Have you ever played the game Marco Polo, where you close your eyes and shout, "Marco," and the other people reply, "Polo," until you find them? It's like hide-and-go-seek, but you rely on sound instead of sight. I was always really bad at it since I'm deaf in one ear. I'm also a vegetarian who is short, blind as a bat, and has a Bachelor's Degree in Anthropology with a double minor in Women's Studies and Peace Studies (yes, really).
In other words, I don't have any real "life" skills.
And as shallow as that sounds... and it is... it never bothered me until this month, when I was working on my house, and I had to paint ceilings, wallpaper bathrooms, stain decks, and plant flowers. None of which I knew how to do, and I still don't... unless you want to buy my house, because - in that case - I did an AWESOME job. Besides, who doesn’t want to live next to a guy with crop circles? Because, I promise you, if you buy my place, you will definitely make time to watch the grass grow, even if it isn't your own.
But that’s not the point. The point is that, at the end of last week, after hours upon hours upon more hours of manual labor, I was so exhausted that the only thing I could do was watch TV. And that’s when I became addicted to a show on the Discovery Channel called Dual Survivor. Have you seen it? Two men, one of whom is a complete Naturalist and the other of whom is an ex-Army guy, go into remote terrain with very little supplies and survive on their own merit. While both of them are amazing, one of them - the granola environmentalist - is the MacGyver of fire. I swear, he can make it from used chewing gum that he found in a river. All jokes aside, it's pretty impressive to watch. Because prior to this show, I thought "Lord of the Flame" meant something very different. In fact, I would have told you, "Not only do I know the Lord of the Flame (SA), he's a good a friend of mine, and there is NO way in hell that he's on a mountain or in a desert. He's on his couch watching Glee." And if you had added, "He's in a cave with an ex-Army guy." I'd have said, "What happens in the rain forest, stays in the rain forest, and if you don't want to know then don't ask, don't tell. Personally, I'm already texting him for details."
And that shallow queen would totally provide them... but I digress.
The point is that, after watching this show, I began thinking about human evolution and how the keeper of fire would have been a pretty important person in the village, which made me wonder, "What skills would I have brought to the tribe?" I could not have been a Hunter, because the only thing I'm capable of catching is a cold, and I loathe gardening so there is no way in hell that I could have been a Gatherer. And that's when it dawned on me... I started out a berry picker, but I ended up as dinner.
Yup - I invented cannibalism.
Seriously - just hear me out. This makes total sense. I'm round, I'm slow, and I'm deaf. I'd never have heard you coming. And, at some point, there would have been a shortage of food, so I would have been complaining... again. At which time, someone would have thought to his or herself, "Self, I wish she would shut up, and I'm SO hungry. Hmmmmmm...." At any rate, if I wasn't the justification for cannibalism, then after a miserable day of gathering - I invented expletives and you should thank me for giving you George Carlin, who used them better than anyone else in history and who also once said, "Your village called. They want their idiot back." Who knows, maybe that was my job instead.
Talk to you next week.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
A rose by any other name... still means yardwork
Have you ever seen the show, Pimp my Ride, where they take cars and trick them out? If you haven’t, they basically start with a pretty normal vehicle and add things like spinners to the rims and shag to the interior. It’s a huge hit! They even have a version in Asia called Pimp my Scooter (yes, I’m serious).
If you haven’t watched either show, that's OK. I'm actually more interested in whether or not you've read a book that was published YEARS ago by SMITH Magazine called, "Not Quite What I was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure." If you haven’t, do! It’s fabulous. In fact, when it came out, I loved it so much that it changed my entire mode of communication. And I don't mean that I found my inside voice... because I didn't. I mean that I began limiting my responses in conversations to six word summaries. When I told TB, she said, "Finally my prayers have been answered." After I caught the sarcasm, I told her I decided that my six word autobiography was, "My karma ran over my dogma.”
Ergo the name of this blog....
However, those days are over (the karma... not the blog)! I'm bound and determined that the remainder of this year will be better than the first part of it, and my fate will not overrun my philosophy again. From this point on, I’m going to Pimp my Karma so it’s FLY! I have to. I’ll need all the good luck I can get for the remainder of 2010 since DB and I have finalized our blueprint and picked the lot to build on. Now we just have to get two houses sold so we can break ground.
Scratch that. First we have to get the houses ready to sell.
For my place, the realtor said that I needed to, "Enhance my curb appeal," but what she really meant is, "It's clear you spend more time at Ann Taylor than in your yard." Now, if you know me, then you know that's true. I hate manual labor like the Grinch hates Christmas. In fact, after eight hours of moving mulch and staining deck rails, I was positive that I was suffering from dé·jà vu. Without a doubt, I was certain I'd read about this very experience in Dante's Inferno. So much so that I went to Barnes and Noble and purchased a copy in Italian... just in case landscaping was dropped from the English translation.
Now, I studied in Italy in college, and my Italian is pretty rusty, but when I got to the Seventh Circle: Violent Sins, and I read Canto XV-XVI - Sins toward Nature, I was sure I'd found it - the missing passage. It talked about getting fucked and paying for it. To me that means wasting insane amounts of time and money on gardening. Turns out, to Dante, it means sodomy. Really... it's kind-of the same thing; we're both on our knees, and - one way or another - someone's ass is gonna end up sore at the end of the day. That said, even though neither activity is my cup of tea, I know lots of gay men who think it's better to laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints.
But I digress...
As for DB's house, it - on the other hand, is in pretty good shape. He did a lot of the work last summer, which is how we actually started talking about co-habitating. See… we were at his place, playing Frisbee with the puppy, when she saw a skunk. Remember, she eats her own poop. So when she smelled that damn thing and it bolted, she immediately thought, “Sweet – fast food,” and she chased it… and then she caught it… right in the face. I immediately ran inside to get a towel and she immediately ran in right after me. I looked at her like, “Really dog! Could you be more destructive?” And she looked me back, dead in the eye, like, “I could be if I had more time, but it’s almost dark now. Thanks for asking!”
And while I wanted to take her to my mean, little neighbor's house so she could run through his place instead of DB's, I thought to myself, "Self - that would be wrong. Do you have ANY idea what your car would smell like if you drive her over there right now? Besides... what if he's home?" So I didn’t do it. Instead, we chased her around the house until we got her outside, and then we divided and conquered. I took the puppy home to bathe her, and DB started ripping the rugs out of his house and doing laundry.
You know, I don’t know who got the short end of the stick in that deal. He had to get carpets scrubbed and laundry done for days afterwards, but I had to drive around for weeks with my car smelling like ass. I literally drove EVERYWHERE with my windows down, and at one point, I parked beside a friend and co-worker, and she said, “If that stank gets on me or my car, we aren’t friends anymore.” I can’t say that I blame her.
Anyway… around that time, we were lamenting that his house and my car would forever stink, so we started looking at coldwellbankerrealty.com. And that’s when we found it. This amazing, modern, open floor plan, fenced in yard, home that was more than we wanted to spend but worth every penny. So I called the realtor… which was a mistake… because we all immediately fell in love with this house. When the realtor asked DB if he had a home he wanted to sell, my partner looked at him and I’m sure thought, “No – I’m going to burn mine to the ground to get rid of the smell, and I’m going to use the insurance money as a down payment on this place.”
After the walk through, when I told TB about the place and asked her what she thought (in general), she said, “Oh Sweet Jesus! Do you remember what you were like when I bought my new house? The only thing you moved was your ass… from room to room… talking… non-stop… while I did all of the packing. You do know that when it’s your shit, you’re going to have to move more than just your mouth?”
Turns out it was a wasted conversation... It sold before we could make an offer, and that’s just as well - because our blueprint is AMAZING! It's unique and it's modern and it's warm. And the lot is big and its wooded and its private and its perfect... and we love it. This won't simply be a house. It will be our home. Besides, now that my car and his house don’t stink anymore, and the stank-induced headaches and nausea have stopped, we can take our time and get our houses ready to sell. And we really are making progress. Not as much as I intend to make with my fly, new karma – but progress.
Keep your fingers crossed that my 2010/2011 six-word autobiography will be better than my last one. I’m hoping for something along the lines of “ Perfect man, great kids, loving home.” Talk to you next week!
If you haven’t watched either show, that's OK. I'm actually more interested in whether or not you've read a book that was published YEARS ago by SMITH Magazine called, "Not Quite What I was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure." If you haven’t, do! It’s fabulous. In fact, when it came out, I loved it so much that it changed my entire mode of communication. And I don't mean that I found my inside voice... because I didn't. I mean that I began limiting my responses in conversations to six word summaries. When I told TB, she said, "Finally my prayers have been answered." After I caught the sarcasm, I told her I decided that my six word autobiography was, "My karma ran over my dogma.”
Ergo the name of this blog....
However, those days are over (the karma... not the blog)! I'm bound and determined that the remainder of this year will be better than the first part of it, and my fate will not overrun my philosophy again. From this point on, I’m going to Pimp my Karma so it’s FLY! I have to. I’ll need all the good luck I can get for the remainder of 2010 since DB and I have finalized our blueprint and picked the lot to build on. Now we just have to get two houses sold so we can break ground.
Scratch that. First we have to get the houses ready to sell.
For my place, the realtor said that I needed to, "Enhance my curb appeal," but what she really meant is, "It's clear you spend more time at Ann Taylor than in your yard." Now, if you know me, then you know that's true. I hate manual labor like the Grinch hates Christmas. In fact, after eight hours of moving mulch and staining deck rails, I was positive that I was suffering from dé·jà vu. Without a doubt, I was certain I'd read about this very experience in Dante's Inferno. So much so that I went to Barnes and Noble and purchased a copy in Italian... just in case landscaping was dropped from the English translation.
Now, I studied in Italy in college, and my Italian is pretty rusty, but when I got to the Seventh Circle: Violent Sins, and I read Canto XV-XVI - Sins toward Nature, I was sure I'd found it - the missing passage. It talked about getting fucked and paying for it. To me that means wasting insane amounts of time and money on gardening. Turns out, to Dante, it means sodomy. Really... it's kind-of the same thing; we're both on our knees, and - one way or another - someone's ass is gonna end up sore at the end of the day. That said, even though neither activity is my cup of tea, I know lots of gay men who think it's better to laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints.
But I digress...
As for DB's house, it - on the other hand, is in pretty good shape. He did a lot of the work last summer, which is how we actually started talking about co-habitating. See… we were at his place, playing Frisbee with the puppy, when she saw a skunk. Remember, she eats her own poop. So when she smelled that damn thing and it bolted, she immediately thought, “Sweet – fast food,” and she chased it… and then she caught it… right in the face. I immediately ran inside to get a towel and she immediately ran in right after me. I looked at her like, “Really dog! Could you be more destructive?” And she looked me back, dead in the eye, like, “I could be if I had more time, but it’s almost dark now. Thanks for asking!”
And while I wanted to take her to my mean, little neighbor's house so she could run through his place instead of DB's, I thought to myself, "Self - that would be wrong. Do you have ANY idea what your car would smell like if you drive her over there right now? Besides... what if he's home?" So I didn’t do it. Instead, we chased her around the house until we got her outside, and then we divided and conquered. I took the puppy home to bathe her, and DB started ripping the rugs out of his house and doing laundry.
You know, I don’t know who got the short end of the stick in that deal. He had to get carpets scrubbed and laundry done for days afterwards, but I had to drive around for weeks with my car smelling like ass. I literally drove EVERYWHERE with my windows down, and at one point, I parked beside a friend and co-worker, and she said, “If that stank gets on me or my car, we aren’t friends anymore.” I can’t say that I blame her.
Anyway… around that time, we were lamenting that his house and my car would forever stink, so we started looking at coldwellbankerrealty.com. And that’s when we found it. This amazing, modern, open floor plan, fenced in yard, home that was more than we wanted to spend but worth every penny. So I called the realtor… which was a mistake… because we all immediately fell in love with this house. When the realtor asked DB if he had a home he wanted to sell, my partner looked at him and I’m sure thought, “No – I’m going to burn mine to the ground to get rid of the smell, and I’m going to use the insurance money as a down payment on this place.”
After the walk through, when I told TB about the place and asked her what she thought (in general), she said, “Oh Sweet Jesus! Do you remember what you were like when I bought my new house? The only thing you moved was your ass… from room to room… talking… non-stop… while I did all of the packing. You do know that when it’s your shit, you’re going to have to move more than just your mouth?”
Turns out it was a wasted conversation... It sold before we could make an offer, and that’s just as well - because our blueprint is AMAZING! It's unique and it's modern and it's warm. And the lot is big and its wooded and its private and its perfect... and we love it. This won't simply be a house. It will be our home. Besides, now that my car and his house don’t stink anymore, and the stank-induced headaches and nausea have stopped, we can take our time and get our houses ready to sell. And we really are making progress. Not as much as I intend to make with my fly, new karma – but progress.
Keep your fingers crossed that my 2010/2011 six-word autobiography will be better than my last one. I’m hoping for something along the lines of “ Perfect man, great kids, loving home.” Talk to you next week!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Good fences make good neighbors
At this point in our relationship, I need to introduce you to my neighbor and my dog. First... the puppy. She eats her own poop, masturbates on her dog bed, and costs me a small fortune every month. She eats my glasses, pisses all over my home, shits on the carpet, and cries all night if she’s locked in her crate. In fact, at one point, the crying got so awful that the neighbors started complaining.
Now, let me introduce you to my neighbor - a mean, little man who hates dogs, children, and... well... me. This person is the reason I cannot win the lottery. The universe would never allow me to have millions of dollars because it's wise enough to know that I would waste large sums of money just to fuck with him.
Seriously.
To give you an idea of the level of animosity between us, the other day at Barnes and Noble, I saw a "Do it Yourself Crop Circles" kit and I immediately texted TB to say, "This is not a drill. Want to help me carve 'ASSHOLE' into my neighbor's Kentucky Bluegrass?" The only thing she texted back was, "What night?" Clearly, this is why we're best friends. Sadly though, both of us are pretty busy these days, so we didn't do it - even though he deserves it. That said, I bought the kit just in case. After all, it's better to be prepared for an opportunity that never happens than to not be prepared for one that does.
So how has it come to this? How does one get to the point where "lawn art" no longer means gnomes and flamingos? Instead, it means dressing in black and carving graffiti into a person's yard. Well, I guess it starts at the beginning. See, TB hates him because he yelled at her. In her defense, she had been drinking and was in the front yard, on her phone, bellowing in a drunken whisper, "Let me in." When I asked where the hell she was, she replied, "I'm outside... in your bush... and not in a hot way." In his defense, she happened to be standing in the wrong yard, and it was his.
Personally, I hate him because he answered the door in his underwear when I took lemon bars over to welcome them to our street. Really. What if that’s the last thing I think about on my death bed? I think if you traumatize someone like that, you should have the common courtesy to never look them in the eye again. Or, if you happen to do so by mistake, you at LEAST have the decency to not speak to them. It's still how I treat most of the people who've seen me in my underwear.
ANYWAY, after he complained the second time, I called my vet who suggested that I move the crate to another (more secluded) area of the house. That way, when she cried, it kept neither me nor them awake. So I did it. I moved her and I didn’t hear her at all. It was heaven. It was my first night of undisturbed sleep in months, so I left the crate there. And it worked. For several days and nights I crated her on and off in the guest room. No cries from her and no complaints from next door. I was convinced I could do Cesar Milan’s job… in pumps, but alas, hubris was the downfall of the gods.
One night, I came home from the movies, went to take the puppy out of her crate, got half way up the stairs and started gagging. There was this God-awful smell that was getting stronger as I got closer to the guest room. Against my better judgment, I opened the door and no kidding – I almost vomited. My guest room was like Amityville Horror, the home edition. I have NO idea how that psychotic dog got a hold of A TUB OF VASELINE, but she ate AN ENTIRE BUCKET OF PETROLEUM JELLY. Do you know what Vaseline does to a puppy’s digestive system? It’s like Ebola, but it’s limited to your asshole.
She was literally leaking poop… and it was EVERYWHERE! She had shit in her crate… repeatedly… and what she didn’t eat, she rolled in and shook off. It was on the walls, the carpet, the furniture, the bedding, the curtains, and the ceiling. She was literally SMEARED in glossy, greasy poop and she smelled like dog shit flavored Chap Stick. To this day I believe that I could have buffed my car with that dog’s ass. And do you know that it doesn’t come out of carpet when you clean it? It just gets smeared in and it gets BIGGER. After three minutes of trying to clean it up, I did the only respectable thing a woman who works sixty hour weeks could do. I called my cleaning lady, the carpet guys, and my sister (in that order), and all of them said the EXACT same thing, “Really… it smells like dog shit flavored Chap Stick?”
Clearly they missed the point.
Now I’m sure you get the whole ‘sister and the cleaning lady on speed dial’ thing, but you might be wondering why the carpet guys are in my cell phone’s emergency contact list, too? That’s because I call them every two weeks. They are at my house so often they know my neighbors (the nice ones anyway) and my garage code. Honestly though – I love them. I’m a complete germ-a-phobe, and they have saved me on more than one occasion, the worst of which was not the “Vaseline incident.” It was the time I got a phone call at work, in a meeting, with co-workers from Asia, from the sitter, who said, “The dog pooped.” So I step out of my meeting and reply, “She shits in the house ALL the time! Why are you calling me? Clean it up.” That’s when this person ACTUALLY said to me, “We did clean it – that’s why I’m calling you. How am I supposed to get dog poop out of the vacuum bag?”
Yes, they did it. They sucked dog shit up with my several hundred dollar vacuum.
So I’m in a meeting with a bunch of people who EAT dogs, and I’m thinking to myself, “Self… their culture clearly knows something I don’t.” And I excuse myself again and call the carpet people, who tell me they can meet me at home in one hour. I get there, and once again – I can smell my home before I enter it. I get out of my car in the garage and my vacuum is sitting there staring at me like, “I hate you and I quit.”
So I go inside, and I see that they have literally gone over the dog poop REPEATEDLY… just to get it ALL out (which really means that it’s smeared into the carpet… again). Luckily, the carpet guy walked in two minutes after me (cause they don’t even knock anymore) and tells me it looks like I killed a deer in my living room. I thank him, and as I’m writing the check, he says, “I’ll go hook up the hoses. If you could vacuum the room that would be great, it’ll make the carpet cleaner when I’m done.” Then it dawns on me – I haven’t told him what happened. So instead of telling the story, I say, “You don’t want me to do that.” He assures me that I do, so I go to the garage, I get the vacuum, I hand it to him, and I walk away. Honestly, he turned it on, and that was the hardest I’d laughed in months. Do you know how funny it is to see a grown man who also cleans carpets at crime scenes screaming, “OH MY GOD! SHUT IT OFF! SHUT IT OFF!” I mean really, you think you do, but you don’t… It’s funny.
Anyway, instead of taking the vacuum cleaner to my mean, little neighbor’s garage and swapping mine with his while he was at work, I took the carpet guy’s advice, and I carried it to the curb and put a sign on it that said, “Free to a good home.”It was gone by morning. To this day I laugh as I think about the poor college kid who must have passed my house, picked it up and thought, “Cool – a free vacuum cleaner.” But I still think it would have been funnier to give it to the asshole next door. Then both he and his vacuum would be full of shit.
Now, let me introduce you to my neighbor - a mean, little man who hates dogs, children, and... well... me. This person is the reason I cannot win the lottery. The universe would never allow me to have millions of dollars because it's wise enough to know that I would waste large sums of money just to fuck with him.
Seriously.
To give you an idea of the level of animosity between us, the other day at Barnes and Noble, I saw a "Do it Yourself Crop Circles" kit and I immediately texted TB to say, "This is not a drill. Want to help me carve 'ASSHOLE' into my neighbor's Kentucky Bluegrass?" The only thing she texted back was, "What night?" Clearly, this is why we're best friends. Sadly though, both of us are pretty busy these days, so we didn't do it - even though he deserves it. That said, I bought the kit just in case. After all, it's better to be prepared for an opportunity that never happens than to not be prepared for one that does.
So how has it come to this? How does one get to the point where "lawn art" no longer means gnomes and flamingos? Instead, it means dressing in black and carving graffiti into a person's yard. Well, I guess it starts at the beginning. See, TB hates him because he yelled at her. In her defense, she had been drinking and was in the front yard, on her phone, bellowing in a drunken whisper, "Let me in." When I asked where the hell she was, she replied, "I'm outside... in your bush... and not in a hot way." In his defense, she happened to be standing in the wrong yard, and it was his.
Personally, I hate him because he answered the door in his underwear when I took lemon bars over to welcome them to our street. Really. What if that’s the last thing I think about on my death bed? I think if you traumatize someone like that, you should have the common courtesy to never look them in the eye again. Or, if you happen to do so by mistake, you at LEAST have the decency to not speak to them. It's still how I treat most of the people who've seen me in my underwear.
ANYWAY, after he complained the second time, I called my vet who suggested that I move the crate to another (more secluded) area of the house. That way, when she cried, it kept neither me nor them awake. So I did it. I moved her and I didn’t hear her at all. It was heaven. It was my first night of undisturbed sleep in months, so I left the crate there. And it worked. For several days and nights I crated her on and off in the guest room. No cries from her and no complaints from next door. I was convinced I could do Cesar Milan’s job… in pumps, but alas, hubris was the downfall of the gods.
One night, I came home from the movies, went to take the puppy out of her crate, got half way up the stairs and started gagging. There was this God-awful smell that was getting stronger as I got closer to the guest room. Against my better judgment, I opened the door and no kidding – I almost vomited. My guest room was like Amityville Horror, the home edition. I have NO idea how that psychotic dog got a hold of A TUB OF VASELINE, but she ate AN ENTIRE BUCKET OF PETROLEUM JELLY. Do you know what Vaseline does to a puppy’s digestive system? It’s like Ebola, but it’s limited to your asshole.
She was literally leaking poop… and it was EVERYWHERE! She had shit in her crate… repeatedly… and what she didn’t eat, she rolled in and shook off. It was on the walls, the carpet, the furniture, the bedding, the curtains, and the ceiling. She was literally SMEARED in glossy, greasy poop and she smelled like dog shit flavored Chap Stick. To this day I believe that I could have buffed my car with that dog’s ass. And do you know that it doesn’t come out of carpet when you clean it? It just gets smeared in and it gets BIGGER. After three minutes of trying to clean it up, I did the only respectable thing a woman who works sixty hour weeks could do. I called my cleaning lady, the carpet guys, and my sister (in that order), and all of them said the EXACT same thing, “Really… it smells like dog shit flavored Chap Stick?”
Clearly they missed the point.
Now I’m sure you get the whole ‘sister and the cleaning lady on speed dial’ thing, but you might be wondering why the carpet guys are in my cell phone’s emergency contact list, too? That’s because I call them every two weeks. They are at my house so often they know my neighbors (the nice ones anyway) and my garage code. Honestly though – I love them. I’m a complete germ-a-phobe, and they have saved me on more than one occasion, the worst of which was not the “Vaseline incident.” It was the time I got a phone call at work, in a meeting, with co-workers from Asia, from the sitter, who said, “The dog pooped.” So I step out of my meeting and reply, “She shits in the house ALL the time! Why are you calling me? Clean it up.” That’s when this person ACTUALLY said to me, “We did clean it – that’s why I’m calling you. How am I supposed to get dog poop out of the vacuum bag?”
Yes, they did it. They sucked dog shit up with my several hundred dollar vacuum.
So I’m in a meeting with a bunch of people who EAT dogs, and I’m thinking to myself, “Self… their culture clearly knows something I don’t.” And I excuse myself again and call the carpet people, who tell me they can meet me at home in one hour. I get there, and once again – I can smell my home before I enter it. I get out of my car in the garage and my vacuum is sitting there staring at me like, “I hate you and I quit.”
So I go inside, and I see that they have literally gone over the dog poop REPEATEDLY… just to get it ALL out (which really means that it’s smeared into the carpet… again). Luckily, the carpet guy walked in two minutes after me (cause they don’t even knock anymore) and tells me it looks like I killed a deer in my living room. I thank him, and as I’m writing the check, he says, “I’ll go hook up the hoses. If you could vacuum the room that would be great, it’ll make the carpet cleaner when I’m done.” Then it dawns on me – I haven’t told him what happened. So instead of telling the story, I say, “You don’t want me to do that.” He assures me that I do, so I go to the garage, I get the vacuum, I hand it to him, and I walk away. Honestly, he turned it on, and that was the hardest I’d laughed in months. Do you know how funny it is to see a grown man who also cleans carpets at crime scenes screaming, “OH MY GOD! SHUT IT OFF! SHUT IT OFF!” I mean really, you think you do, but you don’t… It’s funny.
Anyway, instead of taking the vacuum cleaner to my mean, little neighbor’s garage and swapping mine with his while he was at work, I took the carpet guy’s advice, and I carried it to the curb and put a sign on it that said, “Free to a good home.”It was gone by morning. To this day I laugh as I think about the poor college kid who must have passed my house, picked it up and thought, “Cool – a free vacuum cleaner.” But I still think it would have been funnier to give it to the asshole next door. Then both he and his vacuum would be full of shit.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Jim Morrison said it best: Touch me babe
Last week, I turned thirty-nine. Well, not really. I actually turned 273 since I age in dog years these days. And even though that sounds ancient, I never really thought of myself as old until yesterday - when I was walking out of work and my twenty-six year old colleague asked what DB and I did for my birthday. Instead of saying, "I'd tell you how we celebrated, but you have the right to feel comfortable at your place of employment," I was honest and said, "DB got me an iPod Touch and tickets to see Robert Cray, both of which I love."
After she asked who Robert Cray was, she added that she was heading out to see Lollapalooza, then proceeded to tell me what that meant. When I told her that I not only knew what it was, but that I loved Jane's Addiction and attended the first Lollapalooza in 1991, she looked at me like I said I'd been to Woodstock. In fact, I'm convinced that, had I stood there long enough, she would have asked me where I was when Kennedy was shot.
At any rate, to make myself feel better, I called TB on the way home and told her what happened. That's when my best friend in the entire world said, "She might be twenty-six and you might be old, but you've seen Siouxsie & The Banshees. That has to account for something. Besides, you don't look a day over thirty-eight." She always knows just what to say, including, "Do us both a favor this year. GET YOURSELF A NEW CELL PHONE. Love you, bye."
No really, it's true, I need a new mobile. See, a few months ago, I met her for lunch… and my phone rang… so I answered it. TB stopped talking... mid-sentence... and stared at me in horror. In other words, I needed to hang up RIGHT THEN! I immediately wrapped up my call and apologized for being rude when she said, "I'm not offended that you answered your phone. I'm offended that it's Tampax pink. You look like mid-life crisis Barbie... complete with texting. And here comes seventeen year old Skipper with our food. Put that fucking thing away before anyone sees you with it!" I tried to tell her that pink is the new black, but she called bullshit and reminded me that forty isn’t the new thirty either. Anyway, as always, though it drives her crazy, I felt obligated to explain.
Like most people, I work on a PC all day, every day. So about once a week, I like to tune in, turn off, and drop out. I call it "technology free time." The TVs, laptops, cell phones and yes - even my swanky new iPod Touch - get shut off and put away. That lets me hang out with DB and his kids, read a book or a magazine, and write in my journal.
The rule is simple, between those hours, I act like I'm Amish… minus the pony.
Anyway, there I was, sitting on the couch, reading National Geographic, when I heard this slobbery munching sound. My dog, who eats her own poop, WAS EATING MY PALM. I thought to my self, "Self, I know where her mouth has been, and now her mouth has been all over my PHONE!" In other words, now... Amish night has become more like German performance art (again, minus the pony). And what was supposed to be quiet, quality time has ended up as me… chasing my bat-shit crazy dog… around the house… trying to get my damn phone back. I assure you, at times like this, while there may be a few Kodak moments, there aren’t many value-added ones.
But I digress, and after thirty minutes of therapy-inducing, Kafka-like, stimulus-response games with the family pet, I managed to extract my black Palm from her disgusting, crap-filled, canine clenches… And even if I weren’t a complete germ-a-phobe, which I am, it was simply too mangled to salvage. So, the next day, I rearranged my calendar and went into the cell phone store, where I explained what happened. And while the sales guy was sorry, he informed me there wasn't shit he could do about it (no pun intended), EXCEPT… he DID have a pink version of my Palm, which he was MORE than happy to sell to me for $50 less than my black one, so I took it.
But, the second I’d saved fifty dollars, it was GONE, because he ended his sale by telling me, "You should really get insurance for this one. I had a guy in here last week whose dog ate his cell, but it was on and it was roaming." In case you haven't been paying attention to my life, God hates me. If ANYBODY is going to end up giving a dog a body cavity search, it will be me.
Needless to say, I have an ugly pink phone but a rockstar insurance plan for it.
But... I have to be honest. Like always, I’ve taken TB’s advice to heart, and I rarely use my phone in public. Instead, I now text on my Touch and listen to Robert Cray at the same time. Because if I have to look like something, it’s going to be Blues-loving, Vintage, Ann Taylor Barbie – complete with house, car and 401K, not mid-life crisis Barbie who needs a new phone and a boob job.
Talk to you next week after the concert!
After she asked who Robert Cray was, she added that she was heading out to see Lollapalooza, then proceeded to tell me what that meant. When I told her that I not only knew what it was, but that I loved Jane's Addiction and attended the first Lollapalooza in 1991, she looked at me like I said I'd been to Woodstock. In fact, I'm convinced that, had I stood there long enough, she would have asked me where I was when Kennedy was shot.
At any rate, to make myself feel better, I called TB on the way home and told her what happened. That's when my best friend in the entire world said, "She might be twenty-six and you might be old, but you've seen Siouxsie & The Banshees. That has to account for something. Besides, you don't look a day over thirty-eight." She always knows just what to say, including, "Do us both a favor this year. GET YOURSELF A NEW CELL PHONE. Love you, bye."
No really, it's true, I need a new mobile. See, a few months ago, I met her for lunch… and my phone rang… so I answered it. TB stopped talking... mid-sentence... and stared at me in horror. In other words, I needed to hang up RIGHT THEN! I immediately wrapped up my call and apologized for being rude when she said, "I'm not offended that you answered your phone. I'm offended that it's Tampax pink. You look like mid-life crisis Barbie... complete with texting. And here comes seventeen year old Skipper with our food. Put that fucking thing away before anyone sees you with it!" I tried to tell her that pink is the new black, but she called bullshit and reminded me that forty isn’t the new thirty either. Anyway, as always, though it drives her crazy, I felt obligated to explain.
Like most people, I work on a PC all day, every day. So about once a week, I like to tune in, turn off, and drop out. I call it "technology free time." The TVs, laptops, cell phones and yes - even my swanky new iPod Touch - get shut off and put away. That lets me hang out with DB and his kids, read a book or a magazine, and write in my journal.
The rule is simple, between those hours, I act like I'm Amish… minus the pony.
Anyway, there I was, sitting on the couch, reading National Geographic, when I heard this slobbery munching sound. My dog, who eats her own poop, WAS EATING MY PALM. I thought to my self, "Self, I know where her mouth has been, and now her mouth has been all over my PHONE!" In other words, now... Amish night has become more like German performance art (again, minus the pony). And what was supposed to be quiet, quality time has ended up as me… chasing my bat-shit crazy dog… around the house… trying to get my damn phone back. I assure you, at times like this, while there may be a few Kodak moments, there aren’t many value-added ones.
But I digress, and after thirty minutes of therapy-inducing, Kafka-like, stimulus-response games with the family pet, I managed to extract my black Palm from her disgusting, crap-filled, canine clenches… And even if I weren’t a complete germ-a-phobe, which I am, it was simply too mangled to salvage. So, the next day, I rearranged my calendar and went into the cell phone store, where I explained what happened. And while the sales guy was sorry, he informed me there wasn't shit he could do about it (no pun intended), EXCEPT… he DID have a pink version of my Palm, which he was MORE than happy to sell to me for $50 less than my black one, so I took it.
But, the second I’d saved fifty dollars, it was GONE, because he ended his sale by telling me, "You should really get insurance for this one. I had a guy in here last week whose dog ate his cell, but it was on and it was roaming." In case you haven't been paying attention to my life, God hates me. If ANYBODY is going to end up giving a dog a body cavity search, it will be me.
Needless to say, I have an ugly pink phone but a rockstar insurance plan for it.
But... I have to be honest. Like always, I’ve taken TB’s advice to heart, and I rarely use my phone in public. Instead, I now text on my Touch and listen to Robert Cray at the same time. Because if I have to look like something, it’s going to be Blues-loving, Vintage, Ann Taylor Barbie – complete with house, car and 401K, not mid-life crisis Barbie who needs a new phone and a boob job.
Talk to you next week after the concert!
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Dude, you can put your weed in there...
Do you remember that Saturday Night Live skit? It's been done by everyone from Christian Slater to Rob Schneider to Adam Sandler, and it's still funny. Every time I watch it, I laugh. If you haven't seen it, youtube it. Basically, customers go into an antique store, pick up an artifact, and ask the shop keeper, "What is this?" So the owner explains what it is and where it's from then ends the exchange with, "Dude, you can put your weed in there." For some reason, I thought Steve Martin and Bill Murray did the original, but when I looked, I couldn't find any reference before 1993. However, I digress... kind of.
Bear with me for a minute.
Two weeks ago, when we were in Montana for DB's dad's funeral, it brought back memories of when my own father died in 2006. We were very close, and there isn't a day that passes where I don't miss him. He liked a good beer and a bad joke and is the reason that I love Groucho Marx, Charlie Chaplin, and SNL. You see, growing up, if a boy broke my heart, my mom would say, "There are a thousand fish in the sea," and that would be that. My dad, on the other hand, would say, "Was it a Buster Keaton kind of break up or the Monty Python kind?" In other words, was it 'Hard Luck' or 'just a flesh wound?' Regardless, we would sit on the couch and watch something funny, and when I wanted to laugh more than I wanted to cry - the world was alright again.
It's still how I lick my wounds when life has become too brutal. In fact, after my dad's Wake, when I left Pennsylvania and finally got home to the Midwest, my best friend met me at the door that night. We didn't say a word to each other, we just went inside, opened a bottle of wine, and watched the Great Dictator - my dad's and my favorite movie of all time. Then, as "The End" rolled across the screen, TB held up her glass, toasted my father, and added "So that had to be pretty fucking awful." When I finally stopped sobbing, and I actually started laughing, I knew I'd be OK. I also knew that I owed TB a huge favor for pulling me through that night, a favor she's already requested. One that all of us could benefit from.
But, as always, to tell you that part of the story - I have to tell you this part first.
After a death, you have to decide what to do with the deceased person's... stuff, and neither my sister nor my mother could go through my dad's things and decide what should be kept, what should be tossed, and what should be donated. Emotionally, they just couldn't, so the task fell to my brothers and me. Now you should know something, these two men have tortured me all of my life. They are my big brothers. And, even though we're adults now, nothing has changed. No event is too sacred and no person is exempt. We still torment each other, and we still love a good game of, "Would you rather?" Have you ever played it? It's where you provide two untenable scenarios then make the other person pick the lesser of two evils. The best part of which is when they have to explain their choice.
So while going through our father's clothes and shoes and hats and ties and prescriptions, we found ourselves asking each other morally-reprehensible, completely hypothetical questions like, "Would you rather die and have people find out that you liked to buy porn or that you liked to make your own?" And, "Would you rather die and have people find out that you needed Viagra or that you didn't?" Etc. Etc. And, YES - it was WRONG of us. And YES - FOR THE RECORD, had my mother heard us, we'd have been grounded until she died (or we died because she'd killed us), BUT - to paraphrase Churchill ... its better to have vices that you admire than virtues that you dislike.
At any rate, when I was back home, telling TB everything, I told her that we played 'Would you rather' while going through my dad's personal effects. I honestly thought nothing about it. I just thought it was funny. That's when she said, "Oh sweet Jesus... when I die, go straight into my bedroom and get the Adidas box on top left shelf in my closet. I don't care who's there. I don't care who tries to stop you. You are morally obligated to get that thing out of my house before anyone goes through my shit, and if you ever look in it, I will haunt your ass." The only thing I could say was, "Really... an Adidas box? What if I grab the wrong one? What if there are just SHOES in the box I grab? You won't even let me open the damn thing to make sure... Why don't you put your 'unmentionables' in something that's unique?" Then, without skipping a beat, TB and I said, "Plus, you can put your weed in there..." While we may not get high, we certainly get each other's sense of humor. And in thirty years, if I outlive TB, I promise to sit on the couch, watch a movie, have a glass of wine, and laugh... because sure as shit - I'll have the wrong Adidas box.
Talk to you next week.
Bear with me for a minute.
Two weeks ago, when we were in Montana for DB's dad's funeral, it brought back memories of when my own father died in 2006. We were very close, and there isn't a day that passes where I don't miss him. He liked a good beer and a bad joke and is the reason that I love Groucho Marx, Charlie Chaplin, and SNL. You see, growing up, if a boy broke my heart, my mom would say, "There are a thousand fish in the sea," and that would be that. My dad, on the other hand, would say, "Was it a Buster Keaton kind of break up or the Monty Python kind?" In other words, was it 'Hard Luck' or 'just a flesh wound?' Regardless, we would sit on the couch and watch something funny, and when I wanted to laugh more than I wanted to cry - the world was alright again.
It's still how I lick my wounds when life has become too brutal. In fact, after my dad's Wake, when I left Pennsylvania and finally got home to the Midwest, my best friend met me at the door that night. We didn't say a word to each other, we just went inside, opened a bottle of wine, and watched the Great Dictator - my dad's and my favorite movie of all time. Then, as "The End" rolled across the screen, TB held up her glass, toasted my father, and added "So that had to be pretty fucking awful." When I finally stopped sobbing, and I actually started laughing, I knew I'd be OK. I also knew that I owed TB a huge favor for pulling me through that night, a favor she's already requested. One that all of us could benefit from.
But, as always, to tell you that part of the story - I have to tell you this part first.
After a death, you have to decide what to do with the deceased person's... stuff, and neither my sister nor my mother could go through my dad's things and decide what should be kept, what should be tossed, and what should be donated. Emotionally, they just couldn't, so the task fell to my brothers and me. Now you should know something, these two men have tortured me all of my life. They are my big brothers. And, even though we're adults now, nothing has changed. No event is too sacred and no person is exempt. We still torment each other, and we still love a good game of, "Would you rather?" Have you ever played it? It's where you provide two untenable scenarios then make the other person pick the lesser of two evils. The best part of which is when they have to explain their choice.
So while going through our father's clothes and shoes and hats and ties and prescriptions, we found ourselves asking each other morally-reprehensible, completely hypothetical questions like, "Would you rather die and have people find out that you liked to buy porn or that you liked to make your own?" And, "Would you rather die and have people find out that you needed Viagra or that you didn't?" Etc. Etc. And, YES - it was WRONG of us. And YES - FOR THE RECORD, had my mother heard us, we'd have been grounded until she died (or we died because she'd killed us), BUT - to paraphrase Churchill ... its better to have vices that you admire than virtues that you dislike.
At any rate, when I was back home, telling TB everything, I told her that we played 'Would you rather' while going through my dad's personal effects. I honestly thought nothing about it. I just thought it was funny. That's when she said, "Oh sweet Jesus... when I die, go straight into my bedroom and get the Adidas box on top left shelf in my closet. I don't care who's there. I don't care who tries to stop you. You are morally obligated to get that thing out of my house before anyone goes through my shit, and if you ever look in it, I will haunt your ass." The only thing I could say was, "Really... an Adidas box? What if I grab the wrong one? What if there are just SHOES in the box I grab? You won't even let me open the damn thing to make sure... Why don't you put your 'unmentionables' in something that's unique?" Then, without skipping a beat, TB and I said, "Plus, you can put your weed in there..." While we may not get high, we certainly get each other's sense of humor. And in thirty years, if I outlive TB, I promise to sit on the couch, watch a movie, have a glass of wine, and laugh... because sure as shit - I'll have the wrong Adidas box.
Talk to you next week.
He was my North, my South, my East, my West...
It's a line from one of my favorite poems and also one of my favorite movies, Four Weddings and a Funeral. And all week I haven't been able to get it out of my head. Though for the life of me, I have no idea why. Normally when this happens, I recite whatever the poem du jour is while I'm brushing my teeth, and it's over. That's that. However, when I can't shake it, it's usually a sign that I need to do something constructive with it... Enter this week's blog topic.
You see, for as bad as my luck is, it's rare that I rant. Honestly. I try to see the positive (or at least the humor) in most of the things that happen to me, but sometimes a person has to pull a George Carlin and let it out. So here I go... The only thing worse than airplane food is airline service. Oh wait - neither one exists anymore, nor does their compassion (at least on Delta and United).
Now, in their defense, I don't have the best travel karma, and DB knows it. It's not like I can hide it from him. However, when his dad died, he needed help, so I had two tasks: get him to Montana the day it happened, and get the rest of us there for the funeral. That's it. When I started looking on-line, I couldn't find tickets for less than $1000 each. So I called Delta and United and asked about bereavement fares. Turns out, even though their Web sites claim they exist, they don't... kind of like your luggage on an international flight. At any rate, I couldn't (in good conscience) let him spend $4000 in airfare, so I went back on-line and started mixing and matching itineraries in an attempt to cut costs.
It's true that you get what you pay for.
DB's flight was fine (and it was only $500), but his kids and I weren't so lucky. For the low-low price of $600 per ticket, we had to drive to an airport two hours away and take the red eye, which arrived in Montana on Sunday at 2:00 AM. Then, I had to turn around and take them home at 6:00 AM that Tuesday. When the alarm went off that morning, DB rolled over, stroked my face for a couple of minutes, and said, "I love you with all my heart, but you're never making our travel arrangements again. You're really, really bad at it." Then he got up, got his children up, and got us to the airport.
For the record, the best part of waking up is NOT Folgers in your cup... it's sarcasm.
But he's right, I am really, really bad at it. And it's not the first time he's been on the receiving end of it. You see, every Easter, my very large family descends (en masse) onto Washington DC to celebrate the holiday at my Aunt’s house. While we’re very Irish and a little German, we actually aren’t that religious… we’re just that co-dependent. We’re also gossips who discuss every birth, death, and divorce ad nauseam. So believe me, if you’re dating someone – we want to meet them. And this year, they wanted to meet my partner and his children.
Now, to be fair, most of them have already met DB… and they adore him… in spades. My mother thinks he’s charming. My sister thinks he’s good looking and funny. And my brothers think that they could kick his ass if they needed to… but only because DB’s a pacifist and wouldn’t hit them back, which they fully acknowledge. They even accept that they would have to jump him while he was meditating (and even then only if there were no other Buddhists hanging out with him at the time). My father, to whom I was very close and who passed away in 2006, was a professional jazz pianist for over 50 years and would have loved him, too. And not just because DB plays Blues guitar, but because he’s just that cool, and my dad would have genuinely enjoyed his company. In other words, my partner has passed with flying colors, and this means a great deal to me.
At any rate, since it was my family that we were visiting, I volunteered to plan the trip… which I tried to do from work… between meetings… in a cube. But I did a great job! I really did. I got round trip tickets for $140 each… not too shabby (over a holiday no less). Unfortunately, they were for April 9 – 11. Easter happened to be April 2 – 4 this year, and (naturally) our tickets were non-refundable, non-exchangable. This is EXACTLY why neither my sister nor my best friend allows me to plan ANYTHING.
You see, it all started several years ago, when I lived in England. I begged my mother to visit for a month and she agreed. I was so excited to see her, that the morning she was scheduled to arrive, I got up, rushed to the airport, got flowers for her, and stood there waiting… for five hours. Finally, at around noon in London, I was panic-stricken that SOMEHOW they had lost my mother SOMEWHERE over the Atlantic Ocean. Now, you should know something about me. When I’m upset, really upset, I start to cry and I talk at a decibel that only bats can hear. No really, it’s true. I do. So I’m standing there… at a Customer Service Desk full of stiff upper-lipped Englishmen… sobbing… sounding like Alvin and the Chipmunks… trying to explain to British Airways that I’ve “lost my mother.”
They thought she’d died.
And when they said, “She died?” I thought they meant, “She died!” And when they said, “On the flight?” I thought they meant, “ON THE FLIGHT!” It goes without saying that I flipped shit. In my defense, I am the youngest of four children. I am the baby of our family, and I have been coddled ALL my life. Before that day, I had not once, not ever, had to deal with real tragedy, and I was not about to start then. Instead, I did what I always do in these moments, I called my sister. Yes, at 6:00 AM in Southwestern Pennsylvania, my beautiful, wonderful, oldest sibling woke up to a phone call from London to hear me, wailing like a bi-polar, helium sucking rodent, saying “Mom is dead… and it’s not my fault. She died on the flight.”
At that moment, we were no longer 36 and 29 year old women with lives and careers of our own. We were 14 and 7 again, and any tact, patience, or eloquence of speech we may have mastered in adulthood fell to the wayside as we became victims of our birth order. She was simply my big sister, and she was pissed that I woke her up. Without skipping a beat, on a speaker phone at Heathrow International Airport, I heard, “mkromd, you idiot! She’s not even ON the flight. She’s at home… ALIVE… IN BED… and ASLEEP… LIKE I WAS THREE MINUTES AGO! She flies in TOMORROW MORNING.”
You know, the English aren’t always stoic… Not when they think something’s funny. Because the next day, when my mother did arrive… on time… as scheduled, the same Customer Service Rep at British Airways who had helped me the day before walked over to us and said, “Madam, when a child loses their parent it’s regarded as misfortune. When an airline loses one it just looks like carelessness. Welcome to London.” But the saddest part of that WHOLE story is that it’s not nearly as bad as what I did to my best friend.
See, I’m ALL about bargain shopping. I am. I own $600 shoes, but I will be the first person to gravitate towards a good deal when I find one, and one time, several years ago, TB and I were heading out West to ski. She had booked our hotel in Aspen, gotten our lift tickets, scheduled our flights, and reserved our rental car. I had three tasks: pack the toothpaste, bring the shampoo, and book a hotel room in Chicago since we were flying out of O’Hare at 6:30 in the morning. Most people would look at a $65/night hotel in Chicago and see red flags. Me, I saw a cost savings opportunity, and I took it. And it was a mistake.
After driving around Chicago for two hours, my best friend and I finally pulled into a convenience store and asked for directions. Now please understand something, if you get NOTHING else from my blog, take this piece of advice. When a man… at a ghetto Seven/Eleven… asks you if you’re SURE you have the right destination address… you should cut your losses and find a Radisson… that is at least 30 minutes away from your current location. Seriously. Here were the directions he gave us: Go out of this parking lot and go right. When you see a Subway with bullet proof glass, go left. The road will go from four lanes to two and you will go under the overpass where hookers hang out. Stay straight for another mile or so until you see a Storage Utility Facility. It’s behind that. You can’t miss it.
It was the original no-tell motel, complete with an hourly rate. The only thing that saved my best friend from killing me that night was the fact that there HAD to be undercover cops there and she knew it. It wasn’t all bad. We took turns sleeping, but we ended up safe. On the up note, I never have to plan anything for us. She just organizes it and makes me write her a check for half the expenses. My sister does the same thing. It’s a win-win, really - and DB is now in the same boat. I bet that, regardless of the direction we head: North, South, East or West, he plans all of our future trips.
Talk to you next week.
You see, for as bad as my luck is, it's rare that I rant. Honestly. I try to see the positive (or at least the humor) in most of the things that happen to me, but sometimes a person has to pull a George Carlin and let it out. So here I go... The only thing worse than airplane food is airline service. Oh wait - neither one exists anymore, nor does their compassion (at least on Delta and United).
Now, in their defense, I don't have the best travel karma, and DB knows it. It's not like I can hide it from him. However, when his dad died, he needed help, so I had two tasks: get him to Montana the day it happened, and get the rest of us there for the funeral. That's it. When I started looking on-line, I couldn't find tickets for less than $1000 each. So I called Delta and United and asked about bereavement fares. Turns out, even though their Web sites claim they exist, they don't... kind of like your luggage on an international flight. At any rate, I couldn't (in good conscience) let him spend $4000 in airfare, so I went back on-line and started mixing and matching itineraries in an attempt to cut costs.
It's true that you get what you pay for.
DB's flight was fine (and it was only $500), but his kids and I weren't so lucky. For the low-low price of $600 per ticket, we had to drive to an airport two hours away and take the red eye, which arrived in Montana on Sunday at 2:00 AM. Then, I had to turn around and take them home at 6:00 AM that Tuesday. When the alarm went off that morning, DB rolled over, stroked my face for a couple of minutes, and said, "I love you with all my heart, but you're never making our travel arrangements again. You're really, really bad at it." Then he got up, got his children up, and got us to the airport.
For the record, the best part of waking up is NOT Folgers in your cup... it's sarcasm.
But he's right, I am really, really bad at it. And it's not the first time he's been on the receiving end of it. You see, every Easter, my very large family descends (en masse) onto Washington DC to celebrate the holiday at my Aunt’s house. While we’re very Irish and a little German, we actually aren’t that religious… we’re just that co-dependent. We’re also gossips who discuss every birth, death, and divorce ad nauseam. So believe me, if you’re dating someone – we want to meet them. And this year, they wanted to meet my partner and his children.
Now, to be fair, most of them have already met DB… and they adore him… in spades. My mother thinks he’s charming. My sister thinks he’s good looking and funny. And my brothers think that they could kick his ass if they needed to… but only because DB’s a pacifist and wouldn’t hit them back, which they fully acknowledge. They even accept that they would have to jump him while he was meditating (and even then only if there were no other Buddhists hanging out with him at the time). My father, to whom I was very close and who passed away in 2006, was a professional jazz pianist for over 50 years and would have loved him, too. And not just because DB plays Blues guitar, but because he’s just that cool, and my dad would have genuinely enjoyed his company. In other words, my partner has passed with flying colors, and this means a great deal to me.
At any rate, since it was my family that we were visiting, I volunteered to plan the trip… which I tried to do from work… between meetings… in a cube. But I did a great job! I really did. I got round trip tickets for $140 each… not too shabby (over a holiday no less). Unfortunately, they were for April 9 – 11. Easter happened to be April 2 – 4 this year, and (naturally) our tickets were non-refundable, non-exchangable. This is EXACTLY why neither my sister nor my best friend allows me to plan ANYTHING.
You see, it all started several years ago, when I lived in England. I begged my mother to visit for a month and she agreed. I was so excited to see her, that the morning she was scheduled to arrive, I got up, rushed to the airport, got flowers for her, and stood there waiting… for five hours. Finally, at around noon in London, I was panic-stricken that SOMEHOW they had lost my mother SOMEWHERE over the Atlantic Ocean. Now, you should know something about me. When I’m upset, really upset, I start to cry and I talk at a decibel that only bats can hear. No really, it’s true. I do. So I’m standing there… at a Customer Service Desk full of stiff upper-lipped Englishmen… sobbing… sounding like Alvin and the Chipmunks… trying to explain to British Airways that I’ve “lost my mother.”
They thought she’d died.
And when they said, “She died?” I thought they meant, “She died!” And when they said, “On the flight?” I thought they meant, “ON THE FLIGHT!” It goes without saying that I flipped shit. In my defense, I am the youngest of four children. I am the baby of our family, and I have been coddled ALL my life. Before that day, I had not once, not ever, had to deal with real tragedy, and I was not about to start then. Instead, I did what I always do in these moments, I called my sister. Yes, at 6:00 AM in Southwestern Pennsylvania, my beautiful, wonderful, oldest sibling woke up to a phone call from London to hear me, wailing like a bi-polar, helium sucking rodent, saying “Mom is dead… and it’s not my fault. She died on the flight.”
At that moment, we were no longer 36 and 29 year old women with lives and careers of our own. We were 14 and 7 again, and any tact, patience, or eloquence of speech we may have mastered in adulthood fell to the wayside as we became victims of our birth order. She was simply my big sister, and she was pissed that I woke her up. Without skipping a beat, on a speaker phone at Heathrow International Airport, I heard, “mkromd, you idiot! She’s not even ON the flight. She’s at home… ALIVE… IN BED… and ASLEEP… LIKE I WAS THREE MINUTES AGO! She flies in TOMORROW MORNING.”
You know, the English aren’t always stoic… Not when they think something’s funny. Because the next day, when my mother did arrive… on time… as scheduled, the same Customer Service Rep at British Airways who had helped me the day before walked over to us and said, “Madam, when a child loses their parent it’s regarded as misfortune. When an airline loses one it just looks like carelessness. Welcome to London.” But the saddest part of that WHOLE story is that it’s not nearly as bad as what I did to my best friend.
See, I’m ALL about bargain shopping. I am. I own $600 shoes, but I will be the first person to gravitate towards a good deal when I find one, and one time, several years ago, TB and I were heading out West to ski. She had booked our hotel in Aspen, gotten our lift tickets, scheduled our flights, and reserved our rental car. I had three tasks: pack the toothpaste, bring the shampoo, and book a hotel room in Chicago since we were flying out of O’Hare at 6:30 in the morning. Most people would look at a $65/night hotel in Chicago and see red flags. Me, I saw a cost savings opportunity, and I took it. And it was a mistake.
After driving around Chicago for two hours, my best friend and I finally pulled into a convenience store and asked for directions. Now please understand something, if you get NOTHING else from my blog, take this piece of advice. When a man… at a ghetto Seven/Eleven… asks you if you’re SURE you have the right destination address… you should cut your losses and find a Radisson… that is at least 30 minutes away from your current location. Seriously. Here were the directions he gave us: Go out of this parking lot and go right. When you see a Subway with bullet proof glass, go left. The road will go from four lanes to two and you will go under the overpass where hookers hang out. Stay straight for another mile or so until you see a Storage Utility Facility. It’s behind that. You can’t miss it.
It was the original no-tell motel, complete with an hourly rate. The only thing that saved my best friend from killing me that night was the fact that there HAD to be undercover cops there and she knew it. It wasn’t all bad. We took turns sleeping, but we ended up safe. On the up note, I never have to plan anything for us. She just organizes it and makes me write her a check for half the expenses. My sister does the same thing. It’s a win-win, really - and DB is now in the same boat. I bet that, regardless of the direction we head: North, South, East or West, he plans all of our future trips.
Talk to you next week.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
It's my party, I can cry if I want to...
This week I turn thirty-nine. In other words, I'm old enough to legally date someone half my age. Between that and the fact that I helped my partner say good-bye to his father, it's been a long week. So when I called my best friend from Montana, she suggested that we get massages when I get home. While this may seem harmless enough, trust me when I say that it's a bad idea. The last time time we tried this, my dignity fell farther than a new born giraffe, and in case you haven't been paying attention to my karma, I don't necessarily believe it will go any differently this time around either....
See, a few years ago, I talked TB into a spa weekend. We were stressed. We needed it. We DESERVED it. Sure, I found it on-line and it was cheap, but really… how bad could it be? Actually, it doesn’t matter which of the two of us you ask. It was the Bates Motel of spas, down to the creepy guy who checked us in. That weekend, my best friend opted for a body polish, an herbal bath and a deep tissue massage. I got an herbal wrap, a Vichy massage and a pedicure. Do you know what a Vichy massage is? OH MY GOD, ME EITHER! I thought it was a massage with high-pressured shower heads done by a FEMALE masseuse, but clearly it’s not. It’s a massage, done in the shower, by a man, in a rain coat.
But to tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first...
So we check in, and a scary, older man comes to the desk and says, “Which one of you is TB?” Now my best friend is GORGEOUS. So he looks at me (who isn’t), then looks at her, counts his lucky stars, giggles, introduces himself, and sleazily lisps, “I’ll be doing your body polish. How do you want me to take it off you?” Which comes out as, “I’ll be doing your body polith.” At this point, I have to walk away because I’m laughing so hard. No kidding if she could have burned a hole into me with laser vision, she would have. So she asks what her options are, and he replies, “You can wipe it off yourthelf… or I can do it for you.” I don’t remember the details because I was laughing so hard, but I clearly remember her threatening to kill me and saying to him, “Um, I’ll do it myself, thanks!”
After getting checked in (and checked out), we get into our spa robes and they take us into separate rooms. TB goes with the pervert, and I have a lovely woman named Sue who does my very relaxing body wrap. I get done an hour later, and I walk out to the “relaxation” area, where my best friend is sitting, reading People, with her legs crossed, kicking the air. I ask how it went, cause really – how bad could it be, and without looking up, she tersely replies, “it was… OK” and she licks her finger, turns the page and continues to kick her leg and read. We sit there for a few minutes… silently… and I can tell she’s seething. Now, this upsets me, and when I get upset, I get chatty… very chatty, and this drives my best friend NUTS. So she indulges me by listening, but she’s not about to dignify my conversation by participating.
So we’re sitting there, and I’m chatting, when in walks the pervert who did her body polish, and says, “Are you mkromd?” He can tell from the horrified expression on my face that I am, and he says, “I’ll be doing your Vichy massage.” Which again comes out as, “I’ll be doing your Vithy mathage.” For the first time in 20 minutes, my best friend in the whole world looks at me, smiles, and mouths, “Karma is SUCH a bitch.” After a mild panic attack and mouthing back, “help me,” I go into the room, and he explains that this is NOT a massage with a high-powered shower head. There is, in fact, human contact. It is him - in the shower with me on a table getting a massage. He will be touching me. As I’m processing how many points my dignity has dropped, he hands me something the size of a Kleenex and tells me to get naked, lay on the table, and put it across my “backside” which comes out as backthide. I looked at him like, “Really? You’re totally fucking kidding me.” But instead of saying that, I say, “Clearly you don’t know how much ath I have under this robe, cause I need a lot more towel than that.” Being the great guy he is, he hands me TWO washcloth sized towels and walks out. At this point, I lay face down and proceed to cover my ass with these two paper towels.
Clearly, God hates me.
So there I am, naked, in the shower, and in walks this man, in a rain coat, and he locks the door. Then it gets weird. At this point, I say to myself, “Self – if he turns on porn music, it will be a house of horrors for everyone involved... not just yours truly.” Instead he turns on the water and starts rubbing my shoulders. After three minutes, he lisps, “You’re very tenth. Do you know that?” I’m like, “You think? Normally, if you want to get naked in the shower with me it takes a nice dinner and a shit load of tequila.” Instead I say, “Frankly, right now, I’m too weirded out for words.” So to help me, he keeps lisping, “Just relax. It’s a thuper prothedure.”
As the water is pelting into the back of my skull and I’m begging for a sniper in a clock tower to kill me, the only thought that goes through my head is “I’m in hell. Dante was right, Beatrith. Abandon hope all yea who enter here.” Call it therndipity, but at the VERY moment I think I’m in hell, he LITERALLY put his hand into the crack of my ass, folded the washcloth over, and started massaging my butt cheek! So I say to myself, “Self, did he just make a hospital corner in the crack of your ass?” And as I’m trying to convince myself he did not, he does it to the other cheek. Now I’m sure I’m in hell… until he says, “OK, flip over.”
At that moment, I’d had enough. I might be in hell one day, but I’m not going there with him. So I instead I tell him, “See that ass you just made hospital corners in? You stand a better chance of watching a donkey fly out of it than seeing me flip over. We’re done here.” So, he shuts off the music. He shuts off the shower, and he leaves the room. I was so horrified that I ripped the washcloth out of the crack of my ass, yanked my spa robe and my dignity off the floor, and ran back to the “relaxation area” with the shower cap still on my head. My best friend took one look at me and said, “So did he fold the towel down the crack of your ass too? Thought so.”
What do you say to a woman who knows you well enough to know that you have a facial expression for that kind of event? You say the only thing you can say, “Yes, but I only paid a hundred bucks for it. Do you know what I’d have to pay in New York to have a man make hospital corners in my ass?” And to think we’re still best friends?
I'll let you know if we hit the spa, but personally - I hope we don't. I still haven't fully recovered from the last time. Either way, I'll talk to you next week.
See, a few years ago, I talked TB into a spa weekend. We were stressed. We needed it. We DESERVED it. Sure, I found it on-line and it was cheap, but really… how bad could it be? Actually, it doesn’t matter which of the two of us you ask. It was the Bates Motel of spas, down to the creepy guy who checked us in. That weekend, my best friend opted for a body polish, an herbal bath and a deep tissue massage. I got an herbal wrap, a Vichy massage and a pedicure. Do you know what a Vichy massage is? OH MY GOD, ME EITHER! I thought it was a massage with high-pressured shower heads done by a FEMALE masseuse, but clearly it’s not. It’s a massage, done in the shower, by a man, in a rain coat.
But to tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first...
So we check in, and a scary, older man comes to the desk and says, “Which one of you is TB?” Now my best friend is GORGEOUS. So he looks at me (who isn’t), then looks at her, counts his lucky stars, giggles, introduces himself, and sleazily lisps, “I’ll be doing your body polish. How do you want me to take it off you?” Which comes out as, “I’ll be doing your body polith.” At this point, I have to walk away because I’m laughing so hard. No kidding if she could have burned a hole into me with laser vision, she would have. So she asks what her options are, and he replies, “You can wipe it off yourthelf… or I can do it for you.” I don’t remember the details because I was laughing so hard, but I clearly remember her threatening to kill me and saying to him, “Um, I’ll do it myself, thanks!”
After getting checked in (and checked out), we get into our spa robes and they take us into separate rooms. TB goes with the pervert, and I have a lovely woman named Sue who does my very relaxing body wrap. I get done an hour later, and I walk out to the “relaxation” area, where my best friend is sitting, reading People, with her legs crossed, kicking the air. I ask how it went, cause really – how bad could it be, and without looking up, she tersely replies, “it was… OK” and she licks her finger, turns the page and continues to kick her leg and read. We sit there for a few minutes… silently… and I can tell she’s seething. Now, this upsets me, and when I get upset, I get chatty… very chatty, and this drives my best friend NUTS. So she indulges me by listening, but she’s not about to dignify my conversation by participating.
So we’re sitting there, and I’m chatting, when in walks the pervert who did her body polish, and says, “Are you mkromd?” He can tell from the horrified expression on my face that I am, and he says, “I’ll be doing your Vichy massage.” Which again comes out as, “I’ll be doing your Vithy mathage.” For the first time in 20 minutes, my best friend in the whole world looks at me, smiles, and mouths, “Karma is SUCH a bitch.” After a mild panic attack and mouthing back, “help me,” I go into the room, and he explains that this is NOT a massage with a high-powered shower head. There is, in fact, human contact. It is him - in the shower with me on a table getting a massage. He will be touching me. As I’m processing how many points my dignity has dropped, he hands me something the size of a Kleenex and tells me to get naked, lay on the table, and put it across my “backside” which comes out as backthide. I looked at him like, “Really? You’re totally fucking kidding me.” But instead of saying that, I say, “Clearly you don’t know how much ath I have under this robe, cause I need a lot more towel than that.” Being the great guy he is, he hands me TWO washcloth sized towels and walks out. At this point, I lay face down and proceed to cover my ass with these two paper towels.
Clearly, God hates me.
So there I am, naked, in the shower, and in walks this man, in a rain coat, and he locks the door. Then it gets weird. At this point, I say to myself, “Self – if he turns on porn music, it will be a house of horrors for everyone involved... not just yours truly.” Instead he turns on the water and starts rubbing my shoulders. After three minutes, he lisps, “You’re very tenth. Do you know that?” I’m like, “You think? Normally, if you want to get naked in the shower with me it takes a nice dinner and a shit load of tequila.” Instead I say, “Frankly, right now, I’m too weirded out for words.” So to help me, he keeps lisping, “Just relax. It’s a thuper prothedure.”
As the water is pelting into the back of my skull and I’m begging for a sniper in a clock tower to kill me, the only thought that goes through my head is “I’m in hell. Dante was right, Beatrith. Abandon hope all yea who enter here.” Call it therndipity, but at the VERY moment I think I’m in hell, he LITERALLY put his hand into the crack of my ass, folded the washcloth over, and started massaging my butt cheek! So I say to myself, “Self, did he just make a hospital corner in the crack of your ass?” And as I’m trying to convince myself he did not, he does it to the other cheek. Now I’m sure I’m in hell… until he says, “OK, flip over.”
At that moment, I’d had enough. I might be in hell one day, but I’m not going there with him. So I instead I tell him, “See that ass you just made hospital corners in? You stand a better chance of watching a donkey fly out of it than seeing me flip over. We’re done here.” So, he shuts off the music. He shuts off the shower, and he leaves the room. I was so horrified that I ripped the washcloth out of the crack of my ass, yanked my spa robe and my dignity off the floor, and ran back to the “relaxation area” with the shower cap still on my head. My best friend took one look at me and said, “So did he fold the towel down the crack of your ass too? Thought so.”
What do you say to a woman who knows you well enough to know that you have a facial expression for that kind of event? You say the only thing you can say, “Yes, but I only paid a hundred bucks for it. Do you know what I’d have to pay in New York to have a man make hospital corners in my ass?” And to think we’re still best friends?
I'll let you know if we hit the spa, but personally - I hope we don't. I still haven't fully recovered from the last time. Either way, I'll talk to you next week.
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