I've only had to run to catch a plane twice in my life. The first time happened two years ago when I flew to San Francisco on a knee-jerk weekend caper with a moderately disturbed, slightly unshaven, bi-polar, bear of a real-estate agent, some dental floss, one torn contact lens, and a portable computer. The second time was in 2006, after I'd finished making a mad dash across the urbanized concrete schoolyards of Chicago's western suburbs in a black Buick Lucerne. Had I been in my tank of a car, TastyCakes, I would have gone though the school buildings themselves while sputtering Algebra equations at school children dodging my tires. Imagine Cruella de Vil, only eons younger, and aptly named Butterfingers Coupe De Ville.
But... I digress from the real story at hand. It's late Saturday night; there's a group of us sitting in one of four seance dinner rooms at the Chinese Cultural Center in Phoenix. Perusing the menu, I suggest M sprawl out and spin atop the Lazy Suzanne to be fed stir fry tidbits by our dinner companions via chopstick insemination. To my demise, that doesn't occur, but we all laugh and order.
Sitting across the table is the aggravatingly punctual, undeniably flaky, yet smolderingly sexy, and bewitchingly gorgeous Y, with her lively fiancee, Mr G. "So, R-Baby, you're flying back to Montreal tonight? Is it a direct flight," Mr G asks S's husband, R-Baby. Responding in a very French-Canadian accent, R-baby says, "No, actually. I have a stop-over in Chicago, and then my flight to Montreal in the morning."
Looking up from his yellow curry beef tips swimming in broth, Mr G's cheeks queerly light up in a flash of memory. "Oh, I thought you had a direct flight. I remember one time I was on a flight back from Asia, that connected in LA." The table turns toward Mr G as he continues, "We got in a little bit late, so I was running and running and running as fast as I could." Interrupting his train of thought, M playfully says, "Could anyone catch you, Gingerbread man?" Y slyly looks over her wine glass toward M, who then curdles into her chair.
Not hearing her valid question, Mr G gleefully goes on, "Yes, so I arrive at the gate with messy hair, clothes hanging out of my bag, one shoe untied, and grasping for dear life to my ticket. I give it to the ticket lady and proceed into the gate. When I get inside the plane, the stewardess tells me there is a seat in the rear, and gives me a look like this..." Mr G proceeds to pucker his lips while exhaling in an exasperated manner. His brow furrows and lines form around the edges of his eyes as they squeeze together slightly, and his head slowly shakes from left to right. He looks kind of like he's experiencing both a mild bout of flatulence and an episode of empathy indicating "I'm sure glad I'm not you right now".
Zooming to the edge of his seat, S blurts out, "Oh, what happened?!"
"Well, I walk down the aisle, and notice people start snickering at me. Others give me the same look as the flight attendant. Some just grimace and shake their heads at me." Mr G takes a sip of wine, and clears his throat, bound in his retelling, "I approach the back of the airplane; the looks of desperation become more and more dreary. Then, I see it."
"What'd you see?" I say, absentmindedly burning myself on fragrant tea.
"At the back of the packed aircraft are two people but no available seats. I look at them and ask no one in particular where to sit. They look at each other in a meager frown. I realize then, the seat the stewardess was referring to is sandwiched from view between them. I mean, these people were so big, you couldn't fit a piece of paper between them, much less me."
"Oh my god! So what did you do, sit on top of their laps?"
"Actually, it was pretty cool. I got to sit in the jump seat the whole way, but man... to be launched into that other seat, I'd need Crisco and a wrecking ball!"
Showing posts with label It's Come To My Attention.... Show all posts
Showing posts with label It's Come To My Attention.... Show all posts
Thursday, October 18, 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.
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.
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?'
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 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*
Monday, July 30, 2007
Caution: Hot
Ever experience those beastly people in restaurants who are obnoxiously loud? You know, the hyena pack that cackles around a fresh dinner meal. You peer at the troop from behind plated garnish leaves, across taupe savanna carpeting, and your own neatly camouflaged white table cloth just to examine what's going on. "Within ear shot," for the loud group means being able to communicate across any expanse of $200 bottles of wine, of which there are many. Then, did it finally occur to you that this same legion of raucous supper personalities, with their hungry outbursts of laughter, and colorful displays of celebratory bags and boxes is a birthday dinner party?
Here we are at Elements, in Sanctuary, Paradise Valley. Guess who's birthday it is?! Yes, it's mine. Woo-hoo! Like the cattle we're assumed to be, we're herded to our seats and given some grass and fresh water. Oh, the grass is to refresh your breath, you say? That's interesting. And we're paying how much for it? Fantastic, I love when money grows on trees!
Our chic group settles in, and I reach for the card labeled: "Caution: Hotness Inside!"
...I really should have paid more attention to the warning...
Asking the table for a non-existent letter opener, and not thinking to manhandle my butter knife through the envelope, I seductively slide my keys between the sheets of paper, and work open the seam, exposing the card with my fingers.
At that precise moment, the manager of the restaurant comes to our table with a waiter in tow to greet us before our meal, all the while I slide the card out of it's crisp sleeve. "OH!" I exclaim, to which everyone anticipatingly look toward me. Peering down at my hands, the waiter chokes on a gulp of rapidly entering air, and the manager grabs her stomach like she'd just been punched.
On the front of the card was an attractive, yet marginally... no, that's the wrong word... extremely excited model with a ginormous pink member poking toward his chin gingerly smiling back at me.
Caution: Hotness exposed.
I don't think that's something they see every day in a restaurant on top of the hill. "Could I have some more water, please," I ask the disturbed waiter, who had spilled his pitcher on the table from focusing on my paper friend. Looking around, and noticing the manager had disappeared, I say, "And, looking at the menu, I'm glad you don't have sausage on there for appetisers. I do see that you have fish tho. How wonderful."
Duck and cover, pass the card to your left, have some water after viewing, and then remember to thank your friends for their sense of humor.
Here we are at Elements, in Sanctuary, Paradise Valley. Guess who's birthday it is?! Yes, it's mine. Woo-hoo! Like the cattle we're assumed to be, we're herded to our seats and given some grass and fresh water. Oh, the grass is to refresh your breath, you say? That's interesting. And we're paying how much for it? Fantastic, I love when money grows on trees!
Our chic group settles in, and I reach for the card labeled: "Caution: Hotness Inside!"
...I really should have paid more attention to the warning...
Asking the table for a non-existent letter opener, and not thinking to manhandle my butter knife through the envelope, I seductively slide my keys between the sheets of paper, and work open the seam, exposing the card with my fingers.
At that precise moment, the manager of the restaurant comes to our table with a waiter in tow to greet us before our meal, all the while I slide the card out of it's crisp sleeve. "OH!" I exclaim, to which everyone anticipatingly look toward me. Peering down at my hands, the waiter chokes on a gulp of rapidly entering air, and the manager grabs her stomach like she'd just been punched.
On the front of the card was an attractive, yet marginally... no, that's the wrong word... extremely excited model with a ginormous pink member poking toward his chin gingerly smiling back at me.
Caution: Hotness exposed.
I don't think that's something they see every day in a restaurant on top of the hill. "Could I have some more water, please," I ask the disturbed waiter, who had spilled his pitcher on the table from focusing on my paper friend. Looking around, and noticing the manager had disappeared, I say, "And, looking at the menu, I'm glad you don't have sausage on there for appetisers. I do see that you have fish tho. How wonderful."
Duck and cover, pass the card to your left, have some water after viewing, and then remember to thank your friends for their sense of humor.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Older than 12
In celebration of my birth-week, here is an adaptation of an oldie but a goodie:
In the first gift of birthday, Angel sent to me: a meditation CD.
In the second gift of birthday, little S sent to me: two coffee cups, and a meditation CD.
In the third hour of birthday, cell phone rang to me: three messages, two coffee cups, and I was meditation needy.
In the fourth gift of birthday, a pharmacist gave to me: four small muffins, three messages, two espresso shots, and I was meditation needy.
In the fifth act of birthday, New Girl threw in the air for me: fiiiiiive pounds confetti, four small muffins, three texting lines, two espresso shots, and meditation on my knees.
In the sixth hour of birthday, my mother woke me with: a six A.M. phone call, fiiiiiiiive pounds confetti, four tasty bakes, three texting lines, two sugar packs, and meditation on my knees.
In the seventh sin of birthday, my friends all bought for me: seven shots a liquor, a six A.M. phone call, fiiiiiiive white little lies, four tasty bakes, three cell phone buzzes, two sugar packs, and a re-alignment of my chi.
In the eighth joke of birthday, Muscle Calves should a seen: eight balloons a poppin', seven shots a liquor, a six o'clock wake up, fiiiiiive white little lies, four muffin films, three cell phone buzzes, two ounces cream, and a re-alignment of my chi.
In the ninth gift of birthday The mail girl gave to me: nine ounces chocolate, eight balloons a poppin', seven kamikazes, a six o'clock wake up, fiiiiiive paper packages, four muffin films, three happy birthdays, two ounces cream, and something elementary.
In the tenth act of birthday, the doctors stole from me: ten low-fat cookies, nine ounces chocolate, eight blow-up dolls, seven kamikazes, a "six is too early", fiiiiiive paper packages, four gooey treats, three happy birthdays, two sniffs of coffee, and something elementary.
In the eleventh hour of birthday, I should've given me: eleven work days off, ten low-fat cookies, nine chocolate chips, eight blow-up dolls, seven scooby snacks, a "six is too early", fiiiiiive present filled bags, four gooey treats, three "we love BP", two sniffs of coffee, and one super happy BP.
In the twelfth happy birthday, what I wished for me: twelve smiling faces, eleven work days off, ten reimbursements, nine chocolate chips, eight batteries, seven scooby snacks, six more massages, fiiiiiive present filled bags, four brand new tires, three "we love BP", two less shots of coffee, and one super happy BP.
In the first gift of birthday, Angel sent to me: a meditation CD.
In the second gift of birthday, little S sent to me: two coffee cups, and a meditation CD.
In the third hour of birthday, cell phone rang to me: three messages, two coffee cups, and I was meditation needy.
In the fourth gift of birthday, a pharmacist gave to me: four small muffins, three messages, two espresso shots, and I was meditation needy.
In the fifth act of birthday, New Girl threw in the air for me: fiiiiiive pounds confetti, four small muffins, three texting lines, two espresso shots, and meditation on my knees.
In the sixth hour of birthday, my mother woke me with: a six A.M. phone call, fiiiiiiiive pounds confetti, four tasty bakes, three texting lines, two sugar packs, and meditation on my knees.
In the seventh sin of birthday, my friends all bought for me: seven shots a liquor, a six A.M. phone call, fiiiiiiive white little lies, four tasty bakes, three cell phone buzzes, two sugar packs, and a re-alignment of my chi.
In the eighth joke of birthday, Muscle Calves should a seen: eight balloons a poppin', seven shots a liquor, a six o'clock wake up, fiiiiiive white little lies, four muffin films, three cell phone buzzes, two ounces cream, and a re-alignment of my chi.
In the ninth gift of birthday The mail girl gave to me: nine ounces chocolate, eight balloons a poppin', seven kamikazes, a six o'clock wake up, fiiiiiive paper packages, four muffin films, three happy birthdays, two ounces cream, and something elementary.
In the tenth act of birthday, the doctors stole from me: ten low-fat cookies, nine ounces chocolate, eight blow-up dolls, seven kamikazes, a "six is too early", fiiiiiive paper packages, four gooey treats, three happy birthdays, two sniffs of coffee, and something elementary.
In the eleventh hour of birthday, I should've given me: eleven work days off, ten low-fat cookies, nine chocolate chips, eight blow-up dolls, seven scooby snacks, a "six is too early", fiiiiiive present filled bags, four gooey treats, three "we love BP", two sniffs of coffee, and one super happy BP.
In the twelfth happy birthday, what I wished for me: twelve smiling faces, eleven work days off, ten reimbursements, nine chocolate chips, eight batteries, seven scooby snacks, six more massages, fiiiiiive present filled bags, four brand new tires, three "we love BP", two less shots of coffee, and one super happy BP.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Doorknob Principle
Did you know: It's possible to lead a cow upstairs, but not downstairs? The truth's crazy, huh? For one of those fabulous senior pranks, we were going to goad a cow or three up to the top floor of the oldest building on campus, only to have the authorities show up and try to lead the large meatball down... not going to happen. Fortunately for them, it didn't happen. They'd best keep their fingers crossed.
Yes. So, much like cattle, B-Boo's black and white Great Dane, Anubis, has no opposable thumbs. Giant Panda's have thumbs. Too bad Anubis isn't a giant panda, although that's probably a good thing, since there isn't much bamboo here in the desert. However, even though Anubis lacks thumbs to cook us dinner or open his closed toy chest, it's always fun to observe his anthropomorphic qualities.
B-Boo, like all animal owners in any city, is crazy about her four legged child. She's dressed him up as a convict and even pranced around as a milking cow. I do admit, I participate every now and then...
The other day I'm in B-Boo's plum-walled living room. There's a large grey sofa with rolled arms, and a smaller chair next to it. Sitting on the sofa, my neck hairs raise. Someone's watching me; I look over my left shoulder. It's Anubis. The jackal dog's eyes move. He gazes up, head not budging an inch. He's depressed. Grabbing my Freudian glasses, I decide I'll get to the bottom of dog psychology.
I ask if he's being punished. Maybe B-boo found out he was caught by the FBI while ordering Anthrax fraudulently through the mail, pretending to be a cow named Daisy. I imagine the letter went something like Eddie Izzard's: “Dear Sir, my name is Daisy, and I am a cow. I wish to take my own life, so please send me three buckets of Anthrax, as Anthrax is designed to kill cattle and I want to end it all right now. P.S.: I cannot shoot myself as I have no opposable thumbs.” Nah... it couldn't be that, since the dog just shook his head.
I bite my lip trying to read his body language. Should I grab the meal bell? Maybe he didn't like someone watching him go #2 outside. Before starting, he always checks over both shoulders, confirming the coast is clear from all sides. Nah, that's a little far fetched, I mean, who likes watching a dog void himself in the grass?
He continues to lie there in a ball of dichromatic fur, head sadly propped on the chair arm. I speculate he got caught sneaking out of the house in B-Boo's car, Gerbils, to shack up with the prissy poodle down the street. His shoes and rain coat are missing after all, so it's plausible. His eyes move again, indicating that my reasoning is off - it hasn't rained for a few months.
I ask if his hidden poochie boudoir pictures were absconded from under his bed by the local squirrels. No... that couldn't be it either, not even tree rodents are that cruel. I look around, searching for clues. Then I notice he has his doggie mitts on and a black mask lying next to him. Looking at the hallway door, I see that there are dirt marks about the size of his paws, but no actual paw prints for identification. That sly beast, the shoes prevented him from leaving prints.
Jumping up, I point a finger toward the ceiling and say, "AH-HA! I know what it is! I bet you're imitating the raccoons again, and playing 'Cat Burglar' while no one is around. You're trying to figure out how to turn door knobs without thumbs again, weren't you!?" He must have been sent on an undercover mission to gain further knowledge of the mysterious Doorknob Principle. Humans with opposable thumbs have been using this principle for centuries. Now... the dogs are conspiring against us. I execute a suspicious glare at him, letting him know I've caught on to his shenanigans.
Just then, B-Boo comes around the corner, leash in hand, and cheerfully calls his name for a walk. Getting up, he shows me his hind leg shoes, and she tells me they're to protect his feet from the hot sidewalk. Riiiiight. I know they're in cahoots.
They go to the door and I follow. Just before walking out, he looks back at me and deliberately gives me a coy eyebrow raise, lifts his tail to expose his buttocks, "You don't know me!" he seemed to say, and they leave. I go back to inspect the door knob to see if its been tampered with, only to discover suspicious prints the size of cat feet...
Yes. So, much like cattle, B-Boo's black and white Great Dane, Anubis, has no opposable thumbs. Giant Panda's have thumbs. Too bad Anubis isn't a giant panda, although that's probably a good thing, since there isn't much bamboo here in the desert. However, even though Anubis lacks thumbs to cook us dinner or open his closed toy chest, it's always fun to observe his anthropomorphic qualities.
B-Boo, like all animal owners in any city, is crazy about her four legged child. She's dressed him up as a convict and even pranced around as a milking cow. I do admit, I participate every now and then...
The other day I'm in B-Boo's plum-walled living room. There's a large grey sofa with rolled arms, and a smaller chair next to it. Sitting on the sofa, my neck hairs raise. Someone's watching me; I look over my left shoulder. It's Anubis. The jackal dog's eyes move. He gazes up, head not budging an inch. He's depressed. Grabbing my Freudian glasses, I decide I'll get to the bottom of dog psychology.
I ask if he's being punished. Maybe B-boo found out he was caught by the FBI while ordering Anthrax fraudulently through the mail, pretending to be a cow named Daisy. I imagine the letter went something like Eddie Izzard's: “Dear Sir, my name is Daisy, and I am a cow. I wish to take my own life, so please send me three buckets of Anthrax, as Anthrax is designed to kill cattle and I want to end it all right now. P.S.: I cannot shoot myself as I have no opposable thumbs.” Nah... it couldn't be that, since the dog just shook his head.
I bite my lip trying to read his body language. Should I grab the meal bell? Maybe he didn't like someone watching him go #2 outside. Before starting, he always checks over both shoulders, confirming the coast is clear from all sides. Nah, that's a little far fetched, I mean, who likes watching a dog void himself in the grass?
He continues to lie there in a ball of dichromatic fur, head sadly propped on the chair arm. I speculate he got caught sneaking out of the house in B-Boo's car, Gerbils, to shack up with the prissy poodle down the street. His shoes and rain coat are missing after all, so it's plausible. His eyes move again, indicating that my reasoning is off - it hasn't rained for a few months.
I ask if his hidden poochie boudoir pictures were absconded from under his bed by the local squirrels. No... that couldn't be it either, not even tree rodents are that cruel. I look around, searching for clues. Then I notice he has his doggie mitts on and a black mask lying next to him. Looking at the hallway door, I see that there are dirt marks about the size of his paws, but no actual paw prints for identification. That sly beast, the shoes prevented him from leaving prints.
Jumping up, I point a finger toward the ceiling and say, "AH-HA! I know what it is! I bet you're imitating the raccoons again, and playing 'Cat Burglar' while no one is around. You're trying to figure out how to turn door knobs without thumbs again, weren't you!?" He must have been sent on an undercover mission to gain further knowledge of the mysterious Doorknob Principle. Humans with opposable thumbs have been using this principle for centuries. Now... the dogs are conspiring against us. I execute a suspicious glare at him, letting him know I've caught on to his shenanigans.
Just then, B-Boo comes around the corner, leash in hand, and cheerfully calls his name for a walk. Getting up, he shows me his hind leg shoes, and she tells me they're to protect his feet from the hot sidewalk. Riiiiight. I know they're in cahoots.
They go to the door and I follow. Just before walking out, he looks back at me and deliberately gives me a coy eyebrow raise, lifts his tail to expose his buttocks, "You don't know me!" he seemed to say, and they leave. I go back to inspect the door knob to see if its been tampered with, only to discover suspicious prints the size of cat feet...
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Showstopper
It's 11:30pm and has finally cooled down to 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Welcome to summertime in Phoenix - the American metropolis cleverly built three feet away from the sun. Even though you may not be able to fry an egg on the sidewalk it's still oven like, irrespective of the hour. As harsh as the natural conditions are, and amazed that the 3,700,000+ inhabitants here haven't mummified and joined the ranks of Emperor Qinshihuangdi's terracotta warriors, I'm still gingerly sweating down the thermonuclear concrete to a Friday night club. Go figure.
Inside the glass door I meet a few friends, their drinks already in hand. Surveying the bar, CPouch sharply points out minor fashion faux pas of the plastic-enhanced elite. FYI, CPouch is a lifetime member of that eccentric group... he just lacks the augmented breasts. Flaring into disgust, he turns around, an icy finger jutting out from his body and screams,"FAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!"
In two monumental waves, the crowd of gays in designer labels part. Laser eyes burning through the divided crowd, CPouch spots something small and unnoticeable to the untrained eye. Glaring at a woman 35 feet away, in a dark corner, partially obscured by three tables, five chairs, and three gay men, CPouch highlights a small tan colored moniker the size of a stamp. Bar patrons turn to see what all the hullabaloo is about. Without a periscope or his specialized retail training, no one sees anything. I ask, "Look at what, CPouch?" The woman guiltily peers back at us across the expanse of open bar floor.
To save his own hide, CPouch sidesteps out of the way and leaves B-Boo standing there face to face with the fake maker. Tossing his head back to the group, CPouch dramatically continues, "OH! The nerve of some of these people! I mean, come on! That is not a real Louis Vuitton bag! How are you going to walk around like you're the shit with something made from Designer Impostors?! Geez people! Have some dignity and get that thing out of my sight." Feigning pain he grabs his forehead, "now I think I'm developing a case of pink eye AND a migraine." He finishes his martini with one gulp.
B-Boo faces off with Ms. Made in China, then turns to face the group again, skeptically looks at CPouch, and comments, "You're crazy CPouch. Stop acting like the Moses of overpriced handbags - leading people away from the desert of fashion blunders. If it matters that much, I'll put a brick inside my purse and you can knock the leather daylights out of that poor girl without taste. Otherwise, just accept that there are some clueless people that act like their stuff doesn't reek with cheap imitations. After all, consider what bar you're standing in. Everything here is fake. You could probably detach half of the noses in here with one breath. It's a waste of time."
Thinking that I'm on subject, I jump in, "You know what New Girl at my works thinks is a waste of time? Pooing. She hates wasting time doing the deed."
Conversation stops. The group stares at me. Innocently, I smile raise up my hand, and call out into the air, "Waiter! We need another round here!"
Inside the glass door I meet a few friends, their drinks already in hand. Surveying the bar, CPouch sharply points out minor fashion faux pas of the plastic-enhanced elite. FYI, CPouch is a lifetime member of that eccentric group... he just lacks the augmented breasts. Flaring into disgust, he turns around, an icy finger jutting out from his body and screams,"FAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!"
In two monumental waves, the crowd of gays in designer labels part. Laser eyes burning through the divided crowd, CPouch spots something small and unnoticeable to the untrained eye. Glaring at a woman 35 feet away, in a dark corner, partially obscured by three tables, five chairs, and three gay men, CPouch highlights a small tan colored moniker the size of a stamp. Bar patrons turn to see what all the hullabaloo is about. Without a periscope or his specialized retail training, no one sees anything. I ask, "Look at what, CPouch?" The woman guiltily peers back at us across the expanse of open bar floor.
To save his own hide, CPouch sidesteps out of the way and leaves B-Boo standing there face to face with the fake maker. Tossing his head back to the group, CPouch dramatically continues, "OH! The nerve of some of these people! I mean, come on! That is not a real Louis Vuitton bag! How are you going to walk around like you're the shit with something made from Designer Impostors?! Geez people! Have some dignity and get that thing out of my sight." Feigning pain he grabs his forehead, "now I think I'm developing a case of pink eye AND a migraine." He finishes his martini with one gulp.
B-Boo faces off with Ms. Made in China, then turns to face the group again, skeptically looks at CPouch, and comments, "You're crazy CPouch. Stop acting like the Moses of overpriced handbags - leading people away from the desert of fashion blunders. If it matters that much, I'll put a brick inside my purse and you can knock the leather daylights out of that poor girl without taste. Otherwise, just accept that there are some clueless people that act like their stuff doesn't reek with cheap imitations. After all, consider what bar you're standing in. Everything here is fake. You could probably detach half of the noses in here with one breath. It's a waste of time."
Thinking that I'm on subject, I jump in, "You know what New Girl at my works thinks is a waste of time? Pooing. She hates wasting time doing the deed."
Conversation stops. The group stares at me. Innocently, I smile raise up my hand, and call out into the air, "Waiter! We need another round here!"
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
Chip Bag
I love boardgames. Honestly, I do. My affinity for these childhood relics can even eclipse my profound love of tasty food. This simple quote from M explains exactly how much I cherish gastronomic experiences: "I am so depressed now. You know how I am. When I have bad food, it's like someone just broke up with me." That should give you a picture of the enormity in which I relish the delicacies placed before my quivering lips and ravenous eyes.
However, this post isn't about food. It's about Scrabble. I fancy Scrabble mostly because of my provocative and unusual opponents.
Now, for me, I have an extensive vocabulary - that's good. But, I've always had trouble spelling - that's bad. I'm getting better at spelling every day - that's good. My games of Scrabble resemble a fuzzy mix of a C.M. Coolidge painting, an episode of Seinfield, a tense courtroom trial, and New Year's Eve in Times Square - typically in that order. THIS is a VERY good thing.
So here we are, on an intensely hot night, surrounding the colorful cardboard playing field. It's half way through the game. Tensions run high, and intelligences are brought to the breaking point. Words range from 'the' and 'gap' to 'spelt' and 'sweet' to 'chiropractor' and 'osteopath'. Slyly surveying the other players, R picks up his wood tiles and places them confidently on their spaces. Gasping at his placement and snorting, I demand, "Chipbag?! What the hell is that?!?"
With watery puppy dog eyes, R fawningly defends himself, "You know, a chipbag! Like when you want some Doritos, you reach for a chipbag and satisfy your craving." He lovingly shoots the group a disarming smile.
Not buying it, E rebuffs R's coy gestures from across the table, "Well, I don't know about your smelly kingdom there on the porcelain throne R, but I either grab my Doritos from a bag of chips, or a bowl of chips. I've never been sold, offered, or seen anything referred to... as a 'chipbag'. In other words, you're full of it, R!" The rest of us lightheartedly giggle in agreement. Taking E's stance, I challenge the spelling, haul out the collegiate dictionary, and don't find an entry for the mythic 'chipbag'. "Fancy that, R. Pick up your tiles and lose your next turn," E smirks.
I'm next. "There, three words, two of them double word, and one double letter on the 3rd. 36 points!" V blasts me with a venomous scowl. His head to the side, eyebrows rising, V pipes up, "I don't think that 'eh' is a word, BP."
"'Eh' is too a word," I bravely say, pointing at the dictionary to make my point, "If you don't believe me, then check it!" Haughtily finishing, I challenge, "I dare you! Go ahead and lose your next turn, because I'm right, and you know it!" The table is silent as each player weighs his cards. Slowly, V reaches for the hardback, and opens to eh. There it is in black and white - a common term from Canada. "Viva La Canada!" I chirp up and smugly smile at V.
Sorely admitting defeat, V spouts out, "Damn you, BP! I hate how you cheat!" Looking at the others, he concludes, "You never know when to challenge BP because he went to a good college, and you don't know when BP's making up words or not." To which I respond, "Well, now V, no need to be angry. That wasn't cheating. That was a good play. I never cheat; I just don't know how to spell half the time - you just have to figure out when that is. Now, it's S's turn; you lose yours for calling it wrong," tossing him the rule book, "It's in the rules, feel free to look those up too." S, who's spouse is a Canadian citizen, chuckles toward his chest as he places his tiles and whispers, "I knew that 'eh' was a word."
However, this post isn't about food. It's about Scrabble. I fancy Scrabble mostly because of my provocative and unusual opponents.
Now, for me, I have an extensive vocabulary - that's good. But, I've always had trouble spelling - that's bad. I'm getting better at spelling every day - that's good. My games of Scrabble resemble a fuzzy mix of a C.M. Coolidge painting, an episode of Seinfield, a tense courtroom trial, and New Year's Eve in Times Square - typically in that order. THIS is a VERY good thing.
So here we are, on an intensely hot night, surrounding the colorful cardboard playing field. It's half way through the game. Tensions run high, and intelligences are brought to the breaking point. Words range from 'the' and 'gap' to 'spelt' and 'sweet' to 'chiropractor' and 'osteopath'. Slyly surveying the other players, R picks up his wood tiles and places them confidently on their spaces. Gasping at his placement and snorting, I demand, "Chipbag?! What the hell is that?!?"
With watery puppy dog eyes, R fawningly defends himself, "You know, a chipbag! Like when you want some Doritos, you reach for a chipbag and satisfy your craving." He lovingly shoots the group a disarming smile.
Not buying it, E rebuffs R's coy gestures from across the table, "Well, I don't know about your smelly kingdom there on the porcelain throne R, but I either grab my Doritos from a bag of chips, or a bowl of chips. I've never been sold, offered, or seen anything referred to... as a 'chipbag'. In other words, you're full of it, R!" The rest of us lightheartedly giggle in agreement. Taking E's stance, I challenge the spelling, haul out the collegiate dictionary, and don't find an entry for the mythic 'chipbag'. "Fancy that, R. Pick up your tiles and lose your next turn," E smirks.
I'm next. "There, three words, two of them double word, and one double letter on the 3rd. 36 points!" V blasts me with a venomous scowl. His head to the side, eyebrows rising, V pipes up, "I don't think that 'eh' is a word, BP."
"'Eh' is too a word," I bravely say, pointing at the dictionary to make my point, "If you don't believe me, then check it!" Haughtily finishing, I challenge, "I dare you! Go ahead and lose your next turn, because I'm right, and you know it!" The table is silent as each player weighs his cards. Slowly, V reaches for the hardback, and opens to eh. There it is in black and white - a common term from Canada. "Viva La Canada!" I chirp up and smugly smile at V.
Sorely admitting defeat, V spouts out, "Damn you, BP! I hate how you cheat!" Looking at the others, he concludes, "You never know when to challenge BP because he went to a good college, and you don't know when BP's making up words or not." To which I respond, "Well, now V, no need to be angry. That wasn't cheating. That was a good play. I never cheat; I just don't know how to spell half the time - you just have to figure out when that is. Now, it's S's turn; you lose yours for calling it wrong," tossing him the rule book, "It's in the rules, feel free to look those up too." S, who's spouse is a Canadian citizen, chuckles toward his chest as he places his tiles and whispers, "I knew that 'eh' was a word."
Friday, June 29, 2007
Dear God
Y2K. Chicken Little's abound; the rapture is going to happen. People buy canned food in bulk and generators at a premium... Many forget to obtain gas to run the generators, figuring they'll run off the still-intact electric grid after Armageddon.
Me? I'm going to be at the epicenter of the global meltdown. I'm going to bite the dust at the LA Civic center millennium party. At the stroke of midnight, amongst 20,000 other glittering souls, I'm going to be swallowed up in a giant crack caused by a tidal wave of stone shattering earthquakes.
Or maybe... I'll just fall into a Japanese cartoon induced seizure from a laser light show. People around me will catch on, dropping to their backs, thus starting a dance fad worse than the Macarena. Either way, I'm going to have fun! By the way, my intensely devout Christian cousin, Saint C, is joining me.
Saint C, a remnant of Elizabethan England, is as sweet as sugar, pure as fresh snow, and as inexperienced as a student driver on the road of life. She's never been to a party larger than a tangy lemon in her mouth; she's never been to a party like this...
Stealthy piloting Ethel Mertz through Phoenix from Flagstaff, we arrive in the Santa Rosa Mountain range after two near death episodes, one bathroom stop, fifteen alien anal probes, six trucker honks, and 9,275 cacti. With Rod Sterling's blessing, we enter the Twilight Zone, traveling 500 miles in 4 hours, and arrive in the arid government reserve at pitch black midnight. The next day we make a pit stop to do some Tijuana barganing then head north to LA.
It's 11pm, we're in the car facing the gate. I pull on my flashy red acrylic pants and tight black shirt decorated with hand prints in various shades of metallic gold. A mushroom shaped puffy hat snug on my head holds bottles of water, stuffed animals, and a first aid kit. It was a large hat. Then, I start struggling with the bottle of reflective silver body paint.
With a booming *POP*, it explodes in my hand, and the iridescent powder suffocates the inside of the car. We hop out, billowing clouds of steel trailing our escape. The smoke clears, and we look at the aftermath. The red racer cockpit now looks like the Trimaxion Drone Ship from Flight of the Navigator; Saint C and I look like street performers imitating the Chicago Bean. Being the color of fine cutlery, we figure it's now a waste of time to continue getting ready, so we enter the civic center.
Inside, it's a feast for the senses. Club kids covered in candy, fire dancers covered in sweat, glow stickers covered in hallucinogens, and normal people covered in awe surround us. The music reverberates in our solar plexuses, and we immediately start running around, talking, dancing, and enjoying people with green platform shoes, torn white latex pants, cat eye contacts, and mardigras inspired handbags. New friends are made, dance partners substituted, and we approach midnight with a countdown in the center of the arena. 5...4...3...2...1... and there's an explosion of fireworks that rains sparkling embers down on the crowd. No end of the world, as everyone takes a deep breath, the music pumps back up, and the crowd goes tribal, lead by Saint C who had managed to crawl up on stage and appear on the mega screen.
Early the next morning, we start to head home, resting along the way. Arriving in Flagstaff, we get caught in a blizzard which hid our silver shame. At home, Saint C meekly says to my mom, "Auntie, I feel like I need to go pray."
Quizzically looking at her, my mom responds, "Oh? Why do you say that, C?"
"Well... I feel like I should repent."
"Ok. Did you do any drugs or drink alcohol?"
"No."
"Ok, and did you do anything bad?"
"No."
Looking at her with concern, "Then why do you feel like you need to pray, C?"
Head dropping as she shrugs and gazes at her feet, Saint C answers, "Because I had so much fun! I didn't know it was possible, but oh my god! I didn't know you could let go like that!"
Grabbing her hand, my mom gently consoles her, "You don't have to repent for having fun. You're entitled to some joy like that..." looking at her silver face, mom continues with a crooked nod, "just make sure you're the one opening the paint powder next time." A few days later, we stopped having soggy Kleenexes full of mercurial mucous.
Me? I'm going to be at the epicenter of the global meltdown. I'm going to bite the dust at the LA Civic center millennium party. At the stroke of midnight, amongst 20,000 other glittering souls, I'm going to be swallowed up in a giant crack caused by a tidal wave of stone shattering earthquakes.
Or maybe... I'll just fall into a Japanese cartoon induced seizure from a laser light show. People around me will catch on, dropping to their backs, thus starting a dance fad worse than the Macarena. Either way, I'm going to have fun! By the way, my intensely devout Christian cousin, Saint C, is joining me.
Saint C, a remnant of Elizabethan England, is as sweet as sugar, pure as fresh snow, and as inexperienced as a student driver on the road of life. She's never been to a party larger than a tangy lemon in her mouth; she's never been to a party like this...
Stealthy piloting Ethel Mertz through Phoenix from Flagstaff, we arrive in the Santa Rosa Mountain range after two near death episodes, one bathroom stop, fifteen alien anal probes, six trucker honks, and 9,275 cacti. With Rod Sterling's blessing, we enter the Twilight Zone, traveling 500 miles in 4 hours, and arrive in the arid government reserve at pitch black midnight. The next day we make a pit stop to do some Tijuana barganing then head north to LA.
It's 11pm, we're in the car facing the gate. I pull on my flashy red acrylic pants and tight black shirt decorated with hand prints in various shades of metallic gold. A mushroom shaped puffy hat snug on my head holds bottles of water, stuffed animals, and a first aid kit. It was a large hat. Then, I start struggling with the bottle of reflective silver body paint.
With a booming *POP*, it explodes in my hand, and the iridescent powder suffocates the inside of the car. We hop out, billowing clouds of steel trailing our escape. The smoke clears, and we look at the aftermath. The red racer cockpit now looks like the Trimaxion Drone Ship from Flight of the Navigator; Saint C and I look like street performers imitating the Chicago Bean. Being the color of fine cutlery, we figure it's now a waste of time to continue getting ready, so we enter the civic center.
Inside, it's a feast for the senses. Club kids covered in candy, fire dancers covered in sweat, glow stickers covered in hallucinogens, and normal people covered in awe surround us. The music reverberates in our solar plexuses, and we immediately start running around, talking, dancing, and enjoying people with green platform shoes, torn white latex pants, cat eye contacts, and mardigras inspired handbags. New friends are made, dance partners substituted, and we approach midnight with a countdown in the center of the arena. 5...4...3...2...1... and there's an explosion of fireworks that rains sparkling embers down on the crowd. No end of the world, as everyone takes a deep breath, the music pumps back up, and the crowd goes tribal, lead by Saint C who had managed to crawl up on stage and appear on the mega screen.
Early the next morning, we start to head home, resting along the way. Arriving in Flagstaff, we get caught in a blizzard which hid our silver shame. At home, Saint C meekly says to my mom, "Auntie, I feel like I need to go pray."
Quizzically looking at her, my mom responds, "Oh? Why do you say that, C?"
"Well... I feel like I should repent."
"Ok. Did you do any drugs or drink alcohol?"
"No."
"Ok, and did you do anything bad?"
"No."
Looking at her with concern, "Then why do you feel like you need to pray, C?"
Head dropping as she shrugs and gazes at her feet, Saint C answers, "Because I had so much fun! I didn't know it was possible, but oh my god! I didn't know you could let go like that!"
Grabbing her hand, my mom gently consoles her, "You don't have to repent for having fun. You're entitled to some joy like that..." looking at her silver face, mom continues with a crooked nod, "just make sure you're the one opening the paint powder next time." A few days later, we stopped having soggy Kleenexes full of mercurial mucous.
Monday, June 25, 2007
On the Flip Side
Romantic relationships can be euphorically rewarding and intensely meaningful. However, when you exchange your lotioned tantric hands for brass knuckles and ski masks, or arrows of Cupid for ex-seeking missile launchers, then you need to watch out.
Whomever said, "All is fair in love and war" must have been one vindictive little gremlin. After all, why would you equate the suffering and struggle of millions with the most profound and exhilarating feelings you generate without using some form of a Schedule 1 substance?
Leaving the gym, B-Boo and I were searching high and low for Gerbils, B-Boo's "in car". Seeing as how we were at the gay gym, everyone had to have some sort of "in something" to demonstrate their trust fund status, sugar daddy gifts, over-extended credit limits, or bedroom postures. Gerbils fell into the blissful quagmire of juvenile credit.
B-Boo repeatedly presses her key less entry button to figure which of the ten identical Scions' was hers. A double meep, suggesting a Road Runner cartoon, beacons us and we head toward the silver box on wheels.
"Hey, that's a nice car," a wispy brown haired man enthusiastically remarks. Looking over her shoulder to a car identical to Gerbils, she responds, "Thank you." She takes a closer look at his car and asks, "Hey, what happened to your car?"
"Huh? Oh, that? That was my ex." We examine the driver side of his car. Where there was once a shiny silver layer of enamel, there was now a splattered canvas of dried runny brown paint. I exclaim, "Holy crap, batman!"
Responding, "Yeah, it's kind of the same color, isn't it?" Licking his chops and seductively eyeing Gerbils, the man goes on, "I'll trade you cars?" B-Boo pets Gerbils, and remarks, "Yea, but my car has this big ol' dent in the hood and in the bumper." To which the long-haired man responds, "Yea, but I'd rather have that bump than this paint. Freaking ex's..."
My hand goes up and points toward his caramelized vehicle, "See?! That's why I don't date!" My hand thoughtfully goes to my chin, "Tho... with Tasty Cake's paint job, I bet it would be an improvement..."
I laugh serendipitously as I open the door and climb into the front seat. In the car, B-Boo playfully snaps, "Well, BP, you probably wouldn't be down w/ someone trashy enough to throw paint your car."
"Yeah, you're probably right, B-Boo."
While we drive to the juice bar to have a Jambafied day, I'm thinking what New Girl would have done in this situation. Standing in front of the shop, there, sweet as rain, are two young kids lovingly displaying their affections. Quite a different site than the mock blood-splattered auto we had just seen. Stepping up on the curb, and stirring my cauldron, I look at them and say, "Oh, sure, it's all fun and games now... but wait until one of you is going bananas throwing outdoor paint on the other's car."
Shocked, B-Boo exclaims, "BP!!! Oh my god! (putting her hand over her heart) I can't believe you just said that... but it's so true!" Looking at the couple, she continues, "You better watch out girl, one of you is going to catch the other on the flip side."
Whomever said, "All is fair in love and war" must have been one vindictive little gremlin. After all, why would you equate the suffering and struggle of millions with the most profound and exhilarating feelings you generate without using some form of a Schedule 1 substance?
Leaving the gym, B-Boo and I were searching high and low for Gerbils, B-Boo's "in car". Seeing as how we were at the gay gym, everyone had to have some sort of "in something" to demonstrate their trust fund status, sugar daddy gifts, over-extended credit limits, or bedroom postures. Gerbils fell into the blissful quagmire of juvenile credit.
B-Boo repeatedly presses her key less entry button to figure which of the ten identical Scions' was hers. A double meep, suggesting a Road Runner cartoon, beacons us and we head toward the silver box on wheels.
"Hey, that's a nice car," a wispy brown haired man enthusiastically remarks. Looking over her shoulder to a car identical to Gerbils, she responds, "Thank you." She takes a closer look at his car and asks, "Hey, what happened to your car?"
"Huh? Oh, that? That was my ex." We examine the driver side of his car. Where there was once a shiny silver layer of enamel, there was now a splattered canvas of dried runny brown paint. I exclaim, "Holy crap, batman!"
Responding, "Yeah, it's kind of the same color, isn't it?" Licking his chops and seductively eyeing Gerbils, the man goes on, "I'll trade you cars?" B-Boo pets Gerbils, and remarks, "Yea, but my car has this big ol' dent in the hood and in the bumper." To which the long-haired man responds, "Yea, but I'd rather have that bump than this paint. Freaking ex's..."
My hand goes up and points toward his caramelized vehicle, "See?! That's why I don't date!" My hand thoughtfully goes to my chin, "Tho... with Tasty Cake's paint job, I bet it would be an improvement..."
I laugh serendipitously as I open the door and climb into the front seat. In the car, B-Boo playfully snaps, "Well, BP, you probably wouldn't be down w/ someone trashy enough to throw paint your car."
"Yeah, you're probably right, B-Boo."
While we drive to the juice bar to have a Jambafied day, I'm thinking what New Girl would have done in this situation. Standing in front of the shop, there, sweet as rain, are two young kids lovingly displaying their affections. Quite a different site than the mock blood-splattered auto we had just seen. Stepping up on the curb, and stirring my cauldron, I look at them and say, "Oh, sure, it's all fun and games now... but wait until one of you is going bananas throwing outdoor paint on the other's car."
Shocked, B-Boo exclaims, "BP!!! Oh my god! (putting her hand over her heart) I can't believe you just said that... but it's so true!" Looking at the couple, she continues, "You better watch out girl, one of you is going to catch the other on the flip side."
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