It hasn't been a good day!
I've been peed on once, spit up on twice, changed about 47 horrible diapers, and listened to about 63 straight hours of screaming. I needed to get out of the house.
It's the screaming, really, that makes me want to lay across the center lane of the freeway and wait for some unsuspecting motorist to take me out of my misery. I can take the diapers and the spit up, but THAT SCREAMING!!!! Helen of Troy, save my soul!! So I pack up my screaming pterodactyl and head out: destination unknown...as long as it's a place where screaming is prohibited we are SO there. The ride in the car usually calms him...I am hopeful!
Of course, I don't feel like pumping gas, but I can barely make it down the driveway without a fueling stop, and gas prices ARE on the downswing, soooooo... I pull into BJs. The screaming has grown to unbearable proportions, and I am talking myself through the good Mommy mantra...be calm...it's OK...respond with love...he's only a baby... It feels good to be outside of the car and close the door, screamer inside, for just a minute.
I start the pump and walk around to the other side of the car to slather Mommy love on the screamer. Nothing's working, and my own high pitched cooing is getting on my OWN nerves. UGH! Tank is full, migraine is piercing, so I walk back around to hang the nozzle. From the other side of the pump, I hear "You know your car is running."
Excuse me???
A rather granola-like woman steps into view as if she were Chris Hansen and I just got busted with a minor.
"Pardon me", I say out loud.
"Your engine. It's running."
"Yes, I am very much aware of that", I inform her, already defensive.
"And you know that is a hazard?", she asks me, pouting her lips and staring an accusatory scare.
I am HOT already!! "It's even more hazardous to leave my infant in the car with no air when it's 97 degrees out." I hang the nozzle and take the extra second to realize that she has really pissed me off. "And what's even MORE hazardous is YOU...telling ME how to pump gas when I have been listening to THIS (I yank open the door for full volume) all damn day! Really not a good time, Lady, to be minding my business." I get in the car and screech away.
In retrospect, maybe she meant well. Perhaps she just had my best interest and that of the environment at heart, but caught me in a most unfortunate moment. Or, more likely, she is a nosy wench who needed to be put in her place...and is lucky that I didn't have a match.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Friday, November 19, 2010
Akira and the Buttercup!
If I have to go to jail, I’d rather that it NOT be for taking out a 5-year old, but we, as parents, do what we gotta do.
Soooo…I arrive at after school to pick Jordann up. I am usually greeted by the a delightful assortment of small people with a “Hi Kaya’s Mom" (that’s my “school name”), or a “Kaya’s over there”, or a “KAAAAYYYAAAAA, your Mom is here”. Inevitable, happens every time.
Today was a little different.
Today I get a rousing round of “Akira took Jordann’s flower”. I squint my eyes and shake my head slightly with a shoulder shrug that says, “so what?”. It was a flower. Kids are dramatic. I’m hungry. Who cares? But as I walk through the cafeteria, about 12,000 kids come up to me to tell me about the flower situation. The kids are talking…must be serious!
So I get to Jordann’s classroom, and the first thing she says to me is, “Akira took my flower”. She looks distressed. My baby is not a complainer, so this must, indeed, be an issue.
“What flower, Baby?”
Aaaaand, cue the stream of conscousness run-on sentence of an excited 5-year old. “I picked a flower outside and Akira wanted it, but it was mine, so I wouldn’t give it to her, so she snatched it from me, and she ripped aaalll the petals off, and handed me back the stem.”
Of course I need to know who Akira is, STAT!
“And what did you do, baby.”
“I just stood there and looked at it in horror.” (‘In horror.’????? Where EVER does my child get this dramatic vocabulary?????)
By this time, another 175 or so kids have me trapped in a circle, giving me the details of the “buttercup incident”. All accounts jive, so I know Akira is at fault. I know Akira is a bully. And I know I am about to bust Akira in the jaw. (OK, not really, she’s 5…but she must be dealt with. Bully MY baby? That will be the very last time, Ms. Akira, that much I can tell you for sure.)
“OK. Where is Akira?”, I ask Jordann.
“In the cafeteria.”
“Let’s go!”
Just outside the classroom, I kneel down to explain to Jordann that you don’t let ANYBODY take your stuff or make you feel bad. (If this had been St. Angela Hall, Brooklyn, NY, circa 1975, Akira would have been in the nurses’ office with a bloody nose and a swollen eye, and I would have been in the principal’s office pleading self-defense But my child is a MUCH nicer person than I.) I coach her on what she is to say to Akira when we get to the cafeteria. Chest out! A little louder! Good…got it…on to the caf!
We enter a little dramatic-like.
“Where is Akira?” I say loud enough to be heard without making a scene. About a thousand fingers point to one nappy headded little girl.
I walk up to her and get in her face just enough NOT to be on the six o’clock news.
“Did you take Kaya’s flower?”
About 700 little voices begin to recount the story.
“I’m asking Akira,” I say calmly to the helpful crowd.
Silence.
I get a little closer and lower my voice for dramatic effect.
“Akira, did you take Kaya’s flower?”
Mr. M., the after school director, hears me. He is sharp and stern, and puts a fear in Akira that apparently I couldn’t. “AKIRA, WHAT DID YOU DO?”
Silence from Akira.
“Kaya, what happened to your flower?”, Mr. M. asks.
She responds with her stream of consciousness run-on sentence.
“Oh no she didn’t!!” (Mr. M. is even more dramatic than I am, if that’s possible.) “Watch my babies,” he says to me and heads out the door with Akira. “You are gonna pick her a new flower.”
So as we wait for a fresh, new buttercup, I have a conversation with Mr. M.’s kids about being kind and respecting our friends. It went pretty well, I’d say! The children actually find me quite entertaining.
When Mr. M. comes back with Akira and the buttercup (not to be confused with Akeelah and the bee), Jordann says her piece. Apparently Akira is unmoved. I chat with her about being a good friend and showing respect. I get nothing. Mr. M. explains that this is her usual m.o. and she probably doesn’t care about friends OR respect.
And that’s fine, Miss Akira, but don’t let it happen again, cause you might just end up in the nurse’s office with a bloody nose and a swollen eye…and I just might end up on the six o’clock news!
Soooo…I arrive at after school to pick Jordann up. I am usually greeted by the a delightful assortment of small people with a “Hi Kaya’s Mom" (that’s my “school name”), or a “Kaya’s over there”, or a “KAAAAYYYAAAAA, your Mom is here”. Inevitable, happens every time.
Today was a little different.
Today I get a rousing round of “Akira took Jordann’s flower”. I squint my eyes and shake my head slightly with a shoulder shrug that says, “so what?”. It was a flower. Kids are dramatic. I’m hungry. Who cares? But as I walk through the cafeteria, about 12,000 kids come up to me to tell me about the flower situation. The kids are talking…must be serious!
So I get to Jordann’s classroom, and the first thing she says to me is, “Akira took my flower”. She looks distressed. My baby is not a complainer, so this must, indeed, be an issue.
“What flower, Baby?”
Aaaaand, cue the stream of conscousness run-on sentence of an excited 5-year old. “I picked a flower outside and Akira wanted it, but it was mine, so I wouldn’t give it to her, so she snatched it from me, and she ripped aaalll the petals off, and handed me back the stem.”
Of course I need to know who Akira is, STAT!
“And what did you do, baby.”
“I just stood there and looked at it in horror.” (‘In horror.’????? Where EVER does my child get this dramatic vocabulary?????)
By this time, another 175 or so kids have me trapped in a circle, giving me the details of the “buttercup incident”. All accounts jive, so I know Akira is at fault. I know Akira is a bully. And I know I am about to bust Akira in the jaw. (OK, not really, she’s 5…but she must be dealt with. Bully MY baby? That will be the very last time, Ms. Akira, that much I can tell you for sure.)
“OK. Where is Akira?”, I ask Jordann.
“In the cafeteria.”
“Let’s go!”
Just outside the classroom, I kneel down to explain to Jordann that you don’t let ANYBODY take your stuff or make you feel bad. (If this had been St. Angela Hall, Brooklyn, NY, circa 1975, Akira would have been in the nurses’ office with a bloody nose and a swollen eye, and I would have been in the principal’s office pleading self-defense But my child is a MUCH nicer person than I.) I coach her on what she is to say to Akira when we get to the cafeteria. Chest out! A little louder! Good…got it…on to the caf!
We enter a little dramatic-like.
“Where is Akira?” I say loud enough to be heard without making a scene. About a thousand fingers point to one nappy headded little girl.
I walk up to her and get in her face just enough NOT to be on the six o’clock news.
“Did you take Kaya’s flower?”
About 700 little voices begin to recount the story.
“I’m asking Akira,” I say calmly to the helpful crowd.
Silence.
I get a little closer and lower my voice for dramatic effect.
“Akira, did you take Kaya’s flower?”
Mr. M., the after school director, hears me. He is sharp and stern, and puts a fear in Akira that apparently I couldn’t. “AKIRA, WHAT DID YOU DO?”
Silence from Akira.
“Kaya, what happened to your flower?”, Mr. M. asks.
She responds with her stream of consciousness run-on sentence.
“Oh no she didn’t!!” (Mr. M. is even more dramatic than I am, if that’s possible.) “Watch my babies,” he says to me and heads out the door with Akira. “You are gonna pick her a new flower.”
So as we wait for a fresh, new buttercup, I have a conversation with Mr. M.’s kids about being kind and respecting our friends. It went pretty well, I’d say! The children actually find me quite entertaining.
When Mr. M. comes back with Akira and the buttercup (not to be confused with Akeelah and the bee), Jordann says her piece. Apparently Akira is unmoved. I chat with her about being a good friend and showing respect. I get nothing. Mr. M. explains that this is her usual m.o. and she probably doesn’t care about friends OR respect.
And that’s fine, Miss Akira, but don’t let it happen again, cause you might just end up in the nurse’s office with a bloody nose and a swollen eye…and I just might end up on the six o’clock news!
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Teeth Not Required!
Seriously??? Can I catch a break, please???
OK...all I intended was to have an innocent evening out with my girlfriends. I believe that I have mentioned to you that I am a freak magnet, and tonight proved to be no exception.
So we're sitting there, Jackie and I, in the dining area of Oliver Twist, entrenched in a delightful discourse regarding my sucky day and my hope that the situation I am in does not require me to blow a gasket and end up on the 6 o'clock news. ('Cause in all honesty, someone could have --and may still-- get their cranium dented in on the side for pissin' me off). I choose to change my order, so I go to the bar to tell the waitress.
"Hi...can we get just one ravioli instead of..."
Cue the freak...aaaaand, ACTION!
"Hey beautiful!" He touches my arm and smiles a smile with far fewer teeth than required to enjoy a full meal. He is well underdressed for the establishment, has a grimy face and hair, and smells like wet puppies. I imagine that he hasn't washed his hands recently and my inner germaphobe gags just a little bit.
He continues, "You shur er pretty."
"Uhmmmmm, thanks." I continue to speak with the waitress, because I am already on edge, and God forbid she brings two plates of ravioli...
"How er yew today?"
Oh, for corn sake! Really? "I think I have tuberculosis, but I'll be OK." I cough and walk away.
I get back to the table and Jackie and I laugh at my misfortune. We look up, and who is coming our way? None other than grimy puppy boy!
"Y'all are beautiful. I noticed y'all when y'all came in and hugged and everything. That was a beautiful thing there, all the love and e'erything. How 'bout I buy you ladies a drink?"
Did I mention that I am already on edge? I am disgusted because I had just made my earnest plea for Jackie to bail me out of jail should the need arise and I deviate someone's septum and was waiting for her response. I have no words for puppy boy, but Jackie, bless her soul, is as sweet as can be. She entertains his unsolicited banter.
"What's y'all's names?"
Jackie is honest. I think I say my name is Ethel. He asks lots of questions and we see it as out opportunity to entertain ourselves through the art of embellishment. By this time he has inserted himself in our booth and asked us about 4 times if he can buy us a drink. I feel that we deserve to be compensated for his canine fragranced interruption and finally say "yes", because I see the waitress approaching and I could really use a complimentary martini.
We order our drinks. Our uninvited guest continues to delight us with plesantries about his failed electrical business and such. He asks again, "You shur I can't buy y'all a drink?"
"You just did", I say, deadpan. He looks confused.
Jackie tells him that we'd already agreed to let him pay for our round, didn't he remember?, and that we'd just ordered the drinks. How did he miss that?? Maybe he was so enchanted with our lovliness that he didn't catch that part of the conversation.
He hops up from the table, "She din't even ask me nuthin'", and runs back to his spot at the bar. Seconds later, the manager, the owner, and our waitress rush out the front door into the parking lot. Yup, you guessed it. The toothless wonder left the bar without paying his tab...and without paying for the drinks he practically begged us to let him buy. We watch in awe until our amazement turns into a good belly laugh.
But hey...what about my free drink???
Fortunately, our waitress is kind enough to bring us the martinis anyway.
I wonder if I will ever run into my love again. He left before I had a chance to give him my number...
OK...all I intended was to have an innocent evening out with my girlfriends. I believe that I have mentioned to you that I am a freak magnet, and tonight proved to be no exception.
So we're sitting there, Jackie and I, in the dining area of Oliver Twist, entrenched in a delightful discourse regarding my sucky day and my hope that the situation I am in does not require me to blow a gasket and end up on the 6 o'clock news. ('Cause in all honesty, someone could have --and may still-- get their cranium dented in on the side for pissin' me off). I choose to change my order, so I go to the bar to tell the waitress.
"Hi...can we get just one ravioli instead of..."
Cue the freak...aaaaand, ACTION!
"Hey beautiful!" He touches my arm and smiles a smile with far fewer teeth than required to enjoy a full meal. He is well underdressed for the establishment, has a grimy face and hair, and smells like wet puppies. I imagine that he hasn't washed his hands recently and my inner germaphobe gags just a little bit.
He continues, "You shur er pretty."
"Uhmmmmm, thanks." I continue to speak with the waitress, because I am already on edge, and God forbid she brings two plates of ravioli...
"How er yew today?"
Oh, for corn sake! Really? "I think I have tuberculosis, but I'll be OK." I cough and walk away.
I get back to the table and Jackie and I laugh at my misfortune. We look up, and who is coming our way? None other than grimy puppy boy!
"Y'all are beautiful. I noticed y'all when y'all came in and hugged and everything. That was a beautiful thing there, all the love and e'erything. How 'bout I buy you ladies a drink?"
Did I mention that I am already on edge? I am disgusted because I had just made my earnest plea for Jackie to bail me out of jail should the need arise and I deviate someone's septum and was waiting for her response. I have no words for puppy boy, but Jackie, bless her soul, is as sweet as can be. She entertains his unsolicited banter.
"What's y'all's names?"
Jackie is honest. I think I say my name is Ethel. He asks lots of questions and we see it as out opportunity to entertain ourselves through the art of embellishment. By this time he has inserted himself in our booth and asked us about 4 times if he can buy us a drink. I feel that we deserve to be compensated for his canine fragranced interruption and finally say "yes", because I see the waitress approaching and I could really use a complimentary martini.
We order our drinks. Our uninvited guest continues to delight us with plesantries about his failed electrical business and such. He asks again, "You shur I can't buy y'all a drink?"
"You just did", I say, deadpan. He looks confused.
Jackie tells him that we'd already agreed to let him pay for our round, didn't he remember?, and that we'd just ordered the drinks. How did he miss that?? Maybe he was so enchanted with our lovliness that he didn't catch that part of the conversation.
He hops up from the table, "She din't even ask me nuthin'", and runs back to his spot at the bar. Seconds later, the manager, the owner, and our waitress rush out the front door into the parking lot. Yup, you guessed it. The toothless wonder left the bar without paying his tab...and without paying for the drinks he practically begged us to let him buy. We watch in awe until our amazement turns into a good belly laugh.
But hey...what about my free drink???
Fortunately, our waitress is kind enough to bring us the martinis anyway.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Freaks and Morons Wanted: Apply Here
Clearly, I am destined for greatness and fame (eventually), so I have decided to start acting like it. If I fake the greatness, I believe it will come. And so I decided to hire a personal assistant.
Recently, several days have ganged up and attacked me all at once. My car is a horror, and smells like yougurt. The garage is packed to the gills with crap. The laundry is clean, but remains loaded in several unattended, unfolded, unironed piles in various locations throughout my home (I have been sleeping beside a particularly delightful smelling mound of Gain-freshness for 3 days now). Stacks of pictures are album-less…CD and their cases are waiting to be reunited…the Barbies have been evicted from the dream house and are living nude upon the streets, their clothes strewn about…spiders are making new homes in every imaginable corner…and the clutter is growing at Chia Pet pace. I am considering turning myself in to the producers of the show Hoarders (and hence gaining my aforementioned fame and greatness). If you’re into anything Zen, you know that it is impossible to focus when your space is in disorder, so I am feeling most Alzheimer-esque…can’t remember squat, can’t find squat, can’t focus on SQUAT!!! Help is required at this point…STAT!!
So I post an ad on Craig’s List…it reads like this… “Household Helper Wanted: Brier Creek Area. Looking for household helper to assist with inside and outside chores. Gardening, laundry, ironing, dishes, general clean up… Some organizing and light office work. Need own reliable transportation. $10/hr…approx 5 hrs/wk.
Well, let the weirdo parade begin!!!!! (Did I mention that I am a self-proclaimed moron magnet??? Yuh!) I got 31 responses in the first 24 hours…here are a few charms…
1. “Name: Ron Age:57 Retired: From Post Office (Uhm…hello…red flag!!!!!! Post office??) Will: Help you with the house stuff.” Uh…thanks Ron…already hired a middle aged serial killer. You missed last week‘s post.
2. “Hi. How much do itpay. R u on the bus line” Yes, Durham Area Transit Authority is VERY reliable, but that’s not quite what I had in mind. PLUS, if you know me AT ALL, you know that no one with jacked grammar, punctuation or spelling was even getting a courtesy e-mail in return. Thanks anyway Jakkie!
3. “Is the $10 nergotable?” Well, clearly not for you. (…“Nergotable“…????????)
4. “I am interested to do your positions. Maria.” Really Maria?? It’s not that kind of job. Sorry.
So…amongst the clutter. I did find a few people I wanted to meet with. As I reflect upon my day, I reminisce (and I implore you to reminisce with me…youtube the scene of you must) upon the scene from Coming To America where Eddie Murphy and Arsenio Hall are at the bar meeting the various women who might be Eddie’s Queen. FA-REAKSSSS!!!
Edie’s resume read well. She has experience in accounts payable, but has been trying to start her own personal concierge business since last December. Cool. Thought I’d give her a whirl. Turns out it’s a good thing I am a trained counselor, because Edie has MAJOR problems. In half an hour, we discussed her unemployment and subsequent depression, her divorce and subsequent loss of custody, and the fact that her boyfriend just this morning, told her she had 30 days to get out of his apartment. Oh...and her experience as a 'personal escort'... Yeah!!! “Edie, YOU’RE HIRED!! Not only because I don’t have enough problems in my OWN life, but because I’d really like to PAY someone to depress me! When can you start?????”
I was really excited about meeting Brianna at Panera at 9:15 (as you know, an inordinately early hour for me!!). Her resume and e-mail message oozed responsibility, professionalism, and pure college-innocent sweetness. 9:22...I waited…bought a cinnamon roll (definitely NOT in the plan for today)…waited…bought a frosted coffee beverage…waited…. At 9:32, I decided to call Brianna…hoping she was OK.
“Hello?”
“Hi, may I speak with Brianna?”
“Hold on. BRIIIIIAAAANNNNNNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” I supposed it was the boyfriend or roommate. Why is Brianna at home. She is supposed to be here.
“Hello?” (As if she never imagined I would call.)
“Hi Brianna, this is Donna. Are you still planning to meet me at Panera?”
“Uhm, yeaahhhh” (think pure California valley air headedness), “uhm…like, we don’t have enough gas to get over there right now, soooooo, yeaaahhhh.”
“So you couldn’t call me??? I mean, I am waiting here…”
“Uhmmmm, yeah…I was gonna call you, uhm…but…uhm…”
You know what…good luck finding anything at all to do to earn gas money. Ditz!!
Jace, is the daintiest sounding 17 year old boy I have ever chatted with. But he was polite, eager, claimed he was a ‘neat freak’, and said he didn’t mind cutting grass! YESSSSS!!! Score!! I was supposed to meet him at McDonald’s at 10:45.
At 10:44 and 58 seconds, the phone rings. I recognize the number as Jace’s. He must be running a few minutes late.
“Hi Jace!”
“Hey Miss Dawwwna…how er yew dewiiiiin’???”
“I’m good, Jace. Are you on your way?”
“Wellllll, Miss Dawwwwwna. See...my aunt, right…she was gonna drop me off over there at that Mac Dawnald’s, ‘n eerythang….but she was sorta kinda running late for work…so she just, like, leffft me here…at the hosue. Sooooooo can we meet, like, tomorrow?
“Uhm, I thought you had your own car. I asked you about reliable transportation.”
“Welllllllll, my aunt is usually pretty reliable, but she was runnin’ all late and stuff today, soooooo…”
“OK Jace, thanks for trying.” UGH!!! What a waste of time. I coulda been home cleaning my own house!!!!!
My most impressive prospect so far is Aya Ramirez. She is a high school counselor who is off for the summer and ‘loves to clean’. She speaks Spanish, has a 4 year old daughter, and is looking for something fun to do while her daughter is in half day daycare. She actually GOT my strange humor and, like me, she specializes in sarcasm. I think she is a charm! She’s got a lazy eye, but so do I, so I am sure we will get along swimmingly. Aya Ramirez, YOU’RE HIRED!!
Now please pray as Aya and I try to get this place...and my life...in order.
Recently, several days have ganged up and attacked me all at once. My car is a horror, and smells like yougurt. The garage is packed to the gills with crap. The laundry is clean, but remains loaded in several unattended, unfolded, unironed piles in various locations throughout my home (I have been sleeping beside a particularly delightful smelling mound of Gain-freshness for 3 days now). Stacks of pictures are album-less…CD and their cases are waiting to be reunited…the Barbies have been evicted from the dream house and are living nude upon the streets, their clothes strewn about…spiders are making new homes in every imaginable corner…and the clutter is growing at Chia Pet pace. I am considering turning myself in to the producers of the show Hoarders (and hence gaining my aforementioned fame and greatness). If you’re into anything Zen, you know that it is impossible to focus when your space is in disorder, so I am feeling most Alzheimer-esque…can’t remember squat, can’t find squat, can’t focus on SQUAT!!! Help is required at this point…STAT!!
So I post an ad on Craig’s List…it reads like this… “Household Helper Wanted: Brier Creek Area. Looking for household helper to assist with inside and outside chores. Gardening, laundry, ironing, dishes, general clean up… Some organizing and light office work. Need own reliable transportation. $10/hr…approx 5 hrs/wk.
Well, let the weirdo parade begin!!!!! (Did I mention that I am a self-proclaimed moron magnet??? Yuh!) I got 31 responses in the first 24 hours…here are a few charms…
1. “Name: Ron Age:57 Retired: From Post Office (Uhm…hello…red flag!!!!!! Post office??) Will: Help you with the house stuff.” Uh…thanks Ron…already hired a middle aged serial killer. You missed last week‘s post.
2. “Hi. How much do itpay. R u on the bus line” Yes, Durham Area Transit Authority is VERY reliable, but that’s not quite what I had in mind. PLUS, if you know me AT ALL, you know that no one with jacked grammar, punctuation or spelling was even getting a courtesy e-mail in return. Thanks anyway Jakkie!
3. “Is the $10 nergotable?” Well, clearly not for you. (…“Nergotable“…????????)
4. “I am interested to do your positions. Maria.” Really Maria?? It’s not that kind of job. Sorry.
So…amongst the clutter. I did find a few people I wanted to meet with. As I reflect upon my day, I reminisce (and I implore you to reminisce with me…youtube the scene of you must) upon the scene from Coming To America where Eddie Murphy and Arsenio Hall are at the bar meeting the various women who might be Eddie’s Queen. FA-REAKSSSS!!!
Edie’s resume read well. She has experience in accounts payable, but has been trying to start her own personal concierge business since last December. Cool. Thought I’d give her a whirl. Turns out it’s a good thing I am a trained counselor, because Edie has MAJOR problems. In half an hour, we discussed her unemployment and subsequent depression, her divorce and subsequent loss of custody, and the fact that her boyfriend just this morning, told her she had 30 days to get out of his apartment. Oh...and her experience as a 'personal escort'... Yeah!!! “Edie, YOU’RE HIRED!! Not only because I don’t have enough problems in my OWN life, but because I’d really like to PAY someone to depress me! When can you start?????”
I was really excited about meeting Brianna at Panera at 9:15 (as you know, an inordinately early hour for me!!). Her resume and e-mail message oozed responsibility, professionalism, and pure college-innocent sweetness. 9:22...I waited…bought a cinnamon roll (definitely NOT in the plan for today)…waited…bought a frosted coffee beverage…waited…. At 9:32, I decided to call Brianna…hoping she was OK.
“Hello?”
“Hi, may I speak with Brianna?”
“Hold on. BRIIIIIAAAANNNNNNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” I supposed it was the boyfriend or roommate. Why is Brianna at home. She is supposed to be here.
“Hello?” (As if she never imagined I would call.)
“Hi Brianna, this is Donna. Are you still planning to meet me at Panera?”
“Uhm, yeaahhhh” (think pure California valley air headedness), “uhm…like, we don’t have enough gas to get over there right now, soooooo, yeaaahhhh.”
“So you couldn’t call me??? I mean, I am waiting here…”
“Uhmmmm, yeah…I was gonna call you, uhm…but…uhm…”
You know what…good luck finding anything at all to do to earn gas money. Ditz!!
Jace, is the daintiest sounding 17 year old boy I have ever chatted with. But he was polite, eager, claimed he was a ‘neat freak’, and said he didn’t mind cutting grass! YESSSSS!!! Score!! I was supposed to meet him at McDonald’s at 10:45.
At 10:44 and 58 seconds, the phone rings. I recognize the number as Jace’s. He must be running a few minutes late.
“Hi Jace!”
“Hey Miss Dawwwna…how er yew dewiiiiin’???”
“I’m good, Jace. Are you on your way?”
“Wellllll, Miss Dawwwwwna. See...my aunt, right…she was gonna drop me off over there at that Mac Dawnald’s, ‘n eerythang….but she was sorta kinda running late for work…so she just, like, leffft me here…at the hosue. Sooooooo can we meet, like, tomorrow?
“Uhm, I thought you had your own car. I asked you about reliable transportation.”
“Welllllllll, my aunt is usually pretty reliable, but she was runnin’ all late and stuff today, soooooo…”
“OK Jace, thanks for trying.” UGH!!! What a waste of time. I coulda been home cleaning my own house!!!!!
My most impressive prospect so far is Aya Ramirez. She is a high school counselor who is off for the summer and ‘loves to clean’. She speaks Spanish, has a 4 year old daughter, and is looking for something fun to do while her daughter is in half day daycare. She actually GOT my strange humor and, like me, she specializes in sarcasm. I think she is a charm! She’s got a lazy eye, but so do I, so I am sure we will get along swimmingly. Aya Ramirez, YOU’RE HIRED!!
Now please pray as Aya and I try to get this place...and my life...in order.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Virginia is for Lovers...unless you are in Ruther Glen!
I was gonna write about my lil stop at the most ghetto fabulous gas station this side of the international dateline…where I feared for my life as I pumped gas and absorbed the true meaning of “pants on the ground, pants on the ground, lookin’ like a fool with your pants on the ground”…but something far more bloggable has occurred, so I’ll write about that instead…
So, I was perfectly delighted to FINALLY find a Starbucks off exit 92 along I-95. I mean, seriously, there are three on every city block in NY, but I can’t get a grande black and white mocha with an extra pump of white anywhere between Durham and Richmond, VA? Really? Whatever… So I finally get my beverage. It’s almost 11pm, and I am just about halfway through my journey. (Did I mention that I usually require a brief power nap along the way to even Greensboro, NC…just an hour away from home? Needless to say, I am not a distance driver. Anyway…)
I’m drivin’ and sippin’. Sippin’ and drivin’. I’m singin’ along with Billy Joel…Uptown Girl, I believe it was (because his greatest hits make great travel music), and as I pass the billboard for the Mega Millions lottery, I amuse myself with the thought that I don’t need aaalllll 86 million…just enough to get a new car and pay some bills. I giggle a little to myself, for some strange reason, when suddenly I hear “grrrrrrrrrrrrrr, grrrr grrrr grrrr”. My car sounds like I just started a Nascar race, or someone hid a little motorcycle under my hood. WOW…I just spent almost $700 on it on Monday, surely this can’t be anything serious! Then “POP”…and a zillion sparks shoot out from under the hood to the left of the vehicle, and I can’t accelerate. I am slowing down, involuntarily, trying go get across two lanes of traffic to the shoulder, and just as I get to the side of the road, “pfffffsssssssst!”, and she’s dead.
Great, I am on the grassy shoulder of I-95 in the pitch black of the night, somewhere near Asscrack, VA, with Jordann and Brandon in a car that ain’t goin’
nowhere no time soon. After patiently listening to my string of expletives, Jordann suggests, “maybe you should call 911”.
So I call 911...not only because my lil Princess is a rocket scientist, but because the car is smoking’ like a California wildfire, and I am afraid that that it’s gonna blow up and we all will perish.
“911. What is your location?" (Again with the 911, geez…)
“Uhm…I dunno...somewhere…off the side of the road on I-95. My car died. I think I am at mile marker 97.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yes, as safe as I can be in the pitch black darkness on the side of an interstate, yes.” I laugh to not sound rude.
“What type of vehicle are you driving?”
“It was an Envoy.”
“It was an Envoy? What is is now?”
“A piece of shit.” We both laugh.
“OK. Are you on the shoulder?”
I explain the situation. The dispatcher says she’s sending a state trooper out. I thank her and check the clock. It’s 10:53.
In the meantime, I call AAA. Thankfully, I was reminded that I had AAA immediately after I picked my car up from having it fixed (yes, fixed, I say) on Monday and it wouldn’t start. (Yeap! Right in the parking lot of the place that took my almost $700...the car they just fixed wouldn't start. Oxymoronic, no?) AAA says they will send a tow truck, and make arrangements for me to stay at the always delightful Days Inn in Ruther Glen, VA (no, I have never heard of it either…apparently in it’s entirety, the town consists of the Days Inn, the Super 8 Motel, Arthur’s Steak House, a Wendy's, and one very questionable gas station).
Because I turned the car off, it’s getting cold inside. Did I mention that I forgot my coat?? It was nice in Durham today, and I had on my jacket. I meant to bring a real coat, but I forgot. Thankfully I dressed Jordann appropriately and remembered to bring her very warm Princess Tiana blanket (thanks Momma Simon), and Brandon, well, he’s all set with that fur coat action, soooooo. I am the only one freezing.
We wait. No tow truck. No trooper. No heat. It’s 11:27. Thanks 5-0! If I had been traveling a single mile over the speed limit, they would be on me like a sheet on a klansman, but I need help, so now I wait. And wait.
I call 911 again, and they tell me the trooper couldn’t find me. Find me? Hmmmm…curious… there is a fairly large SUV on the side of I-95 with hazzards on…and he couldn’t find me. OK. Perhaps I should have mentioned that I was stranded in a Krispy Kreme truck… My mother told me to be nice to the Virginia troopers…for obvious reasons… I “thank” the dispatcher for “trying” and she says she will send him again.
11:44. No trooper. No tow truck. No heat.
I get out to walk to the mile marker sign to give the trooper and the towing company a more precise location. It's freezing, and I have no coat...traffic is zooming by fast enough for me to be blown into the ditch by the tailwinds...but I have no fear...until..."aaawhoooooo!!!". OK...I probably made up the coyote sound in my head (do they have coyotes in Ruther Glen, VA??), but I had a vision of my limbs being carried away by wild animals while my Princess watches in horror and Brandon's mouth waters...so I hustle back to the car. No mile marker to report to anyone. I'll wait.
Finally, at 11:51, what I thought was a state trooper pulls up behind me. Thank goodness he got there so quickly! We discuss the situation, and I discover that he isn’t a state trooper, but a local police officer who just happened to see me on the side of the road and stopped to see if I needed help. At 11:54, the tow truck comes. But still no state trooper. So reliable. YAY!
The tow truck driver is very nice. We chat. I am moving my stuff into the cab of his tow truck, when I discover that I don’t have a leash. So here I am…struggling with Jordann, her car seat, and a leashless cocker spaniel on the slippery, grassy, slope-y shoulder of I-95. My Donna Summer CD falls into the ditch. Damn! She worked hard to make that!
So, when Ritchie (per the nametag) finally has what used to be my Envoy all loaded up on the truck. He tells me that it’s his first day on the job, and he was supposed to get off at 12:00. Great, ‘cause now it’s 12:12, and I’m sure Ritchie has things to do. He uses his CB radio (which Jordann finds fascinating) to call to find out where he is supposed to take me. Wonderful, Ritchie…aren’t you supposed to know this? The other “CB person” tells him to take me to the Days Inn at exit 101. Posh! I know there will be chocolates on the hand-fluffed pillow!! Whoo-hoo!
We exit at 101, and Ritchie turns into the hotel parking lot. I ask him to go inside to make sure they are pet friendly, and they are. Yessss!!! This is getting better by the minute! He unloads my car in the farthest corner of the darkest edge of the parking lot (wonderful, maybe someone will steal it…oh no…wait…it won’t start…dern!), and I go inside to pay. “Wow”, I think to myself, “this Days Inn is seedier than I even imagined it would be.” And I look at the sticker on the bullet proof glass, and it says Super 8 Motel!!!!
Dammit!!! Ritchie dropped me at the wrong place. And here I am at the Motel Cootie, with a sleepy kid, a leashless cocker spanil, several bags, and a car seat, and they didn’t even leave the light on for me. Aaarrrggghhhh!!!
Well, can’t go anywhere now. I have no idea where the Days Inn is, and even if I did, I’d have no way to get there. So we walk outside in the cold to room 127. (I have to tie my scarf around Brandon’s neck in lieu of a leash. Very stylish! I am considering getting him one of his own. In fact, it looks so good on him that I may market this...I'll call it "The Scleash". More on that later.) Room 127 is gross. The carpet is dirty, the toilet seat was wet, and I am not even going to tell you what is going on with this exposed box spring…eeewww! (You've heard that I am a germophobe, no? Understandably, I was prepared with clorox wipes...but not enough to do the room even a modicum of sanitary justice.) Jordann is sleeping on her Princess Tiana blanket with strict instructions not to put her feet on the floor when she wakes up. Brandon is on the “couch”, which frankly, does not appear to be fit for a dog. And here I am…still up at 2:12am telling you my story.
Oh…and the moral of the story is…if you are taking a long drive at night, and panning on going to sleep right when you reach your destination…don’t wear your pajamas in the car and put a scarf on your head. You never know what’s gonna happen, and you want to make sure you don’t look like Aunt Jemima in the event that your car blows up.
And tomorrow, the saga continues
So, I was perfectly delighted to FINALLY find a Starbucks off exit 92 along I-95. I mean, seriously, there are three on every city block in NY, but I can’t get a grande black and white mocha with an extra pump of white anywhere between Durham and Richmond, VA? Really? Whatever… So I finally get my beverage. It’s almost 11pm, and I am just about halfway through my journey. (Did I mention that I usually require a brief power nap along the way to even Greensboro, NC…just an hour away from home? Needless to say, I am not a distance driver. Anyway…)
I’m drivin’ and sippin’. Sippin’ and drivin’. I’m singin’ along with Billy Joel…Uptown Girl, I believe it was (because his greatest hits make great travel music), and as I pass the billboard for the Mega Millions lottery, I amuse myself with the thought that I don’t need aaalllll 86 million…just enough to get a new car and pay some bills. I giggle a little to myself, for some strange reason, when suddenly I hear “grrrrrrrrrrrrrr, grrrr grrrr grrrr”. My car sounds like I just started a Nascar race, or someone hid a little motorcycle under my hood. WOW…I just spent almost $700 on it on Monday, surely this can’t be anything serious! Then “POP”…and a zillion sparks shoot out from under the hood to the left of the vehicle, and I can’t accelerate. I am slowing down, involuntarily, trying go get across two lanes of traffic to the shoulder, and just as I get to the side of the road, “pfffffsssssssst!”, and she’s dead.
Great, I am on the grassy shoulder of I-95 in the pitch black of the night, somewhere near Asscrack, VA, with Jordann and Brandon in a car that ain’t goin’
nowhere no time soon. After patiently listening to my string of expletives, Jordann suggests, “maybe you should call 911”.
So I call 911...not only because my lil Princess is a rocket scientist, but because the car is smoking’ like a California wildfire, and I am afraid that that it’s gonna blow up and we all will perish.
“911. What is your location?" (Again with the 911, geez…)
“Uhm…I dunno...somewhere…off the side of the road on I-95. My car died. I think I am at mile marker 97.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yes, as safe as I can be in the pitch black darkness on the side of an interstate, yes.” I laugh to not sound rude.
“What type of vehicle are you driving?”
“It was an Envoy.”
“It was an Envoy? What is is now?”
“A piece of shit.” We both laugh.
“OK. Are you on the shoulder?”
I explain the situation. The dispatcher says she’s sending a state trooper out. I thank her and check the clock. It’s 10:53.
In the meantime, I call AAA. Thankfully, I was reminded that I had AAA immediately after I picked my car up from having it fixed (yes, fixed, I say) on Monday and it wouldn’t start. (Yeap! Right in the parking lot of the place that took my almost $700...the car they just fixed wouldn't start. Oxymoronic, no?) AAA says they will send a tow truck, and make arrangements for me to stay at the always delightful Days Inn in Ruther Glen, VA (no, I have never heard of it either…apparently in it’s entirety, the town consists of the Days Inn, the Super 8 Motel, Arthur’s Steak House, a Wendy's, and one very questionable gas station).
Because I turned the car off, it’s getting cold inside. Did I mention that I forgot my coat?? It was nice in Durham today, and I had on my jacket. I meant to bring a real coat, but I forgot. Thankfully I dressed Jordann appropriately and remembered to bring her very warm Princess Tiana blanket (thanks Momma Simon), and Brandon, well, he’s all set with that fur coat action, soooooo. I am the only one freezing.
We wait. No tow truck. No trooper. No heat. It’s 11:27. Thanks 5-0! If I had been traveling a single mile over the speed limit, they would be on me like a sheet on a klansman, but I need help, so now I wait. And wait.
I call 911 again, and they tell me the trooper couldn’t find me. Find me? Hmmmm…curious… there is a fairly large SUV on the side of I-95 with hazzards on…and he couldn’t find me. OK. Perhaps I should have mentioned that I was stranded in a Krispy Kreme truck… My mother told me to be nice to the Virginia troopers…for obvious reasons… I “thank” the dispatcher for “trying” and she says she will send him again.
11:44. No trooper. No tow truck. No heat.
I get out to walk to the mile marker sign to give the trooper and the towing company a more precise location. It's freezing, and I have no coat...traffic is zooming by fast enough for me to be blown into the ditch by the tailwinds...but I have no fear...until..."aaawhoooooo!!!". OK...I probably made up the coyote sound in my head (do they have coyotes in Ruther Glen, VA??), but I had a vision of my limbs being carried away by wild animals while my Princess watches in horror and Brandon's mouth waters...so I hustle back to the car. No mile marker to report to anyone. I'll wait.
Finally, at 11:51, what I thought was a state trooper pulls up behind me. Thank goodness he got there so quickly! We discuss the situation, and I discover that he isn’t a state trooper, but a local police officer who just happened to see me on the side of the road and stopped to see if I needed help. At 11:54, the tow truck comes. But still no state trooper. So reliable. YAY!
The tow truck driver is very nice. We chat. I am moving my stuff into the cab of his tow truck, when I discover that I don’t have a leash. So here I am…struggling with Jordann, her car seat, and a leashless cocker spaniel on the slippery, grassy, slope-y shoulder of I-95. My Donna Summer CD falls into the ditch. Damn! She worked hard to make that!
So, when Ritchie (per the nametag) finally has what used to be my Envoy all loaded up on the truck. He tells me that it’s his first day on the job, and he was supposed to get off at 12:00. Great, ‘cause now it’s 12:12, and I’m sure Ritchie has things to do. He uses his CB radio (which Jordann finds fascinating) to call to find out where he is supposed to take me. Wonderful, Ritchie…aren’t you supposed to know this? The other “CB person” tells him to take me to the Days Inn at exit 101. Posh! I know there will be chocolates on the hand-fluffed pillow!! Whoo-hoo!
We exit at 101, and Ritchie turns into the hotel parking lot. I ask him to go inside to make sure they are pet friendly, and they are. Yessss!!! This is getting better by the minute! He unloads my car in the farthest corner of the darkest edge of the parking lot (wonderful, maybe someone will steal it…oh no…wait…it won’t start…dern!), and I go inside to pay. “Wow”, I think to myself, “this Days Inn is seedier than I even imagined it would be.” And I look at the sticker on the bullet proof glass, and it says Super 8 Motel!!!!
Dammit!!! Ritchie dropped me at the wrong place. And here I am at the Motel Cootie, with a sleepy kid, a leashless cocker spanil, several bags, and a car seat, and they didn’t even leave the light on for me. Aaarrrggghhhh!!!
Well, can’t go anywhere now. I have no idea where the Days Inn is, and even if I did, I’d have no way to get there. So we walk outside in the cold to room 127. (I have to tie my scarf around Brandon’s neck in lieu of a leash. Very stylish! I am considering getting him one of his own. In fact, it looks so good on him that I may market this...I'll call it "The Scleash". More on that later.) Room 127 is gross. The carpet is dirty, the toilet seat was wet, and I am not even going to tell you what is going on with this exposed box spring…eeewww! (You've heard that I am a germophobe, no? Understandably, I was prepared with clorox wipes...but not enough to do the room even a modicum of sanitary justice.) Jordann is sleeping on her Princess Tiana blanket with strict instructions not to put her feet on the floor when she wakes up. Brandon is on the “couch”, which frankly, does not appear to be fit for a dog. And here I am…still up at 2:12am telling you my story.
Oh…and the moral of the story is…if you are taking a long drive at night, and panning on going to sleep right when you reach your destination…don’t wear your pajamas in the car and put a scarf on your head. You never know what’s gonna happen, and you want to make sure you don’t look like Aunt Jemima in the event that your car blows up.
And tomorrow, the saga continues
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Classy Places, Classy People!
When you frequent classy places, you meet classy people.
But tonight, I dined at Golden Corral, so that wasn't the case!
Truth be told, I wanted to go to The Cheesecake Factory. But having just come from the hair appointment from hell, and looking like a brokedown, orange haired Shirley Temple, I didn't feel classy enough to dine there. (I hold TCF in the highest regard...remind me to tell you how I stood in line for hours just to have the distinction of being TCF-Raleigh's first customer. I digress...) And moreover, I didn't want to run into anyone I knew with my hair looking like it did, soooo to Golden Corral we went.
If you've never been to a Golden Corral, let me set the stage... (Mind you, I haven't been to the Golden Corral in YEARS! It was the sneezing incident of '07...a serving spoon, some mashed potatoes, and a germ splattered plastic buffet protector that has kept me away for so long.) As you approach the parking lot, the fresh fragrence of grease fills the air. Inside, it is immediately evident that this establishment is a favorite amongst folks with homes on wheels, ifyaknowwhatImean... The air feels germy, and the tables usually look dirty in a superficially clean sorta way.
But I'm not knockin' it (save the sneezing incident of '07), 'cause when I'm in the mood for some good ol'-fashioned artery cloggin' grease in unlimited abundance, it's defintiely my top choice.
I get our tray and drinks, pay "Shelsea", who is enthusiastically tending the register, and look for a table without food particles or wet rag residue. One fairly out of the way near the window will do the trick!
The instant I set the tray down, I hear the three men at the next table snickering, and I feel eyes on me. Two are thirtysomething and Black, one is White, sixtyish, very large, and clearly lives in one of the wheeled residences I mentioned earlier. They are all obviously factory workers or manual laborers of some sort. Between the three of them, shey share a full set of teeth. To move now would be too obvious, so I smile and nod (to indicate that I am not intimidated and could care less). The least hideous of the three mumbles "hmmmm...sho is fine".
Great!!! I reminisce about the love note I received (via the cashier) from the snaggle-toothed pancake flipper at Biscuitville one PMS Sunday in 1998. Good times! I pick up our chipped plastic plates, wipe them vigorously with a Wet One (you know I am a germophobe, right?), and head for the buffet.
Upon our return to the table, the large White laborer shouts at me,"Looka heah, my frien heah...he thank you a cutie!" He could as well have been wearing overalls with a wife beater and chewing on a sprig of wheat straw.
"Oh?" I smile and pretend to be engrossed in getting Jordann situated.
Obviously given the "in" by his large redneck friend, Phillip (as he later iintroduces himself) has the imaginary green light to approach our table.
"How you doin' tanite?"
"We are well, thank you. And yourself?" I thought I could fend him off with my super-proper grammar skills. No such luck.
"My name Phillip Barker." (Note the intentional omission of the requisite verb 'is'? Yeah...)
He extends his hand to shake. I, the germophobe, am completely grossed out.
"Phillip, I just washed my hands to eat dinner, sooooooooo..."
"My bad." He smiles with the intention of being charming. "So, we fi'in to leave, you think we could keep in contack?" (For those who have not yet secured their 2010 Edition of 'Powerfully Effective Urban Pick Up Lines', "Can we keep in contack?" has surpassed "can I get yo numba?" in both frequency of use and rate of success.)
"No, I don't think my boyfriend would like that."
And leave it to Jordann, who has been surprisingly quiet until this opportunity to share..."MOMMY, YOU DON'T HAVE A BOYFRIEND!"
No use in debating it with her, clearly she is much smarter than I. I can only smile at Phillip, who probably didn't even pick up on the fact that my 4-year old just busted me mid-lie.
"OK," Phillip says, "if you change yo mind, look me up. Phillip Barker. I lives in Durham."
Yes, Phillip. I'll be sure to do just that. Certainly there is only one Phillip Barker in Durham. And I know you will be well worth the search.
And maybe the actual man of my dreams was at The Cheesecake Factory... If you see him, please let him know I'm sorry I missed our date...
But tonight, I dined at Golden Corral, so that wasn't the case!
Truth be told, I wanted to go to The Cheesecake Factory. But having just come from the hair appointment from hell, and looking like a brokedown, orange haired Shirley Temple, I didn't feel classy enough to dine there. (I hold TCF in the highest regard...remind me to tell you how I stood in line for hours just to have the distinction of being TCF-Raleigh's first customer. I digress...) And moreover, I didn't want to run into anyone I knew with my hair looking like it did, soooo to Golden Corral we went.
If you've never been to a Golden Corral, let me set the stage... (Mind you, I haven't been to the Golden Corral in YEARS! It was the sneezing incident of '07...a serving spoon, some mashed potatoes, and a germ splattered plastic buffet protector that has kept me away for so long.) As you approach the parking lot, the fresh fragrence of grease fills the air. Inside, it is immediately evident that this establishment is a favorite amongst folks with homes on wheels, ifyaknowwhatImean... The air feels germy, and the tables usually look dirty in a superficially clean sorta way.
But I'm not knockin' it (save the sneezing incident of '07), 'cause when I'm in the mood for some good ol'-fashioned artery cloggin' grease in unlimited abundance, it's defintiely my top choice.
I get our tray and drinks, pay "Shelsea", who is enthusiastically tending the register, and look for a table without food particles or wet rag residue. One fairly out of the way near the window will do the trick!
The instant I set the tray down, I hear the three men at the next table snickering, and I feel eyes on me. Two are thirtysomething and Black, one is White, sixtyish, very large, and clearly lives in one of the wheeled residences I mentioned earlier. They are all obviously factory workers or manual laborers of some sort. Between the three of them, shey share a full set of teeth. To move now would be too obvious, so I smile and nod (to indicate that I am not intimidated and could care less). The least hideous of the three mumbles "hmmmm...sho is fine".
Great!!! I reminisce about the love note I received (via the cashier) from the snaggle-toothed pancake flipper at Biscuitville one PMS Sunday in 1998. Good times! I pick up our chipped plastic plates, wipe them vigorously with a Wet One (you know I am a germophobe, right?), and head for the buffet.
Upon our return to the table, the large White laborer shouts at me,"Looka heah, my frien heah...he thank you a cutie!" He could as well have been wearing overalls with a wife beater and chewing on a sprig of wheat straw.
"Oh?" I smile and pretend to be engrossed in getting Jordann situated.
Obviously given the "in" by his large redneck friend, Phillip (as he later iintroduces himself) has the imaginary green light to approach our table.
"How you doin' tanite?"
"We are well, thank you. And yourself?" I thought I could fend him off with my super-proper grammar skills. No such luck.
"My name Phillip Barker." (Note the intentional omission of the requisite verb 'is'? Yeah...)
He extends his hand to shake. I, the germophobe, am completely grossed out.
"Phillip, I just washed my hands to eat dinner, sooooooooo..."
"My bad." He smiles with the intention of being charming. "So, we fi'in to leave, you think we could keep in contack?" (For those who have not yet secured their 2010 Edition of 'Powerfully Effective Urban Pick Up Lines', "Can we keep in contack?" has surpassed "can I get yo numba?" in both frequency of use and rate of success.)
"No, I don't think my boyfriend would like that."
And leave it to Jordann, who has been surprisingly quiet until this opportunity to share..."MOMMY, YOU DON'T HAVE A BOYFRIEND!"
No use in debating it with her, clearly she is much smarter than I. I can only smile at Phillip, who probably didn't even pick up on the fact that my 4-year old just busted me mid-lie.
"OK," Phillip says, "if you change yo mind, look me up. Phillip Barker. I lives in Durham."
Yes, Phillip. I'll be sure to do just that. Certainly there is only one Phillip Barker in Durham. And I know you will be well worth the search.
And maybe the actual man of my dreams was at The Cheesecake Factory... If you see him, please let him know I'm sorry I missed our date...
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Charles: Mall Stalker
You probably know him.
If you are young, Brown, female,live in the Raleigh area and have been anywhere near a mall within the last year, you know him. Let's call him "Charles", because, well...because that's his name!!!
Soooo...about a year ago, just when Jordann began her "I'm going to introduce myself to everyone in the solar system" phase, we stop at the light at the intersection of Brier Creek Pkwy and Hwy 70. It's a particularly long light. We are the first car in the far left of the two left turn lanes. In the turn lane next to us, to the right, up pulls "Charles"...the most handsome young fellow I had seen in a very long time. I love his white Land Rover with the obviously upgraded wheel package. I am impressed. Although it was frigid outside, I was delighted to roll down my passenger window at his request.
We chat. It IS, after all, the longest light in the western hemisphere. Jordann rolls down her back window, and after introducing herself, asks, "Do you like my Mom?"
Apparently, he did. And just before the light turned green, I shouted my number through the passenger window. He put it in his phone.
About 30 minutes later, he calls me. Jordann and I are, where else?? The mall! Just so happens that "Charles" is in the same mall. (Curious, no? That's what I thought too.) We are eating in California Pizza Kitchen and he asks if he can join us. Well, the world is a free place, I thought...and he is cute...and his Land Rover does have the upgraded wheel package...so sure, why not.
We are about 7 minutes into our go-nowhere conversation when his phone rings. He excuses himself to take the call...and comes back 30 seconds later with this: "I HAVE TO GO, MY WIFE AND SON ARE IN THIS SAME MALL."
YOUR WHAT??? I was so disgusted.
"Look...go take care of your business." Instantly he became less good looking...not because he was married, but because he is an obviously deceitful-lying-jackass of a cheater.
He goes. We eat. We shop. Then...my phone rings.
"Heeeeyyyyy, sorry about that earlier. When can we get back together? You still in the mall?"
I throw up in my throat a little. He can't be serious!
"Uhm, are you kidding me? You have a wife? And a child? And you want to know when we can get 'together'?"
"It's not like that..."
Well, it didn't matter what it was "like", because he is abviously an anus. I am dreadfully opposed to being offensive in any situation, so I said nicely, "Really, you don't need to call me any more. Good luck with your situation."
And the next day he sens me this test message: "I don't know where you get off judging me. You didn't have to be such a bitch. Can I call you?"
Mmmmmm...well, Mr. Charming, as if you didn't have me at 'hello', that text sure makes me wanna commit adultery with you! Nothing like a cheating jackass to put me in a talkin' on the phone kinda mood!
As you would imagine, I didn't respond.
A few months later, I run into him in the mall again. He approaches me as if we were old friends, reunited just outside The Gap. I realize that he recognizes me, but can't remember the interaction. I am in a good mood, I'll play along...
"Remind me where we have met," he says.
"Remember. We were in CPK, when your WIFE called, and you had to run??? Then you sent me a delightful text apology the next day?"
"Oh yeah!! How've you been?"
Again...you are kidding right. You can't be serious. You are not embarrassed? WOW! "I'm good, but I have GOT to run."
"I think I lost your number. Can you give it to me again?"
SERIOUSLY, DUDE??? I start walking. "No. C'mon. You are a jackass. Why would I want you to have my number...again???"
He is talking as I walk away...obviously attempting to convince me that I have misinterpreted the situation. I am in awe of his boldness.
I have seen him several times in the mall since. At all times of day and night. Sometimes he sees me, sometimes he doesn't. He is always trying to pick up some unsuspecting young thang. When he sees me, he smiles like he has run into an old school chum, explaining that he works in the mall and is on his lunch break...or he is with his "cousin". (But it's ALWAYS a different mall, and he is ALWAYS on a lunch break, ALWAYS with a different "cousin".) Despite my otherwise plesant and respectful demeanor, I take pride in being rude to him. And apparently he has some disorder that prevents him from having a conscience.
I wonder how he supports himself. Maybe he works for Candid Camera...or maybe I was just involved in the down South version of 'Punked'. Wonder when my episode airs...
If you are young, Brown, female,live in the Raleigh area and have been anywhere near a mall within the last year, you know him. Let's call him "Charles", because, well...because that's his name!!!
Soooo...about a year ago, just when Jordann began her "I'm going to introduce myself to everyone in the solar system" phase, we stop at the light at the intersection of Brier Creek Pkwy and Hwy 70. It's a particularly long light. We are the first car in the far left of the two left turn lanes. In the turn lane next to us, to the right, up pulls "Charles"...the most handsome young fellow I had seen in a very long time. I love his white Land Rover with the obviously upgraded wheel package. I am impressed. Although it was frigid outside, I was delighted to roll down my passenger window at his request.
We chat. It IS, after all, the longest light in the western hemisphere. Jordann rolls down her back window, and after introducing herself, asks, "Do you like my Mom?"
Apparently, he did. And just before the light turned green, I shouted my number through the passenger window. He put it in his phone.
About 30 minutes later, he calls me. Jordann and I are, where else?? The mall! Just so happens that "Charles" is in the same mall. (Curious, no? That's what I thought too.) We are eating in California Pizza Kitchen and he asks if he can join us. Well, the world is a free place, I thought...and he is cute...and his Land Rover does have the upgraded wheel package...so sure, why not.
We are about 7 minutes into our go-nowhere conversation when his phone rings. He excuses himself to take the call...and comes back 30 seconds later with this: "I HAVE TO GO, MY WIFE AND SON ARE IN THIS SAME MALL."
YOUR WHAT??? I was so disgusted.
"Look...go take care of your business." Instantly he became less good looking...not because he was married, but because he is an obviously deceitful-lying-jackass of a cheater.
He goes. We eat. We shop. Then...my phone rings.
"Heeeeyyyyy, sorry about that earlier. When can we get back together? You still in the mall?"
I throw up in my throat a little. He can't be serious!
"Uhm, are you kidding me? You have a wife? And a child? And you want to know when we can get 'together'?"
"It's not like that..."
Well, it didn't matter what it was "like", because he is abviously an anus. I am dreadfully opposed to being offensive in any situation, so I said nicely, "Really, you don't need to call me any more. Good luck with your situation."
And the next day he sens me this test message: "I don't know where you get off judging me. You didn't have to be such a bitch. Can I call you?"
Mmmmmm...well, Mr. Charming, as if you didn't have me at 'hello', that text sure makes me wanna commit adultery with you! Nothing like a cheating jackass to put me in a talkin' on the phone kinda mood!
As you would imagine, I didn't respond.
A few months later, I run into him in the mall again. He approaches me as if we were old friends, reunited just outside The Gap. I realize that he recognizes me, but can't remember the interaction. I am in a good mood, I'll play along...
"Remind me where we have met," he says.
"Remember. We were in CPK, when your WIFE called, and you had to run??? Then you sent me a delightful text apology the next day?"
"Oh yeah!! How've you been?"
Again...you are kidding right. You can't be serious. You are not embarrassed? WOW! "I'm good, but I have GOT to run."
"I think I lost your number. Can you give it to me again?"
SERIOUSLY, DUDE??? I start walking. "No. C'mon. You are a jackass. Why would I want you to have my number...again???"
He is talking as I walk away...obviously attempting to convince me that I have misinterpreted the situation. I am in awe of his boldness.
I have seen him several times in the mall since. At all times of day and night. Sometimes he sees me, sometimes he doesn't. He is always trying to pick up some unsuspecting young thang. When he sees me, he smiles like he has run into an old school chum, explaining that he works in the mall and is on his lunch break...or he is with his "cousin". (But it's ALWAYS a different mall, and he is ALWAYS on a lunch break, ALWAYS with a different "cousin".) Despite my otherwise plesant and respectful demeanor, I take pride in being rude to him. And apparently he has some disorder that prevents him from having a conscience.
I wonder how he supports himself. Maybe he works for Candid Camera...or maybe I was just involved in the down South version of 'Punked'. Wonder when my episode airs...
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