… And Some Things Don’t Change
My ears are bleeding right now. I’m in Panera and forgot my headphones. While I’m a fan of classical music… Not in subdued tones intermingled w/ idle chat from everyone around me. I’m distracted, but alas, I’ll try to get through this.
Tywone the Carryout Guy continues to make my weekly trips to the metro stop entertaining. The conversation we shared last week ranks high on the list:
“Did you meet my son?”
“Yes.”
“Wasn’t he polite toward you when he took your credit card? He called you Ma’am, right?
“Yes, he did.”
“I just want you to know that even though he’s only 10, I’m teaching him to be polite and treat women with respect.”
“How noble of you, Tywone “ (tinge of sarcasm)
Well, it’s important, and you should also know I’m not one of those guys who has a bunch of babymommas hanging around. I take care of my own and I’d take care of you.”
(sigh) “I do fine on my own Tywone, Nobody needs to take care of me.”
“Oh come on Erin, won’t you go out with me. We could go get some Daquiris or something…”
Flinch and eye roll. “Tywone, seriously… Do I LOOK like a girl who drinks fruity drinks and gets all giddy and giggly.”
“….I just failed again, didn’t I?”
“Yep.”
“Fuck. Aight, see you next week.”
I’m recounting this last exchange and there are so many things wrong here.
- Having your 10 year old son work with you at the metro stop where you primarily sell cigarettes and alcohol is not an ideal situation for me. While I make it a point to not sit in judgment of others, this is a discrepancy of character and values. Both of which are not negotiable on my part.
- I’m not a foregone conclusion. Suggesting we go out and drink fruity drinks categorizes me with every other woman you met in your life and have ascertained this is what women like to do.
- Proclaiming you only have a few children with different mothers– and thinking this is an attractive asset– only further demonstrates life and how we lead our lives are worlds apart.
At the risk of coming across as a complete and total bitch, I do have to admit I enjoy Tywone and his spirit. He throws it out there and is unabashedly unapologetic about it. I love seeing that kind of fire and confidence; Traits I have in myself but sometimes fall on the wayside in favor of something more subdued or practical.
I still don’t take him seriously, and I never will… but at least it makes me smile.
Stories Like This Make My Life Interesting
My first relationship post-college was with a guy named Sam. Our relationship ebbed and flowed like most, but what made it so enjoyable was Sam was so damn funny. My favorite nickname for him was “mouthpiece” because he was so ornery and charming, he could talk himself out of any situation. To say he was the most comical person I ever met is an understatement. It wasn’t about how hard he could make me laugh, it was the ease at which he could do it. He naturally had a twinkle in his eye, an impish grin, and the power of perfect timing.
We didn’t see each other often due to conflicting work schedules, but the most memorable times I had with him were sitting up in his room, doing mindless things like watching the crocodile hunter at 2 AM while eating grapes. We would play king of the bed (get your mind out of the gutter, people) in which we’d wrestle and I would inevitably end up on the floor as “shark food.”
He also used to tease me about taking me back to his country home in the hills of West Virginia where we’d be married, I’d be barefoot and pregnant all the time and each of our 17 kids would have names derived from various versions of the name “Sam.” (i.e Sampson, Samantha, and my favorite, Samuela) He teased me about this, because, lets face it, I’m the furthest version of a barefoot/pregnant country girl with numerous children under foot.
After a year or so of dating off and on. Sam moved down South. We did not remain in touch, though the relationship ended amicably.
A few weeks ago while on facebook, I found Sam. It’s been close to 7 years since I saw him last. I looked at his friends list and recognized the some of the roommates he lived with while in Columbus. I looked at his photo, which was a side shot, but I saw the hands, the mouth and the eyes were all the same… Even the expression was all Sam.
So I friend-requested him along with a note saying, “Oh Lord. I just have to know if you have a daughter named Samuela as you used to threaten me with this name at night in bed. ”
A week or so goes by and then I see Sam has accepted my friend request. As I eagerly look at his page, I take a closer look at his photos and think, “hmm, Sam’s got some gray in his hair… As I continue to search through his profile, I see he has children…. And then I see it. “Graduated High school, 1975.”
Oh. My. God. I just friend-requested my ex-boyfriend’s dad, and mentioned the words “daughter’s name and bed.” Though completely harmless as described above, my note certainly implied something entirely different.
Even though I am 30 years old and am free to conduct myself in any manner I deem fit, I found myself writing Sam’s dad an email explaining why I had sent him the request… It started off with “Dear Mr. M—.” I can’t believe I, a grown woman, addressed him as “Mr.” It’s the shame talking, I swear.
Sam’s dad was kind enough to accept my apology and I have to think he got a little kick out of himself when he ended the email with Sam’s contact info and these last 2 words… ”Be Good.” Oh Oy.
Oh and those former roommates of Sam’s that were on the friend list… His cousins. So naturally they would be on uncle Sam’s list…
Well it took G’ma long enough
Yes, I started this last year 2 weeks after my father died (March) and have JUST NOW completed it.
In my previous post, I mentioned how I tend to be whimsical with my money in the absence of a project, so last year I decided to teach myself to crochet. Why? I have no idea. So I made 2 scarves and decided I was ready to start an afghan. Big mistake. I became bored with it. I resented it. I grew listless and impatient with each stitch and painstaking row that took a 1/2 hour of my life to complete.
Though it took a year, I have to say this is one endeavor I finally forced myself to complete. I tend to do that; take up something new, hit the ground running and allow it to consume me. I then grow tired and annoyed with it or it simply no longer interests me and I cast it aside or remove it from my stream of consciousness.
Hmmm. I think this is something I need to explore as I do this in just about every aspect of my life save my cat and my ability to stay employed. I guess that’s a good thing, but perhaps I need to examine what it is about committing to something that ultimately sends me running in the opposite direction. Is it fear of failure? Lack of challenge? Losing my ability to be impulsive? Losing control? Interesting……
A Break from my Hiatus
So yeah, my break was a little longer than anticipated… My December was a blur, per usual, followed by annoying cold/cough, a surprise trip to Arizona in January and then the past 6 weeks have been spent playing catch up.
But enough of the excuses– I feel like I did as a teenager when I used to apologize to my journal for my infrequent visits.
So here are some random musings and/or updates:
I don’t think I’m going to tell anyone I’m back to the proverbial page with my pen. If you find it, read it, like it, great. If not, oh well, I’m not writing it for you anyway.
My relationship with Tywone the carry out guy has gone to the next level. While he still doesn’t call me by my name, he now remembers my order and he asked me out to brunch. This reminds me of Matt Damon’s response in Good Will Hunting when Minnie Driver asks him out for coffee, and he suggests doing something more arbitrary instead, like eating caramels. Tywone seems undaunted by quiet refusals and laughed until he cried when I off-handedly compared myself to a number on a dart board. I am not naive enough to think he’s actually interested in me, but like every other female who passes through the metro stop, he throws his dart out in hopes it’ll land. I was quite honest in wanting to know his success rate, but he was unwilling to share.
2009 is faring much better than the beginning of 2008. At this time last year, I had nearly lost my job, my father had just died, my identity had been stolen, and I missed my LSAT test due to a car accident. This year so far I have been presented with 50 yard line tickets to the fiesta bowl, the rekindling of an old friendship, a promising trip to Vegas in April, and the feeling of being quietly content and at peace. I can’t complain.
I kinda like being 30. I feel more settled and confident, and I’m not exactly sure why. Perhaps I’m just more comfortable in my own skin and feel secure in the knowledge that I weathered the storm of 2008 relatively unscathed.
I like to believe I am self-aware, but it wasn’t until my mother pointed out my spending habits that I came to the realization I spend money in the absence of working on a project or having something constructive to do. I’ve managed to abstain from buying bedroom furniture, another coach purse, and other senseless incidentals during the dog days of winter. I miss being outside.
A random and persistent rash on my neck caused me to clean my house from top to bottom… Even down to washing my comforter, duvet and pillows due to the suggestion I may be allergic to down feathers. One thing I DON’T like about being 30— I now notice random chin hairs that require plucking, some grey hairs, my curly hair is relaxing a bit, and I have developed some random allergy to hair products/lotions and/or perfumes. The cause has yet to be determined, but rest assured, it is not down feathers. I would cry if I had to surrender my bed.
People who talk to excessively to their babies in public or in that high-pitched baby voice used to freak me out. Then I came home from work and as my cat came to greet me, I petted her and spoke to her in the same shrill voice. I asked her how her day was and if she’d destroyed anything in my absence…. I’m. Pathetic. (shakes head in shame) BUT in my defense, Yiddy the Kiddy does respond by meowing incessantly and it’s hilarious.
That’s enough for now.
Taking a Break
Sorry guys… I’m taking a break until after the holidays… Too much to do and too little time. I live you with one of my favorite Friends scenes.
Springhill Vol. 1
I had an enchanted childhood. Just like many others, it was filled with scraped knees, blisters, bruises, mosquito bites and an occasional trip to the emergency room, but unlike others, I lived in a perfect little microcosm of 15 houses along a simple lane and cul-de-sac. In this quaint little neighborhood there was no thru-street; meaning if you didn’t live there, you were either visiting or lost.
We knew everyone in the neighborhood. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized it is unusual to have your insurance agent, dentist, surgeon, bank president, attorney and local school board member be your neighbors and friends. The parents were all friends and the children went from one house to another building forts, playing hide and go seek in the basement, flooding sandboxes, sled riding through pine trees, building ramps and playing foosball, air hockey, table tennis, or having water balloon fights, and sleep overs.
I was one of the youngest along with Karen, my best friend. We were the only girls of the group. While there were other girls in the neighborhood, they were considerably older and didn’t participate often. Being the youngest as well as being girls, Karen and I often found ourselves either excluded or fighting for survival (aka acceptance.) It didn’t help our older brothers loved to torment us.
One area we couldn’t gain access was the ultra-cool rock group, The Booby Brothers. I think I was 6 when I first learned of this secret club. The Booby brothers were awesome. Named after Bobby, they would get together in his basement and have rock concerts parodying current songs like “Paul Revere,” “Amadeus,” and “Walk Like an Egyptian.” They even had a lighting system with strings attached to all the light switches that were collected and tacked to a board. Each switch was even labelled.
Karen and I weren’t allowed to play. We were only aware of the songs because the guys would keep singing them and I stumbled upon the lighting system one day when Bobby and I were looking for his cat.
I honestly don’t know when the Booby Brothers broke up, and I haven’t thought of them in a long time… Until today, when I heard this song;
However, instead of it being “The Final Countdown,” it was “The Final Cream Puff.” I don’t remember the rest of the lyrics except for “The Bakeries are closing down…” as the initial lyric. I have now idea where “cream puff” came to fruition, but whatever.
It’s funny when I think of the Booby Brothers, it reminds me how simple life was in my little slice of utopia. While I love being an adult, there are times I miss being a child where my world was so small, It was an event to be able to ride my bike outside the confines of my neighborhood without parental supervision…
I heart Sheldon
I happened to catch the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson on Friday night, and wouldn’t you know, Jim Parsons, (aka Sheldon) on my favorite sitcom, Big Bang Theory, was being interviewed. I have seen him before, but this is hilarious. It appears his character on the show is channeled by his inner geek. I love him.
Please Miss Erin, Puulllleeaaassseeee!!!
This is the story of Erin and Wilbur.
I’m going to say Wilbur as much as I can during this post, so if you’re into making a drinking game based on buzz words, pick you poison and crop a squat and stay for awhile.
Wilbur came into my life on 8/20/08 when he was a passenger in my insured’s vehicle. He was just sitting in the car minding his own business when a bum in a Datsun reversed out of his parking spot and hit the door that poor Wilbur was leaning on.
Now, while there was only $749.00 in damage to my insured’s vehicle, Wilbur sustained injuries that were so severe, he was placed on his deathbed and close relatives were called in to say their final farewell that equated to a hangnail.
Of course Mr. Datsun owner did not carry insurance so Mr. Wilbur started pressing for an uninsured motorist claim under my insured’s policy. Since Wilbur is not a resident relative of my named insured, he was required to execute a signed and notarized affidavit confirming he neither carried his own personal auto policy nor was he covered under anyone else’s.
Once this was complete, Wilbur became quite anxious. I received the following voicemail.
“Miss Erin, hi this is Wilbur. I am calling to see if we can wrap this up. Please Miss Erin, you don’t understand… I’m just a country boy moving to the big city trying to find my way and I can’t afford my rent and I really need this money because I’m going to be evicted…. Please Miss Erin, you’re the only one who can help me. Please call me back.”
Prior to calling him back, Wilbur faxed me his is eviction notice that confirms he did not pay his October rent of $550.00 to verify he was not trying to “play” me.
I called Wilbur, and he continued to reiterate his sad woes, and I advised him on the information I would need. I’m speaking calmly and gently to Wilbur as he sounds like such a sad pup, and he even asks me to call his landlord to verify he would be “coming into some money” soon. I explained to Wilbur this is not something I normally do, but the man was so persistent, his whine was so shrill, it actually made me laugh. He then called me out for laughing! (oops)
Ok, call made to landlord against my better judgement, but whatever. Next step, Wilbur faxes me medical bills. Nothing crazy, but I believe that is because I called his ambulance chasing rehab facility early on and said “hey, this is a $749.00 impact… If you want paid you better watch how much you treat Mr. Wilbur’s “subjective” complaints. “
So now we get to the meat and potatoes of the claim… Wage loss and pain and suffering. Wilbur lost 8 days, which was written off by said ambulance chasing rehab facility… I was prepared to accept this until Wilbur tried to tell me he earns $200.00 a day.
“Wait, what did you say, Wilbur?”
“I make about $200.00 a day, Miss Erin.”
“I’m gonna need some verification of that, Wilbur.”
(Changing tone) ”What do you mean you need verification? It sounds to me like you’re trying to hold a brother down. That’s what this sounds like.
(Changing tone as well) ”Wilbur, this is what you given me. I have an eviction notice that tells me your rent is $550.00, right? And I have an affidavit from you confirming you have no car and no insurance, correct? So that means you have no car payment or insurance payment, right? Wilbur, if you earn $200.00/day for 5 days a week, that’s $1,000.00 right? And there’s 52 weeks a year, right? So that means your income is $52,000.00 a year. This income is inconsistent with someone who is unable to pay $550.00 for the rent on their apartment or own a car. So which is it Wilbur?”
“You’re one of those smart girls, aren’t you?
“Yes Wilbur, I am.”
“Fine. what can you give me, and if I agree, can you deposit it into my account?”
“Wilbur, I’m not a bank. You sign a release and I’ll overnight you a check. Deal?”
(Sigh) ”Deal- I can’t believe I got a smart one on the phone.”
“It happens, Wilbur. Sorry.”
Here endeth the story of Erin and Wilbur
Well Look at the Brains on Brad.
Here’s another useless invention that became someone’s golden ticket. 4 words; PUT ON A SWEATSHIRT!!!
(Bonus if you can tell me what movie I quoted in my title…)
Strike Out
A few posts back, I mentioned Tywone, the carryout guy. Tywone is a flirt, and every week when I pull up to get beer, cigarettes, or other sinful items, he usually sends some colorful compliments my way.
His disappointment in finding out I was “just a white girl” has erased in favor of learning I love love love college football. Since I usually stop on Saturday afternoons, there is always a game on. When I commented on how crappy Georgia was looking against Florida and that I couldn’t wait until that evening’s Texas Tech vs. Texas game, the boy looked like he had just struck gold.
When he handed me my receipt, he asked me if he could write his phone number on it. I incredulously asked “WHY?” and dismissed it. He went on to say, “I think you’re a cool girl, and I want you to call me.” I couldn’t help but think of my School of Margaret Upbringing where she had always instructed me to NEVER call boys. (not that I listened, but that’s a whole other story.)
I looked at Tywone, wondering what to say, and then I blurted out, “Tywone, what’s my name?” I figure this has been going on now for about 6 weeks. Each time I come, he compares my driver’s license with my credit card, AND he actually asked me for my name and shook my hand a few weeks prior.
“Ugh… um, Oh shit I know this…” (stamping foot, head tilted back, now hands on forehead in deep concentration…) “I can’t believe I forget this– is it Roxy?”
ROXY!?!?! WTF? DO I LOOK LIKE A STRIPPER?!?!
“Sorry, Tywone. You just struck out. I’ll see you next week.”
