I love food with holes. I love bagels... and cherish Lifesavers, Cheerios, and pitted olives. I relish peach rings, onion rings, and angel food cakes. But most of all, I'm enchanted by glazed yeast doughnuts. Those light and airy golden rings of heaven are a delicious symphony of candied, feather-pillowed bliss in my mouth. If I could control my oral urges better, I'd propose by slipping one of these sugary bands on the proposed's finger. Alas, that can't happen because the engagement would be off in the morning when my new fiance finds a lightly crumbed plate and dear john note on the night stand. It would read something like, "I just couldn't help it..." This is where we introduce MsBlonde.
MsBlonde is my daily companion in the remote and glacial northern reaches of the New Hampshire woods. With a firecracker personality exploding from an array of various caffeinated white pills, weekend parties of tight, brightly colored disco clothes, and impassioned soirees in the library book stacks, MsBlonde was my colorful, unscrupulous scamp. She too, loved eating round, syrup rimmed foods. We often made multiple late night dashes across the back wood tundra to the local upper valley Dunkin' Doughnuts.
It's 4:20am, April 20th, and I need a sugar fix to sustain the all-night cramming necessary for the upcoming two weeks of college exams. In a short e-mail exchange with MsBlonde, we decide to make a mad dash for a little obese and diabetic goodness.
Entering the bright and cozy bakery from the damp and crisp darkness, we place our order for gallons of high octane coffee, a few scalloped muffins, and an army of fresh doughnuts. We notice that the DoughnutBoy is more than convivial, so we ask if we can see how the doughnuts are made if we give him some of our "jungle mix". He agrees with a broad smile and tells us to enter through the side.
Stumbling in, he instructs us to sit on a Volkswagen sized sack of flour. While imbibing himself in our offering, someone comes up to the drive through. He listens to their muffled order over his headset, "I want three sugar free doughnuts, one latte grandé with half and half, two shots hazelnut and caramel. I also want one breakfast sandwich, no cheese with bacon and double eggs, two small coffees, one blueberry bagel with cream cheese, and napkins." Starting our journey into the heart of darkness, the Jungle begins affecting our senses. MsBlonde and I watch in awe as DoughnutBoy ingests more, stops, repeats the order back verbatim, and then exhales with a large smile. We break out into silly, boisterous laughter at his performance.
DoughnutBoy tells us to quiet down as he goes up front to fulfill the order. MsBlonde, the mischievous munchkin, stands up and starts sniffing around the back, with me in tow. We come across a large metal door labeled "Freezer".
Slipping inside, we explore the cavernous confines of the refrigerated dough mausoleum. Everywhere around us are various floured, buttered, and sugared pastry carcases ready for the doughnut baking crematorium. I encounter a second door inside and enter a dark room known as "Super Freezer". MsBlonde looses me among the catalogued articles of fossilized glazes and icings.
Leaving Super Freezer, I encounter an ancient button which I push and hear a small click and rumble. I become locked inside the Arctic icebox and start banging ferociously on the door for what seemed like hours. Fortunately for my cyanizing hands, MsBlonde opens the door, then falls to the floor in fits of laughter. "HAHAHA, BP! The door was never locked! I was holding it shut and made it sound like something locked on you." I start to fume, but MsBlonde abruptly stops laughing. She points to the wall and petrifies, hinting me to look at the government camera installed on the wall.
My eyes go big as my nostrils flare outward. My ears pull back like a scared puppy, and my mouth forms a gaping cave on my lackluster face. Going white as a sheet, my arms slump to my sides, and my neck becomes a wet noodle as I collapse to the floor atop MsBlonde (reinactment here). Conspiringly, I tell MsBlonde on the ground, "Do you think they're watching us? I think if we stay here on the ground, they won't find us." We remain frozen and motionless door stops.
DoughnutBoy comes around the corner, gives us a quizzical look and asks what we're doing. All we can do is widely eye the wall mounted video camera. Lieing belly down on the floor, and crawling to us in military fashion, he whispers, "Psst! You know what? Those cameras in here don't work."
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Beggars Can't Be Choosers
I shuffle past the Arizona Center and encounter a black, salt and pepper bearded man, dressed in a torn t-shirt and rumpled, dirt clogged blue-jeans. My cel phone is in my mouth, a Styrofoam food container in my left hand, my wallet and $20 showing in my right. Looking at my sordid state of affairs, the lonely beggar asks, "Do you have a dollar or some change so I can get something to eat?" Not quite hearing him, I do my best to muffle through my overpriced plastic transceiver, "What did you say?" He asks again if I have spare pocket change.
Realizing that I had cash boldly displayed in my disarrayed hands, I couldn't lie and say, "Oh, no, I have NO MONEY." He would have looked down and seen it, and how would I respond? Would I say, "Are you going to believe me, or your slowly cataracting eyes, old man?" Honestly, that's just plain mean.
Instead, I remove the small monolith from my teeth and say, "You want food?" He stands there, trying to decipher my question, and looks a little lost. What he heard linguistically: instructions on how to construct a Rube Goldberg Machine with mini-chopstick shaped tweezers in the vacuum of space while contained inside an artificial womb made out of grape jello. Responding to his embarrassingly long silence, and to make my question less convoluted, I shove the container of food into his hands and say, "Here's some food."
Scrunching his nose at my abundant offering, he says, "Oh, I can't eat shrimp. Do you have money?" Impulsively tilting my head toward my shoulder and jutting out my jaw in slight confusion to his response, I respond, "There's no shrimp in there. It's pizza. Look at it." He peeks inside and registers that its ok to eat. Disregarding this new information he asks, "Oh, well can I still have a dollar for something to drink?"
Pointing at the Big Gulp in his hand, I raise an eyebrow and unbelievably say, "Um... You already have something to drink right there." The beggar shakes his cup and says, "Well it's almost empty." I shoot right back, "Ok. Well, take it inside and ask them to fill it up with water for you. If they won't, there's a fountain around the corner." Rebuffed, he says, "I can't just have water. I NEED something FIZZY AND SWEET."
Standing there, my jaw hits the pavement at a ridiculous speed. Becoming instantaneously annoyed with his refusal of life-giving water (which I drink like it's going out of style), my face turns a brilliant shade of tomato, "Look, you asked me for food, you have food. You have a cup for water, and it's available around the corner. You have what you need, now GOOD NIGHT!"
Stomping away, I hear him huff about how audacious my mannerisms were with my apparent refusal to lay myself at his feet. I can understand tastes and preferences, but honestly, as far as I'm concerned: beggars can't be choosers. Maybe next time I'll instruct him to practice the art of gracious living by ruminating around the park and discovering rubberized curiosities he can thoroughly enjoy without any lubricating assistance. In other words: "Piss off if you're not going to be thankful for gifts of food and water."
On a lighter note, I don't have to worry about a high calorie lunch today, since I no longer have any leftovers. Thank god for choosy beggars... those bastards.
Realizing that I had cash boldly displayed in my disarrayed hands, I couldn't lie and say, "Oh, no, I have NO MONEY." He would have looked down and seen it, and how would I respond? Would I say, "Are you going to believe me, or your slowly cataracting eyes, old man?" Honestly, that's just plain mean.
Instead, I remove the small monolith from my teeth and say, "You want food?" He stands there, trying to decipher my question, and looks a little lost. What he heard linguistically: instructions on how to construct a Rube Goldberg Machine with mini-chopstick shaped tweezers in the vacuum of space while contained inside an artificial womb made out of grape jello. Responding to his embarrassingly long silence, and to make my question less convoluted, I shove the container of food into his hands and say, "Here's some food."
Scrunching his nose at my abundant offering, he says, "Oh, I can't eat shrimp. Do you have money?" Impulsively tilting my head toward my shoulder and jutting out my jaw in slight confusion to his response, I respond, "There's no shrimp in there. It's pizza. Look at it." He peeks inside and registers that its ok to eat. Disregarding this new information he asks, "Oh, well can I still have a dollar for something to drink?"
Pointing at the Big Gulp in his hand, I raise an eyebrow and unbelievably say, "Um... You already have something to drink right there." The beggar shakes his cup and says, "Well it's almost empty." I shoot right back, "Ok. Well, take it inside and ask them to fill it up with water for you. If they won't, there's a fountain around the corner." Rebuffed, he says, "I can't just have water. I NEED something FIZZY AND SWEET."
Standing there, my jaw hits the pavement at a ridiculous speed. Becoming instantaneously annoyed with his refusal of life-giving water (which I drink like it's going out of style), my face turns a brilliant shade of tomato, "Look, you asked me for food, you have food. You have a cup for water, and it's available around the corner. You have what you need, now GOOD NIGHT!"
Stomping away, I hear him huff about how audacious my mannerisms were with my apparent refusal to lay myself at his feet. I can understand tastes and preferences, but honestly, as far as I'm concerned: beggars can't be choosers. Maybe next time I'll instruct him to practice the art of gracious living by ruminating around the park and discovering rubberized curiosities he can thoroughly enjoy without any lubricating assistance. In other words: "Piss off if you're not going to be thankful for gifts of food and water."
On a lighter note, I don't have to worry about a high calorie lunch today, since I no longer have any leftovers. Thank god for choosy beggars... those bastards.
Monday, September 24, 2007
Our Next Game Is Called 'Feel Up'...
"Ok, now for our next game, you have to be very, very, VERY comfortable with your partner. We need three couples, or pairs of people, ok?" Mumsy Hyphenatie sweetly curves her cherubic lips, displaying her lustrous pearly whites. "We need to move the chairs out of the way and create a little bit of space to play. Let's move them to the edges of the room." She starts moving chairs and the party guests follow suit, moving their chairs toward the peppermint striped cream and rouge walls.
As the rules are explained, I reach for and open the gallon-sized Ziploc bag marked "FEEL UP: 6 PEOPLE". If that isn't an open invitation, I don't know what is.
I walk around and start blind-folding the baby shower participants, and Mumsy continues, "Ok you are now being blindfolded. We are going to attach five clothes pins to each person's clothing. The object of the game is for each person to find the clothes pins on their partner and collect them in their hands. The first team to do this wins."
Tieing the last stretch of blue/black fabric with gold sparkles, I look over at Mumsy and say, "Ok, they're done. Should we spin them around, beat them with bats, or just let them go at it?"
"Let's spin them around a few times THEN let them go at it, ha ha ha," Mumsy guffaws loudly and continues to naughtily chortle as she starts turning one of the couples in circles. In the playing field, we have six dizzy people: a married couple, a pair of twenty-something women, and an elderly man and woman who had just met an hour prior.
Like a sassy, breast feeding Julius Caesar dressed in black, my sister sticks out her thumb and says, "Let the clothes-pinning begin!" As "I'm A Little Teapot" starts playing, we attach wooden clamps to the participants' neck collars, underarm area, backside, behind the knee, and at shoe level. The music stops, we say, "Get ready, Get set, Go!" Immediately, "The Simple Bear Necessities" starts playing and the couples lunge at each other like large football players.... ROAR!!!!! the crowd rumbles and bellow in support of the now blind participants.
The two girls bonk heads and the married man accidentally gropes his wife in an uncomfortable spot. The senior woman stands there, frigid, as the old man leaps toward her shoulders in search of his woody prey. The perplexed husband stops his wife's giddy fondling and says, "What are you doing?! Here, turn around!" At which point, the wife smiles broadly, shoots her arms straight up, starts turning around and around screaming, "aaaaaaahhhh!"
He stops her by grabbing her waist, they bump each other's torsos and fall to the ground in comical snorts. Meanwhile, the two girls discover that they have ticklish spots they never knew existed. The crowd thunders louder with laughter. I turn my attention back to the newly familiarized older couple.
In a semi-dignified manner, the older man bashfully frisks his new acquaintance with two open palmed hands. She's still motionless, and we're not sure if she's suffered a heart attack. Out of the blue, she grabs his head and pushes it downward toward the floor. He pats down her leg, causing her to yelp in a Pollyanna-ish manner. Jumping, she kicks up her heals, and becomes a youthful school girl. "OH! No one has touched my leg like that in eleven years," she laughs out loud. Meanwhile, the two girls have worked out a scheme: one kneels and searches the lower levels of the other, while the woman standing searches around the kneeling one's head. They end up winning, but not without a few camera flashes displaying blindfolded blushed faces in vicarious positions.
The older woman, taking off her blindfold and gesturing to her partner, says to the group, "I knew where that last one was on him, but I didn't want to touch him there!" The clothes pin she was just referring to? It was behind his knee. Distribute the presents for winning, and give the older woman a thong for modesty - that's what baby showers are all about.
As the rules are explained, I reach for and open the gallon-sized Ziploc bag marked "FEEL UP: 6 PEOPLE". If that isn't an open invitation, I don't know what is.
I walk around and start blind-folding the baby shower participants, and Mumsy continues, "Ok you are now being blindfolded. We are going to attach five clothes pins to each person's clothing. The object of the game is for each person to find the clothes pins on their partner and collect them in their hands. The first team to do this wins."
Tieing the last stretch of blue/black fabric with gold sparkles, I look over at Mumsy and say, "Ok, they're done. Should we spin them around, beat them with bats, or just let them go at it?"
"Let's spin them around a few times THEN let them go at it, ha ha ha," Mumsy guffaws loudly and continues to naughtily chortle as she starts turning one of the couples in circles. In the playing field, we have six dizzy people: a married couple, a pair of twenty-something women, and an elderly man and woman who had just met an hour prior.
Like a sassy, breast feeding Julius Caesar dressed in black, my sister sticks out her thumb and says, "Let the clothes-pinning begin!" As "I'm A Little Teapot" starts playing, we attach wooden clamps to the participants' neck collars, underarm area, backside, behind the knee, and at shoe level. The music stops, we say, "Get ready, Get set, Go!" Immediately, "The Simple Bear Necessities" starts playing and the couples lunge at each other like large football players.... ROAR!!!!! the crowd rumbles and bellow in support of the now blind participants.
The two girls bonk heads and the married man accidentally gropes his wife in an uncomfortable spot. The senior woman stands there, frigid, as the old man leaps toward her shoulders in search of his woody prey. The perplexed husband stops his wife's giddy fondling and says, "What are you doing?! Here, turn around!" At which point, the wife smiles broadly, shoots her arms straight up, starts turning around and around screaming, "aaaaaaahhhh!"
He stops her by grabbing her waist, they bump each other's torsos and fall to the ground in comical snorts. Meanwhile, the two girls discover that they have ticklish spots they never knew existed. The crowd thunders louder with laughter. I turn my attention back to the newly familiarized older couple.
In a semi-dignified manner, the older man bashfully frisks his new acquaintance with two open palmed hands. She's still motionless, and we're not sure if she's suffered a heart attack. Out of the blue, she grabs his head and pushes it downward toward the floor. He pats down her leg, causing her to yelp in a Pollyanna-ish manner. Jumping, she kicks up her heals, and becomes a youthful school girl. "OH! No one has touched my leg like that in eleven years," she laughs out loud. Meanwhile, the two girls have worked out a scheme: one kneels and searches the lower levels of the other, while the woman standing searches around the kneeling one's head. They end up winning, but not without a few camera flashes displaying blindfolded blushed faces in vicarious positions.
The older woman, taking off her blindfold and gesturing to her partner, says to the group, "I knew where that last one was on him, but I didn't want to touch him there!" The clothes pin she was just referring to? It was behind his knee. Distribute the presents for winning, and give the older woman a thong for modesty - that's what baby showers are all about.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Sleep... It Keeps You Regular
Every now and then, there are those sweet dreams we cherish for decades after we wake. Perhaps it's about a perfectly peeled, cartoon style banana we harness in our hands and devour with strawberry lips. Perhaps it's about a stapler adorned in gold, attaching a winning lottery ticket to the mammoth check that was just issued to you. Maybe it's about having a little too much coffee and taking a taser gun to your annoying neighbor's nipples. Whatever it is, we all have those luscious, delectable dreams we savor forever after.
On the flip side, we also have nightmares. They may stem from a culturally induced sleep disorder involving nighttime breathing. Maybe your parents painted an ugly face on a helium balloon, and said they would "summon the floating head of death" to appear outside by attaching the balloon to a string and floating it from a first-floor window below your second floor bedroom. Maybe it's about someone giving you a bad haircut. Whatever it is, we all also have those devilish images that frighten the bejesus out of us when we're sleeping.
Lastly, there's that "other" category. You know those dreams and memories that fly through your psyche from left field at the speed of undecipherable meaning? Yes, we've all had occurrences where we wake up going, "Huh? Where the hell did THAT come from?!" My dream fits into this third category. It grew from the fertile bed of insanity and blossomed into the greenhouse of my mind.
I walk into a pumpkin orange lecture hall. There are wood desks in semi-circular auditorium style seating on multi-levels of grey carpet. In the front of the 200 plus instruction suite, is a large green chalk board that slides up and down with a long, table like podium in front. Perched atop are various academic paraphernalia like books of philosophy jokes, Renoir paintings, lasers, and strings of rock candy.
I take my seat in the front row at the right edge of the room and take out my notebooks, preparing for the lecture. The professor enters, adjusts his brown glasses and begins. At that moment, I have a most unholy urge to poo. It's an inhuman feeling, really. I look around out of explosive fear, and notice the doors have locked and I can't leave the room, then I look down...
In a rather auspicious manner, my padded chair had morphed into a porcelain temple, ready to accept my offering of internal prayer synchronized through throttling movements. My pants found their way down my legs and lay there, smiling at me, from my ankles. Salvation at hand, I look up and notice that I'm still in the lecture hall surrounded by my classmates and they can smell me. A most unusual feeling encumbers my chest. *Plop* *Ker-Plunk* *Splash* The avalanche starts.
The room gasps; some of the filled desks chuckle at my predicament. *glop* Another bomb drops. I switch focus to the professor who's face looks like he had just sucked on four lemons and had motor oil shot into his eyes. Apparently, he doesn't like what's happening. Dropping my head into my hands out of embarrassment, I remind myself that this isn't the end of the world, and I look back and say, "I'm sorry, guys, but I do have to wipe now." I lean to the side, grabbing the newly materialized toilet paper on my left, fold it and dip into dingle berry jungle. Everyone groans out of partial disgust and delight that it's almost over.
Standing up for more leverage, I gain an ounce of confidence and turn around exposed, and say, "Look, just because you're jealous that you don't even have the balls to poo in front of your dog in your own home doesn't mean that you have any right to belittle me because the doors are locked and my chair is a stool collector. Besides... it's convenient." I finish, pull my pants up, flush, and tell the professor to continue his lecture. At this point, he grabs a Febreeze air freshener and continues talking.
Waking up, I look around to see what's a mess, and thankfully, nothing is, so I hit the snooze button for another 15 minutes of a different dream.
On the flip side, we also have nightmares. They may stem from a culturally induced sleep disorder involving nighttime breathing. Maybe your parents painted an ugly face on a helium balloon, and said they would "summon the floating head of death" to appear outside by attaching the balloon to a string and floating it from a first-floor window below your second floor bedroom. Maybe it's about someone giving you a bad haircut. Whatever it is, we all also have those devilish images that frighten the bejesus out of us when we're sleeping.
Lastly, there's that "other" category. You know those dreams and memories that fly through your psyche from left field at the speed of undecipherable meaning? Yes, we've all had occurrences where we wake up going, "Huh? Where the hell did THAT come from?!" My dream fits into this third category. It grew from the fertile bed of insanity and blossomed into the greenhouse of my mind.
I walk into a pumpkin orange lecture hall. There are wood desks in semi-circular auditorium style seating on multi-levels of grey carpet. In the front of the 200 plus instruction suite, is a large green chalk board that slides up and down with a long, table like podium in front. Perched atop are various academic paraphernalia like books of philosophy jokes, Renoir paintings, lasers, and strings of rock candy.
I take my seat in the front row at the right edge of the room and take out my notebooks, preparing for the lecture. The professor enters, adjusts his brown glasses and begins. At that moment, I have a most unholy urge to poo. It's an inhuman feeling, really. I look around out of explosive fear, and notice the doors have locked and I can't leave the room, then I look down...
In a rather auspicious manner, my padded chair had morphed into a porcelain temple, ready to accept my offering of internal prayer synchronized through throttling movements. My pants found their way down my legs and lay there, smiling at me, from my ankles. Salvation at hand, I look up and notice that I'm still in the lecture hall surrounded by my classmates and they can smell me. A most unusual feeling encumbers my chest. *Plop* *Ker-Plunk* *Splash* The avalanche starts.
The room gasps; some of the filled desks chuckle at my predicament. *glop* Another bomb drops. I switch focus to the professor who's face looks like he had just sucked on four lemons and had motor oil shot into his eyes. Apparently, he doesn't like what's happening. Dropping my head into my hands out of embarrassment, I remind myself that this isn't the end of the world, and I look back and say, "I'm sorry, guys, but I do have to wipe now." I lean to the side, grabbing the newly materialized toilet paper on my left, fold it and dip into dingle berry jungle. Everyone groans out of partial disgust and delight that it's almost over.
Standing up for more leverage, I gain an ounce of confidence and turn around exposed, and say, "Look, just because you're jealous that you don't even have the balls to poo in front of your dog in your own home doesn't mean that you have any right to belittle me because the doors are locked and my chair is a stool collector. Besides... it's convenient." I finish, pull my pants up, flush, and tell the professor to continue his lecture. At this point, he grabs a Febreeze air freshener and continues talking.
Waking up, I look around to see what's a mess, and thankfully, nothing is, so I hit the snooze button for another 15 minutes of a different dream.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Mr Toad's Wild Ride
"New Girl? Can you come outside and give me a jump?" I wistfully say into my phone.
"Oh no, what's going on? Is it Tasty Cakes? I'll be right out." She hangs up the phone and I wait in the 100 degree parking lot sunshine near the hospital.
Walking by, New Girl laughs at me and pulls up her maroon chariot and continues laughing. I attach the jumper cables and tell her to rev her engine. Bbbbbrrrroooom brrooom! Tasty Cakes starts up. "Hey! Stop draining my engine! My car is going to die," New girl smartly cracks a stab at my predicament. "Ok, ok, geez. I'll be back in a lil' bit." I go to a lunch where my friend Ms. V has already eaten her meal, having waited a whole extra four minutes for me.
"MY GOD, BP, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN MY WHOLE LIFE?!"
"Um, I was just jumping my car before I got here. I'll need a jump from you before we're done tho." She watches me finish my small dog sized burrito, and I get jumped for the second time that day and head home to obtain THE BOX for my return trip after work.
I jump my car in the parking lot after work and get on the road. Buzzing along, I turn out of the parking lot onto the street. put-put-put-putter out, and the car dies. AAAAAGGGHHHH!!!! I motion people to go around me as I connect THE BOX to my battery terminals... fifteen times over the next 30 minutes in the middle of traffic. Word on the street is that every time I'd sit down to turn the key, the clamps would fall off and I'd methodically jump out of the car to re-attach them in the same place and start over... again... and again... and again. We all remember that the definition of insanity is repeating the same actions over and over despite consistent failure, right? Enter BP.
I head home, and inform Muscle Calves and CW I'm going to get a new battery 20 miles away since it's still under warranty. I head out of downtown with THE BOX, past the ghetto, past the warehouse district, across the dry river, pass the cows and cornfields, past the landfill being covered over for new housing developments, and arrive. After exchanging my ill-fated battery and connecting the brand new one, I smile snugly and attempt to start the car. Nothing. Scheista! I break out THE BOX again and jump my car three more times. Each time THE BOX becomes disconnected, the car dies. Great!
I walk back inside and hastily start berating the quality of goods at Walmart to one of the managers. The white chonga girl brushes back her excessively gelled hair with her three inch Lee nails press on. While raising her eyebrows in surprise and pushing out her lips like they'd been stung by a bee, she attempts to remove the elephantine bracelets dangling from her ears in preparation to brawl with me. As she's about to remove the bedazzled chonkla from her feet, the other manager jumps in and explains to us it's probably a dead alternator. Damn
Beating a retreat back to my car, I have a clever idea and cackle to myself. I secure THE BOX inside my engine and connect it to the battery. Using three zip ties to keep my hood down while I drive, I hop into the driver's seat, start the car, and throw the shifter into drive. Tasty Cakes lurches forward and starts heading out the parking lot.
Traveling down the road at a reasonable pace, I get stuck behind a van going 10mph, so I attempt to pass it. Gaining speed, and laughing loudly as I pass the van, the hood opens up in front of me, obscuring everything in sight. I slam on the breaks, THE BOX flies out of the engine, the car dies, and I come to a rolling stop in a corn field on the side of the road. The van passes by with whoops of laughter. This time I get out, find the lightly road-scathed BOX, re-attach it, pull a shoelace off my sneaker and secure the hood down again. I just want to get home.
I gain speed, confident that the shoelace will not melt like the zip ties. However, I noticed earlier that when I press on the brakes, the engine starts to putter out, so I stop using the breaks. I come screeching around the corner at lightning speed and am on the final homestretch. Just then, a truck going in the opposite direction turns in front of me and partly stalls. I honk, not wanting to have my engine die for the umpteenth time, and they don't move. I swerve and look over at the crazy people. Just then, I notice that they were turning into an Auto Zone, where I needed to get my alternator checked. I hang a hard right into the parking lot, and come to a screechy puttery halt. One of the managers looks at me with wide, stony eyes and isn't sure what to say as I step from the black bat.
The manager checks my alternator as I regale him with the details of my journey, and a homeless man approaches. The manager goes back inside, and I grab a crowbar from the backseat of my car to serve the dual purpose of fixing the new dents in my freshly aired hood and to scare him away. I get a new alternator, secure THE BOX to the engine and head home at a brisk pace.
Two miles from my destination, I notice I just passed four police cars, I'm going 20 miles over the speed limit, and it's quota time in Phoenix. Wonderful. Using some rather racy moves, I outrun their detection and arrive at home... only to have the car stall when I get in the parking lot. Such love.
"Oh no, what's going on? Is it Tasty Cakes? I'll be right out." She hangs up the phone and I wait in the 100 degree parking lot sunshine near the hospital.
Walking by, New Girl laughs at me and pulls up her maroon chariot and continues laughing. I attach the jumper cables and tell her to rev her engine. Bbbbbrrrroooom brrooom! Tasty Cakes starts up. "Hey! Stop draining my engine! My car is going to die," New girl smartly cracks a stab at my predicament. "Ok, ok, geez. I'll be back in a lil' bit." I go to a lunch where my friend Ms. V has already eaten her meal, having waited a whole extra four minutes for me.
"MY GOD, BP, WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN MY WHOLE LIFE?!"
"Um, I was just jumping my car before I got here. I'll need a jump from you before we're done tho." She watches me finish my small dog sized burrito, and I get jumped for the second time that day and head home to obtain THE BOX for my return trip after work.
I jump my car in the parking lot after work and get on the road. Buzzing along, I turn out of the parking lot onto the street. put-put-put-putter out, and the car dies. AAAAAGGGHHHH!!!! I motion people to go around me as I connect THE BOX to my battery terminals... fifteen times over the next 30 minutes in the middle of traffic. Word on the street is that every time I'd sit down to turn the key, the clamps would fall off and I'd methodically jump out of the car to re-attach them in the same place and start over... again... and again... and again. We all remember that the definition of insanity is repeating the same actions over and over despite consistent failure, right? Enter BP.
I head home, and inform Muscle Calves and CW I'm going to get a new battery 20 miles away since it's still under warranty. I head out of downtown with THE BOX, past the ghetto, past the warehouse district, across the dry river, pass the cows and cornfields, past the landfill being covered over for new housing developments, and arrive. After exchanging my ill-fated battery and connecting the brand new one, I smile snugly and attempt to start the car. Nothing. Scheista! I break out THE BOX again and jump my car three more times. Each time THE BOX becomes disconnected, the car dies. Great!
I walk back inside and hastily start berating the quality of goods at Walmart to one of the managers. The white chonga girl brushes back her excessively gelled hair with her three inch Lee nails press on. While raising her eyebrows in surprise and pushing out her lips like they'd been stung by a bee, she attempts to remove the elephantine bracelets dangling from her ears in preparation to brawl with me. As she's about to remove the bedazzled chonkla from her feet, the other manager jumps in and explains to us it's probably a dead alternator. Damn
Beating a retreat back to my car, I have a clever idea and cackle to myself. I secure THE BOX inside my engine and connect it to the battery. Using three zip ties to keep my hood down while I drive, I hop into the driver's seat, start the car, and throw the shifter into drive. Tasty Cakes lurches forward and starts heading out the parking lot.
Traveling down the road at a reasonable pace, I get stuck behind a van going 10mph, so I attempt to pass it. Gaining speed, and laughing loudly as I pass the van, the hood opens up in front of me, obscuring everything in sight. I slam on the breaks, THE BOX flies out of the engine, the car dies, and I come to a rolling stop in a corn field on the side of the road. The van passes by with whoops of laughter. This time I get out, find the lightly road-scathed BOX, re-attach it, pull a shoelace off my sneaker and secure the hood down again. I just want to get home.
I gain speed, confident that the shoelace will not melt like the zip ties. However, I noticed earlier that when I press on the brakes, the engine starts to putter out, so I stop using the breaks. I come screeching around the corner at lightning speed and am on the final homestretch. Just then, a truck going in the opposite direction turns in front of me and partly stalls. I honk, not wanting to have my engine die for the umpteenth time, and they don't move. I swerve and look over at the crazy people. Just then, I notice that they were turning into an Auto Zone, where I needed to get my alternator checked. I hang a hard right into the parking lot, and come to a screechy puttery halt. One of the managers looks at me with wide, stony eyes and isn't sure what to say as I step from the black bat.
The manager checks my alternator as I regale him with the details of my journey, and a homeless man approaches. The manager goes back inside, and I grab a crowbar from the backseat of my car to serve the dual purpose of fixing the new dents in my freshly aired hood and to scare him away. I get a new alternator, secure THE BOX to the engine and head home at a brisk pace.
Two miles from my destination, I notice I just passed four police cars, I'm going 20 miles over the speed limit, and it's quota time in Phoenix. Wonderful. Using some rather racy moves, I outrun their detection and arrive at home... only to have the car stall when I get in the parking lot. Such love.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Baby TJ
Oh, the dutiful pain of eating for two, and then having to push something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a lemon. What could be better than having a new baby?! Everyone loves babies. That is... everyone but me, and my four year old niece. I don't like them because I think I'll break them. She doesn't like them because, like all older childhood siblings, she doesn't get as much attention.
The new baby is her brother, TJ. Welcome to the world, little one, just don't anyone get close to putting him in my hands, I might spontaneously combust. However, hand me a margarita, and I'll spontaneously start smiling at suddenly attractive strangers. I prefer the latter to the former.
Apparently, he looks like me when I was born - with long black hair smothered all over his little head. I still haven't seen him, since I have this natural, and rational fear of flames erupting from my pores. My mom has seen TJ, however.
While visiting my sister in the hospital, Mumsy Hyphenatie was crooning over the little guy, admiring his closed eyes and little mouth. She exuberantly remarks, "He's so handsome!" My niece, Little S, looks up, face covered with dismay and says, "He's NOT HANDSOME! He has NO TEETH!" Little S then lets out a room vibrating laugh and toddles over to the group. Apparently, Little S is becoming more rambunctious around everyone since she's starved for attention since people now look at and talk about baby TJ in front of her. Life must be really hard.
Now, on the other hand, kids grow up. Even tho parents and grandparents usually love their kids and grand kids without bounds, reality eventually sets in. GoAskAlice sent me a text message the other day. She said, "You know how people talk about their kids and croon over them even when they're ugly? My mom used to do that. Now my mom says, 'You used to be so cute, what happened?' She doesn't play." Ah... remind me to never have kids, and if I do... to be a little more gracious with my words. Just keep the babies away from me.
The new baby is her brother, TJ. Welcome to the world, little one, just don't anyone get close to putting him in my hands, I might spontaneously combust. However, hand me a margarita, and I'll spontaneously start smiling at suddenly attractive strangers. I prefer the latter to the former.
Apparently, he looks like me when I was born - with long black hair smothered all over his little head. I still haven't seen him, since I have this natural, and rational fear of flames erupting from my pores. My mom has seen TJ, however.
While visiting my sister in the hospital, Mumsy Hyphenatie was crooning over the little guy, admiring his closed eyes and little mouth. She exuberantly remarks, "He's so handsome!" My niece, Little S, looks up, face covered with dismay and says, "He's NOT HANDSOME! He has NO TEETH!" Little S then lets out a room vibrating laugh and toddles over to the group. Apparently, Little S is becoming more rambunctious around everyone since she's starved for attention since people now look at and talk about baby TJ in front of her. Life must be really hard.
Now, on the other hand, kids grow up. Even tho parents and grandparents usually love their kids and grand kids without bounds, reality eventually sets in. GoAskAlice sent me a text message the other day. She said, "You know how people talk about their kids and croon over them even when they're ugly? My mom used to do that. Now my mom says, 'You used to be so cute, what happened?' She doesn't play." Ah... remind me to never have kids, and if I do... to be a little more gracious with my words. Just keep the babies away from me.
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