Munjoy Hill Cocoon

I know I don't talk about school very often, but the Spring semester is VERY close to being over, I have one final left. Then hopefully, I'll be done the following Spring. 


In my Writing the Feature Story class, we all participated in a peer-review workshop. One of my older classmates often has a theme with his stories, "Kids today" (shakes finger.) His paper was about how audience fragmentation and the consumer dictating the market in the music industry has led to Top 40 music being total shit. We talked a lot about it, and he actually ended quoting me in the piece- once about my love for Gaga and Katy Perry, and once about the safety of using cell phones as a defense mechanism. Just shows how many interviews he actually conducted... But anyway, there was a passage about how iPods and smart phones have enabled people in society to cocoon themselves, giving us a lack of social interaction and sense of community. Again, I disagreed, saying that I rely on my cocoon to get me through the Greater Portland Metro Bus ride every day. Citing again that one time I wasn't wearing my headphones and this guy ended up showing me his colostomy bag from his last trip to the ER because he was stabbed in the abdomen. 


Sometimes, though, it can be difficult to remember that when you're in public and you're wearing headphones, you aren't really invisible, although you feel invisible. 


I had just set out for a mini-East End shopping excursion- mangoes at Rosemont, seltzer at Colucci's, and Epsom salt for ahem, a medical issue I'd been having.  There was a man standing outside of an apartment building which notoriously has all kinds of trash and shit on the sidewalk all summer. He was probably about 6'1", black oversize hoodie, baseball cap. Maybe a facial piercing or cubic zirconia studded earrings. He was probably somewhere between 18-22, I don't know, I'm a terrible judge of age. I crossed the street towards him and his friends while another woman, middle-aged, middle class, was also approaching them from the other direction. She was walking some sort of hound dog. 


The man started asking her if she used to live near Washington Square, because he used to live near Washington Square. He must've recognized her dog. I was listening for some clues about where the hell Washington Square is, and then I noticed that the guy's face was covered in a bright red rash. But I kept walking and didn't really think anything of it, except that I was going to have to ask Rebecca when I got home where Washington Square was...


I was almost at the bottom of the hill when this guy and his girlfriend (or, the woman he happened to be holding hands with) and yelled in my face: "DID YOU GET A GOOD FUCKING LOOK AT MY FACE NOW?" He was obviously really angry, and I was annoyed because I happened to be texting Cleveland- walking and texting is hard enough as it is. But then I realized that to him, it must've looked like he was some sort of medical oddity or something.  Honestly between my bad vision and my curiosity about Washington Square, I barely noticed it was something other than acne. Nothing on Web MD seemed to look the same as what this guy had, btw.


But I'm even sympathetic to people staring at you because of weird face things- after that car accident, I had to wear an eye patch or sunglasses to work at a coffee shop. I get it. He continued angrily yelling things at me, and I continued to pretend like I didn't hear him, thank to my iPhone. Then I heard him yell something like, "AND I'LL FUCK UP YOUR BOYFRIEND, TOO!" from further down the road. Which was weird because how the was he supposed to know that I'm in a relationship? Did he Facebook me? Good thing I have ol' Cleve, because if some random stranger told me they were going to beat up my boyfriend and my boyfriend was non-existent, I would've been really sad. 


Anyway, the icing on the cake was that then they walked into Rite Aid, which is where I was going. Instead of following them in and risk getting stabbed, I walked around the block a few times to ensure my safety. Hours before, Cleveland updated his FB status with "It is a wonder how we ever avoided eye contact before the age of the iphone." 


It's also ironic that a man who bartends at Forest Gardens, a dive bar near campus that I hang out at sometimes, lives on the hill and says one of the great things about Munjoy Hill is that people actually look you in the eye. 


What a weird day. 

Say Yes to the Dress

Have I mentioned that I'm going to be in a wedding this fall? And it's possible that I'm attending two, possibly three weddings this summer and I might be working for a wedding photographer sometime soon.

On Saturday, I went with my oldest friend and bride-to-be, to try on wedding dresses in Southborough, MA. I learned a little bit about fabrics, designers, birdcages, train length... Here are the two dresses that she decided she didn't love (as much as I loved on her):

We're trying to figure out what the length of the bridesmaid's dresses. I'm voting for shorter...

So, I was talking to the Maid of Honor, who I just met this weekend. Remember this post? It happened to me again, but in conversation. MOH asked me what kind of music I listened to. Instead of replying with, Who Is Arcade Fire? I panicked. She was flipping through the radio in the car, just the two of us, hence the question. Honestly, of all the stations of the radio, how much variety is there? There's various kinds of talk and  public radio, modern rock (alternative), adult alternative, classic rock, oldies, top 40, the John Tesh Show, depending on how close to which border sometimes an international station on the low end of the dial,  and... top 40 country. This is the only radio station genre I'm not interested in, honestly. At least normal top 40 is dancable, or if it's Train or Three Doors Down, those songs are wedged in between Britney and Bieber, so it's three minutes I've sacrificed. This is how it went down:

MOH: So, what kind of music do you like?

Me: (stammer)

MOH: (pause)

Me: I... guess I like just about everything on the radio except top 40 country... I mean, I'm really into Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline and the classic stuff it's just... (trails off, looks away)

MOH: Oh, that's funny. I'm totally a country bumpkin.

Me: (head in hands.)

Good thing I did't resort to this...

Just another Monday night...

My new approach to dating is to just sit back and see what happens. Good for life, not as good for blogging. When I decided to post this tonight, I considered the fact that I have to be aware of how many Baby stories I post, just so that I don't start seeming like some sort of lonely, crazy cat lady.

Okay, so, you already know that my cat is a little bit crazy and I'm kind of, well, disorganized, right?

I was at the Front Room for lunch today (seriously, I should just open my wallet and dump it in that guy's pocket,) and I decided to finish listening to the podcast of This American Life after I got to the bar. I didn't feel that weird about wearing headphones, I'm in there often enough, and it was a shift change for the staff anyway. But I did feel weird about the bartender who did not serve me grabbing the napkin I used to wipe my dirty BLT hands off then rub some boogers off my nose. So I stuck it in my bag and forgot about it.

A few hours later, Angela and I were going out to the grocery store, and as I was checking to made sure my wallet was in fact where it should be and had all of the necessary contents, the crumpled dirty napkin fell on the floor. In the bustle for me to find my shoes, jacket, reusable grocery bags, Baby finds the napkin on the floor and starts clawing it and rubbing her face on it. I don't know how or why she was doing this, but I sort of forgot about it on our way out. Anglea, btw, thought there it was like, covered in my perfume or something. Perfume, really? I'm lucky if I remember deodorant.

Once we return from the grocery store, I'm in full-on cooking mode, since we needed to eat immediately, and I still didn't call the oil company, so our heat isn't on. The napkin was ancient history. I decided to make a quick pizza, beef stew and apple crisp to warm us up. Angela, who usually does most of the cooking (or Rebecca, who is house-sitting tonight,) cozies up to the table with the new issue of Real Simple magazine, a glass of wine, and starts changing her toenail polish. It's where the heat is, after all.

Disaster strikes when Angela knocks her hot pink polish on the floor. She's grumbling and I'm still sort of busy chopping and shit, when I hear her say over my Dr. Dog Pandora station, "Luckily, there was a paper towel right there." I go into survival mode and yell, "AH! NO! I BLEW MY NOSE IN THAT!" Really, it was more of a wipe than a full-on blow, Angela gets super disgusted and throws it away. She needs to wipe the spill before the polish dries, and she does so while commenting on how incredibly strange it was that the cat was essentially rubbing her face all over my boogers.

The best part is that on her way out of the kitchen she gives me a distainful, disgusted, disapproving sidelong glance and says, "You two have a weird relationship."

The Birds

One of my favorite places to study on campus is the reading room on the seventh floor of the library. It's modern, it's sunny, there's recessed lighting and comfortable chairs... and it's completely silent. Occasionally, I'll drop off my books in a corner of the room, grab my wallet and phone, (probably not the best idea, now that I'm remembering my marine biology book was $187,) then walk over to Hannaford for some lunch. There is food available on campus, but Hannaford is no further away and they have fresh produce, sushi... and a hot wing bar.

Today, I was on the phone with Angela Pizzo, balancing the phone between my ear and shoulder, holding my food container in one hand, and eating BBQ chicken bites with the other. I think I talk to Angela three or four times a day, so it's a surprise that we have anything to talk about. She is getting another call, so I hang up, and decide I'll go sit on the Back Bay, finish my lunch, and wait for her to call back. It's a beautiful, sunny day, we're at a mid-tide, so there's plenty of blue water to focus my gaze on.

Crossing that part of Baxter Blvd, where there is no crosswalk, is pretty dangerous. The road is curved, cars tend to drive fast, and I'm fairly certain that I'll die at the hands of a motor vehicle one way or another, so I just dart across the street when I see the chance, open food container in hand (can't live in fear.)

Except, as soon and I crossed onto the lawn, I was immediately swarmed by seagulls. No joke, probably about twenty. When I realized they had realized I had food, I didn't know what was scarier: The thought of getting pooped on, or the thought of them pecking my lunch out of my hands. So I closed the container, and darted back in front of traffic, followed by a dwindling amount of birds. I am so proud of myself for not screaming.

It reminds me of the time I was at Willard Beach and this woman was losing her patience with her three year old son: If you don't put your snack away... the seagulls... they will come... and they will poop on your head!! 

The Writer Guy

I'm excited to bring you this story, finally. It's the second story from the Scratchpad Series.

I recently ran into the guy from this story in a bar, he was obliterated. Absolutely shitcanned. I texted him after I left, knowing this, and asked if he'd be interested in having sex with me. He said yes, although I feel fairly certain he has no recollection of this. Moral of the story: Writer Guy didn't, in fact, reject me- he DOES want to sleep with me, as proven by his drunken text.

Scratchpad Reading Series, Take One

For those of you who follow me is an RSS feed (whatever that means), Google Reader, and are around Portland this week I'm reading some of my writing on Tuesday night at Mama's Crowbar. It's kind of exciting! If anyone ends up filming or recording, I'll be sure to post it here. Wish me luck!

For more information, go here.

Bump!

Have you ever been asked to Bump?

This confused the hell out of my friend Bryan once, when someone tried to "bump" him. He was holding his phone, and they kind of hit his hand. He had no idea what was going on. Bryan does not have an iPhone. Bumping... could totally be a euphemism for sex.

It's actually an iPhone (Android?) app, and theoreticly, it's awesome. You download this free application from iTunes or the App Store, and magically, you do a fist bump, holding your phone, and your contact information is exchanged. You can include photos, your email, even a Facebook friend request, and it takes only a second. It's so much easier than typing the other person's name and entering their phone number, the old fashioned way (but just as fast as writing your number down for someone, the even older fashioned way.) I know a lot of people with iPhones. Just went through my contact list and found at least 30 people, including two or three who used to have iPhones, not including anyone who might have an Android or Google Phone or whatever other kind of phone is capable of bumping.

Whoever invented the Bump application, however, did not take into consideration this experience I just had:

I'm at happy hour with Angela Pizzo, and one of our other friends, whom we lovingly refer to as Little Big Snack. We're enjoying a glass of $2 wine when one of LBS's friends meets us. This guy, we'll call him Jeremiah, I've met a few times, but have never established a relationship with outside of LBS. He seems like a nice enough guy... but he's more than a few years older than me, we don't seem to have much in common (other than our Lewiston roots- REPRESENT!), and I'm not attracteved to him at all. According to LBS, however, he's a bit of a ladies' man. Really, though, I'm not one to judge. Jeremiah asks me if he saw me at 90s night at the Asylum the previous weekend, and if you would have seen my dress, you'd know that was kind of a stupid question. It was skin tight, black, and studded. I told Mandy that night that it felt like everyone was watching me, and she said I was right, because the dress was mesmerizing. It was like... Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation, or something (pictures soon!)

It becomes apparent that the four of us all have iPhones, and on our way out, while LBS is in the bathroom, Jeremiah asks Angela and I to Bump. Problem: I have no desire to give this man my phone number. Under normal circumstances, I'd do a number of things to get out of this. I could: offer to take his and tell him I'd call him; write down a fake number; ask him to get it from our mutual friend; change the subject altogether. Fuck you, Bump, now I have to give it to him. The ONLY way out of it is to lie and say that you don't have the app, which is ridiculous, because it's one of the few apps that everyone has. This is what it looks like after you've bumped:

So you're standing there, both holding your phones, and you KNOW if it doesn't go though. There's no excuse.

As luck would have it, I run into Jeremiah the next night at Bubba's Sulky Lounge. He's wasted, I'm not. He tells me we should hang out, very matter of factly. "You have my number, just call me," I tell him, having no intention whatsoever of ever taking his call or calling him back. He tells me he's shy, which I know is bullshit, just part of the game. For the rest of the night he lingers next to me on the dancefloor. I try and make eye contact with his sober-er friend to let him know that Jeremiah is cramping my style. It doesn't work. The lights come up and he asks my friends and I to have a drink at my house. We obviously decline.

The next day, he texts me and invited me to a BBQ. Honestly, there is very little I love more than grilled meat, but I didn't respond.

Here's another guy who has a problem with the Bump app:

In My Wine, Belly Up

There are things that you do when you're in a relationship, standard procedure, unless you really suck at being in a relationship. You meet parents, you attend work functions, you go on double dates, holidays, etc. These things are mildly annoying and can be borderline unpleasant. Last summer, I was involved romantically, sort of, with an ex-boyfriend. Javier and I, we were retrosexing, if you will. The details of the relationship, subsequent break-up, the whole story is irrelevant, however, I will say this: the first time we saw each other over coffee after three years, I thought to myself, yup, what an ass hole, this is never going to happen; and he thought to himself, yup, I'm into it. He was right, obviously, because a year later we were making out and I was driving to Auburn to have dinner with him at his boss's house, a very relationship-like thing for me to be doing with someone I'd already broken up with, years earlier. (Editor's note: to Javier's credit, he's handsome, funny and smart. The fact that he isn't in a serious long term relationship is minorly baffling, especially because as we all know, girls are into ass holes.)

Denny is a big deal criminal defense lawyer in the State of Maine and Javier was his protege for the summer. His wife, Karen, is some sort of news director at the public radio station. Javier and I originally met Denny while working at Austin's Fine Wine and Foods in Auburn, five years ago. I guess they were shooting the shit in the car one day, on the way to some district attorney's office, and the plan was hatched for us to go over there, for dinner. I get to see Denny again, Karen and I will probably talk public radio, and Javier will look like a guy who can, maybe, get girls to spend time with him.

Anyway, we arrive at the scheduled day and time. It's cozy. Karen offers us something to drink, and alcoholic options are gin and tonic, red wine or beer. Since I like all of these, and to remain agreeable at all times, I tell Karen I'll have whatever she's having. Normally, I would've let Javier speak up first and say, I'll have the same, but he is a non-drinker. At a coffeeshop once, I did this to Josh Gleason, and it absolutely blew his mind. Moments later, she comes into the living room, where Javier and I are sitting with Denny. She gives Javier a seltzer, and hands me a glass of red wine. I'm totally cool with this, until I notice like, five to ten fruit flies, belly up. In the wine. Silently... I freak out. Javier and Denny are talking shop and my mind races. The only thing worse than being embarrassed is knowing you're going to embarrass someone else. But I couldn't not say anything, could I? I did NOT want to swallow the bugs. But someone would definitely notice if I dumped my glass in the bathroom sink and came back with an empty glass. "Amanda, you nervous?" Maybe I could accidentally spill it? No, because the bugs might be noticable in the spill, and I'd have to lie and say I didn't notice. I'm a terrible liar. Maybe swallowing the bugs wouldn't be THAT bad. It wouldn't kill me... I mean, the bottle was probably only open for a couple of hours, and it was the middle of the summer... lBut then she'd offer me another glass and I'd have to refuse, which would make it sound like I didnt like it. But maybe I could fish out the bugs.Yes. That's what I'd do. I'll go into the bathroom, and fish out the bugs with toilet paper, then flush the toilet paper, then repeat if necessary. There'd be no evidence, and I'd get to drink the wine. No one would be the wiser.

The worst part about the whole thing is that I was getting so stressed, I really WANTED to drink the wine. Eventually, though, Denny got up. I showed Javier, and he acted like a man and took care of it. They laughed, she apologized, dinner was good, Karen and I retire to the kitchen and have a rousing discussion about the ins and outs of public radio for like, an hour. We thank them, and leave. Javier and I get ice cream, make out in the driveway of my mom's house, and the rest is history.

I walked to Save-A-Lot this morning in my pajamas and accidentally bought Jesus eggs.

Amanda, You're like, the Bomb

On a recent Monday night trip to the Dogfish Bar and Grille on Free Street, I was hanging out with this kid from portlandtaps.com, catching up. Some more friends showed up, and after a couple pints of Arrogant Bastard, we started talking a little bit about how fun unlikely hook-ups can be. This chick started laughing, remembering the time she hooked up with a man she was convinced was 90% gay. "It was so much fun, even though he was totally completely gay. We laughed so much! He really loved my boobies... and hey, a blow job is a blow job, right?" (Dad, now would be a great time for you to stop reading.)

So I started telling the story of the most fun, least likely hook-up I've ever had.

It was last May, and I met some friends at the most lengen... wait for it... dary house party on Exchange Street. Everyone was there... It was a beautiful spring night, there were Jell-O shots. We all left around three a.m., after the fourth floor deck shifted under our weight and the toilets started clogging. Well, I tried to leave. But I saw this cute guy... and asked him for a drag of his cigarette (I don't smoke, and this is a very clear indication that I've had too much to drink.) We started making out. The plan was to leave with Darcy and crash at her house... but then this kid, Connor, ran outside after me, begged me to come back in the party, and I said no, and drunkenly agreed to let him walk me home. (Ditching my friends and leaving with a complete stranger was obviously a huge mistake, I was hardly standing, let alone able to make responsible decisions about my safety. I also got into a huge screaming match with this super obnoxious queen outside of the party... I said he was generic, he told me I was like Janeane Garofalo. I told him to find a new hangout and he replied, I am! It's called SAN FRANCISCO!)

In the morning, it took me a few minutes to remember his name, where I was, and what happened the night before. Then I remembered he was four years younger than me. Just a baby, he turned 21 only a few months prior. I'm cringing, thanking GOD that I didn't have sex with this stranger. I roll over, so completely hungerover I could've actually slept the entire day. When we met, Connor was wearing those Vans, the ones with the checkers on the side, faded black Levi's, and a black Jesus Christ Superstar T-shirt. We talked a lot on the way home. He was from Sanford, loved skateboarding, and worked at a pizza joint in town.

"Amanda." Oh my god he's talking to me, and he remembers my name. What if he doedsn't realize that I was wasted last night. Oh God. "You're like... the bomb." I laughed out loud and looked him in the eye. He was serious. This kid totally talks like a Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. "Amanda... how did an ass hole like me wind up in the bed of such a beautiful girl like you. Oh man, you know, when I go out drinking like that, I should be waking up in the gutter somewhere or something. This is like, awesome." He's right, there is no way I would've been into him if I wasn't drunk, but it was kind of awesome. I laugh, roll over and say, "Five more minutes." We alternate snoozing and making out for a little while.

"Amanda. I just like, really want to spend the day with you. I've got some VHS' at my house we can watch." I laugh. VHS aren't hip and retro. He pins me.

"Amanda. Let me take you out to breakfast. How about Denny's?" I roll my eyes. "No? No, Denny's? How about the IHOP. Denny's or IHOP. No? C'mon, what's the deal? You don't eat? It's a free meal! Who DOESN'T want a free meal. What? Is it me? Do I smell?"

My phone rings, it's Darcy. She probably thinks I'm dead in a gutter somewhere. I reach for my phone, and Connor pins me again. We wrestle for a little while and I'm laughing hysterically. This kid was so much fun! Finally, I answer and apologize PROFUSELY to Darcy for ruining the rest of her night by going completely MIA. Feeling even worse, I try and roll over and go back to sleep. At this point, Connor can leave for all I care. My back is turned... and he pulls down my underwear, like the Coppertone baby. I giggle, and tell him to quit it. He does it like four more times until I turn around really fast to make him stop. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Uhhh, nothing. I was just going to dickslap you."

Up North

With the exception of a few short stints in other New England towns, I've lived in Maine my whole life. I know the geography of the state, were you can get lobster flavored ice cream, I've lobbied to the state appropriations committee, I've been to "the County." Corny Maine jokes always make me laugh: "Bangor? I hardly know her!" "You can't get there from here." Everything sounds funny in the accent. Here's a video some friends of some friends made (because everyone here has a mere two degrees of separation):



Mandy and I have been doing a lot of thrift shopping- mostly for her website shopgrandmajune.etsy.com. We scour the Goodwills and Salvation Army's within a ten-mile radius of Portland. I have my favorite locations, she has hers. We'll walk in the door, split up, then meet up after 20 minutes at the dressing room with our arms full. She and I will go in together, because four eyes are better then two (well... in our case, three and a half are better than two...) bringing in way more than ten items. We make yes, no, maybe piles, and make decisions.

On one such trip, recently, I found a grey sweatshirt, no hood, no zipper, that read: "Up North," in the same style one might find a state or univsersity name. I hold it up for Mandy and ask, is this funny? The woman behind us starts laughing. Out loud. So yes, it's funny. Up north, the general vicinity of the state above Portland where people camp, hike and ski. It's five dollars- kind of a no-brainer.

At this point, I'm starving. I had completed a nine hour shift at the Maine Roasters, and I was anxious to meet Angela for oysters at J's. Mandy is still deliberating, so I run over to Shaw's to grab a pre-oyster sandwich. She says her car, a 1984 tan VW Jetta we call Peacock, is unlocked, so I throw my prized find in the front seat, quite pleased with myself as I'm crossing the parking lot. I happen to notice that the contents of the driver's front seat of the car are a little bit different than before, but Mandy had to grab her phone while we were shopping, so I think nothing of it.

Ham sandwich in hand, I meet Mandy back at the car, just like we planned. She's not there. But... neither is the sweatshirt. She's still in the store. Had she gone back to the car, again? I practically run. I grab her by the arm, "Did you go back to the car?"

"No," she replies.

"Oh my god, the sweatshirt isn't there." (Because this is Maine, the thought doesn't even cross my mind that it could've been stolen. Once, I didn't lock Josh's car and his winter coat was stolen from the backseat. I felt terrible, obviously, but what the hell was his jacket doing back there, anyway?? Still haven't learned.)

"Well... there was a gold Volvo parked two doors down from me. I almost went to it when I was grabbing my phone."

And then it dawns on me. I put the Up North sweatshirt in the wrong car. I get really upset for a few reasons. 1, Why didn't that car lock it's doors?! 2. The contents of the car were obviously those belonging to a woman. This is definitely not going to be the beginning of a romantic comedy. 3. Why wasn't that car still there? 4. The Up North sweatshirt is GONE and I might as well have thrown that five dollars in the trashcan. Mandy explains the whole thing to the clerks at the Goodwill, how I bought the sweatshirt, to see if anyone returned it, and they laughed at her, well, me. Kate did the same thing a few days later, and the employees were equally bemused by my mishap.

A few days after that, even, I see a gold Volvo on Free Street. I'm with Kate, and I decide there's only one thing to do: leave a note. The chances of this Volvo being the same Volvo are slim, but it's ridiculous not to.

This is what it said:

Hello There,

This is extremely embarrassing, but a few days ago I mistakenly threw a gray "Up North" sweatshirt in a car just like yours (thinking it was my friend's car which is a very similar VW.) Obviously, this is a long shot, but I'd be pleased to find said sweatshirt.

Thank you for your time, and have a great day.

Sincerely,

Amanda


I leave it on the car and run back. Kate asks me if I left my phone number or email... and I realize this sweatshirt might be not be in my future. Because I didn't leave my phone number. I had to run back to my note and revise it. In the middle of Free Street.

No word, yet. I'll keep you posted.

Pringles Come in a Can

It just occured to me that Pringles taste a lot like cold Burger King french fries, just crunchier.

That's right. I'm eating Pringles. I made sure to NOT accidentally get the fat-free kind made with Olestra, which causes anal leakage. It didn't actually happen, even though there is a WARNING LABEL, but it was a very stressful 24 hours of my life.

Bum Fights

Some guy beat up a drunk bum today because the drunk bum was yelling at me. I was on the corner, standing with this guy, and I'm like, 'Yo, that dude is yelling at me." Thinking he'd just tell me it was okay. But he yelled at the guy, then decked him in the face, he went down, and got kicked in the face.

It was almost as disturbing at the colostomy bag. But I guess chivalry isn't dead?

Colostomy Bag, Anyone?

We all know I take the bus. It's my earth-friendly public-transportation cost-effective ride to and from work. There are stories, oh so many stories about the bus people. People saying things, doing things, which I suspect will eventually lead me to the end of my proverbial rope. People talking about their ex-boyfriends sex fetishes (right next to me), people who wear hand-knit tank tops under un-buttoned button-down shirts, and people who check their blood sugar. I've learned the best way to deal with this is to wear headphones and sunglasses at all times. But, it's just not always avoidable.

I was walking toward my bus stop when a man approaches me and says, "Excuse me, can I ask you a question?" I'm thinking YOU JUST DID, but I look at him and keep walking, indicating, yes, you can ask me a question, but make it fast because I'm not stopping. I expect he's going to ask me for a dollar, or where the bus is, or whatever.

He starts, "Hi, I'm Roland." I stare blankly. "Do you know anything about prescription medication?" I stare more. "See, I'm from Arizona, and I was stabbed seven times last week." WHAT?! So I reply, "Listen, if you're in pain, you need to go to the emergency room." "No, I've been there ya see? Do you know what a colostomy bag is?"

This is where I made my mistake. I was nearly one hundred percent sure I knew what it was, but decided maybe if I played dumb he'd go away. Instead he lifted his shirt to show me stab wound bandages and a fucking colostomy bag. I cringed, yelled through my hands covering my face while looking away, "If you need medication there's a pharmacy right there. Ask them." And I ran away while he apologized profusely to the back of my head for scaring me.

The Key

I'd say it didn't snap like a twig, it kind of... bent a little, then fell off. Sort of like Laffy Taffy. I'm talking about the key to my boyfriend's 1986 Volvo, which I have full use of until late tomorrow night. The key turned, but the lock stayed.

First, I thought, he's going to kill me. Approximately once a week I come home and say that I've lost my glasses/debit card/keys/wallet. Approximately once a month a pile of dirty laundry accumulates on the floor. Every so often, I neglect to lock the car/bicycle/door. It is a safe assumption that I'm not the most observant or careful person in existence...

Then I thought, I'll call my dad. Who answered. I'm such a bad daughter- he only receives calls about man things, like car problems, lifting and hauling, and anything that could be at all related to a hardware store. Like today. "Hey Dad, you think I'll be able to get a broken key replaced at the hardware store? Yeah, it's in two pieces. No, he doesn't have a spare." He reassures me that I will most likely be able to have it fixed there.

Next, I tell both the coffee shop guy, who is fairly well acquainted with us as a couple, and my frenemy/nemesis who calls before nine am to ask to go to the beach, that I'm in a state of panic.

The hardware store man tells me that I need to go to the Methodist church next door if I really need a miracle. He makes me a key for three dollars.

I try the key out at my apartment over my lunch break. A coworker is kind enough to sacrifice her entire lunch break to make sure my key works. That's what happens when you work at a non-profit; people are really nice.

Hallelujah, the key turns and the ignition starts. I call my boyfriend, who is actually on Coney Island at the time he receives my call, and tells me that he is immensely glad I waited to call him until everything was straightened out. I'm glad that this problem didn't incur any more expenses involving a lock smith, tow truck or Volvo dealership.