I'm pretty nice, right? I mean, I care about people's feelings, and I try to not hurt any. However, sommmetimes I offend people, and sommmetimes it's hilarious.
For instance, last Friday. I approached a woman in a dialysis clinic for our study. This lady is very, very old and very, very...well, let's say feisty, though bitchy may be a better suited word. Let's call her Ms. Minnelli because she looks strikingly like an elderly Liza Minnelli, and in no way do I mean that as a compliment.
Anyway, I start the conversation with some basic demographic information questions, "So what's your address, Ms. Minnelli?",
She smiles and responds, "123 Dia Lane."
I lift my pen and begin to write 1, 2, 3, "Now how do you spell that? D-I-A? Or D-E-A?"
Ms. Minnelli's pleasant smile morphs into a grumpy frown, "I said Dia!"
I've clearly upset her, so I respond in a softer, now apologetic tone, "So is it spelled D-E-E-A-H?"
"NO!" snarls Ms. Minnelli, "Deeeeee-ah!"
Still confused, I try again, "So it's D-E-E...e,e...e,e,e?-A? How many E's are in there, Ms. Minnelli?"
Noticeably offended, she spouts, "D--E--E--Ahhh!"
I was startled by her shouting at the end there, but then I suddenly recognized the accent, "Oh! You're from Massachusetts! I'm so sorry! So Deer Lane, got it."
Ms. Minnelli rolls her eyes and nods.
"Now is that D-E-E-R or D-E-A-R?"...
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Mystery Solved!
For over a year my cat was missing. During this time, I feared the worst, I had lost hope that she would ever come back to me, or that she was even alive. Since her miraculous return I have wondered where she had been all that time. Was she living on the streets? Did someone take her in? If only she could tell me! Well, today the mystery has been solved, and I must say I am not at all surprised...
Monday, November 24, 2008
Spring Bird
This cold weather is bringing me down. So, to cheer myself up like the cool breezes of spring, I decided to compile a list of things that I enjoy, and if perhaps the gentle snowfall, warm firesides, and cottony snow leopards are callousing your heart as well, you can feel better too.
In no particular order of course:
tony shalhoub (<3!), trumpet flowers, ice cream, chartreuse, marcy, grandparents, embarrassing cousins people don't tell you about, pistachios, sentimentality, pandora.com, religious statues, baby animals, puce, rap artist personalities, chocolate, family pets, jerry seinfeld's comedy, bad puns, nachos, distinctive laughs, this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bUY8iT525yQ, live music, people crying in their cars, buffalo sauce, middle-aged women, TED.com, cathedrals, embarrassing childhood stories, psychology, nicknames, ricky martin, the guy that plays the parrot on SNL, naps, hotels, candles, cuddles, the depression egg, the rachel maddow show,
diet coke, drift wood collections, twizzlers, my dad's monkey lamp
Welp, I feel a little bit better, maybe just warmer.
In no particular order of course:
tony shalhoub (<3!), trumpet flowers, ice cream, chartreuse, marcy, grandparents, embarrassing cousins people don't tell you about, pistachios, sentimentality, pandora.com, religious statues, baby animals, puce, rap artist personalities, chocolate, family pets, jerry seinfeld's comedy, bad puns, nachos, distinctive laughs, this song: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bUY8iT525yQ, live music, people crying in their cars, buffalo sauce, middle-aged women, TED.com, cathedrals, embarrassing childhood stories, psychology, nicknames, ricky martin, the guy that plays the parrot on SNL, naps, hotels, candles, cuddles, the depression egg, the rachel maddow show,
diet coke, drift wood collections, twizzlers, my dad's monkey lamp
Welp, I feel a little bit better, maybe just warmer.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Childhood Trauma
I am afraid of Regis Philbin. This irrational phobia developed after a trauma I suffered years ago. The year was 1990. The Cold War was coming to an end, and so was my mom's laundry washing for the day. The dryer alarm buzzed a few times, and then she handed me my favorite sweater to change into (a stylish knit number with a picture of a kangaroo gracing the front and a real pocket for a pouch filled with a stuffed baby kangaroo torso and head). With my best sweater in hand, I cheerfully skipped to the living room intent on changing my shirt, maybe having a few animal crackers and a juice box, and then popping in Richard Simmon's Sweating to the Oldies and welcoming the day with a flamboyant work-out (sadly, this is how I spent most of my childhood afternoons). However, my plans were interrupted when I noticed the TV had been on the entire time I changed but muted so I hadn't noticed. There was a man on TV who must've seen me change!
Distraught by discovering a peeping tom in my living room/once safe haven, I began to cry. My mom, in the other room, heard my sobbing and came rushing in. She asked me what could possibly be wrong while I was wearing my beloved kangaroo sweater, so I blubbered out enough decipherable words to inform her about the bad man who saw my topless prepubescent body (which, lucklessly, looked very similar to my current, topless postpubescent body). She gave me a warm smile, sat me down, and explained to me that the man on TV is Regis Philbin, and he can't see me. She told me that he is a nice person and hosts a show with Kathy Lee Gifford. I still didn't understand, so I asked her why Regis and Kathy Lee were so small. She sighed, then tried to explain to me video broadcasting, which I was kind of following, until she started talking about cathode rays and electrons and streaming cable, which completely lost me. What the hell.
My mom's blabbering and failure to communicate at a 4-year-old level really started to frustrate me. I didn't want to sound stupid, but, even more, I didn't want her to explain it anymore. With the hopes of shutting her up, I decided it would be best to just pretend to understand. I nodded occasionally and interjected with things like "yeah, I'm totally following this" and "wow, you're making so much sense". Unfortunately, I asked how they lived in the TV, allowing her to see right through my facade. She responded by rolling her eyes, sighing, and muttering something about a mistake and a disappointment, or something. Whatever, I still think Regis Philbin is a huge perv.
Distraught by discovering a peeping tom in my living room/once safe haven, I began to cry. My mom, in the other room, heard my sobbing and came rushing in. She asked me what could possibly be wrong while I was wearing my beloved kangaroo sweater, so I blubbered out enough decipherable words to inform her about the bad man who saw my topless prepubescent body (which, lucklessly, looked very similar to my current, topless postpubescent body). She gave me a warm smile, sat me down, and explained to me that the man on TV is Regis Philbin, and he can't see me. She told me that he is a nice person and hosts a show with Kathy Lee Gifford. I still didn't understand, so I asked her why Regis and Kathy Lee were so small. She sighed, then tried to explain to me video broadcasting, which I was kind of following, until she started talking about cathode rays and electrons and streaming cable, which completely lost me. What the hell.
My mom's blabbering and failure to communicate at a 4-year-old level really started to frustrate me. I didn't want to sound stupid, but, even more, I didn't want her to explain it anymore. With the hopes of shutting her up, I decided it would be best to just pretend to understand. I nodded occasionally and interjected with things like "yeah, I'm totally following this" and "wow, you're making so much sense". Unfortunately, I asked how they lived in the TV, allowing her to see right through my facade. She responded by rolling her eyes, sighing, and muttering something about a mistake and a disappointment, or something. Whatever, I still think Regis Philbin is a huge perv.
Monday, August 25, 2008
The Mystery of the Fairfax County Ice Cream Vendor
Today at lunch I was asked how I liked my new neighborhood. What immediately came to mind was the break-in that happened just days after I moved in, the totaled car that has been sitting across the street for over a week, and the swarm of police cars and officers surrounding my building Saturday night. I don't like those parts of my new neighborhood, so I decided I would leave out those details and just tell them about the girl across the street who heard the ice cream truck and came bolting out of her building, fumbling through her wallet. As comical as that was on its own, it got even funnier when I saw her about ten minutes later sharing an ice cream cone with her boston terrier. I think her excitement for ice cream and willingness to share it with man's best friend makes up for all the recent unsettling events.
My ice cream story led to a conversation about ice cream trucks. My boss said that as a child she called her ice cream man the "goody bar". While trying to understand that nickname, I had a flashback to elementary school. My neighborhood had an ice cream truck driver that would come by every day during the summer months. My mom ran a daycare from our home, so we always had kids around. Kids love ice cream, and ice cream men love kids that love ice cream. Back then, kids played outside, and when we'd hear that melodic siren, our mouths would water and we'd climb down from our respective trees, throw down our bicycles in the grass, take a universal time-out from our game of tag, or hide the different leaves that we had been collecting and designating with monetary values to develop our own system of currency (oh, was I the only kid that did that?). We'd then run inside to beg for some change, then chase down that ice cream truck no matter how many blocks away it was at that point. All of our scrambling would leave us short of breath, even a bit disoriented, and perhaps this is what led to what I am about to tell you...
In the years that we kids did business with this ice cream vendor, there was always uncertainty lurking within that boxy ice cream truck. Sometimes I even wonder what I was hungrier for as a child--a chocolate sundae or to discover the secret of this mysterious ice cream purveyor. Our issue was that we never could quite tell whether our beloved ice cream provider was an ice cream man or ice cream woman. Oh, a few of us argued one way or the other, but there was never a clear consensus. Not. even. once. To prevent any further debating, we decided it would be best to compromise. So, we tossed around a few ideas. One radical even suggested we stop buying ice cream altogether and never talk about the situation again. Yes, that idiot was me, and yes, the neighborhood bully assured me that I'd be cruisin' for a bruisin' if I ever suggested an idea like that again. Some wiser youngster suggested we give the mystery-gender a neutral nickname, and from that day on, we affectionately referred to our ice cream person as "the Ice Cream Shim". By affectionately I mean cruelly, and I still feel guilty about that, but heavens knows, I wasn't about to pipe up with any more silly ideas unless I wanted to get the Lunchables kicked outta me! To this day, I remember his/her face perfectly. I remember that sweet, androgynous voice telling me my strawberry shortcake ice cream was fifty cents. I still remember the Big Ben tune my hermaphroditic siren played that made the children of Centreville salivate. Beee boo beee boo, booo beee bee boo.
And, to this very day, I still do not know the sex of that wondrous ice cream merchant. However, as I have matured, I have come to realize that it has never mattered. The only things that truly meant anything in those days were that we ate ice cream daily and didn't count calories, amiright?
My ice cream story led to a conversation about ice cream trucks. My boss said that as a child she called her ice cream man the "goody bar". While trying to understand that nickname, I had a flashback to elementary school. My neighborhood had an ice cream truck driver that would come by every day during the summer months. My mom ran a daycare from our home, so we always had kids around. Kids love ice cream, and ice cream men love kids that love ice cream. Back then, kids played outside, and when we'd hear that melodic siren, our mouths would water and we'd climb down from our respective trees, throw down our bicycles in the grass, take a universal time-out from our game of tag, or hide the different leaves that we had been collecting and designating with monetary values to develop our own system of currency (oh, was I the only kid that did that?). We'd then run inside to beg for some change, then chase down that ice cream truck no matter how many blocks away it was at that point. All of our scrambling would leave us short of breath, even a bit disoriented, and perhaps this is what led to what I am about to tell you...
In the years that we kids did business with this ice cream vendor, there was always uncertainty lurking within that boxy ice cream truck. Sometimes I even wonder what I was hungrier for as a child--a chocolate sundae or to discover the secret of this mysterious ice cream purveyor. Our issue was that we never could quite tell whether our beloved ice cream provider was an ice cream man or ice cream woman. Oh, a few of us argued one way or the other, but there was never a clear consensus. Not. even. once. To prevent any further debating, we decided it would be best to compromise. So, we tossed around a few ideas. One radical even suggested we stop buying ice cream altogether and never talk about the situation again. Yes, that idiot was me, and yes, the neighborhood bully assured me that I'd be cruisin' for a bruisin' if I ever suggested an idea like that again. Some wiser youngster suggested we give the mystery-gender a neutral nickname, and from that day on, we affectionately referred to our ice cream person as "the Ice Cream Shim". By affectionately I mean cruelly, and I still feel guilty about that, but heavens knows, I wasn't about to pipe up with any more silly ideas unless I wanted to get the Lunchables kicked outta me! To this day, I remember his/her face perfectly. I remember that sweet, androgynous voice telling me my strawberry shortcake ice cream was fifty cents. I still remember the Big Ben tune my hermaphroditic siren played that made the children of Centreville salivate. Beee boo beee boo, booo beee bee boo.
And, to this very day, I still do not know the sex of that wondrous ice cream merchant. However, as I have matured, I have come to realize that it has never mattered. The only things that truly meant anything in those days were that we ate ice cream daily and didn't count calories, amiright?
Monday, August 11, 2008
Oh, for Heaven's Sake
I watched the 1958 version of The Blob starring Steve McQueen this weekend. Did I like it? Oh yes, I did. Do I now want to watch all the "horror" movies from the 50's that I can get my mitts on? Yes. Did I just refer to my hands as "my mitts"? Mmhmm. Would I refer to them as such again? Yes, I would. Did I sneeze twice while typing that? Yep!
I love mid-20th century acting. I love the lack of character development, overuse of stock characters, weak dialogue, special effects, blatant sexism/racism, the list goes on.
I planned to go on and on about the movie, but I just got off the phone with a pleasant old man, and I would rather talk about that.
So, this man works for Pollocks, a company that provides our printers and other computer equipment. In our brief conversation he used the phrases "golly", "son of a gun", and "for heaven's sake". I tried to keep him on longer to learn more cool things to say around my peers to make them like me, but he abruptly ended the conversation. Although, he said he'd call me back (once he finds out where I can get a new transfer unit for my printer, which I need by the end of the day). Oh! The phone's ringing, I hope it's for me!!!!
It was for me, but it wasn't the nice man. Son of gun!
I love mid-20th century acting. I love the lack of character development, overuse of stock characters, weak dialogue, special effects, blatant sexism/racism, the list goes on.
I planned to go on and on about the movie, but I just got off the phone with a pleasant old man, and I would rather talk about that.
So, this man works for Pollocks, a company that provides our printers and other computer equipment. In our brief conversation he used the phrases "golly", "son of a gun", and "for heaven's sake". I tried to keep him on longer to learn more cool things to say around my peers to make them like me, but he abruptly ended the conversation. Although, he said he'd call me back (once he finds out where I can get a new transfer unit for my printer, which I need by the end of the day). Oh! The phone's ringing, I hope it's for me!!!!
It was for me, but it wasn't the nice man. Son of gun!
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Tricia, the Nomad
Another year, another move. I'm beginning to feel like a pawn in life's game of chess; move after strategic move just waiting to settle down, find a home, reach a stalemate. But, life is not a game of chess, it's not even a game of Checkers or Go Fish. There are no clear winners or losers. No, wait, I take that back, I've seen Flavor of Love too many times not to know that there are clearly losers in this world. Luckily, VH1 has been collecting them all like Pokemons and storing them in the safety of gated mansions. The reality of life is more like a game of Candy Land. You pick a card with a color (sometimes two colors, if you're lucky!), then you move your little plastic guy to that color on the board, and you just work your way along the Candy Land path of life until you reach the end and win the game. Along the way you'll meet Gloppy the Chocolate Monster, Plumpy, Grandma Nut, Lord Licorice, and more! On second thought, maybe life isn't like Candy Land at all.
Anyway, in addition to moving, there are a lot of new things going on in my life--new job, new haircut, new drug addictions. Just kidding about the drug addictions. I don't do drugs. I did cut my hair though (thanks for noticing)! Despite the annoying hassle of moving and starting a new job, I am looking forward to living in a new neighborhood and gaining experience towards something I hope to eventually do--or finding out what I don't want to do (preferably the former).
Let's talk about my new place because that's what I'm most excited about right now, and I know that you're excited about what I'm excited about. You see, my current apartment sucks. You open a door to a wall in a hallway, which is not very warm and inviting. In fact, it's cold and uninviting. When you open the door to my new apartment, you are welcomed by a large living room, part of the kitchen, and a brick fireplace (doesn't work but still pretty to look at). There's even a chandelier in there! The bedroom is pretty big, and I plan on being unconscious there for long periods of time. I can definitely see that happening.
It's perfect. Completely perfect. Well, except for two minor details. First off, there's an ant infestation. Ew. Ew. Ew. I hate bugs, and I feel like they're crawling on me when I see them. They are all over the kitchen, and unless they intend on paying for room and board, I want them out! Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, there's a mysterious bell jar of yellow liquid in the hall closet. Some people keep skeletons in their closet, and some people keep jars of urine. Unfortunately, I am the kind of person that keeps a jar of urine. Who knows, it might not be urine. It might be something pleasant like lemonade or pine-sol, but unless I know for sure, I'm not touching it. So, I would like to extend the offer of removing the mysterious bell jar from my apartment to anyone reading this. Thank you in advance.
Anyway, in addition to moving, there are a lot of new things going on in my life--new job, new haircut, new drug addictions. Just kidding about the drug addictions. I don't do drugs. I did cut my hair though (thanks for noticing)! Despite the annoying hassle of moving and starting a new job, I am looking forward to living in a new neighborhood and gaining experience towards something I hope to eventually do--or finding out what I don't want to do (preferably the former).
Let's talk about my new place because that's what I'm most excited about right now, and I know that you're excited about what I'm excited about. You see, my current apartment sucks. You open a door to a wall in a hallway, which is not very warm and inviting. In fact, it's cold and uninviting. When you open the door to my new apartment, you are welcomed by a large living room, part of the kitchen, and a brick fireplace (doesn't work but still pretty to look at). There's even a chandelier in there! The bedroom is pretty big, and I plan on being unconscious there for long periods of time. I can definitely see that happening.
It's perfect. Completely perfect. Well, except for two minor details. First off, there's an ant infestation. Ew. Ew. Ew. I hate bugs, and I feel like they're crawling on me when I see them. They are all over the kitchen, and unless they intend on paying for room and board, I want them out! Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, there's a mysterious bell jar of yellow liquid in the hall closet. Some people keep skeletons in their closet, and some people keep jars of urine. Unfortunately, I am the kind of person that keeps a jar of urine. Who knows, it might not be urine. It might be something pleasant like lemonade or pine-sol, but unless I know for sure, I'm not touching it. So, I would like to extend the offer of removing the mysterious bell jar from my apartment to anyone reading this. Thank you in advance.
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