, I smile raise up my hand, and call out into the air, "Waiter! We need another round here!"
Inside the glass door I meet a few friends, their drinks already in hand. Surveying the bar, CPouch sharply points out minor fashion faux pas of the plastic-enhanced elite. FYI, CPouch is a lifetime member of that eccentric group... he just lacks the augmented breasts. Flaring into disgust, he turns around, an icy finger jutting out from his body and screams,"FAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!"
In two monumental waves, the crowd of gays in designer labels part. Laser eyes burning through the divided crowd, CPouch spots something small and unnoticeable to the untrained eye. Glaring at a woman 35 feet away, in a dark corner, partially obscured by three tables, five chairs, and three gay men, CPouch highlights a small tan colored moniker the size of a stamp. Bar patrons turn to see what all the hullabaloo is about. Without a periscope or his specialized retail training, no one sees anything. I ask, "Look at what, CPouch?" The woman guiltily peers back at us across the expanse of open bar floor.
To save his own hide, CPouch sidesteps out of the way and leaves B-Boo standing there face to face with the fake maker. Tossing his head back to the group, CPouch dramatically continues, "OH! The nerve of some of these people! I mean, come on! That is not a real Louis Vuitton bag! How are you going to walk around like you're the shit with something made from Designer Impostors?! Geez people! Have some dignity and get that thing out of my sight." Feigning pain he grabs his forehead, "now I think I'm developing a case of pink eye AND a migraine." He finishes his martini with one gulp.
B-Boo faces off with Ms. Made in China, then turns to face the group again, skeptically looks at CPouch, and comments, "You're crazy CPouch. Stop acting like the Moses of overpriced handbags - leading people away from the desert of fashion blunders. If it matters that much, I'll put a brick inside my purse and you can knock the leather daylights out of that poor girl without taste. Otherwise, just accept that there are some clueless people that act like their stuff doesn't reek with cheap imitations. After all, consider what bar you're standing in. Everything here is fake. You could probably detach half of the noses in here with one breath. It's a waste of time."
Thinking that I'm on subject, I jump in, "You know what New Girl at my works thinks is a waste of time? Pooing. She hates wasting time doing the deed."
Conversation stops. The group stares at me. Innocently, I smile raise up my hand, and call out into the air, "Waiter! We need another round here!"
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Chip Bag
I love boardgames. Honestly, I do. My affinity for these childhood relics can even eclipse my profound love of tasty food. This simple quote from M explains exactly how much I cherish gastronomic experiences: "I am so depressed now. You know how I am. When I have bad food, it's like someone just broke up with me." That should give you a picture of the enormity in which I relish the delicacies placed before my quivering lips and ravenous eyes.
However, this post isn't about food. It's about Scrabble. I fancy Scrabble mostly because of my provocative and unusual opponents.
Now, for me, I have an extensive vocabulary - that's good. But, I've always had trouble spelling - that's bad. I'm getting better at spelling every day - that's good. My games of Scrabble resemble a fuzzy mix of a C.M. Coolidge painting, an episode of Seinfield, a tense courtroom trial, and New Year's Eve in Times Square - typically in that order. THIS is a VERY good thing.
So here we are, on an intensely hot night, surrounding the colorful cardboard playing field. It's half way through the game. Tensions run high, and intelligences are brought to the breaking point. Words range from 'the' and 'gap' to 'spelt' and 'sweet' to 'chiropractor' and 'osteopath'. Slyly surveying the other players, R picks up his wood tiles and places them confidently on their spaces. Gasping at his placement and snorting, I demand, "Chipbag?! What the hell is that?!?"
With watery puppy dog eyes, R fawningly defends himself, "You know, a chipbag! Like when you want some Doritos, you reach for a chipbag and satisfy your craving." He lovingly shoots the group a disarming smile.
Not buying it, E rebuffs R's coy gestures from across the table, "Well, I don't know about your smelly kingdom there on the porcelain throne R, but I either grab my Doritos from a bag of chips, or a bowl of chips. I've never been sold, offered, or seen anything referred to... as a 'chipbag'. In other words, you're full of it, R!" The rest of us lightheartedly giggle in agreement. Taking E's stance, I challenge the spelling, haul out the collegiate dictionary, and don't find an entry for the mythic 'chipbag'. "Fancy that, R. Pick up your tiles and lose your next turn," E smirks.
I'm next. "There, three words, two of them double word, and one double letter on the 3rd. 36 points!" V blasts me with a venomous scowl. His head to the side, eyebrows rising, V pipes up, "I don't think that 'eh' is a word, BP."
"'Eh' is too a word," I bravely say, pointing at the dictionary to make my point, "If you don't believe me, then check it!" Haughtily finishing, I challenge, "I dare you! Go ahead and lose your next turn, because I'm right, and you know it!" The table is silent as each player weighs his cards. Slowly, V reaches for the hardback, and opens to eh. There it is in black and white - a common term from Canada. "Viva La Canada!" I chirp up and smugly smile at V.
Sorely admitting defeat, V spouts out, "Damn you, BP! I hate how you cheat!" Looking at the others, he concludes, "You never know when to challenge BP because he went to a good college, and you don't know when BP's making up words or not." To which I respond, "Well, now V, no need to be angry. That wasn't cheating. That was a good play. I never cheat; I just don't know how to spell half the time - you just have to figure out when that is. Now, it's S's turn; you lose yours for calling it wrong," tossing him the rule book, "It's in the rules, feel free to look those up too." S, who's spouse is a Canadian citizen, chuckles toward his chest as he places his tiles and whispers, "I knew that 'eh' was a word."
However, this post isn't about food. It's about Scrabble. I fancy Scrabble mostly because of my provocative and unusual opponents.
Now, for me, I have an extensive vocabulary - that's good. But, I've always had trouble spelling - that's bad. I'm getting better at spelling every day - that's good. My games of Scrabble resemble a fuzzy mix of a C.M. Coolidge painting, an episode of Seinfield, a tense courtroom trial, and New Year's Eve in Times Square - typically in that order. THIS is a VERY good thing.
So here we are, on an intensely hot night, surrounding the colorful cardboard playing field. It's half way through the game. Tensions run high, and intelligences are brought to the breaking point. Words range from 'the' and 'gap' to 'spelt' and 'sweet' to 'chiropractor' and 'osteopath'. Slyly surveying the other players, R picks up his wood tiles and places them confidently on their spaces. Gasping at his placement and snorting, I demand, "Chipbag?! What the hell is that?!?"
With watery puppy dog eyes, R fawningly defends himself, "You know, a chipbag! Like when you want some Doritos, you reach for a chipbag and satisfy your craving." He lovingly shoots the group a disarming smile.
Not buying it, E rebuffs R's coy gestures from across the table, "Well, I don't know about your smelly kingdom there on the porcelain throne R, but I either grab my Doritos from a bag of chips, or a bowl of chips. I've never been sold, offered, or seen anything referred to... as a 'chipbag'. In other words, you're full of it, R!" The rest of us lightheartedly giggle in agreement. Taking E's stance, I challenge the spelling, haul out the collegiate dictionary, and don't find an entry for the mythic 'chipbag'. "Fancy that, R. Pick up your tiles and lose your next turn," E smirks.
I'm next. "There, three words, two of them double word, and one double letter on the 3rd. 36 points!" V blasts me with a venomous scowl. His head to the side, eyebrows rising, V pipes up, "I don't think that 'eh' is a word, BP."
"'Eh' is too a word," I bravely say, pointing at the dictionary to make my point, "If you don't believe me, then check it!" Haughtily finishing, I challenge, "I dare you! Go ahead and lose your next turn, because I'm right, and you know it!" The table is silent as each player weighs his cards. Slowly, V reaches for the hardback, and opens to eh. There it is in black and white - a common term from Canada. "Viva La Canada!" I chirp up and smugly smile at V.
Sorely admitting defeat, V spouts out, "Damn you, BP! I hate how you cheat!" Looking at the others, he concludes, "You never know when to challenge BP because he went to a good college, and you don't know when BP's making up words or not." To which I respond, "Well, now V, no need to be angry. That wasn't cheating. That was a good play. I never cheat; I just don't know how to spell half the time - you just have to figure out when that is. Now, it's S's turn; you lose yours for calling it wrong," tossing him the rule book, "It's in the rules, feel free to look those up too." S, who's spouse is a Canadian citizen, chuckles toward his chest as he places his tiles and whispers, "I knew that 'eh' was a word."
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Work Ethic
"I'm so sad, angry, and pissed off right now," perky Coffee Girl says to me. Coffee Girl, with her pony tail brown hair and rosy cheeks, is a constant dish of unrelenting sprightliness and zip... even when she's in a bad mood. Standing near the dark wood coffee kiosk in the hospital lobby, my eyes widen and ears pull back, as I ask, "Why?" I notice this is the first time I've ever seen her face express anything other than conviviality. I observe a piece of foundation chip off and plummet to the ground as she attempts to grimace.
Pointing her creamy, ring less hand toward the ceiling, Coffee Girl begins,"Well, see, I have to pick up my son at noon. The girl who has the shift from noon to seven called and said she can't make it. This means that I have to stay here and keep the bar open," she talks while miscounting money. I hope she doesn't notice she hasn't charged me yet for the cup.
"Mmm-hmm," I say, understandably nodding and pressing the lever for some Colombian roast.
"So, since I had to stay here, while not getting paid overtime, mind you, I called my boyfriend and asked him to pick up our kid." (FYI, I relish juicy stories about children born out of wedlock. However, now is not the time to ask about a fruity shotgun wedding.) I add three artifical sugar packets to my coffee and stir, trying to shadow my escalating interest in her colorful life.
Hair flying about, she continues, "Yeah, so he asks his boss if he can get off, and then he calls me back to let me know that he can. JUST THEN, like an hour later, the girl who called in this morning says that she is back in town and can make it for the 12 o'clock shift. So, I call my boyfriend back and tell him that I don't have to stay, and he gets all mad at me and starts berating me over the telephone."
Grabbing a coffee lid, I say, "That doesn't make sense. You're off and he's off, plus tomorrow is a holiday - double trouble. Why not go do something fun, like a park or Arizona Falls?"
Her forehead surging crown-ward, she hollers out, "I KNOW! He just got all mad at me. His manager asked why I couldn't pick our son up or call in sick. Obviously I can't, because I"m already here, and I'd show up for work even if I was sick. He's called in sick three times this month. I guess I made him look bad in front of his boss. But, that's not my fault that my work ethic is better than his, EVEN THO I make less than he does, AND he gets overtime. Besides, it's not like he can't change it, you know?"
I reach out with my words, trying to smooth her ruffled feathers, "Well, look at it this way, you can't take what he said personally. I mean, you don't know what else happened in his day that he might be projecting onto you. He's probably not mad at you, he's angry at his own lack of character and laziness. And besides, if he doesn't want to hang out with you, then you just call up one of your friends and say, 'hey, let's go do such and such'." Buttering her up even more, I continue, "After all, look at you, you're so wonderful, you're a mix of fantastic and fabulous - you're fantabulous! Go have fun without him on your mini weekend."
She smiles and thanks me for the suggestions, then looks at my cup and asks for my money. I guess advice is free; coffee isn't.
Pointing her creamy, ring less hand toward the ceiling, Coffee Girl begins,"Well, see, I have to pick up my son at noon. The girl who has the shift from noon to seven called and said she can't make it. This means that I have to stay here and keep the bar open," she talks while miscounting money. I hope she doesn't notice she hasn't charged me yet for the cup.
"Mmm-hmm," I say, understandably nodding and pressing the lever for some Colombian roast.
"So, since I had to stay here, while not getting paid overtime, mind you, I called my boyfriend and asked him to pick up our kid." (FYI, I relish juicy stories about children born out of wedlock. However, now is not the time to ask about a fruity shotgun wedding.) I add three artifical sugar packets to my coffee and stir, trying to shadow my escalating interest in her colorful life.
Hair flying about, she continues, "Yeah, so he asks his boss if he can get off, and then he calls me back to let me know that he can. JUST THEN, like an hour later, the girl who called in this morning says that she is back in town and can make it for the 12 o'clock shift. So, I call my boyfriend back and tell him that I don't have to stay, and he gets all mad at me and starts berating me over the telephone."
Grabbing a coffee lid, I say, "That doesn't make sense. You're off and he's off, plus tomorrow is a holiday - double trouble. Why not go do something fun, like a park or Arizona Falls?"
Her forehead surging crown-ward, she hollers out, "I KNOW! He just got all mad at me. His manager asked why I couldn't pick our son up or call in sick. Obviously I can't, because I"m already here, and I'd show up for work even if I was sick. He's called in sick three times this month. I guess I made him look bad in front of his boss. But, that's not my fault that my work ethic is better than his, EVEN THO I make less than he does, AND he gets overtime. Besides, it's not like he can't change it, you know?"
I reach out with my words, trying to smooth her ruffled feathers, "Well, look at it this way, you can't take what he said personally. I mean, you don't know what else happened in his day that he might be projecting onto you. He's probably not mad at you, he's angry at his own lack of character and laziness. And besides, if he doesn't want to hang out with you, then you just call up one of your friends and say, 'hey, let's go do such and such'." Buttering her up even more, I continue, "After all, look at you, you're so wonderful, you're a mix of fantastic and fabulous - you're fantabulous! Go have fun without him on your mini weekend."
She smiles and thanks me for the suggestions, then looks at my cup and asks for my money. I guess advice is free; coffee isn't.
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