My friend Tommy* and I went hiking yesterday and stumbled upon the quite-possibly-illegitimate child of Larry the Cable Guy. Or maybe it's just the Muppet Babies version of Larry himself.
*Yes, he is my only friend.
Monday, May 26, 2008
File Under: Done, Git Er
Friday, May 23, 2008
You Call Him Doctor Jones!
So the Gym Crush and I just watched all three Indiana Jones flicks* back to back to back, sitting on the sofa long enough to sink between the cushions into the Kingdom of Lost Change and Cheeto Dust. Between the end of the Kate Capshaw-ian disaster of Temple of Doom and the beginning of The Last Crusade, we had the following conversation:
Him: So, um, are you going to talk through this next one too?
Me: No. I swear I'll only give relevant cultural commentary.
The Last Crusade DVD: [plays opening credits]
Me: [snickering]
Him: [question mark]
Me: Her name...[titter] is....[snort] Alison Doody!
Him: [staring at me]
Me: [choking on chunks of laughter]
Him: [staring at the television]
Me: DOODY!
Him: [staring longingly at the front door]
Aaaand...scene.
I now have a weekend's worth of tickets for Indiana Jones and the Campbell's Soup for One.
I rule.
*Guess who rocked an Indy J tee during the flickage, proving that I am a True Fan and also that I recently shopped at dELiA's.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Cause You Know It Don't Matter Anyway
She minced into the store, whipping off a pair of oversized Chanel sunglasses* and tucking them into an equally oversized, overteased hairstyle that was the same texture as fiberglass insulation. She paused just inside the door, scanning the room and trying to balance a Kate Spade tote big enough to actually hold Kate Spade and a single serving of SoyMilk that I assumed was just for show, part of the nouveau bitche playset. I eyeballed her for two ticks before I decided to hate her.
Because we're supposed to 'put the i in customer', a motivational slogan that makes less sense than Adam Sandler's continued employment, I greeted her with an enthusiasm frequently displayed by cocker spaniels and the clinically insane. "Hi!" I shrieked "What can I help you with today?"
She glanced at my nametag and brushed past me. I was an annoyance, like melonomas or Mormons. "I'm just browsing", she replied, making her way toward the running shoes, even though the last time she ran for anything it was president of the Junior League.
She was not athletic. Her legs were unnaturally tan but spindly, her skin bunching around her kneecaps like an ill-fitting pair of pants. No, this woman's hobbies include things like raising succulents, Cosmopolitans, and describing her house as having 'good bones'. She'll spend the summer trying to find the right photographer for the elaborately staged Christmas card she'll send to people she no longer speaks to, something involving a garland-ensnared bannister, garish holiday sweaters, and a faux-sepia tone. She has a dog named for a luxury brand and knows exactly how many black people have been in her home.
I followed her around the store, making another awktastic attempt at conversation, even though I probably had more in common with Digger the dermatophyte, a plastic model of foot fungus that stood on the shelf behind her.
"So, um, do you, like, live around here?" I asked.
She was carefully examining the most expensive shoe on the wall, the only one that seemed to catch her attention. "Yes. But I'm not originally from this area".
Of course not. Someone shook a Neiman Marcus catalog and you tumbled out, a tangled mess of St. John and second marriages.
She handed me the sneaker to put back on the peg. "But"--and here's where she sighed deeply, like she was being crushed between the last two numbers of this unfortunate zip code--"We'll just be here until our daughter graduates from Wake Forest."
"Oh yeah?" I said. "That's where I went to college".
She froze, halfway to a rack of capri pants that would've looked ridiculous on her, and spun around to look at my face for the first time. "Oh really? This is what a Wake Forest degree will get you?" She spat out a bitter laugh that sounded like a twig snapping.
I, for once, fumbled for a response like Helen Keller with a handful of well water. No, I wanted to say. This is what self-loathing and a general disregard for authority will get you.
Put the i in customer. Put the i in customer, even when you'd prefer to put the i's in "set this busted bitch on fire".
"Absolutely", I said through a mouthful of bile. "The Carolina grads took all the jobs at Starbucks."
She attempted to make a look of disgust, failing because her face had been Botoxed to the smoothness of a serving spoon. She yanked a pair of capris from the rack and let herself into the dressing room, probably to call her husband before she overdosed on anti-anxiety medications.
Sigh.
Yes, Rags to Bitches, I managed to parlay a high-dollar degree from your daughter's university into a retail job. I'm 28, wear an embroidered shirt, and work as an hourly employee just like baristas or hookers or members of The Babysitter's Club.
But bunions and I are not BFFs and it's not like this is what I planned for myself. I didn't spend fourth period Earth Science drawing pictures of plantar warts in the margins of my notebooks or wishing for a day when I could wring a stranger's socks out into a styrofoam cup to show him how much his feet sweat.
No--I wanted to bang on the door and tell her--if I hadn't been on the business end of cosmic sodomy, I would've awakened this morning and brushed one of Hugh Laurie's stray chest hairs off my 22,000 thread count sheets. I'd pad into my living room, sipping a cup of imported Kopi Luwak coffee and staring out my streak-free windows into the type of sunrise frequently screenprinted on Hollister t-shirts.
I'd spend my days writing a wildly successful sitcom that I also star in and at night Hugh and I would drop three digits on dinners made of rare Jenga-stacked vegetables that we don't recognize, flip it onto the plate with our forks**, then leave and go to Wendy's.
I would check into Shutters on the Beach*** when my laundry was being done, when the dishwasher was full, or if I'd had a particularly potent bowel movement.
I would have surgically enhanced breasts the size of sea turtles and a staff of two whose sole purpose was to walk in front of me, keeping them lifted and separated.
Next spring, the Academy would give me a special award for Lifetime Achievement in Awesomeness and Also Smelling Delightful. I'd absentmindedly leave it in the restroom. I wouldn't miss it.
I would send George Clooney's calls directly to voicemail, because he's been so needy since our breakup. I would answer Simon Cowell's but never on the first ring.
I would adopt the babies that Angelina wanted and just put them in storage.
I would make David Archuleta promise never to record an album.
I would be the first person other than Oprah to be on the cover of Oprah magazine. In the photo, I would be painting a picture of myself.
I would wear diamond-encrusted pants and throw them away if I farted in them.
But instead, I'm leaning against the wooden door of the dressing room, asking this woman if she has any problems with her feet. Other than the fact that they're attached to her.
* I think they were sunglasses. They could've also been a welding mask.
** We wouldn't walk out until I picked up two snow pea pods and slipped them under my top lip to make walrus tusks with them. Everyone in the restaurant would laugh. Some would hold up cell phones to take pictures. Others would wish they had thought of it.
*** I've been a guest there before--courtesy of a spendy advertising client--a two-week stay that culminated with me hitting James Cameron in the face with a door and showering Anne Heche with a glass of single malt. I didn't recognize her at first, since she wasn't muttering in a made-up language, but think it was a fitting payback for making me sit through Six Days Seven Nights.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Spoilers!
Clicky for a big 'un.
I couldn't be less surprised to learn that three generations of Wonkas were offed by diabetes.Thank you, Wikipedia, for allowing me to cram my head with enough worthless tidbits to ensure that my own obit will include the phrase "skull explosion". In lieu of my photo, there will be a tasteful black and white illustration of Adam Bomb from the first series of Garbage Pail Kids.
Sigh. I need another hobby, one that doesn't include a "Search" button. Or chronological lists of notable deaths.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Gymboree
OK, so two Fridays ago (Nine-o de Mayo! Yo soy bilingual!) I saw my Gym Crush at, um, the Gym while I was snuggling with my current boyfriend, the bench press. We talked briefly while I imagined his head encircled by the word "dreamy" and considered paint-penning the words "Dr. & Mrs. Gym Crush" on my Trapper Keeper, before he popped his earbuds in and started his actual workout. I was wrapping up my own attempts at exercise, which mainly consists of asking strangers if they're satisfied with their current footwear and seeing how far I can reach into the vending machines.*
I scaled the stairs to the cardio room and scanned the pink 60 point titles on the available vagazines, trying to find one without a cover story about yeast infections. I settled on a recent issue of Ladies' Home Journal, the one with Sally Field and an article about losing 10 pounds in 10 minutes** and climbed onto the elliptical machine. I was debating between programs called "Gluteal 1" and "Gluteal 2" when I saw him walk in. I waved--a goofy exaggerated gesture that would've been perfect if I was a minor-league mascot--but for some reason, he walked over and talked to me while I excitedly showered him with sweat and spittle for the duration of Gluteal 1.
We made our way outside together and stood in the parking lot, trading trivia about our lives until the entire place was deserted save for a man sleeping in his car and a drifter on a bike, who spent the better part of an hour weaving the same wobbly path on the sidewalk, muttering to himself about Jesus.***
He finally dismissed himself after I'd recounted my entire childhood, including the part where I used to strike out at tee-ball. I, of course, raced home to immediately deconstruct the entire conversation, recounting it to Pigpen as he gnawed on my left arm.
Things I Learned About Him Include:
- He is a proponent of CrossFit, a redonkulous athletic regimen whose daily workouts are named for dead people, quite possibly those who perished while doing the exercises. As far as I can tell, you don't stop lifting weights until you've achieved complete muscle failure and/or start to pee blood.
- Has a Wayne Campbell-Without-the-Cable-Access-Show living arrangement in his parents' house, one that I would definitely copy if the 'rents and I lived in the same state. They could boxersit The Pig while I spent my Friday nights eating selections from the House of Boyardee, watching Moesha reruns, and trying to harvest my own eggs.
- We talked about movies and There Will Be Blood came up. He said that he wanted to see it but couldn't take it seriously since Daniel Plainview looked exactly like the guy on the Red Baron pizza box.
Several weeks/days/minutes from now when he would rather eat a handful of roofing nails than speak to me again, I will still bookmark that pepperoni-coated confession as the moment I knew that I liked him.- Aaaand the money shot... he reads this site. Thank you, FaceBooksheba for the backstabbery. Import note, import Chuck Taylors into wide open gob.****
I didn't see him again until Thursday, when I stumbled directly into his shoulder as he walked across the lobby of the gym. He gave a quick wave and said hey, but didn't slow down, and I assumed that I'd managed to fuck it up already. Or maybe it was just my t-shirt. My 50 cotton/50 poly was screened with a picture of Jimmy Carter***** and although Mr. Peanut's presidency and my life only overlapped for a couple of months, to him it was probably a pre-shrunk reminder that I'm ancient. Next time, I'll just drag a cotton gin behind me or loudly ask for a refill on my angina medication.
So Crayola me Shocked Pink when he bounded across the weight room on Friday evening and asked [insert Max Weinberg skins work] if I'd like to go see Iron Man. WITH HIM.
He waited for me to say something, idly fiddling with a rope attachment.
"Sure," I said, trying to sound nonchalant even though my aorta was rupturing. "That would be neat!".
NEAT.
I used the word "neat". And then I went home to stitch a poodle appliqué on my skirt.
But he called. And we Iron Man-ned and I tried to listen to him instead of SHARING EVERY THOUGHT IN MY HEAD, especially the ones that involved sopping Robert Downey Jr up with a biscuit.
I only spilled the awkwardsauce once. When the cashier asked him if he was a college student, he said yes and got a discount. She asked me the same question and the words "I wish" tumbled out, a response that meant that she addressed me as ma'am for the rest of the transaction and probably wondered why I wasn't at home plucking stray chin hairs and weeping.
We stayed for Nick Fury and then we were back in the parking lot, making awkward small talk and pushing imaginary pebbles with our feet. At one point he asked why I was still single, which I think he meant in a complimentary way but also could have been interpreted as "What the fuck is wrong with you?". It's the same kind of discerning question I ask when I find a Lacoste shirt at the thrift store and immediately assume that someone died in it.
It's interesting to be on this side of the age divide. I feel like Demi Moore. Or Susan Sarandon. Or Michael Jackson. And I'm increasingly OK with that.
* After months of stretching, I snagged my first bag of Sun Chips and the Y responded by clearing all of the treats off the bottom row. I'm either going to have to start scraping together some change or remove my arm bones.
** I didn't make it to the article but hope the secret was to cut off your own head.
*** He could've been saying "Cheeses". Either way.
**** He Enola Gay-ed me with this BombPop by saying that he didn't know why I'd noted his smile because he could "chop wood with [his] teeth", an observation that is totally false. He has lovely teeth, as opposed to the enamel-coated thumbtacks that jut out of my gums at irregular angles.
***** J-Cart's head is encircled with iron-on letters that read "Politicians Do It With Their Mouths". Yeah.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Supply and Demand
OK, so my inbox has been stuffed* with e's asking about these comments from this post's thread:
Some of the notes asked if this meant that we'd dated in college, some wanted to know if he was the last person who'd checked my "yes" box**, and one of you who is possibly my mom wanted to know if she would be receiving another Chia Head this Mother's Day. To answer those questions in order: yes, almost, and not unless Walgreens gets another shipment.
I got to know Troy when he roomed with one of my friends during sophomore year. Initially we shared nothing but stilted conversations and an occasional cardboard basket of curly fries. We had nothing in common. He liked flute music and learning. I enjoyed Popov Vodka and passing out in flower beds. I was Goofus. He was Gallant.
Besides, he was involved with someone else--a girl who didn't dress like Happy Gilmore***--and I was just beginning a relationship with Marlboro Reds. But before that semester's drop date, we were speaking to each other in paragraphs, not sentences. I learned that he listened to Kenny Loggins, ground his own coffee****, and frequently gave sweaters as gifts. Throw in a dash of lactose intolerance, and he was essentially the most eligible middle-aged man I was going to find on campus, unless I decided to seduce the Provost.*****
I soon realized that I was stumbling down the stairs to see him, just him, more often. He generously offered to help me through Econ--his major--and in return, I promised not to throw up on his desk planner again. For our first lesson, he taught me that 'conspicuous consumption' didn't mean having a McRib stain on my Yzerman sweater. During our second, I asked him out. I'm not sure why he agreed but think I shot out a cloud of ink, giant squid-style, temporarily stunning and confusing him.None of our mutual friends Our one mutual friend didn't get it, our John Bender-Claire Standish Breakfast Club courtship (with the part of Troy being played by Molly Ringwald) and I think we all knew that from the start, it was stamped with an indelible expiration date, taunting us like that carton of cottage cheese that he couldn't eat. Thirteen episodes of Ally McBeal****** later, when he (unsurprisingly) decided I wasn't right for him and I (unsurprisingly) wouldn't let it go, he switched his major to religion, probably because he spent so much time praying that I would transfer to another school.
Flash forward ten years and he's earned two master's degrees from colleges that don't advertise during syndicated sitcoms and has a career that lends itself to French cuff shirts and a yard full of swans. He's married and has a child that--because he and Mrs. Troy******* both have cheekbones I could open my cable bill with--is destined to make Shiloh Jolie-Messiah-Pitt look like a lawn gnome.
By contrast, I sleep alone, wear a name tag to work, and recently ate an earthworm for a dollar.
Despite living two Targets from each other, I rarely see him since he doesn't need to purchase running shoes nor buys groceries at Big Lots. I'm glad he stops by the site, I appreciate all the reader e's, and still hope I can find a Chia Head by Sunday.
* Not a euphemism.
** Not a euphemism.
*** This was during my devoted hockey fan period, which overlapped entirely with my "frequently assumed to be a lesbian" period.
**** Also not a euphemism.
***** I spent a full semester considering it until someone pointed out that, despite the sideburns, he was actually a woman.
****** At this point, the show was still known for its short hemlines and unisex bathrooms and not because Calista Flockhart weighed less than a barn owl.
******* They were nice enough to invite me to their wedding even though there was a very real possibility that I would make a scene and/or empty an entire tray of mini-quiche into my purse. Mrs. Troy--and the entire Trojan family--is made of win.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Yes It's True (Yes It's Truuuuue)
I'm so happy to be stuck with you.Cause I can see (I can see)
That you're happy to be stuck with meeeee.
I just won this t-shirt on eBay and it's absolutely the best $12.49 I've ever spent on a product not marketed using the words "ribbed" or "nonoxynol-9".
My HuLew* lust goes backbackback to second grade:**
"Huey Lewis was my first love. When he was on the cover of People magazine, I threw a tantrum in Elliott's grocery store until my mother would buy a copy which I immediately took home and hung on my wall. It seems like maybe this would have been a warning sign to my parents, when all of my friends liked Kirk Cameron or Corey Haim but I wanted Huey, a 38-year-old married father of two."Seriously. I couldn't be happier if I'd just placed the winning bid on the Shroud of Turin.
* I think this is also the #8 meal at China Garden. It comes with shrimp and scallions.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Hives
Here's a question for you reader(s)...
Why, after five months of sharing my bed and increasingly scratched-up sofa with him, has my little Boxerbeast started to make me itchy every time he licks me? This morning he woke me up by enthusiastically lapping at my face and within five minutes I looked like Macaulay Culkin in My Girl.
Any ideas? Because right now my only solution is to trim an eyehole out of my pillowcase and shroud my head John Merrick-style before heading to work.
Update: 10:08 a.m. Kaeti said... You're allergic to love.
This is quite possibly the most plausible explanation. It also explains why my trachea closes every time I watch "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition". Oh, and why I'm so alone. Urticaria lines the bottom of the turn-on pile, sandwiched between "surly" and "refuses to chew with mouth closed".
Friday, May 02, 2008
Local Cable
I caught an insomniac episode of the X-Files around 3 a.m. and when I wasn't distracted by Gillian Anderson's "Kabuki-Meets-Career Woman" makeup style, I was kickstarting my cortex trying to remember where I had seen the villain before. (Robert Patrick Modell, for any remaining X-Addicts).
I Heimliched it out of my head this morning, during my second bowl of Shrek cereal*. He was the undersexed dad** in the Lifetime Original Movie Secret Cutting***.
I hate myself for knowing this.
* I know we're, like, a year past the latest Shrek installment, which probably explains why the box had been banished to the clearance endcap. And also why it tastes like potting soil.
** And the family's reluctant math tutor. For some reason in made-for-tv movies, whenever the main character starts sucking at math, they're three Mylanta commercials away from a psychological disorder. I tanked my trig class too, but that's because my teacher stopped speaking to me after an unfortunate incident where she asked for an example of a vulgar fraction and I suggested two divided by dick.
*** Plot synopsis: A teen girl spends lots of time drawing elaborate sketches of wolves which you know she's just going to rip up later. To cope with her classmates' teasing****she locks herself in her room (or the bathroom or the garage or the inexplicably unlocked school furnace room/smoker's den) and sometimes cuts herself! Secretly! This results in several appointments with tough-but-caring therapist Rhea Pearlman whose only medical credentials appear to be an endless supply of cable knit sweaters. The End.
**** Her fellow students tease her with uninspired epithets like "Weirdo", ignoring more creative choices like "Dances With Wolves", "Wolf Blitzer" or "Wolf Camera Center".*****
***** Or "Starting Center for the Sudbury Wolves". Or "Wolf Lake, Minnesota". I can do this All Effing Day.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Class of '08
My sister Runtie was here today and after spending four hours with Movies On Demand*, we had to tear ourselves away from the teevee long enough to get something to eat. We were both unshowered and surly so we settled on Whole Foods, where we'd not only fit in but may be offered part-time employment in the Quorn department.
We hurried off to the salad bar where I smothered a single shred of lettuce beneath an avalanche of tortilla chips the same size and sticker price of a new Kia. I was debating how many scoops of cheese I could pile on top without it sealing off my poop chute like the portal to the underworld when I became aware of someone standing behind me, staring at the back of my head.
My Spidey sense tingled before he opened his mouth.
"Hey, could you hurry it up a bit?," he said and I so wanted to spin around and spit out a witty, blogtastic retort but I'd just shoved a fistful of olives into my mouth. I narrowed my eyes, cartoon villain style, and glanced over my shoulder.
He was smiling, showcasing his perfect tooth-to-gum ratio. "Seriously, all the cheese tastes the same. I suggest the yellow one".
He grinned again, as I suavely spilled a spoonful of shredded cheddar onto my sneakers. Of course it was my Gym Crush and OF COURSE I would see him while I was wearing sweatpants--the kind that sag enough to make it look like my ass is sliding off--and a pullover that had been decorated with a thin layer of dog hair.
I was faced with the choice of either swallowing a mouthful of olive pits or spitting them into my hand before I could speak to him, this guy I've stared at for three months, alternately picturing him naked during his lat pulldowns and being relieved that he's not, since that machine is rarely cleaned. He waited for me to say something as I surrendered the pits to peristalsis, choking them down while making a delightful expression that Runtie later described as looking like I was shitting out a box of pencils.
"Hey!" I said, because I am a master at communication. "How's it going?" Yeah. I rule.
"Oh man. I've had a hell of a week today." He sighed for effect, shifting his six-pack of Saranac to the other hand. My powers of deductive reasoning told me that either he's cracked open some kind of space/time continuum and will be loading a flat of artesian water into his Delorean or he's had a bad day.
"Have you had a bad day?" I asked, wondering why my side of the conversation always sounds like it was written for Ramona Quimby.
"Yeah. I have two papers due before Wednesday and I haven't started either of them yet".
"Papers?" I asked, hopinghopingHOPING that this meant that he was the editor of a regional newsweekly and not that he was working on, like, a book report. The seasonal brew meant that he had to be at least 21 and that meant that he was quite possibly STILL IN COLLEGE and that can't b--
"Yeah, for my major".
Fuck.
"And...um...what is your major?"
"Philosophy," he said, which will remain the only selection more worthless than my theatre degree until the school offers graduate studies in Swiffering.
But...college? I had no idea that he was that young. He'd made a Zwan joke during our first conversation so I automatically assumed he was close to my age and quite possibly a virgin. I wasn't even hot for college guys when I was in college. I've always been one for graying temples and glucosamine. While my middle school friends endlessly debated whether they'd rather mash faces with Zack Morris or A.C. Slater, I thought about banging Mr. Belding. True story.
He exchanged pleasantries with Runtie while I wondered if he'd rather have my number or some quarters for his laundry. I was rummaging through my purse when he turned my way and said "You know, I thought about you the other day."
"Oh reaaaally?", I said in a tone that I aimed at "coquettish" but may have landed somewhere around "confused".
"Yeah, my roommate and I just watched a movie called Blood Gnome."
I waited.
"Remember? You told me how much you dug B-movies and this one is sweet. But yeah, it reminded me of you. There were vaginas with teeth."
OK. First, the positives: He remembered a conversation we had! Sometimes he thinks of me! And the negatives: These thoughts are triggered by VAGINAS WITH TEETH. Read that again.
"Um...I'll have to check that out. See you!" Abruptly ending the conversation and racing toward the cash register seemed like a better option than a discussion of the dental status of my vajay. Yes, it's toothless, but at this point in my Gobi-like social life I can't rule out bats.
**********
Leaving Blood Gnome behind us, Runtie and I took our cheese and chip salads to a table.
"He's younger than me!", she began, "And I'm, like, 2 Olympics younger than you!"
"Yeah, but he's hot in a written-by-Francine Pascal kind of way. And probably smart! He's a Philosophy major."
"A Philosophy major? That doesn't mean he's smart. It means he's unemployed."
"Great, we could be a no-income family. If I make a move soon, maybe he'll invite me to his graduation".
"That would be nice," she said between mouthfuls. "Would you give him a card with some money in it?". Runtie laughed, spewing tortilla crumbs all over the table.
Sigh. I wonder where Mr. Belding is now...
*We watched Jackass 2.5 and One Missed Call, which may have been the worst use of $8 in history. We both wished that the demon child would've called us before we watched Bam Margera fly a kite out of his ass.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Deadbolted
So before I get to the blistered, black toenailed recap of the actual marathon, let's talk about how it almost didn't happen. On Saturday morning, my footie pj'ed feet touched the floor at 5:30 a.m., that pre-dawn transitional time between paid programming and regular television. I still had to pack, use my Rembrandt 2-Hour Teeth Whitening Kit ('cause I assumed my lips would be curled back into a Cujo-like snarl the entire time and hoped the spectators would focus less on my crazed expression and more on my gleaming white incisors*) and make time to get to Walgreens to refill my birth control since I fully expected the race to make me its bitch.
I dragged Pigpen out of bed too, jarring him from his customary sleeping position--resting his little docked tail on the corner of the pillow closest to my face--and clumsily clipped his leash on, both of us startled by the unfamiliar sound of a newspaper thwacking against a door down the hall. I pocketed my keys and a crap sack, and tried to open the door. When I grabbed the turny part of the lock (Yes, the turny part...) it turned all the way around, spinning in a helpless circle without budging the deadbolt. Now, I'm not the most mechanically inclined person--my familiarity with tools doesn't extend past my former boyfriend or that Foo Fighters song--but this seemed bad.
The lock was a one-sided deadbolt I'd had installed shortly after the manager of my building led a parade of potential renters into my living room while I was sprawled on the sofa spraying EZ Cheez directly into my mouth and trying to hold back my tears during a particularly moving rerun of Miami Ink.** That said, there was no way to access it from the outside. With one turn to the left, I had managed to lock myself IN.
My apartment (aka the J-Money Pit) is on the second floor of the building, with a balcony that faces one of Slappytown's busiest streets. There's no other way in or out and the front door has security hinges, so taking the door down wasn't an option either. The entire situation sounded like a pitch for "McGuyver: The H.O.A. Years" or a puzzle from an 80's-era Sierra game, one solved by typing commands like "Search for secret passage" or "Lick broken lock".***
I didn't know what to do, other than step away from the wall and yell for the Kool-Aid man. When he didn't show, I selected several locksmiths from the yellow pages, calling the ones who used the biggest font and the phrase "24 hours", but got voicemail for all of them. Apparently those 24 hours are non-sequential. I left a message for my first choice--a selection based solely on the unauthorized use of Looney Tunes in his ad--and he didn't call me back until yesterday, proving that he's neither 'Speedy' nor concerned that I could be an episode of Forensic Files by now.
Next, I rang my friend Tommy, the only other person I thought would be awake before 6 on a weekend. When he finished laughing, he encouraged me to dial the building maintenance emergency line, even though it's out of state. An inappropriately cheery woman answered on the third ring, made note of my "emergency" (I made sure to mention that I had a puppy who really needed to pee and also I was out of Diet Coke) and promised that someone would be in touch, hopefully before I get a cassette from Jigsaw telling me that there's a key behind my eye.
Twenty minutes passed before a sleepy-sounding man named David dialed me back. "So you're locked out?" he asked. "Um, no," I replied. "Actually I'm locked in." He sighed deeply, like I was giving him a setup he should stumble into, like when I used to call the staff at Rick's Fried Chicken and ask the waitresses if they had chicken breasts. When they said they did, I would shout "I bet you look like hell in a bathing suit!" cackle madly and hang up, thankful that caller ID hadn't been invented yet.****
When I finished summarizing my sitch, I heard David take a sip of either coffee or hemlock, clear his throat and say "Well shit". After convincing him that yes, I was sure I didn't have a chimney and no, I don't have a live-in caregiver, he said he was going to get in touch with Mr. Handyman. When I told him that I'd watched that movie on Spectravision, he promptly hung up.
I was halfway through whitening tray 2 of 4 when Mr. Handyman called to say that two of his handy-henchmen--along with a 40 foot ladder-would be arriving below my balcony within the hour. Meanwhile, Tommy called back, telling me to come out to my balcony. I looked down and he's standing there in full climbing gear--harness, shoes, a coil of rope-- and asking if I think I can work the rope while he scales the building like a bleary-eyed, khaki-clad Sherpa. A small crowd had started to assemble across the street, attracted either by my sparkling smile, Pigpen's incessant barking, or the sight of a small man wearing rubber shoes trying to throw a grappling hook into my hands.
"Do you have upstairs neighbors?" Tommy shouted.
"I think so. They move their furniture in the middle of the night and cook either curry or human flesh all the time. Also I think one of them plays the synthesizer".
"Not important," he said. "Think they'd let me rappel down onto your balcony instead?"
"I don't know. I saw them carrying a taxidermied animal head into the elevator last night."
"Again. NOT IMPORTANT."
As if on cue, a decal-covered Dodge truck pulled onto the sidewalk. Two men wearing Mr. Handyman hats stepped out. The taller of the two looked at me, looked at Tommy and said "Guess we're in the right place."
Things moved quickly from there. The two Handymen climbed the ladder into my living room--trailed by a still-harnessed Tommy--and within ten minutes the front door was open. Another two passed before a pee-filled Pigpen bounded into the hall, promptly soiling the carpet. I thanked the H-Men profusely, tore up the will I'd been writing, and watched as they stepped over the stain into the elevator. Neither of them noticed my teeth.
* This is also why I bleach my teeth before first dates.
** Miami Ink is one of my faves because I love personal stories, artistic ability, and the threat of hepatitis.
*** We used to play "King's Quest" all the time in school until a kid named Judson got everyone banned from the computer lab for repeatedly commanding the main character to touch himself.
**** This was hilarious, circa third grade. Also in the prankery repertoire? Calling the bowling alley to ask how much their balls weighed.
Monday, April 21, 2008
"Run Hahdah, J-Money!"
The Boston Marathon? Over.
3:23:09.
More from me later after I nap, take more than the recommended dosage of over-the-counter painkillers, and quite possibly remove my legs with the bottle opener from the mini-bar.
Thanks to everyone on the course who shouted for me, even the kids who yelled for "J-Monkey".
Friday, April 18, 2008
I'm a Sailor Peg! And I Lost my Leg!
As you may know, I'm shipping up to Boston (wooah ohh ohhh!) tomorrow morning to run in Monday's Boston Marathon. This could either go very well, which means I will wear my commemorative t-shirt every day and point out this accomplishment to friends, strangers, potential ex-boyfriends, and anyone who fails to notice ("Yes, Officer, I know how fast I was going. Faster than I ran the Boston Marathon. Hold my Dewars so I can show you my medal. ") OR it will be a complete disaster and we will never speak of it again, putting it in the same category as 8th grade, my last job, and every haircut I had from 1988-1994.
Regardless of my finishing time, I'll be running in the bad-assiest sweat wicking shirt of all time, courtesy of my friend Clare.
It's such an amazing garment I'll feel horrible about throwing up on it.
If any of you happen to see me on the race course, please wave and shout and maybe hand me some Teddy Grahams or Powerade or Immodium or something. I appreciate everyone's support and promise to stop and make out with anyone holding a "J-Money 3:16" poster.
Regardless, I feel ready. My training went better than expected so the only thing left to do is eat enough carbs to shit out an Olive Garden and possibly remove my pelvis. I'm a bit concerned about this year's ban on iPods, but thankfully my brain has chosen to retain the lyrics to "Take On Me" and "No Diggity" instead of worthless information like my blood type or my parents' names. I'll be forced to entertain myself so, if it looks like I'm singing, I'm probably singing. Or giving myself last rites.
Thank all of you for the supportive comments and emails you've sent. There's nothing left to do but run, you stupid fucking marathoner, run.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Customer Service
Actual conversation between me and a potential running apparel customer that took place between the Nike and the New Balance racks at approximately 5:48 p.m.
Him: This shirt looks interesting.
Me: That it is. It's actually woven with bamboo yarn, which is the ultimate in breathability and moisture management. It even has natural anti-microbial properties. Also, my boss makes us memorize everything written on the tag.
Him: Really? I bought bamboo sheets at Target last week.
Me: Do they attract pandas?
Him: Um...I...what?
He had the courtesy to wait until I wandered to the other side of the store before re-racking the pair of shorts he'd been considering and stuffing a brochure for the Greek Festival 5K back in the bin. Then he walked out.
I rule.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Roadkill
The longer I live in this pollen coated, sweet tea sippin', magnolia choked state, the more I think that Southern Hospitality is another popular but unproven myth that people stubbornly believe in, like natural blondes, perfect credit scores, and Jamie Lee Curtis' peen.
Tonight I did my last pre-Boston Marathon (TM) long run, an easy 10 miler soundtracked by Shine a Light and one unending prayer to my patellar tendons to maybe not fray for another 8 days. I was about 20 minutes in and running down my least fave street when a sedan the size of a sperm whale slowed down beside me.
I pulled an earbud out and turned to face the driver, an elderly man already wearing his eyebrows at 45 degree angles. He didn't offer anything as a greeting, instead immediately launching into his lecture. "It's idiots like you who get killed and innocent drivers like me who have to deal with it!" he wheezed.
It took me a moment to respond, both because I had to determine which facet of my idiocy he was referencing, and also because his otherwise unremarkable nose exploded into a gin blossom the size of a Titleist. I found out about yooooooouuu-r drinking problem.
"You're not a runner, are you?" I asked, stopping the timer on my watch.
"No and I'm not an idiot, either." This is the part where he paused to harrumph. "Running in the middle of the street with those...those....ear speakers on".
Yes, wearing my ear speakers, about to be Froggered by that blasted horseless carriage of yours.
I shrugged. "Gotta have the Stones," I responded, knowing his gallbladder would prolly agree.
"You need to be on the sidewalk!" he shouted, his reedy voice splintering against the exclamation point.
"And you need to be in a sarcophagus," I wanted to say, but instead I calmly explained that I was running the BOSTON MARATHON (TM) next Monday and it wasn't going to be run on the sidewalk.
"You aren't going to be running anything if someone runs you over," he said, pleased with the amount of times he used 'run' in that sentence, before shifting into D and pulling away. He hung a left and clipped the curb--hard--drowning out "Tumbling Dice" with the sound of the driver's side dry-humping the sidewalk.
I popped my ear speaker back in and decided it was safer to stay in the road.
Author's Note: Don't worry, guys! I wasn't tightroping down the yellow line. I was right beside the sidewalk, facing traffic, and able to leap to the concrete at any time. And the volume on my 'pod was low enough that I could hear Mr. Happypants behind me before he ever rolled to a stop. The only way I could be safer is if I replaced my skin with bubble wrap.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
High Fructose
I was out of cereal, so this morning my choice was a bowl of Iams Low Residue Veterinary Formula or--the cheaper option--to leave my apartment for breakfast. I stuffed the empty box of the Fruity Pebbles spinoff, Bam Bam Berry Pebbles* trash recycling bin cleverly disguised as a Hefty Cinch-Sak and tried to control my craving for something that gave my mouth the same post-Pebbles greasy feel but without shredding my mouth to ribbons like Cap'n Crunch, whose sweetened corn treasure chests are filled with broken glass.
I wanted cereal, but going to the grocery would require wearing pants. So I threw on my new Sawx hat--I finally had to replace my long-time companion because the bill had completely disintegrated and also it smelled like a dead squirrel--and headed to see my new boyfriend, the McSkillet Burrito.
For the bargain price of $2.99, McDonald's will give me a sausage AND potato AND cheese stuffed, tortilla-swaddled chunk of heaven, assuming that heaven could cause your aorta to explode. The McSkillet Burrito (from now on, the McSkiTo) is the size of an infant and, like a human baby, will most likely be with you for the next 18 years.
I pulled my car even with the illustrated menu (it's now bilingual! Me gusta
ANYWAY, I placed my credit card in the hand extending from the first window, because Visa is everywhere I want to be including this pre-dawn drive-thru, chipping away at my life expectancy. A woman wearing a nametag and a lifetime of regret pulled my card into the sausage-scented interior. She reappeared in the window, shaking my card at me like an Outkast lyric. "This card's been declined," she said.
This is a new low, in a lifetime of new lows.
"Hang on", I said, fumbling through my wallet, wondering if they'd accept a library card or a stamp commemorating the ring necked duck.
I literally had zero currency of any kind. An exploration of the ash tray yielded two pennies and a Tic-Tac. I flipped a floor mat and pulled my gym bag from the passenger seat. Nothing. I offered up a pair of Snapple bottles to Dreama--that was the name stickered unevenly on her tag--with the promises of an excellent redemption value. She shook her head, sighing deeply. "But there's trivia under the cap!" I pleaded. A car honked behind me.
After another cursory dig through the center console, I did what anyone in my situation would've done.
I drove off.
I can't be sure, but I think Dreama gave me the McFinger.
*
Thursday, April 03, 2008
In Treatment, Part the Second
Start here if you missed the first part of this excrement-soaked adventure. Here's hoping that's the last time I'll ever have to write the phrase "excrement soaked".
Dr. Parker paused to watch me squirm as I wondered whether Pigpen had been whisked away to the giant Snausage in the sky. It was well after I realized that I was clenching both my tear ducts and my buttocks that she started speaking again, her words deliberately dripping out like Folgers through a filter.
"Oh, he's fine," she finally said as she rifled through a thick stack of paper that was either the Epic of Gilgamesh (unabridged) or my itemized bill. "Really."
"But what happened?" I asked, the Kenickie to her Danny Zuko. Tell me more, tell me more, tell me more.
"It was completely our fault. Well. Maybe not completely". She put a bit of emphasis on the wrong syllable.
I waited.
Finally her words began falling out out in paragraphs until she paused to ask if I was aware that Pigpen doesn't enjoy "quiet time". Obviously, she ranked me somewhere between Ralph Wiggum and a parakeet on the perceptiveness scale. OF COURSE I NOTICED. Seeing Pigpen calm down is about as likely as seeing Jesus purchase water skis. Or, um, seeing Jesus (without the aid of powerful hallucinogens).
I nodded my head, ready for her to skip the exposition and get to the actual point of where my dog was. Unless she wanted to play Carmen San Diego, hand me an almanac and watch as I researched which country would make me pay in drachma.
She continued. I'm paraphrasing but essentially Pigpen was a Menace 2 Society during his time in the clinic. She prescribed a special diet for him, a high fiber food that rings up at four bucks a can. She had already set aside ten cans for me to purchase, an illustrated Border Collie beaming at me from each label. Wherever my dog was, he was chock full of fiber and shitting out more money than Coinstar.
Or not. The first time Pigpen was served he refused to eat, choosing instead to bark at the bowl until someone gave in and took it away. For take two, they placed the food in front of him, waiting for him to bark. He didn't. Instead he picked it the dish up and threw it. Not with his hands, obviously, or he would've been drafted by the Dolphins. But he did manage to flip the bowl and, instead of eating what he spilled, he rolled around in it.
THEN he barked at the empty dish.
Pigpen was given a bath and moved to a different run, the theory being that if he had nicer digs, maybe he'd behave. They kitted out his new place with water and a dose of subcutaneous fluids, a medical term that means "thirty dollars". Unfortunately, my discerning pup wasn't impressed with their beverage selection so he picked up his new dish and slung it sidearm. Or sidemouth, whatevs. He watched with delight as it repeatedly clattered to the floor, no doubt wishing he could clap his hands or even raise the roof. Since he could do neither, he shat in his bed.
He was given another bath.
Unsurprisingly, the sound of the metal bowl repeatedly clanging on the ground started to irritate the other dogs. They all started barking in protest, a scenario that somehow reminded me of The View. Since Pigpen was dehydrated from all of the pooping, he couldn't be without water so they raided their supply closet and found a gigantic ceramic bowl, one reserved for Mastiffs or Great Danes or Michael Moore. The veterinary assistant filled it, placed it in Pig's crib, and was barely out of the room before she heard the crash.
Sigh. Yes, he somehow tossed that one in the air too. Unfortunately it didn't quite stick the landing, shattering into sharp pieces that scattered on the ground. The assistant checked on him with the quickness but he'd already walked on the broken glass and cut his feet, proving that despite looking like a fruit bat, Annie Lennox knows what she's talking about.
So that's why he was incarcerated for an extra night. When Dr. Parker finally wrapped up her monologue, she led Pigpen into the room. He was wearing bandages on his paws and one of those giant lampshade collars that look ridiculous but apparently serve a purpose, kind of like fanny packs or Steven Cojocaru.
That was last week. Since then he's healed enough to be unwrapped and out of the collar. There are three more cans of the high dollar chow. Pigpen still won't eat it but I've never been more regular.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
In Treatment, Part 1
So last weekend, I had to leave Pigpen in a kennel for the first time. His stay was uneventful but ever since I picked him up, he's been determined to punish me and ensure that not only will I never board him again, but I'll never be allowed to leave the house, not until I run out of Oreo Cakesters or the neighbors complain about the smell, whichever comes first.
The Pig wasn't allowed to visit my fam at Easter because of Molly, the rents' six year old Boston Terrier who hates everything that's not my mother. On a good day, she's on the cobra side of the cuddly continuum (the dog, not my mother). On a bad day, she's Naomi Campbell.
Fig. 1: MollyAside from wearing puffy coats and snapping at family members, Molly's hobbies include going mental when she peeps another dog out the window or on television, let alone one who may place a paw on her property. So Pigpen (and my sister's pet which she claims is a dachshund but may actually be a ferret or a large piece of lint) were both sent to camp, like Ernest but with more cognitive ability.
He only spent three nights away but he was a week's worth of pissed. I picked him up on Monday night on my way home but it was Tuesday before he even looked in my direction. I could've been wearing ground beef pants with Snausage stitching and he still would've feigned an interest in investigating the baseboards, staring at the corner, or watching "The King of Queens".
I had to work on Tuesday, so he was alone save for Bunny, his favorite toy (other than the doormat, the one throw pillow not purchased on clearance, and any article of clothing marked 'Dry Clean Only'). I came home exhausted because
Around 3, when I was still awake and approaching that special kind of delirium when a Diamonique serving platter sounds like a great idea (Only 13 easy payments!) and/or you find yourself agreeing with Nancy Grace, I grabbed Pigpen and Bunny and hauled them both to his crate.
At 3:04, the whimpering started. By 3:06 it had escalated to barking. Loud, full-bodied Boxer barking. At 3:08, my upstairs neighbors were awake, pounding on the floor and quite possibly using expressions that invoked Jesus' full name. I crouched in front of the crate and explained to Pigpen that if he didn't let me sleep, I was selling him to the Korean restaurant on 3rd Street. I patted one of his meaty thighs, snapped off the lights, and stomped back to my room.
I had just drifted off when I heard the noise. It was a brainscrambling high pitched squeal/scream combo platter, similar in intensity to the cries of the feasting vampires from 30 Days of Night and more unsettling than Josh Hartnett's continued employment.
The sound stopped when I flipped the light on and saw Pigpen staring defiantly at me, standing on his puppy bed that fifteen minutes ago had been Tide white but was now Appaloosa-ed with shit. As soon as I walked toward him, he started thrashing around like an extra in a House of Pain video, causing the poop to fly out of the crate, some of it settling on the (white) rug and (white) walls beside it, other bits clinging to the crate's wires like stalactites.
He seemed pleased.
At fifteen till four, I was elbow deep in the guest bathtub, vigorously scrubbing Pigpen and wondering if the Fresh n' Clean Puppy Shampoo would be able to remove the poop stains from my dinosaur pajama pants. Sigh. I really should save them for special occasions. I toweled the Shitmonster off and left him howling in the bedroom while I busied myself cleaning the mess, accompanied by intermittent stops from the angry line dance upstairs.
Whether or not he'd done this on purpose, it had unintended consequences: Bunny. She'd taken some, um, friendly fire and had to be unceremoniously laid to rest. Sorry, Pigpen, but there was no way I was placing that in my washing machine, where I clean pillowcases and washcloths and other things that touch my face and/or butt.
By the time the last inch of floor had been Wetjetted, it was almost six and I had an hour before my alarm started spitting out some soft rock. The silence from the guest room meant that Pigpen was either asleep or he'd managed to Dufresne his way out and was now robbing the Sunoco across the street.
I changed pjs and tucked myself in. 64 minutes later, Dan Fogelberg told me that the Leader of the Band was really tired and I told them both to fuck themselves. I peeled my head off the pillow, went to the guest room, and was slapped awake by the smell. At some point, Pigpen--still sleeping peacefully of course-- had gone all Linda Blair, showering my prefab furniture with a thin veneer of vomit. This, I decided, was not on purpose.
Immediately I called Dr. Parker--his vet--and she agreed that yes, this sounded bad and yes, I needed to bring him in with the quickness. I grabbed Pigpen--sealing off the guest room and silently hoping for a fire--threw him in the car and drove to the clinic. After hearing last night's excrement-filled itinerary, the vet said that Pigpen should be admitted for a number of diagnostic tests.
I told her that sounded really expensive. She didn't disagree.
I was given a stack of paperwork to fill out and told that they would need to keep him overnight, that I should plan on returning around noon the next day. That gave me approximately 30 hours to myself. To sleep. To incinerate my guest bed. To move to another state.
I checked in with her several times during the day, each call adding another line item to the bill. Pigpen was getting a battery of tests... x-rays, IVs, and quite possibly liposuction. She suggested a stool sample but responded with silence when I asked if I could save $40 and just bring her my pajama pants. I knew that all of this was necessary, but at the same time, I work part-time. Selling running shoes. I probably bank less than the 8 year old Asians who stitch them together.
My last anytime minutes of the day were spent on the phone learning that Pigpen was going to be OK. He didn't have any chronic diseases. No blockages, nothing permanent. This was huge. I was bracing myself for the announcement that he was going to require a colon transplant. All systems were go for him to come home the next day.
I drove to the clinic early on Thursday and was immediately intercepted by one of the other vets. She introduced herself, shaking my hand and her head as she said "Wow, that Pigpen's always in trouble isn't he?"
That can't be good.
"Dr. Parker was getting ready to call you--", she began before being called to help with a leaf-covered cat that was trying to cough up a Kia.
I was guided to an exam room. Dr. Parker came in alone. Without Pigpen.
"Did you get my message?" she asked. I said I hadn't. She gave me a tight-lipped smile and said "We are so sorry." She paused for effect. She paused too long. "But he did get a bath this morning."
I waited.
"We tried to call you. Nothing like this has ever happened here, I assure you, but we'll need to keep him another day".
To be continued...
No, he's not dead.
*No one finds it amusing if you refer to their foot deformities as "Fun-ions".
**My boss met with me last week to stress his concern that I'm not being 'intimate' enough with the customers' feet. Right now, I struggle to be cordial to them.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Dreadlocked
I swore I never would.
But last night I did.
I voted.
Damn you, Jason Castro with your guitar and blue eyes and perma-stoner expression.
Damn you for making me drink love's bong water.
I sincerely hope my single texted vote helps him beat Kristy Lee Cook, because she is like a Wal-Mart brought to life.
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