The Way My Brain Works

21 May

Alan says I’m a pessimist. I’d like to believe I’m just well prepared. On the whole I believe things will turn out just right – I just find it comforting to have Plan B in my back pocket. Even when there’s almost no chance it will be needed.

I chalk it up to having a fantastic imagination.

Take today. Walking home from work this afternoon, I saw a folded dollar bill on the sidewalk. Of course I bent to grab it. Only, once I was holding it, I saw that it was only part of a dollar. It represented maybe 20% of a full bill, but had been folded in a way that it looked like more.

Since it was useless, I pitched it in the next trashcan I saw.

And then… five steps later… the gears in my brain started to spin.

It was like someone had folded the dollar to trick people into believing it was whole. 

What if that had been a trap? 

I mean, if I were a terrorist, trying to randomly start an untraceable plague, that would be a great first step…

Step 1: Taint money with incurable virus.

Step 2: Cut money into bits and fold using clever origami technique to make each bit look whole.

Step 3: Scatter on well-traveled sidewalks, right before rush hour, near trash cans. 

Pretty clever, you must admit. While some people may walk past a coin, who isn’t going to stop to pick up a dollar? And by only placing *partial* bits, you ensure people won’t want to keep them after they examine them. And by scattering them near trashcans on busy streets, you’ve ensured the evidence will get incinerated relatively quickly.

Brilliant, no?

In fact, it was so brilliant that my first thought was: I need to write this down when I get home. If I ever write an espionage thriller, I’m totally going to use this technique.

And then my second thought was: Must. Wash. Hands. Immediately.

And my third thought was: Don’t. Touch. Face.

And my fourth thought was: Alan might have a point.

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Proof that men are born that way.

15 May

Last week Alan almost kicked a ten year old’s ass.

We were checking out a beer garden with live Irish music in Arlington. Sitting on bench with our backs to the building, we toasted each other and began scanning the crowd. A woman sat eating dinner with her two sons at a nearby table. She had her nose in her iPhone, and one of the boys stared at us.

I don’t mean our eyes occasionally met and we both awkwardly looked away. He STARED at us. Constantly. And they didn’t appear to be sweet little boys… we’d seen them before they were seated, raising holy hell with their soccer ball and climbing all over every available bench. They ran the joint like spoiled rich kids – which – given where we were – they probably were.

I noticed  him staring and continued scanning the rest of the crowd. When my eyes got back to Alan, I saw that he was fully engaged with the kid, having a stare-down.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“That kid won’t stop staring,” he said.

“I know,” I responded. “But do you have to stare back at him?”

“Actually,” he explained, “I do. It’s not just a staring contest, it’s a male dominance thing.”

“Really? Because it LOOKS like a staring contest,” I challenged.

“No,” he informed me, “That little shit knows exactly what he’s doing.”

I looked back at the kid and – sure enough – he was brazenly staring at Alan, not blinking, not  flinching, with a bored/cocky look of entitlement on his face, shoving french fries into his mouth without even glancing at his plate. I could kind of see Alan’s point.

Alan continued to stare at him and I could tell he was actually getting irritated.

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “I’m not buying the dominance thing. Besides – he’s a kid. You’re an adult. Why are you even engaging him?”

“Because it is RUDE. Someone needs to set him straight – he’s way too cocky. I’m tempted to walk over there and ask the mom if they know me, then – when she says no – then ask why her kid has been staring at me non-stop. At least she’ll understand he’s being rude.”

We then spent a few minutes laughing as we imagined how that conversation would go:

“Your kid has been staring at me.”

She ignores us.

“Lady, get your nose out of that phone and look at your rude kid!” 

When we finished laughing, we looked back over and the kid was STILL boring holes into us. Alan, frustrated, ran his hand through his hair. And in turning his head ever so slightly, he happened to notice the flatscreen television screwed to the wall behind him, broadcasting a hockey game.

As it turned out, I saw it at the same time. We both looked at each other with sudden awareness, eyebrows lifted.

Mystery solved.

“So,” I asked him. “When I write this for my blog, should I title it, ‘Encyclopedia Brown and the Case of Mistaken Dominance?’ Or should it be ‘The Case of the Rude Child?’

Apparently he thought BOTH were fantastic ideas, because he didn’t respond. Or maybe we’re having a Silence Contest. I’m really not clear on these things. Must be a guy thing.

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Thank you for over-sharing.

12 May

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My yoga instructor this morning was a guy who takes it all a bit too seriously. In addition to wearing nut-huggers, sporting a thick ’70s porno ‘stache and playing a flute during class, he walks around projecting “deep thoughts” in a stage voice during the class.

(If this is ringing a bell: yes, I’ve written about him before.)

Today’s theme was “asking for help.” It was a great message: part of living in – or belonging to – a community is allowing people to help you. It’s good for you, and people enjoy being allowed to help. Nice lesson and I should probably try to follow it more often.

But where it went a bit sideways was in the examples he chose to share with us. During our 90 minute class, I learned:

  • He has a voice coach for opera
  • He has a language coach for foreign languages
  • He has a life/career coach
  • He once had $52,000 in credit card debt
  • He was able to pay it off using a debt relief service

Each revelation made me lose focus on my yoga pose and instead head down a mental HabiTrail of marginally related thoughts.

Of COURSE he has a voice coach! No wonder he always projects his voice like Tobias Funkë. I wonder if he’s capable of a regular conversation without a stage voice? 

I wonder what foreign languages he studies? Italian seems like a no-brainer because of the opera, but I’m also going to vote for Spanish. Because he looks like someone who would like to use authentic pronunciation when ordering at Taco Bell.

A career/life coach? Whoa – that one had her work cut out for her, because I’m not actually seeing opera singer + yoga instructor + floutist as an obvious career path. Also: I didn’t realize one could AFFORD a life coach in pursuing that career path.

Ah ha! Let me guess how you racked up $52k in credit card debt. I’m going out on a limb here, but – was it all the coaches? 

Or maybe it was the flute.

Or the shorts. 

Actually – there’s really just no telling.

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Good thing I’m not modest. Or dead.

8 May

For Christmas Alan got me a massage and facial. Because I like to hoard gifts, I waited to cash it in until last Friday. Four months of anticipation? Now THAT’S what I consider a gift.

So I took the afternoon off work and headed to the day spa, hellbent on relaxing. In the changing room, I realized I wasn’t sure which service I was getting first, so I just shrugged, ditched all my clothes and donned the robe they provided me.

Minutes later, a middle-aged woman with an Eastern European accent who introduced herself as “Micki” and reminded me of Edna Mode from “The Incredibles” ushered me into a well lit room.

“Vee vill start vith your facial,” she told me. Then, gesturing at the padded massage table, she continued, “Remove zee robe and lie down face-up.”

I nodded and waited for her to leave the room, in standard spa fashion. In response, she simply crossed her arms and stared at me.

“Um,” I began, realizing she was expecting me to drop my robe. “I don’t have anything on under this. It doesn’t bother me, but I don’t want to offend you.”

She laughed. “Please! I’ve seen it all. I ‘ave two daughters and five grand-daughters.”

All rightee then. I dropped my robe and lay down on the table, covering myself with the sheet.

[Note: Apparently that sheet is a pretty important detail, because when I told Alan about my experience, he was incredulous. “So you just lay there NAKED through your entire facial???”]

The facial got underway and I received a lecture for being lazy with my skincare and only using a two step process – wash it, put on lotion. I somewhat redeemed myself by pointing out that I’ve worn sunblock on my face every day since college.

At some point during my facial, I became aware of a muffled bell ringing in the distance. For a moment, I wondered if it was a fire alarm, but I was so relaxed I chose to ignore it. Later, as we were wrapping up the facial, shaking her head Micki said, “Deed you hear zat bell earlier?”

Without waiting for my response, she continued, “Eet was a fire drill. Zey do zem all zee time in zis building. Zee other people took zer patients outside. Not me! If it really decide to burn, someone will come knock.”

Excellent. I could’ve burned to a crisp. Kind of an anti-facial.

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She then went on to tell me about the customer she was giving a Brazilian Wax when the earthquake struck last August. “We ran outside – she in a robe. The wax, eet harden. Wven we come back in, it take me an hour to clean her out!”

I think I’m glad I stuck with the facial.

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Does it even matter if it’s true?

3 May

It was late. My sister was in the kitchen relaying a story to her husband about something embarrassing that had happened to her friend. It was for adult-consumption only. And then, out of the blue: a voice. “Hey – isn’t that Herbert’s mom you’re talking about?”

And standing there is her child, who – if he had a tribal name – would respond to, “Little-Pitcher-Big-Ears.” Record scratch.

So now a nine year old is equipped with a story that is attached to a real person and isn’t exactly appropriate for an elementary school audience.

This has happened to you too, right? I mean, I don’t even HAVE kids and I’ve had my words come back to haunt me, though it’s usually like when Ralphie swears as he flips all the nuts into the snow in “The Christmas Story” and everyone wants to know where he learned such an awful word. (Spoiler alert: his dad.)

In my defense, if a child correctly deploys a word that can function as EVERY one of the nine parts of speech, then I say: we should let him, regardless of age.

I digress. The point is that when my sister retold this story to me – in all its sordid details – it completely cracked me up. “Can I blog about it?” I asked.

She paused. “Can you make it anonymous? So the person doesn’t know my child knows her business?”

And that’s when the fun began.

Me: “Sure. Like, I’ll say it was about a teacher from his school?”

Her: “Except make it an art teacher because he doesn’t even HAVE art.”

Me: “And I’ll make your son a DAUGHTER.”

Her: “And make the story I was telling about her something gossipy instead of something funny.”

Me: “And I’ll make you my FRIEND instead of my sister.”

Her: “And make me the daughter’s ‘mother’ instead of her ‘mom.'”

Mom, indeed. I think we’ll go with “mum” just to really throw them off the track.

Disclaimer: All names, places, and events contained herein are fictional. Any resemblance to actual people, events or conversation is sheer coincidence. Also, I’m pretty sure there are no children named Herbert. 

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