Monday, May 31, 2004
Chat
Ptrend: have spent my extremely long three days in hell...it's time for the angel's to comeandgetme
o2grok1: (sigh) Why don't you ever let me help you? It would give me such joy.
Ptrend: Do you really want to sit and hold me while I sob in naked humiliation like I did with my massage therapist yesterday?
o2grok1: Yes.
Ptrend: Believe me, it gets tiring... and I'm not even trying to wallow this time... I'm trying to move on. But I break down occasionally out of nowhere.
o2grok1: Psychologists call that: "Giving a Shit About Your Life, and How People Treat You, and Generally What Goes on in This World Syndrome." But they're thinking of shortening the title.
o2grok1: (sigh) Why don't you ever let me help you? It would give me such joy.
Ptrend: Do you really want to sit and hold me while I sob in naked humiliation like I did with my massage therapist yesterday?
o2grok1: Yes.
Ptrend: Believe me, it gets tiring... and I'm not even trying to wallow this time... I'm trying to move on. But I break down occasionally out of nowhere.
o2grok1: Psychologists call that: "Giving a Shit About Your Life, and How People Treat You, and Generally What Goes on in This World Syndrome." But they're thinking of shortening the title.
Saturday, May 29, 2004
Pregnancy Scare
Scott and I are at lunch today. It's a beautiful day and we'd planned to take a picnic to the park before work. But, variables threw our plans out of whack and we went to the Chinese buffet instead. I eat a couple of pieces of teriyaki chicken and then feel immensely full. Uncomfortably full. I drink some more sweet tea. Yuck. It's been over a year since I had any. How do people drink this stuff? Scott is yapping on about his former bandmates - none of whom I would trust with even a $1 bill and... what is he saying? Oh, god, I feel like shit. Shut up. I don't care right now. And suddenly I need the bathroom very, very quickly.
Me (interrupting): Excuse me, I don't mean to me rude, but I think I'm going to throw up.
Scott looks worried. I walk towards the bathroom. I consider running, but I'm afraid to jiggle my insides. They might all decide to stage a jail break. Why is this fucking restaurant so huge? How many people really need to eat at a Chinese buffet, anyway? Good god, is the bathroom moving farther away? Come back! I mean, at one time, how many people do they think they're going to seat? Why is this counter in my way?!
I make it to the toilet with about 2 seconds to spare. I like this chicken not so much anymore. I'm heaving into the toilet when I glance to my left. The trash can must have been forgotten for weeks. There is a hugely, disgustingly bloody pad on top. I heave harder, close my eyes, and try to banish the image from my mind. Blech!
I finish, wash, go back to the table.
Scott: Are you all right, honey?
Me (smiling sarcastically): Oh, I'm much better now.
Oh, god. He's still eating. The chewing. I can't take it. I chant silently to myself: "Stop. Chewing. Stop. Chewing. Stop. (I hold back my gag reflex) Chewing.
Scott (eyes widening in mock terror): Ohhhhhh god.
I look at him. He's no longer chewing. Thank god. Then, I realize what he's joking about.
Me: No. Shut up.
Scott: You know, you can be pregnant and still have your period.
Me: I'm not pregnant.
There is a pause while he looks at me.
Me: I'm not.
Scott (Who has to be at work in 45 minutes): Let's go.
He puts his arm around me as we walk.
Scott: Do you have any other symptoms?
Me (grinning): Just a week-long Krispy Kreme craving.
Scott (rolling his eyes and grinning): Oohhhh, god. Maybe we need one of those tests.
Me: Maybe.
Scott: Ohhh, god.
Me (grinning): Stop it. I don't think you'd be too upset.
Scott (smiling back at me): Oh, I'd be ecstatic.
Me (interrupting): Excuse me, I don't mean to me rude, but I think I'm going to throw up.
Scott looks worried. I walk towards the bathroom. I consider running, but I'm afraid to jiggle my insides. They might all decide to stage a jail break. Why is this fucking restaurant so huge? How many people really need to eat at a Chinese buffet, anyway? Good god, is the bathroom moving farther away? Come back! I mean, at one time, how many people do they think they're going to seat? Why is this counter in my way?!
I make it to the toilet with about 2 seconds to spare. I like this chicken not so much anymore. I'm heaving into the toilet when I glance to my left. The trash can must have been forgotten for weeks. There is a hugely, disgustingly bloody pad on top. I heave harder, close my eyes, and try to banish the image from my mind. Blech!
I finish, wash, go back to the table.
Scott: Are you all right, honey?
Me (smiling sarcastically): Oh, I'm much better now.
Oh, god. He's still eating. The chewing. I can't take it. I chant silently to myself: "Stop. Chewing. Stop. Chewing. Stop. (I hold back my gag reflex) Chewing.
Scott (eyes widening in mock terror): Ohhhhhh god.
I look at him. He's no longer chewing. Thank god. Then, I realize what he's joking about.
Me: No. Shut up.
Scott: You know, you can be pregnant and still have your period.
Me: I'm not pregnant.
There is a pause while he looks at me.
Me: I'm not.
Scott (Who has to be at work in 45 minutes): Let's go.
He puts his arm around me as we walk.
Scott: Do you have any other symptoms?
Me (grinning): Just a week-long Krispy Kreme craving.
Scott (rolling his eyes and grinning): Oohhhh, god. Maybe we need one of those tests.
Me: Maybe.
Scott: Ohhh, god.
Me (grinning): Stop it. I don't think you'd be too upset.
Scott (smiling back at me): Oh, I'd be ecstatic.
Monday, May 24, 2004
Meet the Parents
I met Scott's parents last night at the Mellow Mushroom for dinner. I was nervous enough to start crying before we left. Parents never like me. In fact, that was a huge reason why John - a guy I dated for 4 and 1/2 years - and I broke up. His parents didn't believe that I was "the right kind of person," no matter how hard I tried to please them. I've long since given up trying to be the "right kind of person," and I just put on my waitress face and muddle through as best I can, trying to be the best myself that I can be.
It worked. Scott's parents love me. Wow. I have them fooled. I think what worked was that I embarrassed their otherwise unflappable son.
Scott: Yeah, so we were hanging out downtown and we went to the Discotheque and -
Miss Patsy (his mother): You went to a strip bar?
Scott: It was on a lark, you know, and -
Me: "On a lark?" What are you - 210 years old?
Scott (sneering at me): It was just on a whim, and -
Me: Oh, please. You went to see naked people.
Scott (ears reddening): No, I -
Me: Someone said: "Naked people," you went, "Hrr?" (mimicking ears pricking up), and led the parade down Broad Street.
I hum the ubiquitous circus song and mime a band leader marching with a whats-that-pole-thing-called? in his hand. His parents crack up, and he lowers his head and smiles a little. His face is beet red. It's a cheap ploy, teasing their oldest beloved son in order to win their favor, and for a moment I feel... inauthentic. But then I realize that I would have teased him about it anyway, no matter the company, and I pat him on the back in what I hope is an affectionate, loving way. He's so good natured that it kills me.
It worked. Scott's parents love me. Wow. I have them fooled. I think what worked was that I embarrassed their otherwise unflappable son.
Scott: Yeah, so we were hanging out downtown and we went to the Discotheque and -
Miss Patsy (his mother): You went to a strip bar?
Scott: It was on a lark, you know, and -
Me: "On a lark?" What are you - 210 years old?
Scott (sneering at me): It was just on a whim, and -
Me: Oh, please. You went to see naked people.
Scott (ears reddening): No, I -
Me: Someone said: "Naked people," you went, "Hrr?" (mimicking ears pricking up), and led the parade down Broad Street.
I hum the ubiquitous circus song and mime a band leader marching with a whats-that-pole-thing-called? in his hand. His parents crack up, and he lowers his head and smiles a little. His face is beet red. It's a cheap ploy, teasing their oldest beloved son in order to win their favor, and for a moment I feel... inauthentic. But then I realize that I would have teased him about it anyway, no matter the company, and I pat him on the back in what I hope is an affectionate, loving way. He's so good natured that it kills me.
Sunday, May 23, 2004
Suffragette
I am trying to type a letter on the new laptop they've given me to use at the gardens, but the keyboard is so tiny! I keep hitting three or four keys at the same time, and I'm beginning to feel like Animal from the Muppets - or like I have only one Giant Finger to type with. I might as well be typing with my forehead. I growl in frustration and begin backspacing for the 425th time when the Executive Director walks up.
ED: You should learn to type.
Me: I type 55 words a minute. That's not that bad.
ED (as he walks away): In my day, every woman had to know how to type.
Me (under my breath): Yeah, well, now we have the vote.
ED: You should learn to type.
Me: I type 55 words a minute. That's not that bad.
ED (as he walks away): In my day, every woman had to know how to type.
Me (under my breath): Yeah, well, now we have the vote.
Sunday, May 16, 2004
Quick Service
Duane's film has something to do with - but does not actually include - gay porn. He and Scott are sitting on the couch talking about what he needs before he completes it.
Duane: Yeah, so if you and Stacey could record yourselves the next time you're having sex, that would be really helpful.
I whirl around from the desk I'd been cleaning and look at him. He can't be serious.
Duane: And if you could say things like: "Yeah, that's the good shit!" I'd really appreciate it.
I put my hand over my mouth and run out of the room in embarassment. I hear Scott and Duane laughing in the living room.
Duane: We're kidding!
Scott: Baby, come back!
I'm gathering beer cans from the bedroom. I come in with four or five in my arms.
Me: Jackasses.
Duane: Anyway, if you could just make a lot of noise, that would be great.
Scott is laughing his ass off.
Me: Well, I have a couple minutes right now. That's all it takes, right, honey?
Duane: Yeah, so if you and Stacey could record yourselves the next time you're having sex, that would be really helpful.
I whirl around from the desk I'd been cleaning and look at him. He can't be serious.
Duane: And if you could say things like: "Yeah, that's the good shit!" I'd really appreciate it.
I put my hand over my mouth and run out of the room in embarassment. I hear Scott and Duane laughing in the living room.
Duane: We're kidding!
Scott: Baby, come back!
I'm gathering beer cans from the bedroom. I come in with four or five in my arms.
Me: Jackasses.
Duane: Anyway, if you could just make a lot of noise, that would be great.
Scott is laughing his ass off.
Me: Well, I have a couple minutes right now. That's all it takes, right, honey?
Saturday, May 15, 2004
Last of the Mohicans
My boyfriend decided to get a mohawk. I considered pitching a fit, because, as a rule, I think mohawks are sad attempts to get people to pay attention to the wearer. Also, because I like his hair the way he had it. But off he went. An hour later, the phone rang.
Me: Hello?
Duane: Heeeey. Is Scott there?
Me: Oh, hey, Duane. He went to get a haircut.
There is a pause.
Duane (tensely): What?
Me: Um...
Duane: Did he say how short?
Me: He said he was getting a mohawk.
Duane (with disbelief): No, he didn't.
Me: Yeah.
Suddenly, I realize why Duane's tense. His movie. Oh, shit. Scott's in his movie, and they've already shot a full day's worth.
Duane: Where. Is. He. Going.
We spend a few frantic minutes looking through the phone book, divide up some numbers, and start calling. Two phone calls later, I hear a car door slam. Scott comes prancing in, grinning, with his haircut. I hold back a grimace.
Me: Um, Duane called.
He goes pale.
Scott: Oh. My. God.
There is much cursing. When he gets Duane on the phone, there is much more.
I try to think of solutions.
Me: You can always wear a hat.
Scott: There has to be a better way.
Me: You could shave Scooby's hair off and glue it to your head.
He grins.
Me: You could wrap your head in a bandage like you have a head injury.
Scott looks at me with what I think is disbelief.
Me: What?
Scott: That's actually not a bad idea.
It's a stupid idea, meant to be a joke, but whatever.
Me: Hey, I'll even provide a real head injury, if it will help.
Me: Hello?
Duane: Heeeey. Is Scott there?
Me: Oh, hey, Duane. He went to get a haircut.
There is a pause.
Duane (tensely): What?
Me: Um...
Duane: Did he say how short?
Me: He said he was getting a mohawk.
Duane (with disbelief): No, he didn't.
Me: Yeah.
Suddenly, I realize why Duane's tense. His movie. Oh, shit. Scott's in his movie, and they've already shot a full day's worth.
Duane: Where. Is. He. Going.
We spend a few frantic minutes looking through the phone book, divide up some numbers, and start calling. Two phone calls later, I hear a car door slam. Scott comes prancing in, grinning, with his haircut. I hold back a grimace.
Me: Um, Duane called.
He goes pale.
Scott: Oh. My. God.
There is much cursing. When he gets Duane on the phone, there is much more.
I try to think of solutions.
Me: You can always wear a hat.
Scott: There has to be a better way.
Me: You could shave Scooby's hair off and glue it to your head.
He grins.
Me: You could wrap your head in a bandage like you have a head injury.
Scott looks at me with what I think is disbelief.
Me: What?
Scott: That's actually not a bad idea.
It's a stupid idea, meant to be a joke, but whatever.
Me: Hey, I'll even provide a real head injury, if it will help.
Thursday, May 06, 2004
Rude Awakening
Scott: You have to get me up in the morning.
Me: Okay.
Scott: No, I have to get up. I have got to work on that damn paper.
Me: Okay. Don't worry.
Mwaaa-ha-haaaaaaa....!
The next morning, the alarm goes off.
Me: Scott, time to get up.
Scott: Mmmhmm.
I shake him.
Me: Come on, sweetie. It's time to get up.
Scott: Mmmhmm.
I shake him again.
Me: I'm going to steamroller you.
Scott: What's a steamroller?
Me: THIS!
Laying down, I roll over him, pause on top and wiggle, and roll off the other side. He barely moves.
Me: I think it's time for cat therapy.
Scott: Sure.
I run out of the room, grab my water bottle from the ironing stand, and turn it to "stream." I creep back to the room and stand in the doorway. Scott hasn't moved, and it is obvious that he has no plans to do so. Is this going to piss him off? Hmm. Too much fun to care. I aim for his head and shoot.
Squirtsquirtsquirt!
Scott (frantically grabbing the blanket to cover his head): Gaaagh!
I laugh maniacally and aim for his uncovered legs. Squirtsquirtsquirt!
Scott (laughing): Aaaagh! Okayokay!
I stop and give him a chance to relax. He uncovers his head. Fool! Squirtsquirt!
Scott: Agh! Stop it! I'm up!
Me: Told you.
Me: Okay.
Scott: No, I have to get up. I have got to work on that damn paper.
Me: Okay. Don't worry.
Mwaaa-ha-haaaaaaa....!
The next morning, the alarm goes off.
Me: Scott, time to get up.
Scott: Mmmhmm.
I shake him.
Me: Come on, sweetie. It's time to get up.
Scott: Mmmhmm.
I shake him again.
Me: I'm going to steamroller you.
Scott: What's a steamroller?
Me: THIS!
Laying down, I roll over him, pause on top and wiggle, and roll off the other side. He barely moves.
Me: I think it's time for cat therapy.
Scott: Sure.
I run out of the room, grab my water bottle from the ironing stand, and turn it to "stream." I creep back to the room and stand in the doorway. Scott hasn't moved, and it is obvious that he has no plans to do so. Is this going to piss him off? Hmm. Too much fun to care. I aim for his head and shoot.
Squirtsquirtsquirt!
Scott (frantically grabbing the blanket to cover his head): Gaaagh!
I laugh maniacally and aim for his uncovered legs. Squirtsquirtsquirt!
Scott (laughing): Aaaagh! Okayokay!
I stop and give him a chance to relax. He uncovers his head. Fool! Squirtsquirt!
Scott: Agh! Stop it! I'm up!
Me: Told you.
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
Meet the Grandparents
Scott and I went to his grandparents' house for his grandfather's 80-something-eth birthday. They are adorable. His grandmother is hell on wheels. I think they are super cool.
Scott: I have to warn you - before you decide to spend the rest of your life with me - that this (points to his grandfather) is what I'm going to look like when I'm in my 80s.
Me: Really?
Grandfather: I'm looking good.
Me: I know! (To Grandmother:) You'd better watch out! (To Scott:) You might want to hold me back!
His grandparents crack up. I hope I haven't offended his grandmother - that she's not just laughing along trying to be polite. But later, as we're leaving, they invite me back.
Scott: I have to warn you - before you decide to spend the rest of your life with me - that this (points to his grandfather) is what I'm going to look like when I'm in my 80s.
Me: Really?
Grandfather: I'm looking good.
Me: I know! (To Grandmother:) You'd better watch out! (To Scott:) You might want to hold me back!
His grandparents crack up. I hope I haven't offended his grandmother - that she's not just laughing along trying to be polite. But later, as we're leaving, they invite me back.
Monday, May 03, 2004
Mental Penis
Scott's beautiful painting fell off the wall and smashed the thermostat. Crap. Well, I might as well do repairs that I've been putting off forever. Like, I haven't had a key to my own doorknob for over a year. Actually, it might be two years.
Two days later, I strap on my mental penis and march over to Home Depot... and then end up going to Lowe's because I'm too afraid to make a left across Bobby Jones. Maybe the penis needs new batteries (ha ha...oh, nevermind).
Sales Associate: So, what can I do you for?
Me (To begin with, you can stop using that phrase): My thermostat broke and I need to replace it.
Sales Associate: Sure. We offer installation services. Let me get -
Me (interrupting politely): Oh, no, I'm going to do it myself.
Sales Associate (pausing, as though about to broach a delicate subject): Do you know how?
Consulting my mental penis...
Me: Yes.
I don't think I convinced him. Probably because I lied.
Sales Associate: Well, if you're sure...
MentalpenisMentalpenis
Me: (with a confidence I do not feel): i'm just looking for a recommendation on a specific model.
There is a brief discussion on what kind of system I have. He asks a few questions and I make up answers that I hope are right. I think he's just feeling me out to see how much I know. It begins to irritate me. I KNOW that I'm an idiot. He doesn't need to prove it to me.
Me: Really, it's just a normal electrical system with gas heat. Four wires. Two hands. One thermostat.
Yeah, touch my penis.
Sales Associate: Cool. Well, I think you can take your pick, then, as long as you don't get a heat pump system. I suggest a digital one. They offer a lot more control.
Me ($60! I only need that much control in my pantyhose); Well, the $8 twisty-knob one (twisty knob? Why did you even bring the penis?!) is looking pretty good.
I skip home to put it in. The old one pops right off. I open the new box.
What the fuck is this?
Three telephone calls and a day later, the thermostat is in a bag going back to the store. (sigh) I think I need a real penis.
I return to Lowe's. I need a thermostat, but the mental penis didn't work. I decide to pull out the big guns: the twins. Thank god I'm wearing a vee-neck t-shirt.
Me (after returning the first model): So, the last sales associate sold me a thermostat for a baseboard system, but I have a standard floor system with gas heat.
Sales Associate: Do you have a heat pump?
Heat pump? Oh, god. Lean forward! That always works! Look contemplative. No, smile! Uh...
Me: What do you think? Do I have a heat pump?
What. The fuck. Are you doing. You are an affront to all women.
Sales Associate (thinking hard about the wall of thermostats in front of us): Um, well, probably not. They're used more often up north.
Hey! Over here! Boobies!
Me (nodding like I even know what states are up north): Mmmm.
Sales Associate (reaching for two models - but not mine): I'd recommend a digital thermometer.
Good god, these are pricey. I could get breast implants for this - oh, wait, I don't need them.
Me: I don't need digital. I like something I can put my hands on.
Good christ. How did you even graduate college?
Sales Associate (leaving): Oh, well, just try this one. Should be great. Good luck!
He'd better be gay.
I go home (to a man always willing to look at my breasts). Open the box. Looking good. Wires and places to put wires. I have four wires. It has four - hey, why are there six places to put wires?!
((groan))
Two electrocutions and a near-decapitation later, I'm out of ideas. The places where I think the wires are supposed to go already have wires. The number of wires outnumber the remaining places to put wires. I am struggling to screw a part of it to the wall when, for no discernable reason, the thermastat snaps into three pieces in my hands.
I fume. It must be Lowe's fault. Sexist Lowe's. Sexist and gay Lowe's.
I return the thermostat. And go to Home Depot. I make the left across Bobby Jones without the penis.
I find a female sales associate and we look at thermostats together. I hate them all. She agrees that men designed them, we joke about our collective ignorance, and then she points to a digital one. What's the obsession with these overpriced pieces of - ooh, $23? I'll take it.
My tools lain out before me at home, I open the instructions. They're entirely in Spanish, except for the last two pages on each of which is printed in English: "THIS PAGE IS BLANK." Scott and I laugh like crazy and he insists we frame it.
I connect all the wires but the red one. There's nowhere to put it! AARGH! I need it! I don't know exactly why, but when I touch the old red and green wires together, the fan comes on. It's the only reason we haven't died of heat exhaustion the last three days.
I decide to shove the old red wire in beside the other, inexplicably-already-attached red wire. There is a sputter, a clang, and then the fan begins to whir. I flip the switch. It stops.
I look at Scott. He smiles, shakes his head, and goes back to his research paper. I leap off the step stool, do a victory dance, and sing, "I have to celebrate the thermostat. I have to praise me like I shooooooooooouuulld!"
Two days later, I strap on my mental penis and march over to Home Depot... and then end up going to Lowe's because I'm too afraid to make a left across Bobby Jones. Maybe the penis needs new batteries (ha ha...oh, nevermind).
Sales Associate: So, what can I do you for?
Me (To begin with, you can stop using that phrase): My thermostat broke and I need to replace it.
Sales Associate: Sure. We offer installation services. Let me get -
Me (interrupting politely): Oh, no, I'm going to do it myself.
Sales Associate (pausing, as though about to broach a delicate subject): Do you know how?
Consulting my mental penis...
Me: Yes.
I don't think I convinced him. Probably because I lied.
Sales Associate: Well, if you're sure...
MentalpenisMentalpenis
Me: (with a confidence I do not feel): i'm just looking for a recommendation on a specific model.
There is a brief discussion on what kind of system I have. He asks a few questions and I make up answers that I hope are right. I think he's just feeling me out to see how much I know. It begins to irritate me. I KNOW that I'm an idiot. He doesn't need to prove it to me.
Me: Really, it's just a normal electrical system with gas heat. Four wires. Two hands. One thermostat.
Yeah, touch my penis.
Sales Associate: Cool. Well, I think you can take your pick, then, as long as you don't get a heat pump system. I suggest a digital one. They offer a lot more control.
Me ($60! I only need that much control in my pantyhose); Well, the $8 twisty-knob one (twisty knob? Why did you even bring the penis?!) is looking pretty good.
I skip home to put it in. The old one pops right off. I open the new box.
What the fuck is this?
Three telephone calls and a day later, the thermostat is in a bag going back to the store. (sigh) I think I need a real penis.
I return to Lowe's. I need a thermostat, but the mental penis didn't work. I decide to pull out the big guns: the twins. Thank god I'm wearing a vee-neck t-shirt.
Me (after returning the first model): So, the last sales associate sold me a thermostat for a baseboard system, but I have a standard floor system with gas heat.
Sales Associate: Do you have a heat pump?
Heat pump? Oh, god. Lean forward! That always works! Look contemplative. No, smile! Uh...
Me: What do you think? Do I have a heat pump?
What. The fuck. Are you doing. You are an affront to all women.
Sales Associate (thinking hard about the wall of thermostats in front of us): Um, well, probably not. They're used more often up north.
Hey! Over here! Boobies!
Me (nodding like I even know what states are up north): Mmmm.
Sales Associate (reaching for two models - but not mine): I'd recommend a digital thermometer.
Good god, these are pricey. I could get breast implants for this - oh, wait, I don't need them.
Me: I don't need digital. I like something I can put my hands on.
Good christ. How did you even graduate college?
Sales Associate (leaving): Oh, well, just try this one. Should be great. Good luck!
He'd better be gay.
I go home (to a man always willing to look at my breasts). Open the box. Looking good. Wires and places to put wires. I have four wires. It has four - hey, why are there six places to put wires?!
((groan))
Two electrocutions and a near-decapitation later, I'm out of ideas. The places where I think the wires are supposed to go already have wires. The number of wires outnumber the remaining places to put wires. I am struggling to screw a part of it to the wall when, for no discernable reason, the thermastat snaps into three pieces in my hands.
I fume. It must be Lowe's fault. Sexist Lowe's. Sexist and gay Lowe's.
I return the thermostat. And go to Home Depot. I make the left across Bobby Jones without the penis.
I find a female sales associate and we look at thermostats together. I hate them all. She agrees that men designed them, we joke about our collective ignorance, and then she points to a digital one. What's the obsession with these overpriced pieces of - ooh, $23? I'll take it.
My tools lain out before me at home, I open the instructions. They're entirely in Spanish, except for the last two pages on each of which is printed in English: "THIS PAGE IS BLANK." Scott and I laugh like crazy and he insists we frame it.
I connect all the wires but the red one. There's nowhere to put it! AARGH! I need it! I don't know exactly why, but when I touch the old red and green wires together, the fan comes on. It's the only reason we haven't died of heat exhaustion the last three days.
I decide to shove the old red wire in beside the other, inexplicably-already-attached red wire. There is a sputter, a clang, and then the fan begins to whir. I flip the switch. It stops.
I look at Scott. He smiles, shakes his head, and goes back to his research paper. I leap off the step stool, do a victory dance, and sing, "I have to celebrate the thermostat. I have to praise me like I shooooooooooouuulld!"
Monday, April 19, 2004
Itchy & Scratchy
Scott loves to have his back scratched, which is great, because I'll take any reason to touch him.
Scott: I must have been a cow in a former life because they love to scratch. My grandfather had a barn and the wood was just worn away from them rubbing up against it.
Me: Maybe you were a flea in a former life, and you caused a lot of itching.
Scott: AHAaaaah. And that's why I itch all the time.
Well, your psoriasis might have something to do with it...
Scott: I must have been a cow in a former life because they love to scratch. My grandfather had a barn and the wood was just worn away from them rubbing up against it.
Me: Maybe you were a flea in a former life, and you caused a lot of itching.
Scott: AHAaaaah. And that's why I itch all the time.
Well, your psoriasis might have something to do with it...
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
Oh, it's on.
MD: So, what did you do this weekend?
Me: Hung out with my boyfriend.
MD: Which one?
She cracks up laughing. I grin at her. I was dating a lot, but now it's just Scott. "You're a dork," tell her, still grinning. She gets on the intercom: "Admin, Stacey just said she hung out with her boyfriend, and I said: 'Which one?'" She cackles some more. I hear Janet giggling. "MD is not funny!" I sing - oh, and why is MD using the intercom when Janet is five feet away? Just then, ED pops his head in the MD's office.
ED: Okay, I'm leaving for the day. He nods at me. You're in charge.
Stacey (prancing out of the room): Dianne's fired!
Me: Hung out with my boyfriend.
MD: Which one?
She cracks up laughing. I grin at her. I was dating a lot, but now it's just Scott. "You're a dork," tell her, still grinning. She gets on the intercom: "Admin, Stacey just said she hung out with her boyfriend, and I said: 'Which one?'" She cackles some more. I hear Janet giggling. "MD is not funny!" I sing - oh, and why is MD using the intercom when Janet is five feet away? Just then, ED pops his head in the MD's office.
ED: Okay, I'm leaving for the day. He nods at me. You're in charge.
Stacey (prancing out of the room): Dianne's fired!
Sunday, April 11, 2004
Fire Hazard
We're lying in bed - do we ever leave? - and Scott is smoking. Smoking! My eyes are closed, but I can smell it.
Me (without opening my eyes): You're going to burn down my apartment.
Scott (exasperated): No, I'm not.
Ash falls onto the bed. Scott ("Oh, shit.") frantically brushes it off the sheet.
Me: I think I need to get renter's insurance.
Scott: You don't need renter's insurance.
Me: You're going to burn my apartment down.
Scott: Besides, I'm going to quit these things.
Me: Before or after you burn down my apartment?
Scott (chuckling): Before.
So you are going to burn down my apartment?
Me (without opening my eyes): You're going to burn down my apartment.
Scott (exasperated): No, I'm not.
Ash falls onto the bed. Scott ("Oh, shit.") frantically brushes it off the sheet.
Me: I think I need to get renter's insurance.
Scott: You don't need renter's insurance.
Me: You're going to burn my apartment down.
Scott: Besides, I'm going to quit these things.
Me: Before or after you burn down my apartment?
Scott (chuckling): Before.
So you are going to burn down my apartment?
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
How Did I Get Here?
Scott - having now moved in with me keep up, people! - cooked an excellent dinner of salmon, collard greens, black-eyed peas, and crab salad on toasted pita bread. I haven't eaten in two days - strep throat, again - and I'm starving. It's a wonderful dinner, and Scott has taken good care of me the last two days. We are sitting on the couch afterwards. We talk about our days. In a race between John and me to get rid of our inventory at the gift shop, I sold the last two shoe bags. I am the winner, and I took a joking shot of the shoe bag walking out the door, printed it at 8 x 10 size, and wrote on it: "John, thanks for the memories, XOXO, Love, Baggie."
Scott (laughs, and then): I'm falling in love with you.
Me: Are you sure about this?
Scott: Well, let me think about it.... YES.
Me: Well, that's very nice to hear, and I appreciate it.
There is some talk about why he might change his mind sometime in the future - my faults, etc. - and he laughs them all off. Suddenly...
Scott: Will you marry me?
Me (grinning): Mmmhmm.
Scott: Really?
He looks extremely happy. Deleriously happy. I stumble, mentally... Wait. Um...
Me: Wait. Are you serious?
Scott: Yes!
Me: Well, then, I'll have to ask you to give me time to think about it.
Scott (not so happy, now): Okay, then.
Me: I'm just not one to move quickly on these things.
Scott: Okay. I just feel like I've found my soulmate.
Me: It is very natural and easy to be with you.
Scott: It is.
Me: I've been proposed to before.
Scott: I'm sure you have.
Me: I had to turn them all down.
Scott (nodding): But you'll think about marrying me?
Me: Of course.
I know that it is supremely ungrateful to complain about being loved. So, I guess that makes me supremely ungrateful. But we've been dating such a short time...
But we have known each other for a while, and we've always been able to speak without fear.
Love... marriage... kids... wow. But with Scott, I'll still give it serious consideration.
Scott (laughs, and then): I'm falling in love with you.
Me: Are you sure about this?
Scott: Well, let me think about it.... YES.
Me: Well, that's very nice to hear, and I appreciate it.
There is some talk about why he might change his mind sometime in the future - my faults, etc. - and he laughs them all off. Suddenly...
Scott: Will you marry me?
Me (grinning): Mmmhmm.
Scott: Really?
He looks extremely happy. Deleriously happy. I stumble, mentally... Wait. Um...
Me: Wait. Are you serious?
Scott: Yes!
Me: Well, then, I'll have to ask you to give me time to think about it.
Scott (not so happy, now): Okay, then.
Me: I'm just not one to move quickly on these things.
Scott: Okay. I just feel like I've found my soulmate.
Me: It is very natural and easy to be with you.
Scott: It is.
Me: I've been proposed to before.
Scott: I'm sure you have.
Me: I had to turn them all down.
Scott (nodding): But you'll think about marrying me?
Me: Of course.
I know that it is supremely ungrateful to complain about being loved. So, I guess that makes me supremely ungrateful. But we've been dating such a short time...
But we have known each other for a while, and we've always been able to speak without fear.
Love... marriage... kids... wow. But with Scott, I'll still give it serious consideration.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
A Fate Worse Than Death
This is a story about how I can make any bad situation EVEN WORSE NO KIDDING DO NOT COME TO ME FOR COMFORT. You will only suffer more.
My friend, Lance, died this week. His wife, Sarah, has been taking it hard. I wanted to be there for her at the memorial service. Scott picked me up at 11 a.m., one hour before the service. We had a quick two-shot-of-courage at Applebee's (Thanks, Rico!) before heading to the funeral home. We have 10 minutes to get there.
Pulling up, I'm already upset. The parking lot is half empty. Lance had more family than this. Lance had more friends than this. They should all be here to support Sarah, goddammit. Maybe people carpooled from Sarah's. Most people have been sleeping there, anyway.
Walking up onto the porch, I spot Michelle, a girl I know from ASU. I feel relieved. We hug.
Me: Oh, it's so sad!
Michelle: I know!
Me: So sudden!
Michelle: Yeah, it was. How did you know Aunt Nomi?
Who the fuck is Aunt Nomi?!?!?!
A lot of funeral homes have more than one reception area... for more than one family... gosh, this funeral home is small, where the fuck is the office? Oh, just ahead. We'll check with them...
Seconds later, Scott and I are rushing through the lobby - past poor, old Aunt Nomi's grotesquely displayed body - from the office to a different funeral home down the street. I'm trying not to laugh, hiding my face in my sleeve. I hope I look sad. I suspect that I don't.
"Walk faster," Scott hisses.
I choke back a slightly hysterical giggle.
I race out the door towards the car. I hear Scott's footsteps stop on the porch. I glance back. He has stopped and has sympathetically taken Michelle's arm.
"I'm so sorry for your loss," he says.
I don't know how he manages to maintain his composure, but I can't. Uncontrollable laughter pours out of me the second the car door closes.
I'm so sorry, Aunt Nomi.
My friend, Lance, died this week. His wife, Sarah, has been taking it hard. I wanted to be there for her at the memorial service. Scott picked me up at 11 a.m., one hour before the service. We had a quick two-shot-of-courage at Applebee's (Thanks, Rico!) before heading to the funeral home. We have 10 minutes to get there.
Pulling up, I'm already upset. The parking lot is half empty. Lance had more family than this. Lance had more friends than this. They should all be here to support Sarah, goddammit. Maybe people carpooled from Sarah's. Most people have been sleeping there, anyway.
Walking up onto the porch, I spot Michelle, a girl I know from ASU. I feel relieved. We hug.
Me: Oh, it's so sad!
Michelle: I know!
Me: So sudden!
Michelle: Yeah, it was. How did you know Aunt Nomi?
Who the fuck is Aunt Nomi?!?!?!
A lot of funeral homes have more than one reception area... for more than one family... gosh, this funeral home is small, where the fuck is the office? Oh, just ahead. We'll check with them...
Seconds later, Scott and I are rushing through the lobby - past poor, old Aunt Nomi's grotesquely displayed body - from the office to a different funeral home down the street. I'm trying not to laugh, hiding my face in my sleeve. I hope I look sad. I suspect that I don't.
"Walk faster," Scott hisses.
I choke back a slightly hysterical giggle.
I race out the door towards the car. I hear Scott's footsteps stop on the porch. I glance back. He has stopped and has sympathetically taken Michelle's arm.
"I'm so sorry for your loss," he says.
I don't know how he manages to maintain his composure, but I can't. Uncontrollable laughter pours out of me the second the car door closes.
I'm so sorry, Aunt Nomi.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
My mother is disturbed
I'm on the phone with my mother, who mentions that she is on her way to the outlet stores, and can she buy my some underwear?
Me: Heck, yeah: bras.
Mom: What kind?
Me: Um, the bra kind?
Mom: Noooo. Do you want cotton? Satin? Lace? Leather?
Me (chortling at "leather"): Um, I want pretty ones.
Mom: Do you want padded? Push-up?
Me: Yeah, the higher the better. In fact, if you can find one that lets me use my boobs as earmuffs, that would be great.
Mom: My daughter: the weirdo.
Me: Mmhm.
We go through other specifics - underwire, etc. - before she asks me the question that will resound in my brain forever:
Mom: Do you like the kind that shows your nipples?
There is a long silence, while my brain thrashes frantically in search of something to hold onto.
Me: ... What?
Mom: You know, with the cut-outs.
My brain stops thrashing, shudders once, flops over, and dies. Surviving now solely on instinct, I grasp for something neutral to say.
Me: Well.... what if it gets cold?
Mom (laughing): I didn't think of that.
Me: Heck, yeah: bras.
Mom: What kind?
Me: Um, the bra kind?
Mom: Noooo. Do you want cotton? Satin? Lace? Leather?
Me (chortling at "leather"): Um, I want pretty ones.
Mom: Do you want padded? Push-up?
Me: Yeah, the higher the better. In fact, if you can find one that lets me use my boobs as earmuffs, that would be great.
Mom: My daughter: the weirdo.
Me: Mmhm.
We go through other specifics - underwire, etc. - before she asks me the question that will resound in my brain forever:
Mom: Do you like the kind that shows your nipples?
There is a long silence, while my brain thrashes frantically in search of something to hold onto.
Me: ... What?
Mom: You know, with the cut-outs.
My brain stops thrashing, shudders once, flops over, and dies. Surviving now solely on instinct, I grasp for something neutral to say.
Me: Well.... what if it gets cold?
Mom (laughing): I didn't think of that.
Sunday, March 14, 2004
Warm Beer and Remote Control
Long ago, in a restaurant far away...
Carol and I are bartending. We have a friendly, rivalrous banter going on. It keeps us occupied, mentally, while working. I love Carol to death. Today, the beer cooler is broken. It annoys our guests, but they're good-natured about it.
Guest: Can I get another warm beer?
Just then, Carol walks up from the back with beers for restocking. She hands him one as I laugh at his question.
Carol: There you go. Much fresher than anything she'll give you.
Me: Right. Thanks, Carol.
The guest takes a sip and grins.
Guest: Colder, too.
Me: That's because she chipped it out of her icy heart.
The guest chokes on his beer. Carol whirls around.
Carol: What?!
Me (innocently): Nothing!
Carol and I are bartending. We have a friendly, rivalrous banter going on. It keeps us occupied, mentally, while working. I love Carol to death. Today, the beer cooler is broken. It annoys our guests, but they're good-natured about it.
Guest: Can I get another warm beer?
Just then, Carol walks up from the back with beers for restocking. She hands him one as I laugh at his question.
Carol: There you go. Much fresher than anything she'll give you.
Me: Right. Thanks, Carol.
The guest takes a sip and grins.
Guest: Colder, too.
Me: That's because she chipped it out of her icy heart.
The guest chokes on his beer. Carol whirls around.
Carol: What?!
Me (innocently): Nothing!
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Not a Good Day
The phone rings.
Carol: Hey, it's Carol.
Me: Hey! How are you?
Carol: Well, I'm - I'm not calling under good circumstances.
Me: Oh. Okay. What's up?
Carol: We're just calling everyone who were friends. But... last night... Lance passed away last night.
There is an interminably long silence. Lance. Dead. What...
Me (at my most articulate): What?
Carol: Yeah.
Me: What happened?
Carol: We don't really know. They did an autopsy this morning. It's alcohol-related. But we won't know until the toxicology report comes back in.
Me: Okay. How's Sarah?
Carol: She's... not good. I think she's sleeping right now - which is a good thing. But we're all over here right now... Jacob, Foster, Kara is coming by later.
Me: Okay. I'll be there as soon as I can. I'm watching a very destructive dog right now, and I can't leave him. He'll tear up the house. Can I bring anything?
Carol: No. Her church put together a lot of food, and we have drinks and ice over here right now.
Me: Alright. I'll see what I can do with the dog, and I'll be there ASAP.
Carol: Okay. See you later.
I'm stuck with the dog. Scott's old roommates won't take his mangy ass, even for a couple of hours. Better yet, I come back into the living room, and he's peed in a line from the kitchen into the bathroom.
What the fuck happened? He and Sarah split up over his drinking. Maybe he tried to stop again and his heart just couldn't take it. I haven't seen him for a month. I don't know how he was doing. I was going to get his new number and call him to let him know that I was still his friend, too (even though my primary loyalty is to Sarah, let's be honest). And I put it off too long.
My name is Stacey, and I'm a Wal-Mart friend.
Me: Hey! How are you?
Carol: Well, I'm - I'm not calling under good circumstances.
Me: Oh. Okay. What's up?
Carol: We're just calling everyone who were friends. But... last night... Lance passed away last night.
There is an interminably long silence. Lance. Dead. What...
Me (at my most articulate): What?
Carol: Yeah.
Me: What happened?
Carol: We don't really know. They did an autopsy this morning. It's alcohol-related. But we won't know until the toxicology report comes back in.
Me: Okay. How's Sarah?
Carol: She's... not good. I think she's sleeping right now - which is a good thing. But we're all over here right now... Jacob, Foster, Kara is coming by later.
Me: Okay. I'll be there as soon as I can. I'm watching a very destructive dog right now, and I can't leave him. He'll tear up the house. Can I bring anything?
Carol: No. Her church put together a lot of food, and we have drinks and ice over here right now.
Me: Alright. I'll see what I can do with the dog, and I'll be there ASAP.
Carol: Okay. See you later.
I'm stuck with the dog. Scott's old roommates won't take his mangy ass, even for a couple of hours. Better yet, I come back into the living room, and he's peed in a line from the kitchen into the bathroom.
What the fuck happened? He and Sarah split up over his drinking. Maybe he tried to stop again and his heart just couldn't take it. I haven't seen him for a month. I don't know how he was doing. I was going to get his new number and call him to let him know that I was still his friend, too (even though my primary loyalty is to Sarah, let's be honest). And I put it off too long.
My name is Stacey, and I'm a Wal-Mart friend.
Thursday, March 04, 2004
You Got Served
At garden reception, Scott, Dwayne, and I are standing by the Rose Garden. Along comes these two adorable little girls, pushing a metal cart to their parents' barbecue stand. We all grin as they run past, gleefully unaware that what they're doing is generally called "work."
Scott: Hey, can I have a ride?
Six-Year-Old (with a world-weary sarcasm rarely seen outside of Monte Carlo): Um, I really don't think it will hold you. (She gives a thumbs-up sign) But have a nice day!
Dwayne and I burst into laughter as Scott's jaw drops to the ground.
Dwayne: Oh, man! You just got ripped by a six-year-old
Scott: I'm going to trip her when she walks past.
Me: I will strangle you with your own tie.
Dwayne: You're just mad that you got beat down by a little girl.
Scott: I'm going to get her back.
Me: You realize you're having a battle of wits with a six-year-old.
Dwayne: And you're losing.
Scott (hanging head): I am.
Scott: Hey, can I have a ride?
Six-Year-Old (with a world-weary sarcasm rarely seen outside of Monte Carlo): Um, I really don't think it will hold you. (She gives a thumbs-up sign) But have a nice day!
Dwayne and I burst into laughter as Scott's jaw drops to the ground.
Dwayne: Oh, man! You just got ripped by a six-year-old
Scott: I'm going to trip her when she walks past.
Me: I will strangle you with your own tie.
Dwayne: You're just mad that you got beat down by a little girl.
Scott: I'm going to get her back.
Me: You realize you're having a battle of wits with a six-year-old.
Dwayne: And you're losing.
Scott (hanging head): I am.
Saturday, February 28, 2004
How Did I Get Here?
Scott: You're beautiful.
Me (laughing): Stop it.
Scott: You are beautiful.
Me (blushing): Stop it!
He's already sitting in the chair with me, because there's no longer any room to stand at the table. Friday's is packed, as usual, on F&B night, and we're all crowded at a table in the bar. He leans in an plants a trail of kisses from my shoulder to my neck. I try to laugh it off. How did we get to this point? We were talking, and laughing, and drinking and - oh, yeah. We were drinking.
Scott: I've always thought you were beautiful.
Me (hiding my face on his shoulder): Thank you.
Scott: I have a secret confession to make.
Me: Uh, oh. What?
Scott: I've always been attracted to you. I couldn't ask you out, though, 'cause you were dating the librarian. But I've always thought you were great.
Me:That's interesting. I've always thought you were GAY.
Scott: I'm bi. I use the gay thing as a front.
Scott: You are beautiful.
Me (blushing): Stop it!
He's already sitting in the chair with me, because there's no longer any room to stand at the table. Friday's is packed, as usual, on F&B night, and we're all crowded at a table in the bar. He leans in an plants a trail of kisses from my shoulder to my neck. I try to laugh it off. How did we get to this point? We were talking, and laughing, and drinking and - oh, yeah. We were drinking.
Scott: I've always thought you were beautiful.
Me (hiding my face on his shoulder): Thank you.
Scott: I have a secret confession to make.
Me: Uh, oh. What?
Scott: I've always been attracted to you. I couldn't ask you out, though, 'cause you were dating the librarian. But I've always thought you were great.
Me:That's interesting. I've always thought you were GAY.
Scott: I'm bi. I use the gay thing as a front.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
(Groan) Why Can't I Be Normal?
When I got home last night at 5 a.m., someone's dog had gotten into my garbage. There was smelly stinky garbage strewn all over my little yard. I thought: "Oh, hell, no," and went the fuck to bed. I resigned myself to getting it up at the crack of noon to clean it.
So I get up, drink some Diet Coke, start picking up around the house, and gather some garbage into a bag. Still wearing my negligee, I open my front door to toss the bag into the can, which is four feet from the door. My 80-year-old neighbor and her 50-year-old son are standing there.
Utter humiliation is an eye-opening way to start the day.
So I get up, drink some Diet Coke, start picking up around the house, and gather some garbage into a bag. Still wearing my negligee, I open my front door to toss the bag into the can, which is four feet from the door. My 80-year-old neighbor and her 50-year-old son are standing there.
Utter humiliation is an eye-opening way to start the day.
