You know what gets old? Getting whistled at from vehicles. Yes- I realize I am complaining about receiving "compliments;" but- honestly- if a compliment were a body, the drive by whistle/honk would be the pale under belly. Lame and something no one wants any part of.
Most of the time, I receive the cat calls as I make my way to or from work. And I can't imagine my facial expressions at any of these points warrant a shout out. Apparently the men who are brave enough to hit on someone from a moving vehicle are also the same guys who would hit on someone with RBF (resting bitch face). I guess they are thinking "that girl I just sped by could be cute if she didn't look like she just smell a fart. At least she can't slap me from the side of the road."
A few weeks ago, though, someone was clever enough to win my heart over from a moving vehicle. I was standing at the light waiting to cross when a BMW made its way down the street. The driver started honking and some guys whistled out of the back seat. As I rolled my eyes, I caught a quick glimpse of the car. Then I did a double take. Someone was hanging their entire ass out of the front window. It was spectacular.
As I crossed the street, my phone vibrated. It was my Dad. "Guess what?" I asked as I picked up. "Guess what just happened to me?"
"What?"
"Someone just mooned me from a car."
"Like full moon?"
"Yep."
"But it's a Wednesday..."
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Thursday, July 4, 2013
God bless America
A few years ago we were visiting my Aunt over the 4th of July. She lives a few blocks from a country club that celebrates the 4th appropriately- with a pyrotechnical display of America's unyielding pride.
They shoot off fireworks.
We were planning on grilling and eating dinner outside so that we could enjoy the show.
There were other people coming over and we wanted to get an idea of the schedule, so my Aunt called the country club to ask when the fireworks would start.
Her question was met with a pregnant pause.
"After the dinner is served," the employee sighed as he rolled his eyes at the idea of a freeloading American plebeian.
My Aunt held back a laugh as she hung up the phone.
While we didn't have a set schedule, our 4th still played out perfectly: burgers, family, and fireworks (without having to wait in line at the bar or for the valet to get our car).
They shoot off fireworks.
We were planning on grilling and eating dinner outside so that we could enjoy the show.
There were other people coming over and we wanted to get an idea of the schedule, so my Aunt called the country club to ask when the fireworks would start.
Her question was met with a pregnant pause.
"After the dinner is served," the employee sighed as he rolled his eyes at the idea of a freeloading American plebeian.
My Aunt held back a laugh as she hung up the phone.
While we didn't have a set schedule, our 4th still played out perfectly: burgers, family, and fireworks (without having to wait in line at the bar or for the valet to get our car).
 |
| Can't hold us back. We've got style and big ass sunflowers. |
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Momma Wasabi
A few months ago my parents were in town for a weekend and I decided that we should have dinner at a sushi place that they had never been to. My mom isn't a huge sushi fan but always finds other things on the menu to whet her appetite.
While she is not a big sushi fan, she is consistently a fan of wrapping up the meal when she is done eating. And "meal" here applies to everyone's meal- not just hers. And this dinner was no exception. As is typical, she ate light and fast and was done way before my Dad and me. My Dad and I also tend to talk and eat a lot more than her, so that could be part of the unaligned feast lengths. Nevertheless, Momma-san had no use to draw out dinner at the sushi restaurant and, when she was done eating and done listening to us talk, she politely started combining the leftovers onto one plate to make it easier for the waiter. (She's nothing if not thoughtful).
The minute I saw her reach for my sushi roll in order to organize and combine, I made a snotty comment that probably made her wistfully muse about what life would have been like if she and my father had used a prophylactic about 30 years ago. (Sorry Momma--- I heart you!).
But- alas- the deed had been done. With ninja like speed, my Mom had cleared all of the remaining sushi pieces from the big plate to a smaller, more condensed one and had officially declared the meal over. Her hand motions were reminiscent to Jerry Lee Lewis banging out rock and roll and my Dad and I tried to focus as we watched her make a fatal error. As her right hand moved the final roll, her left hand swooped down for a nugget of wasabi and then popped it into her mouth. She was on autopilot. I heard my Dad try to get out a warning but it was too late. Our eyes widened as my Dad and I watched my Mom accidentally pull a "Jackass" like stunt. We were anticipating a Roger Rabbit moment, one in which her eyes bugged out and smoke billowed from her ears. Time at our table slowed to almost a stop and then suddenly accelerated as my Mom spit the green orb out with a large "PEHHHHHHUGHHHHHHHH."
I lost it. I couldn't contain the snorts or the tears and didn't even try to be respectful of the fact that other diners were sitting close enough to touch. I banged on the table and howled.
UUUHHHHH-----HUUHHHHHHH---- THAT'S WHAT YOU GET!!!! WRAPPING UP MY MEAL. TOUCHING MY SUSHI!!!! AHAHAHAHAH.
Momma, in between gulps of water, retorted: "I thought it was--- glug glug glug--- avocado!!!"
My Dad had tried to do the right thing by stopping her but still did not lose sight of the humor of the situation. He had the giggles too. "I tried to tell you- but you were too fast- and then that was it. We just had to see how long it would take you."
I recapped the scene no less than a dozen times that night to my parents. And it made me laugh every time.
I would wrap up with a life lesson, but none were learned. My Mom continues to end meals when she is ready but sometimes the abrupt ending is blog worthy. Thank you, Momma-san!
While she is not a big sushi fan, she is consistently a fan of wrapping up the meal when she is done eating. And "meal" here applies to everyone's meal- not just hers. And this dinner was no exception. As is typical, she ate light and fast and was done way before my Dad and me. My Dad and I also tend to talk and eat a lot more than her, so that could be part of the unaligned feast lengths. Nevertheless, Momma-san had no use to draw out dinner at the sushi restaurant and, when she was done eating and done listening to us talk, she politely started combining the leftovers onto one plate to make it easier for the waiter. (She's nothing if not thoughtful).
The minute I saw her reach for my sushi roll in order to organize and combine, I made a snotty comment that probably made her wistfully muse about what life would have been like if she and my father had used a prophylactic about 30 years ago. (Sorry Momma--- I heart you!).
But- alas- the deed had been done. With ninja like speed, my Mom had cleared all of the remaining sushi pieces from the big plate to a smaller, more condensed one and had officially declared the meal over. Her hand motions were reminiscent to Jerry Lee Lewis banging out rock and roll and my Dad and I tried to focus as we watched her make a fatal error. As her right hand moved the final roll, her left hand swooped down for a nugget of wasabi and then popped it into her mouth. She was on autopilot. I heard my Dad try to get out a warning but it was too late. Our eyes widened as my Dad and I watched my Mom accidentally pull a "Jackass" like stunt. We were anticipating a Roger Rabbit moment, one in which her eyes bugged out and smoke billowed from her ears. Time at our table slowed to almost a stop and then suddenly accelerated as my Mom spit the green orb out with a large "PEHHHHHHUGHHHHHHHH."
I lost it. I couldn't contain the snorts or the tears and didn't even try to be respectful of the fact that other diners were sitting close enough to touch. I banged on the table and howled.
UUUHHHHH-----HUUHHHHHHH---- THAT'S WHAT YOU GET!!!! WRAPPING UP MY MEAL. TOUCHING MY SUSHI!!!! AHAHAHAHAH.
Momma, in between gulps of water, retorted: "I thought it was--- glug glug glug--- avocado!!!"
My Dad had tried to do the right thing by stopping her but still did not lose sight of the humor of the situation. He had the giggles too. "I tried to tell you- but you were too fast- and then that was it. We just had to see how long it would take you."
I recapped the scene no less than a dozen times that night to my parents. And it made me laugh every time.
I would wrap up with a life lesson, but none were learned. My Mom continues to end meals when she is ready but sometimes the abrupt ending is blog worthy. Thank you, Momma-san!
Friday, May 24, 2013
The dangers of slo-mo replays
I'm the first to tell you that I can dish it but can't take it. I do not like being the target of a prank or joke--- especially if there is more than one person in on it. But this one was good and played out much better than the pranker ever expected.
Last fall, I was at a very big college football game when I got a text from my friend, Michael.
*I just saw you on TV.*
I was pumped. I told my Dad and my Uncle that we had, despite our sub prime seats, been included in the shots of the crowd.
They both responded with the same question- "how did they get us all the way up here?"
"I don't know- the sky cam? They can do anything these days! I am not sure, but my friend told me he saw us."
Even with my excitement, a little apprehension sank in. How did they get us all the way up here?
I texted him back- are you sure it was us? Did you see the guy rooting for the other team sitting right next to us?
*Yep. Saw him and everything.*
My phone vibrated again. It was another friend of mine, Charles.
*I just saw you on TV at the game!*
I was beaming at this point! We had been sitting in the same seats for over two decades and I had never made the big screen and now----- I finally had-- AND--- at a moment where my team was winning, so I wasn't one of those "devastated beyond rational and acceptable belief that my team was about to lose" people.
I bragged about my new found fame to a few people after the game and went on with my life.
I was channel surfing a few weeks later when I came across a replay of the game.
PERFECT. Now I could witness my moment of glory. All it was going to take was a little bit of math. I paused the game and got out my phone to see the exact time that my friend texted me. I googled the time that the game kicked off and did some quick calculations to figure out that I needed to keep my eyes peeled during the middle of the second quarter.
I settled in and half heartedly watched the replay until the second quarter, at which point I turned on my hawk eyes and started scanning the crowd. (Aside- about me- I like looking for things-- shells, waldo, me at football games etc). At this point the game itself kind of became a nuisance. I didn't really care about watching any of the downs, TDs, or turnovers-- I just wanted to see my shining face in the crowd. I would scan forward anytime they annoyingly showed the players and field just to get to another crowd shot and then I would quickly pause and start perusing. Just to make sure I saw everything I would play the crowd shot on slo-mo.
BBBBBBBIIIIIIGGGGGGG GGGGUUUUUYYYYYY OFFFFFFFFFFERRRRRRRSSSSSS POPPPPPPCORRRRRRNNNNN TOOOO WIFFFFFFFEEEE WHOOOOO SHAKKKKESSS HERRRRR HEEEEEAAADDDDDD NOOOOOOOOO.
I made it to the end of the second quarter without getting a glimpse of myself and checked my math. I had to have missed it. I started over. After 45 minutes of this, I texted my friend, Michael--- Are you sure you saw me in the stands?
*What?*
At the game- you texted me and said you just saw me in the stands. Are you sure it was me?
*Oh yeah- yeah- no- I didn't see you. I just made that up.*
Really?
*Yeah and I told Charles to text you, too. Why?*
I just spent 45 minutes watching the second quarter in slo-mo trying to see myself.
*Really!?!? HAHAHAHAHHAHA*
(My response that is not blog appropriate)
*HAHAHAH Charles was certain you were going to know we were lying! But this is too great! I didn't even think about you trying to watch it. I just thought you were going to tell everyone. HAHAHAHAH*
I fumed for a while and garnished a good life lesson. It has nothing to do with being shallow and how spending the better part of the night trying to make sure I looked cute on national TV backfired on me.Or how technology has advanced to the point of truly allowing us to rot our brains in slow motion. Or how watching crowd shots over and over makes you realize that America really does have a problem with obesity and the irony of the crowd juxtaposed with the players reinforces the ever growing issue that this nation is really unhealthy. Nope- it has nothing to do with any of that. Really it boils down to one thing-- Michael is a liar.
Last fall, I was at a very big college football game when I got a text from my friend, Michael.
*I just saw you on TV.*
I was pumped. I told my Dad and my Uncle that we had, despite our sub prime seats, been included in the shots of the crowd.
They both responded with the same question- "how did they get us all the way up here?"
"I don't know- the sky cam? They can do anything these days! I am not sure, but my friend told me he saw us."
Even with my excitement, a little apprehension sank in. How did they get us all the way up here?
I texted him back- are you sure it was us? Did you see the guy rooting for the other team sitting right next to us?
*Yep. Saw him and everything.*
My phone vibrated again. It was another friend of mine, Charles.
*I just saw you on TV at the game!*
I was beaming at this point! We had been sitting in the same seats for over two decades and I had never made the big screen and now----- I finally had-- AND--- at a moment where my team was winning, so I wasn't one of those "devastated beyond rational and acceptable belief that my team was about to lose" people.
 |
| "This is sadder than Granmaw's funeral." |
I was channel surfing a few weeks later when I came across a replay of the game.
PERFECT. Now I could witness my moment of glory. All it was going to take was a little bit of math. I paused the game and got out my phone to see the exact time that my friend texted me. I googled the time that the game kicked off and did some quick calculations to figure out that I needed to keep my eyes peeled during the middle of the second quarter.
I settled in and half heartedly watched the replay until the second quarter, at which point I turned on my hawk eyes and started scanning the crowd. (Aside- about me- I like looking for things-- shells, waldo, me at football games etc). At this point the game itself kind of became a nuisance. I didn't really care about watching any of the downs, TDs, or turnovers-- I just wanted to see my shining face in the crowd. I would scan forward anytime they annoyingly showed the players and field just to get to another crowd shot and then I would quickly pause and start perusing. Just to make sure I saw everything I would play the crowd shot on slo-mo.
BBBBBBBIIIIIIGGGGGGG GGGGUUUUUYYYYYY OFFFFFFFFFFERRRRRRRSSSSSS POPPPPPPCORRRRRRNNNNN TOOOO WIFFFFFFFEEEE WHOOOOO SHAKKKKESSS HERRRRR HEEEEEAAADDDDDD NOOOOOOOOO.
I made it to the end of the second quarter without getting a glimpse of myself and checked my math. I had to have missed it. I started over. After 45 minutes of this, I texted my friend, Michael--- Are you sure you saw me in the stands?
*What?*
At the game- you texted me and said you just saw me in the stands. Are you sure it was me?
*Oh yeah- yeah- no- I didn't see you. I just made that up.*
Really?
*Yeah and I told Charles to text you, too. Why?*
I just spent 45 minutes watching the second quarter in slo-mo trying to see myself.
*Really!?!? HAHAHAHAHHAHA*
(My response that is not blog appropriate)
*HAHAHAH Charles was certain you were going to know we were lying! But this is too great! I didn't even think about you trying to watch it. I just thought you were going to tell everyone. HAHAHAHAH*
I fumed for a while and garnished a good life lesson. It has nothing to do with being shallow and how spending the better part of the night trying to make sure I looked cute on national TV backfired on me.Or how technology has advanced to the point of truly allowing us to rot our brains in slow motion. Or how watching crowd shots over and over makes you realize that America really does have a problem with obesity and the irony of the crowd juxtaposed with the players reinforces the ever growing issue that this nation is really unhealthy. Nope- it has nothing to do with any of that. Really it boils down to one thing-- Michael is a liar.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Gotta know your quarters
A few weeks ago my Dad, a friend, and I were waiting for the bus to head downtown to participate in the Crescent City Classic (a 10K that is always won by Kenyans... wait-- is that redundant?). It was early in the morning and we were all carrying exactly what we needed and nothing more:
"Which state quarter has Elizabeth II on it?"
My friend, Michael, and my Dad both looked at me.
I inspected the quarter with some asinine sentiments.
"I bet it's some dumb state that doesn't realize we broke away from the British... oh, shit."
"I grabbed a stupid Canadian quarter! Why do I even have this in my change jar? I'm not going to be able to get on the bus. I can't go downtown. I can't run today!"
My Dad tried to insert a voice of reason: "Just pretend like you don't know. Play it cool and see if the machine accepts it."
Now that sounded easy enough, but playing it cool is not exactly one of my strong suits.
The bus pulled up and I got on. I put my dollar in and quickly put in the quarter. The machine spit it out the bottom. The bus driver told me to try it again. And again the machine said "peh- I don't want anything related to a LOONEY, you fool." The bus driver picked up the rejected quarter. "I don't know what this is, but it isn't a coin."
I panicked.
"I'm sorry!!! It's a Canadian quarter. But I live right there! I can run home right now and run to the next stop. You won't have to wait. I promise. I'll sprint. I grabbed the wrong change!"
At that point a good Samaritan stepped in. I think my flailing was making them uncomfortable.
"Here's a quarter. Here you go."
"Ohmygod- thank you so much. I have no idea how that happened. Here- take the Canadian quarter!!"
I got on the bus and sat down with a relieved sigh. The friendly passenger got up and gave me back my coin. "Thanks, but I don't really want a Canadian quarter."
I understood that. I pocketed my silly coin with an embarasssed look and let the lesson of the day sink in:
No state quarter has Queen Elizabeth II on it. None of them. Not even the "dumb ones."
- headphones and ipod----- check
- house key--------check
- $1.25------che....
"Which state quarter has Elizabeth II on it?"
My friend, Michael, and my Dad both looked at me.
I inspected the quarter with some asinine sentiments.
"I bet it's some dumb state that doesn't realize we broke away from the British... oh, shit."
"I grabbed a stupid Canadian quarter! Why do I even have this in my change jar? I'm not going to be able to get on the bus. I can't go downtown. I can't run today!"
My Dad tried to insert a voice of reason: "Just pretend like you don't know. Play it cool and see if the machine accepts it."
Now that sounded easy enough, but playing it cool is not exactly one of my strong suits.
The bus pulled up and I got on. I put my dollar in and quickly put in the quarter. The machine spit it out the bottom. The bus driver told me to try it again. And again the machine said "peh- I don't want anything related to a LOONEY, you fool." The bus driver picked up the rejected quarter. "I don't know what this is, but it isn't a coin."
I panicked.
"I'm sorry!!! It's a Canadian quarter. But I live right there! I can run home right now and run to the next stop. You won't have to wait. I promise. I'll sprint. I grabbed the wrong change!"
At that point a good Samaritan stepped in. I think my flailing was making them uncomfortable.
"Here's a quarter. Here you go."
"Ohmygod- thank you so much. I have no idea how that happened. Here- take the Canadian quarter!!"
I got on the bus and sat down with a relieved sigh. The friendly passenger got up and gave me back my coin. "Thanks, but I don't really want a Canadian quarter."
I understood that. I pocketed my silly coin with an embarasssed look and let the lesson of the day sink in:
No state quarter has Queen Elizabeth II on it. None of them. Not even the "dumb ones."
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Have Doughnuts, Will Travel
I definitely get it from my parents. My family has never thought a distance too great to traverse with local delicacies to share with others.
My mom has told me the story of flying back from New York with knishes (the whole plane smelled like them!). I was in Austin with my dad when he bought a Styrofoam ice chest so the brisket would make it back OK. We annually bring pasta and coffee to our relatives in Tennessee. One time I wrapped up the leftovers from Carnegie Deli, put them in my big purse, went to a show on Broadway, and the drove back upstate with them. (And let's be honest- left overs is an unfair term here- we ate on these for a few days after). If there's some amazing food from somewhere else, why not travel with it so you can share it with someone you love?
I put this familial theory to practice recently when I decided to bring my coworkers a box of doughnuts from Portland. That's right- doughnuts. From Oregon to Louisiana. These weren't just any doughnuts, they were Voodoo Doughnuts ("The magic is in the hole!"). And they were delicious. And they were in a HUGE PINK BOX. And were they worth it? I'm not sure.
I should have realized what I had gotten myself into when I returned to my hotel with the huge pink box and, during the one block walk, no less than three people nudged someone else to point out the Voodoo Doughnuts. "Look son, look what she's got." I smiled and kept going.
Things somewhat started to sink in when I was in the security line in the airport. People started to talk to me about my doughnuts. And the horrible thing was the line wrapped around itself so it would be the same people talking to me when the line moved up enough that we were eye to eye again. It would go like this:
One woman, whose strong suit was not discretion, nudged her husband and pointed at me. "THAT'S where the smell is coming from." As she said this, she made a face like she had just stepped in a pile of T-rex shit. Really? I know sweets are not everyone's thing- but was the confectionery aroma that offensive?
I made it through security and walked my huge pink box to a restaurant. While waiting for my food, a guy approached me.
"Can I see your doughnuts?"
I half-smiled trying to figure out if he was joking.
"I've heard all about Voodoo but I've never seen them in person."
I put my bag down so I could handle the box with two hands and unhooked the cover.
A woman rushed in.
"I want to see them, too! I wasn't going to ask you but I am glad he did!"
They marveled at my bounty.
I kind of felt like a proud parent.
They thanked me and we all went on our way.
I made it over to my gate and it continued. My forearm ached as I balanced the big ass pink box and made small talk about pastries. I really just wanted to sit down and eat my lunch. I didn't want to talk about the doughnuts anymore.
Finally, I had enough. I moved away from everyone and called my Dad.
"I'll never make this mistake again."
"What?"
"People are TALKING to me. Non stop. They want to see the doughnuts. They want to ask about the doughnuts. They all want to make jokes about the doughnuts- I'll buy the whole box from you for $50. If you need to use the bathroom, I'll watch them for you- wink wink. I hate it."
I finally got on my plane and made it to my seat only after grimacing to three more jokes from already seated passengers. I shoved the box under the seat in front of me as quickly as I could.
When we landed in San Francisco, the fiasco started up again. The flight attendants confirmed the rumors as I deplaned.
"We HEARD someone had doughnuts on the plane but we couldn't figure out who it was."
I'd had enough. I made my way through the airport looking as unapproachable as possible.
My face and body told people "No- I don't want to talk," but some people were still brave. Their curiosity prevailed. They still wanted to see the doughnuts.
Enough was enough. I got dinner and asked for a plastic bag from the restaurant. I put the bag around the box and finished my trip with a huge pink box in a slightly opaque THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU bag. You could still see what I was carrying but the veil was enough. People stopped asking. Or at least, for the most part.
Turns out I had the same flight crew on the second leg of my journey. I got on the plane and the flight attendants started laughing.
"We have the doughnut girl again!!!!!"
Right- the doughnut girl. I started to be bitter towards my coworkers. They didn't ask for any of this but for some reason it was their fault. I had made it this far, I was going to finish my journey. But I didn't think any doughnut was good enough for this day of travel.
I finally got to New Orleans and while I was waiting for my luggage, I got my last observer.
"Voodoo doughnuts, huh? Yeah- I actually flew from Portland to New Orleans once with a box. I'll never make that mistake again."
He got it. He had lived it, too.
The next day, my coworkers inhaled the sweets. They loved them. And my fresh memories of discomfort dripped away---just like the sweet sweet glaze on the Mango Tango, or the Grape Ape, or even the Miami Vice Berry. Somehow it was all worth it.
My mom has told me the story of flying back from New York with knishes (the whole plane smelled like them!). I was in Austin with my dad when he bought a Styrofoam ice chest so the brisket would make it back OK. We annually bring pasta and coffee to our relatives in Tennessee. One time I wrapped up the leftovers from Carnegie Deli, put them in my big purse, went to a show on Broadway, and the drove back upstate with them. (And let's be honest- left overs is an unfair term here- we ate on these for a few days after). If there's some amazing food from somewhere else, why not travel with it so you can share it with someone you love?
I put this familial theory to practice recently when I decided to bring my coworkers a box of doughnuts from Portland. That's right- doughnuts. From Oregon to Louisiana. These weren't just any doughnuts, they were Voodoo Doughnuts ("The magic is in the hole!"). And they were delicious. And they were in a HUGE PINK BOX. And were they worth it? I'm not sure.
I should have realized what I had gotten myself into when I returned to my hotel with the huge pink box and, during the one block walk, no less than three people nudged someone else to point out the Voodoo Doughnuts. "Look son, look what she's got." I smiled and kept going.
Things somewhat started to sink in when I was in the security line in the airport. People started to talk to me about my doughnuts. And the horrible thing was the line wrapped around itself so it would be the same people talking to me when the line moved up enough that we were eye to eye again. It would go like this:
- First encounter-- "OOOOHHH, Voodoo Doughnuts. My favorite is the Grape Ape."
- Second encounter-- "So where are you taking those doughnuts?"
- Third encounter-- "New Orleans, hm? I've never been there. My friend went once. They liked it."
One woman, whose strong suit was not discretion, nudged her husband and pointed at me. "THAT'S where the smell is coming from." As she said this, she made a face like she had just stepped in a pile of T-rex shit. Really? I know sweets are not everyone's thing- but was the confectionery aroma that offensive?
I made it through security and walked my huge pink box to a restaurant. While waiting for my food, a guy approached me.
"Can I see your doughnuts?"
I half-smiled trying to figure out if he was joking.
"I've heard all about Voodoo but I've never seen them in person."
I put my bag down so I could handle the box with two hands and unhooked the cover.
A woman rushed in.
"I want to see them, too! I wasn't going to ask you but I am glad he did!"
They marveled at my bounty.
I kind of felt like a proud parent.
They thanked me and we all went on our way.
I made it over to my gate and it continued. My forearm ached as I balanced the big ass pink box and made small talk about pastries. I really just wanted to sit down and eat my lunch. I didn't want to talk about the doughnuts anymore.
Finally, I had enough. I moved away from everyone and called my Dad.
"I'll never make this mistake again."
"What?"
"People are TALKING to me. Non stop. They want to see the doughnuts. They want to ask about the doughnuts. They all want to make jokes about the doughnuts- I'll buy the whole box from you for $50. If you need to use the bathroom, I'll watch them for you- wink wink. I hate it."
I finally got on my plane and made it to my seat only after grimacing to three more jokes from already seated passengers. I shoved the box under the seat in front of me as quickly as I could.
When we landed in San Francisco, the fiasco started up again. The flight attendants confirmed the rumors as I deplaned.
"We HEARD someone had doughnuts on the plane but we couldn't figure out who it was."
I'd had enough. I made my way through the airport looking as unapproachable as possible.
My face and body told people "No- I don't want to talk," but some people were still brave. Their curiosity prevailed. They still wanted to see the doughnuts.
Enough was enough. I got dinner and asked for a plastic bag from the restaurant. I put the bag around the box and finished my trip with a huge pink box in a slightly opaque THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU bag. You could still see what I was carrying but the veil was enough. People stopped asking. Or at least, for the most part.
Turns out I had the same flight crew on the second leg of my journey. I got on the plane and the flight attendants started laughing.
"We have the doughnut girl again!!!!!"
Right- the doughnut girl. I started to be bitter towards my coworkers. They didn't ask for any of this but for some reason it was their fault. I had made it this far, I was going to finish my journey. But I didn't think any doughnut was good enough for this day of travel.
I finally got to New Orleans and while I was waiting for my luggage, I got my last observer.
"Voodoo doughnuts, huh? Yeah- I actually flew from Portland to New Orleans once with a box. I'll never make that mistake again."
He got it. He had lived it, too.
The next day, my coworkers inhaled the sweets. They loved them. And my fresh memories of discomfort dripped away---just like the sweet sweet glaze on the Mango Tango, or the Grape Ape, or even the Miami Vice Berry. Somehow it was all worth it.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
My love affair with my city
I think I've made a terrible mistake. I might have sealed my fate. I decided that if I never married, never had a family, never knew what it was like to have a soul mate- that it was OK. I have New Orleans. I can't help it. Sometimes, when I'm in Audubon Park, I find myself letting out a small sigh coupled with an inward smile. It's like a furtive glance shared between a couple- words aren't necessary to express the emotion. They just know.
Except my furtive glances are not furtive and they are not at another human being. They focus on flowers and palm trees. On streetcars and cast iron gates. On ornate facades and on sidewalks made uneven from the roots of ancient Oaks.
I recently went to a New England wedding that was beautiful. It was cold and snowy. The bride went to school in New Orleans and many of the guests had visited at some point. Most of my conversations rotated around the trips they had made to NOLA and how much they loved it- which was awesome. I got to talk about my relationship without being THAT GIRL who stood around telling everyone how great her boyfriend was. (I was, however, THAT GIRL when I pulled out my phone to show people pictures of my cat... you win some, you lose some).
I always loving hearing people giddily recount their trip to Mardi Gras or their first experience with poboys. I also always love hearing the questions that come from people who have never been here. I got two doozies during the wedding weekend that were too good to pass up:
Ultimately, I guess my love affair with my city somewhat relies on the magic and mystery that comes with New Orleans. As long as I love it and am all too eager to talk about it, I am going to have to put up with idiotic questions.
Or, if things get really bad, I can always pull out pictures of my cat.
Except my furtive glances are not furtive and they are not at another human being. They focus on flowers and palm trees. On streetcars and cast iron gates. On ornate facades and on sidewalks made uneven from the roots of ancient Oaks.
I recently went to a New England wedding that was beautiful. It was cold and snowy. The bride went to school in New Orleans and many of the guests had visited at some point. Most of my conversations rotated around the trips they had made to NOLA and how much they loved it- which was awesome. I got to talk about my relationship without being THAT GIRL who stood around telling everyone how great her boyfriend was. (I was, however, THAT GIRL when I pulled out my phone to show people pictures of my cat... you win some, you lose some).
I always loving hearing people giddily recount their trip to Mardi Gras or their first experience with poboys. I also always love hearing the questions that come from people who have never been here. I got two doozies during the wedding weekend that were too good to pass up:
- You're from Louisiana? So do you speak French?
- I think my "please stop making eye contact with me you idiot" look answered his question, but really I should have said "Si- hablo espanol." (Given his question, he probably would not have known the difference).
- You live in Louisiana? Have you ever harvested wild boars?
- I couldn't immediately make a face to this one because I wasn't sure I heard the question right.
- Me: What?
- Them: You know- boars?
- Me: Yes- I know what boars are but what did you ask me about them?
- Them: Have you harvested them?
- Me: What the hell are you talking about?
- Them: My friend went to Alabama once and did it.
- Me: You do know there is an entire state in between Alabama and Louisiana and that New Orleans is a city, right?
- ......
- Me *Turn around to start talking to someone else.*
Ultimately, I guess my love affair with my city somewhat relies on the magic and mystery that comes with New Orleans. As long as I love it and am all too eager to talk about it, I am going to have to put up with idiotic questions.
Or, if things get really bad, I can always pull out pictures of my cat.
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| And here's one of her in my laundry... |
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