I was at Kmart (I know, I shop there way too much) this past weekend, gazing forlornly at the lack of staff at the checkout counters—only one line was open—and watching the zombie consumers waiting for their turn. I wasn’t happy at the prospect of losing crucial minutes of my life while the easily distracted cashier waded through the queue slower than shi-at rolling uphill. But I conformed and took my place. Periodically the person at the customer service counter would shout “Next person on line IN ORDER step to the customer service desk.” This resulted in momentary mayhem, as the more anal variety of customer staunchly refused to move from their position, while the annoying customers jostled to steal the spot. The line undid and redid itself accordingly.
Suddenly a multitasking woman approached (she was juggling items in her hands, fishing her wallet out of her purse, and talking on her cell phone by using her shoulder to hold the phone to her ear. “What am I supposed to do?” she whined at the cashier. “Which line?” The cashier repeated that IN ORDER people could switch to the newly opened check out. “But nobody is moving!” she complained, all a flutter, in a self-important voice.
“You’re in Kmart,” I reminded her before shaking my head and moving up one place in line. As I watched the line slowly crawl forward, I was impressed by how, despite a few hiccups, it stayed in form. While my fellow Americans, and perhaps the Brits reading my blog, may take for granted that a line (or queue) is generally an organized formation of people who stand one right after the other in the order they arrived, there is a strange and chaotic alternative system that people use in Catalonia, Spain, where I lived for much of my adult life.
The system has no name that I’m aware of, but I like to call it ¿Quien es el ultimo? (Who’s last in line?). This is how it works: you walk into a store, bank, bakery, post office, doctor’s office, etc. Instead of a line, you see a shambles–people all over the place, some sitting, some standing, some sneaking a cigarette outside. You shout “Who’s last in line?” A few people answer at once and you determine who’s telling the truth. You then remember that you go after that person (I’m after the teenage girl with her buttcrack hanging out of her unreasonably tight pants, for example).
I learned about the system the hard way my first year living in Barcelona. I had gone to the post office to mail out chapters of my novel to some publishers (I was still optimistic back then). There I was with stacks of huge heavy envelopes, waiting my turn for over a half hour and antsy about getting back to work. Just as I was about to place the envelops down on the counter, an old lady jumped up and c-blocked me.
“Hey, it’s my turn,” I shouted in Spanish.
“No, I was next.” She insisted. “It’s just that I was sitting.”
“You snooze you lose,” I said. Well actually, I don’t think you can translate that into Spanish, but it was something along those lines.
“No. I was next. I was after her,” the woman said, pointing to the person who’d just finished in front of me. Baffled and about to go postal (no pun intended), I left in a rage and had to ask a local friend to explain the bewildering concept to me.
The system gets even more confusing when in a doctor’s office and you have to take a number as if at a deli counter. Instead of quien es el ultimo, you have to check your number and then ask who has the number before you. So basically you walk into a waiting room and shout “¿quien tiene el numero 36?” for example, while everyone digs in their pockets to find their crumpled number and someone finally shouts “yo!” (Ok, I’m after the barrel-like woman with purple hair.)
Problem with the practice: there’s a specific type of person who takes advantage of the system—defies it, lies, and usurps you every time: the old, rotund, Catalan woman. These elderly women are large, in charge, as wide as they are tall and don’t take crap from anyone. They are not fragile, vulnerable grannies who get their purses snatched on the street. They’re not frail—they can and will knock you on your ass while trying to get on or off a train and they’ll pretend to be the “ultima” even when they’re not.
So while I was annoyed to be waiting on line in Kmart, and even more annoyed at flutter woman and her stupid cell phone, I actually cracked a smile at the prospect of standing in an organized fashion, and not having to submit to the chaos and mysterious inner workings of the phenomenon quien es el ultimo.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Thanks, But No Thanks
Lately I’ve started thinking that I’m going soft. My anger towards fellow commuters, children and humans in general just doesn’t seem to be up to snuff. At first I thought perhaps in my "old" age, I was starting to chill out and be “tolerant.” Then I pondered that maybe commuters are just getting better (boy was that wishful thinking). I began to panic: what the crap will I blog about if not my general distaste and angst with the world?
But just as I was trolling through the New York Times on the train for something to spark an observation—while reading about how sloths have an extra few vertebrae in their necks (wtf?)—annoyance struck. How could I even doubt it would?
I’d chosen the “three seater” because sometimes you get lucky and the seat between you and the other passenger remains free. I glanced over to see what I was dealing with. It was a bleached blond, middle age, rotund woman with furrowed eyebrows and a pair of chins pulling down the corners of her lips. I rolled my eyes and opened my Nook. She pulled out her traditional “book” and started reading. Every time a passenger around us spoke, moved, shuffled or tittered, my seatmate would tsk, shake her head and even get up to stare the person into submission. Apparently it was “reading time at the zoo” and she didn’t want to be interrupted.
I immediately put my phone on silent and turned down my music so that I wouldn’t get the stare down. The train was filling up, and just before we pulled out, a teenage girl hovered over me and asked if I could move in a seat.
Admittedly, I was annoyed. I even sighed in passive aggressive anger. But before I could consent and slide over or deny her, my angry seat partner opened a can of whupass.
“Are ya kiddin me? That’s just great. Haven’t heard that one befoa. Who the hell do ya think you are?” she said in a horrible Long Island accent. The teenager, clueless as they tend to be, blushed.
“What?” She asked timidly.
Chubs continued to shake her head uncontrollably. “You neva ask someone to slide in. She was hea first. That’s RUDE.”
“Um, why is it, like, rude? The train is packed.”
“Why is it rude?” (More twitching, make-up laden eyes opening wide) “Because it’s common knowledge that the middle seat is the worst seat on the train. And this girl…” (pointing to me) “…is too nice to say no, so she’s just gonna move ova and suffa.”
Half of me wanted to tell her to F off and mind her own fartin business, that I’m certainly not too nice, just too tired to care, while the other half of me reveled in the apparent discomfort of the poor teenage girl—teenagers having long been on my list of people I don’t like.
“Well what am I supposed to do? Stand?” the sulky teenager whined.
“No, YOU sit in the middle,” my defender said, leaning over into my personal space and using my legs as a boobrest.
By this time the girl was close to tears and I was tired of being silent. “Oh just sit down,” I said sliding over next to my aghast neighbor. “Jesus none of the seats are good anyway.” I sighed loudly a la Napoleon Dynamite, cranked up my iPod, and shut my eyes to block out the indignant look of the angry woman who'd tried to plead my case. So now not only am I going soft, but I am defending the very species (the annoying commuter) I abhor so much.
But just as I was trolling through the New York Times on the train for something to spark an observation—while reading about how sloths have an extra few vertebrae in their necks (wtf?)—annoyance struck. How could I even doubt it would?
I’d chosen the “three seater” because sometimes you get lucky and the seat between you and the other passenger remains free. I glanced over to see what I was dealing with. It was a bleached blond, middle age, rotund woman with furrowed eyebrows and a pair of chins pulling down the corners of her lips. I rolled my eyes and opened my Nook. She pulled out her traditional “book” and started reading. Every time a passenger around us spoke, moved, shuffled or tittered, my seatmate would tsk, shake her head and even get up to stare the person into submission. Apparently it was “reading time at the zoo” and she didn’t want to be interrupted.
I immediately put my phone on silent and turned down my music so that I wouldn’t get the stare down. The train was filling up, and just before we pulled out, a teenage girl hovered over me and asked if I could move in a seat.
Admittedly, I was annoyed. I even sighed in passive aggressive anger. But before I could consent and slide over or deny her, my angry seat partner opened a can of whupass.
“Are ya kiddin me? That’s just great. Haven’t heard that one befoa. Who the hell do ya think you are?” she said in a horrible Long Island accent. The teenager, clueless as they tend to be, blushed.
“What?” She asked timidly.
Chubs continued to shake her head uncontrollably. “You neva ask someone to slide in. She was hea first. That’s RUDE.”
“Um, why is it, like, rude? The train is packed.”
“Why is it rude?” (More twitching, make-up laden eyes opening wide) “Because it’s common knowledge that the middle seat is the worst seat on the train. And this girl…” (pointing to me) “…is too nice to say no, so she’s just gonna move ova and suffa.”
Half of me wanted to tell her to F off and mind her own fartin business, that I’m certainly not too nice, just too tired to care, while the other half of me reveled in the apparent discomfort of the poor teenage girl—teenagers having long been on my list of people I don’t like.
“Well what am I supposed to do? Stand?” the sulky teenager whined.
“No, YOU sit in the middle,” my defender said, leaning over into my personal space and using my legs as a boobrest.
By this time the girl was close to tears and I was tired of being silent. “Oh just sit down,” I said sliding over next to my aghast neighbor. “Jesus none of the seats are good anyway.” I sighed loudly a la Napoleon Dynamite, cranked up my iPod, and shut my eyes to block out the indignant look of the angry woman who'd tried to plead my case. So now not only am I going soft, but I am defending the very species (the annoying commuter) I abhor so much.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The 'Club'
As a 34-year-old commitmaphobic train wreck, I’ve sworn off reproduction. Why pass on all sorts of neuroses to my offspring? And besides, kids, for the most part, annoy me. I don’t think their bratty antics are cute or squeal-worthy. I don’t feel the need to hover in a circle around a coworker’s newborn. And I can’t relate to anecdotes about how endearing they are. Exception to the rule: My three BFFs’ adorable children who I TOTALLY LERVE and brag about as if they are my own.
So last week, I was called upon to babysit one of my Bff’s newborn. Despite the fact that I'm the last person on Earth who should be trusted with a child (kidding), I accepted with delight. It started off easy enough. I met my friend close to a park on the Upper West Side, and was told that all I had to do was wheel the little angel around in her carriage for an hour while my friend attended an appointment. I started off down a tree-lined path when suddenly I noticed something weird. Whereas usually New York City residents walk briskly by with barely an acknowledgement, I suddenly had like 40 new friends.
It all started when the baby began to cry and I lifted her out of her carriage to comfort her. Two women immediately approached with a pair of golden retrievers and hovered.
“What a beautiful baby,” one gushed as I smiled proudly, as if the mother.
“Thanks, isn't she?” I said smugly (any attention is good attention!).
“How old is she?”
Oh shit! I froze, trying to calculate the weeks since she’d been born. “Errmmm…”
“You don’t know how old your baby is?” The woman said, her eyes suddenly narrowing. Uh oh. I was a bad mother.
“Ugh, fine. She’s not mine. I’m just the babysitter,” I said, crestfallen.
“Oh. Well still, she’s gorgeous. Soulful eyes.”
I continued down the path where similar incidents occurred. Everyone and their mamma literally crawled out of the woodwork to greet me, smile, coo and wave. I’d become a part of some strange sect. The Mother’s Club.
“How old?” one mother barked, turning her own baby to face me so that I could size it up and provide a compliment. “Looks just like you,” another one said as I shouted thanks, hijacking my friend’s reproductive success. When the baby cried, I got looks of sympathy, shrugs and eyes that said, “I know what it’s like.” Even the preggos wanted to be my friend, smiling at “my” baby and rubbing their bellies in anticipation.
When the baby started to cry again, I took out a bottle and fed her. As she slurped down the milk, an old man approached. My faux mother brain instantly thought: friend or perv?
“Did ya get enough gin in there to get that kid to quiet down?” he asked. I couldn’t help but laugh.
As the hour began to wind down, and she was still crying, I knew I had to go where I’d never gone before. The diaper change. Frantically searching through the diaper bag (root of all evil and clutter), trying to get the protection pad under her butt, and unsnapping her little outfit, all without staining anything, had me in a panic. I actually had to remove my jacket, as I was sweating. I had no idea what the etiquette was for changing a child. The club members passed me with sympathetic nods.
Finally I picked her up by the feet and hung her upside down like a Thanksgiving turkey. As I cleaned her, she smiled away, ignoring my poor technique and probably just happy that I finally figured out she didn’t want to lie in her own poop anymore.
Alas the babysitting session ended and I reluctantly handed her back to her mamma. I felt like we’d been through a lot together and thought for a split second…maybe it would be nice if…but alas, I quickly regained my sanity and happily resumed my position as faux aunt rather than future mamma.
So last week, I was called upon to babysit one of my Bff’s newborn. Despite the fact that I'm the last person on Earth who should be trusted with a child (kidding), I accepted with delight. It started off easy enough. I met my friend close to a park on the Upper West Side, and was told that all I had to do was wheel the little angel around in her carriage for an hour while my friend attended an appointment. I started off down a tree-lined path when suddenly I noticed something weird. Whereas usually New York City residents walk briskly by with barely an acknowledgement, I suddenly had like 40 new friends.
It all started when the baby began to cry and I lifted her out of her carriage to comfort her. Two women immediately approached with a pair of golden retrievers and hovered.
“What a beautiful baby,” one gushed as I smiled proudly, as if the mother.
“Thanks, isn't she?” I said smugly (any attention is good attention!).
“How old is she?”
Oh shit! I froze, trying to calculate the weeks since she’d been born. “Errmmm…”
“You don’t know how old your baby is?” The woman said, her eyes suddenly narrowing. Uh oh. I was a bad mother.
“Ugh, fine. She’s not mine. I’m just the babysitter,” I said, crestfallen.
“Oh. Well still, she’s gorgeous. Soulful eyes.”
I continued down the path where similar incidents occurred. Everyone and their mamma literally crawled out of the woodwork to greet me, smile, coo and wave. I’d become a part of some strange sect. The Mother’s Club.
“How old?” one mother barked, turning her own baby to face me so that I could size it up and provide a compliment. “Looks just like you,” another one said as I shouted thanks, hijacking my friend’s reproductive success. When the baby cried, I got looks of sympathy, shrugs and eyes that said, “I know what it’s like.” Even the preggos wanted to be my friend, smiling at “my” baby and rubbing their bellies in anticipation.
When the baby started to cry again, I took out a bottle and fed her. As she slurped down the milk, an old man approached. My faux mother brain instantly thought: friend or perv?
“Did ya get enough gin in there to get that kid to quiet down?” he asked. I couldn’t help but laugh.
As the hour began to wind down, and she was still crying, I knew I had to go where I’d never gone before. The diaper change. Frantically searching through the diaper bag (root of all evil and clutter), trying to get the protection pad under her butt, and unsnapping her little outfit, all without staining anything, had me in a panic. I actually had to remove my jacket, as I was sweating. I had no idea what the etiquette was for changing a child. The club members passed me with sympathetic nods.
Finally I picked her up by the feet and hung her upside down like a Thanksgiving turkey. As I cleaned her, she smiled away, ignoring my poor technique and probably just happy that I finally figured out she didn’t want to lie in her own poop anymore.
Alas the babysitting session ended and I reluctantly handed her back to her mamma. I felt like we’d been through a lot together and thought for a split second…maybe it would be nice if…but alas, I quickly regained my sanity and happily resumed my position as faux aunt rather than future mamma.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Clamor in the Garden
But I digress. It suddenly occurred to me where the song came from. It was the Subterraneans—my brother’s band—a cool fusion of indie rock and poetic rap vocals. He’d recently played me the demo of his new album, Clamor in the Garden (Pollen Records) and it was literally implanted into my head "Inception" style. (You can buy it here on itunes, mmmkay?)
Anyone who knows the Subs, and believe me, I do, knows that their music is hypnotic, intense, chill, inventive and intelligent. Rather than the “F Yo Mamma” style of rap, the word mincing is amazing. Here’s an excerpt from my fav of all time, “Climbing, Falling” from The Now That It’s Sinking In EP:
When you’re climbing…
And your face is in amazement and the pace of finger placement all relates to how you chase things
But when you fall…
Everything gets assorted, so when it hits the floor you need to sort it
Clamor In the Garden differs from the Subs’ first two albums (A Bellow Below and The Now That It’s Sinking In EP) in that it’s a bit faster paced and even more inventive then the first two (there's one song that has a country influence. Country and rap you say whilst wrinkling your nose in disgust? I swear, it works!) My fav songs on the album are: “Partly Maybe” and “Beautiful Encounter.”
So for the love of Hasselhoff, buy the freakin album—and while you’re at it, spread the word to anyone else you know who would like to rid the world of the Biebers and the Jonas and the Montanas and all the other crap that the young whippersnappers call music these days!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Vacation Etiquette
I just got back from a vacation—two whole days on the Jersey Shore (not with “The Situation” and Snooki, TG, I’m talking about the somewhat classier Long Beach Island) with my family, where blue skies, warm coconut-drenched salty air and lapping waves lulling me to sleep were just a few of the pleasures I experienced. If only there were no “people” there to spoil it. As my brother and I complained on the drive home, maybe we should just move to like East Buttcrack, Wyoming, or something. Somewhere where people don’t flock and annoy. But is that a mere fantasy? As the Countess Olenska cries to her lover in The Age of Innocence, “Oh, my dear—where is that country? Have you ever been there?”
Seriously People! It’s hard enough to escape and get a few measly days of rest and relaxation in today’s cah-razy world. So if you happen to go on vacation, follow these five simple steps to ensure that you don’t F up my (or someone else’s) only days of annual happiness.
1) Talk not on your cell phone loudly on the beach for over an hour while people like me are trying to read. Nobody cares about your mundane, boring, unnecessary conversation. Aren’t you worried about the sand and grease infiltrating your precious iPhone? Get over yourself. You’re. Not. That. Important.*
2) Let not your horrid rugrat invade my golf space while I’m trying to tee off. It takes an extreme amount of concentration to get my hole in one. Yes, I know it’s only miniature golf, but I take it very seriously! You know you have crossed the line when your kid:
a. steps on the green I’m playing on
b. rolls around on the green I’m playing on*
c. enters the cool cave green I’m playing on and walks around screaming oooh and ahh.
3) Butt not your annoying face into my conversation with the maitre d’ at dinner to ask “How long’s the wait?” in your shrill voice while I am trying to secure a table. FYI: I don’t have to wait because I made a “reservation.” So step off.
4) Spread not your belongings across the beach at 7 am, making it impossible for anyone else to sit down. You don’t own the fartin beach. You can’t reserve a spot. You don’t need five hundred beach chairs and you certainly don’t need a family-size tent!
5) For the young, cutesy waitress at The Marlin: Ask not for my ID to make sure I’m of age to drink, only to lean closer to me, squint your eyes, and then say ‘never mind’ when you realize I’m “old” before I’ve even had a chance to fish my license out of my bag. You broke my MOFO heart!
Thanks for your attention to this matter. If you can’t abide by these simple rules, do me and everyone else a favor and stay home. Or barring that, I hear East Buttcrack, Wyoming, is good this time of year!
*denotes hypocrisy.
Seriously People! It’s hard enough to escape and get a few measly days of rest and relaxation in today’s cah-razy world. So if you happen to go on vacation, follow these five simple steps to ensure that you don’t F up my (or someone else’s) only days of annual happiness.
1) Talk not on your cell phone loudly on the beach for over an hour while people like me are trying to read. Nobody cares about your mundane, boring, unnecessary conversation. Aren’t you worried about the sand and grease infiltrating your precious iPhone? Get over yourself. You’re. Not. That. Important.*
2) Let not your horrid rugrat invade my golf space while I’m trying to tee off. It takes an extreme amount of concentration to get my hole in one. Yes, I know it’s only miniature golf, but I take it very seriously! You know you have crossed the line when your kid:
a. steps on the green I’m playing on
b. rolls around on the green I’m playing on*
c. enters the cool cave green I’m playing on and walks around screaming oooh and ahh.
3) Butt not your annoying face into my conversation with the maitre d’ at dinner to ask “How long’s the wait?” in your shrill voice while I am trying to secure a table. FYI: I don’t have to wait because I made a “reservation.” So step off.
4) Spread not your belongings across the beach at 7 am, making it impossible for anyone else to sit down. You don’t own the fartin beach. You can’t reserve a spot. You don’t need five hundred beach chairs and you certainly don’t need a family-size tent!
5) For the young, cutesy waitress at The Marlin: Ask not for my ID to make sure I’m of age to drink, only to lean closer to me, squint your eyes, and then say ‘never mind’ when you realize I’m “old” before I’ve even had a chance to fish my license out of my bag. You broke my MOFO heart!
Thanks for your attention to this matter. If you can’t abide by these simple rules, do me and everyone else a favor and stay home. Or barring that, I hear East Buttcrack, Wyoming, is good this time of year!
*denotes hypocrisy.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Rise and Fall of Captain America
When I was a student teacher at college, before I realized I couldn’t teach because I don’t like kids, we learned the tactic of studying by association. The idea was to associate a word or idea with the thing you were trying to remember. But the mind works like this naturally. One word can make your brain leap to another place and time. This happened to me this weekend while watching an all-day "Beauty and the Geek" marathon on TV (yes, somehow I still had brain waves while watching it). For those of you who don’t watch mind-numbing reality shows, the concept in a nutshell is a house full of socially awkward but mega-smart geeks paired with ten “beauties” who share three brain cells between them. They have to interact with each other, the idea being that the beauties get smarter and the geeks get…well, less geeky. Each episode, the geeks/beauties take a pop quiz (for the women, something “intellectual” and for the men, style or fashion). The question for one of the women was—hold your laughter Alex Trebek—what are the three colors in the comic book character Captain America’s uniform?
At the name Captain America, mind association kicked in and I had an instant flashback to nine years ago. I was working in Spain for a family-owned publishing company that hired American ex-pats who would later morph into angry, miserable, bitter “lifers,” wasting away their talents and intelligence for 800 bucks a month. The place had an amazing capacity to turn even the most upbeat person into a paranoid, negative psycho. One by one, I’d see a "New Guy" come into the cushy office full of hope at a real job in a foreign country, only to be broken by the backwards office politics, the miserable, jealous lifers, and the “Dr.,” the 70 year-old company patriarch who ruled his kingdom with an iron fist. The worst of the lifers was a woman who took it upon herself to do a CIA-like background check on every new employee (she’d check the history on their computer, refuse to give them the code to the office door and could be heard saying to anyone who’d listen that the newbie might steal the company’s secrets). We called her “Paranoid Wendy”* or PeeWee for short.
Then came Mark Hardy.* From the American Midwest, Mark quickly became known around the office as Captain America or Mole. He was christened Captain A after I’d had the misfortune of witnessing one of his soapbox speeches about how George Bush had every right to invade Iraq, and how it was NOT for the oil, but for the noblest cause of all—to free the Iraqi women! Mole, his second nickname, came about partly because of the way he continuously scratched himself due to an unfortunate dermatological condition, and partly because of his ability to infiltrate a group in an attempt to “network.” He first shook things up when he started to go through lunch buddies with a vengeance, changing his group of friends several times, leaving a string of casualties in his wake as he burrowed his way to the top. He quickly became the Dr.'s henchman. He could often be heard complaining to his friend of the week about how negative everyone else was.
“I don’t get what’s wrong with everyone here…you gotta take the bull by its horns,” he’d say, ever the King of Positive Clichés. Or his catch phrase: “I always say if life gives you shit, eat shit sandwiches.”
But as much as his popularity and positivity threatened the evil kingdom, PeeWee knew better. She told me one day, whispering in the hallway, the pink creeping across her angry face as she twitched in rage, “His star may be rising. But it will fall.”
And fall it did. While I never learned of the specific torture he must have gone through, within six months Captain A could be seen slouching down the hall, all traces of his usual scurry erased. His scratching became more intense, and red splotches emerged across his face and neck. Instead of smiling, a pained grimace spread across his wholesome face (too many shit sandwiches for lunch?). Rather than changing lunch buddies again, he started to dine alone. He stopped shaving. We lifers gave each other knowing looks. He’d been broken. After a few weeks of this, we never saw or heard from him again.
Flash forward nine years. The question on TV rattles me…I instantly picture Mark Hardy and wonder where he is…did he ever bounce back to his cheerful deluded self? Did he get a job where he could actually use his talents? Did he stop scratching? Dismissing Captain A, I concentrate on the question. What THREE colors (they actually have to give a hint) are in Captain America’s costume? Jesus, if only I’d studied more in school. The “beauty” pauses and wrinkles up her face. Using that one brain cell. The seconds pass. I’m sweating. But Thank G she finally answers: Red…White…and Blue. And she's right!
*Name changed to protect the person I'm exploiting to get a chuckle on my blog.
At the name Captain America, mind association kicked in and I had an instant flashback to nine years ago. I was working in Spain for a family-owned publishing company that hired American ex-pats who would later morph into angry, miserable, bitter “lifers,” wasting away their talents and intelligence for 800 bucks a month. The place had an amazing capacity to turn even the most upbeat person into a paranoid, negative psycho. One by one, I’d see a "New Guy" come into the cushy office full of hope at a real job in a foreign country, only to be broken by the backwards office politics, the miserable, jealous lifers, and the “Dr.,” the 70 year-old company patriarch who ruled his kingdom with an iron fist. The worst of the lifers was a woman who took it upon herself to do a CIA-like background check on every new employee (she’d check the history on their computer, refuse to give them the code to the office door and could be heard saying to anyone who’d listen that the newbie might steal the company’s secrets). We called her “Paranoid Wendy”* or PeeWee for short.
Then came Mark Hardy.* From the American Midwest, Mark quickly became known around the office as Captain America or Mole. He was christened Captain A after I’d had the misfortune of witnessing one of his soapbox speeches about how George Bush had every right to invade Iraq, and how it was NOT for the oil, but for the noblest cause of all—to free the Iraqi women! Mole, his second nickname, came about partly because of the way he continuously scratched himself due to an unfortunate dermatological condition, and partly because of his ability to infiltrate a group in an attempt to “network.” He first shook things up when he started to go through lunch buddies with a vengeance, changing his group of friends several times, leaving a string of casualties in his wake as he burrowed his way to the top. He quickly became the Dr.'s henchman. He could often be heard complaining to his friend of the week about how negative everyone else was.
“I don’t get what’s wrong with everyone here…you gotta take the bull by its horns,” he’d say, ever the King of Positive Clichés. Or his catch phrase: “I always say if life gives you shit, eat shit sandwiches.”
But as much as his popularity and positivity threatened the evil kingdom, PeeWee knew better. She told me one day, whispering in the hallway, the pink creeping across her angry face as she twitched in rage, “His star may be rising. But it will fall.”
And fall it did. While I never learned of the specific torture he must have gone through, within six months Captain A could be seen slouching down the hall, all traces of his usual scurry erased. His scratching became more intense, and red splotches emerged across his face and neck. Instead of smiling, a pained grimace spread across his wholesome face (too many shit sandwiches for lunch?). Rather than changing lunch buddies again, he started to dine alone. He stopped shaving. We lifers gave each other knowing looks. He’d been broken. After a few weeks of this, we never saw or heard from him again.
Flash forward nine years. The question on TV rattles me…I instantly picture Mark Hardy and wonder where he is…did he ever bounce back to his cheerful deluded self? Did he get a job where he could actually use his talents? Did he stop scratching? Dismissing Captain A, I concentrate on the question. What THREE colors (they actually have to give a hint) are in Captain America’s costume? Jesus, if only I’d studied more in school. The “beauty” pauses and wrinkles up her face. Using that one brain cell. The seconds pass. I’m sweating. But Thank G she finally answers: Red…White…and Blue. And she's right!
*Name changed to protect the person I'm exploiting to get a chuckle on my blog.
Monday, August 16, 2010
College Girls In Washington Beware - Cocky Dork On The Loose!
This just in: Freshmen college girls who go to school in or around the vicinity of Union Station, Washington D.C., beware. There is a cocky dork on the loose, “collecting” any female who will fall for his pathetic pick-up lines. The boy was last seen on the Metro North train where he was visiting a friend from New York. He was dressed in a blue button-down Ralph Lauren shirt and freshly pressed (by his mamma) beige dockers, complete with untamed fro and a scattering of angry zits. While travelling from Chappaqua to Manhattan, he tried to convince his equally nerdy, but rightfully humble, pal to visit his college dorm in Washington in the fall. First, cocky dork tempted his friend with drink.
“Dude, if people aren’t going to your parties at your college, it’s cause you’re doing something wrong. You see, you can’t just lay out beer. You gotta get a handle of vodka, a handle of whisky, a handle of rum, and a handle of Everclear.” (Note to self: WTF is a handle? Or Everclear for that matter? Must Google.)
When this didn’t tempt the friend, who admitted that his university, Brown, wasn’t a big party school, the brazen geek turned to women.
“You get a great cross section,” he said. “You got the ‘Southern Bell’…the ‘I’m a Cute Artsy girl’…In fact, I work on a three-girl rotation. At least three. Definitely have to always have a brunette in there.”
Still not convinced, the cocksure dweeb pressed further. “There’s a 60/40 ratio of girls to guys. They go out in ‘packs’ of like 25…looking at it that way, someone has to bite.” And, if visiting in the summer, the odds are “literally” better, according to the nerd stallion. “Dude, we can sit at the outdoor pool. There are literally…LITERALLY 500 girls clad in bikinis, all just waiting to be banged. Hell, you could have ten of my girls and I’d still have a 100 left over.”
The nerd sometimes goes by the name “the closer.” (“Dude, if you can’t seal the deal, call me in…I’ll close it for you). He frequents a bar called “Turtle,” where he usually starts off his night and gets “retarded” before heading on to Faye’s. He is most likely harmless and a virgin, despite his outrageous tall tales of being attacked by a swarm of women every night.
“The only problem with coming to visit me is…you’ll want to come back. Everybody does,” he was last heard saying as he exited the train.
So college girls, if this sounds like anyone you know, be on red alert. Tell all your friends to run the other way if the nerd is seen approaching in an attempt to “close” the deal. Gently remind him that he is full of shit and has no experience whatsoever, regardless of his claims of “wanting to get into some really funky sexual shit…taking it to the next level” (note to self: assume here he means taking it from his own hand to an actual person). Also be aware that this behavior is rampant in college frash frat boys, and the profile can probably be extrapolated to other colleges and boys of this age group.
“Dude, if people aren’t going to your parties at your college, it’s cause you’re doing something wrong. You see, you can’t just lay out beer. You gotta get a handle of vodka, a handle of whisky, a handle of rum, and a handle of Everclear.” (Note to self: WTF is a handle? Or Everclear for that matter? Must Google.)
When this didn’t tempt the friend, who admitted that his university, Brown, wasn’t a big party school, the brazen geek turned to women.
“You get a great cross section,” he said. “You got the ‘Southern Bell’…the ‘I’m a Cute Artsy girl’…In fact, I work on a three-girl rotation. At least three. Definitely have to always have a brunette in there.”
Still not convinced, the cocksure dweeb pressed further. “There’s a 60/40 ratio of girls to guys. They go out in ‘packs’ of like 25…looking at it that way, someone has to bite.” And, if visiting in the summer, the odds are “literally” better, according to the nerd stallion. “Dude, we can sit at the outdoor pool. There are literally…LITERALLY 500 girls clad in bikinis, all just waiting to be banged. Hell, you could have ten of my girls and I’d still have a 100 left over.”
The nerd sometimes goes by the name “the closer.” (“Dude, if you can’t seal the deal, call me in…I’ll close it for you). He frequents a bar called “Turtle,” where he usually starts off his night and gets “retarded” before heading on to Faye’s. He is most likely harmless and a virgin, despite his outrageous tall tales of being attacked by a swarm of women every night.
“The only problem with coming to visit me is…you’ll want to come back. Everybody does,” he was last heard saying as he exited the train.
So college girls, if this sounds like anyone you know, be on red alert. Tell all your friends to run the other way if the nerd is seen approaching in an attempt to “close” the deal. Gently remind him that he is full of shit and has no experience whatsoever, regardless of his claims of “wanting to get into some really funky sexual shit…taking it to the next level” (note to self: assume here he means taking it from his own hand to an actual person). Also be aware that this behavior is rampant in college frash frat boys, and the profile can probably be extrapolated to other colleges and boys of this age group.
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