The Receipt

I think only when you truly respect and care about someone can you drive them to the utter edges of insanity...and find it entertaining.

The Gentleman and I were in CVS, waiting for our digital photos to be processed. We needed two of the standard-issue passport photos to obtain our international driving permits so that we can rent a car in Amman. It was a Saturday, and we'd just come from brunch where, naturally, there were...ahem...beverages consumed.

In that effortlessly-charming-and-endlessly-annoying way, he casually crumpled up the receipt for the photos and leaned forward, slyly stuffing the trash into my sweatshirt pocket. And thought himself a genius, no doubt, for not only depositing of this detritus but also now complicating my life. All while smiling so dazzlingly at me. What a nice thing to do.

I decided that throughout this day of running errands and completing chores, what might liven things up a bit is if I declared this receipt the thing that would ultimately send The Gentleman over the edge of sanity. And so I just smiled, removed the crumpled ball of paper from my pocket, and slipped it into the pocket of my jeans, unbeknownst to him.

A few minutes later, I made a very touching gesture of slipping my arm around his shoulders, my hand dangling right next to his ear. And I began squeezing and crumpling the receipt at a rapid pace. Which isn't, naturally, anything heart-stopping. Unless you're not expecting it. The grotesque facial expression that snapped out of his features was so satisfying, I was instantly both pleased and proud of myself for thinking of this game.

Later, we were in the car, heading to Triple A to pick up the licenses. I leaned over as if to whisper a secret and crumpled the receipt next to his ear, making sure to brush the paper just inside the ear so as to elicit the maximum response.

"WHAT IS THAT?!"

"Nothing."

"IT'S NOT NOTHING WHAT IS THAT?!"

"Don't worry about it."

I did it again, and again, and again. Always when he had his guard down, when he was looking away. Over the course of the afternoon, the receipt lost its crinkly-ness and became worn. Instead of snapping and crackling in his ear, it began to whisper the sweet hush of demonic, tortured gargoyles crying up from the gates of hell. Each time, his face contorted a little further until I began to gleefully imagine it getting stuck that way.

Serve him right for putting trash in my pocket.

He cracked that night. After the millionth time of me crumpling the receipt in very close proximity to his ear, he turned on me, and I spied the green rubber band that had been residing on his wrist had now migrated to the cocked and loaded position between thumb and forefinger. The very stance that boys used to torture me in years past: the rubber band finger gun.

Paper might cover rock, but it's powerless against scissors and completely useless against the rubber band finger gun. That is the end-all to all annoying behavior conversations; the trump card of mischievous activity. One cannot compete.

Game over, I sadly tossed the now-shredded receipt into the trash and declared my surrender against the rubber band finger gun. I will admit when I'm beat.

However, I've been to Whole Foods twice since that day, and have started stockpiling those green rubber bands.

Because the only thing that beats the rubber band finger gun is dual draws on both hands.

The Conversation

Oh, Artscape.

Headed up for a few hours on Saturday, dropping out of the party every now and then to get some respite from the sun. And by "dropping out of the party," I mean "dropping into the bar/restaurant scene." Brewer's Art, City Cafe, Joss. A trifecta of Mt. Vernon perfection.

Honestly, though I know it pains thousands of hard-working artists to hear, the best part of Artscape has got to be the people. It is a coalition of every single archetype of character in Baltimore City, and I'd wager to throw in an "AND BEYOND!" there too. I spent the entire afternoon rubbernecking the attendees.

But, in what can only be described as 'freakish luck,' we happened upon a Puerto Rican gentleman who had been imbibing for the better part of the day (if not the better part of 2011, sounded like) who proceeded to explain to us why his (white and half-his-age) girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart) tried to run him over with her car.

It was suggested without the slightest hint of braggadocio, without exaggeration, and just plain and straightforward: "My girlfriend, who I love with all my heart, tried to run me over with her car."

"Why?"

"She found a Russian in my shower."

This was most certainly a story we wanted to hear.

It turns out that said attempted vehicular manslaughter was the result of the girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart) coming home and chancing upon a scenario that involved the makings of a romantic dinner and a girl (who was not, in fact, herself) taking a shower. Upon said discovery, the girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart) stormed out of the apartment to the garage and attempted to peel away in a fit of (rightly attributed) anger, whereupon the gentleman (who was, at this point, being refused drinks by the clearly-perturbed bartender) inserted himself between the automobile and his girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart)'s escape route and nearly found himself pancaked by the grief of the cheated-upon.

But why, we asked, was there a Russian girl in his shower?

Naturally, clearly, plainly, we did not understand the needs of this man. We could not conceive of the idea that he could love his girlfriend with all of his heart and still feel the need to stash away a Russian chick in his shower. And cook her dinner.

The two, he insisted, are separate issues.

Apparently it was common sense to him. Perhaps not to us. Or to his girlfriend (whom he loves with all his heart).

But even better than this story was the company he was keeping at the bar: a young, fete'd-out paaaaaarty boiiiii with the brightest blue color contacts I'd ever seen in my life, who was cruising the bartenders in between telling us stories of growing up in New York City proper ("Whatever, I have so shanked a bitch before and I'll do it again!") and his dog (who is, apparently a "ghetto Jack Russel terrier" with "his own wine tasting").

You cannot make these things up.

Oh, and there was some art and stuff. Culture and whatnot.

SLAPPIN DA BASS

I'm no relationship expert. But it seems to me that if you harbor blatant distaste for the person you are dating, perhaps there is something fundamentally amiss. Furthermore, if you harbor blatant distaste for the person you are dating, AND are quite communicative with your friends about it, you open yourself up to critique of your significant other by these friends. And by friends, I mean close, trusting advocates for your happiness. Or, you know, perfect strangers and passersby that you engage in conversations about how much you hate your sig-o.

If you are in the process of sorting through this distaste, it's not wise to give your friends details that might be used against their soon-to-be-ex in a court of social interaction. Such as: revealing that this person might have an interesting hobby. Say, playing in a steel drum band on the side.

Your friends cannot be held accountable for the frequent and not-so-subtle commentary that might follow this confession. Especially if they are well aware that your relationship is not long for this world.

"Does he insert the term 'irie' into normal conversation?"

"Does he have a knitted cap with the fake dreads sewn into it?"

"Does he argue intensely that 'dub' is a sub-genre of reggae?"

"Does he refuse to drink anything but Blue Mountain coffee?"

"Cool Runnings, mon."

"Does he talk about SLAPPIN DA BASS?"

"SLAPPIN' DE BASS!"

"SLAPPAH DAH BASS!"

Honestly, we really only want for your happiness. We're not just being asses for the sake of being asses, here.

The Lamp Just Sat There, Like An Inanimate Object.

She was as unhappy as when someone puts your cake out in the rain, and all the sweet green icing flows down and then you lose the recipe, and on top of that you can’t sing worth a damn.

Jaunt sent me this.

I just had the best fifteen minutes ever perusing this poetry.

You. Are. Welcome.

Best. Present. Ever.

Sometimes, people do things that are stupid.

Or, if I'm feeling particularly insensitive, I might quote Jaunt and express that someone has "little success at life."

When people do stupid things that snare my own personal agenda, be it at work or at play, I have little patience for such idiocy. Overly sensitive though I may be, I do not suffer fools gladly and I am not one of those "graciously patient" individuals who taps into endless pools of kindness and understanding when stupidity rears its insidious head.

I am far more likely to reach for the more convenient reaction: "FAIL."

"I need something like a....a fail stamp," I said to my friend VBC one day. "A stamp that I can just use whenever someone has failed to be successful at life and therefore made my life more difficult."

You missed your exit and are now backing down the freeway with your hazard lights on? FAIL STAMP, right on your forehead.

You are in line in front of me and cashing out at the grocery store when you suddenly remember that you need just one more item from an aisle on the other side of the western hemisphere? FAIL STAMP.

You are going to feed me some lame-ass excuse about why you've been a terrible human being that has unnecessarily complicated my life and caused a disruption in my day? FAIL STAMP.

And then, VBC gave me a Christmas present:



My Fail Stamp's first mission: when I got out tonight, losers who attempt to talk to me in a way I find offensive, annoying, or simply boring are going to get Fail Stamped right on the forehead. Really, it's perfect.

I can automatically think of a thousand uses for my new Fail Stamp. I don't feel like paying this bill- so I'm going to Fail Stamp the memo line of the check. I dislike your attitude. FAIL STAMPED ON THE HAND AS A WARNING. I find your general presence to be a downer. FAIL STAMP ON YOUR PSYCHE.

The possibilities are endless.

Lee has a lot of competition for Best Christmas Present Ever this year.

Smells Like Snow

NPR kindly informed me that snow will most likely disrupt my afternoon commute.

I'm ok with this. I have on my new boots (thanks, Zappos, for mailing them so very promptly!) and a jaunty hat. Snow away!

Tonight: my friend Josh had expressed some anxiety about gift-giving, and so we agreed to forego (after all, it is next to impossible to follow in Lee's footsteps in terms of ultimate gift-giving) and instead throw ourselves a little holiday Fete. For us this means take-out sushi and Mystery Science Theater. (Nerd alert!) Quite frankly, I think Lee's going to have a hard time topping that. Really, it's my ultimate evening.

Christmas is next week, by the way. In case you weren't aware. I prepared very well this year, buying all of the gifts ahead of time. What I neglected to do, however, was allot time for a giant trip to the post office to mail said gifts. Maybe some year I'll get it all together.

Besos.

Urban Family

Several years ago, when I was exiting a four-year relationship, I experienced that swift and utterly inevitable consequence of ending a long-term relationship littered with friends who have only known you to be one-half of a couple: the excommunication from certain group activities. Very quickly, my list of people I would consider friends whittled itself down. This is a natural life process- there are certain people who are in your life circumstantially. It doesn't belittle the weight of the friendship at the time, but it does make you consider what kinds of people are gonna be there for the long haul.

I think, because of this circumstance and also because I lost touch with so many people when I high-tailed it to Florida for three years after college graduation, that I had this ingrained fear that most adult friendships are transient. Dependent on circumstance and temporal. And I think, because of this, I perhaps haven't valued my friendships quite as much as I should have. This has been brought to my attention a lot recently. Several of my friends have gone to bat for me in circumstances that they surely didn't have to get involved in, much less offer the support and care that they did. I don't know why I got it in my head that you had already made all the lifelong friends you were going to make early on. This is categorically untrue.

Because, the fact is, my friends make up the bulk of my life here in Baltimore. Where I never wanted to be in the first place. They have become a family of sorts, a network of support and love. And, even more surprising to me, they don't always wait for me to reach out to them. Their presence is consistent, constant, and welcome. Persistent even, at times, as well it should be. When I am truly upset, I have a very nasty habit of hermiting myself away which leads to this cycle of feeling sorry for myself because I am alone. This is bass-akwards.

My mom told me that I never have to be alone if I don't want to be, and she's absolutely right. At any given moment, I am fortunate enough to have friends I can call who will show up, listen, laugh, answer the phone or a text, or otherwise be present. And I'd do the same for them.

I think this is part of what I feared so much about being single in my late twenties- I had this horrific and deep phobia that all of my friends would move, get married, or otherwise extricate themselves from my life and, little by little, my friendships would be pared down and I would find myself utterly alone. This has proved itself to be completely untrue. In fact, if anything, my circles of friends continue to grow (in strength and in breadth) the more I invest in my life here in Baltimore.

A lot of it goes back to the Butternut Squash Soup Incident of 2009. I was in a definitive low. Things were Not Going Well across the board. I was Not Happy. And the only thing I could think of to remedy a thousand broken situations was to move. I wanted out of Baltimore, out of the messes I had found myself in, away from a history of indecisiveness and apprehension. I started looking for jobs and apartments in New York, Vancouver, San Francisco, London, Berlin. I looked into work visas to catapult me abroad. I wanted Out.

And then Jaunt made a batch of butternut squash soup and gave me a stack of Tupperware bowls of it. Some for eating immediately, some for freezing. Jaunt made this delicious soup, purposefully made too much too much of it, and gave me the leftovers so that I would have meals for the future. I don't even think it took any mental strategizing on her part; it was simply a facet of this life she had in Baltimore. Buy ingredients, make soup, give leftovers to friends for future lunches and dinners. This is life; and this is what you do when you are a part of it.

And I realized that if I moved, I would be starting over. Again. With no neighbors to make me soup. I would be, for all intents and purposes, truly alone. Possibly in a foreign country. Sure, I'd make new friends and have new adventures. But how long would it be before someone gave me soup? It took me two years in Baltimore before someone did that. Did I want to leave all of the networks of community I had started here in Baltimore to wipe the slate clean and work, again, on building a life from the ground up somewhere else?

The logic seemed- and was- skewed. I was trying to escape Baltimore because I was seeking change and looking for things that I thought I couldn't find. Mainly- community, belonging, purpose. Right. Under. My. Nose.

A year later, I've...shall we say....re-evaluated several things in my life. And realized that I have no desire to move again, at least not in the near future. I've built a life here, a community, a network of caring, hilarious individuals who not only make me soup, but cupcakes, pieces of art, mixed CDs, artfully mixed martinis, and a plethora of other richness that makes everyday feel special in some small way. I have friends who teach me yoga, who help me run races, get me job interviews, sit next to me in chuch, and tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself when I occasionally start down the path of pity-party. I have friends who tell me when I'm out of line, when I'm beating dead horses, when I'm so far off-track I'm not even in the park anymore.

I finally have the life I always wanted, only it doesn't look a damn thing like this THING I had in mind so many years before. I'm never alone, not really, unless I choose to be. There's soup in my freezer, companionship a short walk in pretty much any direction. I have neighbors from whom I can borrow eggs. Or, on one occasion, lime juice. I have the kind of friends who tell me, point blank, "This is what your friendship means to me," and it's my job, then, to reciprocate and contribute and give and give as much love as I am getting in return. Because that's the clincher with adult friendships- when circumstance no longer binds you together, it takes effort and energy to keep the wheels turning. If it's too much effort, too much energy, the thing will fizzle itself out. But, for the right people (the ones who are life-long,) it's never too much and it doesn't even feel like effort half the time. It's just what you do. You show up. You answer the phone. You make soup and share it.

(This also isn't to say that I don't have life-long friends that "go wayyyyyyyyyyy back." Snap; frenemies from ages 13-18, long-distance admirers of one another's work from ages 18-23, and then bffffffffs from then on; is getting married this spring and I am a bridesmaid in her wedding. Our friendship began, in a very twisted sort of way, when she kissed a boy who was the love of my life for three months in 1995. I hated her. I coveted her white blonde hair. I kind of thought she was totally cool. We became friends when we had to play tennis together in high school. She is totally as cool as I suspected. Mr. Spaz and I go 'way back as well: my high school exboyfriend who became one of my closest friends and then married my college best friend. Double insurance that both of them will forever be a part of my life. There are others, too. Several friends from college who, despite our geographical distances, stay close in my life. A couple of true lifelong friends from grad school. Again with geographical distances. But, again, it doesn't matter.)

And, of course, I'm thankful for all of the debauchery that goes on. My friends-all of them- are, truly, partners-in-crime. Our history reflects a lot of late-nights and distilleries consumed. Especially, for some reason, the last six months or so. Good God, this was an epic summer. Which reminds me: it's Halloween weekend and Catalano's fiance is out of town. More history to be made. (And, subsequently, photos to be hidden away, never to be posted on Facebook or blogs or any sort of public sphere.)

My Friends Are Awesomer Than Your Friends

Ladies and gentlemen....this is what my friends do in their spare time.

If you really want to giggle...read the "About WJWT" link.

Empire State of Mind

Stupid is coming tomorrow.

As if that weren't enough, we are heading up to NYC for the weekend.

I should mention here that Stupid is, of course, one of my Most Favorite People. We met in Florida when I was in grad school, and then she broke both of our hearts when she moved back home to Kansas City. A year or so later, I moved to Baltimore. And every year since, we have seen each other at least once. If not twice, like last summer. She flew out for my birthday, I flew out to surprise her for hers.

This year, we decided to eschew our home cities in favor of a bigger one: my favorite and her first time.

I'm not sure if there's anything better in the world then this formula:
(Excellent/Hilarious/Adventurous Company) + (Travel To A Favorite City)

Oh, wait.

We're staying with New Kid for a night. Who is also a Florida friend, who is also on my Most Favorite People List.

So

(Excellent/Hilarious/Adventurous Company)x2 + (Travel To A Favorite City)

= Glitterati is one happy girl right about now.

(I have no idea what this is...but I saw it in a store the last time I was in NYC and it said "Glitterati" on it. So, it's mine. Whatever it is. Some sort of....froufy, sparkly thing. Excellent.)

Friday Trivia Email

For your enjoyment:

Dearest Trivials,

Oh, it has been so long! Can you believe we have been apart for nearly TWO WEEKS?! Oh, the agony.

Look, I'll be honest with you. In your absence, a coupla things have changed. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Sit around for two weeks and wait for you to return to my life? I mean come on, Trivs, life happens! LIFE HAPPENS. So, yeah, I grew a beard. It wasn't my intention, it just kind of happened. I know how you hate it when I have a beard but...well...you WEREN'T HERE. So I grew a freaking beard, ok? And you know what? I LIKE IT. And not only do I like it, OTHER PEOPLE like it. Maybe that's why you hated the beard so much...you noticed all the attention I was getting from other people, and it kind of upset you a little bit, eh?

That's not all that's changed. I mean, I kind of went through a bit of a rough patch there; you know, we all face that from time to time. And I started really thinking about my life- like REALLY THINKING- and I realized....hey....what the heck is going on here, you know?! I mean, YOU KNOW? So I figured I needed to get my life in order a little bit, figure out what I want MY life to look like....don't be insulted, ok, because need I remind you that you were EMOTIONALLY AND PHYSICALLY ABSENT these past 2 weeks, so....anyway, I decided that what I really need to do is, like, buy an RV. I mean one of those old VW RV's....with the curtains. So I sold a bunch of your clothes (oh yeah, my bad) and cashed in some old savings bonds and bought myself a 1967 VW RV. And the curtains were ALREADY INSTALLED. Can you believe it?

So basically what I'm trying to tell you is that I'm on this like....spiritual journey. And...I feel like it's been a long time coming. We were just kind of...stuck, you know? And- don't get me wrong- I am so, SO glad that you're back and all, but....you just have to accept that I'm kind of a new person. I have a different approach to life now, and these past two weeks have been so life-changing. I read all of this graffiti and it like...reached me, you know? Like really reached me.

So we can totally be back together and all, but I'm like not shaving this beard anytime soon. That's non-negotiable. And, you know, honestly I can think of nothing I'd like more than for you to board my VW RV as my co-captain and we'll head on down this trail towards spiritual enlightenment together and all, you know?

But seriously...not shaving the beard. So don't get all over-bearing, naggy, whining Trivia on me again.

Peace and smooches,

Lady "Rainbow" Trivia

Trivia Email Friday

Too much heavy stuff around here! One of my greatest pleasures is composing the Friday Trivia Email, with which I take dramatic creative license.

Here's today's.

NOTE: My trivia emails are ONLY KIND OF MOSTLY fiction. Any resemblance to real or historical figures is unintended. Except for the fact that my parents really did not allow us any fun cereal of any kind.

Dear Trivials,

I'm starting to think of these emails as sort of a one-sided pen pal exchange. Sure, every now and again you bombard me with hate mail or corrections to some questions I asked on February 27, 2009 (STATUTE OF LIMITATIONS, PEOPLE!), but mostly they remind me of the kind of exchange I once had with a girl I met in Ocean City when I was 10. Her family had rented a condo on the same floor as mine, and we spent two weeks of the summer playing on the beach and watching cartoons and eating sugary cereal (at her place of course- my parents GENEROUSLY ALLOWED us to have evil processed cereals like FROSTED MINI-WHEATS on vacation. I mean, come on, this was a step up from our usual choice of Grape Nuts or Wheat Chex, but certainly nowhere near anything resembling tiny cookies or anything that would turn your milk Technicolor pink.)

Our letters started off:

Dear Little Lady Trivia (because, of course, I had not yet risen to the stature I claim today),
HIYA! Howz your summer? Mine's great. My brother is stupid. I got a new horse. He's white and named Prince. Do you have a horse? I made you a friendship bracelet! We should start a Friendship Club!
Anywayz, gotta run!
LYLAS,
Horse Gurrrl

Dear Horse Gurrrl,
Sup? My summer is ok. My brother is also stupid. I don't have a horse. I live in a stupid city. I have 2 cats. Only one likes me. I want a horse. I would name him Chad. Thanks for the bracelet! Can we have secret names in our Friendship Club?
TTYL,
LLT

Dear LLT,
My new horse is so awesome. Do you like the picture I sent you of me riding my horse? My secret name will be Princess Victoria and yours can be Miss Ethel.
LYLAS!
Princess Victoria

Dear PV,
Yeah, the pic is great. Here's a pic of me from swim team. I'm mad because I'm cold and because I got disqualified for not touching the wall with both hands. If I had a horse I'll bet I would not be so mad! How come you're not wearing your friendship bracelet in the picture?
xoxoxox
Miss Ethel (I'm not sure that I like this name...could I be Princess Veronica?)

Dear Miss Ethel,
No, you can't be Princess Veronica because it sounds too much like my name and I already picked my name!
Later,
Princess Victoria

Dear PV,
You didn't answer my question about the friendship bracelet!
love always,
Miss Ethel

Dear PV,
Haven't heard from you in awhile! Friendship Club is not the same without you!
kisses,
Miss Ethel

Dear PV,
YOU AND YOUR STUPID HORSE AND YOUR STUPID PRINCESS NAME.
Hate,
Miss Ethel

PV,
I'm never speaking to you again.
See you next summer!
Miss Ethel



Smooches,
Lady Trivia

PS: If you are interested in hosting a round, please let me know! Please note that the category of "A capella singing of rock ballads" has already been done.

Der Austausch: Part II- "Boogie, Woogie, Woogie"

The summer before my senior year of high school, I studied abroad in a small village in central Germany. This installment: "Boogie, Woogie, Woogie."

(If memory serves me correctly, there are photos coinciding with all of these events. I shall have to unearth them.)


Someone had the brilliant idea of shepherding nine high-strung American high schoolers (most of us cracked out on high-octane German coffee) and their foreign host counterparts on an excursion down one of the placid streams in central Germany. We were grouped into threes and given a boat that appeared to be a cross between a kayak and a canoe. Life-jackets, bagged lunches, a brief explanation of geographical importance, and off we went.

Whenever adults expect students to group themselves, they invariably group according to cliches. I'm certain that the idea was for us to mingle ourselves with the German students and exchange vocabulary lessons whilst navigating the rivers and streams with our map. What happened, instead, was that they gave us free reign. Which meant three kayaks of German students shooting off ahead of us, and three kayaks of American students giggling and speaking nothing but our native tongue.

While this may have completely circumvented the entire point of the excursion, I will say that the bucolic setting was not lost on us. We were city kids, all of us, and we appreciated the nature aspect. We rolled lazily downstream, paddling alongside beautiful serene pastures and rolling hills. It was late June in Germany, a particularly beautiful time more like spring than summer. The sky was a perfect blue, the grass that piercing new green. Cows (whose low "moo" even sounded slightly more German; more like a "mmmmaaaoooooo") grazed in fields and drank from the stream as we passed. And, of course, being the typical American teenagers we were, we had to break the serene silence of nature with our own cow noises.

I do not know if the German high school students were so compelled because, as I mentioned, they were far down the stream beyond us at this point. They seemed to be primarily concerned with speed, something that seemed right to me, given the penchant for luxury cars and the Autobahn. We were more concerned with trying to get the cows to respond to our advances.

At some point, it was decided that we would choose one such grassy knoll upon which to sit and eat our hearty lunches. We chose a bend in the stream that had a little pebbled beach upon which we could put the kay-oes (as I am choosing to refer to them), and while there was a fence separating the pasture from the bank it appeared to be nothing more than some wooden posts between which was strung shreds of tarp. A half-assed fence, perfect for ducking under so that we could sit in the grass and eat.

I was at the front of the kay-oe, and so as we launched ourselves up onto the beach I was the first to dig my feet into the pebbly sand. On attempting to stand, however, I lurched forward and reached out to the haphazard fence to for balance.

I don't recall exactly what happened next, just that one moment I had my feet in the watery sand and one hand reaching for the shreds of tarp between the fence posts and the next I felt someone punch me square in the stomach. All of the breath went out of me, blackness took over, and as soon as I felt the impact of the punch in the front of me, I almost immediately felt something wallop me from behind. Blackness. Confusion. A weird noise.

I couldn't open my eyes, but I somehow understood that the hit from behind had, in fact, been the ground. Because, as I oriented myself, I discovered that I was lying on my back, on the beach, and that I'd hit the ground fairly hard. I couldn't breathe. No air.

I coughed and, painfully, sucked air into my lungs. One breath. Two. Ragged, painful, but then slowly it came more regularly.

"Are you ok?!" one of the American students asked. I could hear his concern, could hear the fierce whispers as everyone was trying to figure out how I could have been climbing out of a kay-oe one moment and flat on my back the next.

I opened one eye, and then I saw it. The tiny yellow sign affixed to one of the fence posts, warning stupid people (probably Americans) like myself that the fence was not to be touched.

"The-the....the- fence," I gasped. "It's...it's....."

"What? What happened? What's wrong?!"

"It's electric," I groaned.

"Boogie, woogie, woogie?" one of the students said, much to the entertainment of the rest. I was so pissed about that comment, that I don't think I spoke to him for the rest of the day.

I had been electrocuted by an electric fence surrounding a cow pasture, while standing in a puddle of water. And he was quoting that freakishly awful song played at every prom, Homecoming, and wedding I'd ever been to.

I couldn't decide whether to be humiliated or just grateful to be alive. I still walk that line.

Years later, recently in fact, the story would follow me. I was kayaking in Annapolis a few weeks ago and, quite gracefully I'm sure, flipped the kayak within moments of leaving the dock. After jokingly posting something on Facebook about it, Mr. Spaz resurrected the horribly embarrassing story by commenting, "Boogie, woogie, woogie?" Even though there were no electric fences in this particular story, the moment of choosing between humiliation and survival was potently the same.

Der Austausch: Part I, "I Think We're Drunk!"

The summer before my senior year of high school, I studied abroad in a small village in central Germany. It was my first time being truly away from home (unless you count the devastating week my cruel parents sent me to music camp when I was eleven) and it was my first time in a foreign country. The German I'd learned the previous three years in high school seemed woefully inadequate to prepare me for spending a month living with a German family, and for the first two days I don't think I spoke at all.

FRAU: (In German) What do you think of our country so far?
ME: (silently, frantically, in my mind) Ummm..ummm..konnen Sie...ummm....bitte....mochten Sie etwas wie Hackfleisch? (Translation: Could you...please....would you like something like ground beef?)

After a short while, however, it became clear that my German Vater and Schwester both spoke fluent English and were eager for practice. Our days became a game of them asking me questions in English and pushing me to answer in German. They were endlessly kind and patient, incorporating me into their family life and feeding me as though I were a starving child. Mutter was convinced that I was far too skinny, and she made it her mission to fatten me up. I think I ate about six hearty meals a day while I was there.

There were multiple incidents that occurred on that trip that I will be describing over the course of the next couple of posts. The first: "I Think We're Drunk!"



There were a handful of other American students from my high school scattered about the neighboring villages also residing with other German families. One afternoon, all of our German host siblings had some sort of colloquiem to attend after school, and so all of us Americans sequestered ourselves one host family's house.

The girl staying there was a good friend of mine, and she was fortunate enough to have landed not only a spacious room with its own bathroom and balcony, but (gasp) a small refrigerator stocked to the brim with German beer.

"They said it's for me!" she said, proudly. At this point in my life, my experiences with alcohol were limited to the small sips my parents allowed me from their own beverages from time to time, and I don't think anyone else was all that steeped in knowledge about it either. All we knew is that we were in a country where our tender ages still made us legal to imbibe, we had a refrigerator full of beer and no adult supervision. It was time.

We cracked open the cans and invented our own games with a deck of cards (this being long before any of us would learn the classic drinking games; Asshole, Kings, Circle of Death, etc.) We opened a second round. And a third. I felt nothing. I was embarrassed to admit it.

Everyone seemed a little giddier, a little louder, a little more red-in-the-face. I was mortified. Maybe alcohol had no effect on me! This could either be very good or very bad. Perhaps I would go through life drinking whatever I pleased and never getting drunk. Maybe I was immune. Or maybe, worse, it was all about to creep up on me and I would be humiliatingly flat on my back in seconds and everyone would know that I'd never drank before. Because nearly everything at this age was humiliating, this experience was quickly filling me with dread.

A fourth round was opened. And then one of the Americans opened her mouth: "I am wasted!" she said. A quick vote of concurrence. Doomed, I was doomed. I felt nothing.

Or did I? As soon as she said it, I felt the giddiness of so much giggling rush to my head. It was exceedingly warm in the room. Maybe these were the signs. I did feel a bit of a sway coming on.

At that moment, my friend's host sister poked her head into the room.

"Hallo! We are home now! Are you having a good time?" she said. There was no frantic move to conceal the cans, we all just simply watched as she swung the door open wider to reveal that she was standing in the hallway with some of our other host siblings. And they looked at us. And they started laughing.

"You are drinking the beer?" she said, covering her mouth to attempt to hide her laughter. "How do you like it?"

"'S-awesome!" one of my friends slurred. This provoked another round of giggles from the Germans. (Yes- Germans giggle.)

"Wasso funny?" another beer-drinker demanded, nearly knocking over a pyramid of spent beer cans.

"The beer is piss-water," the Germans crowed.

"'S not so bad!" we insisted.

"No, no!" my friend's host sister said. "They mean that it is, ....here, look!" She pointed to a tiny line of script on the side of one of the cans.

Alkoholfrei.

Awkwardly, we gathered up our decks of cards and quietly disposed of the cans of Alkoholfrei beer. We would not speak of this incident again.

Blessed Are the Unaware?

Among my most potent of faults (interrupting others, dropping things, forgetting peoples' names at crucial moments and a complete inability to walk in a straight line) lies one that may one day either save my life or kill me: I can be completely and totally unaware at times.

It's no secret that I sometimes live in my head. I zone out of this world completely, and I'm sure the look on my face makes it appear as though I'm doing complex mental algorithms. This especially happens when I am out walking or running, hence the tendency to trip over things. I have walked right past good friends without saying hello, I have been completely oblivious of oncoming traffic (not a Smart Survival Move in the city of Baltimore) and I have, on now two separate occasions, failed to notice something spectacular until it was damn near upon me.

Most recently, I was walking to work when I happened to notice (because this time I wasn't COMPLETELY unaware) a helicopter circling. Quite low. Right over my head, in fact. I started trying to see the markings on it, to discern if it was news or emergency or some politico out for a joy ride. So intent was I to investigate the nature of the low-flying aircraft (which, by the way, is certainly not an anomaly in Baltimore) that I failed to notice the police cars screaming past me or the throngs of people running down the sidewalk or the store owners throwing open their doors to try and see the commotion.

It was only once I got to work, amidst a bubble of frenzied activity, that I was told there had been; occurring right in front of me, right down Charles Street; a high-speed car chase that ended in an accident and a police chase on foot. I'd been so focused on the helicopter, I had failed to notice the rest of the activity.

Which reminded me of another such incident.

I was in Rome, I was twenty years old, and I was studying abroad in Europe for a spell during the summer between sophomore and junior years of college. It was late at night; a tropically warm evening with tourists fanning out amongst the cobblestones; and I was following a group of fellow Americans back to the hostel after a very long day of sight-seeing and history lessons for which I was supposedly earning college credit. I can't recall exactly what happened, but memory tells me I was rummaging through my bag looking for my camera or some Euros or maybe looking through the souvenirs I'd bought that day, but whatever I was doing, I was Preoccupied.

(I was also, during much of that trip, Preoccupied with two other things: another American student on whom I had a crush, and the constant and fearful worry that gypsies were always about to rob me, as I had been warned by a cautioning professor. These two activities; trailing my object of affection and clutching my bag; took up a large portion of my time in Rome. I regret neither: he was cute, and I was not once accosted by gypsies.)

It's entirely possible I was engaged in one of these activities but, regardless, I found myself suddenly in the midst of a throng of people and separated from my group. I felt myself being pushed to the outside of the sidewalk and closer to the dangerous cobble-stone highway down which raced the tiniest of cars and razor-sharp motorcycles. I tried to push back, but was met with wave after wave of excited humans, pushing closer and closer to the street. I checked back into reality immediately and suddenly noted that these weren't tourists flocking about me. They were nuns and priests of every order and hierarchy (or however nuns and priests organize themselves) and they had their hands raised high.

I was pushed all the way to the curb and stepped one foot out onto the street to regain balance when a storm cloud of Italian police erupted, gesturing the crowds back. I was right there as the limousine drove by slowly, the screams of the crowd now a deafening din, the back window lowered and the wizened old man sitting inside raising one hand feebly out the window.

As soon as I got over the immediate shock and could negotiate the crowd, I ran back to the hostel as fast as I could, and I called my father who, back home in America, would have been in his office, late in the day.

"Dad! Dad!" I said, unable to catch my breath. (Which, I'm sure in retrospect was slightly unnerving for my father, receiving an excited phone call from his daughter thousands of miles away in Italy.)

"I JUST SAW THE FREAKING POPE!!!!"

Grading Rubric of Life

Hot chocolate date with Jaunt yesterday, as is our custom whenever the public school system has a snow holiday and she is temporarily freed from the shackles of teaching high school English. We always go to Chocolatea Cafe up by Hopkins. Recommendation: the Banana Split (dark chocolate with banana puree) or the Peanut Butter Cup (dark chocolate, creamy peanut butter, marshmallow.) Amazing.
Somehow, the conversation shifted away from choices, relationships, dating, literature, and the demographics of the school system in which Jaunt teaches to the AP English Essay Grading Rubric which looks a little something like this:

Essays to be graded on a 1-9 scale, with 1 and 9 being variants of the determinations below, in two minutes or less.
8- effective
6- adequate
4- inadequate
2- little success

Suddenly, it made perfect sense. The AP English Essay Grading Rubric translated smoothly and aptly to assessing individuals and their direct relationship to either
a.) planet earth
b.) other human beings
c.) planet earth and its population of other human beings.

"I'm being a 2 today," Jaunt said.

"Come on. You've never been anything less than a 5."

"There are a lot of houses in the land of 5," she countered.

"True, but I don't think it's a complete failure to come at life closer to adequate than not," I said. I could hope to be a 5. At the very least, I wanted to be something more than "inadequate."

"Pretty much everyone, to me, comes in at a 5. I don't like to judge too hastily," Jaunt said. Always the optimist.

Think about it. You know someone who's a 3. Hovering through life somewhere between "little success" and "inadequate." You probably even know someone who soars above the crowd at the zenith of 7 (lurking between adequate and effective at all things in life.) A truly effete individual might have sunk to the bottom of things down at a 2 (or a 1 on a truly horrid, inexplicable day.) I don't think I know anyone who is a 9. Beyond effective. I don't think I would want to be friends with a 9 because, in comparison, I would constantly feel like a 4. 4-minus, even.

On a good day, I like to feel I could settle happily in the land of 6. But, because I'm a writer, good days don't ever exist because you're never satisfied and constantly obsessed with the idea of dying inexplicably and becoming famous post-posthumously. So I could probably never even encroach upon the land of 8, though in my head there is some perfect version of me building mansions on the Boardwalk square of that particular game board.

Where do you fall?

That person who cut you off- definitely a 2.

The person who returned your wallet- a 5 operating at a karmic level of 9.

See how much easier this makes things?

Had The Service Actually Been Bad...

...I would have understood. This was unparalleled inexplicable...made all the more puzzling by the fact that they:
a) changed their order multiple times, to which I politely acquiesced;
b) left a 15% tip
and
c) snuck out the back door.

I'm too tired to be offended.
PS: I should submit this shit.

From Jaunt- "Who Does That?"

The following is a piece written by Jaunt based on an experience we had a few weeks ago. I like to think that I wasn't audibly laughing when I read this just because I happened to be there. Hopefully you, too, can appreciate the sheer hilarity and start your week off with a good laugh.

Note: I would like to point out that Jaunt's careful attention to detail is rendered beautifully in this script which, I shit you not, is almost verbatim what we witnessed that night. I almost think she must have been taking notes. Also, neither Jaunt nor I wishes to offend anyone with the following dialogue: let it be known that the opinions expressed by "Clint" and "Dory" do not in any way reflect upon the opinions of this blog, or Jaunt or me. We just report what we hear.
Also- YN is Jaunt's cousin/Fun Friend with whom I have enjoyed much merrymaking and dessert-eating.

Thanks, Jaunt, for letting me scavenge this!

"WHO DOES THAT?"
Scene: Metropolitan, a coffee shop/bar
Time: 8:27pm
Intention: To consume coffee and dessert
Result: Introduction to "Super Dumb" brothers

On March 26th, 2010, YN and I will be reenacting the events that transpired following Alma's glorious victory over LSU. This story has the potential to seem unbelievable, but this chain of events requires no exaggeration and outshines my creative abilities.

As YN and I were sipping our delicious coffee, two "gentlemen" entered the bar without attracting our attention. We had no idea that they were about to change our lives and patterns of speech forever. Although the following dialogue may seem unbelievable, it is the best attempt at recreation that we can manage. You must imagine if you can the thickest New York accents flowing from the mouths of one extremely attractive young man and one moderately adorable younger brother. Extremely hot big brother (Clint) catches my eye first, and I attempt to make eye contact. He delicately places two steaming mugs of frothy beverage on a table and sits with his back to the wall facing the bar. Moments later he is joined by his brother (Dory).



D: "What is this drink?"

C: "Irish coffee."

D: "Good one dude. Nice going. What are you, gay?"

C: "Just drink your fucking coffee, you moron."

D: "Shut the fuck up."

C: "I am so mad at you right now."



Throughout this interchange, YN and I are laughing out loud. Uproariously. Laughing. We are not understanding the full extent of the animosity between these two unruly gentlemen. Our mocking laughter attracts Dory's attention.

D: "Don't laugh at us. We are having a really bad night. My fucking brother.... So where are you girls from?"

Dory cannot focus on either his predicament or his desire to get in our pants. Or at least into our beds. The reason he was so driven to become our bed partner will be revealed in a few minutes.



YN and I explain that we are from CenPA. It turns out the boys lived in State College for a brief time during hottie's high school years. This time away from New York did nothing to diminish their accents or penchant for ridiculous behavior.

With the overt enthusiasm of an untrained puppy, Dory appeared to be hanging onto our every word. We later learn that these intentions will not translate into understanding.

D: "Yeah. State College and Bellefonte and Centre Hall. I mean Centre is spelled wrong. What is with that? Re instead of er. What is this drink?"

Repeat dialogue lines 1-6. Repeat uproarious laughter.

D: "You girls seem really nice. Where are you from."

As we repeat stories about our shared childhood homes, it dawns on us that this is no ordinary conversation. It seems that Dory cannot retain information for longer than 30 seconds. He also seems unoffended by our blatant laughter. It should be clear that we are laughing AT him, not WITH him.

C: "Yo man, shut the fuck up. What are we going to do?"

D: "Let's consider our options."

C: "We don't have any fucking options. We are up shit creek. There is no chance that I am going to sleep in a warm bed tonight."

D: "Well you and your stupid British girlfriend shouldn't have locked me out of my house."

C: "Who does that? Who loses their keys?"

Our laughter refocuses Dory's attention on us.

D: "So where are you from?"

Repeat conversation held previously - TWICE. Insert more laughter this time. Halfway through his re-realization that we too think Bellefonte is spelled strangely, Clint interrupts Dory's reminiscences.

C: "You need to focus on our situation."

D: "Yeah, what are our options?"

C: "You could go play in traffic."

D: "Yeah, well you could order more Irish coffee. Get me a beer."

C: "Who do you think you are talking to?"

D: "What are we going to do? We could stay with Jamel."

C: "I don't give a fuck about anything."

As Dory attempts to mockingly sip his beverage, he spills the steaming liquid down the front of his North Face fleece. This provokes a series of cursing.

Throughout this interchange, I am desperately trying to get Glitterati over to our table to witness the hilarity. This task is accomplished when she looks up to see Dory standing in front of our table stripping his jacket off. The coffee of course has permeated the jacket and left blotches of moisture on his shirt. It also appears that he has wet himself. A fact he mentions at least 25 times.

D: "It looks like I pissed myself. What is this cup? How does it work? This is the kind of cup you use to dye Easter eggs. How the fuck do you drink out of this? I'm an engineer, I should know."



He is holding the pieces of his broken cup up for our inspection. We are laughing. His brother is not. So far the angry, angry Clint has not smiled once. He is shooting death stares at his guileless brother's back. Dory pulls his chair over to our table and starts explaining the events that have transpired as he attempted to welcome 2010.

D: "I mean I can't even get into my own apartment. I am locked out. I literally do not have a key."


Dory goes on to explain how his brother was visiting from South Carolina and how somehow his brother had managed to lose both keys to the apartment. There were many contradictory statements about when these events occurred and the possibility of three extra keys laying on a dresser in the now locked house. Vital to the understanding of this story is a bedroom window that was meant to serve as the entry point throughout the duration of the lockout. It is unclear how the boys got into the house to open the window, but what Dory made perfectly clear is that Clint shut and locked the window after a directive that forbid this action. As Dory is regaling us with the improbable tale, Clint staggers off in the direction of the bathroom. He knew the location because "Celine Dion" had previously asked the waitress. As he passes our table, he issues another directive for Dory to "play in traffic".

At this point, YN and I control our laughter enough to offer some practical suggestions about locksmiths.

D: "I ain't paying for no locksmith. I don't even care if he misses his flight. Do you just have the number of a locksmith? Do you just carry that around? Who does that?"

YN: "Well, there is probably a phone book."

D: "No, I am not getting a locksmith."

C: "You super dumb asshole. My clothes are in that house. There is no chance that I am going to sleep in a real bed tonight."

D: "My roommate is going to come home at eight tomorrow night. He has a key. The only problem is that my brother's flight is leaving at three. I guess I can just mail him his suitcase."

C: "How the fuck am I supposed to fly without my suitcase."

YN and I inquire about his access to his credit card and ID to assure him that he could catch his flight without anything else. He derides these suggestions as stupid. We are in fact "super dumb" because we cannot understand his dilemma. At this point, Dory has pulled his chair up to our table, and Clint is channeling some of his energy into standing. He alternates between standing in our personal space and in the aisle where people need to walk. At this point, both brothers are drinking beer. Dory forgets about the house momentarily and resumes hitting on us/telling us his life story. He is explaining a typical Christmas and his family's new found love of board games.

D: "You know like that one game. Apples to Apples. Yeah, that is pretty fun. But the one I really like starts with a U."

Dory is trying desperately to remember the name of this mysterious game. YN suggests that he explain the rules to us to help him remember. All the sudden, a light bulb goes off in his head.

D: "Balderdash. That's the best one. My whole family loves that game. Even my brother, but he is too much of a tough guy to admit it.

Clint stumbles close enough to our table to say.

C: "Apples to Apples."

YN and I are laughing.

D: "You girls are alright. You are not fully fraudulent."

As we are laughing at this comment and trying to decipher whether or not he previously thought we are spies, Clint becomes enraged and starts verbally harassing other customers. I try to lecture him about how this is my favorite bar and how it would be lovely if he wouldn't break all the furniture or alienate all the city residents.

C: "I just don't give a fuck about anything. I am a fucking dick."

D: "Yo man, calm down. These girls are really nice. Listen to them."


Just then an elderly couple walks past our table. Clint addresses the lady.


C: "You want to take a mustache ride."

She and her husband hurry past, and YN and I pray that they do not know about urbandictionary.com. We chastise Clint for this comment.


C: "Fine, if you guys don't like me, I will just be friends with these fat retards."

He loudly directs this comment toward a group of four skinny to average sized men sitting beside us. His beer is waving dangerously over their heads, and it is clear that they do not consider friendship an option. During this time, Dory is repeating again the story of how the house became locked. Most of the details have changed, but his incredulity is constant.

D: "How does that happen? How does my brother lose the keys?"

I stupidly interject that the real problem is that he closed the window. This triggers another angry rage from Clint.

C: "You are a super dumb fucker. Who uses a window to get into their house?"

D: "People who lost their keys because of some British chick."

C: "Stinky Beaver"

D: "Doushe bag, OMG its 8:57 I thought it was like 3am, what are we going to do?"

C: "Well I know what we aren't going to do, go to your apartment. Who the fuck gets locked out of their own apartment?"

D: (checks phone again) "Dude its 9:00 I thought it was at least midnight we can't get into my apartment until at least 8 tomorrow night"

C: "I'm going to fucking miss my flight, why don't you go play in traffic"

After a loving brotherly name calling exchange. Dory proceeds to turn his attention back to us and inquire "Where are you guys from?" In midst of laughing at Dory's unfortunate lack of memory, we again attempt to politely suggest ways that may improve the brothers' lot in life. After asking if Dory had heard back from his friend about whether they could stay at his apartment, Dory returns our suggestion made approximately one hour earlier

D: "You guys wouldn't happen to have the number for a locksmith?"

Surprisingly, Dory has a moment of clarity and begins dialing the number that YN had found for him. While making the call Dory continues to explain that he has no faith that this will actually correct his problem of being locked out of his apartment. His conversation with the locksmith is punctuated by asides to us.

D: "He actually answered"

Dory then proceeds to inquire if the locksmith did in fact have the ability to help him with his dilemma. Worried that Dory's short term memory problems would confuse the locksmith on the other side of the phone, I offerred to speak for Dory, but was refused. Miraculously Dory is able to convey the necessary information to the locksmith. After hanging up the phone Dory appears invigorated with new hope that he may enter his apartment in 2010. After a few moments, his phone rings again and Dory appears to be instructing the person on the other line that he will in fact be at his apartment in a few minutes. During this exhange, Dory covers the phone to whisper to us, "He's Mexican."

Dory then proceeds to get ready to rush to his apartment. In his haste he puts his jacket on inside out and is confused when he's unable to work the zipper. I kindly advise him that it might work if he put his jacket on the other way.

D: "I just realized that when you were telling me."

Dory was by far the nicest of the brothers, if not the most intelligent. This left us alone in the presence of Clint. Glitterati gets off work and she joins us at our table with a glass of wine. In this bizarre dinner theater, the audience has grown as the number of actors shrank. Without even trying to disguise our laughter, YN and I are filling Glitterati in on the events of the first act. I am literally crying when I recount the "fraudulent" compliment that we received. Clint seems to be sobering up a bit due to the coffee without alcohol that I keep ordering for him, and he is mostly quiet as he is sitting at our table staring at us. However, any time the words key, house, bed, or brother are mentioned, he starts cursing and shaking his head anew. He repeats the same story over and over again and keeps asking, "Who gets locked out of their own apartment." I share with Glitterati that a sure fire way to rile the beast is to mention the window. She tries it. It works. These boys are nothing if not predictable in their repetition. As Clint recounts his brother's past history of idiocy, we are staring on in amusement.

C: "Why are you looking at me. Am I a clown? I am. I am a clown. I am a dick. I am an asshole. What do you think? You think we are some lost causes. My fucking brother comes in here like if he sits in a bar long enough the house will magically unlock itself."

We try again to explain that his brother has left to go meet the locksmith. This does nothing to appease his anger over all the ways his little brother has failed him. We try to distract him with new topics of conversation. Glitterati asks what he does in Charleston.

C: "I work in a resteraunt. It's simple."

We try in vain to learn more about his life, but he refuses to elaborate on his declarations that "it's simple." Clint fumbles with his phone for a few minutes. It is unclear if there is anyone on the line, and when we ask if it is Dory, he tells us that he has "not heard from that kid." We resume talking, but a couple of minutes later Clint gets a little emotional. He clutches his chest around the heart region and starts professing his love for his brother.


C: "It is like my brother is doing something. He is really trying to get the house unlocked. I thought he was going to sit here and just wait for magic, but he is really out there trying to get into his house. He isn't even breaking the window or nothing."

We have no idea what prompted the sudden realization that Dory was in fact meeting with a locksmith. He had rejected this notion the hundreds of times that we brought it up. Not willing to risk a return to his feelings of animosity, we encouraged him to pay his tab and go meet his brother at the house. There was only one explosion of anger.

Glitterati: "You have a great smile."

C: "What? Are you being sarcastic. Are you being condescending? You are a super bitch. I love bitches."

Glitterati: "You are not good at accepting compliments."

C: "Shut up."

Eventually the tab is paid and Clint departs. We sit there laughing for another 20 minutes before we leave as changed women. We swear that we are going to stop using the word asshole so liberally because it really only applies to boys who ask 80 year old women if they want a mustache ride. We promise ourselves that we will make extra copies of our house keys to distribute to friends. We reaffirm our love for our less caustic siblings. We know that in the future we will compliment people by assuring them that they are not "fully fraudulent". We make plans to use this plot line to pick up boys on our birthday. We acknowledge that 2010 has already provided us with as much laughter as all the months of 2009 combined.


Thank god those boys were pretty - their survival is dependent upon their dimples.