"Hey, don't we know that girl?"
"Um, what girl?"
"That girl right there, BP, that Native Girl taking a stroll down the road!"
"Oh yeah... she does look vaguely familiar. Shall we stop the car and throw her in the trunk?"
"I think we should!"
I slow Ethel Mertz down to a crawl and pull along side the mottled black haired girl. She is looking up in confused disgust at the buildings around her as she walks with a school-issued map in her hands. Ms Iowa rolls down her passenger window, and I jokingly yell out, "How much?!" The girl whips around to witness our shaded faces. Lowering my eyes over the reflective midnight sunglasses perched on my nose, I gauge her expressively fearful face and say, "I asked how much?"
Stepping back a pace, then two, the Native Girl is speechless under the yellow, green, and red fall colored trees on the side of the library. Ms Iowa opens the blood red car door. Stepping onto the side walk, and slipping off her wool scarf followed by lifting her sunglasses, she states states, "Didn't you hear what I said, Native Girl? Get in the car NOW. We're taking you to Canada before classes start on Monday. Consider this the beginning of the end."
Native Girl, realizing we're from the same school releases a pent up sigh of relief, then climbs into the back seat. I ask her, "Where is your dorm? We're leaving now; you need three sets of clothes, a credit card and ID, plus a little naughty streak." I wink at Native Girl in the backseat.
Cheering up and relaxing, Native girl gleefully asks, "Oh, can I bring a friend along? He's so much fun." We agree, and we pick up pleasantly plump Montana Boy, then head north toward the canuk boarder. Once we're past the inspection station, I tell Ms Iowa to dig in my bag and find a red wig I had used for Halloween once. Immediately Montana Boy grabs it, securing it messily on his head. Passing a trucker, he proceeds to blow the corn fed delivery man juicy kisses through the window. It's going to be a wild night.
Arriving in Montreal, we promptly find an overpriced hotel room with 1/2 walls. Apparently, the French Canadians are more into the communal theory of sleep enhancement. Frolicking among the denizens on Rue Ste Catherine, we approach a drag queen dressed as Celine Dion (whom just happens to be the savior of Canada).
Looking at her dress shaped like the titanic, we greet the misshapen pop star, "Bonsoir," and hand her a flier to an underground party. In garbled french, she starts pointing with her lipstick down the street, esophagealy hacking out directions for us like she'd smoked for the last 80 years. Just then, in a drive-by icing, a midget in drag puts a large blue cardboard item shaped like a heart covered in rhinestones into the drag queen's hands. Someone throws more ice onto the Celine Dion look alike and starts chasing her with a shark. The drag queen puts a whistle between her lips and starts blowing, holding the blue heart above her head. Someone flips on a copy of "My Heart Will Go On", and the drag queen skips down the street lip-syncing.
Apparently, we had just been the victims of a random and brutal street performance. Looking at each other with curious faces, our mouths ajar, we all start laughing, and start looking for the underground party again.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Intestinal Fortitude
"Did I ever tell you about my dad and his eating habits?" Dr Aquarius looks at me with reckless abandon, his curly black hair slightly moving above his shoulders.
Turning down the speakers on my work computer, I smile broadly and say,"Um, no, not that I remember."
"Yeah, he's really interesting. Like he'll fly in from New Mexico and he'll say 'lets go eat', and I'll ask, 'where', and he'll say 'oh, anywhere is fine.' So I'll suggest something fun like Thai, and he'll go, 'WHAT?! What's Thai? No, that won't do!!' My dad is a very meat an potatoes kind of guy, you know, a lot like those people from the 1950's with June Cleaver, where boy's are boys, girls are girls, and the only meat you eat is steak."
"Hmmm. I see. He's even more meat and potatoes than Dr H?" (Dr H is our resident Midwesterner, hailing from the corn fields and cheese factories of Minnesota. If you get anything containing more than 1/2 a teaspoon of non-starchy vegetables near him, he hisses and jumps on the wall in a vampiric manner.)
"Yes, very much so." Dr Aquarius's eyes grow a little. He plays with the pens in his pocket protector and continues, "Like one time when I was a young boy, I was talking to this one girl at my school. She looks at me and says, 'my mom is a vegetarian'. I had no idea what a vegetarian was, so I asked. The girl told me, 'oh, it's someone who doesn't eat any meat.'"
I grab a handful of organic popcorn and tell Dr Aquarius to go on.
Provokingly throwing both of his hands up in the air, Aquarius continues, "and so I was mystified with this whole vegetarian thing, and I asked the girl why her mom doesn't eat vegetables. The girl said, 'well, my mom was jogging one day and she saw a dead cow on the side of the road, and it scared her. She swore off meat from then on.'"
I finish the popcorn and take a sip of bottled water.
"So I went home," Dr Aquarius huffs about the front of my desk, switching his medical coat from one side to the other, "and I told my dad all about this fascinating new way of eating. You know what he said to me?"
"I have no idea. What did your dad say?"
"My dad snorts and says to me, ' Well, lord forbid the woman come across a rotten potato - she'd starve to death!'"
Turning down the speakers on my work computer, I smile broadly and say,"Um, no, not that I remember."
"Yeah, he's really interesting. Like he'll fly in from New Mexico and he'll say 'lets go eat', and I'll ask, 'where', and he'll say 'oh, anywhere is fine.' So I'll suggest something fun like Thai, and he'll go, 'WHAT?! What's Thai? No, that won't do!!' My dad is a very meat an potatoes kind of guy, you know, a lot like those people from the 1950's with June Cleaver, where boy's are boys, girls are girls, and the only meat you eat is steak."
"Hmmm. I see. He's even more meat and potatoes than Dr H?" (Dr H is our resident Midwesterner, hailing from the corn fields and cheese factories of Minnesota. If you get anything containing more than 1/2 a teaspoon of non-starchy vegetables near him, he hisses and jumps on the wall in a vampiric manner.)
"Yes, very much so." Dr Aquarius's eyes grow a little. He plays with the pens in his pocket protector and continues, "Like one time when I was a young boy, I was talking to this one girl at my school. She looks at me and says, 'my mom is a vegetarian'. I had no idea what a vegetarian was, so I asked. The girl told me, 'oh, it's someone who doesn't eat any meat.'"
I grab a handful of organic popcorn and tell Dr Aquarius to go on.
Provokingly throwing both of his hands up in the air, Aquarius continues, "and so I was mystified with this whole vegetarian thing, and I asked the girl why her mom doesn't eat vegetables. The girl said, 'well, my mom was jogging one day and she saw a dead cow on the side of the road, and it scared her. She swore off meat from then on.'"
I finish the popcorn and take a sip of bottled water.
"So I went home," Dr Aquarius huffs about the front of my desk, switching his medical coat from one side to the other, "and I told my dad all about this fascinating new way of eating. You know what he said to me?"
"I have no idea. What did your dad say?"
"My dad snorts and says to me, ' Well, lord forbid the woman come across a rotten potato - she'd starve to death!'"
Monday, August 27, 2007
There Are Indians... And Then There Are "Indians"...
Infamous words to be wary of: "I made a new friend today." Now, depending on the situation, those can be the most horrifying blend of words a parent can hear dribble out of a child's smiling mouth. Or, the parent can smile and ask, "Oh really? Tell me more." Thankfully, I'm not a parent. But... I did make a new friend the other day, so consider me a kid.
Meet Curly, a slender, 6'1", happy-go-lucky immigrant from India. Having moved to the Phoenix area from Kansas, he focuses his skill in the IT field. Because he's from so far away and lives on the skirts of civilization (instead of downtown), he has not made many friends in the past two years. He likens the reasons for not meeting other Phoenicians to the insurmountable wall of desert heat that suffocates his voice anywhere but outside the air conditioned confines of his house. As we all know... "If you don't go out, you can't have them come in!"
Besides his fingers and hands, Curly doesn't get much cardio. Being the self-proclaimed athlete I am, I invite him on a short walk. The leisurely stroll gives him a side cramp, seemingly from uncontrollable heavy breathing due to excessive overexertion. Who knew? He's a good soldier though, and sucks it up. Becoming hungry, I suggest we go to the grocery store.
After leaving the grocer, we're at a stop light waiting to turn. Curly tells me about his colorful culture, from Bollywood films, to the interesting 3-somes he becomes involved in, to the 28 languages of his homeland, to the intricacies of the IT department. He asks me what my heritage is. I respond, "I'm Native American and European." Driving forward, he responds without a second thought, "Oh. Well, I'm Indian." Not missing a beat, I glance over, "Oh, really?! That's wonderful. I always wondered what you call people from India!" I raise my index finger and shake it, continuing, "I'll have to remember that one." We both laugh at the absurdity of the moment and arrive at our destination.
At the dinner table, Muscle Calves and CW join us. CW works in IT as well. "So, you're from India, huh? Didn't you kind of do it backward?" The table looks in puzzlement at CW. He continues, "Well, I mean, you know, all of our jobs are going over there, and you came over here." Muscle Calves blinks, then squints in disapproval at CW. CW goes on, "So, do you ever have to call Tech Support?" I laugh loudly and cut in, "No. What happens is he calls, they hear his accent and say, 'Holy sh*t, we have a live one on the line! Hurry, route him to an American!'" The table bursts into laughter.
CW picks up a cup full of Juniper berries and asks Muscle Calves what they're used for. Muscle Calves exasperatingly explains to him what it's for. "Well, how do you know this," CW rebuttals. "Because I've read about it and researched it. Duh." Raising my right arm in the kitchen, I add, "And because I'm Native American. I know all about nuts and berries. Curly wouldn't tho; he's not the right kind of Indian." Like a lightning bolt, it occurs to me: India Indians own 7-11's and hotels. American Indians own casino's.
Meet Curly, a slender, 6'1", happy-go-lucky immigrant from India. Having moved to the Phoenix area from Kansas, he focuses his skill in the IT field. Because he's from so far away and lives on the skirts of civilization (instead of downtown), he has not made many friends in the past two years. He likens the reasons for not meeting other Phoenicians to the insurmountable wall of desert heat that suffocates his voice anywhere but outside the air conditioned confines of his house. As we all know... "If you don't go out, you can't have them come in!"
Besides his fingers and hands, Curly doesn't get much cardio. Being the self-proclaimed athlete I am, I invite him on a short walk. The leisurely stroll gives him a side cramp, seemingly from uncontrollable heavy breathing due to excessive overexertion. Who knew? He's a good soldier though, and sucks it up. Becoming hungry, I suggest we go to the grocery store.
After leaving the grocer, we're at a stop light waiting to turn. Curly tells me about his colorful culture, from Bollywood films, to the interesting 3-somes he becomes involved in, to the 28 languages of his homeland, to the intricacies of the IT department. He asks me what my heritage is. I respond, "I'm Native American and European." Driving forward, he responds without a second thought, "Oh. Well, I'm Indian." Not missing a beat, I glance over, "Oh, really?! That's wonderful. I always wondered what you call people from India!" I raise my index finger and shake it, continuing, "I'll have to remember that one." We both laugh at the absurdity of the moment and arrive at our destination.
At the dinner table, Muscle Calves and CW join us. CW works in IT as well. "So, you're from India, huh? Didn't you kind of do it backward?" The table looks in puzzlement at CW. He continues, "Well, I mean, you know, all of our jobs are going over there, and you came over here." Muscle Calves blinks, then squints in disapproval at CW. CW goes on, "So, do you ever have to call Tech Support?" I laugh loudly and cut in, "No. What happens is he calls, they hear his accent and say, 'Holy sh*t, we have a live one on the line! Hurry, route him to an American!'" The table bursts into laughter.
CW picks up a cup full of Juniper berries and asks Muscle Calves what they're used for. Muscle Calves exasperatingly explains to him what it's for. "Well, how do you know this," CW rebuttals. "Because I've read about it and researched it. Duh." Raising my right arm in the kitchen, I add, "And because I'm Native American. I know all about nuts and berries. Curly wouldn't tho; he's not the right kind of Indian." Like a lightning bolt, it occurs to me: India Indians own 7-11's and hotels. American Indians own casino's.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Road Conditions
Phoenix is unique among the large cities of America. It's relatively easy to navigate where you are in the 515 square miles of concrete grid lines. Many times, my friends from the east coast do not believe me when I tell them our street hierarchy grid (super block) is a mile (5,280 feet) on each side. By comparison, Manhattan is only 24 square miles in size, and city blocks there are 264 ft x 900 ft. In other words, about 117 city blocks from New York City can fit into one Phoenix city block.
There is constant construction taking place wherever you drive in Phoenix. Many times, they will close off a freeway in the middle of the day with a sign saying, "Thank you for your patience" or whatnot. After being closed for a week, they open it up, but you're still not sure exactly what kind of work was done until the next sign saying, "You're great, Phoenix! We just finished resurfacing the 5 storm drains on this 50 mile stretch of highway. Stay tuned for more exciting closures."
So I'm driving to work the other morning two months ago, and traffic is backed up from downtown to the state border 150 miles away. Aggravation trickles in. Inching along the freeway asphalt, I wonder what kind of construction they're doing. Slowly, I get up to the bottleneck, and I discover half naked people from southern California had pulled haphazardly to the side. They were running around on the freeway chasing after a black dog that kept running away from them. No amount of bacon would get that dog off the road. Perhaps the dog was a vegan. I swear, crazy people from SoCal in bathing suits running after a homeless dog on the freeway. I would have just sped up...
Yesterday, I was driving back from another hospital when I noticed everyone swerving out of the way. Naturally, I'm a fantastic driver, so I get into the lane everyone is swerving into. As I pass the swerve spot, I look over and notice a guy in a wheelchair racing traffic in the middle of the road. Amazed that there were no Californians around trying to help him, I mentally transport myself back to a story I read a few months earlier about another traffic incident involving a guy in a wheelchair. I fondly remember the tag line from the article, "Why did the 21 year old cross the road?" Passing by and heading back to work, I secretly think to myself two things. First, 'I wonder what homeless race he's training for', and second, 'is there going to be an uprising of wheelchairs in the near future?'
There is constant construction taking place wherever you drive in Phoenix. Many times, they will close off a freeway in the middle of the day with a sign saying, "Thank you for your patience" or whatnot. After being closed for a week, they open it up, but you're still not sure exactly what kind of work was done until the next sign saying, "You're great, Phoenix! We just finished resurfacing the 5 storm drains on this 50 mile stretch of highway. Stay tuned for more exciting closures."
So I'm driving to work the other morning two months ago, and traffic is backed up from downtown to the state border 150 miles away. Aggravation trickles in. Inching along the freeway asphalt, I wonder what kind of construction they're doing. Slowly, I get up to the bottleneck, and I discover half naked people from southern California had pulled haphazardly to the side. They were running around on the freeway chasing after a black dog that kept running away from them. No amount of bacon would get that dog off the road. Perhaps the dog was a vegan. I swear, crazy people from SoCal in bathing suits running after a homeless dog on the freeway. I would have just sped up...
Yesterday, I was driving back from another hospital when I noticed everyone swerving out of the way. Naturally, I'm a fantastic driver, so I get into the lane everyone is swerving into. As I pass the swerve spot, I look over and notice a guy in a wheelchair racing traffic in the middle of the road. Amazed that there were no Californians around trying to help him, I mentally transport myself back to a story I read a few months earlier about another traffic incident involving a guy in a wheelchair. I fondly remember the tag line from the article, "Why did the 21 year old cross the road?" Passing by and heading back to work, I secretly think to myself two things. First, 'I wonder what homeless race he's training for', and second, 'is there going to be an uprising of wheelchairs in the near future?'
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Etiquette Lessons
Earlier... I was lunching at Durant's- an upscale eatery in uptown Phoenix, with Subway Man (who is not Jared, but has met him).
Durant's is kept upscale mostly by pricing - one shrimp cost $4. But, the dated building resembles a seedy dive joint from 1940's Las Vegas, and looks like you could speed off with any number of shady fishnet stocking characters in knee-high leather boots. However, there are three saving graces for this place: 1) their mashed potatoes, 2) the bronzed shoes of a singing mobster, and 3) the old as dirt women in bow tie tuxedos. We're sitting in the blood red dining room with a plate of food in front of each of us. Subway Man's phone rings. He deftly snatches it off the table answering the small piece of plastic, and starts taking copious notes on the palm of his hand.
From the environs of the dimly lit corners of the velvet walled restaurant, one of the ghostly tuxedo women materializes next to our table. "Sir, could you please put your cellphone away," the old lady in bad drag asks Subway Man. He looks up from his telephonic conversation, and opens his mouth to respond...
What SHOULD have happened:
My eyes open wide as a gasp of horror escapes my draining lips. I look at the peeked plastic manican woman with a toupee made of bleached flour polyester, and say, "Oh, no no no, baby! With that makeup job, you'd best run for cover, Girl!" I stare at her in awe as I sell my first born child so I can afford another shrimp - which swiftly gets plugged into my gaping pie hole. The woman flaps wildly about the table, emitting violent sparks over my flash of the indisputable Fashion Police Badge, and spontaneously combusts. We order more bread, and continue our lunch undisturbed.
What COULD have happened:
Subway man, responding to the interruption of vital information, tells the caller to hold on. As he places the palm of his hand over the microphone, he flaps his eyelids like a Hollywood starlet. "It's already loud in here. If you see these people around me, why don't you go take a survey and see if any of them care. Here, I'll get you started." He hands the woman an invisible questionnaire tablet, "Look, the first page is already complete, the answers are 'no'." She starts to respond. Subway Man holds up his index finger in front of his mouth then shakes his head twice, and says, "No, no, that wasn't a question." He promptly gets slapped by the bony hand of bad taste. Recoiling from the momentary touch of ghostly love, and realizing he has motion sickness, he orally donates his partially digested lunch to the table next to us.
What ACTUALLY happened:
Subway man asks, "What?"
"I have to ask you to put your phone away, sir. You can use it in the bar area, but the dining room is cellphone free." The cronies face cracks in multiple places as she attempts a devilish smile.
"Oh, ok, I'm terribly sorry." Subway man puts his phone away. Looking like a hurt puppy, his head goes down in shame and he immediately stuffs the last shrimp down his gullet.
Needing to use the restroom, I stand up and question the retreating tuxedo woman, "Excuse me, sir, could you please show me to the men's room?" Subway Man gaffs and nearly requires the Heimlich maneuver.
Durant's is kept upscale mostly by pricing - one shrimp cost $4. But, the dated building resembles a seedy dive joint from 1940's Las Vegas, and looks like you could speed off with any number of shady fishnet stocking characters in knee-high leather boots. However, there are three saving graces for this place: 1) their mashed potatoes, 2) the bronzed shoes of a singing mobster, and 3) the old as dirt women in bow tie tuxedos. We're sitting in the blood red dining room with a plate of food in front of each of us. Subway Man's phone rings. He deftly snatches it off the table answering the small piece of plastic, and starts taking copious notes on the palm of his hand.
From the environs of the dimly lit corners of the velvet walled restaurant, one of the ghostly tuxedo women materializes next to our table. "Sir, could you please put your cellphone away," the old lady in bad drag asks Subway Man. He looks up from his telephonic conversation, and opens his mouth to respond...
What SHOULD have happened:
My eyes open wide as a gasp of horror escapes my draining lips. I look at the peeked plastic manican woman with a toupee made of bleached flour polyester, and say, "Oh, no no no, baby! With that makeup job, you'd best run for cover, Girl!" I stare at her in awe as I sell my first born child so I can afford another shrimp - which swiftly gets plugged into my gaping pie hole. The woman flaps wildly about the table, emitting violent sparks over my flash of the indisputable Fashion Police Badge, and spontaneously combusts. We order more bread, and continue our lunch undisturbed.
What COULD have happened:
Subway man, responding to the interruption of vital information, tells the caller to hold on. As he places the palm of his hand over the microphone, he flaps his eyelids like a Hollywood starlet. "It's already loud in here. If you see these people around me, why don't you go take a survey and see if any of them care. Here, I'll get you started." He hands the woman an invisible questionnaire tablet, "Look, the first page is already complete, the answers are 'no'." She starts to respond. Subway Man holds up his index finger in front of his mouth then shakes his head twice, and says, "No, no, that wasn't a question." He promptly gets slapped by the bony hand of bad taste. Recoiling from the momentary touch of ghostly love, and realizing he has motion sickness, he orally donates his partially digested lunch to the table next to us.
What ACTUALLY happened:
Subway man asks, "What?"
"I have to ask you to put your phone away, sir. You can use it in the bar area, but the dining room is cellphone free." The cronies face cracks in multiple places as she attempts a devilish smile.
"Oh, ok, I'm terribly sorry." Subway man puts his phone away. Looking like a hurt puppy, his head goes down in shame and he immediately stuffs the last shrimp down his gullet.
Needing to use the restroom, I stand up and question the retreating tuxedo woman, "Excuse me, sir, could you please show me to the men's room?" Subway Man gaffs and nearly requires the Heimlich maneuver.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
The Fallout
Ever have those days where you wake up in the wrong bed? You know, the kind where after a long weekend of friendly mishaps, it's Monday and a cascade of miniature melodramas just keep streaming your way? That was the life of BP yesterday and this past weekend. What?! You mean the cliche is "waking up on the wrong side of the bed"? Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle...
Since my gym membership expired on Sunday, I had to find another way to burn off all the calories I consume in a normal day, so I decided on using a free public place. While listening to GoAskAlice's problems in New York and San Francisco, I meandered about Margaret T. Hance Park (built over I-10) near downtown Phoenix. In between her story about the underage pharmaceutical rep and the evil doctor, I happen across a small traffic violation in the middle of the sidewalk.
I closely study the curiosity. Lying on the ground was a small, arrow head shaped yellow nub. I cautiously step on it, it's partly squishy from the atomic heat radiating skyward from the sidewalk, and kick it down the way. It bounces. Realizing what it is, I immediately unleash a howel of laughter into the evening air.
"Oh, my god, GoAskAlice, you would not believe what I just stepped on!"
"Huh? Are you listening to me, BP?"
"Of course I am, but my foot isn't. It's recoiling in fear, honey child. I just stepped on a butt plug here in the middle of the park, in open air on the sidewalk. I mean, I thought I was having a bad day, but obviously not as bad as this poor person who apparantly lost their constrictive powers while they were walking home or whatever. haha"
"Oh, my god! That's so gross! Wait... how do you know it's a butt plug?"
"Oh, I just do. I've seen them when I was in Montreal."
"Mmmmm-hmmmm. Riiiiiiiiight."
"For real, puddin' cup. That is pretty gross. Maybe I should take it back to the hospital and wash it for 15 seconds, following OSHA guidelines, put some alcohol rub on it, then put it up for bidding on e-bay in one of those 'mystery bags'."
As I continue to chuckle over the small, puckered-orifice sized road cone, I remember how ridiculous bad days are. Thinking about all the arguments with my friends over the weekend, being asked to move out by my roommates, not having my medical education speech ready, getting rejected for a new position, and being temporarily broke - none of those could have been worse than having such a wonderful conversation piece slip out of my rosey cheeks in public. Compared to that, my struggles are rather modest. Using this little bit of chocolate humor to put me in a good mood, I move on and develop new plans with GoAskAlice for New York.
Since my gym membership expired on Sunday, I had to find another way to burn off all the calories I consume in a normal day, so I decided on using a free public place. While listening to GoAskAlice's problems in New York and San Francisco, I meandered about Margaret T. Hance Park (built over I-10) near downtown Phoenix. In between her story about the underage pharmaceutical rep and the evil doctor, I happen across a small traffic violation in the middle of the sidewalk.
I closely study the curiosity. Lying on the ground was a small, arrow head shaped yellow nub. I cautiously step on it, it's partly squishy from the atomic heat radiating skyward from the sidewalk, and kick it down the way. It bounces. Realizing what it is, I immediately unleash a howel of laughter into the evening air.
"Oh, my god, GoAskAlice, you would not believe what I just stepped on!"
"Huh? Are you listening to me, BP?"
"Of course I am, but my foot isn't. It's recoiling in fear, honey child. I just stepped on a butt plug here in the middle of the park, in open air on the sidewalk. I mean, I thought I was having a bad day, but obviously not as bad as this poor person who apparantly lost their constrictive powers while they were walking home or whatever. haha"
"Oh, my god! That's so gross! Wait... how do you know it's a butt plug?"
"Oh, I just do. I've seen them when I was in Montreal."
"Mmmmm-hmmmm. Riiiiiiiiight."
"For real, puddin' cup. That is pretty gross. Maybe I should take it back to the hospital and wash it for 15 seconds, following OSHA guidelines, put some alcohol rub on it, then put it up for bidding on e-bay in one of those 'mystery bags'."
As I continue to chuckle over the small, puckered-orifice sized road cone, I remember how ridiculous bad days are. Thinking about all the arguments with my friends over the weekend, being asked to move out by my roommates, not having my medical education speech ready, getting rejected for a new position, and being temporarily broke - none of those could have been worse than having such a wonderful conversation piece slip out of my rosey cheeks in public. Compared to that, my struggles are rather modest. Using this little bit of chocolate humor to put me in a good mood, I move on and develop new plans with GoAskAlice for New York.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Sensory Overload
I'm in the driver's seat of Mumsy Hyphenatie's stealthy, yet understated white passenger car. Brother is in the front seat, Mumsy is behind me, and Step Dad is next to her, gently caressing her hand.
"Blah, we just checked three places, and none of them are open. Are you going to eat with us," I ask S over the phone as our gas conscious 4-cylinder auto weaves in and out of traffic. My spicy frustration thickly glazes the air - we can't find a reputable Mexican restaurant to enjoy this late at night.
"Oh, well I don't care where we eat. Mumsy says that she wants pizza now," Brother tries to allay my seething emotions. I shoot him a searing look of acid - I simmer a little when people change their minds in the middle of a spectacle.
As I listen to S ask his co-workers where tasty places are, Mumsy H bubbles up from the back seat, "Oh, let's just go eat at the casino. They're always open 24 hours, and you can have all you can eat, and we can play and everything!" The whites of my eyes tidal from left to right through my sockets, as I roll my head toward my right shoulder and matter-of-factly say, "We're not going to eat at a casino, mom. I'll find a place, just hold your horses, ok?"
4-1-1 becomes a knight in shimmering silver, and I start aggressively driving through construction zones and freeway traffic to a restaurant open for 30 more minutes. For some reason that I haven't determined yet, my mom was yelping about my skill of deftly dodging the barricades and cars around us. Must be a parental quality that I will never know.
We meet S, and place our order. Mumsy Hyphenatie leans in toward us, her eyes ablaze in excitement. "So, I was at Cliff Castle the other day a few weeks ago, and I was playing my favorite game, Top Gun! And this native lady sits down at the penny slot next to me to get into her fighter jet." Mumsy lifts up her hand to salute to no one in particular, and takes a sip of her unsweetened iced tea, then continues, "Anyway, this lady put in $5 and spins a few times, then gets the bonus!" Mumsy jumps up slightly, reveling in the firecracker passion of her story retelling. We all look at her and smile.
"Yes," she continues, "and the old grandma didn't know what was going on! So, I lean over and tell her to push the buttons, 'Fly left! Fly left! Fly left!' I screamed, and the woman got a bonus, then I told her, 'Go up, Go up, go up!', and she hits the up button." Another sip of iced tea. "And this grandma starts breathing really fast and then she has to shoot down the other fighter planes on the screen, so I tell her to 'hit it, hit it, hit it!' and she does, but she misses the second one, and then her tun is over."
"Oh really? What happened next," I ask, noting that Brother throws a small tantrum by leaning back dismissively in his chair.
"Well, the lady made about $80 off of her $5, on a penny machine."
"Wow, that's really good, especially on a penny machine."
"Yeah, it is. But anyway, the old grandma cashes out, and says to me, 'oh, I can't play this anymore. I'm afraid of heights, I better go.'"
The table laughs, and I say, "Um... she didn't leave anywhere, besides her winning machine."
Mumsy impishly looks at me, "I know. Her whole trip on the computer screen was all on the ground in the seat next to me. Crazy lady."
"Blah, we just checked three places, and none of them are open. Are you going to eat with us," I ask S over the phone as our gas conscious 4-cylinder auto weaves in and out of traffic. My spicy frustration thickly glazes the air - we can't find a reputable Mexican restaurant to enjoy this late at night.
"Oh, well I don't care where we eat. Mumsy says that she wants pizza now," Brother tries to allay my seething emotions. I shoot him a searing look of acid - I simmer a little when people change their minds in the middle of a spectacle.
As I listen to S ask his co-workers where tasty places are, Mumsy H bubbles up from the back seat, "Oh, let's just go eat at the casino. They're always open 24 hours, and you can have all you can eat, and we can play and everything!" The whites of my eyes tidal from left to right through my sockets, as I roll my head toward my right shoulder and matter-of-factly say, "We're not going to eat at a casino, mom. I'll find a place, just hold your horses, ok?"
4-1-1 becomes a knight in shimmering silver, and I start aggressively driving through construction zones and freeway traffic to a restaurant open for 30 more minutes. For some reason that I haven't determined yet, my mom was yelping about my skill of deftly dodging the barricades and cars around us. Must be a parental quality that I will never know.
We meet S, and place our order. Mumsy Hyphenatie leans in toward us, her eyes ablaze in excitement. "So, I was at Cliff Castle the other day a few weeks ago, and I was playing my favorite game, Top Gun! And this native lady sits down at the penny slot next to me to get into her fighter jet." Mumsy lifts up her hand to salute to no one in particular, and takes a sip of her unsweetened iced tea, then continues, "Anyway, this lady put in $5 and spins a few times, then gets the bonus!" Mumsy jumps up slightly, reveling in the firecracker passion of her story retelling. We all look at her and smile.
"Yes," she continues, "and the old grandma didn't know what was going on! So, I lean over and tell her to push the buttons, 'Fly left! Fly left! Fly left!' I screamed, and the woman got a bonus, then I told her, 'Go up, Go up, go up!', and she hits the up button." Another sip of iced tea. "And this grandma starts breathing really fast and then she has to shoot down the other fighter planes on the screen, so I tell her to 'hit it, hit it, hit it!' and she does, but she misses the second one, and then her tun is over."
"Oh really? What happened next," I ask, noting that Brother throws a small tantrum by leaning back dismissively in his chair.
"Well, the lady made about $80 off of her $5, on a penny machine."
"Wow, that's really good, especially on a penny machine."
"Yeah, it is. But anyway, the old grandma cashes out, and says to me, 'oh, I can't play this anymore. I'm afraid of heights, I better go.'"
The table laughs, and I say, "Um... she didn't leave anywhere, besides her winning machine."
Mumsy impishly looks at me, "I know. Her whole trip on the computer screen was all on the ground in the seat next to me. Crazy lady."
Friday, August 10, 2007
Lift Off
"Bbbbbbbrrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmmm" Ethel Mertz hums down the black asphalt, steady as a sun chariot. Outside my car window, there are untold legions of freshly laid crop circles, cow tippings, and opal tornadoes. Since it was darkest night, I could not have made out the Woodsian landscape, even if I had infrared military spy ware - I was driving too fast after being warned a few hours earlier in Oklahoma. I really should have paid more attention to the police officer, I suppose.
Let me welcome you to the Kansas Turnpike, 230 miles of Midwest buffalo range pavement. Against my will, I am drawn in, whirled round, blinded, suffocated, and at the same time filled with giddy rapture about the music pumping through the sound system. The whirr of the tires, and rush of broken air add to my cocoon as I drive. There's no one else on the road and as I settle into an enigmatic trance, I set the cruise control at 118 mph.
Time passes, and then down the road something quickly approaches my vehicle. I have enough time to respond, but I don't. Instead, I grab some cheese-its from the plastic bag in the empty passenger seat and think to myself, "Oh, I'm going to hit that large lump of metal in the middle of the road."
Remaining calm, I then ask myself what would someone on a plane do? They would check their seat belt buckle, then put their heads between their legs and kiss their ass goodbye. Unfortunately, the car was too small, and my mouth was too full of cheese crackers, to risk getting close to my neither regions that had been in the same position for the last six hours.
bbbbbbuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzz. KA-BOOM!!!! Ethel Mertz hits the large silver object in the middle of the four lane expressway. Mysteriously... almost magically, we both reenact a scene from ET. The only difference between Hollywood and my trip were: my moon was wrapped in plastic, covered in chocolate, and filled with marshmallow; my extra terrestrial was the flapping of a towel hanging out my window to dry off as I feistily prodded down the freeway. Everything else was the same.
I look out my window. I didn't see the ground anymore. I lay my ear against the clear glass, and I no longer hear the sounds of my tires interacting with the pavement. The rush of wind and the hum of the engine, however did seem more pronounced. I look out the windshield, and notice I can't see the road lines anymore either, it's pitch black ahead of me. Moon pie, please deliver me from being launched into the stratosphere.
Several seconds pass, and just as I get used to the flying sensation and my intestinal butterflies, the captain indicates our return to earth, and to prepare for landing. CRACK!!!! Ethel Mertz hits the pavement and bounces violently up and down like I just had new hydraulics installed. Sparks come flying out from behind me and on the sides, lighting up the expressway in brilliant flashes of yellows and reds. I hold onto the steering wheel for dear life... Talk about white knuckle driving, right? Eventually, the bouncing stops, and a shaky scraping ensues, but I drive onward to Kansas City.
In the morning, I check the alignment, and nothing is wrong, but I do find the arm of a gremlin, and detach it from the bumper, and set off toward Iowa. Next time, I'm going to ride my broom through Kansas.
Let me welcome you to the Kansas Turnpike, 230 miles of Midwest buffalo range pavement. Against my will, I am drawn in, whirled round, blinded, suffocated, and at the same time filled with giddy rapture about the music pumping through the sound system. The whirr of the tires, and rush of broken air add to my cocoon as I drive. There's no one else on the road and as I settle into an enigmatic trance, I set the cruise control at 118 mph.
Time passes, and then down the road something quickly approaches my vehicle. I have enough time to respond, but I don't. Instead, I grab some cheese-its from the plastic bag in the empty passenger seat and think to myself, "Oh, I'm going to hit that large lump of metal in the middle of the road."
Remaining calm, I then ask myself what would someone on a plane do? They would check their seat belt buckle, then put their heads between their legs and kiss their ass goodbye. Unfortunately, the car was too small, and my mouth was too full of cheese crackers, to risk getting close to my neither regions that had been in the same position for the last six hours.
bbbbbbuuuuuzzzzzzzzzzz. KA-BOOM!!!! Ethel Mertz hits the large silver object in the middle of the four lane expressway. Mysteriously... almost magically, we both reenact a scene from ET. The only difference between Hollywood and my trip were: my moon was wrapped in plastic, covered in chocolate, and filled with marshmallow; my extra terrestrial was the flapping of a towel hanging out my window to dry off as I feistily prodded down the freeway. Everything else was the same.
I look out my window. I didn't see the ground anymore. I lay my ear against the clear glass, and I no longer hear the sounds of my tires interacting with the pavement. The rush of wind and the hum of the engine, however did seem more pronounced. I look out the windshield, and notice I can't see the road lines anymore either, it's pitch black ahead of me. Moon pie, please deliver me from being launched into the stratosphere.
Several seconds pass, and just as I get used to the flying sensation and my intestinal butterflies, the captain indicates our return to earth, and to prepare for landing. CRACK!!!! Ethel Mertz hits the pavement and bounces violently up and down like I just had new hydraulics installed. Sparks come flying out from behind me and on the sides, lighting up the expressway in brilliant flashes of yellows and reds. I hold onto the steering wheel for dear life... Talk about white knuckle driving, right? Eventually, the bouncing stops, and a shaky scraping ensues, but I drive onward to Kansas City.
In the morning, I check the alignment, and nothing is wrong, but I do find the arm of a gremlin, and detach it from the bumper, and set off toward Iowa. Next time, I'm going to ride my broom through Kansas.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Thank You, Come Again
Mr Glove is a tall, ambrosial, blond real estate agent. Mr Glove is called Mr Glove because he moved here from the mitten state, where whitetail deer roam free.
Although I haven't asked Mr Glove to indicate where his hometown is on the palm of his right hand, or if his snow blower had more miles on it than his car, I did ask if he's ever experienced the phenomena of deja vu. I experience deja vu on a random yet predictable basis. My experiences are usually due to the temporary symptoms of death I spurt out while popping a squat over the lou after having eaten something just a touch too spicy the night before. I won't bore you with recurrent detailed events, however.
Episode 1: Deja Visite: He picks me up at my condo, and as I get into the car, remarks, "Oh, I used to know someone that lived here in this exact same complex." "Oh, really? That's interesting. I noticed you were parked right outside my window. You're the first person to have ever done that. Are you ready to go rock climbing?" And we head for the freeway.
Episode 2: Sixth Sense: Mr Glove and I arrive at the rock climbing gym. At that precise moment a colleague of his arrives in a sporty 3-series with a blue-eyed muscle boy I vaguely recognize from the gym in a different city. To the best of my knowledge, it was through a random act of mechanical combustion and impeccable timing that they came to the same place without knowledge of our arrival. Introductions pass around the circle like a hot potato, and I pencil the names of two new people into my mental Rolodex, only to misplace it later.
Episode 3: Deja Vecu: After rock climbing, we head back to my condo, and I usher Mr Glove in. He wanders around as I burrow around for sustenance. Looking at me, he asks, "How long have you lived here," his arms crossing his chest. "Oh, since April. My roommates have been here longer, but I don't know how long," I smile toward him over the steel fridge door. His face clouding over, he responds, "You remember how I said I knew someone who lived in this complex? This is the exact same condo they lived in. I remember putting in that lamp, and hanging that ceiling fan, even this flooring- I installed it." I laugh, thinking he's joking, but notice the grim expression afflicting his brow line. "Oh, do you want to go somewhere else? You don't look like you feel good." "Yes, I think that would be best."
Episode 4: Deja visite: We head down the way to an eatery disguised as a flower shop. Inside, we seat ourselves, and our waiter is Mr Flake, someone I had met two years before. He recognises me but doesn't say anything, although he is extra attentive. Mr Glove asks if I know Mr Flake, at which I shrug my shoulders - all I need to know is he's serving us at the moment. Then Glovy says, "I know him from somewhere. I'm going to ask." Mr Flake returns briskly to our table with water. Mr Glove asks him,"Hey, have we met before?" Flaky blinks, leans in, and doesn't recognize Mr Glove, "Um, not that I know of. When was the last time you were here?" "About 3 years ago." "Oh, I've only been here for about 4 months. Maybe you saw me at a party. Do you know so and so?" "No, no I don't. I bet you're just the pretty face in the corner." "Yeah, the pretty face passed out in the corner because I've had too much to drink." At that moment, I learn that Mr Flake isn't only a flake, but also an alcoholic.
Episode 5: Deja Vu: The next day, I drive northward, onward, and upward toward Flagstaff. On the road is a procession of hippies in vans. I pass one pink cream one, and nothing of note, just smoke billowing out the windows. The next van is painted on the back, a picture of the San Francisco Peaks with two UFOs and the words, "Deja Vu" painted above it. I think to myself, "Haven't I had enough already?!" As I pass the van, a man that looks like Jesus with sun glasses looks at me through the window. It's time for a weekend.
Although I haven't asked Mr Glove to indicate where his hometown is on the palm of his right hand, or if his snow blower had more miles on it than his car, I did ask if he's ever experienced the phenomena of deja vu. I experience deja vu on a random yet predictable basis. My experiences are usually due to the temporary symptoms of death I spurt out while popping a squat over the lou after having eaten something just a touch too spicy the night before. I won't bore you with recurrent detailed events, however.
Episode 1: Deja Visite: He picks me up at my condo, and as I get into the car, remarks, "Oh, I used to know someone that lived here in this exact same complex." "Oh, really? That's interesting. I noticed you were parked right outside my window. You're the first person to have ever done that. Are you ready to go rock climbing?" And we head for the freeway.
Episode 2: Sixth Sense: Mr Glove and I arrive at the rock climbing gym. At that precise moment a colleague of his arrives in a sporty 3-series with a blue-eyed muscle boy I vaguely recognize from the gym in a different city. To the best of my knowledge, it was through a random act of mechanical combustion and impeccable timing that they came to the same place without knowledge of our arrival. Introductions pass around the circle like a hot potato, and I pencil the names of two new people into my mental Rolodex, only to misplace it later.
Episode 3: Deja Vecu: After rock climbing, we head back to my condo, and I usher Mr Glove in. He wanders around as I burrow around for sustenance. Looking at me, he asks, "How long have you lived here," his arms crossing his chest. "Oh, since April. My roommates have been here longer, but I don't know how long," I smile toward him over the steel fridge door. His face clouding over, he responds, "You remember how I said I knew someone who lived in this complex? This is the exact same condo they lived in. I remember putting in that lamp, and hanging that ceiling fan, even this flooring- I installed it." I laugh, thinking he's joking, but notice the grim expression afflicting his brow line. "Oh, do you want to go somewhere else? You don't look like you feel good." "Yes, I think that would be best."
Episode 4: Deja visite: We head down the way to an eatery disguised as a flower shop. Inside, we seat ourselves, and our waiter is Mr Flake, someone I had met two years before. He recognises me but doesn't say anything, although he is extra attentive. Mr Glove asks if I know Mr Flake, at which I shrug my shoulders - all I need to know is he's serving us at the moment. Then Glovy says, "I know him from somewhere. I'm going to ask." Mr Flake returns briskly to our table with water. Mr Glove asks him,"Hey, have we met before?" Flaky blinks, leans in, and doesn't recognize Mr Glove, "Um, not that I know of. When was the last time you were here?" "About 3 years ago." "Oh, I've only been here for about 4 months. Maybe you saw me at a party. Do you know so and so?" "No, no I don't. I bet you're just the pretty face in the corner." "Yeah, the pretty face passed out in the corner because I've had too much to drink." At that moment, I learn that Mr Flake isn't only a flake, but also an alcoholic.
Episode 5: Deja Vu: The next day, I drive northward, onward, and upward toward Flagstaff. On the road is a procession of hippies in vans. I pass one pink cream one, and nothing of note, just smoke billowing out the windows. The next van is painted on the back, a picture of the San Francisco Peaks with two UFOs and the words, "Deja Vu" painted above it. I think to myself, "Haven't I had enough already?!" As I pass the van, a man that looks like Jesus with sun glasses looks at me through the window. It's time for a weekend.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Equivalent Conundrums
T: Haven't seen you for a while. Did you find someone to date or something?
BP: Would you be jealous if I did?
T: I would be happy for you. Jealousy is such a wasted emotion. *smile*
BP: Ok. So if it's true that you are happy for me when I am dating someone, then that's equivalent to being non-happy when I'm not dating someone. So, are you happy or non-happy?
T: Ugh, BP, you're too analytical. If you're dating someone, chances are you want to date someone. Either way, you should be happy - single, or attached. It's about being satisfied with who you are. I hope you have a good life.
BP: HAHAHAHA, geez, T, don't take it so personally. It's a joke. Laugh a little. Anyway, I asked if you were happy or non-happy; besides, the answer to your question is no, I'm not.
T: Then I'm happy. *smile*
BP: Would you be jealous if I did?
T: I would be happy for you. Jealousy is such a wasted emotion. *smile*
BP: Ok. So if it's true that you are happy for me when I am dating someone, then that's equivalent to being non-happy when I'm not dating someone. So, are you happy or non-happy?
T: Ugh, BP, you're too analytical. If you're dating someone, chances are you want to date someone. Either way, you should be happy - single, or attached. It's about being satisfied with who you are. I hope you have a good life.
BP: HAHAHAHA, geez, T, don't take it so personally. It's a joke. Laugh a little. Anyway, I asked if you were happy or non-happy; besides, the answer to your question is no, I'm not.
T: Then I'm happy. *smile*
Thursday, August 2, 2007
In the beginning
Ah, the corporate card. I love that little silver sliver of plastic. It fits so snugly into my hand and on the wings of angels, gracefully flies out of my fingertips when I approach any slitted machine with a magnetic eye. And the cash register blinks, "Let there be purchases", and there was purchasing. And I saw the products, that they were good, and divided the perishable from the non-perishable. And I called the perishable edible, and the non-perishable storeable, and the plastic and paper were the first bags that day.
Really though, when I use the card, it's not that prolific, and I only use it sparingly. *wink* Today tho, the Directator offered the plastic bank so that I may buy New Girl and myself lunch. I wonder if he's Greek... However, I threw the book down and rejected the piece of plastic since lunch today is going to be comped by B-Boo's Chef.
Even tho I've never met this mysterious man of the burning stove, Chef loves me because I love delicious food. I love sumptuous food so much, that one day during brunch, I picked a slice of ham up off my plate, closed my eyes, and used it to caress my cheeks as I whispered sweet nothings to my fried potatoes while inhaling the nearby sweet baguettetty aroma. Totally kidding. What actually happened was I had a lemon pastry that I stabbed at. Escaping my clutches, it flew across the table only to land in the nape of M's elbow. I immediately pulled on her hand to pop her buttery joint toward the ceiling and choreographed an Oscar-worthy chewing of the tart in mid flight.
But really, If I were to have to choose between giving up good food or sex, hands down I'd give up sex. After all, you can have good food in public (even in groups in public) without getting into legal trouble.
So, without the Directator's corporate card, New Girl and myself pile into one of the fifteen cars people trust me with while they're flying around the country. We arrive a du Jour and order drinks, soup, bread, an entree, and dessert. New Girl had never experienced a four course lunch; I had never heard New Girl give murmurs of pleasure over what she ate. In other words, she subsists off of Styrofoam Mexican peppers, deep fried cardboard chicken nuggets, waxed covered Chinese MSG, and plastic encased cubes of sugar encrusted hamburgers. Not the tastiest of food choices.
The soup comes. "Mmmmm. Oh, mmmmm. Wow," New Girl lets out a gasp of excitement. I ask,"Is it good?" "Yes. Oh my god. I mean, you said it was going to be good, but I didn't think it would be this good." I smile as she continues, "I don't even like asparagus, but I'd pay $18 just for that bowl of asparagus soup!" She pats her mouth dry of saliva.
"Well, I'm glad that you enjoy it. Interesting sounds you're making there, by the way." She looks up, soup drops on her uniform, which she says, "Oh, see here? I love it so much, I'm already taking some home with me." I hand her a slab of ham to wipe off her cheeks after she finishes sponging the soup off her shirt. She continues to let out little puffs of sheer joy in the form of high pitched squeaks as the meal goes on. It's begun - I've ruined New Girl for life on all other food.
Really though, when I use the card, it's not that prolific, and I only use it sparingly. *wink* Today tho, the Directator offered the plastic bank so that I may buy New Girl and myself lunch. I wonder if he's Greek... However, I threw the book down and rejected the piece of plastic since lunch today is going to be comped by B-Boo's Chef.
Even tho I've never met this mysterious man of the burning stove, Chef loves me because I love delicious food. I love sumptuous food so much, that one day during brunch, I picked a slice of ham up off my plate, closed my eyes, and used it to caress my cheeks as I whispered sweet nothings to my fried potatoes while inhaling the nearby sweet baguettetty aroma. Totally kidding. What actually happened was I had a lemon pastry that I stabbed at. Escaping my clutches, it flew across the table only to land in the nape of M's elbow. I immediately pulled on her hand to pop her buttery joint toward the ceiling and choreographed an Oscar-worthy chewing of the tart in mid flight.
But really, If I were to have to choose between giving up good food or sex, hands down I'd give up sex. After all, you can have good food in public (even in groups in public) without getting into legal trouble.
So, without the Directator's corporate card, New Girl and myself pile into one of the fifteen cars people trust me with while they're flying around the country. We arrive a du Jour and order drinks, soup, bread, an entree, and dessert. New Girl had never experienced a four course lunch; I had never heard New Girl give murmurs of pleasure over what she ate. In other words, she subsists off of Styrofoam Mexican peppers, deep fried cardboard chicken nuggets, waxed covered Chinese MSG, and plastic encased cubes of sugar encrusted hamburgers. Not the tastiest of food choices.
The soup comes. "Mmmmm. Oh, mmmmm. Wow," New Girl lets out a gasp of excitement. I ask,"Is it good?" "Yes. Oh my god. I mean, you said it was going to be good, but I didn't think it would be this good." I smile as she continues, "I don't even like asparagus, but I'd pay $18 just for that bowl of asparagus soup!" She pats her mouth dry of saliva.
"Well, I'm glad that you enjoy it. Interesting sounds you're making there, by the way." She looks up, soup drops on her uniform, which she says, "Oh, see here? I love it so much, I'm already taking some home with me." I hand her a slab of ham to wipe off her cheeks after she finishes sponging the soup off her shirt. She continues to let out little puffs of sheer joy in the form of high pitched squeaks as the meal goes on. It's begun - I've ruined New Girl for life on all other food.
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