Bring a cleaver? Ohhh spring fever!

It's that time of year that so many folks are fond of: Spring. Light green, blossoming, fragrant, enlivening spring. They think of 70 degrees and sunny, children skipping and holding hands on the way to some lake, baseball, spring cleaning, eating ice cream, wearing khaki pants and pastels, and other such things of a springy nature. Lovely.

In the northeastern US, we don't always have a stereotypical spring. In fact, where I've lived (CT, NY, MA), we hardly ever have one. Starting in late April, it's rainy and 45-60 degrees out for about a month and a half, breaking only for Memorial day (which is always hot...but don't be fooled, more rain is around the corner) and other select weekends. Then, some time in mid-June, BAM! it's summer. Just like that. All of a sudden, your khakis won't do and you are forced into suddenly summer attire. You feel unprepared, especially when it comes to what others will wear in public (ahhhh the return of the daisy dukes), but you're grateful it's stopped raining and smelling like worms and mud.

It's been so long since we had the stereotypical spring that I'd almost forgotten what it's like. This year, however, we are having that ideal spring. We're actually transitioning from winter to summer and having full weeks where it's just 65 and sunny. Children are eating ice cream as they skip to a baseball game in their khakis. It doesn't always smell like rain and mud and worms. My galoshes feel remarkably left out as I don my sunglasses once again.

But something has happened in this lovely springtime, the intensity of which was unexpected. My allergies have been absolutely ferocious. The worst they've ever been. I mean, they're usually pretty bad, as spring for me mean tissues, claritin, zyrtec, neti pots, sudafed, and the like. But this year, it feels like I've been rolling in flowerbeds, taking deep breaths and shoving pollen up nose. Or like I've taken a bunch of budding trees and planted them in my face. Or like I've fashioned all of my clothes out of freshly cut grass accented with sprigs of ragweed. I do look good in green, after all.

I won't go into what it feels like too much because it's not a pretty picture, but it suffices to say that the inner workings of all that allows me to breathe, hear, and see are both itchy and malfunctioning due to blockage. Gross! I know. But apparently only 1 in 5 people in the US suffer from allergies, so I thought I'd put this out there in case you are one of the lucky ones who does not. It's not just a cute little sneeze and then relief. "Oh my silly allergies, ha ha." No sir. I believe it's this misconception that allergies are just silly sneezes that allows people to conclude someone suffering from allergies must have a cold, because in reality, the symptoms can be the same. People see me blow my nose on the T and then move to the other side of the train. I want to tell them "Don't worry, I'm not contagious, it's just my allergies," but if I did it would sound like "Don worry, Imb nod codtagious, ids juds my allergies."

Communicating in general has become difficult, and not only when speaking to someone. I have whole days where my ears go on strike. For example, once when Jess was reading, she told me she had 20 pages left. I thought she said "funny pinky sweat." Another time, my friend and I were at a mutual friend's house. She asked if there was something in her teeth. I said, "Can I get you some tea? Why are you asking me, I don't live here?" The other day I thought my coworker called me a "F***Tard," but she was actually pronouncing "Spaniard" incorrectly. Yesterday, I thought I overheard someone on the T say, "so, did you hear no-tooth Nicole is having another baby?" I want to guess and say that's not really what she said, but because it was on the T, I can't be sure.

Most of the time, I'll ask for clarification in these scenarios. A simple "huh?" or "I'm sorry?" usually does it. But, if I can't make out what someone is saying after the third time or so, I just guess. If someone is telling me story, I do my best to mirror their facial expressions. I'm very good with appalled, astonished, excited, sympathetic. It's when they ask me questions that I get into trouble. Sometimes I'll say yes, hoping it was the right answer and in some cases, that it was a yes or no question at all.

In short, this allergy season, everyone around me has become James William Bottom Tooth.

The Boy and the Rubber Chicken

Three nights ago, Jess and I went out with our friend Erica to the comedy show at the Hong Kong in Cambridge. No, amazingly, we did not have a scorpion bowl and thus did not end the evening passed out in a pool of each other's vomit. On the way there, however, I was mentally preparing myself for that very scenario. Why? Because every time I hear someone talking about their night at the Hong Kong, their story always begins with, "Oh my God I went to the Hong Kong last night," continues with, "and I had a scorpion bowl," and inevitably ends with, "and then I got soooooo sick!" It's as if these scorpion bowls are stronger than one might realize as one is drinking it. Either that or it's the vegetable tempura, that likely side dish accompanying the scorpion bowl. Or they're poisoned. Anyway, I was ready for the Hong Kong and its scorpion bowl challenge, but seeing as we were only three people, it would have been seriously unreasonable for us to order a scorpion bowl. Mind preparation and mix of excitement and dread: All for nothing.

For the most part, the comedy show was pretty funny. There was, however, this one comedian who was really into metal and had based his entire routine on metal references. This was really poorly thought out, as our 1/2 local and 1/2 tourist audience had no idea what he was talking about. Other acts, however, were quite funny. Though no one asked me what I did for a living, like when we went to the Improv Asylum, someone did come on stage and immediately say he was unemployed. I filed away my temporary aspirations to develop my own stand up routine after that.

Anyway, my whole point in bringing up this story was for none of the above information. It was, in fact, to tell you about the little boy and his rubber chicken. While we were walking to the T after the show, Jess and Erica were chatting. I was walking alongside them, not really paying attention to what they were talking about because something had caught my attention. On the side of the road there was a woman yelling, "Get over here and don't you EVER do that again!" By her side was an "I told you so" sister and an embarrassed father. (I'm of course assuming the relationships here, but it seemed all too obvious at the time). A few seconds later, a boy holding something, I couldn't yet make out what, zoomed down the sidewalk and into my view. He seemed excited, nay, exhilarated, and wore a smile so face-consuming that I found myself smiling too, as if we had been in cahoots on his unknown mischievous deed.

As he got closer, I saw what he was holding: A rubber chicken. A true Fozzie style rubber chicken. Wokka wokka! I giggled, and Jess and Erica took a moment to look at me funny.

I saw him approach his mother and his exuberant smile sadly faded as she began to scold him. We passed the scene and continued on to the T, and the boy with the rubber chicken's tongue lashing was soon out of earshot.

I mentally reviewed the scene and had so many questions: What had he done that his mother deemed so terrible that he must never do it again? How had she even seen him do whatever he did when he was so far down the street? Had the sister told on him? Why was he so excited? Did any of this have to do with the rubber chicken?

I hope it had everything to do with the rubber chicken.

I don't know why I told you this story.

Stupid movies

Did you ever get stuck watching a stupid movie, but you just couldn't turn it off because you found that you were interested in how things turned out? You wanted to tear out your eyeballs because what you were watching was just a waste of an hour and 45 minutes, but you couldn't bear to look away because you wanted to see if the Inevitable Couple really did end up together. I've been there.

My mother has made this a prized past time, more valuable and frequent than say, knitting or decoupage would be to one of her peers. Growing up, every rainy weekend was accompanied by a stupid movie. Sometimes, such an afternoon included chicken noodle soup, chicken noodle soup, chicken noodle soup with a soda on the side. But that's besides the point. These movies were incredibly stupid, and yet we watched them to the end. My mother, who always watches TV with newspaper in hand, sometimes even put down the paper to watch the last 30 minutes. I was equally sucked in, and I could be found fighting back tears on the couch next to her as the orphan with one leg was reunited with her family that she thought she didn't have. In wartime. As they finally fled the country to their freedom. And then they got a puppy. The puppy was always the final straw, and my fight with the tears was lost. The stupid movie had won, and I found myself saying ridiculous things like "my God it's so beautiful!"

What were some of these movies? There were such gems as "Switched at Birth," "A Cry for Help: The Tracey Thurman Story," and "Flowers in the Attic," each containing hours and hours of entertainment. Neither of us is or was a really big fan of the overly dramatic lifetime movies, but we watched them nevertheless. Maybe it was meant to be, maybe it's in our nature. I don't know. But I've found myself sucked in to another stupid movie -- so sucked in that I rented it on Netflix.

I mean, in my defense, there are really good special effects. But that's where the excuses stop and I have to own up to what I'm watching: "Death Race." It's like action movie cotton candy, and there's no real substance whatsoever, but I can't wait to see if he wins his freedom and gets back to his daughter!

Also, I will leave you with a charming "P.S." -- these movies usually have winning lines in them that are supposed to be dramatic, but ALWAYS make you die laughing. Death Race's was this:
"Ok, c*** sucker, f*** with me and we'll see who sh**s on the sidewalk."
I mean, WHAT?!

Memory Monday: Would you like to buy a vacuum?

Ah, Memory Monday: The day of the week when I reminisce about an old job.

I sold Rainbows one summer. No, it's not a metaphor; I worked for Rexair as one of their Rainbow vacuum salespeople.
Yes, this was a clear precursor to my gayness.
No, I didn't go door to door.
I did, however, do demonstrations for everyone I knew. This is probably because I was very excited about this vacuum cleaner. In fact, I was sold on these amazing machines from day one, and still want to buy one.

Why?
Oh I'm so glad you asked!

First, they don't even use bags! Tell me you're not intrigued!
Well, what in the dickens do they use, you ask? Water. I know, right?!

During my presentation, I would lead by telling my captive audience about the Rainbow's use of water. Every time, they became curious (read: skeptical).

Step two in the presentation was explaining all of the features of the Rainbow.

Step three, my favorite, was the "reasons why your vacuum sucks" step (or more appropriately titled, "reasons why your vacuum doesn't suck"). I'd get into the physics of it. It was sick. The part of my presentation that almost sold people every time was the "Rainbow vs. [INSERT POTENTIAL CLIENT'S VACUUM HERE]" test that occurred during this step. I'd put a piece of cloth in the nozzle of each vacuum, then use their vacuum to go over the same spot of rug 100 times. All the while, and it was a while, I'd be explaining the physics and what was going on with their vacuum. "It's just spitting things out the back and not sucking up what it should," I'd say. Then, I'd take out the cloth and show them the dirt. THEN, with the excitement building, I would go over the same spot of rug with the Rainbow only once and show them the cloth...and it would be even dirtier than the other cloth! "Wow!" they'd exclaim. "My house is so dirty! I'm so embarrased! Get out!" And I'd go, "I know, isn't the Rainbow great?!"

Then step four, my least favorite part of the presentation, was to basically say, "hey wanna buy one?" If they said no, they still got a free gift (usually a Ginsu knife) for giving me 5 leads, and I still got my $20 per presentation. But the bottom line is that in a whole summer, I didn't sell one Rainbow. Not one! My guess is it was probably because it cost $1180. But they last 25 years - 4x longer than any other vacuum! My friends' parents and my relatives, however, could not be swayed.

But I believe in Rainbows, and one day, I will buy one.

PS- Hey Rexair: You're welcome.

The Tale of the Corduroy Children

In an attempt to save money, we've had to reduce our budget for dog treats. Emma and Sparki have been going through Greenie withdrawl, and as a result have been rather cranky. At least, however, they haven't tried to run away and join the circus. I felt bad for them, and so tried to fill the Greenie void recently with butt-busted pants. It's a heart-warming story, and I will now share it with you.

So my fiancee, Jess, had some pants that were well-loved. One day, the whole butt ripped. It just ripped right off. She wasn't even doing anything (i.e. trying to sit, do the chicken dance, get a leg up- nothing)! She was standing still and *poof* there went the butt!

Knowing that I have scads of free time on my hands and that I like to flex my creative muscle from time to time, she gave me the pants. "Here, do something creative with these. When I come back this afternoon, I expect big things to have happened with these pants," she said to me.

I accepted my mission and took the pants. I turned them over in my hands and studied them. They had a worn, corduroy texture. Hmmm. No butt, so I couldn't use the pockets for anything. Huh. What to do, what to DO!

I looked over at Emma and Sparki. They were sleeping. Their blankets had been kicked off, but they looked chilly. It was probably because they were losing their Greenie love handles, but I still felt bad. Maybe I should buy them some of those dog sweater things? I looked some up online and found that not only are they ridiculously expensive, many are just plain ridiculous.

And then it hit me: I could make corduroy outfits for the little idiots! I dug out my sewing kit from middle school and got started. I worked in a frenzy until, at last, I stood back and admired my work:






Contrary to what you might think, and contrary, certainly, to what it looks like, these are not little orphan children. They are not saying "Please sir, may we have some more?"

What are they then? What were their reactions to my creative attempts at recycling pants into warmth? Though Emma was impressed with my expert craftsmanship (especially with the shoulder strips on her outfit), Sparki was not at all appreciative of my efforts to warm his tiny old man legs. He took off my creation immediately following this picture and stormed off. We didn't speak for hours.

Jess came home and I showed her the outfits. She was speechless, and in her silence, it was clear that we would have to find another way to save money and keep the little fools warm. The lesson? Unemployment often leaves you cold, but it will keep you laughing.

I finally got the pox

Remember in grade school when kids in your class started getting the chicken pox? Chicken pox parties weren't all the rage yet, so when this happened in my class, it happened slowly: one kid at a time. Despite best efforts of parents and teachers, however, chicken pox always found a way to it's next victim. I arrived at school every day just to see that another one of my classmates was missing: taken by the pox. One day, I got there and it was me and two other kids. I was beginning to think I would escape the epidemic unscathed when the very next morning, I awoke with the telltale itchy, red bumps...

I found the job I have now during the beginning of the economic crisis. As people left and right fell to lay offs and closings, I somehow remained employed with my, albeit shitty job. Around 10am this morning, however, I got a visit from the one-woman HR department. She came in, closed the door, and pulled up a chair before even saying a word. What the hell did I do now? I thought.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news..." she started.
Awesome, they're laying me off. I finally got the pox.

As it turns out, the office manager who quit wasn't keeping track of any of the financial records. At all. They thought that, for months now, they were making a profit, when really everything is in red ink. Why they trusted a new employee with all their financials without checking in on that shit every once in a while, I have no idea.

On top of that, all the projects that were coming in when they hired me never came to fruition because instead of conducting research, these companies are going out of business. No clients= no money, and we've heard all that before. The new guys get the boot, and that's me.

What can I say? I can't blame them. I would have fired me when I told them I was looking for another job. At least I got a few bucks out of it. I only hope I can collect unemployment, because I was only there for a little less than three months and I think you have to have been at your place of employment for six...I find out on Thursday.

I just hope this whole thing doesn't leave me with bodily scars, because man, the chicken pox sure did.