Do You Hear What I Hear (Five)

Let me start this one by sharing something that I think is important for you to understand:  I don't get hit on by non-crazy men.  Never, at any point, in a restaurant or at the movies or at the library or at the grocery store, has a respectable, sober man randomly complimented me or expressed in any way that he would like to make sweet love to me at some point in the future.

But while waiting for the bus?  Frequently.  And by drunken and/or homeless men?  Absolutely. 

I would like to think this is because I'm so stunningly beautiful that males need to be in a generally addled state to work up the courage to make advances on me.  I'd like to think that, but it's not true.  I'm not what you'd call a "looker."  I'm about as average as you can get. 

However, something about me must attract attention.  Sometimes it's the dimples, which I typically forget I have, but which are a source of endless fascination for some people.  (Obviously I haven't learned to "work them" to get what I want, but I'm looking into that.)  I don't have junk in the trunk.  I'm an A-cup.  But for whatever reason, crazy guys love me.

Just the other day, as I hurried to my stop, I passed a man who surveyed me and proclaimed emphatically that he would "hit that."

Thank you, sir.

A couple months ago, as I waited patiently for the bus, a disheveled man staggered up, complimented me on my hair, and asked me to the movies.

Thanks, but no thanks.

The best was the drunken man who approached me asking for money.  The conversation went like this:

HIM: "Can I have a dollar?"

ME:  "Sorry, I don't have any cash."

HIM:  "How bout some gum?"

ME: (Oh what the hell, I actually have the gum.)  "Sure."

HIM:  "How bout your phone number?"

Yes, because you meet all the right criteria for someone I want calling me.  And I don't see how asking me for money is the best segue into asking me out.  But I see where I unintentionally gave him a glimmer of hope -- if she's willing to give me gum, what else will she be willing to offer?  If I can reach out and touch her over the phone, maybe I can do so in person as well.  You never know.

Do You Hear What I Hear (Four)

This one is short but sweet ... in a dirty sort of way.  Parental advisory.

I was standing at the bus stop, and off to my right this guy (pretty clearly hammered) was just ranting aloud to no one in particular.  I wasn't paying much attention until he said this:

"I tell you what I'm gonna do!"

To which I thought, well, this should be interesting. I expected the next sentence could go any number of ways.  Here are some examples:

1.  "I'm gonna deal with my rage by shouting incoherently!"

2.  "I'm gonna get myself arrested!"

3.  "I'm gonna not remember any of this tomorrow!"

Yes, all viable options.  But, drunken free will being what it is, he went with this:

"I'm gonna eat me some good, old-fashioned, down-home pussy!"

He could have ended that sentence with about a billion other words that would have been less offensive but certainly not as funny.  And I guarantee you none of them would have required me to lean against the bus shelter while I shook uncontrollably with laughter. 

Well played, sir.  Well played.  You managed to catch me off guard.  I thought for sure you were going to say "ribs."

Do You Hear What I Hear (Three)

Okay, this was a great one.  As often happens after a long day of staring at a computer screen, I nodded off on the bus ride home.  Typically, this is an uneventful little nap that's punctuated by brief spasms as I'm startled awake every time we hit a major bump.  No doubt my head lolling around and my limbs jerking every which way are hilarious to observers, and that's why I do it, really.  For the entertainment value.

Anyway, on this particular day, I snapped awake in the middle of a catfight between a black woman and a flamboyantly gay man sitting across from me in the back of the bus.  Why anyone would tangle with such a woman, I don't even pretend to know.  Maybe he thought he could out-diva her.  

In any case, it's important to note that not only was she holding her own in the on-board verbal exchange, but she was also giving a play-by-play to whomever she was talking to on her cell phone. Here's what I awoke to in my foggy stupor.

Woman: "You need to shut your mouth!”

Me:  (Shit, I can't believe I missed the first part of this!)

Man: “You better shut YOUR mouth!”   

Woman:  “You saw I was on the phone when you sat down.”   

Man:  “You need to be more courteous to the people around you.”  

Woman into phone:  “Girl, I know he didn’t just tell me to get off my phone.” 

Me: (Oh, it is ON!)

Man: “I’m going to get you kicked off this bus.”   

Me:  (You and what army?)

Woman into phone:  “Girl, something wrong with him!”   

At this point, the man exited the bus in a huff, and I quit worrying about how I was going to revive him before the paramedics arrived.  But just as things were settling down, this skinny white teenage boy who had also overheard everything thought it was the perfect moment to interject.  He leaned over to the woman and said very casually, "He's probably just racist."

[Insert uncomfortable silence as the woman looked the boy over, deciding whether or not to end him.]

Woman into phone:  “Girl, he’s probably just racist.”

Do You Hear What I Hear (Two)

For about a six-month period on my morning commute, there was a girl in her early twenties who would talk the bus driver's ear off for the entire half-hour ride downtown.  From what I could gather (because of course I was listening ... how could you avoid it), she and the driver had previously butted heads and then mended fences, and now were absolute besties.

I know this not because he brought her homemade jerky or regaled her with stories about how he traveled to Mexico every year solely to buy cheap T-shirts, but because one morning they compared prison time. He also cautioned her that, although it warmed up her apartment quite nicely, she couldn't simply leave the oven door open all night long for extra heat during the winter.

But my favorite tale was the one she told from her childhood, when her dog got hit by a car.  According to the girl, her mother completely flipped out and crawled into bed, hugging the dead dog, and animal control had to come and take it away.

Now, this is one of those disturbing gems that makes your own life seem infinitely more normal by comparison, but what really stuck with me was the girl's final commentary on the situation.  After some commiserating about pets and our attachment to them, she stated very seriously, "Yeah, I don't see myself curling up with anything dead."

She then added,  "Animal or human."

Words to live by.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

So I've been MIA for about two weeks, and for that I apologize.  Heavy workload + vacation to help retain sanity after heavy workload = burnout narrowly avoided but replaced by apathy.

Today's word: eavesdrop.  Definition: To listen secretly to the private conversations of others.

I'm going to come right out and say it.  I am a HUGE eavesdropper.  I don't know if this stems from riding the bus and being surrounded by ridiculous conversations, or whether I'm just curious about others' lives, or whether I just get an enormous kick out of people in general.  

Whatever the case, rest assured that if you're on your cell phone or engaged in a heated discussion and either of these things is at an audible level, I'm going to be listening.  Not only will I turn down my iPod, but if the exchange is good enough, I will most likely take out a paper and pen and write it down so I can laugh about it later.  I firmly believe that if you keep your ears open and your yapper shut, you will be endlessly entertained.

There are several unwritten rules to eavesdropping.  Actually, I almost hate to call it that, because the way people talk on their phones these days, it's like they genuinely want everyone within earshot involved in their conversation.  

Rule #1:  Never look like you're listening.  This means leaving your headphones in, even if you've silenced the music in favor of hearing the chatter around you.  It also means never reacting to what is said.  See Rule #2.

Rule #2:  Never laugh out loud.  I have been reduced to tears on the bus because I'm trying so desperately not to burst out laughing.  This is paramount because of Rule #3.

Rule #3:  Never make eye contact.  Typically, the most amusing incidents are ones in which you do NOT want to be involved, even remotely.  Acknowledging that you're listening and have passed judgment on the situation is inviting yourself into the chaos.  Thus, I would highly recommend not turning and looking if there's something going on behind you, unless you want to be called out and become a new target for craziness.

I have so many hilarious eavesdropping tales, but so few of them are repeatable in mixed company.  I'm adding the disclaimer that I'm not making any of these up ... I'm simply repeating them ... so I can't be held responsible for the language or the content.  

Today's story, overheard in the bathroom at Macy's about three years ago, just before Christmas.  The woman across from me was in the stall on her phone, and I stayed in my stall much longer than necessary out of sheer joy.  Her end of the conversation went like this:

"Don't you take that ham out.  Don't take that ham out! . . . .We gon' cook it up.  You don't want ham, you go shop for yourself.  You go buy cheez whiz when you get paid . . . Cain't shop for himself . . . never have no mutherfuckin' money . . . . Shit.  Do your own shopping. . . . .Girl, I'm just playin' wit choo! . . . .I gotta go, they holdin' a pair of shoes for me downstairs."

And . . . scene.  I'll have another one tomorrow.

Stop, Duck, and Roll

I just have to share this, because it truly was one of those gifts from above that I will treasure always.  The other morning I was waiting at the bus stop, and I saw this group of ducks fly overhead.  There are always tons of them hanging around the pond at the nursing home nearby, presumably plotting their escape from this soon-to-be frigid wasteland.

So a few of them come in for a landing on the grass right in front of me, except the lawn slopes downward pretty steeply.  And one of the ducks apparently misjudged the incline, because instead of gliding in gracefully, he crashed.  This isn't the funny part.  The funny part is that after crashing, he rolled, about three or four times, down the hill, and all I saw were these two little orange duck feet splayed in the air, going end over end.

And then, when he finally skidded to a stop and righted himself, I swear he looked around to see who was watching . . . and saw me, doubled over laughing.

I wanted to say, "Dude, how could you screw that up?  Landing is like your only job in this world.  Fly, land, quack, swim, eat, poop on unfortunate people and objects, and look good stuffed.  We don't ask much from your species.  Hell, we didn't even make Donald wear pants!" 

But I think it was Mother Nature's way of saying, "Eh, we don't always get it right, either."  I find that reassuring.  I'll try to remember it the next time I have my own crash landing on the ice.  That duck will hopefully be long gone by then, but if he's not, I hope to look up from my crumpled heap and see him giving me mad webbed props from across the street.

Sole Train

So I'm having a bit of an obsession right now with Golden Grahams.  The cereal, not some funky new street drug.  I can't seem to eat enough of them, and I put away about three bowls a day over the weekend.  I do this pretty often with food, just get on a kick and consume something constantly until that undefinable moment when my tastes swing from "Hell, yes!" to "Never again."

The worst time was when I got a quesadilla maker for Christmas. For about four months, that was all I ate every night after work.  Of course I haven't even been able to look at the thing since, but it was fun while it lasted.  Oh, quesadilla maker, don't feel sad.  It's not you, it's me.

I wonder if I'm able to get in these habits simply because I live alone. If I'd felt I needed to justify my dietary patterns to anyone, I might have made an effort to include some variety, or at least felt a twinge of shame at the monotony.  As it is, there's no one to judge me for anything I happen to do.  Eat cookies for supper?  So what.  Fry an egg at 2 a.m.?  Try to stop me. Make brownies and cut out the very middle piece?  Suck it, I'll do what I want.

I once had this conversation with my sister, who also lives alone:

Sister: "Would you judge me if I told you I made a cake yesterday and it's almost gone already?"

Me: "No."

Sister: "How about if I never even put the slices on plates and instead just ate it right out of the pan?"

Me:  "Of course not."

Sister: "What if told you I just left the pan by the side of my bed with a fork in it?"

I say, your house, your rules.  And it doesn't just apply to food.  Does anyone ever close their bathroom door when they live alone?  Or get dressed immediately after a shower?  Or not have the TV, radio, and computer on while talking on the phone? .... they do?  Well, as Bobby Brown so eloquently put it, that's my prerogative.  If I want to keep the thermostat at 75 or stay up till 4 a.m. watching old movies, who's going to complain?  That's the beauty of independence.

I have a sneaking suspicion that my friends with kids secretly hate me for this.  Since I have yet to find that special someone to start a brood with, I have the luxuries of sleeping till noon on Saturdays, discretionary income, and the freedom that comes with virtually no major responsibilities.  Does that make me spoiled or selfish?  Perhaps if I'd turned down several serious marriage offers in favor of carefree living. In reality, my lifestyle isn't decadent or somehow less valuable because I'm single ... it's just different.  I'm working with what I have at the moment, and I'm good with that.

On the downside, you have to learn to keep yourself pretty entertained.  This might have been a problem for me before I lived in Japan for a year -- not so anymore. With almost no one to talk to or anything in English to read, I was forced to be creative.  When I wasn't killing cockroaches or avoiding my topless old lady neighbor, I spent my evenings trying to decipher crazy gameshows on TV and attempting to bake banana bread in my rice cooker. When that failed to amuse, I once resorted to choreographing a routine to the theme song from "Shaft." 

I soon decided that the equation for a tolerable single existence is this:  happiness = the amount of time spent dancing in your living room ... in your underwear.

I honestly don't remember the last time I was bored.  I can't stand hearing someone whining about not having anything to do, because there's always something to do.  What they're really saying is, "There's nothing I want to do."  Did I want to learn the katakana alphabet, or how to whistle the Himi High School song, or every single line in "The Naked Gun," or all the lyrics after "He's a bad mother --shut your mouth?"  No.  But I did it, and now I own it.  Forever.

Sometimes, you gotta make do with what you have.  You gotta find that happy place to escape to in your own head.  You gotta shake what your momma gave you. And you gotta do it to music, alone, wearing as little as possible. Preferably eating a bowl of Golden Grahams.

You Had Me at Space Vampires

It's been awhile since I've posted, so let's start this one out with some real honesty. I have a confession to make. I'm not sure when it started or how it evolved, but I've developed a real addiction ... to really bad movies. No, not XXX movies. I'm not even talking Sci-Fi Channel "original" bad, because they're in a class of their own. I'm referring to action-packed, formulaic, laughable one-liner, villian-with-an-iffy-foreign-accent flicks. More than that, I seem to be fascinated with what I call "afternoon wasters," the ones on TNT or TBS that catch your eye on Sunday at 1:00 ... and suddenly your day is gone along with a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

I don't consider myself to have bad taste in movies, but my DVD collection does resemble that of a teenage boy. I'm not against chick flicks, per se. I think most women watch them for the same kind of escapism guys get from seeing things blow up. They both know it probably isn't going to happen, but isn't it damn fun to imagine?

As I've examined my preferences lately, I've come to identify a sort of rating system for the awesomeness of terrible action movies. And by "terrible" I mean not even close to high art, but a hell of a ride. Here are a few just to get you started:

If the movie is set in some sort of future dystopia, perhaps after a cataclysmic event, 1 point.
If it involves assembling a team of people, each with special skills, to fix something/rescue someone, 1 point.
If someone on the team is a computer whiz who can hack the Pentagon while eating various forms of junk food and saving everyone's ass, 1 point. 
If one person on that team is secretly working for the government/enemy/is a robot, 2 points. 

If the team has to go someplace dangerous to accomplish the task (space/deep sea/a cave), 1 point. 
If they have to go someplace ridiculous (an ancient pyramid, into the earth's core), 2 points. 
If they go to the Arctic/Alaska, that's a whole new category.

If the team encounters monsters or aliens, 2 points.
If, at any time, the audience gets to view things through the eyes of a creature, as in "snake vision" or "Predator vision," 3 points. 
If the team must fight nature itself, 1 point. 
If what they encounter is supernatural or paranormal, 2 points. 
If they find out it's the result of genetic experiments, 3 points.
If whatever it is USED to be human and/or the team starts turning into them, 4 points.

If the movie stars Coolio, 5 points, because that's a guarantee you're going to witness something truly awful.

This is just a rough framework, but I think it generally holds true. However, I'm open to suggestions from other bad movie lovers out there.