Ain't no ___________ high enough

The guy high on (drugs, life, you choose) sitting across from me on the Orange line (where else?) was singing about Jesus during my morning commute. And the more the train emptied out, the louder his vocals became. Unfortunately, I couldn't make out any lyrics other than, “I CAN MOVE A MOUNTAIN.” (Note: He was referring to himself at this point and not Jesus. I know this because he was patting himself vigorously on the chest). I tried my best to suppress a giggle but of course, failed. Failed because A) I was nervous, and B) he was getting off at my stop and was ready to move that mountain.

Saucy lips

As if lip locking with a British rose seller didn't raise enough street corner skepticism, I seemed to have glossed over the incident with the non-Italian busboy at NYC’s Little Italy’s, De Gennaro. (By the way, is it still open, Erin Leigh Schmoyer? And did I get the name right? De Gennaro? San Gennaro? In any case, thanks for introducing me to all the fun.)

Said place has/had great food and apparently, phenomenal wine. It must be true because the bus-boy-turned-tour-guide, led me by the hand to the kitchen where I was entranced by vats of pasta and could try the meat-ah-balls! But naturally, next thing you know, I'm making out with him. Did it happen in the kitchen or by the dessert case? It all gets fuzzy...

Pull it together, Caroline. Have a cannoli instead. What was my deal?

Answer: College and Chianti.

He thought I pulled a Winona

A few years ago I visited a good friend in San Diego (I’ll be a bridesmaid in her wedding next summer, what what!) and we stopped at a beach shop that sold, to no surprise, bathing suits, towels, etc. The figure running the place at the time was a 15-year-old freckle face kid. My friend and I had stopped in so I could use the shop’s dressing room to change into my bathing suit. (I forget why I wasn’t wearing it in the first place. Fail.) When I asked the 15-year-old freckle face kid if changing was OK, he muttered, “Yeah, no problem,” as if I were a turd.

A mere 10 seconds later I was wildly accused of shoplifting. Or more accurately, “jacking some shit.”

Here’s the exchange that followed my exit of the dressing room.

“Um I know you just jacked some shit.” – Punkass Mutant

“Excuse me?” - Me

“Dude, just empty your bag and hand over whatever you just jacked.” – Punkass Mutant

“Jacked?” - Me

(Prepubescent sigh of the century) “Stole! Fuckin’ jacked! I’ll like, call the police.” – Punkass Mutant

“Um, I asked you if I could change into my bathing suit. And you said, “No problem.” - Me

“Whatever. I still think you were trying to jack some shit.” – Punkass Mutant

I then emptied my bag to show the little jack-shit, jack-off, jerk-off that I indeed, “jacked” nothing.

Eminem had to start somewhere too.

I plopped down (unbeknownst) to a Smirnoff sipping, sweatpants swaggering, aspirational rapper on the Orange line the other day. His arc of rapping gestures nearly took my face off, but I kept my mouth shut in fear of the glass bottle he was swigging. When he caught my eye, all I could do was nod in agreement to the blasting lyrics of Nas.

Pudgie gets a pedi

In her attempt to compliment me, the pedicurist told me I looked better with a little more weight on. Um, American women don't want to hear this. Even in broken English, it's still hard to forgive. And I think I look the same sans a week of dining in the North End. Anywho, the conversation went something like this:

"Oh my Gahh... you look gooo.... little moh weight.... So skinny befoh...." - Lucy

Ha ha! "You mean to say I'm fat, now?" - Me

"No, no! Just a little mooh. So skinny befoh! Look gooo now..." - Lucy (you're skating on thin ice, Lucy)

"No tip for you!" (I thought this, didn't say it, and still tipped her, because I'm a nice person.)

:-(

West Nile

I ran out today to pick up a piece of fruit and rather, I found myself standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring down at my feet. I was oblivious to what I was doing or how long I had been standing there until a man approached me in a suit and asked me twice if I was ok. I think it took two times to break from my reverie.

Without thinking, I loudly blurted out, “Yeah, I’m just covered in mosquito bites!!!” He paused and stared at me, confusedly and rightfully so. “Um, ok,” he replied as if I had Asperger's.

But it's true. I was staring at 10-12 fresh mosquito bites painting my ankles and feet. Where? How? When? Why? Ahhh! They itched like hell. Enough to raise public concern on the sidewalk. And to leave me embarrassed, confused and blood-sucked.

Lonely Leslie

Saturday was a beach day. A beautiful beach day. My Mom and I were blissfully reading our books in the hot sun when the woman under the umbrella near us proposed question #1 out of 1,546. She wanted to know if we preferred spray lotion to cream. Fair enough. But this simple question & answer turned out to be nothing more than a thinly veiled segue way to learning all about her daughter moving to Raleigh, her psycho ex-boyfriend and the growing concern of where to find a Costco.

Even with my nose planted firmly in my book and a sudden feigned interest in the clump of seaweed at my feet, I remained a fixed target of her questioning. She wanted to know our family's story. And possibly if we had room and board. It may sound unsympathetic of me to speak this way of um, a stranger, but like I said, it was a BEAUTIFUL beach day. And this lady interfered. Over-shared. And talked about Pier One.

Again, weird shit happens to me. My Mom and I were sitting quietly. Books in hand. Minding our own biz. And still, she clung on. Like the seaweed to my foot.

Scrotum

Nothing quite wakes you up on your morning commute than getting stuck behind a dangly ball sack. The black SUV driving ahead of me (it never fucking turned) had a sparkly pink scrotum hanging off its rear bumper.

Eat fish.

Typical Monday:

I rode the elevator up with 3 other women this morning. One of them was telling her friend that her grandpa lived to be 102. When the two of them got off, the third one turned to me and proudly said,

"Well, my great uncle lived to be 106."

"Oh, wow. Really? (awkwardness ensues) Good genes." - Me

"Yep, it must have been the whole 'early to bed, early to rise, no booze, eat fish thing.'”


Happy Monday.

St. Mary's

When I left the post office today and got into my car, a woman appeared at the passenger's side door and motioned for me to roll down the window. She was maybe holding 10 bags — plastic grocery bags, canvas bags, a cloth purse, things that were floral, etc. No, she was not homeless.

But as soon as I rolled it down, she gasped. "Oh! I thought you were someone else! I was about to ask you how much weight you lost! Did you go to St. Mary's? I'm thinking of someone from St. Mary's. Drives the same car... she used to be chunky... chunky like me. Well, a little more chunky than me. Wonder if she still is. But she was chunky."

"NO." - Me

"Sorry, then!" - Her

And she watched me drive away, determined to believe I was her once-fat, or still-fat friend.

Deaf at 28.

A guy introduced himself to me as Jorge. But I heard Horne (accent over the e). And continued to call him that all day. FML.

He saw me in white.

The Blue Cross Blue Shield of Georgia health insurance dude recently left me a voicemail. He was at our school at orientation, selling us all nicely priced health plans. But between graduating, re-locating to MA and finding a job, my peach-state health insurance naturally did me no service. After calling him back to tell him I was recently employed and had health insurance again, he thought it was good an opportunity as any to ask me about marriage.

Now, there’s no way this man remembers me from orientation in April 2008, and likewise, I doubt I could pick him out of a crowd. But still, from the sound of my voice he said, “Marriage is next in the cards for you.” And then asked if I was taking the appropriate steps to get to the altar.

Because he’s Southern (take no offense, y’all), I absolutely could not get off the phone with him. With each attempt, he managed to find a new chapter. If it wasn’t marriage we were discussing, it was how high the taxes were in the North East, or the humidity in Hotlanta, or get this… the divorce rate across the country. Cue Alanis: And isn’t it ironic?

I should have mentioned earlier that this whole conversation took place on the commuter rail with the conductor, a Spanish woman and an ADHD kid all screaming in the background. And still, Mr. Blue Cross Blue Shield talked a blue streak, completely unfazed. Probably reclining in his socks with a gimlet in hand. And picturing me in a veil. Cringe.

Come see the softer side.

I'm unemployed at the moment (recently finished Grad school) and I run errands. Today's list included brown paper trash compactor bags from Sears. (The hot pink Timex watch was not on the list but found a home on my wrist. Shh...)

The Sears salesman who helped me locate the trash compactor bags turned out to be more talkative than Joan Rivers. I should have searched for the unexciting bags myself, but I'm unashamed to admit that I'm a female who asks for directions, help, jobs, etc. on a daily basis.

In the course of finding the banal bags and paying for them, it seems I had unwittingly agreed to a Sears ShopYourWay Rewards card (acts no differently than a CVS card), a Q+A session about today's service, and a chance to win $4,000 in a Sears sweepstakes. I naturally perked up when hearing the latter. The Sears dude then circled 15 things on the receipt with detailed instructions on how to win the said money. My head hurt.

When he wouldn't part with the receipt, I started to get antsy and glanced furtively at my frivolous, but fabulous hot pink watch. But I listened patiently because I sensed he was bored. Or worse, lonely. Or stuck in the Sears basement for far too long. Think 'Milton,' from Office Space.

I listened because he was a nice guy who was just doing his job. And right now, I have all the time in the world. Because I'm unemployed. And strangely, I'm OK with this is. Because I know it's only temporary. And work is forever. So is Sears, come to think of it. The company has been around since 1893. Imagine that.

Wimp

Dusting off the old blog. It’s been a while. My last couple of entries feel weak. Maybe it’s because nothing weird has happened to me recently. I suppose that’s a good thing, right? I think so. But for the blog? Well, that could mean demise. ☹

Anywho, let’s talk about the massage. Just the other week, I was the first time recipient of a hot stone massage. The male masseuse was incredibly soft-spoken. No, really. I couldn’t hear this gentle, New Age dude at all. Come to find out, he was telling me to be honest with him about the temperature of the rocks. Yeah, in one ear and out the other. Got scalded.

“Iceland’s volcano. Those rocks must have been hot, too,” was all I could think of. I winced as the skin on the back of my legs melted off the bone like lamb’s meat. The masseuse, although a kind fellow, (I sensed this through his smile and sincere eyes) could not manage to mutter an audible apology. So I took it upon myself to fill the room with sounds one might associate with an injured horse. Or perhaps a llama. A chorus of weird neighs and high-pitched ninnies.

Turns out, I just couldn’t take the heat.

(Not me.)

City of Embalms

Ft. Myers, aka "The City of Palms," is where the Red Sox Spring training is held each year. It coincided with a school break so I agreed to go with my Mom, Dad and Grandmother. We then met up with my Grandmother's brother and brother-in-law, ages 92 and 80-something, respectively. In fact, the mean age of the fan base in the baseball stadium was give-or-take 1,358 years old. I got strange looks for not having a walker. Or maybe they just couldn't see me at all.

My great-uncle (age 92) jokingly asked me during the 7 inning stretch, "So when are you getting married? I'm running out of time here." I then left my seat to eat some bad sushi.

Also, the city of Ft. Myers shuts down around 8pm. There were no signs of life on the streets. Like Emily Dickinson, I went stir-crazy until the last night when my Mom suggested I go downstairs to the hotel bar and have a drink. Fine.

As I pulled up a stool, I kid you not, the Red Sox minor-league baseball team strolled in. Young, hot and sweaty after practice. I tried not to look like an alcoholic, sitting at the bar by myself.

I lost my breath when the Australian pitcher pulled up a stool next to me. He was a young Heath Ledger and I'm not just saying that because he was from down under. I fell in love with this 19 year-old after just one drink. We talked for hours and then he walked me up to my room...

At this point, I'm just going to say FML, because a) I met this hottie on my last night in Ft. Myers (wtf?) and b) I was sharing a room with my 82-year-old Grandmother.

Strike 50.

Dank duffel

I bought a used duffel bag off Amazon.com but it smells like its previous owner. Sorry, if you're reading this, previous owner. I'm also guessing you're a blond from the long strands of hair in the wallet accompanying the bag. I've washed the bag numerous times but the fragrance prevails. So there it sits in the corner of my closet and there it shall stay. It's a shame too, because I love the print.



(I just can't do it. It smells like lavender dryer sheets and old cat.)

Yoga cult

First, I think you should read 'The Yoga Cult' article in the February issue of Rolling Stone (a well-tatted Lil Wayne is on the cover of the issue).

Unbeknownst to me, I got involved with Dahn yoga in New York City. I think a friend of a friend innocently handed me a pamphlet and said, "Here, take a class." At the time, I had been very curious about yoga. (Never have I had an interest in cults, however.)

After the first class, I bought a 3-month membership because I'm pretty open-minded (feel free to replace the word 'open-minded' with 'naive' or 'impulsive') and was looking for a break from the gym routine.

But yes, it's definitely a cult. The membership included a white martial arts uniform that made everyone in the class look like inmates. Another red flag went up when I saw other members stay after class to mop the bathroom floors in reverence to the Dahn Master, Ilchi Lee. I'm sorry, but no person in their right mind, nevermind a fucking New Yorker, would voluntarily do this. Unless they'd been brainwashed.

The classes were notably more expensive than most yoga classes and taking them 3x a week were never enough in the instructors' eyes. In order to reach enlightenment, you had to devote your entire life to the practice. They constantly pushed workshops and retreats down my throat. I politely declined them all, but could read the disappointment on their faces. In their struggle to control me, I left before I could spot the Kool-aid.

So the Rolling Stone article is absolutely right. Dahn Yoga is a fanatical group led by a Korean guru that's part Moonies, part New Age boot camp – and pure profit. Read the article, it's fucking frightening.

Weird shit happens to me. In retrospect, I thought I was signing up for some simple downward-dogging. Turns out it was anything but that.

Hot cross buns

My mom sat me on a curling iron when I was a baby. Obviously, she didn't mean to. I was naked and she was on the phone and the curling iron was on the bed. She plopped me down and, "Owww! Cry!!!!! Wail!!!!" I sat in a tub of ice for a few weeks and luckily my behind is scar-free. My mother however, received raised eyebrows and scrutinizing eyes from the doctor for the next several years.




Ouch

Better off in a dive bar.

I took my first job as a waitress in New York City so I could audition on my days off. I'm a horrible waitress, in fact I've always hated it, but the money was good because I worked at the "it" spot at the time. Big mistake. One of the managers I answered to lived on a diet of Reese's peanut butter cups and cocaine. For some reason, she had it out for me. Hated me. And I could never understand why. I mean, why not bully the homeless guy who fronted as a bus boy? I asked myself if she picked on me because I was new. Because at 5' and 100 lbs, I am seemingly frail? Maybe it's because I'm a good person and she's a high school dropout. Anyway, for months she breathed down my back, powdery nostrils flaring, and screamed at me for forgetting to drop steak knives on my tables. It's taken me years to realize that I'm too laid back a person for intense and particularly dumbass situations such as these. She desperately wanted me to care, but I just DIDN'T GIVE A SHIT.

Too young

I was friends with this boy in the 4th grade and his mother invited me over their house. Unwittingly, I went because I was new to the school. But his mother was pushy and before I knew it, I was her son's girlfriend. In retrospect, he was a nice kid. I was kind of mute and played a lot of board games in their basement. I don't even think we held hands, but his mother made us romantic, candlelit dinners whenever I went over. This went on from 4th grade til 6th grade. I guess I was so quiet that I just went along with things. Today he won't be my friend on Facebook. I want to ask him if he blames me or her.

One 't'

I dated a guy with one 't' at the end of his name. 99.9% of the time this name has two t's. But I'd rather not mention it because he might be reading this right now. If so, he knows I'm talking about him. Fml. We met in college. I was a sophomore and he was a senior. We read a love scene from a play called, 'The Woolgatherers.' Great play. He had a pet iguana that he walked on a leash. He was very kind and he drank 40's. That summer I drove to his house in the woods that his parents built in western MA. Everything made sense once I saw where he grew up. He grew up on a goat farm.

Forrest Gump

I was recently informed by my mother that I wore leg braces as an infant because the doctor was concerned my legs were turning outward. Thank goodness this was during infancy and not during prom, for instance.

Teacher's pet

Elementary school teachers loved me. I think it's because my mom still dressed me and everything matched; from my headband right down to my socks. I was also very quiet and aimed to please. I remember my third grade teacher, 'Ms. Devin,' making me do odd tasks. Like staying in from recess to help her clean. But she was so afraid I'd get dirty, that she'd put paper towels down on the floor for my pretty little knees. I found ashtrays full of her butts next to the yellow sponges in the steel school cabinets. Her voice was raspy and her makeup was thick. Years later she passed away in a bad car accident. She loved me like a daughter. I both feared and respected her. Other people called her, 'Devil-dog Devin.'

Sleepaway camp

The summer before 7th grade, I attended a week-long acting sleepaway camp in the sticks of New York. The first signs that something was awry were the military-style cold showers, the twenty push-ups and the horse-size vitamins we had to swallow every morning. At the tender age of 12, I felt like I was on the set of Platoon. I also bunked with a blond girl named Lacey. Her middle name was Cinnamon. Lacey Cinnamon. She cried and cried until she was sent home. I stuck it out and petted the goats. Goats? Yes, there were goats. I also befriended a teacher who played John Lennon's, "Give Peace A Chance," on repeat.

Craig

My old roommate and I slapped up a posting on Craigslist for a 3rd roommate. There's nothing unique about this situation until the potential candidate showed up at our door. This fellow sported long hair, a trench coat and a baseball bat. I said bat, not hat. My panic attacks started that day.

Roses

On a drunken evening in London with my friends, I approached a rose seller to buy some lovely red flowers. Little did I know that part of the transaction was a make-out session. I handed him whatever the roses cost and then he dipped me down into a very long kiss. He smelled of falafel.

Christmas present

An ex-boyfriend of mine gave me a set of knives for Christmas. "You could use a set of sharp ones," he said.

The Republican

For a little less than year, I administratively assisted a Republican in NYC. (Not by choice, but I needed to eat.) This man communicated solely via Post-It notes. If he were on a phone call and other calls came in, I had to approach him with a Post-It note stating the caller's name. He would give it a good squint followed by an umpire signal which translated to either, "Call back," "Take a message," or, "Who the fuck is that?" His last response making me feel like a turd.

While working for him, I also attended an event where I shook hands with Karl Rove. "Nice to meet you, Carolyn." It was awful. Mitt Romney came into the office the one day I was out sick. I wish I had seen his hair up close.

Sweet kicks.

A man followed me home late one night from a NYC train. A mother's worst nightmare. He followed me right up to my apartment steps. I turned around to face him, trembling. Turns out, he opened a shoebox to show me his new pair of Nikes. "I've been dying to show someone my new shoes," he said.

Tampons

I was put on a temping assignment in NYC for PR woman, Amy Brownstein, who handled all things Susan Lucci (All My Children). She needed an assistant, my staffing agency told me. She needed a fucking psychiatrist is what she really needed. On my first day, I walked into a windowless office littered with empty pill bottles and dead plants. Envelopes were addressed to Amy Brownstain, not Brownstein. Ha. I was reprimanded for not knowing the fax number by heart. She also addressed me as, 'Carolyn,' something which makes my blood boil. I was screamed at all day by a woman in the midst of a nervous breakdown. On the day I decided to call it quits, she had thrown a wad of cash at me because she had just gotten her period and needed a cup of ice (still unsure about the ice) and tampons. I bought the goddamn tampons and never went back.

He was asleep, so I guess it's ok.

On my way to a morning temp assignment in NYC, I ran down the stairs and tripped over a sleeping body in my apartment lobby. I apologized profusely to an unconscious homeless man. No big.

You think you get nervous?

I'm a pretty anxious person and my anxiety spun out of control while living in New York City and trying to pursue an acting career. I was so anxious that at the tender age of 25 or 26 (who knows, it's something I've repressed), I developed shingles, a 50 year-old man virus. Shingles are chicken pox for adults. Pox are itchy, pox are for kids. But shingles are blisters. Blisters that were on my face. I moved home shortly after.

The cab ride.

He picked me up from my home in Stoughton, MA and drove me to Boston's Logan airport for a flight to Atlanta, GA on New Year's Eve day (2009). None of this is strange so far. Just wait. His name was Steve. He smoked half a cigarette in the driveway and saved it. He wore big glasses and didn't smile. He talked a blue streak. I counted; he must have had 15 jobs over the past 20 years. Driving a cab was not his chosen profession, he told me. He still has dreams of running for state representative. "Why's that?" I feigned interest. "For the money," he replied. He talked long and he talked soft. Almost in a whisper. Almost like he didn't want me to listen. But he did. He hadn't touched a drink in 10 years. He lived with his mother. Did I have a boyfriend? He asked me personal questions. I didn't think I'd make it to the airport, I didn't think I'd make it to 2010. He kept telling me to tell my father how sorry he was for smoking in our driveway. He must have told me this 7 times. He asked me if I thought he was neurotic. He told me the cab company "hated his guts." I wanted to die in the backseat. He creeped me out in the worst way. When he pulled up to the curb at Logan airport, he asked me out for a cup of coffee. I ran like a Kenyan.



He kind of looked like this. Minus the suit and the comb over. He was disheveled, after all. He was a cab driver.

Linda

Randolph, MA movie theater, circa high school? I don't know, I have the memory of a gnat. I sat in the backseat on the car ride over. The parking lot was jam-packed, cars on top of each other, and I swung the door open too wide, hitting the car beside us. It left a scratch (I think), so I ran away because I suck at life. But the driver was apparently in his car getting stoned and got out to confront me. When he asked for my info, my nerves took over and I blurted out, "Linda. My name is Linda." Then I proceeded to give him the right phone number. (Douche) Later that evening, the house phone rang and I heard my groggy father saying, "No, wrong number. Linda doesn't live here." I stormed into my parents' bedroom and said, "Um, Dad. Linda lives here." For the next few weeks while we settled this dude's non-existent "ding" on his car, my father looked at me with total disgust/amusement.

I'm the weirdo here.

Dental hygiene

This date took place in NY. I don't recall how I met him. I think I was impressed by his Habitat for Humanity deeds, so I agreed to go out with him. I remember I wore stiletto heels and spent an inordinate time getting ready. I was bored. Anyway, I remember we took the train to what seemed like Peru. It was close to an hour and I was under the scrutiny of homeless men. "I don't know why I'm dressed like a tramp, either," I wanted to tell them. We got off the train and I hobbled on my heels behind him, still with positive thoughts that I wouldn't end up dead in an alley. Long story short, he took me to a Walmart. Or was it a Target? "I just have to pick up a toothbrush, " he said. A 45 minute train ride to pick up a toothbrush. There we stood in aisle 3, under glaring lights, staring at rows and rows of Oral B. Why me? ... Why stilettos?

Blind date

He was a loud-talker. Sounds like a Seinfeld episode, no? Anyway, he was. And I felt bad because how do you tell someone who you just met to use an indoor voice? It's impossible. I schemed of ways of doing so and failed like Nicholas Cage. The bar filled up and still his voice reigned king. The bartender turned up the music to no avail. People gave me looks to shush up my husband. My husband? Instead, I rudely ate the delicious tuna tartare he paid for, and sipped my wine with a lowered gaze. Poor guy. On paper, we had a lot in common; a love for literature, art and food. But he greeted me with a brazen kiss and seemed to think my knee was a perfect resting spot for his palm during our two hour conversation. He was also writing his thesis on the history of celibacy. I smiled nervously and thanked him kindly when the bill arrived. Shrug. The tuna tartare was damn good.