The man in front of me at Whole Foods put two items on the belt to purchase: a half gallon of ice cream and bottle of red wine. I nearly jumped in his basket, hoping he would take me home....
On a side note, to those of you celebrating, I wish you a Happy New (Fiscal) Year.
Now a (brief) sneak peak of next months entry: Summer of my German Scholar
A man has come into my life, whom I will refer to from now on as Mein Liebschen....more to come.
I fell in love today. With a man whose name (I think) is Barry. Barry (?) is a magician. Well, he is not just a magician; he owns his own magic shop on the main drag in my town. Now, how a magic shop stays open during a recession is a question for another time, but a few friends and I were passing by and, having always been curious about the store, we decided to wander in and spend a few minutes. As we climbed the dimly lit stairwell covered in portraits of Houdini (with eyes that followed you), hanging (plastic) chandeliers, and a wide array of handcuffs, candelabra, and other spooky “magicy” things, we found ourselves in a large, slightly dusty room with display cases all around of videos, card decks, trick gum, chattering teeth, and more top hats than in a Fred Astaire picture.
As my friends as I pointed and giggled at the various gags around the store, the magician in question invited us to his counter to watch him perform some tricks. For 30 minutes we were mesmerized by his skills as we chose cards, held collapsible wands, and had balls multiply in our hands. However, every time I looked into Barry’s (?) soft brown eyes, the most magical thing of all happened. I turned to metaphoric stone.
Unfortunately, there was an odd gentleman who ingratiated himself in our little group during the impromptu show. He had a penchant for invading personal space and generally creeping everyone out. This was obvious after knowing him for several seconds. When I joked about sawing my friend Molly in half vertically, the creepy man told me to be careful what I wished for because it could happen. Hmm, well, creepster I don’t think the chance of my friend actually being sawed in half is likely, but the comment had broken the spell, and I could almost hear the pixie dust of the magic in the air fade and fall to the ground.
We browsed a bit longer at the symbol playing monkeys, plastic banana peels, and stink bombs before leaving the store.
Gas to get to the magic store? $2.00
Trick gum? $5 a pack
Falling in love with a magician and having fantasies of being his assistant? Priceless.
Last week, I woke up to find that a zit the size of a quarter had erupted on my forehead. My attempts to cover it with mascara and pretend it was a third eye failed, so I just gazed at the ground while I talked to people and hoped that somehow no one would not notice the Post-it size blemish staring back at them.
While at work, I ran into a colleague of mine and as we chatted, I noticed her focus shift to my enormous, mountain sized pimple. She proceeded to tell me that “I had something on my face.” I responded that yes, I knew there was something on my face and quickly changed the subject. She continued, insisting that I had something on my face, as though I did not believe her. At that point, I saw a finger move towards me, which I ducked. Apparently this woman really wanted to touch whatever it was (HELLO A PIMPLE, ever had one??) that had made its home on my forehead. I shrugged away from her, and just lied; telling her that I had banged my head and it left a mark. She then launched into a 5 minute tirade on head injuries.
At this point, it was only 8:45 am.
When my family headed off to Ocean City, MD for vacation this past summer, I had looked forward to a week of Thrasher’s Fries, Trimpers amusement park, ocean fun, and of course, an inappropriately placed temporary tattoo.
As we piled into the family car and headed east, my dad pulled out ye olde state map, and commented on the picture of Maryland’s First Family on the front flap. The map was several years old and featured the likeness of Bob Erlich and family. After a chorus of hisses and boos (we are definitely NOT Erlich fans), we continued on our way and made it to the Carousel Hotel at 123rd and Coastal highway in about three and a half hours. As my dad checked in (commenting on the “good time” we had made) and my sister and I unloaded the car, my mom scampered over, telling me she heard “something about the governor” being here. No way I thought to myself, as this joint was certainly not the kind of place Gov. O’Malley, the super hip and hot current governor of Maryland, would be at. And I was right. It was not O’Malley.
An hour later, as we left the lobby of the hotel and walked up the three short stairs leading to beach, I felt compelled to turn around. I did, and there I was face to face with former Governor Bob Erlich, our noses nearly grazing one another’s (we basically Eskimo kissed). I exclaimed, “hey, you’re on my map!” He laughed and shook his head (though his perfect politician coiff did not move). He asked if I had it with me and I said no the map was in the car (duh). We continued up the stairs together until we got to my dad, several paces ahead, who too turned around and shouted “hey your on my map!,” at which point I promptly slapped my hand to my forehead in embarrassment. However, Bob Erlich seemed so happy to be recognized that he told us he would be in the restaurant eating diner, and if I wanted to bring my map in, he would sign it. I had actually not even considered getting his autograph, but now could think of nothing else. After all, he seemed so excited; it would have been a shame to disappoint him. I retrieved the map and 20 minutes later I ventured into the hotel restaurant looking for him. After circling several times, I found him and his family, who appeared to be about to order. I debated turning back, but felt I was too deep in to do so. I approached the table and just stood there as they passed the bread. When the basket got to me, I said no thank you and handed the map to Bob. He asked for my name, commented on how young his kids looked in the photo, and signed the map Governor Erlich.
Governor indeed.
Losing a pet is really hard. Losing someone else's pet is even harder. I had the pleasure to hamster sit once again for my favorite furry rodent, Meester Queso, while his parents were away for Christmas. My family always looks forward to visits from the friendly fellow, and this time was no exception. I brought him home and we played and played. I fed him peanuts and craisins. My dad patted his little kepi. My mom sang to him. My sister held him snugly in a clean white sock. I frolicked with him in the den. Well, I frolicked. Queso just ran back and forth happily on the couch, exploring the various dark crevasses that lead to the uncharted depths of the sofa cushions.
About 8 days into his visit, something changed. His disposition seemed to have shifted from cherubic to downright crabby. But a day or so later, Queso was back to his bubbly cheesy little self. However, last night, after scooping him up and feeling the absence of the usual warmth emitted by his flaxen fluffy body, I began to panic. I gently placed him back down into his saw dust lair and he began to wobble. As he attempted to take the first of three steps into his little wooden house, he fell over onto his back. I looked down at him, horrified by the sudden realization of how sick he was. I quickly righted Queso, and he managed to make it to his tiny sanctuary. I have not seen him since, nor have I heard the rustlings of that sweet creature in his nest.
The last time I experienced the death of a pet was when my hamster Costello died. I was 15 and had a rep in high school for being really in to hamsters (not that way pervs, I just have always liked animals. And Bob Dylan, but I digress). Mrs. Stork, my favorite social studies teacher, even gave me a card when she saw how upset I was over the death of Costello, having teared up during the class debate over the role of local vs. state and federal jurisdiction.
Ten years later, the sadness of losing a hammie is still intense, this time punctuated by the fact that at 6:00pm, after I return home from work, I have to then return Queso’s cage, sans Queso (or at least Queso’s soul), to his parents.
However, since Queso's death has not yet been confirmed, please keep him in your tiny thoughts and little paw prayers.
