So there I was, the new kid in Baltimore, back after a stint overseas and in San Fran. My best friend Rita had taken up with a man that she eventually married, so, with my partner in crime occupied, I ended up going out a lot by myself. It wasn’t particularly fun.
One day at work I was walking out of the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Lab (APL) with some of my colleagues. As the name implies, it’s a place filled with ill dressed, out of shape, wonder bread boys, most of whom have never realized you can buy clothes made from natural fibers. Imagine my surprise when this gorgeous creature walked through the door in the opposite direction.
“Hey Morgan!” my colleagues said.
“Hhhrgh.” said Morgan.
I managed to make it to the car before I asked about him.
“So, is he single?” I queried.
A round of snickers and giggles ensued. Working with software developers is torture. Finally one of them said “Oh, I’m pretty sure he’s single.” Another round of the giggle fits. It took all my willpower not to punch every one of them in the balls.
I got Morgan’s email address at the lab and sent him an email from my yahoo account. I wrote “Hi, we have some colleagues in common (blah blah about them) and I’m working with APL on (blah blah). My favorite weapon is the lawn dart.”
He replied a couple of minutes later acknowledging my lawn dart joke, and then inquiring about my academic pedigree. The end of his email said “Just so you know, I do not date women without PhDs.”
It turns out Morgan had two PhDs, one in physics and one in engineering. I could feel the beginnings of a crush: gorgeous, in shape, and over educated. Right up my alley. I tried tempting him into a cup of tea by sending a favorite logic puzzle from Smullyan’s Riddle of Scheherazade. He liked but said no to tea. My wit was no match for his stubbornness.
Finally I sent him a story I had written about ice climbing, which I had submitted to a local paper, so it had my real name on it, as opposed to my nick name. Within seconds I got a response back that said “Are you related to Dr. X?” When I confirmed he said “I must meet you and experience your DNA in person.”
It turns out Morgan had used some research my dad had done on, I am not making this up, something about “Dynamic Elastic Moduli of Titanium Aluminides”, super alloys, and vacuum processing for something or other. Morgan looked up my home number and had left 5 messages for me while I was at work. He wanted to go out on a date. Things seemed to be falling into place.
We agreed to go to a place called 8x10, and for Morgan to walk over to pick me up. He lived, oddly enough, only 5 blocks from me. The club we were going to was ½ mile from my apartment.
I told the boys at work I had a date with Morgan. More snickers and giggles. Idiots, I thought to myself, ignoring them as best I could. Morgan had proven to be a first rate e-mailer, and a thoughtful guy who sent little notes and poems throughout the day. All the women at work were sighing over his picture, which I had found on the Hopkin’s web site, where he worked part time as a professor.
The morning of our date I logged on Yahoo. I emailed him asking what he was up to for the day. He sent an email back saying he was sending naked pictures of himself to all his friends. This was typical of our exchanges (much more clever if you read the originals). So I sent back saying I must not be a friend because I hadn’t gotten a picture yet. That afternoon I checked my email again. All the women from work were standing behind me to see what sweet things Morgan had written.
I had received an e-card so I clicked on the link. There, to my embarrassment, was a naked picture of Morgan, with a little smirk on his face. And when I say naked I mean naked as the day he sprung out of his mom’s vagina and said “Oh goody! Only 17 more years until I can go to college!” Oy vey. I had a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, but most of the women, after getting over the initial shock, found the picture provided even more incentive for me to date him.
That night I was on standby to buzz Morgan into the apartment building when my land line rang. It was Morgan. “Dude, you are supposed to be here right now picking me up” I said. I hate it when people are late.
“Well, there’s…a little problem,” he said.
The problem turned out to be an illness issue that he had not been disclosed. Morgan suffered from agoraphobia. He had a hard time leaving his apartment most days, unless he was going some place familiar, which my apartment building decidedly was not.
“So, I’m just going to chill for 15 minutes, and then I’ll be over,” he promised. 15 minutes later the phone rang. Same problem. Same solution. This went on for two hours until I finally lost it. “Get your ass over here or fuck off!” I yelled into the phone. Seven minutes later my buzzer went off.
I buzzed Morgan up to my place. I should mention that I was living in a department store building that was being made into loft apartments. I was the first, and at that point the only, tenant in the building. The hallways were still uncarpeted and detritus from construction abounded throughout. My apartment was more or less finished and was in its usual manically clean state.
Morgan pushed open my door, which I had left propped, and rushed over to the kitchen sink. “I’m just going to wash my hands,” he said. No problem, the building is dirty, I thought. But then he kept washing his hands. For five minutes. And then he dried them off and started washing them again.
The reason for my colleagues amusement over my date was suddenly becoming crystal clear.
It turns out Morgan was very intelligent, and as a result, mentally ill. He suffered from agoraphobia, OCD, haphephobia (fear of being touched), misophobia (fear of dirt and germs), and a whole host of other things. He had tried to take drugs but felt they made him dopey and slow witted so he coped as best as he could. Which, on this evening, was probably not very well, as he was not able to stop washing his hands.
I poured myself a glass of cognac and contemplated jumping out the window. I was on the 10th floor.
“Gross, don’t get near me with that!” said Morgan. He had wrapped my hand towels around his hands and headed into the living room. “I hate the smell of alcohol. It makes me want to vomit. I am going to have to lie on your floor for a minute because my back is bothering me.” I transferred more cognac to my glass, thought for a second, transferred that into a larger glass, which I topped off, and went into the living room.
He had not taken off his leather jacket (it was winter time) and the sleeves were pulled over his hands. I noticed, for the first time, that he was wearing a pair of really thick wool socks and Birkenstocks. Very few men can get away with that look. Morgan, on a good day, was one of them. But this was not, as mentioned above, a good day. Mental illness, academic snobbery, allergy to alcohol - all that could be forgiven. But not the Birkenstocks.
“Please leave.” I said, sinking down onto my sofa.
“I can’t leave now. I am just getting used to this place. I’m going to have to work myself up to go back out into that filthy hallway.”
“So how long will it take until you can leave?” I asked. He didn’t answer.
He started telling me his life story, including a play he wrote about a blow up doll, how his old girlfriend was murdered in Baltimore, about working at Hopkins, various patents he had applied for or currently held, and on and on. Finally, around 4 in the morning, I ran out of patience, energy, and, more importantly, cognac. I had to find a way to get him to leave.
A plan came to mind, a plan so preposterous I knew it would work. I started scratching my nails against the side of my sofa. Morgan stopped his monologue, delivered to the ceiling, and whipped his head around pretty quickly for a guy that had back problems.
“Did you hear that?” he asked in a frighten tone.
“Oh, that scratching sound?” I responded casually.
“What is it?” Morgan asked in a tone that said he didn’t really want to know.
“Well, a lot of the apartments don’t have external windows (this was true). The workmen leave their lunch stuff lying around (this was also true – most unfinished apartments looked like homes for wayward McDonald wrappers) and the rats come in at night and eat the food. There’s one rat that seems to be trying to get into my…”
Before I could finish Morgan moved off my floor with almost supernatural grace. His birks didn’t even come off. He rushed to my door and swung a be-sleeved hand in the direction of the knob. He looked like he was about to have a massive breakdown and couldn’t produce an intelligible sound.
I opened the door for him and he ran all the way from my apartment to the elevators. Two separate pairs of gloves fell out of his pockets but he didn’t stop. When he got to the elevator it was still waiting for him (they were set to end up on certain floors and not leave that floor until someone pressed a button because of the construction). The doors closed. I knew I would never see him again.
I went to bed around 430, relieved that my ordeal was over and vowing to not date again. Around 8 am the phone rang. It was Morgan, telling me what a great time he had had and asking if I was free for lunch that day as he wanted me to meet his friends. He warned me to not mention the ice climbing to any of his friends as he feared that would make me look too manly. He continued chattering away until I interrupted him.
“Fuck off.” I said, and hung up the phone.
As an odd afterward to this story, I was at an engineering dinner with my dad about two years later and I was talking to some physicists about Morgan. They seemed shocked that I was shocked that he sent me a naked picture. Apparently most physicists are crazy and like to give women naked pictures of themselves.
So ladies, if you are still looking for Mr. Right, consider yourselves warned…
Friday, December 7, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Things Not To Say When in Texas
So I have a rowdy group of "cowboys" that I am working with here in the city that...sleeps...a lot...which must be why everything but the Olive Garden and Taco Cabana close down at 6 PM sharp.
In any case, back in the day, 1993 to be exact, I was sentenced to work 8 months in what I consider hell on Earth. That's right, College Station, Texas. I was attacked by bull frogs the size of Johns Hopkins lacrosse players while trying to run on a soccer field my first morning in that god forsaken place. I barely escaped with my shins intact. In any case, I came to think of Texas as a place where EVERYONE carries a gun. Even 5 year olds.
So, I'm having lunch with these guys, 2007, expecting the normal conversation about .357 Pythons, .45s, etc. but they were all talking about video games, and specifically, the new Wii. I don't play video games. I used to get killed in pac man after about 20 seconds of playtime and was permanently banned from spending any money at Dave and Busters after I managed to crash my helicopter twice in 20 seconds while playing a game that cost $3. I was feeling a little left out of the conversation. So, in my usual smart ass way I announced "You know, last time I was in Texas, everyone was talking about their guns. Now all you guys want to talk about is playing with your Wiis."
A moment later my brain caught up with my mouth.
Dead silence resumed for the rest of lunch. I haven't been invited out with them since.
Cowards...
In any case, back in the day, 1993 to be exact, I was sentenced to work 8 months in what I consider hell on Earth. That's right, College Station, Texas. I was attacked by bull frogs the size of Johns Hopkins lacrosse players while trying to run on a soccer field my first morning in that god forsaken place. I barely escaped with my shins intact. In any case, I came to think of Texas as a place where EVERYONE carries a gun. Even 5 year olds.
So, I'm having lunch with these guys, 2007, expecting the normal conversation about .357 Pythons, .45s, etc. but they were all talking about video games, and specifically, the new Wii. I don't play video games. I used to get killed in pac man after about 20 seconds of playtime and was permanently banned from spending any money at Dave and Busters after I managed to crash my helicopter twice in 20 seconds while playing a game that cost $3. I was feeling a little left out of the conversation. So, in my usual smart ass way I announced "You know, last time I was in Texas, everyone was talking about their guns. Now all you guys want to talk about is playing with your Wiis."
A moment later my brain caught up with my mouth.
Dead silence resumed for the rest of lunch. I haven't been invited out with them since.
Cowards...
Notes from the Front Range - Chicken Confusion Cleared
Again, emailed from Janet Estes:
"Franki, THAT was a Turkey. You know, Thanksgiving and Turkeys go together. And the stuff in the ass of the turkey, that's called dressing. Or Stuffing for people from the south. Potatoes usually come mashed, in a separate container. The chicken pot pie thing - - -that is what Clint and Brian made from grandma's recipe the day before our Thanksgiving meal. It is really Chicken and Dumplins'. But the kids all called it pot pie growing up. I hope this kind of clarifies the food thing. I know, being food challenged, how you could get a 24 lb turkey and a chicken confused.:-)"
She has obviously heard the story about how I couldn't find butter in the grocery store because I didn't realize it had to be refrigerated...
"Franki, THAT was a Turkey. You know, Thanksgiving and Turkeys go together. And the stuff in the ass of the turkey, that's called dressing. Or Stuffing for people from the south. Potatoes usually come mashed, in a separate container. The chicken pot pie thing - - -that is what Clint and Brian made from grandma's recipe the day before our Thanksgiving meal. It is really Chicken and Dumplins'. But the kids all called it pot pie growing up. I hope this kind of clarifies the food thing. I know, being food challenged, how you could get a 24 lb turkey and a chicken confused.:-)"
She has obviously heard the story about how I couldn't find butter in the grocery store because I didn't realize it had to be refrigerated...
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Notes from the Front Range - Antlers!
My guest writer, Janet Estes, sent the following email to me and I wanted to share it. She is the one who introduced me to the concept of an "antler lamp". In fact, I have her entire box of antlers in my garage. In case you are puzzled about the antler lamp, this is also the woman who told me she was making chicken pot pie, but there wasn't any pie. It was just a big chicken with 'taters coming out its ass.
"Oh by the way, I HAVE replaced my towel racks with antlers! Just thought you would like to know. We also put a large number of large antlers on the roof with lights around them. The kids in the neighborhood think that Santa fell through our roof and he is in permanent residence at our place. I suppose that explains the constant flow of letters at our front door asking for appliances and such!:)"
"Oh by the way, I HAVE replaced my towel racks with antlers! Just thought you would like to know. We also put a large number of large antlers on the roof with lights around them. The kids in the neighborhood think that Santa fell through our roof and he is in permanent residence at our place. I suppose that explains the constant flow of letters at our front door asking for appliances and such!:)"
am I shot or not?
So once I had to have emergency surgery because one of my fallopian tubes got all ganked up. This caused the tube to fill with blood, causing me to be in excruciating pain every time I sat down, and then, after a while, to be in pain all the time (the reason for this problem was diagnosed as trauma to my lower abdomen – four years of full contact karate will do that).
So, after about a week, I decided to go see a doctor, and was told I had to have surgery the next day before my fallopian tube burst. They wanted me to go into surgery that night but I decided not to because I’ve had surgery at 1 in the morning and it was pretty scary.
So the next morning, at 530, I walked to University of Maryland Baltimore Hospital. The hospital is about a ½ mile from where I was living. I had arranged for my boyfriend at the time to pick me up after my surgery. I will not name names. I will only say that he is a doctor and that he is world renowned in his field. And he is really hot, and at least at that time drove an Audi TT.
I got out of surgery around 1030 am. The doctor tried to give me a shot of morphine when I got to recovery. I was, at that time, wearing a huge yellow bracelet on both wrists saying I was allergic to morphine. I also had one on my right ankle. There was also a huge purple sticker on my folder that said I was allergic to morphine. I managed to stop him before he injected it but then was told they didn’t have any other pain killers in recovery and that I would have to get something when I got up to my room.
I was taken to my room on a gurney and then left alone for about 30 minutes. I was in excruciating pain (imagine having your appendix out with no pain killer) and wretching from the anesthetic, because I’m allergic (they can give you a drug to make you not sick, but I didn’t know that at the time). A nurse finally came in and I asked for something for the pain. She left. She came back about 15 minutes later with a ginger ale and some Lorna Doone cookies. She said I had to eat something and keep it down before she would bring me pain drugs. All I wanted was Tylenol but I was dealing with Nurse Bitch. I shoved the cookies in my mouth, chugged the ginger ale, and pleaded again for even an aspirin.
As soon as she left I got up and crawled to the bathroom to throw up my cookies and ginger ale. When I came out of the bathroom, my gurney was gone. In place of the gurney was a folding chair.
The nurse came back with some Demerol. I asked where my gurney was. She said she didn’t know and told me to sit in the chair. I refused on the grounds that I was in serious pain as well as sick to my stomach and there was no way I could sit in the chair. She forced me to take the Demerol (which I am also allergic to, I found out) and left looking more than a little pissed off at me.
After vomiting up the Demerol I decided to go to the nurses’ station in the hopes that one of them would find me a place to lay down. I was wearing a hospital gown with nothing underneath (opening to the back). I had on pink surgery socks, and my hair looked like Einstein because it was wet when they put my surgery cap on. My abdomen was bleeding from the surgical incision so the front of my gown had a huge blood stain.
I was on the women’s ward floor, and was one of the few patients there who was not having a baby. So families were hanging around to be with mother and child, and I got more than a few concerned looks as I staggered past them on my way to the nurse station. When I arrived all I could say was “need…gurney”. Nurse Bitch grabbed me by the arm and led me back to the room, pushed me into the chair, and told me to not leave my room again.
Right after she left I noticed that there was an empty gurney parked outside my room! I staggered over to it and climbed on top, lying on my side. I put the sheet that was on the gurney over my legs. A few seconds later a nurse came out of the room across from mine.
“Hey, can you push me into there?” I asked her, pointing at my room.
“Get OFF of that gurney right now!” she screamed at me.
“No.”
She started trying to pull me off the gurney but I was holding onto the bars as tightly as I could. An older guy walked by and gave us a look.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“Gunshot wound!” I said, clutching my stomach.
“Leave her alone!” he yelled at the nurse.
“She isn’t shot!” the nurse yelled back. “She needs to go into her room and STAY THERE!”
People were starting to stare.
Dr. Boyfriend was supposed to pick me up at 2 PM unless they released me earlier. He was supposed to call to find out when to come pick me up. At this point it was 1130. I thought, I’m going to die of pain before he gets here. I hoped that he would call and they would tell him to come get me.
Eventually some medical staff person brought me a padded chair from the waiting room that reclined a little bit. I lay on my side seething. I tried to locate a phone to call Dr. Boyfriend but they wanted me to pay them $5 to make the call. I hadn’t brought any money with me. I begged them to call Dr. Boyfriend for me on one of their phones but they refused.
I went back to my room and put on my clothes and shoes, determined to walk home. I got to the nurses’ station and was sent back to my room. The second time I managed to get to the elevators by walking right next to a fat nurse wheeling a patient. But she noticed the bloody stain in the middle of my white shirt (bad choice of outfit) and sent me back to my room.
With nothing to do but look at the clock I counted the seconds for Dr. Boyfriend to arrive. He was an hour late (blame it on his South American roots). When he arrived at the nurses’ station all he had to do was give them my first name. They all knew what room number I was in. And he parked really, really far away. In the end, it would have been quicker to walk home.
Around 9 PM that night a nurse called Dr. Boyfriend’s cell phone, which was listed on my record as the “in case of emergency” number. They said they couldn’t find me and that I had been missing for a while. I was still attached to some of their medical monitoring equipment and they wanted it back when or if he was able to find me.
We broke up shortly after this incident…and, for the record, I was charged $8 for two 200mg tablets of Tylenol.
So, after about a week, I decided to go see a doctor, and was told I had to have surgery the next day before my fallopian tube burst. They wanted me to go into surgery that night but I decided not to because I’ve had surgery at 1 in the morning and it was pretty scary.
So the next morning, at 530, I walked to University of Maryland Baltimore Hospital. The hospital is about a ½ mile from where I was living. I had arranged for my boyfriend at the time to pick me up after my surgery. I will not name names. I will only say that he is a doctor and that he is world renowned in his field. And he is really hot, and at least at that time drove an Audi TT.
I got out of surgery around 1030 am. The doctor tried to give me a shot of morphine when I got to recovery. I was, at that time, wearing a huge yellow bracelet on both wrists saying I was allergic to morphine. I also had one on my right ankle. There was also a huge purple sticker on my folder that said I was allergic to morphine. I managed to stop him before he injected it but then was told they didn’t have any other pain killers in recovery and that I would have to get something when I got up to my room.
I was taken to my room on a gurney and then left alone for about 30 minutes. I was in excruciating pain (imagine having your appendix out with no pain killer) and wretching from the anesthetic, because I’m allergic (they can give you a drug to make you not sick, but I didn’t know that at the time). A nurse finally came in and I asked for something for the pain. She left. She came back about 15 minutes later with a ginger ale and some Lorna Doone cookies. She said I had to eat something and keep it down before she would bring me pain drugs. All I wanted was Tylenol but I was dealing with Nurse Bitch. I shoved the cookies in my mouth, chugged the ginger ale, and pleaded again for even an aspirin.
As soon as she left I got up and crawled to the bathroom to throw up my cookies and ginger ale. When I came out of the bathroom, my gurney was gone. In place of the gurney was a folding chair.
The nurse came back with some Demerol. I asked where my gurney was. She said she didn’t know and told me to sit in the chair. I refused on the grounds that I was in serious pain as well as sick to my stomach and there was no way I could sit in the chair. She forced me to take the Demerol (which I am also allergic to, I found out) and left looking more than a little pissed off at me.
After vomiting up the Demerol I decided to go to the nurses’ station in the hopes that one of them would find me a place to lay down. I was wearing a hospital gown with nothing underneath (opening to the back). I had on pink surgery socks, and my hair looked like Einstein because it was wet when they put my surgery cap on. My abdomen was bleeding from the surgical incision so the front of my gown had a huge blood stain.
I was on the women’s ward floor, and was one of the few patients there who was not having a baby. So families were hanging around to be with mother and child, and I got more than a few concerned looks as I staggered past them on my way to the nurse station. When I arrived all I could say was “need…gurney”. Nurse Bitch grabbed me by the arm and led me back to the room, pushed me into the chair, and told me to not leave my room again.
Right after she left I noticed that there was an empty gurney parked outside my room! I staggered over to it and climbed on top, lying on my side. I put the sheet that was on the gurney over my legs. A few seconds later a nurse came out of the room across from mine.
“Hey, can you push me into there?” I asked her, pointing at my room.
“Get OFF of that gurney right now!” she screamed at me.
“No.”
She started trying to pull me off the gurney but I was holding onto the bars as tightly as I could. An older guy walked by and gave us a look.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
“Gunshot wound!” I said, clutching my stomach.
“Leave her alone!” he yelled at the nurse.
“She isn’t shot!” the nurse yelled back. “She needs to go into her room and STAY THERE!”
People were starting to stare.
Dr. Boyfriend was supposed to pick me up at 2 PM unless they released me earlier. He was supposed to call to find out when to come pick me up. At this point it was 1130. I thought, I’m going to die of pain before he gets here. I hoped that he would call and they would tell him to come get me.
Eventually some medical staff person brought me a padded chair from the waiting room that reclined a little bit. I lay on my side seething. I tried to locate a phone to call Dr. Boyfriend but they wanted me to pay them $5 to make the call. I hadn’t brought any money with me. I begged them to call Dr. Boyfriend for me on one of their phones but they refused.
I went back to my room and put on my clothes and shoes, determined to walk home. I got to the nurses’ station and was sent back to my room. The second time I managed to get to the elevators by walking right next to a fat nurse wheeling a patient. But she noticed the bloody stain in the middle of my white shirt (bad choice of outfit) and sent me back to my room.
With nothing to do but look at the clock I counted the seconds for Dr. Boyfriend to arrive. He was an hour late (blame it on his South American roots). When he arrived at the nurses’ station all he had to do was give them my first name. They all knew what room number I was in. And he parked really, really far away. In the end, it would have been quicker to walk home.
Around 9 PM that night a nurse called Dr. Boyfriend’s cell phone, which was listed on my record as the “in case of emergency” number. They said they couldn’t find me and that I had been missing for a while. I was still attached to some of their medical monitoring equipment and they wanted it back when or if he was able to find me.
We broke up shortly after this incident…and, for the record, I was charged $8 for two 200mg tablets of Tylenol.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Car Light at Night
Tonight I was walking to get dinner when I happened by a gated apartment complex. I guess I startled the security guy (no one walks in Houston - seriously, at my work they had to send a bus to carry people 5 blocks from one building to another) who responded by shining his big ass mag flashlight right in my face. My eyes are very sensitive to light. I was pissed.
I decided to yell out "It's okay, I'm white!" The guard laughed (luckily, because I don't really want to get my ass whupped with a mag light). The incident reminded me, for some reason, of a game that I invented when I was a kid.
The game was called Car Light at Night. Parents, if you are reading, now is a good time to stop.
We (my brother Bob, my best friend Vic F, and a motley assortment of neighborhood kids whose parents hadn't banned them from playing with me yet) would stand by the side of the road, a somewhat busy two lane highway, called Taylorsville Road. It didn't have much in the way of lighting. If the headlights from a car driving by shone on you, you had to do something crazy. Among other things, we mooned cars, did crazy dances, did cart wheels, shot at the cars with our dart guns, or threw rocks. We were chased by more than one pissed off driver and even caused a few accidents.
The saddest part of this whole story is that Car Light at Night was sequel game for another game I invented called Cross Light. Again, at night, we would stand on either side of this two lane road waiting for a car. When the car came, you had to wait until the last possible second to run across the street. In front of the car. Safety first! The closer the car the better, although you lost props if the car slammed on its brakes.
Cross Light came to an untimely end when a kid in the neighborhood was hit by a car while playing the game. Actually, he was just tagged, and the guy driving the car was drunk, so the situation had the potential for no consequences except that the kid had some kind of weird breakdown and ratted on us. His name was either Joey or Scotty and he lived diagonal to our house. After he was hit by the car his mom kept the blinds permanently closed on their front window and never let Joey (or Scotty) out again to play . Joey (or Scotty) had a military dad who was never home, and the mom was a little tweaked even before I almost killed her only child.
I should also mention I delivered their daily paper so it was a kind of awkward situation. I remember taking the newspaper to her house the day Reagan was shot and all I could here inside was this high pitched wail.
It prepared me well for my adult life...
I decided to yell out "It's okay, I'm white!" The guard laughed (luckily, because I don't really want to get my ass whupped with a mag light). The incident reminded me, for some reason, of a game that I invented when I was a kid.
The game was called Car Light at Night. Parents, if you are reading, now is a good time to stop.
We (my brother Bob, my best friend Vic F, and a motley assortment of neighborhood kids whose parents hadn't banned them from playing with me yet) would stand by the side of the road, a somewhat busy two lane highway, called Taylorsville Road. It didn't have much in the way of lighting. If the headlights from a car driving by shone on you, you had to do something crazy. Among other things, we mooned cars, did crazy dances, did cart wheels, shot at the cars with our dart guns, or threw rocks. We were chased by more than one pissed off driver and even caused a few accidents.
The saddest part of this whole story is that Car Light at Night was sequel game for another game I invented called Cross Light. Again, at night, we would stand on either side of this two lane road waiting for a car. When the car came, you had to wait until the last possible second to run across the street. In front of the car. Safety first! The closer the car the better, although you lost props if the car slammed on its brakes.
Cross Light came to an untimely end when a kid in the neighborhood was hit by a car while playing the game. Actually, he was just tagged, and the guy driving the car was drunk, so the situation had the potential for no consequences except that the kid had some kind of weird breakdown and ratted on us. His name was either Joey or Scotty and he lived diagonal to our house. After he was hit by the car his mom kept the blinds permanently closed on their front window and never let Joey (or Scotty) out again to play . Joey (or Scotty) had a military dad who was never home, and the mom was a little tweaked even before I almost killed her only child.
I should also mention I delivered their daily paper so it was a kind of awkward situation. I remember taking the newspaper to her house the day Reagan was shot and all I could here inside was this high pitched wail.
It prepared me well for my adult life...
Monday, December 3, 2007
Invasion of the Towels
Now that I am traveling 100% of the time I am struggling with my desire to save the planet. At my house, for the record, I recycle 90% of my trash. My dad is afraid to throw anything away at my house because I am that serious about recycling.
But now, living in hotels, I am struggling. I carry grocery bags of recyclables all over the city of Houston to get rid of my trash (recycle cans and bottles at my building, recycle papers at the Starbucks down the street, carry plastic bottles to the airport for recycling at the end of my trip, the Super Shuttle guy thinks I'm homeless and crazy). I have even, I am embarrassed to admit, brought my trash home to Denver because I couldn't find a place to recycle it.
Meanwhile the hotels, with their stupid signs "can you sigh backwards" (whatever THAT means) and "we are trying to conserve water - a towel on the rack means I'll reuse" blah blah blah are lying! It's so much bullshit!
For example, I'm staying at a Hilton. I arrived in my room and found 12 towels. Yes people, TWELVE towels. I am ONE person. I am staying for A WEEK. Unless I'm delivering babies, I have NO NEED for TWELVE towels.
The towels are arranged in little milieus, such as "no, I'm not a wash cloth, I'm a beautiful white flower hanging over the toilet". You can't even use these towels for the purpose intended because they are all contorted into these weird bunchy designs. Why can't they just put up an antler lamp and get over the decorating? (ha ha, antler lamp Janet, I know you are reading this)
So when I first started staying at hotels I would have my travel agent call the hotel (she loves me) and request that I only have one hand towel and one bath towel in my room, and that my sheets not be replaced. Do you think these bitches listened to my request? NO! I find myself in the situation of stacking new towels that show up in my room every day. I wish I was joking but right now I have nine bath towels stacked up on my sofa. I don't know how many washclothes are there, but there are ten hand towels. I have left numerous notes for the maid to not bring ANY more towels. Or soaps, bottled waters, or shampoos. But they keep coming. I can feel the earth buckling under my room.
And this room in particular...I requested a non-smoking room that doesn't smell like smoke (it's Texas so you have to be that specific - it's the lone star state, not the smart mind state). They gave me a room that smells like static electricity. My first night here I realized the bath was leaking hot water - enough to half fill the tub in the course of 5 hours (I blocked the tub so I could measure the water loss). I called the front desk and complained. I left a note for the maid. I put a sticky on my door explaining to the plumber what I thought was the problem.
When I got home from work the next evening, expecting over the course of 12 hours they could fix the problem, I found my leak was not fixed. But somehow I gained a flat screen TV. I am still trying to figure out how "tub leak" translated to "need a flatter TV". The world will never stop amazing me....
But now, living in hotels, I am struggling. I carry grocery bags of recyclables all over the city of Houston to get rid of my trash (recycle cans and bottles at my building, recycle papers at the Starbucks down the street, carry plastic bottles to the airport for recycling at the end of my trip, the Super Shuttle guy thinks I'm homeless and crazy). I have even, I am embarrassed to admit, brought my trash home to Denver because I couldn't find a place to recycle it.
Meanwhile the hotels, with their stupid signs "can you sigh backwards" (whatever THAT means) and "we are trying to conserve water - a towel on the rack means I'll reuse" blah blah blah are lying! It's so much bullshit!
For example, I'm staying at a Hilton. I arrived in my room and found 12 towels. Yes people, TWELVE towels. I am ONE person. I am staying for A WEEK. Unless I'm delivering babies, I have NO NEED for TWELVE towels.
The towels are arranged in little milieus, such as "no, I'm not a wash cloth, I'm a beautiful white flower hanging over the toilet". You can't even use these towels for the purpose intended because they are all contorted into these weird bunchy designs. Why can't they just put up an antler lamp and get over the decorating? (ha ha, antler lamp Janet, I know you are reading this)
So when I first started staying at hotels I would have my travel agent call the hotel (she loves me) and request that I only have one hand towel and one bath towel in my room, and that my sheets not be replaced. Do you think these bitches listened to my request? NO! I find myself in the situation of stacking new towels that show up in my room every day. I wish I was joking but right now I have nine bath towels stacked up on my sofa. I don't know how many washclothes are there, but there are ten hand towels. I have left numerous notes for the maid to not bring ANY more towels. Or soaps, bottled waters, or shampoos. But they keep coming. I can feel the earth buckling under my room.
And this room in particular...I requested a non-smoking room that doesn't smell like smoke (it's Texas so you have to be that specific - it's the lone star state, not the smart mind state). They gave me a room that smells like static electricity. My first night here I realized the bath was leaking hot water - enough to half fill the tub in the course of 5 hours (I blocked the tub so I could measure the water loss). I called the front desk and complained. I left a note for the maid. I put a sticky on my door explaining to the plumber what I thought was the problem.
When I got home from work the next evening, expecting over the course of 12 hours they could fix the problem, I found my leak was not fixed. But somehow I gained a flat screen TV. I am still trying to figure out how "tub leak" translated to "need a flatter TV". The world will never stop amazing me....
Staple Face
Today I was walking to work and I saw a girl coming out of the unemployment office. My office happens to be right across from this particular unemployment office due to my office also being within spitting distance of Reliant stadium in Houston, TX (concrete capitol of the world, also home of the world's largest pigeon collection, I wouldn't order the chicken if I was you).
As you may recall, Reliant stadium hosted many people from Hurricane Katrina until Barbara Bush looked around and noticed there were a lot more black people in her hometown and got upset (http://urbanlegends.about.com/b/2005/09/08/barbara-bush-on-hurricane-katrina-refugees.htm - NPR, you heard it first).
In any case, this girl was wearing a shirt that said "I'm too pretty to work". While I applaud the sentiment of the t-shirt, I have to protest that it was inappropriate for the wearer. More truthful would have been something like "I decorated my face with a stapler and now I can't get a job". Whenever I see a kid with so many piercings I can't help but think "you recycled your braces! nice!"
I guess that's why I don't have any friends.
As you may recall, Reliant stadium hosted many people from Hurricane Katrina until Barbara Bush looked around and noticed there were a lot more black people in her hometown and got upset (http://urbanlegends.about.com/b/2005/09/08/barbara-bush-on-hurricane-katrina-refugees.htm - NPR, you heard it first).
In any case, this girl was wearing a shirt that said "I'm too pretty to work". While I applaud the sentiment of the t-shirt, I have to protest that it was inappropriate for the wearer. More truthful would have been something like "I decorated my face with a stapler and now I can't get a job". Whenever I see a kid with so many piercings I can't help but think "you recycled your braces! nice!"
I guess that's why I don't have any friends.
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