The streets of London abound with small children in knee socks. The little boys clad in newsy caps and sweater vests ask their mums for sweets in a voice not even Beelzebub could resist. They are generally cute and good natured and I would venture to say proclaim things like "cheerio," and "top o' the morning to you," (or maybe thats the leprechaun from the Lucky Charms cereal). While they are not wearing rouge (thats blush in British...I think), their cheeks are endlessly rosy, coloured with the vibrance that is youth. If you are imagining a mix between Oliver (the title character in the classic british play) and Christian Bale (the title character in the classic disney movie, "Newsie's"), then I have hit the descriptive nail on the head, because that's where I'm going with this. British children are far cuter than any American child I have ever encountered, including blood relatives (sorry Mannah).
Despite the constant urge to abscond to the country with one of these adorably British children where we would live a simple life of tending house and garden, making cheese and possibly operating some sort of independent news press all while wearing wooden clogs (it's possible I'm mixing up some of my bizarre Disney/cross cultural fantasies here, I haven't seen anyone in England wearing wooden clogs), I don't. As I only have a one year student visa and mounting debt, I don't think child abduction is a feasible option at the moment. If my passport gets seized and I get deported my family, friends, and new acquaintances might think less of me. Alas, I will not be stealing any children (or sketchers) any time soon.
Twas a Sunday afternoon, no more than a fortnight ago, when sitting on the tube, I was cured of this desire to steal small British children. The tube, London's underground akin to the New York Subway, the DC Metro, or the Boston T, is clean and efficient. Its one major drawback is the lack of air conditioning. London, a city famous for its dark dreary weather, must be sitting on top of large magma deposits because going underground is like walking into a volcano, or sauna. Off come the trendy leather jackets, trendy scarfs, layers of sweaters or other trendy tops and down everyone strips to their t-shirts while they wait for their train. This strip down is both embarrassing and time consuming, but for sweaty Americans, it's a must.
Everyone uses the tube. Men in suits, women in heels, tourists with overstuffed backpacks and new mothers with baby's in prams all crowd into the hot cars and hold on as they make their way to their final destination. I often relish my time on the tube, despite the uncomfortable heat and gradual appearance of sweat on my brow, the tube is prime people watching ground (and prime child snatching ground.
Anyway, as I said, it was a Sunday afternoon. Unseasonably warm and hotter than usual, I sit perched on a ledge meant for luggage in the center of a crowded train. As we approach Kings Cross people prepare to empty out. I slyly looked around, secretly judging my fellow passengers and coveting the boots of the impossibly thin and fashionable girl standing across from me. The train slows to a stop and unloads its burden while new people, fresh from the street and only starting the strip down game board.
A woman in her mid thirties stumbles into the car. She looks as though she has spent significant time in a tanning bed and beauty parlor. Her hair, a brilliant two toned display of black and yellow, poofs in ways that defies gravity. Her nails are the type that preclude any desk or house work. Her outfit, of silver mesh and too tight jeans, twists as she doubles over and begins a long search in her massive tote for something that must be extremely important.
Behind the woman two small children board the car. The children are not the sort I have been getting used to seeing in London. First of all they are Ginger, that's British for red headed. Now everyone knows that you can't really trust a red head. A lot of people also live by the credo that "no one likes a redhead." As someone who doesn't buy in to stereotypes, critical judgements or general meanness, I would NEVER think or say a thing like this. I reserve judgement of these unfortunate ginger children. I slowly assess them, trying to figure out who they belonged to. While they got on immediately after the too tanned woman, she doesn't seem to notice or acknowledge them, nor them her.
The lady on the loudspeaker asks people to stand clear of the closing doors as the children begin to wrestle in the middle of the crowded train. They fight for space on the long pole meant as a grip for standing passengers. The boy is the smaller of the two. A mere eight, he wears an intense bowl and appears to have less teeth than my 80-year-old grandmother. His eyes looked like those of a cartoon dragon, yellow and mean.
The girl, perhaps ten, is no less unfortunate looking. Plump and wearing shorts and a cropped t-shirt that falls down in a long fringe over her spandex shorts, her hair fire red hair emanates from her head like the rays of one of those static balls. The fringe of her shirt is garnished with beads like she just returned from a Jamaican vacation but instead of getting her hair braided and beaded she got her shirt shredded and beaded. The weather is unseasonably warm this Sunday, but not even the Sun spitting out little sun pellets of burning flame merits any sort of cropped beaded top.
Despite dragon boys small stature he appears to be the stronger of the two and certainly the more forceful. My ears almost fall off when I think I hear him command his sister to "Fuck off," in a little British accent. It must be the accent, I tell myself. There is no way a small child, even a ginger, would say that. I try and maintain my faith in human goodness and small British boys in newsy caps. Then it happens again.
"Fuck off fatty, I do it better." I love the British accents with an embarrassing passion. That may or may not be my real motive for relocating for the year. However not even "fuck off fatty" sounds refined in it.
The little girl, surely embarrassed now moves to an adjacent pole. She quickly climbs it and then slowly slides towards the floor, her pudgey stomach making the uncomfortable sound of flesh rubbing plastic as she makes her way down.
Frantic for both my own and these foul mouthed children's safety, I look around for the surely mortified parents. I see no one. Again my eyes turn to the too tanned, two toned woman. She continues her search in her bag, seemingly oblivious to the behavior of these red headed devils. She can not be the mother I tell myself, no mother would ever allow this sort of behavior in public. Across the car appears a man in a wife beater. Bingo! I don't care where you are from or what language you speak, a wife beater means one thing and one thing only, you probably live in a trailer.
The children begin to fight with each other, dragon boy throwing punches at his sister, her beads jingling as she throws slaps back. Wife beater makes his way over. Of course he's their father.
" 'Ey," he says, carrying another redheaded child in his hands. The children look at him and instantly stop fighting. The return to their respective poles and begin to show him how they are able to climb up the dirty pole that is touched by millions of people every day and probably carried swine flu, bovine flu, elephant flu and gonorrhea.
"Look at me Dad. LOOK AT ME!" Devil boy commands. The father shows little interest and leans over too tanned lady. Of course she is their mother and has this entire time ignore their take over of the car poles and their foul ginger language. Too tanned and wife beater kiss. I think I just contracted syphilis.
"Mum look I can climb the pole too." Jingle bells wants in on the action too. The parents exchange looks and wife beater reaches up to scratch his hat. The site of his under arm hair causes me to gag.
"You're not as good as I am. I'm the fucking best." Devil boy has dropped the f-bomb again. I have through my adult life, been accused of cursing like a sailor. But holy fucking shit, if I spoke like that as a child I would not have lived to see the light of day. Wife beater however doesn't seem to notice.
"Yeh, nice job (insert British white trash name here)." He turns away again.
The car slows and the conductor announces that we have arrived at my stop. Thank god, freedom. Dragon boy and jingle bell block my exit as they try and do flips off the pole. I say excuse me as sternly as I can, hoping this small show of discipline reforms their horrible ginger ways.
Once home I look up the number for London's child protective services and destroy my VHS copy of Newsies.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Blogitis
Editors Note: After moving home to New Jersey in early September, en route to my eventual destination of London, I have contracted the highly contagious, nearly incurable disease blogitis. Symptoms include an overwhelming desire to sleep until noon, an obsessive need to watch old episodes of 90210 on the Soap network, extreme ice cream consumption while sitting on the couch all day and an utter inability to be creative in the face of multiple movies playing on the eleven channels of HBO.
My only hope is a risky treatment doctors are calling "get the hell off your ass and move out of your parents house." I will be embarking on a rigorous course of the prescribed treatment beginning tomorrow. This recent bout of illness and search for a cure make it near impossible to blog on a regular basis. Thus I apologize for the lack of new material and ask for your patience while I regain the strength and livelihood required to write new posts. Alas I am not sure how long it will be until you hear from me again; until that time, good night and good luck!
My only hope is a risky treatment doctors are calling "get the hell off your ass and move out of your parents house." I will be embarking on a rigorous course of the prescribed treatment beginning tomorrow. This recent bout of illness and search for a cure make it near impossible to blog on a regular basis. Thus I apologize for the lack of new material and ask for your patience while I regain the strength and livelihood required to write new posts. Alas I am not sure how long it will be until you hear from me again; until that time, good night and good luck!
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
24 Things I've Learned at 24
As sand through the hour glass, so are the days of our lives. It's about that time of year when the lushes of green leaves turn a brilliant orange before crumbling and falling to their death. The time of year when bicycles are locked in garages and backpacks dusted off to be filled with pens and notebooks. The time of year when eternal youth realizes its expiration date and darkness creeps into late afternoon like the angel of death waiting on its prey. The change of season reminds me of my own life cycle, alas I am getting older.
Another birthday come and gone. Monday (that's September 7 for those of you that want to put it in your ICal or Google Calenders, this is especially wise for the M clad friends who forgot to call, text, facebook, or telepathically wish me good tidings on the anniversary of my birth) I officially entered my mid-twenties as I celebrated my 24th birthday. This milestone which is kind of like the death rattle on my way to middle age has me waxing philosophic and I can't help but look back on my life and think of all the many things I have learned over the past twenty four years. Why my accumulated knowledge could fill a book! The kind of book that would help any young person on their journey to self-fulfillment, navigating the windy roads of thinly veiled narcissism and a constant yearning for attention. It would be selfish of me not to share the knowledge my 24 years on this spinning planet we call home has garnered-thus I give to you twenty four things I've learned over the past 24 years. While this is not necessarily a definitive guide to happiness and prosperity, it will certainly get you on your way.
24. Greasy hair is unattractive. No one should ever be able to tell that you are on an every other day shower schedule. If people ask you if its raining outside when they see the seeming sheen of wetness on your greasy unwashed hair, you have a serious problem. I my friends, have the solution...baby powder. When used properly it can soak up the grease and reduce the appearance of dinginess. Sprinkle in the problem area and massage it in so you do not look like you are playing George Washington in a school play. While some say cleanliness is next to godliness, I say the appearance of cleanliness gets your ten extra minutes of sleep in the morning.
23. Your body is a temple. My mother passed this gem on to me during my turbulent adolescence. She took care to remind me (multiple, multiple times) that my body was a temple and everyone needed to pay their dues to get in. But make sure the money is clean if you get my drift (penicillin don't come cheap, not without socialized health care anyway).
22. Don't bother with vegetarianism. In case you haven't seen the Lion King let me summarize, we are all part of one big food chain. You are born, then your dad's evil brother plots your father's death with his hyena friends (note, your dad is the Lion King of the African plain). The plot manifests itself with wildebeests stampeding and killing your father. You convince yourself its your fault (since you, the cub, couldn't stop the stampede) and you run away to some enclave and befriend some ambiguously gay smaller animals. The evil uncle ascends to the thrown. Then you sing a bunch of songs and grow up into a manly brave lion who eventual reclaims the crown and exiles the evil uncle. You have thus completed the circle of life. Animals die, we eat them, bacon is AWESOME.
21. Don't cut your own bangs. Run for dear life if you see a parent who is not a hair stylist by profession coming at you with a scissor. Nobody looks cute with a kitchen bowl cut or bathroom side bang, please take my word for this.
20. Get overdraft protection. Bank of America is a bitch as are most banks. Give in, sign up for overdraft protection. Eventually you will be low on money (if you are young and irresponsible) and on the same night as your rent and utilities check clear you will get drunk and you will think buying a round of Jagger shots for you and six other people is a good idea. I beg of you, get overdraft protection.
19. Lie to get yourself out of trouble. This life lesson only works if you are blessed with no real moral compass and an ability to think on your feet. If you posses these qualities then I whole heartedly encourage you to take advantage of them. Lying is great. Didn't finish your homework, no problem your house burned down. Late for work, don't sweat it you went momentarily deaf at the precise moment your alarm went off. Canceling plans with that friend you don't really even like, its not your fault you have meningitis. Lying is great. Just be sure to remember the details and you should be fine. There is one caveat here, don't lie to the police. If you are going the wrong way down a one way street (which you know to be one way because you live on said street), you cannot get out of the ticket by explaining to the lady cop that you have to pee very very very badly and would never have gone the wrong way otherwise.
18. Don't pay for condiments, napkins or toilet paper in your home. Have you been to Starbucks lately? I can only assume that they are charging $4 for a coffee because of the abundant sides that come with it. I'm referring to the splenda, equal, sugar, brown sugar, honey packets and napkins. Toilet paper can be easily "purchased" from your office and even public libraries. Napkins are everywhere, ask for extra.
17. Don't eat more than one Fiber One product in one day. You don't have to take my word for this but I promise you'll regret it if you don't.
16. Always wear underwear. There are so many ways in which going commando can back fire. One minute you are walking down the street enjoying the sun on your shoulders, the next thing you know your ass up splayed across the side walk. Damn uneven cement. Don't go commando.
15. Dairy is great. Ice cream and cheese are the cause and cure of all problems (largely those relating to the stomach).
14. If you are unfortunate enough to require orthodontia, wear your retainer. I came out of the womb with perfectly straight teeth so I'm not really familiar with braces, palate expanders and the lot. But my sisters, Memma and Mannah, they had some pretty jacked teeth. Memma battled a serious gap tooth and Mannah had a literal dog tooth sticking out of the side of her gum for like two years. Their refusal to wear the orthodontist mandated retainers and shit caused our parents thousands of dollars in bills and years of unsightly metal in their teeth. Let this be a lesson, either be born perfect a la me, or listen to your dentist.
13. Prank phone calling never gets old. You don't know what fun is until you've called someone you barely know and acted as though you are their best friend, all while speaking in a British accent.
12. Don't buy anything off of TV. If Billy Mays death and the Sham Wow guy's recent coke bust haven't taught you anything then let me be the voice of reason, it's never quite 'as seen on TV.' Whether it's QVC or Miss Cleo you must resist. Turn off the TV, leave the house, and go to the mall. I promise you the products being hawked after 2 a.m. on a Sunday night are not worth those three easy payments of $19.99 (plus shipping and handling).
11. There is simply no way to lose ten pounds in one day unless it involves amputation. I'm all for fad diets but at some point we must acknowledge the limits of the human body and reality. If you are willing to cut off your arm, then sure, you can lose those pesky unbudging ten extra pounds before your high school reunion tomorrow morning. However, if you are both physically dependent and emotionally attached to your limbs, then its unlikely you are going to shed the excess weight before the sun rises. Also, you can't order a tape worm offline.
10. Soliciting money from family never gets old, no matter how old you get.
9. DVR is worth the investment. Not that I have ever been fortunate enough to have TIVO or DVR, but I imagine its utterly amazing. Having to stay home on a Wednesday night so that you don't miss Bravo's Real Housewives of Atlanta (because God knows Bravo never reruns things), or scheduling Friday night plans around The Soup really inhibits a healthy social life. Moreover its just embarrassing to refuse a coworkers invite to happy hour because you have a eight o'clock date with Fox's More to Love (think Fat Bachelor).
8. You cannot put Styrofoam, tin foal or plastic in the microwave.
7. Crime doesn't pay. You're thirteen. You're in Macy's. You see this really cool pair of Sketchers. You and your friend try on the Sketchers. God they're cool. You have to have the Sketchers. You look in your wallet, you have a Macy's gift card and cash, your friend has her parent's credit card. You discuss the options. Purchasing the shoes is feasible, easy even. But then you realize that stealing them would be way cooler, way more bad ass. You grab a pair of the shoes. You surreptitiously stick the bulky box in the Gap bag you have from earlier in your shopping extravaganza. You walk out of the store. Suddenly, out of no where, two thuggish security guards appear and ask you to come with them. You are busted. You spend the next four hours sitting in the Macy's security office waiting for the police to come, cause hey, Macy's takes theft seriously. You're parents lose all respect for you. You are grounded for a month. The family court Macy's sends you to makes you take a mail order "Why shoplifting is bad" course. Crime doesn't pay.
6. Don't do the running man while wearing sunglasses in a dark house. Only broken bones and embarrassment will result.
5. Do not engage in an eating contest hours before any sort of significant event. Going to a Pizza Hut buffet and daring your friends to see who can eat the most the afternoon of your high school graduation is probably not the best idea. Seven slices of pizza, two slices of desert pizza, and numerous breadsticks are not going to ease the transition to adulthood, they will however send you to the bathroom for about four hours.
4. Avoid appearing on reality TV. Because who comes out of that looking intelligent and well adjusted? No one.
3. While in flight, do not tell the stewardess that the balding middle aged man sitting across the row is a terrorist unless you have hard evidence. Not only will you appear crazy, but no one likes to be called a terrorist.
2. Everything is best in moderation. This isn't something I've mastered, but you know, it's probably the smartest advice I've ever ignored.
1. Wear sunscreen. And also the underwear thing.
Another birthday come and gone. Monday (that's September 7 for those of you that want to put it in your ICal or Google Calenders, this is especially wise for the M clad friends who forgot to call, text, facebook, or telepathically wish me good tidings on the anniversary of my birth) I officially entered my mid-twenties as I celebrated my 24th birthday. This milestone which is kind of like the death rattle on my way to middle age has me waxing philosophic and I can't help but look back on my life and think of all the many things I have learned over the past twenty four years. Why my accumulated knowledge could fill a book! The kind of book that would help any young person on their journey to self-fulfillment, navigating the windy roads of thinly veiled narcissism and a constant yearning for attention. It would be selfish of me not to share the knowledge my 24 years on this spinning planet we call home has garnered-thus I give to you twenty four things I've learned over the past 24 years. While this is not necessarily a definitive guide to happiness and prosperity, it will certainly get you on your way.
24. Greasy hair is unattractive. No one should ever be able to tell that you are on an every other day shower schedule. If people ask you if its raining outside when they see the seeming sheen of wetness on your greasy unwashed hair, you have a serious problem. I my friends, have the solution...baby powder. When used properly it can soak up the grease and reduce the appearance of dinginess. Sprinkle in the problem area and massage it in so you do not look like you are playing George Washington in a school play. While some say cleanliness is next to godliness, I say the appearance of cleanliness gets your ten extra minutes of sleep in the morning.
23. Your body is a temple. My mother passed this gem on to me during my turbulent adolescence. She took care to remind me (multiple, multiple times) that my body was a temple and everyone needed to pay their dues to get in. But make sure the money is clean if you get my drift (penicillin don't come cheap, not without socialized health care anyway).
22. Don't bother with vegetarianism. In case you haven't seen the Lion King let me summarize, we are all part of one big food chain. You are born, then your dad's evil brother plots your father's death with his hyena friends (note, your dad is the Lion King of the African plain). The plot manifests itself with wildebeests stampeding and killing your father. You convince yourself its your fault (since you, the cub, couldn't stop the stampede) and you run away to some enclave and befriend some ambiguously gay smaller animals. The evil uncle ascends to the thrown. Then you sing a bunch of songs and grow up into a manly brave lion who eventual reclaims the crown and exiles the evil uncle. You have thus completed the circle of life. Animals die, we eat them, bacon is AWESOME.
21. Don't cut your own bangs. Run for dear life if you see a parent who is not a hair stylist by profession coming at you with a scissor. Nobody looks cute with a kitchen bowl cut or bathroom side bang, please take my word for this.
20. Get overdraft protection. Bank of America is a bitch as are most banks. Give in, sign up for overdraft protection. Eventually you will be low on money (if you are young and irresponsible) and on the same night as your rent and utilities check clear you will get drunk and you will think buying a round of Jagger shots for you and six other people is a good idea. I beg of you, get overdraft protection.
19. Lie to get yourself out of trouble. This life lesson only works if you are blessed with no real moral compass and an ability to think on your feet. If you posses these qualities then I whole heartedly encourage you to take advantage of them. Lying is great. Didn't finish your homework, no problem your house burned down. Late for work, don't sweat it you went momentarily deaf at the precise moment your alarm went off. Canceling plans with that friend you don't really even like, its not your fault you have meningitis. Lying is great. Just be sure to remember the details and you should be fine. There is one caveat here, don't lie to the police. If you are going the wrong way down a one way street (which you know to be one way because you live on said street), you cannot get out of the ticket by explaining to the lady cop that you have to pee very very very badly and would never have gone the wrong way otherwise.
18. Don't pay for condiments, napkins or toilet paper in your home. Have you been to Starbucks lately? I can only assume that they are charging $4 for a coffee because of the abundant sides that come with it. I'm referring to the splenda, equal, sugar, brown sugar, honey packets and napkins. Toilet paper can be easily "purchased" from your office and even public libraries. Napkins are everywhere, ask for extra.
17. Don't eat more than one Fiber One product in one day. You don't have to take my word for this but I promise you'll regret it if you don't.
16. Always wear underwear. There are so many ways in which going commando can back fire. One minute you are walking down the street enjoying the sun on your shoulders, the next thing you know your ass up splayed across the side walk. Damn uneven cement. Don't go commando.
15. Dairy is great. Ice cream and cheese are the cause and cure of all problems (largely those relating to the stomach).
14. If you are unfortunate enough to require orthodontia, wear your retainer. I came out of the womb with perfectly straight teeth so I'm not really familiar with braces, palate expanders and the lot. But my sisters, Memma and Mannah, they had some pretty jacked teeth. Memma battled a serious gap tooth and Mannah had a literal dog tooth sticking out of the side of her gum for like two years. Their refusal to wear the orthodontist mandated retainers and shit caused our parents thousands of dollars in bills and years of unsightly metal in their teeth. Let this be a lesson, either be born perfect a la me, or listen to your dentist.
13. Prank phone calling never gets old. You don't know what fun is until you've called someone you barely know and acted as though you are their best friend, all while speaking in a British accent.
12. Don't buy anything off of TV. If Billy Mays death and the Sham Wow guy's recent coke bust haven't taught you anything then let me be the voice of reason, it's never quite 'as seen on TV.' Whether it's QVC or Miss Cleo you must resist. Turn off the TV, leave the house, and go to the mall. I promise you the products being hawked after 2 a.m. on a Sunday night are not worth those three easy payments of $19.99 (plus shipping and handling).
11. There is simply no way to lose ten pounds in one day unless it involves amputation. I'm all for fad diets but at some point we must acknowledge the limits of the human body and reality. If you are willing to cut off your arm, then sure, you can lose those pesky unbudging ten extra pounds before your high school reunion tomorrow morning. However, if you are both physically dependent and emotionally attached to your limbs, then its unlikely you are going to shed the excess weight before the sun rises. Also, you can't order a tape worm offline.
10. Soliciting money from family never gets old, no matter how old you get.
9. DVR is worth the investment. Not that I have ever been fortunate enough to have TIVO or DVR, but I imagine its utterly amazing. Having to stay home on a Wednesday night so that you don't miss Bravo's Real Housewives of Atlanta (because God knows Bravo never reruns things), or scheduling Friday night plans around The Soup really inhibits a healthy social life. Moreover its just embarrassing to refuse a coworkers invite to happy hour because you have a eight o'clock date with Fox's More to Love (think Fat Bachelor).
8. You cannot put Styrofoam, tin foal or plastic in the microwave.
7. Crime doesn't pay. You're thirteen. You're in Macy's. You see this really cool pair of Sketchers. You and your friend try on the Sketchers. God they're cool. You have to have the Sketchers. You look in your wallet, you have a Macy's gift card and cash, your friend has her parent's credit card. You discuss the options. Purchasing the shoes is feasible, easy even. But then you realize that stealing them would be way cooler, way more bad ass. You grab a pair of the shoes. You surreptitiously stick the bulky box in the Gap bag you have from earlier in your shopping extravaganza. You walk out of the store. Suddenly, out of no where, two thuggish security guards appear and ask you to come with them. You are busted. You spend the next four hours sitting in the Macy's security office waiting for the police to come, cause hey, Macy's takes theft seriously. You're parents lose all respect for you. You are grounded for a month. The family court Macy's sends you to makes you take a mail order "Why shoplifting is bad" course. Crime doesn't pay.
6. Don't do the running man while wearing sunglasses in a dark house. Only broken bones and embarrassment will result.
5. Do not engage in an eating contest hours before any sort of significant event. Going to a Pizza Hut buffet and daring your friends to see who can eat the most the afternoon of your high school graduation is probably not the best idea. Seven slices of pizza, two slices of desert pizza, and numerous breadsticks are not going to ease the transition to adulthood, they will however send you to the bathroom for about four hours.
4. Avoid appearing on reality TV. Because who comes out of that looking intelligent and well adjusted? No one.
3. While in flight, do not tell the stewardess that the balding middle aged man sitting across the row is a terrorist unless you have hard evidence. Not only will you appear crazy, but no one likes to be called a terrorist.
2. Everything is best in moderation. This isn't something I've mastered, but you know, it's probably the smartest advice I've ever ignored.
1. Wear sunscreen. And also the underwear thing.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Fat Camp
In truth I never actually went to Fat Camp. I only watched the MTV series "True Life: I Go To Fat Camp," which documents the experience of four teens and young adults as they conquer their fear of leafy greens and lose the weight (only to gain it back when summer ends and Christmas cookies are served). Obesity (especially childhood obesity) is a serious threat to both our national security and prestige. Sky rocketing health care costs are endangering our economy. America is outgrowing the world and not in a good way. Where once Americans were considered hot and chic, we are now considered fat and lazy. Obesity is an epidemic terrorizing all things trendy and organic.
I was not always so aware of the danger that deep fried cheese puffs, funnel cake, and bacon, egg and cheese bagels posed. My love of all things caloric and fattening has over the years been balanced with yo-yo dieting and sporadic exercise. I hope my story can be an example to all borderline chubby Americans.
Ah to be thin. I am not intimately acquainted with Skinny, we have more of a fleeting relationship that comes and goes. I largely blame my parents for any physical defect I exhibit. Whether it's clearly genetic like my unusually large feet, or something blatantly acquired like the bump resulting from my broken nose, they are undoubtedly somehow to blame. My mother is guilty of predisposing me towards a life of gluttonous desire by fattening me up before I even popped out of the womb. Melizabeth, a weight conscious woman herself, saw pregnancy as a 9 month free for all during which she maintained a steady diet of hamburgers, french fries, and milk shakes. Its a wonder I didn't come out smelling like McDonald's.
My father, a man concerned with looks and fitness (it is from him that I inherit my unabashed shallowness), made sure that my food neuroses were firmly in place by the time I was elevens, when unable to fit into clothes from the Kids section I was forced to buy Junior's jeans. It was then he put me on a strict bacon diet. Long a fan of hotel and restaurant breakfast buffets and lazy Saturdays filled with sizzling pork, I craved bacon at all times. My father banned me from the food I yearned for in hopes that it would curb weight gain and make my fingers less greasy. I remember those dark mornings, sitting at the kitchen table eating eggs and grapefruit watching as my thin sister munch away at the bacon in "moderation."
As time passed I turned to other foods to quench my undeniable hunger for grease. Grilled cheese and brownies were among my favorites. By thirteen I snapped into a slimjim everyday on my way home from school. Once home I settled into the sofa with a bowl of cereal and box of cookies. I was not exactly following the federal governments guideline to health via the food pyramid. The only things pyramid like in my diet were pizza and brie.
There were of course half hearted attempts at eating reform throughout the years. I remember the Richard Simmons days fondly. I found his infomercials inspiring and his short shorts ballsy. He rocked his jewfro with confidence and his man tanks with unbridled pizzaz. Maybe I too could put down that piece of chocolate cake and shake shake shake my booty to a new healthier me. Alas Richard and I were not meant to be. He advocated things requiring spandex and dedication, neither of which were my forte.
Then there was the eat only on the weekends diet. Microwave pizzas and cookie dough vanished the moment I got home from school on Fridays but come Monday morning it was celery and water. This worked shockingly well until the weekends started including Friday mornings and soon Thursday nights. It slowly devolved into an eat all the time and eat a lot diet.
My all time favorite diet was the brainchild of my father. It was Atkins inspired and involved low carb high protein foods. The trick was to eat absolutely no carbs (this included liquid carbs). There was of course a twist for one hour each day you could eat whatever you want - bread, pasta, chips, deep friend bagels, you name it. My father encouraged my sister and I to try out this outrageously unhealthy diet after his girlfriend at the time lost weight on it. It was the summer before I entered high school. I had just joined the freshman field hockey team and was working out for the first time in my life, change was afoot.
It's worth mentioning that at the time I was a vegetarian (who didn't really like vegetables). A no meat no card diet was limiting to say the least. 23 hours a day were filled with eggs, fish and a fuck load of cheese. When the 24th hour rolled around all bets were off. I shoveled food into my mouth like I was a freight train running on coal. No breaded food in a five mile radius was safe. At the end of that hour I couldn't move. I had to be rolled to the couch were a long session of lethargic TV watching was in order.
The diet continued into the beginning of the school year. My lunches, which I had always packed and taken from home, were reduced to blocks of cheese and hard boiled eggs. I reserved my carb hour for dinner when I would eat an entire box of pasta followed by a gallon of ice cream with a bottle of diet coke to wash it down. My cholesterol level slowly creeped higher and shockingly (and inexplicably) my waistband slowly got smaller.
Now I don't know a lot about nutritional science or how normal, adjusted people eat-however I do know a lot about crash diets and calorie content. I'm pretty sure that both streams of thought say the same thing about this poor excuse for a weightloss system, that it's bat shit crazy and unbelievably unhealthy. That didn't really bother me though; I got carbs, I got cheese and I got skinnier. I was a happy camper.
That is, until the heart attack.
I was not always so aware of the danger that deep fried cheese puffs, funnel cake, and bacon, egg and cheese bagels posed. My love of all things caloric and fattening has over the years been balanced with yo-yo dieting and sporadic exercise. I hope my story can be an example to all borderline chubby Americans.
Ah to be thin. I am not intimately acquainted with Skinny, we have more of a fleeting relationship that comes and goes. I largely blame my parents for any physical defect I exhibit. Whether it's clearly genetic like my unusually large feet, or something blatantly acquired like the bump resulting from my broken nose, they are undoubtedly somehow to blame. My mother is guilty of predisposing me towards a life of gluttonous desire by fattening me up before I even popped out of the womb. Melizabeth, a weight conscious woman herself, saw pregnancy as a 9 month free for all during which she maintained a steady diet of hamburgers, french fries, and milk shakes. Its a wonder I didn't come out smelling like McDonald's.
My father, a man concerned with looks and fitness (it is from him that I inherit my unabashed shallowness), made sure that my food neuroses were firmly in place by the time I was elevens, when unable to fit into clothes from the Kids section I was forced to buy Junior's jeans. It was then he put me on a strict bacon diet. Long a fan of hotel and restaurant breakfast buffets and lazy Saturdays filled with sizzling pork, I craved bacon at all times. My father banned me from the food I yearned for in hopes that it would curb weight gain and make my fingers less greasy. I remember those dark mornings, sitting at the kitchen table eating eggs and grapefruit watching as my thin sister munch away at the bacon in "moderation."
As time passed I turned to other foods to quench my undeniable hunger for grease. Grilled cheese and brownies were among my favorites. By thirteen I snapped into a slimjim everyday on my way home from school. Once home I settled into the sofa with a bowl of cereal and box of cookies. I was not exactly following the federal governments guideline to health via the food pyramid. The only things pyramid like in my diet were pizza and brie.
There were of course half hearted attempts at eating reform throughout the years. I remember the Richard Simmons days fondly. I found his infomercials inspiring and his short shorts ballsy. He rocked his jewfro with confidence and his man tanks with unbridled pizzaz. Maybe I too could put down that piece of chocolate cake and shake shake shake my booty to a new healthier me. Alas Richard and I were not meant to be. He advocated things requiring spandex and dedication, neither of which were my forte.
Then there was the eat only on the weekends diet. Microwave pizzas and cookie dough vanished the moment I got home from school on Fridays but come Monday morning it was celery and water. This worked shockingly well until the weekends started including Friday mornings and soon Thursday nights. It slowly devolved into an eat all the time and eat a lot diet.
My all time favorite diet was the brainchild of my father. It was Atkins inspired and involved low carb high protein foods. The trick was to eat absolutely no carbs (this included liquid carbs). There was of course a twist for one hour each day you could eat whatever you want - bread, pasta, chips, deep friend bagels, you name it. My father encouraged my sister and I to try out this outrageously unhealthy diet after his girlfriend at the time lost weight on it. It was the summer before I entered high school. I had just joined the freshman field hockey team and was working out for the first time in my life, change was afoot.
It's worth mentioning that at the time I was a vegetarian (who didn't really like vegetables). A no meat no card diet was limiting to say the least. 23 hours a day were filled with eggs, fish and a fuck load of cheese. When the 24th hour rolled around all bets were off. I shoveled food into my mouth like I was a freight train running on coal. No breaded food in a five mile radius was safe. At the end of that hour I couldn't move. I had to be rolled to the couch were a long session of lethargic TV watching was in order.
The diet continued into the beginning of the school year. My lunches, which I had always packed and taken from home, were reduced to blocks of cheese and hard boiled eggs. I reserved my carb hour for dinner when I would eat an entire box of pasta followed by a gallon of ice cream with a bottle of diet coke to wash it down. My cholesterol level slowly creeped higher and shockingly (and inexplicably) my waistband slowly got smaller.
Now I don't know a lot about nutritional science or how normal, adjusted people eat-however I do know a lot about crash diets and calorie content. I'm pretty sure that both streams of thought say the same thing about this poor excuse for a weightloss system, that it's bat shit crazy and unbelievably unhealthy. That didn't really bother me though; I got carbs, I got cheese and I got skinnier. I was a happy camper.
That is, until the heart attack.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Prosthetic Fingers and Wooden Legs
It's hot and sticky and no one wants to get out of the pool. The start of third year is days away and a sort of drunken melancholy permeates our carefree life as we realize that college is half over. It's all down hill from here, we joke. I'm days away from my 20th birthday and nostalgia overtakes me as I realize I'm leaving my teen years behind. The real world is bearing down on me and responsibility is looming with the start of the school year.
We go to the University bookstore and stock up on overpriced spiral notebooks with UVA written in gold letters on the orange card stock cover. We hit up the Clinique counter and grab some flip flops before heading to the check out where we put the whole purchase on Mommy and Daddy's credit card. We sit around and play would you rather, wasting time and avoiding reality. "Would you rather have a wooden leg or a hook for an arm?" We all agree on wooden leg though admittedly it would be easy to barbecue with a hook for an arm. Kebabs would be a cinch!
We are planning a big night out for the evening before the start of classes. Drink away our sorrows and ignore the start of our third year. We start at Maty's. My upstairs neighbor and best friend. She lives with three other best friends and our two apartments are essentially communal living. I eat more of their food than I do my own (this is largely because I refuse to buy anything that is unhealthy and refuse to eat anything healthy).
Maty has been working at Buffalo Wild Wings all summer. BW3's as we call it, is not the classiest establishment around. In the idyllic college town that is Charlottesville there exists a dichotomy in population. There are the students and university professors; wealthy and preppy and all things pastel and ribbons. The kids coming from Virginia, the Northeast and the south sport their popped collars and boat shoes like they are modeling for LL Bean. Outside this bubble of Lilly Pulitzer and J.Crew exists the rest of the world. The student ghetto borders the actual ghetto. Bums meander around the streets of students looking for stale beer sitting in cups left over from the night before on the front porch. Men missing teeth deliver the late night pizza. BW3's attracts less of the college crowd and more of the local crowd. It had flavor to put it mildly. Maty has known to mingle with the obese black bouncer Antwon, or the mullet sporting bartender from time to time. Essentially, she is a tad on the sketchy.
The night before classes rolls around and we pregame, hard. We head out to bars and things begin to unravel almost immediately. Some want to go to Orbitz, some want to go to Coupes. The group splits. I head to Coupes with Maustin and Mmelissa. Maty goes to Orbitz with Mmeg and Maura. More drinking ensues. We gulp down bourbon and diets like they are water in the desert. We are drunk. My phone rings over and over again. I don't answer it because I don't hear it and I don't care. We leave Coupes to find food or friends or something along those lines.
Finally I look at my phone. I have about twenty missed calls from Maty. This is not unusual. Maty begins her evenings exclaiming her love for everything and everyone she knows. "I love you forever lets be best friends until we die!" might be something she says while pregaming. By the end of the night however its a different story. Over the course of three hours she turns into a mess of hate and wickedness. "I hate you, never speak to me again." Is the sort of thing she tell you only hours after calling you to be her bestest friend. Knowing this propensity for violent mood swings I am not surprised to see Maty called me repeatedly and I have no doubt that her messages are a string of love/hate proclamations.
My phone rings again. Feeling slightly bad for ignoring my best friend I answer. Snippets of wailing screams are audible and then the phone cuts out. While this is also not unusual I begin to worry. Three more times Maty calls crying and then gets cut off before she tells me what is wrong. Finally I get a call from Maty's roommate, Maura. She says we need to go to the hospital, that Maty is there.
Holy shit. I know she is alive as I've heard her distinctive cry on the phone but the hospital is NOT good. Maura picks us up and along with Mmelissa we head to the hospital. We attempt to sober up, that fails. We arrive at the hospital and head to the emergency room. We inquire about Maty and are instructed to wait in the chairs section. We then come across a strange sight. A boy, whom we know, is laying face down, spread eagle, sleeping in the middle of the waiting area. We try and rouse him, calling his name and pinching his cheeks. It doesn't work. Coincidence we think. Ten minutes later nurse comes out. She ask us if one of our names is Mephanie. I tell them that's me. They bring me back.
I walk into a room and Maty is lying, convulsing on a bed. She is covered in a sheet that is pulled up to her chin. Shit. I quickly conclude that the lower half of her body has been amputated. She has no legs. Maybe no torso. I will have to carry her head around in one of those weird bags meant for small dogs. When we go out to dinner I'll have to feed things to her. I'll probably have to take notes for her in class.
"Mephanie," she wails. Her face is red and blotchy and her make up is smeared all over. Her hair looks like birds are nesting in it. "Mephanie. My finger got cut off at Orbitz, you have to make someone go get it." She rips off the sheet and I see that the tip of her finger is missing and bleeding profusely. I stifle laughter. Her limbs are otherwise fine. I will not have to carry her in a hang bag. I comfort her and she cries. Then the nurse comes in to give her more pain medication.
I go into the waiting room and let our other friends know that A. Maty will survive and B. one of them needs to go fetch her finger tip at the bar. They laugh and refuse. I return to Maty. The doctor is now in with her. He is on the young side and really good looking. Maty is still wearing the tank top and jean skirt she went out in. She is not wearing underwear, her skirt is short and her legs are flailing. This is not good. She is trying to smile at the doctor as he explains that the whole finger isn't missing; its just large chunks of nail and skin. She nods eagerly.
"Oh Doctor, thank you so much. You are soooo kind!" Maty is trying to flirt with the doctor.
He leaves and I sit down next to her. "Do you think he thinks I'm cute?" Maty's voice is wobbly but hopefull. I can see pretty much her entire croch region.
"Maty, pull your skirt down." I try and help her cover up the goods.
"He's really cute, I wonder if he's married!" Maybe its the painkillers maybe the alcohol we've been drinking all night, Maty is out to lunch. For the next hour she alternates between hysterical crying over her finger and attempting to seduce the doctor. It's kind of funny to watch. Finally the doctor tells us we can leave and gives me all the information for the necessary follow up appointments. Apparently Maty will need finger surgery.
Out in the waiting room our friends are ready for bed. We decide to be good samaritans and pick up the sleeping spread eagle boy, Meff. We load him and Maty in the car and head home. Meff sleeps on the couch and after we change Maty into pajamas and attempt to wash her up, she goes to bed.
The morning hurts, bad. Meff, the boy we found on the hospital floor is gone when we wake up. No one has slept and classes are in full swing. The birds are singing the sun is shining and I'm vomiting on my way to my 9:00 a.m. The day is long and I pretty much want to die, not as much as Maty though. She doesn't remember a lot but what she does remember isn't good. Apparently she slammed her finger in a bathroom door, scraping off all the skin. She starts crying and is freaked out by the profuse amount of blood. She tells our friend Mmeg that she needs to go. Mmeg has met a boy and insists Maty will be fine. Things then get very very hazy. The next thing she knows she's at the hospital and I'm in the room with her. I remind her she tried to hook up with the Doctor, she cringes.
Months later we find out, via Meff's blog, that it was him that took a bleeding crying Maty to the hospital. While waiting he fell asleep. The next thing he knew he was on our couch.
The moral of the story is, don't slam your finger in doors and always wear underwear.
We go to the University bookstore and stock up on overpriced spiral notebooks with UVA written in gold letters on the orange card stock cover. We hit up the Clinique counter and grab some flip flops before heading to the check out where we put the whole purchase on Mommy and Daddy's credit card. We sit around and play would you rather, wasting time and avoiding reality. "Would you rather have a wooden leg or a hook for an arm?" We all agree on wooden leg though admittedly it would be easy to barbecue with a hook for an arm. Kebabs would be a cinch!
We are planning a big night out for the evening before the start of classes. Drink away our sorrows and ignore the start of our third year. We start at Maty's. My upstairs neighbor and best friend. She lives with three other best friends and our two apartments are essentially communal living. I eat more of their food than I do my own (this is largely because I refuse to buy anything that is unhealthy and refuse to eat anything healthy).
Maty has been working at Buffalo Wild Wings all summer. BW3's as we call it, is not the classiest establishment around. In the idyllic college town that is Charlottesville there exists a dichotomy in population. There are the students and university professors; wealthy and preppy and all things pastel and ribbons. The kids coming from Virginia, the Northeast and the south sport their popped collars and boat shoes like they are modeling for LL Bean. Outside this bubble of Lilly Pulitzer and J.Crew exists the rest of the world. The student ghetto borders the actual ghetto. Bums meander around the streets of students looking for stale beer sitting in cups left over from the night before on the front porch. Men missing teeth deliver the late night pizza. BW3's attracts less of the college crowd and more of the local crowd. It had flavor to put it mildly. Maty has known to mingle with the obese black bouncer Antwon, or the mullet sporting bartender from time to time. Essentially, she is a tad on the sketchy.
The night before classes rolls around and we pregame, hard. We head out to bars and things begin to unravel almost immediately. Some want to go to Orbitz, some want to go to Coupes. The group splits. I head to Coupes with Maustin and Mmelissa. Maty goes to Orbitz with Mmeg and Maura. More drinking ensues. We gulp down bourbon and diets like they are water in the desert. We are drunk. My phone rings over and over again. I don't answer it because I don't hear it and I don't care. We leave Coupes to find food or friends or something along those lines.
Finally I look at my phone. I have about twenty missed calls from Maty. This is not unusual. Maty begins her evenings exclaiming her love for everything and everyone she knows. "I love you forever lets be best friends until we die!" might be something she says while pregaming. By the end of the night however its a different story. Over the course of three hours she turns into a mess of hate and wickedness. "I hate you, never speak to me again." Is the sort of thing she tell you only hours after calling you to be her bestest friend. Knowing this propensity for violent mood swings I am not surprised to see Maty called me repeatedly and I have no doubt that her messages are a string of love/hate proclamations.
My phone rings again. Feeling slightly bad for ignoring my best friend I answer. Snippets of wailing screams are audible and then the phone cuts out. While this is also not unusual I begin to worry. Three more times Maty calls crying and then gets cut off before she tells me what is wrong. Finally I get a call from Maty's roommate, Maura. She says we need to go to the hospital, that Maty is there.
Holy shit. I know she is alive as I've heard her distinctive cry on the phone but the hospital is NOT good. Maura picks us up and along with Mmelissa we head to the hospital. We attempt to sober up, that fails. We arrive at the hospital and head to the emergency room. We inquire about Maty and are instructed to wait in the chairs section. We then come across a strange sight. A boy, whom we know, is laying face down, spread eagle, sleeping in the middle of the waiting area. We try and rouse him, calling his name and pinching his cheeks. It doesn't work. Coincidence we think. Ten minutes later nurse comes out. She ask us if one of our names is Mephanie. I tell them that's me. They bring me back.
I walk into a room and Maty is lying, convulsing on a bed. She is covered in a sheet that is pulled up to her chin. Shit. I quickly conclude that the lower half of her body has been amputated. She has no legs. Maybe no torso. I will have to carry her head around in one of those weird bags meant for small dogs. When we go out to dinner I'll have to feed things to her. I'll probably have to take notes for her in class.
"Mephanie," she wails. Her face is red and blotchy and her make up is smeared all over. Her hair looks like birds are nesting in it. "Mephanie. My finger got cut off at Orbitz, you have to make someone go get it." She rips off the sheet and I see that the tip of her finger is missing and bleeding profusely. I stifle laughter. Her limbs are otherwise fine. I will not have to carry her in a hang bag. I comfort her and she cries. Then the nurse comes in to give her more pain medication.
I go into the waiting room and let our other friends know that A. Maty will survive and B. one of them needs to go fetch her finger tip at the bar. They laugh and refuse. I return to Maty. The doctor is now in with her. He is on the young side and really good looking. Maty is still wearing the tank top and jean skirt she went out in. She is not wearing underwear, her skirt is short and her legs are flailing. This is not good. She is trying to smile at the doctor as he explains that the whole finger isn't missing; its just large chunks of nail and skin. She nods eagerly.
"Oh Doctor, thank you so much. You are soooo kind!" Maty is trying to flirt with the doctor.
He leaves and I sit down next to her. "Do you think he thinks I'm cute?" Maty's voice is wobbly but hopefull. I can see pretty much her entire croch region.
"Maty, pull your skirt down." I try and help her cover up the goods.
"He's really cute, I wonder if he's married!" Maybe its the painkillers maybe the alcohol we've been drinking all night, Maty is out to lunch. For the next hour she alternates between hysterical crying over her finger and attempting to seduce the doctor. It's kind of funny to watch. Finally the doctor tells us we can leave and gives me all the information for the necessary follow up appointments. Apparently Maty will need finger surgery.
Out in the waiting room our friends are ready for bed. We decide to be good samaritans and pick up the sleeping spread eagle boy, Meff. We load him and Maty in the car and head home. Meff sleeps on the couch and after we change Maty into pajamas and attempt to wash her up, she goes to bed.
The morning hurts, bad. Meff, the boy we found on the hospital floor is gone when we wake up. No one has slept and classes are in full swing. The birds are singing the sun is shining and I'm vomiting on my way to my 9:00 a.m. The day is long and I pretty much want to die, not as much as Maty though. She doesn't remember a lot but what she does remember isn't good. Apparently she slammed her finger in a bathroom door, scraping off all the skin. She starts crying and is freaked out by the profuse amount of blood. She tells our friend Mmeg that she needs to go. Mmeg has met a boy and insists Maty will be fine. Things then get very very hazy. The next thing she knows she's at the hospital and I'm in the room with her. I remind her she tried to hook up with the Doctor, she cringes.
Months later we find out, via Meff's blog, that it was him that took a bleeding crying Maty to the hospital. While waiting he fell asleep. The next thing he knew he was on our couch.
The moral of the story is, don't slam your finger in doors and always wear underwear.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Meather and Mephanie Confront Pegleg
Note: This is a follow up to the preceding post, please read in tandem.
London is approaching and my friends love me so they come and say goodbye one by one. Meather's turn is tonight. She arrives around seven and we decide to cook brownies because nothing goes better with shit talking and over analyzing other people's relationships than baked goods. No surprise that over our gossip we hear the techno blaring upstairs. Meather doesn't have internet at her job as a coal miner and has not yet read today's blog entry. As we mix the double fudge brownie batter I regale her with the tale of the techno listening, peg leg dragging, loud ass neighbors who kept me awake until four am the previous night. Meather, liking all things male and hating all things techno, insists that this is NOT okay and a confrontation is in order.
We put the brownies in the oven and head upstairs. We knock, nothing happens. We ring the door bell, nothing happens. We knock again. The techno music is far too loud and there is no way our the feeble sound of our hands slamming against the oak door. Meather reaches through the gate that adorns almost every DC town house door and tries the doorknob. It opens.
"Hello!" We scream into the empty hall. "It's your friendly neighbors from downstairs!"
"Hold on!" A male voice comes out of the depths of the house.
We wait. A tall blond boy suddenly appears at the gate. He is good looking and hurriedly putting on a shirt. His pants fit tightly he is wearing white keds. He is a hipster.
"Mid-afternoon rave?" I inquire.
He laughs. "Hi!"
"So are you practicing your DJ-ing skills?" Meather asks. We have been speculating about what sort of mid nineties club head listens to techno and trance music all day and night.
"Oh I have a gig on Saturday!" He says, a little proud. We are flabbergasted. He actually is a DJ. I expect a peg leg to come hobbling out of the corner. "Sorry is it too loud?"
"A little bit, yeah."
"Shit, come on in you can meet all the roommates and yell at us together!" He fumbles for a key and yells for his roommate. Meather and I exchange awkward glances and prepare to enter.
Three more boys come jogging down the stairs and from various other rooms in the house. To my shock and relief they all appear to have both arms and legs in tact. After a short struggle with the gate lock we enter. The walls have all be painted with a bit of a mural, a jungle theme with dogs, vines and tigers peering around doorways and corners. A large globe sits in the front room, there are ornate chairs and an armor that looks antique. This does not jive with the with the futon I can see in the back room and the hookah sitting on an old trunk. I am introduced to the other three boys. They are seemingly nice.
I inquire about there status in life. In addition to part time DJ-ing they are going into their final year at GWU. They are all hipsters but the tall one who answered the door is by far the best looking. I feel bad about my intended rant and make nice explaining that unfortunately I am in the working world and am forced to rise bright and early each morning at 7:30 a.m. They apologize and explain they have been waiting for the neighbors to complain. I tell them I'm happy to pop the neighbor complaint cherry. We laugh. I think we are best friends! They give us a tour and show us their intended crack den. This is what they tell us, that they are hoping to turn the family room of this 1.2 million dollar house into a literal crack den. They show us the rest of the house. It is bizarrely decorated, a mixture between some rainforest theme park ride and a frat house.
We ask them to blast some better music, preferable the Rolling Stones or maybe some Kings of Leon (I mean they're pretty hip right?). They agree to vary the music selection. We go downstairs to fetch our brownies. They are cute but I'm glad I'm moving out.
London is approaching and my friends love me so they come and say goodbye one by one. Meather's turn is tonight. She arrives around seven and we decide to cook brownies because nothing goes better with shit talking and over analyzing other people's relationships than baked goods. No surprise that over our gossip we hear the techno blaring upstairs. Meather doesn't have internet at her job as a coal miner and has not yet read today's blog entry. As we mix the double fudge brownie batter I regale her with the tale of the techno listening, peg leg dragging, loud ass neighbors who kept me awake until four am the previous night. Meather, liking all things male and hating all things techno, insists that this is NOT okay and a confrontation is in order.
We put the brownies in the oven and head upstairs. We knock, nothing happens. We ring the door bell, nothing happens. We knock again. The techno music is far too loud and there is no way our the feeble sound of our hands slamming against the oak door. Meather reaches through the gate that adorns almost every DC town house door and tries the doorknob. It opens.
"Hello!" We scream into the empty hall. "It's your friendly neighbors from downstairs!"
"Hold on!" A male voice comes out of the depths of the house.
We wait. A tall blond boy suddenly appears at the gate. He is good looking and hurriedly putting on a shirt. His pants fit tightly he is wearing white keds. He is a hipster.
"Mid-afternoon rave?" I inquire.
He laughs. "Hi!"
"So are you practicing your DJ-ing skills?" Meather asks. We have been speculating about what sort of mid nineties club head listens to techno and trance music all day and night.
"Oh I have a gig on Saturday!" He says, a little proud. We are flabbergasted. He actually is a DJ. I expect a peg leg to come hobbling out of the corner. "Sorry is it too loud?"
"A little bit, yeah."
"Shit, come on in you can meet all the roommates and yell at us together!" He fumbles for a key and yells for his roommate. Meather and I exchange awkward glances and prepare to enter.
Three more boys come jogging down the stairs and from various other rooms in the house. To my shock and relief they all appear to have both arms and legs in tact. After a short struggle with the gate lock we enter. The walls have all be painted with a bit of a mural, a jungle theme with dogs, vines and tigers peering around doorways and corners. A large globe sits in the front room, there are ornate chairs and an armor that looks antique. This does not jive with the with the futon I can see in the back room and the hookah sitting on an old trunk. I am introduced to the other three boys. They are seemingly nice.
I inquire about there status in life. In addition to part time DJ-ing they are going into their final year at GWU. They are all hipsters but the tall one who answered the door is by far the best looking. I feel bad about my intended rant and make nice explaining that unfortunately I am in the working world and am forced to rise bright and early each morning at 7:30 a.m. They apologize and explain they have been waiting for the neighbors to complain. I tell them I'm happy to pop the neighbor complaint cherry. We laugh. I think we are best friends! They give us a tour and show us their intended crack den. This is what they tell us, that they are hoping to turn the family room of this 1.2 million dollar house into a literal crack den. They show us the rest of the house. It is bizarrely decorated, a mixture between some rainforest theme park ride and a frat house.
We ask them to blast some better music, preferable the Rolling Stones or maybe some Kings of Leon (I mean they're pretty hip right?). They agree to vary the music selection. We go downstairs to fetch our brownies. They are cute but I'm glad I'm moving out.
And I'm Ranting
Those of you that know me know that I am not prone to hyperbolic melodramatic rants. I'm not a complainer, I'm a stoic optimist. I see the good in people and assume their intentions to be benevolent and their hearts pure. So what follows should be understood as an anomaly to my general good cheer. But holy fucking shit a peg leg has moved in upstairs from me and I might have rabies.
Some background. I live in a lovely English Basement apartment in the quaint gayberhood of Dupont in DC. An English basement is code word for ground level townhouse apartment. My bedroom is in the back of the apartment and has both a large window and a door to a small patio area. This patio area is attached to the houses garage. Directly above all this is a deck. Any sound that is made in the garage or on the deck is clearly audible from my room. Likewise any loud thud, yell, or scream in the main house can be heard throughout my quaint English basement.
For the past year the upstairs house has been occupied by my out to lunch sixty something landlord and her husband. They have a dog. The dogs name is puppy. They like to let puppy outside in MY patio area, the garage and the deck then vigorously call her back inside for hours at a time. "PUPPY. COME HERE PUPPY" has woken me many a hungover Saturday morning. This was mildly annoying but my rent is cheap and I like my area so whatever, I dealt with it and secretly cursed them and their stupid dog.
Since the day I moved in my landlord has been threatening to move to California and rent out the house. This summer it appeared that this might actually happen. After hearing them "move out" for six weeks straight there was a lull. A heaven sent lull. The last three weeks have been marked by relative peace and quiet. Puppy and her owners have peaced the fuck out and once again I can sleep passed 8:00 a.m. on the weekends. It also so happens that my time in the apartment is winding down. This Sunday I'm leaving the humidity behind and moving to London (following a short stay with the parentals in the ever lovely New Jersey).
Imagine my surprise when this past Friday I come home from work and there is a semi-strapping young lad moving things into the house upstairs. Just my luck, I think as I prance around outside pretending to pick up the mail and daintily take out the trash, that a boy moves into the house upstairs as I am on my way out. I didn't see the boy again until I arrive home from work last night. I am packing my room (and watching the Real House Wives of Atlanta and eating a cupcake) when I hear the voices of young males outside of my window. I crack the blinds and what do I see through the slats but multiple shirtless young males moving things into the house via the back door. While I can't see their faces in my imagination they are hot and looking for a one week fling.
I continue packing up my room and eating cupcakes until around 11:00 when I succumb to exhaustion and plop down on my bed to catch up on TV and relax. Over the sound of the television I hear chairs being dragged onto the deck immediately outside of my bedroom. Voices of girls can be heard. Techno music begins to blare. Shit. It's a Monday night, I have had a long weekend involving a lot of food and a lot of liquor. I have two back to back meetings the next morning. I want to watch the Daily Show and go to sleep. No way, I tell myself, no way are they having a party on a Monday night.
By 11:30 I switch off my TV and put my pillow over my head hoping to drown out the conversation being had on the deck and the fucking trance music coming from their speakers. The pillow does nothing.
Boy 1: Yeah I saw this light moving really quickly in the sky changing colors.
Boy 2: Yeah it was moving too fast to be a star and it was too far away to be a plane.
Boy 1: And did you know Mexico city is like the number one place to see UFO's.
Girl 1 (note she had the voice of a hyena): No that's area 51 in New Mexico.
Boy 1: Whatever. UFO's are real. Ghosts are bullshit but aliens are pretty legit.
Blather ensues. I heard every word of their god damn conversation. Twenty minutes later it got even more exciting.
Girl 2: I love hash. I didn't know what it was at first and everyone was like Kelly how do you not know what hash is (vapid giggle).
Girl 1: God Amsterdam is sooo cool. I am so cool. I smoked weed in Amsterdam. I love Europe.
Boy 2: I have a hookah, lets be cliche and smoke out of it.
Boy 1: I can't find my lighter!
I consider calling the police to tell them hoodlums are partying in the house above my apartment. Finally after what seems an eternity they move inside. While their voices are still audible the sound is now muffled and I think sleep may be near. The music is still going but at least I don't have to hear them talking about goddamn UFO's and their super trendy drug habits.
I'm dozing, images of flowers and rainbows coloring my head. THUD. Holy fuck, I'm awake. Thud, drag, thud. When I spied the boys moving in about six hours earlier they all appeared to have both legs but now I realize one of them must have a peg leg. More thuds. Techno music. I look at my clock, its 1:00 a.m. I have to be up in six hours and the fucking wooden legged pirate upstairs is having a god damn dance party. I get up and go out to the living room to sleep on the couch. My roommate is sitting there, bleary eyed and pissy looking. We exchange what the fuck glances and I go back to my room.
"Lets play drinking games," someone screams around 2:00 a.m. I am going to get out of bed and go up there. So what if they are hot. They could be a house of male models and I wouldn't care at this point. IT'S MONDAY NIGHT. I consider what I'll say. I might tell them that I am pleased to make their acquaintance on this fine evening and I too question the existence of ghosts. I might also relay that I understand how hard it must be missing a limb but is there a quieter way to get around. Can he get a cushion for the leg?
I mull over my script. Its too nice. "Fuck you and be quiet." That sounds better. I remember that I am wearing an over sized t-shirt that says "Hug Don't Hit" and bright blue pajama pants. I decide to stay in bed and silently cry myself to sleep.
My alarm goes off the next morning and I feel like shit. I get ready and curse the stupid boys upstairs who kept me awake until nearly 4:00 a.m. I somehow make it out the door on time and to my surprise the garbage I had taken out the night before has been ripped open and the contents splayed across the side walk. Ironically enough three of those bags had food waste and one had papers, receipts and various other personal items I threw away while packing my room. Guess which bag was broken and what now litters the street. That's right my birth control packaging, my dirty tissues, my CVS receipts, old pictures and keepsakes.
I now need to clean this up and re-bag it before the garbage dude gets there. I glove my hand with a plastic bag and start loading a new bag. As I am tossing old mardi gras beads a homeless man walks by.
"Scuse me miss, you throwin' those beads away?" The homeless man asks.
"Yeah."
"Can I have them?"
Why the fuck not. I hand over the beads to the homeless man happy to see I have made his day. I repackage the trash, wash my hands of the rabies I have probably just contracted and head to work.
Some background. I live in a lovely English Basement apartment in the quaint gayberhood of Dupont in DC. An English basement is code word for ground level townhouse apartment. My bedroom is in the back of the apartment and has both a large window and a door to a small patio area. This patio area is attached to the houses garage. Directly above all this is a deck. Any sound that is made in the garage or on the deck is clearly audible from my room. Likewise any loud thud, yell, or scream in the main house can be heard throughout my quaint English basement.
For the past year the upstairs house has been occupied by my out to lunch sixty something landlord and her husband. They have a dog. The dogs name is puppy. They like to let puppy outside in MY patio area, the garage and the deck then vigorously call her back inside for hours at a time. "PUPPY. COME HERE PUPPY" has woken me many a hungover Saturday morning. This was mildly annoying but my rent is cheap and I like my area so whatever, I dealt with it and secretly cursed them and their stupid dog.
Since the day I moved in my landlord has been threatening to move to California and rent out the house. This summer it appeared that this might actually happen. After hearing them "move out" for six weeks straight there was a lull. A heaven sent lull. The last three weeks have been marked by relative peace and quiet. Puppy and her owners have peaced the fuck out and once again I can sleep passed 8:00 a.m. on the weekends. It also so happens that my time in the apartment is winding down. This Sunday I'm leaving the humidity behind and moving to London (following a short stay with the parentals in the ever lovely New Jersey).
Imagine my surprise when this past Friday I come home from work and there is a semi-strapping young lad moving things into the house upstairs. Just my luck, I think as I prance around outside pretending to pick up the mail and daintily take out the trash, that a boy moves into the house upstairs as I am on my way out. I didn't see the boy again until I arrive home from work last night. I am packing my room (and watching the Real House Wives of Atlanta and eating a cupcake) when I hear the voices of young males outside of my window. I crack the blinds and what do I see through the slats but multiple shirtless young males moving things into the house via the back door. While I can't see their faces in my imagination they are hot and looking for a one week fling.
I continue packing up my room and eating cupcakes until around 11:00 when I succumb to exhaustion and plop down on my bed to catch up on TV and relax. Over the sound of the television I hear chairs being dragged onto the deck immediately outside of my bedroom. Voices of girls can be heard. Techno music begins to blare. Shit. It's a Monday night, I have had a long weekend involving a lot of food and a lot of liquor. I have two back to back meetings the next morning. I want to watch the Daily Show and go to sleep. No way, I tell myself, no way are they having a party on a Monday night.
By 11:30 I switch off my TV and put my pillow over my head hoping to drown out the conversation being had on the deck and the fucking trance music coming from their speakers. The pillow does nothing.
Boy 1: Yeah I saw this light moving really quickly in the sky changing colors.
Boy 2: Yeah it was moving too fast to be a star and it was too far away to be a plane.
Boy 1: And did you know Mexico city is like the number one place to see UFO's.
Girl 1 (note she had the voice of a hyena): No that's area 51 in New Mexico.
Boy 1: Whatever. UFO's are real. Ghosts are bullshit but aliens are pretty legit.
Blather ensues. I heard every word of their god damn conversation. Twenty minutes later it got even more exciting.
Girl 2: I love hash. I didn't know what it was at first and everyone was like Kelly how do you not know what hash is (vapid giggle).
Girl 1: God Amsterdam is sooo cool. I am so cool. I smoked weed in Amsterdam. I love Europe.
Boy 2: I have a hookah, lets be cliche and smoke out of it.
Boy 1: I can't find my lighter!
I consider calling the police to tell them hoodlums are partying in the house above my apartment. Finally after what seems an eternity they move inside. While their voices are still audible the sound is now muffled and I think sleep may be near. The music is still going but at least I don't have to hear them talking about goddamn UFO's and their super trendy drug habits.
I'm dozing, images of flowers and rainbows coloring my head. THUD. Holy fuck, I'm awake. Thud, drag, thud. When I spied the boys moving in about six hours earlier they all appeared to have both legs but now I realize one of them must have a peg leg. More thuds. Techno music. I look at my clock, its 1:00 a.m. I have to be up in six hours and the fucking wooden legged pirate upstairs is having a god damn dance party. I get up and go out to the living room to sleep on the couch. My roommate is sitting there, bleary eyed and pissy looking. We exchange what the fuck glances and I go back to my room.
"Lets play drinking games," someone screams around 2:00 a.m. I am going to get out of bed and go up there. So what if they are hot. They could be a house of male models and I wouldn't care at this point. IT'S MONDAY NIGHT. I consider what I'll say. I might tell them that I am pleased to make their acquaintance on this fine evening and I too question the existence of ghosts. I might also relay that I understand how hard it must be missing a limb but is there a quieter way to get around. Can he get a cushion for the leg?
I mull over my script. Its too nice. "Fuck you and be quiet." That sounds better. I remember that I am wearing an over sized t-shirt that says "Hug Don't Hit" and bright blue pajama pants. I decide to stay in bed and silently cry myself to sleep.
My alarm goes off the next morning and I feel like shit. I get ready and curse the stupid boys upstairs who kept me awake until nearly 4:00 a.m. I somehow make it out the door on time and to my surprise the garbage I had taken out the night before has been ripped open and the contents splayed across the side walk. Ironically enough three of those bags had food waste and one had papers, receipts and various other personal items I threw away while packing my room. Guess which bag was broken and what now litters the street. That's right my birth control packaging, my dirty tissues, my CVS receipts, old pictures and keepsakes.
I now need to clean this up and re-bag it before the garbage dude gets there. I glove my hand with a plastic bag and start loading a new bag. As I am tossing old mardi gras beads a homeless man walks by.
"Scuse me miss, you throwin' those beads away?" The homeless man asks.
"Yeah."
"Can I have them?"
Why the fuck not. I hand over the beads to the homeless man happy to see I have made his day. I repackage the trash, wash my hands of the rabies I have probably just contracted and head to work.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Editor's Note
There will not be any new posts until next Monday, this is because I have been lazy this week and didn't feel like finishing the two stories I started (Fat Camp and Prosthetic Fingers and Wooden Legs). Sorry and have a nice weekend!
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Please Donate to the "Mephanie Gets a Tan and Helps Jamaican Orphans" Fund
After my first year of college I moved off grounds. My new apartment was located roughly a mile from class and bars and was, in the mind of a college sophomore, a bit of a trek (of course now that I live in an actual city I laugh at this naivete). In my new apartment there was a kitchen. A kitchen with a stove and a microwave and a toaster! However despite all these newfangled amenities and my nearly four star culinary skills, I tended to eat out or order in for every meal. I also started going to bars in my second year. My fake ID was working and I ordered amaretto sours like they were going out of style (which they were) and jager shots (which never go out of style). When the semester began to wind down and winter set in my friends and I fixated on spring break. We wanted to go to Jamaica. Between the cabs from my apartment to bars, the cost of pre-made food, those damned amaretto sours and a trip to Jamaica I went broke right as I took the trip home to NJ for Christmas break.
As I sat on my couch watching anything on HBO that stormy winter, I knew something would have to go. I couldn't afford this irresponsible lifestyle on the pittance my parents called a food and class allowance. There was no way I was going to be able to cover my share of our spring break trip which was going to run about $1,000. As I watched "Little Woman" for the fourth time (Beth's death got me every time) I knew I would have to take drastic measures. I researched scholarships and grants, considered taking out a loan. In the end I made the obvious choice. I created a PowerPoint, reminded my parents they were divorced and got down on my hands and knees.
Melizabeth and Marles, who rarely sat down in the same room together, united in their decision. They would sponsor my trip to Jamaica, which I was sure to explain would include many community service oriented activities like group jello shots and communal pot smoking with orphans. There was however a catch. I had to obtain a job. This job they said, would be part time and did not have to pay school related costs. It would however show my commitment to fiscal responsibility and a willingness to contribute to the newly created "Mephanie Gets a Tan and Helps Jamaican Orphans" fund. Whatever I could not cover they would then take care of. At that moment I felt the love in the room (though not between my parents of course, they were still divorced). And you know what, parental love feels and smells a lot like money.
When I got back to school in January I was relaxed, refreshed and reinvigorated. I was so thrilled to start job hunting. Of course it would have to wait until I was unpacked, started classes, got into a routine, had my car tuned up, got a hair cut, returned any old books, cleaned my room-you know that sort of stuff. After about six weeks of being at school I completed this long to do list. This just so happened to coincide with an extremely threatening joint email sent by my parents reminding me of the conditions of our agreement. Thus the job hunt began. Being a student and having a somewhat erratic schedule (mainly not wanting to work on the weekends or at night) I thought babysitting might suit me best. Among my many qualifications were extensive babysitting experience, a generally pleasant disposition, verbatim knowledge of every song from The Sound of Music and a desire to impact the youth of America.
One fateful afternoon after three days of answering ads with no luck, I called a Mrs. Mones. She had two boys aged 10 and 12 and was looking for someone who could sit from two to five on weekday afternoons. The boys, being active strapping young lads, had sports practices and play dates some days thus our hours would be cut short but our pay would remain consistent, $150 a week. Jackpot. I knew from my previous life as a ten year old boy that they would really only want to watch TV and play video games this would be easy. There was of course a problem. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I had class until three. "You can switch off with a friend," she suggested. "We've had people do that before." Mrs. Mones was a genius!
I guess at this point it would be appropriate to introduce Mmelissa. Best friend, Roommate, Free on Tuesdays and Thursday, and Babysitter extraordinaire. She was also an intended participant in the upcoming Jamaica service trip, thus my employment was of primary importance to her. I got off the phone with Mrs. Mones and explained the situation to Mmelissa, I told her how nice she sounded and how much money was being paid for hanging out with these seemingly awesome kids. Mmelissa was in. I called Mrs. Mones back to tell her of this good fortune. She said that before we made things official she would like to meet us just to make sure we all seemed to click. "Great!" Mmelissa and I exclaimed in unison. We set an "interview" for 1:00 p.m. that Friday at their house out in the burbs beyond our college bubble.
At 12:40 p.m. on Friday afternoon I hurried out of my last class of the day into Mmelissa waiting car. I was dressed in my babysitting interview best; wearing my cutest boot cut jeans, a pink pinstriped long sleeved polo with the sleeves rolled up just the right amount, pearl earrings (what mother doesn't feel at ease with pearls), and a pair of sunglasses perched atop my head, holding my long straight brown hair out of my face.
"Heyyy!" I got in the car throwing my books in the backseat.
"Oh Shit!" Mmelissa greeted me. I turned to look at her and instantly understood her word choice. In the driver's seat Mmelissa sat wearing the exact same outfit as me, down to our light brown Rainbow flip flops.
"Crap. We look ridiculous." Goddamn UVA and its preppy uniform of polo's and flip flops.
"Why did you wear that, didn't you see me this morning before you left for class?" Mmelissa accused.
"I wore it because I thought it was cute." Clearly she had as well. "And no I didn't see you this morning or else I would not have worn it."
"Do you have an extra shirt on you?" Mmelissa asked.
"No." God she's dumb, I thought. "I didn't happen to bring a change of clothes."
"Well there is no time to go home now, we'll just have to hope Mrs. Mones doesn't notice."
We arrived at the Mones' without a minute to spare. The house was mid-sized with a basketball hoop in the driveway and a soccer goal in the front yard. Plush green grass surrounded the house on all four sides. This was the type of family that had barbecues on the back deck and threw block parties with the neighbors. We put on the most wholesome smiles we could muster and rang the doorbell.
Mrs. Mones answered the door wearing a pair of mom jeans like I've never seen before. They were wedged right up under her sagging bosom. Her red turtleneck was tucked in to the faded elastic waist. Her hair, cut much like my own mother's, was short and wispy with bangs and a general dullness that suggested she used Pert Plus instead of Pantene Pro-V.
"Hi girls!" Her southern accent sounded stronger than on the phone, her voice warm and welcoming. We each introduced ourselves and shook her hand. She lead us into the kitchen and we took our seats around the table where breakfast place mats with maps and superheros still sat.
"So I just wanted to meet you before we set anything in motion. I hope that's okay?"
"Of course!" We said in unison, far too enthusiastically.
"My you two sound alike. You know when I first opened the door I couldn't get over how much you look alike, you could be sisters!" Mrs. Mones smiled.
"Well we kind of are." Mmelissa said with a gush, waving her hand between us. Mrs. Mones smile turned into a puzzled frown. What did that mean, she must have been wondering, as I certainly was. "We kind of are" implied that there was some unanswered question about our relationship, as if there was an unknown concerning our paternity that would soon be answered and confirm our blood connection.
"I think Mmelissa meant we practically are, we're so close. Best friends!" I piped in, attempting to steer Mrs. Mones away from the thoughts I was already having. There was an awkward group laugh and I poked Mmelissa under the table. We moved on to our majors and extracurriculars. Mrs. Mones told us about her sons. They were huge sports fans and were obsessed with UVA soccer.
"Wouldn't you know," Mmelissa said, her Southern accent singing sweetly. "I know the WHOLE entire team. I'm very close with them." Mmelissa leaned in and gave Mrs. Mones a knowing look and a sly half smile. A look likely intended to imply confidence and a knowledge of athletics. Instead however, she looked like a whore who had slept with the entire mens soccer team. While I knew of and had no problem with Mmelissa's propensity for late nights and high risk behavior, our potential employer appeared horrified. "I mean I know a couple of the guys from high school and go to a lot of games." Mmelissa, realizing her error in tone and expression tried to backtrack. Another awkward laugh.
We talked a few minutes more about schedules and availability before Mrs. Mones showed us the door and said she would be in touch. Mmelissa and I ran to the car bursting out laughing as soon as we had driven out of view. Recounting our follies we were sure no one in their right mind would ever entrust us with their children. Jamaica began to seem like a dream. I began to work on the PowerPoint that would explain to my parents why I had been unable to find unemployment and why "Mephanie Gets a Tan and Helps Jamaican Orphans" fund remained a worthy investment.
Three nights later, as Mmelissa and I sat in our living room eating the overpriced unhealthy food we had just ordered, my phone rang.
"Hello," I answered, mouth full of fries.
"Hi Mephanie it's Mrs. Mones. I talked it over with my husband and we would love for you and Mmelissa to start babysitting as soon as possible!"
"Yes, we would love to!" Food went everywhere and Jamaica materialized in front of me.
"The only thing is," Mrs. Mones hesitated. "Event though the boys love soccer, I don't want Mmelissa bringing any players by the house, or any boys for that matter. Ever."
As I sat on my couch watching anything on HBO that stormy winter, I knew something would have to go. I couldn't afford this irresponsible lifestyle on the pittance my parents called a food and class allowance. There was no way I was going to be able to cover my share of our spring break trip which was going to run about $1,000. As I watched "Little Woman" for the fourth time (Beth's death got me every time) I knew I would have to take drastic measures. I researched scholarships and grants, considered taking out a loan. In the end I made the obvious choice. I created a PowerPoint, reminded my parents they were divorced and got down on my hands and knees.
Melizabeth and Marles, who rarely sat down in the same room together, united in their decision. They would sponsor my trip to Jamaica, which I was sure to explain would include many community service oriented activities like group jello shots and communal pot smoking with orphans. There was however a catch. I had to obtain a job. This job they said, would be part time and did not have to pay school related costs. It would however show my commitment to fiscal responsibility and a willingness to contribute to the newly created "Mephanie Gets a Tan and Helps Jamaican Orphans" fund. Whatever I could not cover they would then take care of. At that moment I felt the love in the room (though not between my parents of course, they were still divorced). And you know what, parental love feels and smells a lot like money.
When I got back to school in January I was relaxed, refreshed and reinvigorated. I was so thrilled to start job hunting. Of course it would have to wait until I was unpacked, started classes, got into a routine, had my car tuned up, got a hair cut, returned any old books, cleaned my room-you know that sort of stuff. After about six weeks of being at school I completed this long to do list. This just so happened to coincide with an extremely threatening joint email sent by my parents reminding me of the conditions of our agreement. Thus the job hunt began. Being a student and having a somewhat erratic schedule (mainly not wanting to work on the weekends or at night) I thought babysitting might suit me best. Among my many qualifications were extensive babysitting experience, a generally pleasant disposition, verbatim knowledge of every song from The Sound of Music and a desire to impact the youth of America.
One fateful afternoon after three days of answering ads with no luck, I called a Mrs. Mones. She had two boys aged 10 and 12 and was looking for someone who could sit from two to five on weekday afternoons. The boys, being active strapping young lads, had sports practices and play dates some days thus our hours would be cut short but our pay would remain consistent, $150 a week. Jackpot. I knew from my previous life as a ten year old boy that they would really only want to watch TV and play video games this would be easy. There was of course a problem. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I had class until three. "You can switch off with a friend," she suggested. "We've had people do that before." Mrs. Mones was a genius!
I guess at this point it would be appropriate to introduce Mmelissa. Best friend, Roommate, Free on Tuesdays and Thursday, and Babysitter extraordinaire. She was also an intended participant in the upcoming Jamaica service trip, thus my employment was of primary importance to her. I got off the phone with Mrs. Mones and explained the situation to Mmelissa, I told her how nice she sounded and how much money was being paid for hanging out with these seemingly awesome kids. Mmelissa was in. I called Mrs. Mones back to tell her of this good fortune. She said that before we made things official she would like to meet us just to make sure we all seemed to click. "Great!" Mmelissa and I exclaimed in unison. We set an "interview" for 1:00 p.m. that Friday at their house out in the burbs beyond our college bubble.
At 12:40 p.m. on Friday afternoon I hurried out of my last class of the day into Mmelissa waiting car. I was dressed in my babysitting interview best; wearing my cutest boot cut jeans, a pink pinstriped long sleeved polo with the sleeves rolled up just the right amount, pearl earrings (what mother doesn't feel at ease with pearls), and a pair of sunglasses perched atop my head, holding my long straight brown hair out of my face.
"Heyyy!" I got in the car throwing my books in the backseat.
"Oh Shit!" Mmelissa greeted me. I turned to look at her and instantly understood her word choice. In the driver's seat Mmelissa sat wearing the exact same outfit as me, down to our light brown Rainbow flip flops.
"Crap. We look ridiculous." Goddamn UVA and its preppy uniform of polo's and flip flops.
"Why did you wear that, didn't you see me this morning before you left for class?" Mmelissa accused.
"I wore it because I thought it was cute." Clearly she had as well. "And no I didn't see you this morning or else I would not have worn it."
"Do you have an extra shirt on you?" Mmelissa asked.
"No." God she's dumb, I thought. "I didn't happen to bring a change of clothes."
"Well there is no time to go home now, we'll just have to hope Mrs. Mones doesn't notice."
We arrived at the Mones' without a minute to spare. The house was mid-sized with a basketball hoop in the driveway and a soccer goal in the front yard. Plush green grass surrounded the house on all four sides. This was the type of family that had barbecues on the back deck and threw block parties with the neighbors. We put on the most wholesome smiles we could muster and rang the doorbell.
Mrs. Mones answered the door wearing a pair of mom jeans like I've never seen before. They were wedged right up under her sagging bosom. Her red turtleneck was tucked in to the faded elastic waist. Her hair, cut much like my own mother's, was short and wispy with bangs and a general dullness that suggested she used Pert Plus instead of Pantene Pro-V.
"Hi girls!" Her southern accent sounded stronger than on the phone, her voice warm and welcoming. We each introduced ourselves and shook her hand. She lead us into the kitchen and we took our seats around the table where breakfast place mats with maps and superheros still sat.
"So I just wanted to meet you before we set anything in motion. I hope that's okay?"
"Of course!" We said in unison, far too enthusiastically.
"My you two sound alike. You know when I first opened the door I couldn't get over how much you look alike, you could be sisters!" Mrs. Mones smiled.
"Well we kind of are." Mmelissa said with a gush, waving her hand between us. Mrs. Mones smile turned into a puzzled frown. What did that mean, she must have been wondering, as I certainly was. "We kind of are" implied that there was some unanswered question about our relationship, as if there was an unknown concerning our paternity that would soon be answered and confirm our blood connection.
"I think Mmelissa meant we practically are, we're so close. Best friends!" I piped in, attempting to steer Mrs. Mones away from the thoughts I was already having. There was an awkward group laugh and I poked Mmelissa under the table. We moved on to our majors and extracurriculars. Mrs. Mones told us about her sons. They were huge sports fans and were obsessed with UVA soccer.
"Wouldn't you know," Mmelissa said, her Southern accent singing sweetly. "I know the WHOLE entire team. I'm very close with them." Mmelissa leaned in and gave Mrs. Mones a knowing look and a sly half smile. A look likely intended to imply confidence and a knowledge of athletics. Instead however, she looked like a whore who had slept with the entire mens soccer team. While I knew of and had no problem with Mmelissa's propensity for late nights and high risk behavior, our potential employer appeared horrified. "I mean I know a couple of the guys from high school and go to a lot of games." Mmelissa, realizing her error in tone and expression tried to backtrack. Another awkward laugh.
We talked a few minutes more about schedules and availability before Mrs. Mones showed us the door and said she would be in touch. Mmelissa and I ran to the car bursting out laughing as soon as we had driven out of view. Recounting our follies we were sure no one in their right mind would ever entrust us with their children. Jamaica began to seem like a dream. I began to work on the PowerPoint that would explain to my parents why I had been unable to find unemployment and why "Mephanie Gets a Tan and Helps Jamaican Orphans" fund remained a worthy investment.
Three nights later, as Mmelissa and I sat in our living room eating the overpriced unhealthy food we had just ordered, my phone rang.
"Hello," I answered, mouth full of fries.
"Hi Mephanie it's Mrs. Mones. I talked it over with my husband and we would love for you and Mmelissa to start babysitting as soon as possible!"
"Yes, we would love to!" Food went everywhere and Jamaica materialized in front of me.
"The only thing is," Mrs. Mones hesitated. "Event though the boys love soccer, I don't want Mmelissa bringing any players by the house, or any boys for that matter. Ever."
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Working is Fun
I won the clock radio at a local video store. This was when there were still local video stores. A large canister full of jelly beans sat on the counter next to the register. On it there was a sign, "Guess how many jelly beans there are and win!" I dawdled by the register while my sister picked a movie. Three weeks later I received a phone call. I had come closest! I had won a clock radio! I vaguely remember feeling disappointment at not having won the canister of jelly beans as I believed that to be the prize. Instead I won something that would become the bane of my existence.
The clock radio had an alarm on it. My parents decided that this alarm would now do the job they had been tending to over the last 8 years, it would wake me up. And that it did. 8:45 a.m. through elementary school, 8:00 a.m. into middle school, 6:45 a.m. and a lot of snoozes in high school, for decoration purposes only in college. And now 7:45, every morning without fail, without summer, without snow days, for work. Despite having no special affinity for this ill begotten alarm clock, it has sat on my bedside table for about sixteen years now. It has traveled to two houses, three states, one dorm room and about four apartments. I can't outgrow the damn thing.
At 23 and three quarters, I have settled into the monotony of full time employment where the only thing worth looking forward to is early retirement or paid disability. The alarm clock greets me each morning, playing country music (as I have not bothered to figure out the local DC stations and can't stand the miserable beeping that is my alternative) at 7:45 a.m. (though in reality its 7:38 a.m. as I have set my clock 7 minutes ahead). I snooze once and turn over. It goes off again 8 minutes later. I snooze again. The second alarm (this clock is pretty snazzy, two alarm times!) goes off at 7:55 a.m. Now I am up and the country music is off. My light goes on immediately or else I go back to sleep. Coffee! Bathroom for girlie things and teeth brushing. Email! Read the NY Times quote of the day, read idealist.org job listings, read who has written on my Facebook wall. CNN! I hate John Anderson and Saved by the Bell is on TBS. TBS! I pluck my eyebrows. I do this daily, eventually I will have none. Make-up, hair, outfit, make my lunch, grab my shit. Out the door by 8:49 a.m. (which is really 8:42 a.m. because I have knowingly set my clock 7 minutes ahead).
IPod in, listen to "I Really Hate Tyra Banks" or "Planes are safe" play list? Shuffle. It's DC and its summer, I begin to sweat three steps out the door. I pass the MTV Real World house (who's cast I have yet to see since filming began a month ago) and try to look as coy and hot as possible. We all mock the Real World, god those kids are stupid, letting MTV exploit them like that. I hope someone will spy me out the window and come running outside, with cameras in tow, determined to strike up a friendship so I can be a star.
The elevator in my building is crowded and I work on the top floor. I detest the older man with the bike and his spandex shorts. Someone smells, I hope its not me. I get off the elevator and I'm late because the man with the bike took too long maneuvering his way out of the crowded elevator on his stop, the second floor. There should be a rule that one can only use the elevator if they are four flights of stairs up or more. God people are lazy.
I go in the back way so that no one in my department realizes its now 9:05. I put my lunch in the fridge and grab water. Safe at my desk. The blinking light on my phone tells me I have two new messages. I know who they are from. They are from Mames. One of the people in my department for which I am "support staff." This really means college educated bitch. Mames likes to call my desk and wait for the message machine to pick up. When that happens he hangs up without saying anything, causing the red light to flash and my blood to boil.
Gmail, work mail, voicemail. My priorities are in check. I sit in a hallway. A literal hallway which all my bosses walk down regularly to their adjoining offices. Merin sits across from me. Merin is also a college educated bitch for a related department. We exchange tired hello's. Do three work related things that each take ten seconds. Gchat for three hours. Mames calls me from his office. I get up and walk down the hall.
"Yes Mames." My voice drips with exasperation.
"I need you to warm these up for me." He doesn't look at me as he hands me a Krispie Kreme bag. I see three plump glazed doughnuts through the sheer plastic.
"Mames." Exasperation turns into disgust.
"I have to be on this conference call or else I would do it." He still doesn't look me in the eye, he is checking his blackberry.
"Eat them cold."
"You can't eat a doughnut cold. You gotta put them in the toaster, but make sure they don't burn." Mames shoes me away. My life is miserable.
I trek down to the office kitchen. The toaster is about 38 years old and takes forever, I lick glaze from inside of the empty bag. I watch like a hawk to make sure they don't burn. I deliver Mames his doughnuts and hope he'll offer me one. They look delicious. He doesn't.
I return to my desk and relay the story to Merin who wears many hats; co-worker, confidant, savior. She rolls her eyes and laughs. We talk about Mames some more. He is a 37 year-old black man who once entered himself in GQ's "Stylish Man of the Year" contest. He then asked the whole office to vote for him. His socks match his ties and his cuff links match his rings. He carries a large umbrella like a cane and owns men's rain boots. He wears men's espadrilles. He has a daughter and a girlfriend. He refers to himself as a playa. He once asked me to research the Canadian Mounted Police uniform for him. He wanted a pair of their uniform issue riding boots. We do not work with horses.
11:00 a.m. coffee; 11:30 a.m. snack; 12:00 p.m. Pandora; 1:00 p.m. Lunch.
Merin and I walk down the street to Starbucks with the lunches we've brought from home. We both rotate on the same schedule; sandwich, salad, sandwich, salad. We sit outside at Starbucks without going in to get anything. We don't get paid that much. I bitch about Mames she tells me about her day. We talk about happy hour, we probably won't go. We take out books and sit silently reading for an hour. We walk back to the office at 2:00 p.m. We stop at the news stand in our building lobby and I get a york peppermint patty. Every day.
3:00 p.m. and everyone in my department is in a meeting. I grab some nail polish that our director of administration gave to me. She thought it was too pink for her. I start painting my nails in the hall way that is my office. The whole office begins to smell like nail polish. I don't care. Merin and I discuss our plans to quit our jobs. Sometimes we lower our voices, today we don't. I do a second coat of nail polish.
4:58 p.m. and the taste of freedom is on my lips. I pack my bag with my cellphone, headphones, book and some stolen office pens for good measure. I turn off my computer monitor and go stand up to leave.
"Mephanie..." My boss calls me from her office which is right in front of my hallway desk. "Mephanie I know its five but I need you to send out this email for me after I finish writing it. I want it to come from your computer."
"Of course, not a problem. Never a problem!" I grit my teeth and wave bye to Merin who has been waiting for me. Why would it be a problem for me to sit here at my desk and wait for you to finish writing an email so you can send it to me, so that I can then send it exactly as you have written it, to its intended recipient. Its not like I have been doing nothing all day and was counting down the minutes until 5:00 p.m.. Of course that's not the case. Of course I don't mind.
The clock radio had an alarm on it. My parents decided that this alarm would now do the job they had been tending to over the last 8 years, it would wake me up. And that it did. 8:45 a.m. through elementary school, 8:00 a.m. into middle school, 6:45 a.m. and a lot of snoozes in high school, for decoration purposes only in college. And now 7:45, every morning without fail, without summer, without snow days, for work. Despite having no special affinity for this ill begotten alarm clock, it has sat on my bedside table for about sixteen years now. It has traveled to two houses, three states, one dorm room and about four apartments. I can't outgrow the damn thing.
At 23 and three quarters, I have settled into the monotony of full time employment where the only thing worth looking forward to is early retirement or paid disability. The alarm clock greets me each morning, playing country music (as I have not bothered to figure out the local DC stations and can't stand the miserable beeping that is my alternative) at 7:45 a.m. (though in reality its 7:38 a.m. as I have set my clock 7 minutes ahead). I snooze once and turn over. It goes off again 8 minutes later. I snooze again. The second alarm (this clock is pretty snazzy, two alarm times!) goes off at 7:55 a.m. Now I am up and the country music is off. My light goes on immediately or else I go back to sleep. Coffee! Bathroom for girlie things and teeth brushing. Email! Read the NY Times quote of the day, read idealist.org job listings, read who has written on my Facebook wall. CNN! I hate John Anderson and Saved by the Bell is on TBS. TBS! I pluck my eyebrows. I do this daily, eventually I will have none. Make-up, hair, outfit, make my lunch, grab my shit. Out the door by 8:49 a.m. (which is really 8:42 a.m. because I have knowingly set my clock 7 minutes ahead).
IPod in, listen to "I Really Hate Tyra Banks" or "Planes are safe" play list? Shuffle. It's DC and its summer, I begin to sweat three steps out the door. I pass the MTV Real World house (who's cast I have yet to see since filming began a month ago) and try to look as coy and hot as possible. We all mock the Real World, god those kids are stupid, letting MTV exploit them like that. I hope someone will spy me out the window and come running outside, with cameras in tow, determined to strike up a friendship so I can be a star.
The elevator in my building is crowded and I work on the top floor. I detest the older man with the bike and his spandex shorts. Someone smells, I hope its not me. I get off the elevator and I'm late because the man with the bike took too long maneuvering his way out of the crowded elevator on his stop, the second floor. There should be a rule that one can only use the elevator if they are four flights of stairs up or more. God people are lazy.
I go in the back way so that no one in my department realizes its now 9:05. I put my lunch in the fridge and grab water. Safe at my desk. The blinking light on my phone tells me I have two new messages. I know who they are from. They are from Mames. One of the people in my department for which I am "support staff." This really means college educated bitch. Mames likes to call my desk and wait for the message machine to pick up. When that happens he hangs up without saying anything, causing the red light to flash and my blood to boil.
Gmail, work mail, voicemail. My priorities are in check. I sit in a hallway. A literal hallway which all my bosses walk down regularly to their adjoining offices. Merin sits across from me. Merin is also a college educated bitch for a related department. We exchange tired hello's. Do three work related things that each take ten seconds. Gchat for three hours. Mames calls me from his office. I get up and walk down the hall.
"Yes Mames." My voice drips with exasperation.
"I need you to warm these up for me." He doesn't look at me as he hands me a Krispie Kreme bag. I see three plump glazed doughnuts through the sheer plastic.
"Mames." Exasperation turns into disgust.
"I have to be on this conference call or else I would do it." He still doesn't look me in the eye, he is checking his blackberry.
"Eat them cold."
"You can't eat a doughnut cold. You gotta put them in the toaster, but make sure they don't burn." Mames shoes me away. My life is miserable.
I trek down to the office kitchen. The toaster is about 38 years old and takes forever, I lick glaze from inside of the empty bag. I watch like a hawk to make sure they don't burn. I deliver Mames his doughnuts and hope he'll offer me one. They look delicious. He doesn't.
I return to my desk and relay the story to Merin who wears many hats; co-worker, confidant, savior. She rolls her eyes and laughs. We talk about Mames some more. He is a 37 year-old black man who once entered himself in GQ's "Stylish Man of the Year" contest. He then asked the whole office to vote for him. His socks match his ties and his cuff links match his rings. He carries a large umbrella like a cane and owns men's rain boots. He wears men's espadrilles. He has a daughter and a girlfriend. He refers to himself as a playa. He once asked me to research the Canadian Mounted Police uniform for him. He wanted a pair of their uniform issue riding boots. We do not work with horses.
11:00 a.m. coffee; 11:30 a.m. snack; 12:00 p.m. Pandora; 1:00 p.m. Lunch.
Merin and I walk down the street to Starbucks with the lunches we've brought from home. We both rotate on the same schedule; sandwich, salad, sandwich, salad. We sit outside at Starbucks without going in to get anything. We don't get paid that much. I bitch about Mames she tells me about her day. We talk about happy hour, we probably won't go. We take out books and sit silently reading for an hour. We walk back to the office at 2:00 p.m. We stop at the news stand in our building lobby and I get a york peppermint patty. Every day.
3:00 p.m. and everyone in my department is in a meeting. I grab some nail polish that our director of administration gave to me. She thought it was too pink for her. I start painting my nails in the hall way that is my office. The whole office begins to smell like nail polish. I don't care. Merin and I discuss our plans to quit our jobs. Sometimes we lower our voices, today we don't. I do a second coat of nail polish.
4:58 p.m. and the taste of freedom is on my lips. I pack my bag with my cellphone, headphones, book and some stolen office pens for good measure. I turn off my computer monitor and go stand up to leave.
"Mephanie..." My boss calls me from her office which is right in front of my hallway desk. "Mephanie I know its five but I need you to send out this email for me after I finish writing it. I want it to come from your computer."
"Of course, not a problem. Never a problem!" I grit my teeth and wave bye to Merin who has been waiting for me. Why would it be a problem for me to sit here at my desk and wait for you to finish writing an email so you can send it to me, so that I can then send it exactly as you have written it, to its intended recipient. Its not like I have been doing nothing all day and was counting down the minutes until 5:00 p.m.. Of course that's not the case. Of course I don't mind.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Arsim and Why I Hate Tyra Banks
Tyra Banks is the single most horrible person on Earth. She is a stain on humanity. She is the real life incarnation of Zoolander except instead of being endearingly dumb she is irritatingly narcissistic. Every single face she uses to display modeling versatility on America's Next Top Model is the exact fucking same. Also I don't believe her about modeling being "so hard," all you have to do is not eat, and if I could do that for those three days before senior prom then it can't be that difficult. Don't even get me started on the Tyra Banks show, her condescending version of empathy is appalling. Okay, now that's out of the way we can move on to today's story, that of Arsim and a dear friend I like to call Mesther. Mesther is all things lovely and bewitching, yet she has an incomprehensible affection for Arsim. Without further ado...
Fighting off Arsim in the Holy Land
I am by no means an expert on all things trashy. Nor am I an expert on all things Israeli. I am a mere observer of the phenomena that results from the clash of the two. A whirlwind of American, Euro and Middle Eastern influence colliding- spitting out greased up, track jacket clad, earring wearing, trance music listening men. These men are known in the Holy Land as Arsim, or in the singular, Arse. In their natural habitat Arsim can be found lurking around malls, kiosks and underage night clubs or leaning against souped up cars that they have meticulously and tirelessly pimped out with chrome rims and large unsightly windshield decals. Armed with cigarettes, red bull, and enough hair grease to fuel the entire Israeli electricity grid they are known for their aggressive behavior. Their uniform of tight fitting acid wash jeans and bling bling is accented by the signature item, the fashion sneaker.
An import from Europe, the fashion sneaker is a non-functional men's shoe masquerading as a tennis shoe. They serve no real purpose with their velcro closures and complicated laces, their stitched on logos of cats and gold lamay. They are the mark of metrosexuals and in Israel, the Arse. The fashion sneaker makes virtually no sound as the Arse sneaks up on its prey, whispering sweet nothings in it's ear and calling it capara (think baby in Hebrew).
For the American girl in Israel the Arse is the lowest rung on the ladder or desirability. The top rung is the elite unit military man with the intense tan and built physique, the rugged looks and fierce attitude that play into every stereotype of the exotic Israeli. A man faced with conflict and the constant threat of attack, who has developed a hardened exterior, a shell of machismo and sternness. Yet inside is a heart of gold, a tenderness that only you the American girl from the tri-state area with Uggs and a Chi straightener can unleash. He is kind of like an Israeli M&M.
Much farther down on the ladder is the second rung, the Israeli with a car. The desirability of a license toting, car owning Israeli boyfriend is practical in nature; public transportation sucks. About a half inch below the car rung lies the cable rung, again this is a utility attraction and satellite cable is really an aphrodisiac. Nothing says love like being able to watch Lost or The Office while abroad. Finally, below soldier, car, satellite TV, men who will pay for a drink, men who are taller than you, men with good English and a multitude of other equally shallow and self serving criteria for attraction, there is the Arse.
No girl willingly enters into a conversation let alone a relationship with an Arse. American-Arse interaction is generally facilitated by imbibing excessive amounts of alcohol and very dim lighting. Mesther, a dear friend and former roommate, often found herself in this unfortunate state of poorly lit inebriation while we lived together in Jerusalem. Once inside a dance club she was the object of many an Arse's affections. Being the kind hearted and drunken lady that she is, Mesther had trouble mustering the courage and bitchiness required to refuse the advances of these overly aggressive Arsim with their questionably jelled hair and copious compliments. On more than one occasion Mesther convinced herself that Arsim were people too, deserving a shot at love and her heart. However more often than not she found, rather unpleasantly, that they were far more concerned with a shot at her pants.
Yet Mesther-a consummate bleeding heart and believer in the fight for social justice-refused to mock, ridicule, laugh at and otherwise reject Arsim like the rest of us. Weekend after weekend Mesther would receive calls from boys and men alike, seeking dates with her. On rare occasions they asked her to bring friends for their friends. This is the story of one such occasion.
I arrived home to my Jerusalem quasi apartment after a long day at my quasi job. I was tired and hungry as I often am at the end of the day (well really at any point in the day) and looking forward to a relaxing evening of pirating movies off the internet. Getting off the elevator in my building I heard a ruckus coming from my apartment. The high pitched squeals of girls and the smell of perfume stung the air. This could mean only one thing, someone was going to see a boy.
"Pleaseeeeee Mharon," Mesther's voice was raised into a whine. "Please come with me. I will love you forever." She stood in the middle of our small living room wearing a red shirt and jeans, she had a knee high boot on one foot and a silver flat on the other.
"No, Mesther. I'm sorry I just really don't want to go on a blind date." Mharon crossed her arms over her chest rolling her eyes in my direction as I closed the front door behind me.
"AH, thank god you're here Meph." Mesther ran to me, holding up two earrings, each different, neither matching her shirt. "I'm going out with a boy tonight, or I would be if Mharon agreed to come so his friend can come." I dropped my bag on the floor and plopped down on the couch next to Mharon.
"Who is this boy? Is he cute? And why won't you go Mharon?" I got down to business.
"He's an arse she met in a club and I'm not going to be her sidekick." Mharon cut in. Her Australian accent made the word Arse sound far more proper and dignified than her tone suggested. Mharon's accusation was not surprising as Mesther was known for attempting to reform Arsim and making them suitable boyfriends. Mesther turned to me with a desperate look in her eye.
"Mephanie, you have to come with me. You HAVE to come with me." She pleaded in earnest. I surveyed her mismatched shoes, her clashing earrings, her puppy dog eyes. "Please," she whined.
"Fine." I blurted out before I could stop myself. "But the friend has to be tall and speak English and I'm not going to be nice." I made my demands.
Twenty minutes later after a quick outfit change for me and an outfit overhaul for Mesther, we stood waiting outside our apartment building. Mesther arranged to have her boy and his friend come pick us up at which point we would go somewhere and get drinks. As we waited Mesther filled me in on the details of the Arse. They met at her favorite underage dance club (while Mesther was not underage she believed that good music was only played at establishments that happened to be infested with underaged kids and Arsim). They danced and talked and maybe made out before he got her number and they realized it was love. I mocked her for even entertaining the idea of dating an arse and she took it in good fun. We waited and waited and waited and waited, sure that each souped up Honda that drove past was "definitely them," after an hour we realized that it was "definitely not" and they were "definitely late."
By the time the boys arrived at 10:00 p.m. I was cranky and exhausted, insisting that we needed to stay in the area because I wanted to be home in an hour. Mesther relayed this and thus we decided to "drive around" and "get to know each other." The boys, both Mesther's and mine were definitely Arsim. They did not get out of the car to greet us so I could not be sure of the fit of their pants but the glare from the acid wash was visible even in the back seat.
"Hi," I said, trying to be nice. "I'm Mephanie." The boys looked at eachother in confusion and said something in Hebrew to Mesther. Having taken eight semesters of college Hebrew and living in Israel for six months one would assume that if not fluent I would be at the very least proficient in the language. One would be very, very wrong. I could get around; make sure to order my sandwiches without olives, find a bathroom, ask for the time. But this was the extent of my Hebrew. I could not flirt, be witty, or otherwise entertain a potential suitor with my limited vocabulary of food I do not like and colors.
Mesther looked at me with fear, "Mephanie, he doesn't speak English." She nodded her head towards my intended. Luckily for her the doors were locked and we had started to pull away from the curb. I settled into my seat shotting her a death star and set about playing games on my phone.
Mesther talked to both boys, her Arse and mine, laughing and flipping her hair as she leaned towards them in the front seat. Mesther's voice dropped three octaves when she spoke Hebrew; her flirtatious voice sound gutteral and authoritative. Every so often the friend, my date, would turn around to look at me and smile. Then he would say something to Mesther and she would translate. Nearly fluent in Hebrew, Mesther often played the role of translator.
Via Mesther I found out that my dates name was Moshe (that's Hebrew for Moses!). He was 22 and finishing up his army service. He was a paratrooper (a common claim from Arsim) and could be sent to Gaza at any moment. Would I wait for him, he wondered? Of course not I replied! Though I think Mesther may not have translated that accurately because his face lit up with absolute glee at this response.
After an hour of driving around and intense boredom the boys pulled up in front of our apartment building. All four of us exited the car, it was then I realized that I was easily the tallest in the bunch. Mesther and her date moved off to the side in some sort of awkward embrace. I was alone with Moshe. His jeans were as tight as I suspected and I had at least three inches on him. "Fun" he said in English. I smiled and stuck out my hand. He looked at it for a moment as though it were an insult before shaking it. We both looked over at Mesther, she was in full on make out mode with her Arse. I said "toda" (one of my few Hebrew phrases) and ran to the apartment building door before Moshe got any ideas.
Mesther still owes me.
Fighting off Arsim in the Holy Land
I am by no means an expert on all things trashy. Nor am I an expert on all things Israeli. I am a mere observer of the phenomena that results from the clash of the two. A whirlwind of American, Euro and Middle Eastern influence colliding- spitting out greased up, track jacket clad, earring wearing, trance music listening men. These men are known in the Holy Land as Arsim, or in the singular, Arse. In their natural habitat Arsim can be found lurking around malls, kiosks and underage night clubs or leaning against souped up cars that they have meticulously and tirelessly pimped out with chrome rims and large unsightly windshield decals. Armed with cigarettes, red bull, and enough hair grease to fuel the entire Israeli electricity grid they are known for their aggressive behavior. Their uniform of tight fitting acid wash jeans and bling bling is accented by the signature item, the fashion sneaker.
An import from Europe, the fashion sneaker is a non-functional men's shoe masquerading as a tennis shoe. They serve no real purpose with their velcro closures and complicated laces, their stitched on logos of cats and gold lamay. They are the mark of metrosexuals and in Israel, the Arse. The fashion sneaker makes virtually no sound as the Arse sneaks up on its prey, whispering sweet nothings in it's ear and calling it capara (think baby in Hebrew).
For the American girl in Israel the Arse is the lowest rung on the ladder or desirability. The top rung is the elite unit military man with the intense tan and built physique, the rugged looks and fierce attitude that play into every stereotype of the exotic Israeli. A man faced with conflict and the constant threat of attack, who has developed a hardened exterior, a shell of machismo and sternness. Yet inside is a heart of gold, a tenderness that only you the American girl from the tri-state area with Uggs and a Chi straightener can unleash. He is kind of like an Israeli M&M.
Much farther down on the ladder is the second rung, the Israeli with a car. The desirability of a license toting, car owning Israeli boyfriend is practical in nature; public transportation sucks. About a half inch below the car rung lies the cable rung, again this is a utility attraction and satellite cable is really an aphrodisiac. Nothing says love like being able to watch Lost or The Office while abroad. Finally, below soldier, car, satellite TV, men who will pay for a drink, men who are taller than you, men with good English and a multitude of other equally shallow and self serving criteria for attraction, there is the Arse.
No girl willingly enters into a conversation let alone a relationship with an Arse. American-Arse interaction is generally facilitated by imbibing excessive amounts of alcohol and very dim lighting. Mesther, a dear friend and former roommate, often found herself in this unfortunate state of poorly lit inebriation while we lived together in Jerusalem. Once inside a dance club she was the object of many an Arse's affections. Being the kind hearted and drunken lady that she is, Mesther had trouble mustering the courage and bitchiness required to refuse the advances of these overly aggressive Arsim with their questionably jelled hair and copious compliments. On more than one occasion Mesther convinced herself that Arsim were people too, deserving a shot at love and her heart. However more often than not she found, rather unpleasantly, that they were far more concerned with a shot at her pants.
Yet Mesther-a consummate bleeding heart and believer in the fight for social justice-refused to mock, ridicule, laugh at and otherwise reject Arsim like the rest of us. Weekend after weekend Mesther would receive calls from boys and men alike, seeking dates with her. On rare occasions they asked her to bring friends for their friends. This is the story of one such occasion.
I arrived home to my Jerusalem quasi apartment after a long day at my quasi job. I was tired and hungry as I often am at the end of the day (well really at any point in the day) and looking forward to a relaxing evening of pirating movies off the internet. Getting off the elevator in my building I heard a ruckus coming from my apartment. The high pitched squeals of girls and the smell of perfume stung the air. This could mean only one thing, someone was going to see a boy.
"Pleaseeeeee Mharon," Mesther's voice was raised into a whine. "Please come with me. I will love you forever." She stood in the middle of our small living room wearing a red shirt and jeans, she had a knee high boot on one foot and a silver flat on the other.
"No, Mesther. I'm sorry I just really don't want to go on a blind date." Mharon crossed her arms over her chest rolling her eyes in my direction as I closed the front door behind me.
"AH, thank god you're here Meph." Mesther ran to me, holding up two earrings, each different, neither matching her shirt. "I'm going out with a boy tonight, or I would be if Mharon agreed to come so his friend can come." I dropped my bag on the floor and plopped down on the couch next to Mharon.
"Who is this boy? Is he cute? And why won't you go Mharon?" I got down to business.
"He's an arse she met in a club and I'm not going to be her sidekick." Mharon cut in. Her Australian accent made the word Arse sound far more proper and dignified than her tone suggested. Mharon's accusation was not surprising as Mesther was known for attempting to reform Arsim and making them suitable boyfriends. Mesther turned to me with a desperate look in her eye.
"Mephanie, you have to come with me. You HAVE to come with me." She pleaded in earnest. I surveyed her mismatched shoes, her clashing earrings, her puppy dog eyes. "Please," she whined.
"Fine." I blurted out before I could stop myself. "But the friend has to be tall and speak English and I'm not going to be nice." I made my demands.
Twenty minutes later after a quick outfit change for me and an outfit overhaul for Mesther, we stood waiting outside our apartment building. Mesther arranged to have her boy and his friend come pick us up at which point we would go somewhere and get drinks. As we waited Mesther filled me in on the details of the Arse. They met at her favorite underage dance club (while Mesther was not underage she believed that good music was only played at establishments that happened to be infested with underaged kids and Arsim). They danced and talked and maybe made out before he got her number and they realized it was love. I mocked her for even entertaining the idea of dating an arse and she took it in good fun. We waited and waited and waited and waited, sure that each souped up Honda that drove past was "definitely them," after an hour we realized that it was "definitely not" and they were "definitely late."
By the time the boys arrived at 10:00 p.m. I was cranky and exhausted, insisting that we needed to stay in the area because I wanted to be home in an hour. Mesther relayed this and thus we decided to "drive around" and "get to know each other." The boys, both Mesther's and mine were definitely Arsim. They did not get out of the car to greet us so I could not be sure of the fit of their pants but the glare from the acid wash was visible even in the back seat.
"Hi," I said, trying to be nice. "I'm Mephanie." The boys looked at eachother in confusion and said something in Hebrew to Mesther. Having taken eight semesters of college Hebrew and living in Israel for six months one would assume that if not fluent I would be at the very least proficient in the language. One would be very, very wrong. I could get around; make sure to order my sandwiches without olives, find a bathroom, ask for the time. But this was the extent of my Hebrew. I could not flirt, be witty, or otherwise entertain a potential suitor with my limited vocabulary of food I do not like and colors.
Mesther looked at me with fear, "Mephanie, he doesn't speak English." She nodded her head towards my intended. Luckily for her the doors were locked and we had started to pull away from the curb. I settled into my seat shotting her a death star and set about playing games on my phone.
Mesther talked to both boys, her Arse and mine, laughing and flipping her hair as she leaned towards them in the front seat. Mesther's voice dropped three octaves when she spoke Hebrew; her flirtatious voice sound gutteral and authoritative. Every so often the friend, my date, would turn around to look at me and smile. Then he would say something to Mesther and she would translate. Nearly fluent in Hebrew, Mesther often played the role of translator.
Via Mesther I found out that my dates name was Moshe (that's Hebrew for Moses!). He was 22 and finishing up his army service. He was a paratrooper (a common claim from Arsim) and could be sent to Gaza at any moment. Would I wait for him, he wondered? Of course not I replied! Though I think Mesther may not have translated that accurately because his face lit up with absolute glee at this response.
After an hour of driving around and intense boredom the boys pulled up in front of our apartment building. All four of us exited the car, it was then I realized that I was easily the tallest in the bunch. Mesther and her date moved off to the side in some sort of awkward embrace. I was alone with Moshe. His jeans were as tight as I suspected and I had at least three inches on him. "Fun" he said in English. I smiled and stuck out my hand. He looked at it for a moment as though it were an insult before shaking it. We both looked over at Mesther, she was in full on make out mode with her Arse. I said "toda" (one of my few Hebrew phrases) and ran to the apartment building door before Moshe got any ideas.
Mesther still owes me.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Adventures in Babysitting
Why any parent would trust a sixteen-year-old version of myself with their offspring is kind of baffling to a now twenty-three year old me. At present some might describe me as exhibiting the following endearing traits: neurotic, obsessive, a bit impulsive and at times impractical. Imagine how a how lot of adolescent angst, raging hormones, and unsightly acne might intensify the manifestation of these characteristics. Combine this with my aversion to all things furry, whiny, un-housebroken/potty-trained and you come up with the worst caregiver ever-other than Michael Jackson (may his pedophile soul rest in peace).
Yet for some mysterious reason, the suburban yuppies of Northern New Jersey not only entrusted me with their newborns and beloved children, they paid me twelve dollars an hour to watch their mini-devils. The summer before my junior year of high school was a long one. I was license-less and counting down the days until my seventeenth birthday which coincided with the start of senior year. By day I was a lifeguard at the local NORC (Naturally Occurring Retirement Community), protecting the lives of the Elderly Women's Water Aerobics group and working on my tan. By night I was Mephanie, babysitter extraordinaire, keeper of children, fairy tales and all things sacred.
My date book was filled with exciting engagements with the Davis' and Millers and Browns. Every night it was a new thrilling experience, would I be watching Hook or All Dogs go to Heaven? Would I be changing diapers or playing with Lego's? The sky was really the limit. I was playing the field and I loving it. Among all the randoms and one night stands there were of course the regulars, my old stand by, the Mosenbergs.
The Mosenbergs were a nice Jewish family I met at synagogue earlier that spring (temple, was not a place I frequented but my mom dragged me from time to time and occasionally there was a pretty nice lunch spread). We clicked instantly; they had two young sons and satellite TV, I had nothing to do that Friday night and some debt (that ten speed Schwinn was a bad investment).
At 7:00 p.m. the next Friday night my sister dropped me off at the Mosenberg's house in the South End of town (without a license I was forced to beg Memma for rides, she got a 5% cut of the night's take). The South End was an enclave of estates and over sized mansions on the edge of the poorest section of town. What better to flaunt in the face of disenfranchised impoverished minorities than the wealth of the elite, that's what I always say. The Mosenberg's house was on the smaller side of palatial. They had recently purchased it and were doing renovations (which meant lots of those plastic sheets which look a lot like ghosts in the dark). It was under-furnished and poorly decorated.
Mrs. Mosenberg greeted me at the front door, ushering me into the cavernous entryway. At this point I should mention that I was carrying a bag-an army green over the shoulder satchel of sorts. It was from The Gap. In this bag was a book, a magazine, my wallet and my pride and joy, my brand new cell phone. As it was summer I didn't have a coat, it was just me and the bag. This bag was a point of anxiety for me. Despite having babysat many, many times before-for some reason at this moment with this babysitting job the presence of a bag, a purse really, made me nervous. What if the Mosenbergs thought I was trying to smuggle drugs into their house? Might they assume this bag was the agent of some terrorist plot? Would they know I had a cell phone in the bag and that I intended to call friends on it or play Snake (that's right it was a Nokia) after the boys went to sleep? I talked all these scenarios out with Memma and her friend Manne sitting around our kitchen table earlier that afternoon.
"Should I tell them what's in the bag when I get there?" I asked earnestly.
"No." Memma munched on a wheat thin.
"But what if they think I'm bringing alcohol or something?" I said, my anxiety getting worse every minute.
"They won't." Memma rolled her eyes.
"Maybe I should just be like 'This is my bag, it just has my book in it in case I want to read later.' You know, just give them a heads up that I might read or something." I thought this was the smartest course of action, let them know so they wouldn't assume the worst. Memma, it appeared did not agree, she laughed at me.
"Mephanie, it's a goddamn bag, they won't care what's in it." Manne piped in.
"Okay but what should I do with it when I get there?" The thought of bag placement within their house drove me to a new level of near hysteria. "Should I put it by the door as soon as I walk in? Should I carry it with me as they show me around? Maybe I should ask where I can put my bag."
"Why don't you hide it behind the house before you ring the doorbell and you can retrieve it after the parents leave." Manne offered. She and Memma broke into a fit of wheat thin spewing giggles. I laughed nervously but secretly began to hope there would be sufficient shrubbery surrounding the house for bag stowing.
I forced Memma and Manne to engage in multiple role plays where I played me and they played the Mosenbergs. We acted out different scenarios in which they questioned the bag, asked to inspect the contents of the bag, pondered whether there were weapons in the bag and finally told me to go home and come back sans bag. I think they may have been toying with me slightly. In the end we decided I would just put the bag down on or near the foyer area. Thinking back, I'm not quite sure what I did with that bag once I got to the house. However, I do remember quite vividly the intense feeling of panic nestled in my stomach that afternoon as I contemplated the presence of my army green Gap carrier bag.
Yet for some mysterious reason, the suburban yuppies of Northern New Jersey not only entrusted me with their newborns and beloved children, they paid me twelve dollars an hour to watch their mini-devils. The summer before my junior year of high school was a long one. I was license-less and counting down the days until my seventeenth birthday which coincided with the start of senior year. By day I was a lifeguard at the local NORC (Naturally Occurring Retirement Community), protecting the lives of the Elderly Women's Water Aerobics group and working on my tan. By night I was Mephanie, babysitter extraordinaire, keeper of children, fairy tales and all things sacred.
My date book was filled with exciting engagements with the Davis' and Millers and Browns. Every night it was a new thrilling experience, would I be watching Hook or All Dogs go to Heaven? Would I be changing diapers or playing with Lego's? The sky was really the limit. I was playing the field and I loving it. Among all the randoms and one night stands there were of course the regulars, my old stand by, the Mosenbergs.
The Mosenbergs were a nice Jewish family I met at synagogue earlier that spring (temple, was not a place I frequented but my mom dragged me from time to time and occasionally there was a pretty nice lunch spread). We clicked instantly; they had two young sons and satellite TV, I had nothing to do that Friday night and some debt (that ten speed Schwinn was a bad investment).
At 7:00 p.m. the next Friday night my sister dropped me off at the Mosenberg's house in the South End of town (without a license I was forced to beg Memma for rides, she got a 5% cut of the night's take). The South End was an enclave of estates and over sized mansions on the edge of the poorest section of town. What better to flaunt in the face of disenfranchised impoverished minorities than the wealth of the elite, that's what I always say. The Mosenberg's house was on the smaller side of palatial. They had recently purchased it and were doing renovations (which meant lots of those plastic sheets which look a lot like ghosts in the dark). It was under-furnished and poorly decorated.
Mrs. Mosenberg greeted me at the front door, ushering me into the cavernous entryway. At this point I should mention that I was carrying a bag-an army green over the shoulder satchel of sorts. It was from The Gap. In this bag was a book, a magazine, my wallet and my pride and joy, my brand new cell phone. As it was summer I didn't have a coat, it was just me and the bag. This bag was a point of anxiety for me. Despite having babysat many, many times before-for some reason at this moment with this babysitting job the presence of a bag, a purse really, made me nervous. What if the Mosenbergs thought I was trying to smuggle drugs into their house? Might they assume this bag was the agent of some terrorist plot? Would they know I had a cell phone in the bag and that I intended to call friends on it or play Snake (that's right it was a Nokia) after the boys went to sleep? I talked all these scenarios out with Memma and her friend Manne sitting around our kitchen table earlier that afternoon.
"Should I tell them what's in the bag when I get there?" I asked earnestly.
"No." Memma munched on a wheat thin.
"But what if they think I'm bringing alcohol or something?" I said, my anxiety getting worse every minute.
"They won't." Memma rolled her eyes.
"Maybe I should just be like 'This is my bag, it just has my book in it in case I want to read later.' You know, just give them a heads up that I might read or something." I thought this was the smartest course of action, let them know so they wouldn't assume the worst. Memma, it appeared did not agree, she laughed at me.
"Mephanie, it's a goddamn bag, they won't care what's in it." Manne piped in.
"Okay but what should I do with it when I get there?" The thought of bag placement within their house drove me to a new level of near hysteria. "Should I put it by the door as soon as I walk in? Should I carry it with me as they show me around? Maybe I should ask where I can put my bag."
"Why don't you hide it behind the house before you ring the doorbell and you can retrieve it after the parents leave." Manne offered. She and Memma broke into a fit of wheat thin spewing giggles. I laughed nervously but secretly began to hope there would be sufficient shrubbery surrounding the house for bag stowing.
I forced Memma and Manne to engage in multiple role plays where I played me and they played the Mosenbergs. We acted out different scenarios in which they questioned the bag, asked to inspect the contents of the bag, pondered whether there were weapons in the bag and finally told me to go home and come back sans bag. I think they may have been toying with me slightly. In the end we decided I would just put the bag down on or near the foyer area. Thinking back, I'm not quite sure what I did with that bag once I got to the house. However, I do remember quite vividly the intense feeling of panic nestled in my stomach that afternoon as I contemplated the presence of my army green Gap carrier bag.
Friday, July 24, 2009
The Tale of the Over-Aggressive Texter
It was a cold rainy Wednesday night. The moon was full and dark clouds dotted the starless sky. It was the kind of night where anything and everything could happen and on this particular night, it almost did. A heavy mist hung in the air as she walked towards the designated metro. The deserted streets, normally bustling with students and hipsters, echoed with an eerie silence. A shiver went down her spine as she approached the barren metro station. There he stood, in the shadow of a lone street lamp. He was shorter than she'd imagined, with a surprisingly receding hairline and scars from what she presumed were poorly popped pimples, the product of adolescent/adult acne.
"Hey there Meph!" His enthusiasm caught her off guard. "I'm so excited to finally meet you." His arms reached out in what she could only assume was meant to be an introductory embrace. The slight stench of body odor and axe mingled with the night air.
"Hi Mohn." she said, trying unsuccessfully to dodge his hug, instead ending up with a half hug of his malodorous shoulder. "I'm excited to meet you too, I guess." He laughed at her candor, mistaking it for sarcasm.
"I've really been looking forward to this date. You are the first person I've seen on match that I really click with."
"Really? Well I don't know if we click, we just met." Again, laughter.
They walked towards a restaurant Meph had meticulously researched and chosen earlier that day. Knowing that Mohn, her internet date, was coming in from the suburbs of DC and wanted to "make a night of it" she had been forced to agree to a dinner date, something she usually tried to avoid. While not dainty by any stretch of the imagination, Meph was a picky eater and her refusal to ingest nuts, peanut butter, olives, mushrooms and avocados sometimes made for awkward moments and stunted dinner table conversation. Restrictive eating habits aside, there were other issues to confront when meeting someone for an actual meal. How expensive was too expensive? How ethnic was too ethnic for food on a first meeting? Should they go somewhere that offered a kid's menu? After much debate and input from annoyed friends and family, Meph settled on a trendy Thai restaurant that had received good reviews but had a moderately priced menu.
The walk to the restaurant felt long, like a dream where no matter how fast or far you run, you never reach your destination. Mohn rambled. He was at graduate school in near by College Park, Md studying orchestral music. He was hoping to transfer to a better school to receive his PhD. He wanted to be a conductor! He went to Emory undergrad and recently had surgery on his smelly shoulder. Meph listened and nodded when appropriate, secretly judging him all the while. She could hear wolves howling in the distance.
The restaurant was staffed by small Asian women, all with a dead stare in their eye. Despite the heaters and the fact that it was July in DC, Meph could not shake the chill that had encumbered her. Mohn suggested an appetizer, saying he would pick because he was the man.
"You know what episode of The Office this reminds me of?" Mohn asked after the waitress took their order. Meph resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "The one were Kelly invites everyone to the Indian event..." His voice faded off as Meph began to die inside. A girl full of neurosis and a natural tendency towards anal retentiveness, there were many things about a great number of people that bothered her. On the top of this long and irrational list was referencing Office episodes excessively. Yes, the tv show starring Steve Carrell is great. It is funny and at times relevant, however bringing it up in conversation was probably funnier and fresher four years ago when it first came out, she reasoned.
The appetizer arrived just as Mohn finished making his outdated and longwinded Office comparison. It had peanuts on it.
"I won't eat those," Meph said, sticking the food with her fork.
"That's what she said." Mohn laughed. "Do you think we'll talk about anything serious all night or will it be a battle of the wits and all sarcasm?"
This baffled Meph, up until now she had been totally sincere. When she told him she didn't care about his musical career, when she said he was being dramatic about shoulder surgery, when she said his Match.com picture wasn't really that accurate and she was in fact disappointed by the reality of his face, when she asked him if he was really six feet tall, she did so in earnest.
"Ha," was all she could muster.
he rain came down steadily outside while the daters ate. Lightening crashed down on the streets outside as thunder, her constant companion clapped in approval. The conversation turned serious. Mohn was of the conservative sort, a supporter of John McCain and his sidekick Sarah Palin. He was brought up Roman Catholic and attended Church weekly. He believed that the Pope, the Earthly incarnation of God, should be worshipped and his decrees strictly adhered to. Choice, Mohn said, was not a woman's right. "I mean if you got pregnant Meph, we'd figure it out, but I wouldn't put abortion on the table" he concluded. Meph felt a pang of disapproval and the need to go third wave feminist on his ass, but refrained instead taking comfort in the knowledge that Mohn would not be getting her pregnant any time soon.
"So do you go to Church?" Mohn stuffed a bite of pork fried rice in his full mouth.
"No, I'm a big Jew. A big liberal Jew. I think Obama is a sexy black man. I hope we socialize health care. Class based society is dumb, I am a communist."
"Diversity is our strength." Mohn remained visibly unshaken
"What should we do after this?" Mohn said as the waitress placed the check on the table. "I'll pay for this, you get dessert. Lets do something romantic like ice cream or Starbucks." Meph held back the vomit that sprang up in her throat.
"What can I get that will be easiest to eat while I hold your hand?" Mohn pondered aloud as they stood in line at the ice cream parlor. This time her disgust and utter repulsion was in concealable. The chortle erupted before Meph even knew what was happening, spit and mocking laughter flew everywhere.
"You will NOT be holding my hand." Meph said, visibly shaken. "I'll have a small cone of chocolate," she then told the girl behind the counter. Mohn apparently unphased by Meph's behavior asked the girl for a large chocolate. As they approached the cash register Mohn pointed at Meph, "She'll be paying," he said smugly. She handed the cashier ten dollars knowing that no amount of money could salvage this date.
Mohn insisted they walk as they eat their creamed ice. Meph made sure to keep her hands close to her body and occupied at all times. Mohn laughed as Meph discussed the inherent unfairness of match, that all the girls were far better looking than the guys. This nuance seemed to be lost on Mohn.
"Isn't it great that we have the exact same sense of humor!" Mohn exclaimed.
"I'm not sure about that." Meph grabbed the ponytail of hair on her shoulder and began examining each individual piece for split ends..
They continued to stroll through the dark and deserted streets. Suddenly something appeared in the distance. At first Meph thought it was a mirage, a glimmer of hope flickering in front of her. It was brightly lit and the escalator was humming, it was the Metro! The end was in sight.
"Well you better hurry to make the last train!" Meph said, exhibiting more excitement in these nine words than she had all night. Mohn lingered, standing in Meph's personal space. He positioned his face directly in front of hers. He is NOT 6 feet, she thought.
"I had so much fun." She could feel his pork fried rice breath all over her face and neck.
"Yeah this was great." The sarcasm he had so yearned for earlier was finally starting to kick in!
"So I'm not sure if you're busy this weekend, but would you want to hang out on Sunday?" He was a close talker and she felt not only his hands on her waist, his spittle on her cheek, but a pressure in her heart. For so long she had yearned for a second date. Having been rejected by all those who were legitimately taller than her, she wondered, was this all that was left?
"I, I guess," she stammered, instantly knowing this was a mistake.
He wrapped her in joyous hug promising to text her.
"I hate texting." She said, tasting regret in her mouth.
Meph awoke on Thursday morning with a sense of hope and possibility. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the birds were singing, the date was over. Sure Mohn might text her. She had said she would see him again, but a casual "I guess" was not a commitment. It was one date, they hadn't signed a marriage contract. Walking to work she felt confident that if and when he contacted her she was not obliged to respond.
It wasn't until after that morning's staff meeting that she saw it, "At national gallery, shall I tell you about the paintings so you can live vicariously through me?" Ignore.
An hour later Meph was juggling G-chat, the New York Times, celebrity gossip websites and expense reports when her phone vibrated again, "What you don't like art?" Ignore.
"Too busy to text?" This kid just doesn't get the hint, Meph thought when she saw his third text in as many hours. Ignore, Meph decided to put it out of her mind and focus on work. However by the time she got home from the gym and finished dinner that night, the situation had taken a turn for the worse.
"I know I'm annoying, but I would really like to see you again, please call me." Meph began to feel the strength to reject him drain out of her. The familiar feelings of guilt and the need for male attention welled up in her chest. Maybe I led him on, she thought. Maybe I shouldn't have laughed when he made that weird Michael Jackson joke. But he did make you pay for his overpriced large ice cream, she countered herself. Her resolve returned and she put her phone away and Mohn out of her mind.
Over the next few days Mohn continued to text, undeterred by Meph's lack of response. "Am I annoying you?", "It's so nice out today!", "Hang out Sunday?" littered Meph's inbox. After three days and 234 text Meph was fed up. This must stop, she thought. Being the bleeding heart pseudo communist that she was, Meph decided to let him down easy via his favorite form of communication, the text. After coming up with what she considered to be thoughtful but firm, she sent the text. "It looks like you are looking for something far more intense than I am, I am moving away. Good Luck!"
"Hey there Meph!" His enthusiasm caught her off guard. "I'm so excited to finally meet you." His arms reached out in what she could only assume was meant to be an introductory embrace. The slight stench of body odor and axe mingled with the night air.
"Hi Mohn." she said, trying unsuccessfully to dodge his hug, instead ending up with a half hug of his malodorous shoulder. "I'm excited to meet you too, I guess." He laughed at her candor, mistaking it for sarcasm.
"I've really been looking forward to this date. You are the first person I've seen on match that I really click with."
"Really? Well I don't know if we click, we just met." Again, laughter.
They walked towards a restaurant Meph had meticulously researched and chosen earlier that day. Knowing that Mohn, her internet date, was coming in from the suburbs of DC and wanted to "make a night of it" she had been forced to agree to a dinner date, something she usually tried to avoid. While not dainty by any stretch of the imagination, Meph was a picky eater and her refusal to ingest nuts, peanut butter, olives, mushrooms and avocados sometimes made for awkward moments and stunted dinner table conversation. Restrictive eating habits aside, there were other issues to confront when meeting someone for an actual meal. How expensive was too expensive? How ethnic was too ethnic for food on a first meeting? Should they go somewhere that offered a kid's menu? After much debate and input from annoyed friends and family, Meph settled on a trendy Thai restaurant that had received good reviews but had a moderately priced menu.
The walk to the restaurant felt long, like a dream where no matter how fast or far you run, you never reach your destination. Mohn rambled. He was at graduate school in near by College Park, Md studying orchestral music. He was hoping to transfer to a better school to receive his PhD. He wanted to be a conductor! He went to Emory undergrad and recently had surgery on his smelly shoulder. Meph listened and nodded when appropriate, secretly judging him all the while. She could hear wolves howling in the distance.
The restaurant was staffed by small Asian women, all with a dead stare in their eye. Despite the heaters and the fact that it was July in DC, Meph could not shake the chill that had encumbered her. Mohn suggested an appetizer, saying he would pick because he was the man.
"You know what episode of The Office this reminds me of?" Mohn asked after the waitress took their order. Meph resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "The one were Kelly invites everyone to the Indian event..." His voice faded off as Meph began to die inside. A girl full of neurosis and a natural tendency towards anal retentiveness, there were many things about a great number of people that bothered her. On the top of this long and irrational list was referencing Office episodes excessively. Yes, the tv show starring Steve Carrell is great. It is funny and at times relevant, however bringing it up in conversation was probably funnier and fresher four years ago when it first came out, she reasoned.
The appetizer arrived just as Mohn finished making his outdated and longwinded Office comparison. It had peanuts on it.
"I won't eat those," Meph said, sticking the food with her fork.
"That's what she said." Mohn laughed. "Do you think we'll talk about anything serious all night or will it be a battle of the wits and all sarcasm?"
This baffled Meph, up until now she had been totally sincere. When she told him she didn't care about his musical career, when she said he was being dramatic about shoulder surgery, when she said his Match.com picture wasn't really that accurate and she was in fact disappointed by the reality of his face, when she asked him if he was really six feet tall, she did so in earnest.
"Ha," was all she could muster.
he rain came down steadily outside while the daters ate. Lightening crashed down on the streets outside as thunder, her constant companion clapped in approval. The conversation turned serious. Mohn was of the conservative sort, a supporter of John McCain and his sidekick Sarah Palin. He was brought up Roman Catholic and attended Church weekly. He believed that the Pope, the Earthly incarnation of God, should be worshipped and his decrees strictly adhered to. Choice, Mohn said, was not a woman's right. "I mean if you got pregnant Meph, we'd figure it out, but I wouldn't put abortion on the table" he concluded. Meph felt a pang of disapproval and the need to go third wave feminist on his ass, but refrained instead taking comfort in the knowledge that Mohn would not be getting her pregnant any time soon.
"So do you go to Church?" Mohn stuffed a bite of pork fried rice in his full mouth.
"No, I'm a big Jew. A big liberal Jew. I think Obama is a sexy black man. I hope we socialize health care. Class based society is dumb, I am a communist."
"Diversity is our strength." Mohn remained visibly unshaken
"What should we do after this?" Mohn said as the waitress placed the check on the table. "I'll pay for this, you get dessert. Lets do something romantic like ice cream or Starbucks." Meph held back the vomit that sprang up in her throat.
"What can I get that will be easiest to eat while I hold your hand?" Mohn pondered aloud as they stood in line at the ice cream parlor. This time her disgust and utter repulsion was in concealable. The chortle erupted before Meph even knew what was happening, spit and mocking laughter flew everywhere.
"You will NOT be holding my hand." Meph said, visibly shaken. "I'll have a small cone of chocolate," she then told the girl behind the counter. Mohn apparently unphased by Meph's behavior asked the girl for a large chocolate. As they approached the cash register Mohn pointed at Meph, "She'll be paying," he said smugly. She handed the cashier ten dollars knowing that no amount of money could salvage this date.
Mohn insisted they walk as they eat their creamed ice. Meph made sure to keep her hands close to her body and occupied at all times. Mohn laughed as Meph discussed the inherent unfairness of match, that all the girls were far better looking than the guys. This nuance seemed to be lost on Mohn.
"Isn't it great that we have the exact same sense of humor!" Mohn exclaimed.
"I'm not sure about that." Meph grabbed the ponytail of hair on her shoulder and began examining each individual piece for split ends..
They continued to stroll through the dark and deserted streets. Suddenly something appeared in the distance. At first Meph thought it was a mirage, a glimmer of hope flickering in front of her. It was brightly lit and the escalator was humming, it was the Metro! The end was in sight.
"Well you better hurry to make the last train!" Meph said, exhibiting more excitement in these nine words than she had all night. Mohn lingered, standing in Meph's personal space. He positioned his face directly in front of hers. He is NOT 6 feet, she thought.
"I had so much fun." She could feel his pork fried rice breath all over her face and neck.
"Yeah this was great." The sarcasm he had so yearned for earlier was finally starting to kick in!
"So I'm not sure if you're busy this weekend, but would you want to hang out on Sunday?" He was a close talker and she felt not only his hands on her waist, his spittle on her cheek, but a pressure in her heart. For so long she had yearned for a second date. Having been rejected by all those who were legitimately taller than her, she wondered, was this all that was left?
"I, I guess," she stammered, instantly knowing this was a mistake.
He wrapped her in joyous hug promising to text her.
"I hate texting." She said, tasting regret in her mouth.
Meph awoke on Thursday morning with a sense of hope and possibility. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, the birds were singing, the date was over. Sure Mohn might text her. She had said she would see him again, but a casual "I guess" was not a commitment. It was one date, they hadn't signed a marriage contract. Walking to work she felt confident that if and when he contacted her she was not obliged to respond.
It wasn't until after that morning's staff meeting that she saw it, "At national gallery, shall I tell you about the paintings so you can live vicariously through me?" Ignore.
An hour later Meph was juggling G-chat, the New York Times, celebrity gossip websites and expense reports when her phone vibrated again, "What you don't like art?" Ignore.
"Too busy to text?" This kid just doesn't get the hint, Meph thought when she saw his third text in as many hours. Ignore, Meph decided to put it out of her mind and focus on work. However by the time she got home from the gym and finished dinner that night, the situation had taken a turn for the worse.
"I know I'm annoying, but I would really like to see you again, please call me." Meph began to feel the strength to reject him drain out of her. The familiar feelings of guilt and the need for male attention welled up in her chest. Maybe I led him on, she thought. Maybe I shouldn't have laughed when he made that weird Michael Jackson joke. But he did make you pay for his overpriced large ice cream, she countered herself. Her resolve returned and she put her phone away and Mohn out of her mind.
Over the next few days Mohn continued to text, undeterred by Meph's lack of response. "Am I annoying you?", "It's so nice out today!", "Hang out Sunday?" littered Meph's inbox. After three days and 234 text Meph was fed up. This must stop, she thought. Being the bleeding heart pseudo communist that she was, Meph decided to let him down easy via his favorite form of communication, the text. After coming up with what she considered to be thoughtful but firm, she sent the text. "It looks like you are looking for something far more intense than I am, I am moving away. Good Luck!"
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Hypochondria Mitochondria
The litmus test for a sick day in the Mevi-Madickman household was how late my mother happened to be running that day. If she was on time (read 5-15 minutes behind schedule) and I sauntered into her bathroom still clad in my over-sized Pillsbury Dough Boy sleep/school/overall favorite t-shirt (why any parent would dress their pudgy pre-pubescent daughter in a t-shirt depicting a character made of doughy carbohydrates begging to be poked in the fat of his stomach is beyond me, but I digress), whining of a sore throat, my mother would send me back to my room to dress for school (which really only required throwing on some jeans as that shirt was my uniform for the vast majority of my formative years).
If Melizabeth was truly running late (about 30-90 minutes behind schedule) and was rushing to get out the door, I was pretty much guaranteed a day in front of the TV. With no time to feel my head for fever, inspect my tonsils for inflammation, or check my neck for swollen glands Melizabeth was forced to indulge my hypochondria and grant me the coveted sick day. My mother's inability to properly plan and prepare for timely arrival to work, or really any sort of commitment or event, ensured that I got a "get out of school free" pass pretty much whenever I wanted.
Now, being the deluded child that I was, I actually believed I was sick whenever I made the frequent request to stay home due to illness. There are just so many diseases, conditions, bacterium and worms to contract; my young mind was sure I had all of them. Hook worm was of particular concern to me. It still is. Walking around barefoot, especially around a pool, is basically like an open door invitation to those parasitic little bastards. For the most part though, I kept it simple: stomach aches and throat aches, pink eye and sinusitis, Ebola and botulism.
The claim to have fallen ill with one of a myriad of deadly (or at least horribly disfiguring) diseases was accompanied by a manifestation of the symptoms. As this was before WebMD, I was forced to use my science book and my imagination to come up with these symptoms. Leprosy was accompanied by swollen toes. Bronchitis could be detected by a rash behind the knees. Indigestion was marked by an itchy throat and horse voice.
Because my parents were good Christian Scientists and supremely lazy (yet loving), my illnesses went undiagnosed by the medical establishment. Instead the cure for whatever ailed me lay in cheese doodles and a full day of "Hey Dude". Without fail this insured my full recovery and the next morning I headed off to school a healthy and happy girl. On the rare occasion that my parentals did think some sort of medical intervention was needed, my self diagnosis was almost always inexplicably "wrong". There was the time I, along with my childhood best friend Mhloe, insisted our hearing was in someway impaired. Our mothers took Mhloe and I to the local hospital where hearing tests were administered by a "medical professional". We were summarily told that it was not our hearing that was the problem. Apparently it was our listening skills that were impaired. Then there was the time I had asthma. Again my parents took me to a "doctor" to find the cause of my wheezing and shortness of breath. The "doctor" claimed that I was out of shape and chubby and perhaps this was the reason I had trouble breathing when playing rather vigorously. Fucking hack. This is why to this day I do not believe in modern medicine.
Along with my distrust of doctors my propensity for contracting rare and deadly illnesses has also stayed with me. In recent years my hypochondria has evolved to a real and ever present fear of meningitis. Yes, I have a vaccine and no, I do not live in a dorm or an otherwise communal space, but what people don't know is that meningitis is EVERYWHERE. Common signs of bacterial meningitis include but are not limited too a sore/aching neck (specifically the back of the neck), a rash around your ankles and death. I exhibit the first two symptoms about ninety percent of the time and the other ten percent I am just waiting to drop dead. Because I like to keep everyone around me aware of my pressing condition, I talk about my meningitis a lot. I complain about the pain in my neck, the inevitable and eventual amputation of limbs (a by product of the bacteria spreading throughout your body), and the long haul to death (while most people die within a week, I'm a fighter and have had it for years, always on the verge).
Most people cloak their sadness and concern in feigned annoyance. "Go to the doctor" friends will say. Or "Mephanie shut up you do not have meningitis, you would be dead by now." Oh, how they care. Of course I do have meningitis, and of course I will not be seeing any doctors for it. I will fight off this bacterial killer with soap and wits.
I mean sure, there have been a couple of times over the years when I was forced to seek the help of a trained professional. There was that time I broke my wrist in college while doing the running man and the time I broke my nose while actually running. Concerned friends forced me to go the emergency room and get a cast after the running man incident (its a damned dangerous dance). But I'm telling you, that cast looked like my 8th grade paper mache volcano. I could have made that for half the price, half the wait, and there would have been lava shooting out of my arm! Some people find it weird that someone so beset by disease should refuse medical treatment. I say what kills you slowly makes you stronger!
If Melizabeth was truly running late (about 30-90 minutes behind schedule) and was rushing to get out the door, I was pretty much guaranteed a day in front of the TV. With no time to feel my head for fever, inspect my tonsils for inflammation, or check my neck for swollen glands Melizabeth was forced to indulge my hypochondria and grant me the coveted sick day. My mother's inability to properly plan and prepare for timely arrival to work, or really any sort of commitment or event, ensured that I got a "get out of school free" pass pretty much whenever I wanted.
Now, being the deluded child that I was, I actually believed I was sick whenever I made the frequent request to stay home due to illness. There are just so many diseases, conditions, bacterium and worms to contract; my young mind was sure I had all of them. Hook worm was of particular concern to me. It still is. Walking around barefoot, especially around a pool, is basically like an open door invitation to those parasitic little bastards. For the most part though, I kept it simple: stomach aches and throat aches, pink eye and sinusitis, Ebola and botulism.
The claim to have fallen ill with one of a myriad of deadly (or at least horribly disfiguring) diseases was accompanied by a manifestation of the symptoms. As this was before WebMD, I was forced to use my science book and my imagination to come up with these symptoms. Leprosy was accompanied by swollen toes. Bronchitis could be detected by a rash behind the knees. Indigestion was marked by an itchy throat and horse voice.
Because my parents were good Christian Scientists and supremely lazy (yet loving), my illnesses went undiagnosed by the medical establishment. Instead the cure for whatever ailed me lay in cheese doodles and a full day of "Hey Dude". Without fail this insured my full recovery and the next morning I headed off to school a healthy and happy girl. On the rare occasion that my parentals did think some sort of medical intervention was needed, my self diagnosis was almost always inexplicably "wrong". There was the time I, along with my childhood best friend Mhloe, insisted our hearing was in someway impaired. Our mothers took Mhloe and I to the local hospital where hearing tests were administered by a "medical professional". We were summarily told that it was not our hearing that was the problem. Apparently it was our listening skills that were impaired. Then there was the time I had asthma. Again my parents took me to a "doctor" to find the cause of my wheezing and shortness of breath. The "doctor" claimed that I was out of shape and chubby and perhaps this was the reason I had trouble breathing when playing rather vigorously. Fucking hack. This is why to this day I do not believe in modern medicine.
Along with my distrust of doctors my propensity for contracting rare and deadly illnesses has also stayed with me. In recent years my hypochondria has evolved to a real and ever present fear of meningitis. Yes, I have a vaccine and no, I do not live in a dorm or an otherwise communal space, but what people don't know is that meningitis is EVERYWHERE. Common signs of bacterial meningitis include but are not limited too a sore/aching neck (specifically the back of the neck), a rash around your ankles and death. I exhibit the first two symptoms about ninety percent of the time and the other ten percent I am just waiting to drop dead. Because I like to keep everyone around me aware of my pressing condition, I talk about my meningitis a lot. I complain about the pain in my neck, the inevitable and eventual amputation of limbs (a by product of the bacteria spreading throughout your body), and the long haul to death (while most people die within a week, I'm a fighter and have had it for years, always on the verge).
Most people cloak their sadness and concern in feigned annoyance. "Go to the doctor" friends will say. Or "Mephanie shut up you do not have meningitis, you would be dead by now." Oh, how they care. Of course I do have meningitis, and of course I will not be seeing any doctors for it. I will fight off this bacterial killer with soap and wits.
I mean sure, there have been a couple of times over the years when I was forced to seek the help of a trained professional. There was that time I broke my wrist in college while doing the running man and the time I broke my nose while actually running. Concerned friends forced me to go the emergency room and get a cast after the running man incident (its a damned dangerous dance). But I'm telling you, that cast looked like my 8th grade paper mache volcano. I could have made that for half the price, half the wait, and there would have been lava shooting out of my arm! Some people find it weird that someone so beset by disease should refuse medical treatment. I say what kills you slowly makes you stronger!
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