My TV Production teacher in High School told me one day, "Corrence, in life, you'll have one job that needs to be made into a sitcom." He then went on to tell me about his experience at a restaurant in California where he, a staunch conservative republican, worked with dramatic, gay men who would describe their sexual experiences to him. In detail.
I work as an intern/assistant at my aunt's office near Boston. She's a criminal defense lawyer and practices in a high-crime area in Boston. I expressed my interest in working in the law, and she asked if I wanted to work with her one summer. One thing lead to another... and I've been going back there every school vacation (and sometimes during the school year).
The cast of characters is... different, to say the least.
There's one attorney who constantly yells at me, tells me to kill myself, and often insults my mother for no reason. Then there's the "One-Date Wonder," who's a really nice guy when you look past his awkward social tendencies. My favorite, though, is the quirky private investigator who just adopted a black baby from Utah because she "can't find a man" and "pushing a baby out would hurt too much."
One of my first days at this job, I was walking through the lock-up in the District Court with aunt Nancy, on the way to talk to a client who was debating whether or not to take a plea deal offered by the DA. If there's anything I've learned, it's that if the District Attorney finds your fingerprints on bullets found in a dead man... take the deal.
Anyway, we were approaching the cell where our client was situated, when I heard a mumbling coming from a cell I was passing. I started to listen closer as I passed the prisoners inside. One remarked to the other, "Mmm mmm, look at this chubby little nigga in his suit."
Startled, I moved closer to Nancy in an effort to avoid the gazes of the sex-starved prisoners. Apparently they were so desperate they were going to resort to prison raping an intern. Good times.
I love the District Court in the inner-city. It's so different from the environment in which I grew up. Instead of vast parking lots and automatic doors, there's street parking and a homeless man who holds open the doors to the Court for cigarettes!
The whole situation reminds me of every sitcom on TV. Only this one is about lawyers and it isn't a drama starring William Shatner or Dylan McDermott. We have a hangout, a restaurant down the street from the court. During the day, there's a waiter who works there. He's young, he's gay, he's cute, and he's an aspiring actor. Nancy is convinced that he wants me, due to a particularly awkward incident involving the 2 minute purchase of a $50 gift certificate to the restaurant which ended up as a 30-minute conversation about the Boston Gay Men's Chorus and how ghetto our respective hometowns are. Fuck my life.
One summer day, the temperatures in the city started to drop due to a strong sea breeze. 70 degrees became 55, and I decided it was too cold to go to lunch in a short-sleeve polo shirt and shorts. So I wore a suit coat to lunch and was berated the whole drive to the restaurant by Nancy and Sue, one of the other lawyers. We were sat by the hostess who left us to our own devices (her first mistake), and eventually Dana, the aforementioned P.I., joined us at the table. She carried with her a Stop and Shop bag, but I couldn't see what was inside of it.
"Corey, I made you a birthday present!" she announced, knowing my birthday was a week away.
Let me just explain for a second that the "professionals" I work with have warped senses of humor. A running joke started one day that I ride the "short bus" to the office every day. But the lawyers worried that I would hurt my head while licking the windows, so they joked that they would buy me a pink helmet (to protect my head) with a bell on it (so I don't get lost in a crowd).
Dana pulled a pink helmet out of her bag. It had a pink bicycle horn super glued to the side (because a bell was too much trouble to weld to the helmet), and 3 squeaky toys attached to the top (so if I ever got bored, I'd have someone to talk to).
Nancy and Sue almost fell out of their chairs because they were laughing so hard. The waitress returned, looked horrified, and walked right out of the dining room. Usually, I don't need help making a scene. But it seems that when I'm assisted by others, the situation is made that much worse. Proudly, I wore the helmet until the meal was served. That's when I took a bite out of my burger and the meat juice spilled out on my suit coat. The adults all started laughing at me again, when the waitress came over with napkins.
Between cackles, Nancy reassured the waitress that next time, they would leave me at home.
"Please do," the waitress responded.
I'm such a mess, that I almost got banned from a 2 star restaurant. New low? Definitely.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Saturday, December 19, 2009
'Ello, Gov'na'!
"How do you get into these situations?" my co-worker asked me the other day.
I was stumped. Lately, I've been asking everyone I know if they've been asked to sign release forms, because I'm convinced that I'm Jim Carrey on the Truman Show... My life's a reality show and I don't know it. It makes sense... I wouldn't be surprised if there were producers pulling the strings and telling people to start shit with me. It makes for great TV!
Let's rewind.
I made a new friend recently. If you haven't noticed from my stories, I only hang out with girls. Ever. So I was stoked to start hanging out with an actual gay guy. Someone who can relate to me, someone who'll talk about cute boys with me and it's not weird 'cause he's not a straight girl. I slept over at his dorm a couple months ago when this happened...
"Wanna go to a dance party?" he asked me a few days before we were to see each other. "My friend really wants us to go."
I was psyched. We had a movie marathon planned, but I have a short attention span. Obviously other activities were necessary so he didn't discover my tendency to fidget like a five-year old when forced to sit for long periods of time so close to the beginning of our friendship. He also trusted me enough to survive in a social situation with his friends. This, along with the party we went to a few weeks prior, was a "friends-test." And God damn it, I was gonna pass with flying colors.
The night of the party, I found myself in the living room with Ben and his roommate, Jenny. We were watching "Little Miss Sunshine" while eating hot dogs wrapped in dough. I was expecting the food to be craptastic... I've never enjoyed a hot dog more in my life.
But I digress. Slowly, the friends started to trickle in. Ben's friend Rich brought his roommate Zach with him. Zach speaks with a British accent, but is not from England.
...Okay.
Then Shaina, Ben's friend from high school, and her semi-boyfriend Matt showed up. We did introductions, as I was the odd one out, and eventually we were off to the party. I was surprised to see Zach want to go, because he passed on the last party, citing a big history test to study for. On a Saturday night.
...Okay.
Eventually, 5 of us piled into my car. Ben sat up front with me, and Jenny, Rich and Zach seated themselves in the cramped backseat of my Mustang Convertible. Stylish (except for the gold color and white top), but not ideal for transporting large groups of people. My iPod played Rob Thomas's "Lonely No More," a personal favorite. Ben and I sang along, not paying attention to what was going on in the backseat.
"It's rathah crahmped in heah," remarked Zach, getting out of the Fagmobile. "Jenny, I've become rathah well acquainted with the right side of you."
I kept my mouth shut. Ben knows that I have a bad habit of judging people to their faces, but I opted to keep it under control. I was in unfamiliar territory and had to play this just right.
We entered the party house, and kids I had met at the last party remembered my name! It sounds trivial, but it made me feel really welcome. From there, we made our rounds and ended up in the room with the black light. I chatted with Jenny while Ben danced in the middle of the floor, the life of the party.
Next thing I know, some skank who no one at the party knew except the host waltzed into the room, clad in nothing but red heels, a pearl necklace, and a red dress which barely covered her ass. And everyone else was wearing a casual shirt and jeans. Awkward.
Some people fall in love at first sight. I judge at first sight. And this girl was TOE. UP. We didn't get to the party until 11, and she had obviously arrived much sooner... and taken one too many swigs from the jug in the kitchen labeled "DEATH PUNCH!"
Super Skank then proceeded to start grinding on the boy who brought me to the party. The rational side of me said, "Corey, don't worry about it. He's gay and obviously won't leave with her tonight." But the jealous bitch in me started screaming, "STEP OFF, WHORE."
Ben looked at me with terror in his eyes. "Help me," he mouthed. I usually can't read lips, but the message was loud and clear: Girlfriend was trying to get laid and didn't care who did her. Before I could get over there, she got down on her knees. My friend, the homo, later recalled, "I could feel her teeth on my belt."
I approached the scene of the crime and Ben started to dance with me. Skanky McWhore took the hint and went to the other end of the room where the party's host was standing. She threw him up against the wall with as much force as possible and stuck her tongue down his throat.
With that crisis averted, the dancing continued and I let go of all of the stress and drama I left behind in Framingham. That's when Ben decided he would perform his rendition of the "Single Ladies" dance. As a shameless attention whore, I admire other shameless attention whores. And this display of attention whoring was the best I've seen in a while.
We then retired to the kitchen, where Ben was cornered by 3 girls he went to high school with. That's when a lonely, fat girl, who was sitting in the corner by herself, introduced herself to me... "HI! I'm Zoe! Do you go to URI too!"
"No."
"Oh, okay!"
I looked her up and down. Her white t-shirt, navy jeans, brown cowboy boots and ugly, pink scarf just didn't work for her. I tried to be nice. "I... like your scarf. Where did you get it?"
"I don't know!"
Zoe didn't bother to continue making conversation with me, so I turned around to face Ben. I heard, "HI! I'm Zoe!" three separate times after my encounter with her. Having grown tired with these antics, it was time to set up in the living room, where the real fun started.
I sat down next to the boy, my arm around his shoulder. We sat with his friend Michaela and a boy she brought. Rich sat to my side and we were casually talking... when Zach found his way to the living room.
"WHEN HAVING SEX, YOU MUST ALWAYS USE A PROPHYLACTIC," he drunkenly announced. Alcohol + College Student who doesn't ever drink = Hot Mess.
I pulled out my Blackberry and texted Maria: "Kid at party is preaching about proper condom use. Want to die."
The tirade continued. "YOU KNOW," Zach started, "I HAVE NEVAH GOTTEN ASS EVAH."
My eye began to twitch.
"Benjamin, how do you get the boys?" he asked, looking at us. I may or may not have found myself getting more and more possessive with my arm around Ben as the conversation went on. "When you're dahncing, what is it you do? How do you do it?"
Ben looked at me with a smile on his face. Earlier in the afternoon, we had been practicing our dance moves in the dorm room. He held me and we swung our hips around, dancing like fools. I looked at him and asked, "Are you having a 'Wedding Singer' moment?" The Adam Sandler movie was all that came to mind in that moment where we were doing that ridiculous dance.
He turned to look at me. "What?"
"You know, there's the part where the old man is dancing and he goes, 'It's all in the hips... It's all in the hips...'"
So Ben looked at Zach and told him, "It's in the hips."
"IT'S IN THE 'IPS?! BLOODY 'ELL!" he exclaimed. "What is it, then?"
I chimed in, "'It' is just what's in the hips."
Zach nodded knowingly, totally buying the bullshit we were feeding him. The topic didn't last long, however. He looked to the other end of the couch and said, "'Ello, Miss! I don't know you! I'm Zach!"
"...I'm Michaela."
"MICHAELA, IT'S LOVELY TO MEET YOU. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE KIND OF ART?"
At this point, it was 1 a.m., I was sober because I had to drive home, I had a caffeine headache, and I just couldn't take the awkward moments anymore. Ben got our fleeces from downstairs and we, along with Rich and Zach, piled into the car to go home.
I didn't turn the music on. I started the car, grabbed Ben's hand and drove back to school. The two in the backseat were going on and on about only God knows what. I tuned it out until we got back to campus and we saw a group of kids headed back to the dorms.
"You know," Zach said, "I bet they had their faces in other people's faces tonight! I told a boy tonight that he was cute... But he was with his girlfriend."
Ben squeezed my hand. I almost thought it was cute, until I realized it was a "Please don't tear him a new, less socially awkward asshole" squeeze. All I got out was a groan when Zach patted me on the shoulder.
"DON'T WORRY, JAMES! I THINK YOU'RE CUTE TOO!"
Not only was this kid delusional, he didn't know my name. Luckily, the dynamic duo lived in a different building and we were able to drop them off and have some alone time back at the dorms. We opened up the fridge and looked at its contents.
"Do you want a drink?" Ben asked me.
"After that? I need one."
This blog is called "Hot Mess" because the concept sums up my life. This story is no exception.
I was stumped. Lately, I've been asking everyone I know if they've been asked to sign release forms, because I'm convinced that I'm Jim Carrey on the Truman Show... My life's a reality show and I don't know it. It makes sense... I wouldn't be surprised if there were producers pulling the strings and telling people to start shit with me. It makes for great TV!
Let's rewind.
I made a new friend recently. If you haven't noticed from my stories, I only hang out with girls. Ever. So I was stoked to start hanging out with an actual gay guy. Someone who can relate to me, someone who'll talk about cute boys with me and it's not weird 'cause he's not a straight girl. I slept over at his dorm a couple months ago when this happened...
"Wanna go to a dance party?" he asked me a few days before we were to see each other. "My friend really wants us to go."
I was psyched. We had a movie marathon planned, but I have a short attention span. Obviously other activities were necessary so he didn't discover my tendency to fidget like a five-year old when forced to sit for long periods of time so close to the beginning of our friendship. He also trusted me enough to survive in a social situation with his friends. This, along with the party we went to a few weeks prior, was a "friends-test." And God damn it, I was gonna pass with flying colors.
The night of the party, I found myself in the living room with Ben and his roommate, Jenny. We were watching "Little Miss Sunshine" while eating hot dogs wrapped in dough. I was expecting the food to be craptastic... I've never enjoyed a hot dog more in my life.
But I digress. Slowly, the friends started to trickle in. Ben's friend Rich brought his roommate Zach with him. Zach speaks with a British accent, but is not from England.
...Okay.
Then Shaina, Ben's friend from high school, and her semi-boyfriend Matt showed up. We did introductions, as I was the odd one out, and eventually we were off to the party. I was surprised to see Zach want to go, because he passed on the last party, citing a big history test to study for. On a Saturday night.
...Okay.
Eventually, 5 of us piled into my car. Ben sat up front with me, and Jenny, Rich and Zach seated themselves in the cramped backseat of my Mustang Convertible. Stylish (except for the gold color and white top), but not ideal for transporting large groups of people. My iPod played Rob Thomas's "Lonely No More," a personal favorite. Ben and I sang along, not paying attention to what was going on in the backseat.
"It's rathah crahmped in heah," remarked Zach, getting out of the Fagmobile. "Jenny, I've become rathah well acquainted with the right side of you."
I kept my mouth shut. Ben knows that I have a bad habit of judging people to their faces, but I opted to keep it under control. I was in unfamiliar territory and had to play this just right.
We entered the party house, and kids I had met at the last party remembered my name! It sounds trivial, but it made me feel really welcome. From there, we made our rounds and ended up in the room with the black light. I chatted with Jenny while Ben danced in the middle of the floor, the life of the party.
Next thing I know, some skank who no one at the party knew except the host waltzed into the room, clad in nothing but red heels, a pearl necklace, and a red dress which barely covered her ass. And everyone else was wearing a casual shirt and jeans. Awkward.
Some people fall in love at first sight. I judge at first sight. And this girl was TOE. UP. We didn't get to the party until 11, and she had obviously arrived much sooner... and taken one too many swigs from the jug in the kitchen labeled "DEATH PUNCH!"
Super Skank then proceeded to start grinding on the boy who brought me to the party. The rational side of me said, "Corey, don't worry about it. He's gay and obviously won't leave with her tonight." But the jealous bitch in me started screaming, "STEP OFF, WHORE."
Ben looked at me with terror in his eyes. "Help me," he mouthed. I usually can't read lips, but the message was loud and clear: Girlfriend was trying to get laid and didn't care who did her. Before I could get over there, she got down on her knees. My friend, the homo, later recalled, "I could feel her teeth on my belt."
I approached the scene of the crime and Ben started to dance with me. Skanky McWhore took the hint and went to the other end of the room where the party's host was standing. She threw him up against the wall with as much force as possible and stuck her tongue down his throat.
With that crisis averted, the dancing continued and I let go of all of the stress and drama I left behind in Framingham. That's when Ben decided he would perform his rendition of the "Single Ladies" dance. As a shameless attention whore, I admire other shameless attention whores. And this display of attention whoring was the best I've seen in a while.
We then retired to the kitchen, where Ben was cornered by 3 girls he went to high school with. That's when a lonely, fat girl, who was sitting in the corner by herself, introduced herself to me... "HI! I'm Zoe! Do you go to URI too!"
"No."
"Oh, okay!"
I looked her up and down. Her white t-shirt, navy jeans, brown cowboy boots and ugly, pink scarf just didn't work for her. I tried to be nice. "I... like your scarf. Where did you get it?"
"I don't know!"
Zoe didn't bother to continue making conversation with me, so I turned around to face Ben. I heard, "HI! I'm Zoe!" three separate times after my encounter with her. Having grown tired with these antics, it was time to set up in the living room, where the real fun started.
I sat down next to the boy, my arm around his shoulder. We sat with his friend Michaela and a boy she brought. Rich sat to my side and we were casually talking... when Zach found his way to the living room.
"WHEN HAVING SEX, YOU MUST ALWAYS USE A PROPHYLACTIC," he drunkenly announced. Alcohol + College Student who doesn't ever drink = Hot Mess.
I pulled out my Blackberry and texted Maria: "Kid at party is preaching about proper condom use. Want to die."
The tirade continued. "YOU KNOW," Zach started, "I HAVE NEVAH GOTTEN ASS EVAH."
My eye began to twitch.
"Benjamin, how do you get the boys?" he asked, looking at us. I may or may not have found myself getting more and more possessive with my arm around Ben as the conversation went on. "When you're dahncing, what is it you do? How do you do it?"
Ben looked at me with a smile on his face. Earlier in the afternoon, we had been practicing our dance moves in the dorm room. He held me and we swung our hips around, dancing like fools. I looked at him and asked, "Are you having a 'Wedding Singer' moment?" The Adam Sandler movie was all that came to mind in that moment where we were doing that ridiculous dance.
He turned to look at me. "What?"
"You know, there's the part where the old man is dancing and he goes, 'It's all in the hips... It's all in the hips...'"
So Ben looked at Zach and told him, "It's in the hips."
"IT'S IN THE 'IPS?! BLOODY 'ELL!" he exclaimed. "What is it, then?"
I chimed in, "'It' is just what's in the hips."
Zach nodded knowingly, totally buying the bullshit we were feeding him. The topic didn't last long, however. He looked to the other end of the couch and said, "'Ello, Miss! I don't know you! I'm Zach!"
"...I'm Michaela."
"MICHAELA, IT'S LOVELY TO MEET YOU. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE KIND OF ART?"
At this point, it was 1 a.m., I was sober because I had to drive home, I had a caffeine headache, and I just couldn't take the awkward moments anymore. Ben got our fleeces from downstairs and we, along with Rich and Zach, piled into the car to go home.
I didn't turn the music on. I started the car, grabbed Ben's hand and drove back to school. The two in the backseat were going on and on about only God knows what. I tuned it out until we got back to campus and we saw a group of kids headed back to the dorms.
"You know," Zach said, "I bet they had their faces in other people's faces tonight! I told a boy tonight that he was cute... But he was with his girlfriend."
Ben squeezed my hand. I almost thought it was cute, until I realized it was a "Please don't tear him a new, less socially awkward asshole" squeeze. All I got out was a groan when Zach patted me on the shoulder.
"DON'T WORRY, JAMES! I THINK YOU'RE CUTE TOO!"
Not only was this kid delusional, he didn't know my name. Luckily, the dynamic duo lived in a different building and we were able to drop them off and have some alone time back at the dorms. We opened up the fridge and looked at its contents.
"Do you want a drink?" Ben asked me.
"After that? I need one."
This blog is called "Hot Mess" because the concept sums up my life. This story is no exception.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
No. Wire. Hangers.
They say children are impressionable. And I didn't believe that I was anything like my parents until a few days ago.
I should preface this with some backstory. I had a really bad hook-up this summer. His pecs were very moobish, leading me to call him "Grandma Tits" behind his back. His breath was terrible too. When we kissed, it was insanely warm and sweet, like eating a lifesaver that was left under a radiator.
I discussed this incident with a friend of mine who takes delight in my "caustic sense of humor" as my Journalism professor put it. "Corey, it couldn't have been that bad. You're being kinda mean,"' he laughed.
"Hey, I could've told him to buy a bra and a package of breath mints, but I didn't!" I responded.
So, this past weekend, I was off from work. I justified it as a mental health vacation.
My mom called me while I was out Christmas shopping. My shiny, new Blackberry started blaring "TiK ToK" by Ke$ha, causing tweens all around me to dance and adults to groan. I answered the phone, "Hello," as people pushed past me, trying to knock my $300 worth of merchandise out of my arms.
"Coah, what are you doin'?" Lois asked.
"I'm Christmas shopping, what are you doing?"
"I'm at the BAAAAH." Translation: "BAAAAH" is Boston for "bar." "You should come down!"
"Will there be free food?"
"Yeah, Coah! Just come and visit!"
So I went down to the Chinese restaurant/bar and joined my mother and two aunts for a nice dinner. While waiting to be served General Gau's Chicken and "Orangey So-da," my mother noticed a fashion faux pas walk past our table.
Picture this: An older woman, in her 50s, severely overweight, wearing an athletic suit the average Phys. Ed. teacher wears. It did NOT flatter her figure.
Mommie Dearest chose that moment to announce, "Ohhh, no one loves her..."
"Mom!" I snapped. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw the fat woman's friend at their table open her mouth and gasp in horror.
"What, Coah? If someone loved her, they wouldn't let her go out of the house like that."
"Lois, you need to keep your voice down," my aunt Ginny chimed in.
"I could've pointed at her, but I didn't!" Lois justified herself.
My jaw dropped, much like the fat lady's frumpy-looking friend. Apparently our behaviors, as people, are innate. Is there a therapy program for being overly judgmental?
I should preface this with some backstory. I had a really bad hook-up this summer. His pecs were very moobish, leading me to call him "Grandma Tits" behind his back. His breath was terrible too. When we kissed, it was insanely warm and sweet, like eating a lifesaver that was left under a radiator.
I discussed this incident with a friend of mine who takes delight in my "caustic sense of humor" as my Journalism professor put it. "Corey, it couldn't have been that bad. You're being kinda mean,"' he laughed.
"Hey, I could've told him to buy a bra and a package of breath mints, but I didn't!" I responded.
So, this past weekend, I was off from work. I justified it as a mental health vacation.
My mom called me while I was out Christmas shopping. My shiny, new Blackberry started blaring "TiK ToK" by Ke$ha, causing tweens all around me to dance and adults to groan. I answered the phone, "Hello," as people pushed past me, trying to knock my $300 worth of merchandise out of my arms.
"Coah, what are you doin'?" Lois asked.
"I'm Christmas shopping, what are you doing?"
"I'm at the BAAAAH." Translation: "BAAAAH" is Boston for "bar." "You should come down!"
"Will there be free food?"
"Yeah, Coah! Just come and visit!"
So I went down to the Chinese restaurant/bar and joined my mother and two aunts for a nice dinner. While waiting to be served General Gau's Chicken and "Orangey So-da," my mother noticed a fashion faux pas walk past our table.
Picture this: An older woman, in her 50s, severely overweight, wearing an athletic suit the average Phys. Ed. teacher wears. It did NOT flatter her figure.
Mommie Dearest chose that moment to announce, "Ohhh, no one loves her..."
"Mom!" I snapped. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw the fat woman's friend at their table open her mouth and gasp in horror.
"What, Coah? If someone loved her, they wouldn't let her go out of the house like that."
"Lois, you need to keep your voice down," my aunt Ginny chimed in.
"I could've pointed at her, but I didn't!" Lois justified herself.
My jaw dropped, much like the fat lady's frumpy-looking friend. Apparently our behaviors, as people, are innate. Is there a therapy program for being overly judgmental?
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Divine Intervention
One day at my job, I was faced with two very unhappy store guests. The night before, they had been kicked out of one of our other locations, due to the fact that the store was closing and they weren't buying anything. It wasn't done rudely, but these two very special people were offended that they were no longer able to loiter and not spend any money at 10 p.m.
My friend Katie and I found ourselves trying to talk the couple off a ledge.
"WE WERE SO UPSET THAT WE WERE KICKED OUT!" the husband said.
"Yeah," the wife chimed in, "we couldn't believe how rude they were."
I figured that their perceptions had to have been warped, due to the way these two presented themselves. I'm a firm believer in appearances making a statement about yourself. And the statement these two made was that they were crazy people.
The woman was wearing clashing purples on top and bottom, all made of polyester. She was shaped like a teapot: Short and stout. And she wouldn't stop talking out of her spout. Her hair was big and frizzy, like Marge's sisters from the Simpsons.
Her husband was a wreck, too. About 6' 3", he and his beer gut towered over me. He was wearing a bandanna to cover his greasy hair and his leather biker gear was just terrible.
They appreciated mine and Katie's kindness, however. "You guys have been so nice to us," said the man.
His wife added, "Katie, some day, you'll find a nice boy. And Corey, some day, you'll find a nice girl."
...What?
Okay, first of all, what made them think we were single? And second, had I opened my mouth at all during that conversation? Did they not see the purse fall out?
It wasn't exactly comforting to hear this from these two rejects. Even if I do find this "nice girl," where is "she?" Let's stop kidding ourselves: Where is he?
Maybe I shouldn't worry about it. Obviously, if these idiots found each other, I'm bound to find someone sooner or later, right? Someone who's not gonna lead me on, or someone who'll say things that'll make me feel special and actually mean them.
These people came back to the store a few weeks later. And they keep coming back, I assume, in order to haunt me. But this second time I encountered them, the wife and I had a conversation which creeps me out to this day:
"Hey, Corey, long time no see! How's life been?"
"Um, good," I replied, not knowing where this train of thought was going.
"Oh, that's great! My powers are working," the wife cheered.
My jaw dropped. "Um, excuse me? Your 'powers?'"
"Yeah, I used my magic powers on you! I made it so you'll only have good days 'cause you were so nice to us!"
"...'Powers?'"
"Yeah, I didn't tell you I had powers?"
"I think I'd remember if you had magic powers... That's not something you forget."
"Corey, I'm a medium... and a witch," she confessed.
This bitch cursed me, I'm sure of it. But I feel okay about it, 'cause her husband was hitting on my coworker 3 feet away.
"Do you like my Harley Davidson tattoo?" he asked. "It's still drying, and it'll only last for a week, but it's AWESOME."
My friend Katie and I found ourselves trying to talk the couple off a ledge.
"WE WERE SO UPSET THAT WE WERE KICKED OUT!" the husband said.
"Yeah," the wife chimed in, "we couldn't believe how rude they were."
I figured that their perceptions had to have been warped, due to the way these two presented themselves. I'm a firm believer in appearances making a statement about yourself. And the statement these two made was that they were crazy people.
The woman was wearing clashing purples on top and bottom, all made of polyester. She was shaped like a teapot: Short and stout. And she wouldn't stop talking out of her spout. Her hair was big and frizzy, like Marge's sisters from the Simpsons.
Her husband was a wreck, too. About 6' 3", he and his beer gut towered over me. He was wearing a bandanna to cover his greasy hair and his leather biker gear was just terrible.
They appreciated mine and Katie's kindness, however. "You guys have been so nice to us," said the man.
His wife added, "Katie, some day, you'll find a nice boy. And Corey, some day, you'll find a nice girl."
...What?
Okay, first of all, what made them think we were single? And second, had I opened my mouth at all during that conversation? Did they not see the purse fall out?
It wasn't exactly comforting to hear this from these two rejects. Even if I do find this "nice girl," where is "she?" Let's stop kidding ourselves: Where is he?
Maybe I shouldn't worry about it. Obviously, if these idiots found each other, I'm bound to find someone sooner or later, right? Someone who's not gonna lead me on, or someone who'll say things that'll make me feel special and actually mean them.
These people came back to the store a few weeks later. And they keep coming back, I assume, in order to haunt me. But this second time I encountered them, the wife and I had a conversation which creeps me out to this day:
"Hey, Corey, long time no see! How's life been?"
"Um, good," I replied, not knowing where this train of thought was going.
"Oh, that's great! My powers are working," the wife cheered.
My jaw dropped. "Um, excuse me? Your 'powers?'"
"Yeah, I used my magic powers on you! I made it so you'll only have good days 'cause you were so nice to us!"
"...'Powers?'"
"Yeah, I didn't tell you I had powers?"
"I think I'd remember if you had magic powers... That's not something you forget."
"Corey, I'm a medium... and a witch," she confessed.
This bitch cursed me, I'm sure of it. But I feel okay about it, 'cause her husband was hitting on my coworker 3 feet away.
"Do you like my Harley Davidson tattoo?" he asked. "It's still drying, and it'll only last for a week, but it's AWESOME."
Saturday, October 24, 2009
It's my party, and I'll be bitter if I want to.
Do you ever go out in public, see a couple, and just feel really crappy about your life?
I work with the public. A big part of my job, the most important part, according to my training, is greeting. I stand at the front door for an hour a day (at least), holding my beads and I say "Hi!" to people and smile. I field their questions, ease their concerns, and hopefully make their day a little better.
At least once a day, I'll put on my brave face, and people will see me dressed all in black and scoff. These people are often new couples buying furniture for their first house together, or old couples looking to spice up their living room. They'll be in their own little worlds and I'll judge what they're wearing.
Corey's fashion tip of the day: Jeans and jean jackets are not "in," nor will they ever be. Especially if the colors/wash clash.
I really appreciate it when couples DON'T make out in public. It's offensive to single people. And it takes a lot to offend me.
One day, I was doing my rounds up and down the front and back ends of the store, making sure everyone had been helped and all was well. I peered into the Mattress Department and found the entire Sales staff just staring at two teenagers making out on one of the mattresses in the far corner. Despite our training which repeatedly emphasized the "family-oriented" nature of our store, they were just gawking and laughing at these kids. They couldn't have been more than 17.
I walked over and said, "Soooo is anyone gonna do anything about this or do I have to?"
One of the salespeople cackled and said, "That's YOUR job!"
The Sales Manager approached, about to take care of it, but I wasn't about to let her have all the fun. This was my party to break up. I went over to the couple and coughed.
The girl looked at me, horrified. Her boyfriend looked pissed that I had cockblocked him.
"Excuse me," I said, "do you guys need help with anything over here? Can I get a salesperson for you? You look awfully comfortable on this mattress, and I thought you might like to buy it?"
"N-no," the girl stammered, "we're okay."
"Great!" I exclaimed. "Well, I'll be at the front of the store if you have any more questions about the store, but if you need help with any more mattresses, feel free to talk to those nice people in lab coats over there." And I walked away. The Sales staff just stared at me. But I could tell they were applauding me in their heads.
You can call me bitter, but in all fairness, we totally could've had them charged with committing lewd acts in public. I thought I saw a hand go into some pants.
My favorite instance of bad PDAs was in Dunkin' Donuts one day. It was about 2:30 in the afternoon, and my shift at work started at 3. I find it very tough to be nice to people anyway, but it's extremely difficult between the hours of 3 p.m. and 10 p.m. without my large iced coffee with extra cream and regular sugar.
I was waiting in line, when the nice Brazilian lady behind the counter yelled, "MAY I HELP YOU NEXT?" And I made my way over to obtain my liquid happy. I ordered my coffee and looked to my right when I saw a sight that I will never be able to un-see.
Two people, tongues down each other's throat. Ratty, frizzy, sun-fried gray hair on the woman, ratty, frizzy, gray moustache on the man. Also, he was bald.
They were wearing these tacky, navy blue raincoats, and they both had black boots on (which clashed TERRIBLY). The coats went down past their knees and they just weren't flattering. I recoiled in horror because of this social/fashion faux pas.
But it made me think:
I spend AT LEAST an hour getting ready every morning. I brush my teeth with whitening paste, give myself a fresh shave, trim my goatee and sideburns... Then I get into the shower and soap myself down from head to toe. At that point, I lather, rinse, and I DO repeat to wash out the excess hair product from yesterday. The shower ends and I get dressed (in color-coordinated clothes), apply deodorant, a fresh spritz of cologne, and style my hair just right. Then, and only then, may I leave the house to greet the day. And I still make it to class/work on time.
In this society, where they say looks are valued and everyone needs to be well-groomed, why am I single and these rejects mackin' it in Dunkin' Donuts?
Well, maybe it's because I'm not the type to meet someone who macks it in a Dunkin' Donuts. But still, it sucks.
I work with the public. A big part of my job, the most important part, according to my training, is greeting. I stand at the front door for an hour a day (at least), holding my beads and I say "Hi!" to people and smile. I field their questions, ease their concerns, and hopefully make their day a little better.
At least once a day, I'll put on my brave face, and people will see me dressed all in black and scoff. These people are often new couples buying furniture for their first house together, or old couples looking to spice up their living room. They'll be in their own little worlds and I'll judge what they're wearing.
Corey's fashion tip of the day: Jeans and jean jackets are not "in," nor will they ever be. Especially if the colors/wash clash.
I really appreciate it when couples DON'T make out in public. It's offensive to single people. And it takes a lot to offend me.
One day, I was doing my rounds up and down the front and back ends of the store, making sure everyone had been helped and all was well. I peered into the Mattress Department and found the entire Sales staff just staring at two teenagers making out on one of the mattresses in the far corner. Despite our training which repeatedly emphasized the "family-oriented" nature of our store, they were just gawking and laughing at these kids. They couldn't have been more than 17.
I walked over and said, "Soooo is anyone gonna do anything about this or do I have to?"
One of the salespeople cackled and said, "That's YOUR job!"
The Sales Manager approached, about to take care of it, but I wasn't about to let her have all the fun. This was my party to break up. I went over to the couple and coughed.
The girl looked at me, horrified. Her boyfriend looked pissed that I had cockblocked him.
"Excuse me," I said, "do you guys need help with anything over here? Can I get a salesperson for you? You look awfully comfortable on this mattress, and I thought you might like to buy it?"
"N-no," the girl stammered, "we're okay."
"Great!" I exclaimed. "Well, I'll be at the front of the store if you have any more questions about the store, but if you need help with any more mattresses, feel free to talk to those nice people in lab coats over there." And I walked away. The Sales staff just stared at me. But I could tell they were applauding me in their heads.
You can call me bitter, but in all fairness, we totally could've had them charged with committing lewd acts in public. I thought I saw a hand go into some pants.
My favorite instance of bad PDAs was in Dunkin' Donuts one day. It was about 2:30 in the afternoon, and my shift at work started at 3. I find it very tough to be nice to people anyway, but it's extremely difficult between the hours of 3 p.m. and 10 p.m. without my large iced coffee with extra cream and regular sugar.
I was waiting in line, when the nice Brazilian lady behind the counter yelled, "MAY I HELP YOU NEXT?" And I made my way over to obtain my liquid happy. I ordered my coffee and looked to my right when I saw a sight that I will never be able to un-see.
Two people, tongues down each other's throat. Ratty, frizzy, sun-fried gray hair on the woman, ratty, frizzy, gray moustache on the man. Also, he was bald.
They were wearing these tacky, navy blue raincoats, and they both had black boots on (which clashed TERRIBLY). The coats went down past their knees and they just weren't flattering. I recoiled in horror because of this social/fashion faux pas.
But it made me think:
I spend AT LEAST an hour getting ready every morning. I brush my teeth with whitening paste, give myself a fresh shave, trim my goatee and sideburns... Then I get into the shower and soap myself down from head to toe. At that point, I lather, rinse, and I DO repeat to wash out the excess hair product from yesterday. The shower ends and I get dressed (in color-coordinated clothes), apply deodorant, a fresh spritz of cologne, and style my hair just right. Then, and only then, may I leave the house to greet the day. And I still make it to class/work on time.
In this society, where they say looks are valued and everyone needs to be well-groomed, why am I single and these rejects mackin' it in Dunkin' Donuts?
Well, maybe it's because I'm not the type to meet someone who macks it in a Dunkin' Donuts. But still, it sucks.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Keeping up with the Saunderses
I grew up watching the news. Every morning, Mommie Dearest would watch the Channel 5 News while making sure that my little brothers and I got ready for school. I wouldn't say I was well-informed, because at 7 years old, "The impeachment hearings for President Clinton's alleged affair with a White House intern will go ahead as planned" doesn't mean a whole lot. I was more interested in the adventures of Thomas the Tank Engine, and the runaway Asian children on Pokemon.
Anyway, in this day and age, I feel like there's tons to keep up with. Especially with all the new media, anything and everything is news. I find it very tough to keep track of! For example, I've yet to memorize all of the key members of President Obama's cabinet. The day that President Obama was caught on tape calling Kanye West a jackass, the woman sitting behind him gave him a terrified look.
We discussed this in my Communications Seminar class.
"Did you see the look that chick gave Obama?!" I asked.
The professor looked at me, dumbfounded. "That chick?"
"Yeah, you know, the one who was sitting behind him!"
"You mean the Speaker of the House? 3rd in line for the Presidency?" he corrected me.
"Yeah, her! She hardcore judged him!"
I may not be articulate, but I make my point.
Anyway, I've been noticing that entertainment news and gossip are slowly but surely permeating the regular news. So not only do you get your daily dose of politics and crime, but you also get to keep up on which socialite is showing off her snatch this week.
Personally, I love celebrity news. It's interesting, and you can judge them without feeling bad. Win-win for the judgmental queer boy.
What cracks me up about it is how some people are so out of touch with the news. And how some people don't follow what's going on in the world, but they know exactly what the Kardashians are up to. Or they're so wrapped up in politics and crime, that all they can talk about is how hard the world is and can't talk about pop culture in a social situation.
Every Halloween at my job, the management staff lets the employees dress up in costume.
"Liam, I wanna go as Swine Flu!" I announced. In my head, the idea for the costume was perfect: It's a current issue in America, the idea and execution are hilarious (Pig ears, a breathing mask and a pink shirt), everyone will get a kick out of it!
"Corey," the boss said sternly, "you CAN'T be Swine Flu! What if someone came in the store who had been affected by it? What if one of their loved ones died?"
I really have no compassion for people who can't take a joke.
I went home that night, where Mommie Dearest and I discussed my costume conundrum. I mentioned that I had also pitched going as Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson. But my co-workers dismissed the idea as too esoteric.
"Coah," my mom started in, "that's insane! Some people are so out of touch with what's going on in the world! Like, there are people at work who don't watch the news. I don't get it! How can you not know who Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson are? They're in the news all the time!"
ummm.
Anyway, in this day and age, I feel like there's tons to keep up with. Especially with all the new media, anything and everything is news. I find it very tough to keep track of! For example, I've yet to memorize all of the key members of President Obama's cabinet. The day that President Obama was caught on tape calling Kanye West a jackass, the woman sitting behind him gave him a terrified look.
We discussed this in my Communications Seminar class.
"Did you see the look that chick gave Obama?!" I asked.
The professor looked at me, dumbfounded. "That chick?"
"Yeah, you know, the one who was sitting behind him!"
"You mean the Speaker of the House? 3rd in line for the Presidency?" he corrected me.
"Yeah, her! She hardcore judged him!"
I may not be articulate, but I make my point.
Anyway, I've been noticing that entertainment news and gossip are slowly but surely permeating the regular news. So not only do you get your daily dose of politics and crime, but you also get to keep up on which socialite is showing off her snatch this week.
Personally, I love celebrity news. It's interesting, and you can judge them without feeling bad. Win-win for the judgmental queer boy.
What cracks me up about it is how some people are so out of touch with the news. And how some people don't follow what's going on in the world, but they know exactly what the Kardashians are up to. Or they're so wrapped up in politics and crime, that all they can talk about is how hard the world is and can't talk about pop culture in a social situation.
Every Halloween at my job, the management staff lets the employees dress up in costume.
"Liam, I wanna go as Swine Flu!" I announced. In my head, the idea for the costume was perfect: It's a current issue in America, the idea and execution are hilarious (Pig ears, a breathing mask and a pink shirt), everyone will get a kick out of it!
"Corey," the boss said sternly, "you CAN'T be Swine Flu! What if someone came in the store who had been affected by it? What if one of their loved ones died?"
I really have no compassion for people who can't take a joke.
I went home that night, where Mommie Dearest and I discussed my costume conundrum. I mentioned that I had also pitched going as Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson. But my co-workers dismissed the idea as too esoteric.
"Coah," my mom started in, "that's insane! Some people are so out of touch with what's going on in the world! Like, there are people at work who don't watch the news. I don't get it! How can you not know who Lindsay Lohan and Samantha Ronson are? They're in the news all the time!"
ummm.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
When I Was Young...
My childhood was really weird, if you ask me.
I feel like I should have paid more attention to everything that was happening around me, and what I was doing, 'cause maybe I would have figured out I was gay sooner?
Transferring schools 3 times sucked. I never really knew anybody besides Tom till I was in Framingham for a few years. Of course, being the new kid didn't come without hazing...
"You sound like a girl."
"Are you a girl?"
Strike 1.
(Side note: I still get that sometimes. One time, leaving the movie theater I work at, a little kid asked me, "Are you a boy or a girl?" And his mother turned pale with embarrassment. It was pretty entertaining.)
One morning in the late summer, early fall, probably late September, my mother bought me a treat on the way to school. A whole bottle of Gatorade just for me to drink during the day. My 7-year old self was overjoyed with this reward. I was always good, I deserved something out of the deal.
I entered my classroom, sat and my desk, and the first thing I put on my desk was the bottle of sweet, red Gatorade.
2 of the cool kids walked by and asked, "Gatorade?!"
"What's wrong with Gatorade?" I quivered. "It's really yummy."
The boys cackled, "You have AIDS!"
Strike 2.
That night, I went home and asked my mom, "Mumma, what's AIDS? The kids at school said I have it."
Little did I know that mentioning anything negative that happened in school would set a dangerous precedent: My mother called the school to seek corrective action. The worst case of her haughty, get-shit-done attitude was during my senior year of high school:
"Mr. Devlen -
Why isn't my child in the TV yearbook picture?! He's very upset. I expect an apology.
Thank you,
Lois Saunders"
I was always kind of an attention whore, too. In 4th grade, a girl in my class died of pneumonia. I wasn't close with her, but she was always nice to me and told off the mean kids, so I liked her. My mom broke the news to me in my bedroom. "Coah," she started, "Nikki's motha just called the house. I guess they have a phone chain and now I have to call Tom's motha and tell her."
Lois was never the type to get involved with the school or do any extra work that she didn't get anything out of.
"Anyway, some little girl from ya school died last night in the hospital from pneumonia," she said with as much tact as possible. Read: None at all.
I was somewhat upset, but I was more upset when I heard the door handle jiggling. For some reason, the brainiacs who built our house put my bedroom door on backwards, so the lock was on the outside.
My little brother, who was 6, had locked us in.
"Oh, God damn it!" cursed my father. "He locked us in again! Coah you got a coathangah?"
When "some little girl," also known as Ashley, died, the local TV stations swarmed my elementary school. Taking preemptive action, the Principal of the school came on the PA with this to say:
"Students -
There are several TV crews outside wanting to talk about the unfortunate passing of Ashley _____ this week. Do not speak with them without parental permission. That is all. Have a good afternoon."
I thought, "Wow, what if the TV crews interviewed me?" I quickly came down on myself, realizing that, of all people, they wouldn't want to talk to me. I left school with a posse of a requisite 2 nerds who would always follow me around. Throughout my life, I've always been called a leader. But for some reason, it was never my target demographic that would follow me around and fight for my attention. Sad.
Descending the front steps, I noticed a reporter and a cameraman hovering around my Dad's black Kia Sephia, a car I affectionately referred to as his "shitbox."
"I'm gonna talk to them," I decided.
Nerd #1 immediately stepped in, "Corey, the Principal said you couldn't!"
"Talk to the hand," I told him. This was the cool thing to say in 1999, apparently. "He said we could talk to the news if our parents said it was okay."
"You're gonna get in trouble!" Nerd #2 chimed in.
"I don't care," I snapped, concentrated on how I could use a 9-year old's death to advance my own fame. I bid the nerds adieu and nonchalantly strolled past the reporter and got into my dad's car, where the windows were conveniently rolled down on a cold, winter's day.
The blonde chick with huge tits approached me and said, "Did you know Ashley?"
I looked into the front seat at my dad and asked, "Daddy, is it okay if I talk to the reporter?"
"Yeah, Coah, whatevah."
"I knew Ashley. She was really nice. I remember when I found out, I was in my room and my mommy told me! I was sad," I said. It wasn't the most ground-breaking soundbyte, but I was 9-years old! What did you expect?
That night, I appeared on the local news. And the next morning, at my grandmother's house, she and I had a conversation.
"I saw you on TV!" She told me. "You know, Corey, we both have the same sign. We're cancers, so we're both very vain and love attention."
Strike 3.
I'm out.
I feel like I should have paid more attention to everything that was happening around me, and what I was doing, 'cause maybe I would have figured out I was gay sooner?
Transferring schools 3 times sucked. I never really knew anybody besides Tom till I was in Framingham for a few years. Of course, being the new kid didn't come without hazing...
"You sound like a girl."
"Are you a girl?"
Strike 1.
(Side note: I still get that sometimes. One time, leaving the movie theater I work at, a little kid asked me, "Are you a boy or a girl?" And his mother turned pale with embarrassment. It was pretty entertaining.)
One morning in the late summer, early fall, probably late September, my mother bought me a treat on the way to school. A whole bottle of Gatorade just for me to drink during the day. My 7-year old self was overjoyed with this reward. I was always good, I deserved something out of the deal.
I entered my classroom, sat and my desk, and the first thing I put on my desk was the bottle of sweet, red Gatorade.
2 of the cool kids walked by and asked, "Gatorade?!"
"What's wrong with Gatorade?" I quivered. "It's really yummy."
The boys cackled, "You have AIDS!"
Strike 2.
That night, I went home and asked my mom, "Mumma, what's AIDS? The kids at school said I have it."
Little did I know that mentioning anything negative that happened in school would set a dangerous precedent: My mother called the school to seek corrective action. The worst case of her haughty, get-shit-done attitude was during my senior year of high school:
"Mr. Devlen -
Why isn't my child in the TV yearbook picture?! He's very upset. I expect an apology.
Thank you,
Lois Saunders"
I was always kind of an attention whore, too. In 4th grade, a girl in my class died of pneumonia. I wasn't close with her, but she was always nice to me and told off the mean kids, so I liked her. My mom broke the news to me in my bedroom. "Coah," she started, "Nikki's motha just called the house. I guess they have a phone chain and now I have to call Tom's motha and tell her."
Lois was never the type to get involved with the school or do any extra work that she didn't get anything out of.
"Anyway, some little girl from ya school died last night in the hospital from pneumonia," she said with as much tact as possible. Read: None at all.
I was somewhat upset, but I was more upset when I heard the door handle jiggling. For some reason, the brainiacs who built our house put my bedroom door on backwards, so the lock was on the outside.
My little brother, who was 6, had locked us in.
"Oh, God damn it!" cursed my father. "He locked us in again! Coah you got a coathangah?"
When "some little girl," also known as Ashley, died, the local TV stations swarmed my elementary school. Taking preemptive action, the Principal of the school came on the PA with this to say:
"Students -
There are several TV crews outside wanting to talk about the unfortunate passing of Ashley _____ this week. Do not speak with them without parental permission. That is all. Have a good afternoon."
I thought, "Wow, what if the TV crews interviewed me?" I quickly came down on myself, realizing that, of all people, they wouldn't want to talk to me. I left school with a posse of a requisite 2 nerds who would always follow me around. Throughout my life, I've always been called a leader. But for some reason, it was never my target demographic that would follow me around and fight for my attention. Sad.
Descending the front steps, I noticed a reporter and a cameraman hovering around my Dad's black Kia Sephia, a car I affectionately referred to as his "shitbox."
"I'm gonna talk to them," I decided.
Nerd #1 immediately stepped in, "Corey, the Principal said you couldn't!"
"Talk to the hand," I told him. This was the cool thing to say in 1999, apparently. "He said we could talk to the news if our parents said it was okay."
"You're gonna get in trouble!" Nerd #2 chimed in.
"I don't care," I snapped, concentrated on how I could use a 9-year old's death to advance my own fame. I bid the nerds adieu and nonchalantly strolled past the reporter and got into my dad's car, where the windows were conveniently rolled down on a cold, winter's day.
The blonde chick with huge tits approached me and said, "Did you know Ashley?"
I looked into the front seat at my dad and asked, "Daddy, is it okay if I talk to the reporter?"
"Yeah, Coah, whatevah."
"I knew Ashley. She was really nice. I remember when I found out, I was in my room and my mommy told me! I was sad," I said. It wasn't the most ground-breaking soundbyte, but I was 9-years old! What did you expect?
That night, I appeared on the local news. And the next morning, at my grandmother's house, she and I had a conversation.
"I saw you on TV!" She told me. "You know, Corey, we both have the same sign. We're cancers, so we're both very vain and love attention."
Strike 3.
I'm out.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Therapy.
Yesterday, I went to the beach with Jess. I was really excited to see her, we had a lot to catch up on. The plan was to meet at Nantasket beach. It's about equidistant from each of our houses and a good meeting spot. The weather was beautiful: Warm, no humidity. A bit cloudy, but not bad at all.
There's this one spot, near all the beach houses, that Jess says she likes to go to in order to think. You get this great view of the Boston skyline from this one specific spot. We sat on the rocks for a while, just talking about our lives. School, our love lives, our problems. Then we started throwing rocks into the ocean, 'cause we could. It was fun to see the ripples in the water, and who could throw the furthest. It kinda brought us back to being kids for a minute. But the present didn't elude us for long. Eventually, we attached a person, an issue, or an idea that bugged us to each rock. And each rock crashed against a bigger rock and shattered.
If only it were that easy. It felt good, though.
There's this one spot, near all the beach houses, that Jess says she likes to go to in order to think. You get this great view of the Boston skyline from this one specific spot. We sat on the rocks for a while, just talking about our lives. School, our love lives, our problems. Then we started throwing rocks into the ocean, 'cause we could. It was fun to see the ripples in the water, and who could throw the furthest. It kinda brought us back to being kids for a minute. But the present didn't elude us for long. Eventually, we attached a person, an issue, or an idea that bugged us to each rock. And each rock crashed against a bigger rock and shattered.
If only it were that easy. It felt good, though.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Technology and My Family...
I love having a personal cell phone. It makes my life easier in many ways. I can contact anyone, anywhere, at any time, and I can even go on Facebook when I'm away from my computer! Granted, that last one might become kind of an issue... I'm not saying I have an addiction, but maybe that's not the healthiest use for my phone. "What's happened on Facebook in the past 5 minutes?! A boy's gotta know!"
One crisp, Wednesday afternoon in September, my phone rang. It was 12:30 in the afternoon, and Mommie Dearest was home from work for her lunch hour. The caller ID read: "Mom."
All that went through my head was, "She couldn't have just come down the stairs to talk to me?" We live in a very lazy time.
"Coah," she addressed me in her thick, Boston accent, "come upstairs for a minute!"
So I did.
"What is it, Mum?"
"Coah! Have you been watching the news?"
"...No," I responded, having been holed up in my room for the past two hours writing a long, film studies paper which made me want to pull my hair out. I didn't care about the themes in this particular foreign love story, but I had to make myself care. And really, I just had no tolerance for people bitching about their love lives at that point in my life. Being perpetually single at 19-years old leaves someone... bitter, let's put it that way.
My mother then proceeded to tell me that the local news stations were reporting a homicidal maniac loose on our side of town, about a mile and a half away. Apparently, he had come home at 5 a.m. that day, drunk, and raving about how he wanted to die, but not by his own hand. He preferred that the Cops take care of the job. "Death by Cops," he said he wanted. His wife reported that he had staggered away from the house with a knife and didn't know where he went.
The schools in the north side of town responded by locking all the doors and windows, and keeping the students in their classrooms until parents came to pick them up.
"Lois, where are you going?" my Dad asked.
She looked at me and my father, with a determined look on her face. "I'm going to go pick up the kids! Coah, I locked all the doors, I took the hider keys out of their hiding places, and the dog is with your uncle! No one in or out of the house, do you understand me?!"
I just kind of stared blankly and nodded my head. "Bye, Mom."
She left in a hurry.
A short while later, she returned with my littlest brother, Devin, who was 12 at the time. "I'm going to go get Jonathan! I'll be back!" she announced dramatically as if she were Arnold Schwarzenegger in "The Terminator."
This is when my uncle emerges from the other side of the house and decides that he needs to take matters into his own hands. He needs to protect the household, and OBVIOUSLY the Police can't do it like he can.
"ED!" he screams at my father from right outside my bedroom door. "ED! Do you know how to load Devin's pellet gun?"
"No," Dad responded.
"Oh. Well, if that guy comes into our yard, I wanna shoot him RIGHT IN THE EYE."
He waddled back to his side of the house to arm himself for an assault on the drunken, suicidal maniac who, I must reiterate, was last seen almost two miles away from our house. I thought for a while how plausible his thinking was, that this guy would just happen to show up at our house. Not only was distance a factor, but we live on a dead end street. What would possess this crazy man to just happen down our quiet street and wreak havoc? Pretty unlikely if you ask me.
My uncle and Devin decided that they were going to stake out our front yard in lawn chairs with pellet guns. Reminder: We don't live on a main street.
This went on for an hour, until they determined that this stake out wouldn't be fruitful. So they checked the woods behind the High School near our house. Which is even further away from the suicidal maniac's house. Needless to say, they didn't encounter him there, either.
Meanwhile, Lois drove across the street to the high school to pick up my other brother, the 16-year old. But he wasn't at school. Mommie Dearest had a meltdown. "Where'd he go?!" she came home asking, panicked. Mid-freak out, Jon came through the door, unscathed.
"Jonathan, where were you?!" Mom asked.
"I snuck out of school," he replied.
"WHY?! THERE'S A KILLER OUT THERE!"
"'Cause I'm a G!"
Mind you, my brother is 5'10", skinny, and white.
Back to my uncle's Search Party: They disbanded and came home a while later, around 5:00 p.m. We turned on the news in the living room, which declared that the perpetrator had been located the next street over from his house.
Sadly, this is how my family operates. And I was the only one in the house who felt that my mother's, my uncle's, and my brothers' behavior was abnormal.
One crisp, Wednesday afternoon in September, my phone rang. It was 12:30 in the afternoon, and Mommie Dearest was home from work for her lunch hour. The caller ID read: "Mom."
All that went through my head was, "She couldn't have just come down the stairs to talk to me?" We live in a very lazy time.
"Coah," she addressed me in her thick, Boston accent, "come upstairs for a minute!"
So I did.
"What is it, Mum?"
"Coah! Have you been watching the news?"
"...No," I responded, having been holed up in my room for the past two hours writing a long, film studies paper which made me want to pull my hair out. I didn't care about the themes in this particular foreign love story, but I had to make myself care. And really, I just had no tolerance for people bitching about their love lives at that point in my life. Being perpetually single at 19-years old leaves someone... bitter, let's put it that way.
My mother then proceeded to tell me that the local news stations were reporting a homicidal maniac loose on our side of town, about a mile and a half away. Apparently, he had come home at 5 a.m. that day, drunk, and raving about how he wanted to die, but not by his own hand. He preferred that the Cops take care of the job. "Death by Cops," he said he wanted. His wife reported that he had staggered away from the house with a knife and didn't know where he went.
The schools in the north side of town responded by locking all the doors and windows, and keeping the students in their classrooms until parents came to pick them up.
"Lois, where are you going?" my Dad asked.
She looked at me and my father, with a determined look on her face. "I'm going to go pick up the kids! Coah, I locked all the doors, I took the hider keys out of their hiding places, and the dog is with your uncle! No one in or out of the house, do you understand me?!"
I just kind of stared blankly and nodded my head. "Bye, Mom."
She left in a hurry.
A short while later, she returned with my littlest brother, Devin, who was 12 at the time. "I'm going to go get Jonathan! I'll be back!" she announced dramatically as if she were Arnold Schwarzenegger in "The Terminator."
This is when my uncle emerges from the other side of the house and decides that he needs to take matters into his own hands. He needs to protect the household, and OBVIOUSLY the Police can't do it like he can.
"ED!" he screams at my father from right outside my bedroom door. "ED! Do you know how to load Devin's pellet gun?"
"No," Dad responded.
"Oh. Well, if that guy comes into our yard, I wanna shoot him RIGHT IN THE EYE."
He waddled back to his side of the house to arm himself for an assault on the drunken, suicidal maniac who, I must reiterate, was last seen almost two miles away from our house. I thought for a while how plausible his thinking was, that this guy would just happen to show up at our house. Not only was distance a factor, but we live on a dead end street. What would possess this crazy man to just happen down our quiet street and wreak havoc? Pretty unlikely if you ask me.
My uncle and Devin decided that they were going to stake out our front yard in lawn chairs with pellet guns. Reminder: We don't live on a main street.
This went on for an hour, until they determined that this stake out wouldn't be fruitful. So they checked the woods behind the High School near our house. Which is even further away from the suicidal maniac's house. Needless to say, they didn't encounter him there, either.
Meanwhile, Lois drove across the street to the high school to pick up my other brother, the 16-year old. But he wasn't at school. Mommie Dearest had a meltdown. "Where'd he go?!" she came home asking, panicked. Mid-freak out, Jon came through the door, unscathed.
"Jonathan, where were you?!" Mom asked.
"I snuck out of school," he replied.
"WHY?! THERE'S A KILLER OUT THERE!"
"'Cause I'm a G!"
Mind you, my brother is 5'10", skinny, and white.
Back to my uncle's Search Party: They disbanded and came home a while later, around 5:00 p.m. We turned on the news in the living room, which declared that the perpetrator had been located the next street over from his house.
Sadly, this is how my family operates. And I was the only one in the house who felt that my mother's, my uncle's, and my brothers' behavior was abnormal.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Peer Pressure Isn't Pretty
In high school, I was never one of the popular kids. I had my friends, and I was cool with everyone, but I never got to go to the big parties at the big houses where the parents are never home and the alcohol supply is seemingly never ending. My Prom was kinda lame, I never had a boyfriend. It wasn't the high school experience that you see in all the teen movies. Molly Ringwald can suck it.
College rolled around and I made a new group of friends. Not necessarily kids from college, but the group changed just the same. I had a long-lost friend come to live with me during the 2nd semester of my freshman year. It was kinda like having the college experience... only in my own house. But little did I know, it created way more drama than I knew what to do with. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. But hindsight is 20/20.
He was dating my best friend, which complicated the relationship anyway. But somehow, this twosome, in which I was the third-wheel, worked out for a while.
My family took a trip to Puerto Rico that summer. The drinking age in Puerto Rico, for those who don't know, is 18. I had recently come of age, and my mother decided that due to the fact that my father would not put up with her drunken antics, I would be her drinking buddy. It was kind of like being in a bar and having a guy buy you drink after drink, after drink 'cause he thinks you're cute... Except it was my mom.
Mommie Dearest's favorite part of this trip was the venture to the Duty Free store in the San Juan Airport on the way home. It took some searching to find this haven of cheap alcohol. She approached the cashiers at the first conveinience store in the Airport and asked, "Where's your alcohol? Alcohol? ALCOHOL! Al-Co-Hol." It was then my mother decided that she would consult me, a proficient speaker of the Spanish language, in finding her one true love: Bacardi. "COREY! How do you say 'alcohol' in Spanish?"
"Mom," I said, "it's the same word, only it's pronounced differently..."
The pretty cashier looked at us with disgust in her eyes, pointed, and said, IN ENGLISH, that it was down the hall.
We came upon the store and I took advantage of this opportunity and stocked up on Puerto Rican Rum. Surely this 18-year old with a free pass to buy as much alcohol as he desired was hot shit, and the biggest partier the town of Framingham has ever known. The cashier didn't card me, which I was a bit upset about, but decided that my manly, one day's worth of stubble lead her to believe I was much older than I was.
With booze in my possession, it was time to find the appropriate friends with which to consume it. Obviously, my roommate and my best friend were the perfect choice, right?
I was so wrong.
I didn't know that they had been fighting. Nor did I know that when Maria consumed 5 shots, she started hallucinating and spouting gibberish. My roommate, not one to put up with his girlfriend's foolishness, stormed out of the house into the warm, summer night. Mind you, it was 8:30 pm on a Sunday night, and there were still traces of daylight in the crazy suburb I call home. The roommate made his way to the woods behind the nearby High School. This caused me a bit of a panic.
Maria then insisted we go hunt down her runaway boyfriend, due to the fact that he went to the woods in order to "fight the Dragon of Narnia" and that we needed to "go to Narnia to save him."
After chasing my intoxicated partner in crime, we encountered my little brothers and their friends at the nearby playground. "You guys are drunk," they laughed. Of course the children had to get involved. Which, I feared, would mean involving my father (who wouldn't care) and my mother (who I affectionately address as "Mommie Dearest..." for good reason).
But now was not the time to worry. Not only did I have an 18-year old acting like a 4-year old on my hands, but I was on my way to try to reign in an 18-year old who was so strong, he could lift me over his head... and I outweighed him. Luckily, I had the powers of intelligence and persuasion on my side.
"Anthony, if you come home, I'll buy you cigarettes!"
This was all the Incredible Hulk needed to hear. He more than willingly followed me back to the house. He walked behind me, as I dragged his girlfriend across the paved parking lot. But he hadn't wreaked his fair share of havoc. His quota still hadn't been met at this point, so he decided to start jumping on the cars in the neighborhood. Loud, metallic crunching noises were heard throughout the cul de sac.
"STOP THAT!" I screamed at him. I had visions of police lights surrounding the three of us. Being the only half-sober one in the group, I debated leaving their asses behind and hiding in the comfort of my own home.
"No, Officer, I don't know anything about those dented cars," I'd say, not slurring a single word. "You might try the middle-aged, married couple across the street. That fat Asian guy and the wrinkly lady who obviously dyes her hair are always causing trouble." And with that, I'd be off the hook!
No such luck. I stuck with my friends. In retrospect, it seems that I had become their babysitter. I should have negotiated a better hourly rate than $0.00/hr.
One of the neighbors, who was our age, peeked out her window and screamed at Anthony, "STOP DOING THAT!"
"You stop doing THAT," he snapped back.
Our neighbor's retort was my favorite part of the evening, however: "YOU'RE STUPID."
I decided that I had had enough of these shenanigans. I brought Maria back home, only to have her insist that she slept inside of the trunk of her car. Not the reaction I was looking for, but I managed to get her back to my bedroom, into safety. Until Anthony decided he was going to run away once more.
Being sober at this point, I needed to fix the situation. I jumped into my gold, Mustang convertible, affectionately nicknamed, "The Fagmobile," and Maria and I were on the hunt for her beloved Neanderthal. We found him down the road, headed toward the Stop and Shop. To this day, we're not sure why. Maybe he was hungry? But it was 2am. The place would be closed. I never thought it would be a good idea to feed him after midnight, anyway. God forbid "Gremlins 4" ever took place in my household. Mommie Dearest would flip her shit.
The best friend decided at this point, she needed help trying to make her behavior up to her boyfriend. The next thing I know, she pulls her phone out, and I have Brittany calling my phone, and Barbara calling Maria's phone. Both girls at the same party. But Maria couldn't be bothered to talk to her friends, so I wound up listening to both girls telling me how to talk Anthony off of a proverbial ledge at once.
"GET HIM IN THE CAR, COREY!"
"Tell him you have something for him!"
"Just get him in the car and drop him off at home!"
"Wait, why are you at Stop and Shop? Is he hungry?"
Eventually, we got him into the backseat of the Mustang and drove him to his hometown, one town over from mine. But before we could make it to his street, the Bickersons decided that they would fight over each other's behavior and how annoying they each are one more time. Anthony stormed out of the car, and so did Maria. I wanted no part in this argument, so I parked in a nearby parking lot between two cars that were left there overnight and watched the spectacle from afar.
This goes on for a while, when I see Police lights.
Shit.
He pulled in perpendicular to the back of my car, so I couldn't pull out. I produced my license and registration. I knew the standard operating procedure, having been pulled over many times before: Speeding, blowing a stop sign, forgetting to turn my headlights on at 10:30 p.m....
I rolled down the window before the Cop could knock on it. "Are you with these two?" he asked.
"Unfortunately," I joked, hoping that he'd understand that I had no involvement in this matter, nor did I WANT to be involved. I was merely the chauffeur.
He approached the two nut jobs that I call "my friends," broke up the fight, and escorted them back to my car. "Get in," he commanded.
"JEEZ, why you gotta be an asshole?" Anthony snapped at the Officer.
"Because you're disturbing the peace," he responded. "And if you don't stop, I'll take you into custody."
The Cop waited to make sure they had both entered the car safely, then drove away. Obviously, there was a higher power watching over me that night which prevented any legal action/being arrested.
Tired of the night's drama, we dropped Anthony at his father's house, and Maria and I drove back to my house so she could retrieve her car. We sat there in silence, driving through downtown with the top of the convertible down, relieved that it was all over.
"I'm really sorry about how I acted, Corey," Maria said.
I was about to answer, when we entered the not-so-nice part of town where a well-known gang was said to hang out. A gunshot rang out and all we could hear was, "BITCH, I KNOW YOU WAS NOT SEEIN' MAH MAN BEHIND MAH BACK. HELLLL NAW."
Sometimes, I really wonder if there are hidden cameras all over the place, and if I'm on a reality show. I imagine that it plays on the channels that my parents won't get a cable subscription to because they cost too much money. And that the real reason they won't spend the money is so I don't find out about it. Because a normal teenager should not have to deal with this stuff.
College rolled around and I made a new group of friends. Not necessarily kids from college, but the group changed just the same. I had a long-lost friend come to live with me during the 2nd semester of my freshman year. It was kinda like having the college experience... only in my own house. But little did I know, it created way more drama than I knew what to do with. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. But hindsight is 20/20.
He was dating my best friend, which complicated the relationship anyway. But somehow, this twosome, in which I was the third-wheel, worked out for a while.
My family took a trip to Puerto Rico that summer. The drinking age in Puerto Rico, for those who don't know, is 18. I had recently come of age, and my mother decided that due to the fact that my father would not put up with her drunken antics, I would be her drinking buddy. It was kind of like being in a bar and having a guy buy you drink after drink, after drink 'cause he thinks you're cute... Except it was my mom.
Mommie Dearest's favorite part of this trip was the venture to the Duty Free store in the San Juan Airport on the way home. It took some searching to find this haven of cheap alcohol. She approached the cashiers at the first conveinience store in the Airport and asked, "Where's your alcohol? Alcohol? ALCOHOL! Al-Co-Hol." It was then my mother decided that she would consult me, a proficient speaker of the Spanish language, in finding her one true love: Bacardi. "COREY! How do you say 'alcohol' in Spanish?"
"Mom," I said, "it's the same word, only it's pronounced differently..."
The pretty cashier looked at us with disgust in her eyes, pointed, and said, IN ENGLISH, that it was down the hall.
We came upon the store and I took advantage of this opportunity and stocked up on Puerto Rican Rum. Surely this 18-year old with a free pass to buy as much alcohol as he desired was hot shit, and the biggest partier the town of Framingham has ever known. The cashier didn't card me, which I was a bit upset about, but decided that my manly, one day's worth of stubble lead her to believe I was much older than I was.
With booze in my possession, it was time to find the appropriate friends with which to consume it. Obviously, my roommate and my best friend were the perfect choice, right?
I was so wrong.
I didn't know that they had been fighting. Nor did I know that when Maria consumed 5 shots, she started hallucinating and spouting gibberish. My roommate, not one to put up with his girlfriend's foolishness, stormed out of the house into the warm, summer night. Mind you, it was 8:30 pm on a Sunday night, and there were still traces of daylight in the crazy suburb I call home. The roommate made his way to the woods behind the nearby High School. This caused me a bit of a panic.
Maria then insisted we go hunt down her runaway boyfriend, due to the fact that he went to the woods in order to "fight the Dragon of Narnia" and that we needed to "go to Narnia to save him."
After chasing my intoxicated partner in crime, we encountered my little brothers and their friends at the nearby playground. "You guys are drunk," they laughed. Of course the children had to get involved. Which, I feared, would mean involving my father (who wouldn't care) and my mother (who I affectionately address as "Mommie Dearest..." for good reason).
But now was not the time to worry. Not only did I have an 18-year old acting like a 4-year old on my hands, but I was on my way to try to reign in an 18-year old who was so strong, he could lift me over his head... and I outweighed him. Luckily, I had the powers of intelligence and persuasion on my side.
"Anthony, if you come home, I'll buy you cigarettes!"
This was all the Incredible Hulk needed to hear. He more than willingly followed me back to the house. He walked behind me, as I dragged his girlfriend across the paved parking lot. But he hadn't wreaked his fair share of havoc. His quota still hadn't been met at this point, so he decided to start jumping on the cars in the neighborhood. Loud, metallic crunching noises were heard throughout the cul de sac.
"STOP THAT!" I screamed at him. I had visions of police lights surrounding the three of us. Being the only half-sober one in the group, I debated leaving their asses behind and hiding in the comfort of my own home.
"No, Officer, I don't know anything about those dented cars," I'd say, not slurring a single word. "You might try the middle-aged, married couple across the street. That fat Asian guy and the wrinkly lady who obviously dyes her hair are always causing trouble." And with that, I'd be off the hook!
No such luck. I stuck with my friends. In retrospect, it seems that I had become their babysitter. I should have negotiated a better hourly rate than $0.00/hr.
One of the neighbors, who was our age, peeked out her window and screamed at Anthony, "STOP DOING THAT!"
"You stop doing THAT," he snapped back.
Our neighbor's retort was my favorite part of the evening, however: "YOU'RE STUPID."
I decided that I had had enough of these shenanigans. I brought Maria back home, only to have her insist that she slept inside of the trunk of her car. Not the reaction I was looking for, but I managed to get her back to my bedroom, into safety. Until Anthony decided he was going to run away once more.
Being sober at this point, I needed to fix the situation. I jumped into my gold, Mustang convertible, affectionately nicknamed, "The Fagmobile," and Maria and I were on the hunt for her beloved Neanderthal. We found him down the road, headed toward the Stop and Shop. To this day, we're not sure why. Maybe he was hungry? But it was 2am. The place would be closed. I never thought it would be a good idea to feed him after midnight, anyway. God forbid "Gremlins 4" ever took place in my household. Mommie Dearest would flip her shit.
The best friend decided at this point, she needed help trying to make her behavior up to her boyfriend. The next thing I know, she pulls her phone out, and I have Brittany calling my phone, and Barbara calling Maria's phone. Both girls at the same party. But Maria couldn't be bothered to talk to her friends, so I wound up listening to both girls telling me how to talk Anthony off of a proverbial ledge at once.
"GET HIM IN THE CAR, COREY!"
"Tell him you have something for him!"
"Just get him in the car and drop him off at home!"
"Wait, why are you at Stop and Shop? Is he hungry?"
Eventually, we got him into the backseat of the Mustang and drove him to his hometown, one town over from mine. But before we could make it to his street, the Bickersons decided that they would fight over each other's behavior and how annoying they each are one more time. Anthony stormed out of the car, and so did Maria. I wanted no part in this argument, so I parked in a nearby parking lot between two cars that were left there overnight and watched the spectacle from afar.
This goes on for a while, when I see Police lights.
Shit.
He pulled in perpendicular to the back of my car, so I couldn't pull out. I produced my license and registration. I knew the standard operating procedure, having been pulled over many times before: Speeding, blowing a stop sign, forgetting to turn my headlights on at 10:30 p.m....
I rolled down the window before the Cop could knock on it. "Are you with these two?" he asked.
"Unfortunately," I joked, hoping that he'd understand that I had no involvement in this matter, nor did I WANT to be involved. I was merely the chauffeur.
He approached the two nut jobs that I call "my friends," broke up the fight, and escorted them back to my car. "Get in," he commanded.
"JEEZ, why you gotta be an asshole?" Anthony snapped at the Officer.
"Because you're disturbing the peace," he responded. "And if you don't stop, I'll take you into custody."
The Cop waited to make sure they had both entered the car safely, then drove away. Obviously, there was a higher power watching over me that night which prevented any legal action/being arrested.
Tired of the night's drama, we dropped Anthony at his father's house, and Maria and I drove back to my house so she could retrieve her car. We sat there in silence, driving through downtown with the top of the convertible down, relieved that it was all over.
"I'm really sorry about how I acted, Corey," Maria said.
I was about to answer, when we entered the not-so-nice part of town where a well-known gang was said to hang out. A gunshot rang out and all we could hear was, "BITCH, I KNOW YOU WAS NOT SEEIN' MAH MAN BEHIND MAH BACK. HELLLL NAW."
Sometimes, I really wonder if there are hidden cameras all over the place, and if I'm on a reality show. I imagine that it plays on the channels that my parents won't get a cable subscription to because they cost too much money. And that the real reason they won't spend the money is so I don't find out about it. Because a normal teenager should not have to deal with this stuff.
Monday, June 22, 2009
You know you're a film major when...
...you compare your life to a movie whenever possible. But when you think about it, most movies tell the story of a day in the life of the main character.
I guess you could say I'm the main character here (Or, at least, that's what I tell myself every day). You need to have the best friend to get into trouble with and pick you up when you're down (Maria), the smart friend with the good advice (Joanne), and a supporting cast of the bests (Jess, Tom, Nikki, Steph, Krista, Sarah and Ellis).
There's never a dull moment. Yesterday, on my way to work, I stopped in to Dunkin' Donuts before my shift, like I do every day before work. Being Father's Day, I was feeling extra nice, and I walked out of Dunkin's with a tray of my coffee, my dad's coffee, my breakfast, and a gift card for Dad. I approached the door and there was a man on the other side. Young, he wasn't dressed all that great, but he seemed nice enough when he opened the door for me and said, "Here you go."
Appreciative of this gesture, I smiled and thanked the nice man. Then I stepped out of the door and my flip-flop slipped on the wet cement. I almost went down and lost the coffee, but I managed to catch myself. While all this was happening, this stranger reached out for me to try and break my fall. Another nice gesture. Embarassed, I looked down at the ground, avoiding his gaze.
"Are you okay?" he asked me.
"Yeah, thanks," I smiled sheepishly.
"You know, I would have caught you," he said.
Obviously, there's a higher power out there that thinks I'm Renee Zellweger and I need to be saved by a man in some cliche chick flick scenario. Translation: You're single.
Thanks, Jesus/Buddha/Allah/Mohammed/Yahweh. 'Preciate it.
This movie sucks.
I guess you could say I'm the main character here (Or, at least, that's what I tell myself every day). You need to have the best friend to get into trouble with and pick you up when you're down (Maria), the smart friend with the good advice (Joanne), and a supporting cast of the bests (Jess, Tom, Nikki, Steph, Krista, Sarah and Ellis).
There's never a dull moment. Yesterday, on my way to work, I stopped in to Dunkin' Donuts before my shift, like I do every day before work. Being Father's Day, I was feeling extra nice, and I walked out of Dunkin's with a tray of my coffee, my dad's coffee, my breakfast, and a gift card for Dad. I approached the door and there was a man on the other side. Young, he wasn't dressed all that great, but he seemed nice enough when he opened the door for me and said, "Here you go."
Appreciative of this gesture, I smiled and thanked the nice man. Then I stepped out of the door and my flip-flop slipped on the wet cement. I almost went down and lost the coffee, but I managed to catch myself. While all this was happening, this stranger reached out for me to try and break my fall. Another nice gesture. Embarassed, I looked down at the ground, avoiding his gaze.
"Are you okay?" he asked me.
"Yeah, thanks," I smiled sheepishly.
"You know, I would have caught you," he said.
Obviously, there's a higher power out there that thinks I'm Renee Zellweger and I need to be saved by a man in some cliche chick flick scenario. Translation: You're single.
Thanks, Jesus/Buddha/Allah/Mohammed/Yahweh. 'Preciate it.
This movie sucks.
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