An Acquired Taste

Psychophysiological Anaphylaxis

2011-11-27T13:29:00.000-08:00

Their shallow encasing mocked them. Their place, between the clownfish and anemone, mocked them. My presence mocked them, as did my day old makeup and the difficult decisions I ignored standing next to you in front of 27 jellyfish of various age, size, and phylum. Soft, and purposeful, a nearly undetectable deliberation under the pulsating ghostly glow. I wondered if the pain of their sting had more to do with a paralyzing hypnosis as they passed under a harsh fluorescent and approached the delicate place between my neck and chest.

You kissed my head and ear and cheek and I didn’t look at you, which I knew at the time was strange but I could not help myself. First I worried that I would look like someone typically interested in something beautiful. Then I didn’t care.

I’m sorry I ignored you when you said that scientists have evidence of jellyfish roaming the seas for about 500 million years. I read that plaque later so you’d think I was listening, which I had stopped doing altogether when you made the joke about the species of jellyfish that reproduce through the repeated release of sperm into the female’s mouth. I was also mad because you didn’t want a picture in front of the taxidermied bears where we first walked in.

They were thinking I didn’t deserve to look at them, probably. They wanted to kiss me with their nematocysts (also called cnidocysts) and cause me to tingle or collapse in agony, depending on their species. I’d like to think I could swarm and stretch my distal end as ambivalently in the gentle darkness, but know with extreme guilt that I prefer the tangibility of a foreign sting. You held me at the shoulders and said in my ear that we should leave as they crowded the spot where my breath fogged the class. Right before we walked on you touched your cheek to mine and stared and I knew you knew.

Jellyfish do not adapt to enclosed spaces. They depend on currents to transport them from place to place. Digital cameras flashed and children shrieked and my eyes adjusted to the light of the Seafood Safari food court. I took your hand and you smelled clean and I love you so much.

The Box jellyfish has 24 eyes, two of which are capable of seeing color, and four parallel brains that act in competition. This supposedly makes it one of the only creatures to have a 360 degree view of its environment. There is something so nice and so sad to knowing I will never have that kind of responsibility.

Twenty.

2011-06-04T10:54:00.001-07:00

Finals Week is knuckle cramps.
Finals Week is wanting to see everyone before they leave with all the clothes they bought in California.
Finals Week is not wanting to see anyone until you're sure you'll pass Statistics.
Your best weather and your worst hair, and collages of meals to avoid the grocery store.
Crying softly into your pillow until your roommate comes home.
Wondering if they cry softly, too.
Feeling the best you ever have recognizing someone in the library; hugging them and their worn out face and knowing things are a little better.
I need to cut my toenails.
A dirty bathroom (idon'tcare).
'I'm too busy,' then staring at the internet until it hurts.
Seeing the end and feeling it never come.

Finals Week starts with my birthday, every year.
Finals Week is here.
So bend over.

LOL, and other things I'll never text you

2011-01-30T22:54:00.000-08:00

I wonder what the world sounded like before that little mechanical sigh nestled itself warmly in to all its dips and curves. What food is supposed to taste like when it isn't fortified, new or improved. What would I look like without a microwave? How inconvenient must things have been to make immediate conversation so vital? It is now, you know. Here's my phone, next to me. I'm hoping it will light up and buzz so I'll know I'm not alone. I've got to show you this link - it's a riot. Look how clever I seem to you now. Respond. Impart a feeling to your keyboard in capslock so I'll know you're ironic. Make me a gif. SHOW ME A MEME. Contribute to that tech whisper (it's a gas, you know? I read about that on the inside of my oven. It's odorless and you can't see it but it'll kill you and your dog while you're sleeping. Except I always thought it'd be hard to know because nothing really tastes like anything anyway).

But for godssake not my face. Don't look at me and don't say my name. I need too much time to think of what to say and I'm terribly impatient.

Frayed.

2010-11-06T09:31:00.000-07:00

Because I’d wanted to be the kind of girl who wore a dress like that. I don’t know. Don’t ask I guess.

It was too hot even under the E-Z up tent and everything had a different smell. My fingers traversed worn silk lining of a creamy white pillbox hat with neat little netting, and I wasn’t listening to the woman in the fold up chair when she took a break from adjusting her own glittering spider brooch and vintage political pins to say ‘oh that belonged to so-and-so, only such-and-other dollars, a real deal, make a great gift.’ Thin handles of a grocery bag weighed comfortably on my forearm.

Its contents.

A small canvas on my balcony, a tall backless chair with evenly spaced rungs. Scratch – a small table and mismatched chairs on a rooftop. I’m sitting with a sketchpad and in my artistic passion don’t mind the smudges on my hands and probably a little on my face. Actually I’m obviously not even aware of them. The blue dress is hanging loosely and I’m not even wondering what it looks like when I drop my charcoal and it falls past the embroidered flower hem gracefully. My feet are definitely bare and my hair is a mess in the way that is still marvelous. I’m sipping something out of a mug, tea, and I’m using both hands.

Or.

Late afternoon and I’m reading a great book that not many people are familiar with. It’s a commentary on modern society told from the point of view of a kid’s goldfish and I’m thinking how they could never make a movie that would truly do it justice. Over there He’s beautiful and abstract and casually spinning a globe with one hand over his eyes and the other in a fist with one outstretched finger hovering in the small universe. The earth comes to a gradual halt and he’s in Berlin, potentially. I’m spontaneous (it’s why he loves me partly. It’s also that I’m completely witty and never say just kidding) so naturally we’ll leave immediately, as soon as he’s kissed me. He spins me once and we fall together red faced and smiling and I’m not worried the thin gold threading will get pulled from the handmade Indian pattern or that the slits on either side may be a slightly scandalous. A little sweat is evident under the arms of the billowy three-quarter sleeves, tastefully cinched with two buttons at the elbow. My feet are definitely bare and my hair is a mess; he’s telling me I look marvelous.

She’s set the hat price pathetically high and my head’s the wrong shape anyway. I’ve come to realize about a hundred things about her as I sneak out through heaving furs. The grainy powder embracing her drawn-and-erased face is frighteningly evident from a distance. She’s mumble singing Moonlight Bay.

It gives me a bit of a short torso. Also more ethnic looking than I’d hoped. I wore it once with a belt and it’s sharing a hanger with checkered capris in my winter coat closet.

pag ibig ko sa iyo (notmine, ofme)

2010-11-01T22:59:00.000-07:00

Untruth: A Satyr on Creation and The Blog.

2010-11-01T21:37:00.000-07:00

Blink blink Swish swash In out.

I'm discussing a paper on homoerotic undertones in The Importance of Being Earnest with my english professor. I smell very good and he's rubbing raw the brassy rings on his left hand. I'm lowering my voice slightly and making the claims I read on Wikipedia.

Toe ball heel Toe ball heel Blink blink Swish swash In out.

In the ground floor bathroom mirror I watch my hand coax product-glossed hair over my left shoulder. I'm untangling and keeping my back straight.

On the way home I recognize seven people and decide which of them I'll wave to.
My feet are connecting with ground and breaths, beats, blinks are measured.
My feet are connecting with the incline of a hill and the ascent is merely physical.
Sweat is threatening my composure; I pretend to shade my eyes from the sun prettily.
Someone beautiful walks past me and I refuse to look at them.

I'm waiting for my elevator with two strangers and suffocating a desire to indulge in the wall sized mirror behind.
I depress the sticky floor two button with a smooth manicured index finger, remind myself to google the precautions against and remedies for dry cuticles.

Heel heel Blink.

I wake up every morning to flattening irons and mascara brushes.
Outside my apartment an unnecessary building is being constructed.

Blogiversary

2010-03-14T13:05:00.000-07:00

Codica: Namaste

2010-03-13T11:33:00.000-08:00

“Aww, last day of volunteering guys…” we all joked with partial mock-sadness as we stepped up to Codica’s unlocked gate. We walked into “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and closed the door behind us.

Bill greeted me with a growl, followed by a sheepish smile. I sat next to Barbara, who introduced herself to me like she did every week. Alice, sitting between us, relayed our conversation and asked where the door was. Barbara told her to stop talking. Lidia insisted I eat four, exactly four, of her Goldfish crackers.

And I realized I had not met Everyone.

It was like, overwhelming. This sudden, massive urge to know everyone at Codica.
Lillian walks on the treadmill at 6 every night during Larry King.
Armin has carpultunnel in his right hand, which makes the paper cups utilized during snack somewhat cumbersome.
Betty is in cognitive decline. She told me.
Norma loves Trader Joe’s, Italian food, and professional baseball players.
Les likes redheads.

In a moment, everything felt different. I had the best time this week. I wasn’t hindered by the worry that my time wasn’t being spent constructively enough, maybe. I definitely felt connected. I love everyone at Codica.

Les said goodbye in his usual way.
“You’re the man,” with pistol fingers and a wink.

“…so, last day of volunteering…huh guys?”

Codica: Wednesdays 2:45-3:15

2010-03-06T11:24:00.000-08:00

‘I’m forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air…’

I sat between Lidia and Maggie, tried to pay attention to the smiling woman in the pink cardigan leading sing-a-long. Usually it’s fairly difficult not to follow Mila as she sings loudly top 40s of the 30s through 60s, especially since she had decided that every love song since ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’ was written about me, and ought to be sung that way.

‘They fly so high, nearly reach the sky…’

But I wasn’t keeping time with the clack of Mila’s nearly-designer heels. I was trying to figure out what the man in front of me was thinking.

Sitting directly in front of me was a man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere but within view of fifteen singing Codica members. A member himself, the gentlemen looked bored to say the least, and I wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t vegetative. He had been sitting on the sidelines (cyclically slumping, being righted by an aid, and moments later finding himself again in the crevice of his wheelchair) when Mila decided he should sit up front and lead sing-a-long instead. She noticed my gaze.

‘Then like my dreams, they fade and die…’

‘When he got here, Jack was playing piano and singing,’ she said, breaking character and allowing Dean Martin full control of vocals, ‘very talented.’ I glanced back in his direction; he was slumped in his chair again, gazing upward. I think Mila may have said it to impress, but the new knowledge hit me unpleasantly.

‘When did Jack first come here?’ I asked.

‘Three, four years ago.’ And then, registering the depression in my disposition, she added solemnly, ‘very sad.’

In a moment Mila’s voice was once again ringing, encouraging members to partake in the joy of song. Jack’s eyes met mine a few more times.

Sing-a-long concluded with a short karaoke recording of ‘Harvest Moon.’ Employees moved chairs to theatre style and inserted an ‘I Love Lucy’ cassette into the VCR. Jack ended up next to me.

‘Even so, I still like it okay.’

The whisper was hoarse and vague, but I’m sure I knew what he meant. He smiled and looked toward the television screen. He was humming.

‘…Pretty bubbles in the air.’

Adventures in Convalescence: Blindness

2010-02-27T15:16:00.000-08:00

“She must have been quite the flirt,” said Jack, Codica’s Yiddish teacher, under his breath to me mid-spin. He was referring to
Judy, a member dancing something between a tango and the running-man to an electric keyboard interpretation of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” She did something she called ‘bumping moons’ and said coyly, ‘I still am.’

Though it’d been over for half a week, Valentine’s Day seemed to have made a lasting impact on Codica’s members. Judy proceeded to bump at least three more moons before dance hour was over, Bill seemed to most definitely be holding Shelly’s hand at one point; even I was recipient of some affection.

“I died three times, but they brought me back so I could see you,” confessed a blushing Bob, my last dance partner. Lidia asked me if I had a boyfriend.

“No…,” I laughed a little.

“I do!” she exclaimed, eyes bright and mouth wide in a smile. “I met him at the Braille Institute.” Lidia is almost completely blind, and suffers severe cognitive impairment. She knows the words to every sing-along, and never wants to stop dancing. “We went to McDonald’s on Valentine’s Day.” She smiled peacefully and turned away. I was enjoying her excitement. “Maybe he can be the Dad to my son.”

“What?”

“I was raped by a black man. I had a son but he’s my color not black he’s twenty-eight years old. I haven’t seen him since I had him in the hospital he calls me, I’m seeing him on Christmas maybe.”

She was still smiling.

Lidia stood up to dance again, but I did not recover as quickly. Had it really happened, or was the episode a creation of cognitive impairment? Who was I to question her story? If Lidia was aware of ‘rape,’ and presumably then it’s unjustifiable invasion, why did she not seem more affected by the incident?

Lidia was still dancing.

The woman next to me, a member, leaned and whispered in my ear, “she moves like a headless chicken,” and chortled sardonically.

It was hard for me to stop holding Lidia’s hand when her ride came.

The ceiling wasn't enough.

2010-02-21T09:01:00.000-08:00

Adventures in Convalescence: Handicaps

2010-02-21T08:36:00.000-08:00

He glared at me from under a furrowed brow, and I stared back intently across the table. In a split second, our gaze was broken by a flash of yellow barreling toward the bridge of my nose. The beach ball hit the ground, and Bill exploded in triumphant giggles.
I was entirely glad I had chosen ball toss over yoga.
What had started as the gentle passing of a thin, plastic, inflatable sphere between seated members and a few volunteers had become all-out war, so dangerous that we had to call temporary truce every time an unprepared civilian entered. ‘Okay,’ an employed volunteer pleaded, ‘now let’s keep it friendly…’ Although Bill seemed to have a target right on my forehead, it was truthfully the friendliest I’d felt at Codica so far.
He nailed me again.
‘Alright, it’s on Billy,’ and I hurled it.
It hit him.
The coordinator gasped.
Bill, without missing a beat, curled his aggressive arthritic knuckles around the play toy and served it right back. He fell once again into peals of wheezy laughter at my skillful deflection.
The ‘game’ continued, and volunteers attempted to vary speed to ensure the involvement of a few members less enthusiastic than Bill. Tensions culminated with my inadvertent knocking off of Bill’s Codica cap – it seemed that neither of us would ever stop laughing. The only hindrance to our ecstasy was the fear of our coordinating volunteer (Bill’s face fell from joyous mock ferocity to frustrated confusion when she exchanged our yellow beach ball for a much less threatening balloon). I understand completely the fear of overexertion and stimulation, I just wish there wasn’t the need for such a consideration when the exercise brings so much joy. After a while, the beach ball was returned to the game.

Grinning, Bill served it with two hands toward the coordinator’s torso.

Codica: Adventures in Convalescence

2010-02-14T10:03:00.000-08:00

A rich tenor voice and opens arms welcomed us through the sticker-studded doors of Codica. Obviously, we were just in time for singalong. Our group was directed by staff to join in dance, sing, clap along, or simply sit and talk with members in a room expectantly decorated for Valentine’s Day. I took a seat next to a woman and introduced myself.
“Hi, I’m Kylie…”
“I know. I can read.”
I was slightly surprised. I didn’t realize I would offend her literacy with an introduction.
“Oh, of course. Sorry, I just put on the nametag a minute ago. Then you must be Barbara.”
“So you can read too.” I quickly realized she was not looking for a dance.
The conversation moved from its initial awkwardness to introductions (ones not stuck to my blouse), and I learned that Barbara had also been a student at UCLA. This commonality apparently established enough of a rapport to share her honest feelings of the show. “I feel like I’m in junior high,” she said, “and look at this guy’s shirt. It’s bizarre.” Pictured on his silk button-up was a knife-wielding anime character. I loved her spunk. She then looked out the door and said, “I’m actually just waiting for my husband. He had a lot to do today, but he said he’d be here at 2:15.” It was 3:00.
We continued to talk, but I could never truly tell if Barbara was warming up to me or just waiting for me to leave. Finally, she said, “You should go on and dance with someone, my husband will be here soon.” At this point the members were about to participate in yoga, and I left Barbara to take a seat between two ladies who only spoke French and insisted I respond in kind. They were both very good at the breathing exercises.
When we had finished I came back to Barbara’s side. She stared at me blankly, eyebrows furrowed. “Hello?,” she said gruffly. She looked out the door, “hey, my husband said he’d be here at 2:15. My name’s Barbara, can you ask if he’s called? I’m starting to get pretty worried.” She did not remember me. I found a staff member and informed her of Barbara’s concern. She smiled and said, “she says that everyday. Just tell her he just called and that he’s on his way.” I let her know and she thanked me, eyes fixed on the door.
When our group was introduced to Sara, Codica’s coordinator, I asked her about Barbara’s husband, who still had not shown up (it was now 4:00). Sara told me that Barbara had nearly no short term memory, and that it is almost always her son that picks her up, almost always at 4:15. She also told me that she didn’t fully agree with the answer I’d been told to give her by the other staff member. Barbara, I learned, is a member that seemed in every other capacity to have no cognitive impairment, and that many new volunteers shared my same initial impression. Although I knew that Codica was a day care center for mentally impaired elders, I was still surprised. I hadn’t known Barbara for very long, but the pain of a relationship lost to memory impairment had never been clearer to me.

The Sound A Giraffe Makes

2009-11-29T14:08:00.000-08:00

Next to the pool slowly eating an uncooked Pop-tart, just like yesterday, and tomorrow. The Coral Court’s six-foot deep kidney shaped ‘cove’ was magic in the early morning, sincerely. Smell of crisp chlorine completely evaporated since its last cleaning, overcome by cheap sunscreen, stale cigarette, youth, dead bug. Corrina watched flat gray leaves dance in the oil-tensed lake, reclined in a beach chair missing a few too many elastic seat bars to be comfortable, and decided that hot fudge sundae Pop-tarts were truly disgusting, would never be as satisfying as original. She did not consider whether her decision was more heavily influenced by nostalgia or tangible taste, and finished the plastic pastry with an unconscious hatred for all things that tried to be something they weren’t.
By now, the song she’d allotted to discipline her eating time was nearly through. It was Maps by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, just like yesterday, and tomorrow. She did not consider whether she chose it to more convincingly pretend that she had someone who would wait if she asked him to. Or maybe she did consider it, every morning for three minutes and forty seconds. Corrina brushed the contemplation from a carelessly ironed uniform and walked to her car, lingering only for a moment on the neon pop-art style goggles quiet at the bottom of the pool. She would like them for her niece, but she did not have a niece and so the matter was settled.
Beside the great, painstaking care she took as head Giraffe Mother at the Los Angeles Zoo, Corrina had to maintain the secrets of nearly all members of the ‘Zoo Croo.’ Most were small. Jason actually enjoyed the smell of elephant feces…but only a little. Kara favored Blake, a red and yellow anaconda, over the rest of the snakes in the reptile house; a perfect explanation for his antagonistic dominance. Some were larger. So large, so pivotal, Corrina did not even allow gossip between her own lobes and synapses.
One was precious. It was small and lovely and delicate.
Immoral, for certain; terrible, maybe. Thom, the docent for the koala exhibit, was inappropriately in love with their newest feeding volunteer, Allegra. Inappropriate, even in the minds of the enumerated two involved, because of a fifteen year age difference (the latter nineteen, the former thirty-four), and the complete romantic unavailability of the docent. Allegra was aware of this, and still was party to, on at least two occasions, a quiet kiss beneath indoor mock-Australian canopies. And, because Corrina was so renowned for her instinctual integrity, Allegra entrusted her with the bejeweled treasure.
“Corrina.”
“Yes.”
“May I tell you something?”
“Sure.”
“But you can’t tell anyone-and-I-mean-no-one.”
“Allegra, you know – “
“Yes. Okay. Well.” She bit her lip at this point, softly. “I kissed Thom. Well, NO, I mean he kissed me. There’s not much of a difference I guess. And-I-know-it’s-bad-he’s-so-much-older-he’s-got-a-girlfriend but I like him. And I definitely don’t know what to do.
Corrina’s cheeks reddened. She laughed a little twinkle. Little teenage secret. She was only a few years older than Allegra. “Well, I definitely won’t tell anyone,” the Zoo Croo held a strict ‘no dating within Croo’ policy. Allegra looked relieved…lost. She wanted some advice. Specifically, she wanted some approval.
Allegra had not told Corrina that she was fairly certain she loved Thom.
Then, she did,
“I’m fairly certain I love Thom.”
The confession did nothing to achieve her desired response. Corrina whispered excitedly with the Pretty Enthusiasm before returning to slow, inattentive brush strokes on the back of the least familiar giraffe. She thought, “youth is a dandelion,” and then swore she’d never try to be profound ever again.
That night, Corrina stopped at the pool before treading the stairs to her apartment. Someone had found the goggles, though the air did not smell like chlorine as she had expected.
She slurped her Chinese Feast (‘Chicken Lo-Meintenance’) loudly, a conscious effort to drown out the song rattling beneath dusty follicles, “…oh say say say oh say say say. Wait, they don’t love you like I love you. Wait – “
“I’m Home.”
In walked her savior. Keeper of her secrets.
“How was work?”
“Eh, you know. Koalas…they never do much. Missed you”
“Hope they change our hours so we can start carpooling again…” It was a tired dialogue, over rehearsed.
Then, a plot twist.
“I love you, Corrina.”
Though the emptiness behind remained. It was only a safety precaution.
“I love you too, Thom…”

“…they don’t love you like I love you” sang some bolder, unacknowledged part of her.

Just before he fell asleep, the two made love, though the euphemism was hardly an accurate description. Just like yesterday, and tomorrow.

Cutest guys I know.

2009-10-31T17:20:00.000-07:00

My little hilarious Brilliant Artist.

My little hilarious Genius Valedictorian.

My favorites. Dino and Beaver. Forever.

Ainsley (AYNES-lee)

2009-10-25T20:49:00.000-07:00

has one of the following:
a) great legs
b) a job at Whole Foods
c) a terrible crush

If you chose ‘c,’ you’re right because…

The baggers and checkers always talk. It’s unavoidable. They’re right next to each other all the time.

Ainsley learned this in a very special way. Ben whispered it to her quickly when Jackie Sward reluctantly floated to aisle twelve, where sticky organic syrup had spilled and puddled at the Whole Foods. ‘She never shuts up,’ he finished. A smile.
Ben was the reason Ainsley never got more than ten items. 4% milk, Baby Bell swiss cheese wheels, English muffins, whole fruit blackberry jam, a half dozen eggs, and, if they were in season, one of Ben’s secrets.

‘You know, half the stuff here’s near expired,’ he told her once, preceded by secret agent informant glances right, left, ‘they just put new stickers on until it really stinks or changes color a lot.’ He sniffed her eggs. ‘Looks like you already knew. You picked good ones.’

A smile. Hers.

And she’d never let him help her to her car, even though he’d ask her every single time. Careful steps through the lot to her mother’s van, where she was always ushered in from the heat and heavy load of grocery quickly. Unnecessarily.
So she savored Whole Foods.

Witnessing Ben’s suffering at another Jackie Sward suffocation, Ainsley hurriedly toted her Ovaltine, eggs, lunch meat, sternum, pelvis, and frozen peas to the ten items or less line. ‘Hi,’ she squeezed through creaking breaths, swollen teeth.

Jackie’s flirtatious smile shone sarcastically on Ainsley’s intrusion. ‘Ainsley, well hi. Can we help you?
Ben said nothing, greeted nothing. And everyone was all.quiet.all.business.
Truth: Jackie Sward does not shut up.
‘Gosh, Ovaltine,’ she said spinning the plastic jar delicately, like an antique, ‘Haven’t seen this since about the fourth grade,’ which was an incredibly stupid thing to say, as she saw it every day when she stocked about thirty of them between the Bisquik and powdered milk. Jackie smiled gorgeously.

Slow motion Ovaltine slip, accidentallyonpurpose.

Ainsley stumbled forward a little, unable to catch it in time. Ben moves. Jackie, so kind, gets there first.
‘Ainsley, now, you know you can’t reach. I’ll get that.
Ben smiled cordially at Ainsley’s fractured confidence. Ainsley made her way to the van quickly. Necessarily.

And so, with her great dislike for Jackie Sward, Ainsley never could figure what happened next. The Wednesday afternoon following this incident, Ainsley, not seeing Ben at any of the eleven checkout lines, went around the back of the Whole Foods to discover him fantastically busy shutting up Jackie Sward. With his tongue.

Ben saw Ainsley, looked like he wanted to have something good to say. Maybe.

It was increasingly often that Ainsley wished she could run faster, and that all parts of her were less susceptible to breaking.

If you chose ‘a,’ you’re wrong because…
Ainsley was clinically diagnosed with Osteomalacia, or Ricket’s disease, at the age of 7. Doctors finally concluded that the cause was a simple vitamin D deficiency in infancy, although all tests to confirm negated this theory. Sources close to Ainsley would later confess that, while she had been breastfed adequately, a lack of sun exposure due to her mother’s intense fear of global warming and ozone depletion made absorption of the vitamin impossible. This lack resulted in stunningly low levels of femoral calcium, and a pair of irreparably bowed legs.

If you chose ‘b,’ you’re wrong because…
In one Whole Foods excursion, Ainsley overturned a glorious display of holiday themed Oreos, stacked in a pyramid by Ike. Ainsley experienced constant difficulty in reaching anything above or below the very middle two shelves (for example, brown rice was a challenge, garlic salt impossible). This became so apparent that when she finally applied for a position there, a few employees (Jackie Sward, David Gingham, Tina Song) joked that all she’d be able to stock was peanut butter and jelly. (They all laughed hysterically at this on a number of occasions, though none of them truly thought it very funny). Ainsley was not ultimately hired, due to a downturn in the economy.

I had these up all over campus. Sincerely.

2009-10-23T16:02:00.000-07:00

Dance Magic.

2009-10-19T13:55:00.000-07:00

Post-Embryonic Asylum

2009-10-15T00:41:00.000-07:00

My world is a padded room.
And I really wish I’d never seen outside,
My ignorance could be bliss in the safety of
pillowed surfaces.
Maybe it’s for my own good.
I’ve gotten this far.
But I’ve outgrown that straightjacket that was so comfortable in infancy.
I want sharp edges -
yes, a little uncontrolled danger would be nice.
I want to fall and skin my knees.
No more complacency meds. Gimme some irregularity.
I want a window. I want to open it. No, I want to break that child safe lock!
You can’t stop me from finding that out
walking down that street at night.
All this time.
They thought those scheduled meals would help.
They just made me hungry.

Benjamin Moore HC-9: Mayan Cornsilk

2009-10-13T03:20:00.000-07:00

The walk home always made his face red. He was hot, chafing, and smelled like a gym full of himselves.

It’s because he was fat.

It was also because he’d run half his walk home today, a desperate attempt to escape the vicious tribal chant spreading like lice throughout 4th grade afterschool prisoner.
“…Tommy the Tummy….” swam in his head, made his mouth burn until it was full, so full of powder-mixed red Gatorade.
A chewy oatmeal chocolate chip granola bar.
After a few minutes uninterrupted by his DICK older brother Michael or some well meaning maternal interrogation, Tommy realized he was deliciously alone.

It was obvious what he must do.

In the back of her closet, behind expensive Vans sneakers and forbidden belly rings and secret stash, back from before she slammed the door and was so pale and never home, there was a gold Phantom of the Opera mask that Tommy’s beloved sister, Jenine, had been given by her 10th grade drama teacher for Theatrical Excellence. Jenine had always been special.

And Tommy’s most beautiful secret, the one that kept him breathing his heavy, shameful, fat-assed breaths, lie in her slender mouth and peeling gold acrylic.
Tentative, oh so delicate, Tommy removed the green paper mache lid from the Box of Wonder.
Perfumed lining. Dust. Lipstick. Weed.

The Gold Phantom.

Shone, crying, “Lift me. Love me.”

And just like that. Tommy was streaking through the house clad in mask and cape (which was slightly reminiscent of a Toy Story bedsheet, to the uneducated eye). Tommy tried to maintain stoicism at his glorious reflection.
He lay his back on cold linoleum in a fully veneered kitchen, and imagined what he’d hoped he could since his pencil broke during warm up and Katie said it was because he had ‘Fat Bastard’ fingers, which she’d seen in Austin Powers, a movie her parents allowed her to watch because she was very mature for her age.

In his mask and cape, Tommy swooped down from his school auditorium curtains to a convenient ledge. Beneath him was his entire class at an award ceremony that he, again, had not been invited to.

A momentary appreciation of light hitting a dangling chandelier. Cape raised above chin. Blade raised above rope.
Cut. Crash.

And for a moment, no one chants Tommy the Tummy.

Killar Pillar.

2009-10-09T16:55:00.000-07:00

Things I am tired of hearing since entering college.

2009-10-01T16:56:00.000-07:00

10. That was awkward.

9. Hella.

8. Random!

7. See what I mean about her?

6. I'd tear it up.

5. wat u up 2?

4. Imma let you finish, but…

3. Sorry, I was wasted.

2. Sorry, I was twisted.

1. I’m not gonna lie…

Addition: No homo.

Waking Up.

2009-09-30T21:10:00.000-07:00

Pessimism all day. Hot negativity, hard concrete. No UV relief. Shade withers under Sun’s invasive glare.
Then Moon overwhelms Sun.
cool enables gentle foreheads, easy smiles.
And stars whisper hope.

Why I Write.

2009-09-09T00:25:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I’m just overwhelmed with love for people. Once in a while (most frequently when I’m searching for escape from my own perspective) I just see people like maybe their mother sees them, that is, if their mother just absolutely adores every inch of them. Especially weird kids. Like ones with really bushy hair, or squinted nostrils, or wearing their underwear on the outside or something. And I start to really appreciate them. Maybe I love how youthful or genuine they are, or finally respect the confidence it takes to skip down the hall, especially when you’re six feet tall and no one knows your name. I want to hug these people more than anything. Really. I try not to look at them; I don’t want to taint their frivolity with self-consciousness. But I remember them. And I want to know them. And I want them to know me.
There is too much judgment, too many subjective opinions of the ‘norm’. These two girls, I know they hate me. They make gagging sounds when I walk by. I’ve never spoken to these girls in my life. I don’t know their names. They probably don’t even know mine. I have an unexpected affection for these girls, because they are. They exist, they have thoughts. They have some reason for their intense hatred, abstract as it may be. I want everyone to be what they are, and I want to know why they are.
My over-analytical mind suffocates on occasion. I don’t know if my desire for an understanding of others is that simple, or if it stems from a less conscious desire to escape my own reality. Most likely the joint efforts of exhaustion and compassion.
There aren’t many people that will ask a stranger to explain the complexities of their deepest thoughts and feelings. Likewise, there aren’t many people that would undertake such a massive inquiry. I don’t think it even crosses the minds of busy humans that they might like to know the man who sits alone on the bus, the girl who bags groceries with glazed over eyes. If noticed at all, these characters are written off as strange, interchangeable with a million other strange folks. With a camera, I tell strange folks’ stories. I want to learn that the man sits alone because he’s waiting for the girl that got on at the third stop, who always sat next to him, but hasn’t been there in weeks. I want everyone to know these folks. I want them to hold that knowledge when the temptation of blind judgment threatens to crease their brow and sour their hearts. And I want to tell my stories, feel the relief of an “I’ve been there” with someone I’ve never met, might never meet. I want to laugh. I want to laugh with everyone. Maybe people might not seek these answers on their own. But they might just watch a movie.

The Second To Last Time I Danced The Hora. - Part Deux

2009-07-01T19:04:00.000-07:00

My face lit up like the Maraschino from that Shirley Temple, and I couldn’t control the salty tears escaping frantically from my mascara-ruined eyes. I searched for words. There were none. My only coherent thought; how could he? The heat spread from my face and through my body, intensifying; sickening anger, overwhelming hurt. It was finally my turn. I’d been in drama club all year, a lowly seventh grader, playing parts like “Townsperson #4” and watching the eighth graders get all the coveted roles. I knew this procedure was standard, and I enjoyed learning and preparing for my day as an eighth grade leading-lady. And now it was my turn! Under his unwavering guidance, I was going to be a middle school star.
Mr. Mitchell didn’t know what to say either - for the first time. I didn’t want to be a child in front of him; I wanted him to know what he’d done. I never wanted to see him again; I wanted him to stay forever. I tried to pull myself together. “Like I said…good…I mean…” I ran to the bathroom, past hundreds of confused men in yamakas, followed by my friends.
I spent the rest of the night listening to muffled karaoke through the bathroom wall, in the arms of various friends and the occasional stranger. I felt awful for making such a scene, but I didn’t want to look at him. My thoughts fragmented; he was the coolest teacher. It was my turn. We were friends.
I kept thinking I would pull myself together, have a humorous chat with Mr. Mitchell, and enjoy the rest of the party like an adult. I never could go out and face him.
He didn’t seek me out, either.

The Second To Last Time I Danced The Hora.

2009-06-25T10:06:00.000-07:00

As we watched him walk through the heavy polished oak door, wife and daughter in tow, nothing else mattered. Not the blisters surfacing on my new-to-heels feet. Not the residual burn in my throat from a poorly made Shirley Temple. Not the realization that the door was not polished oak, but actually covered by a thin veneer, as evidenced by some slight peeling in the corner. Everything in the unseen universe faded away as he approached our trembling hearts and stupid anticipatory grins. I knew he would say something funny.
“Hey guys, how’s it going?” We exploded in peals of laughter. It didn’t matter what he said. He didn’t need to gain our approval - we all craved his.
I decided to be brave and speak first. Why should I be nervous? I was Mr. Mitchell’s favorite student, and the probable star of his Drama Club’s first production of the school year. And this wasn’t one of those nerve-wracking parent conferences or anything, it was a Bar-Mitzvah. I was at a party with the coolest guy I knew. Everything was great.
“Hey Mr. Mitchell. Yeah, everything was great. Until you showed up,” I said extremely coolly, followed by an equally nonchalant eye-roll. I knew he would appreciate such mature sarcasm.
“Well, you won’t ever have to see me again. I’m moving to teach at Eisenhower Middle School.” See, I knew the humor would follow. Eisenhower was our rival school; our rejoicing at defeating them in a drama competition was the stuff Hollywood-underdog-endings are made of. Mitchell, teaching there? He truly was hilarious.
“Thank GOD,” I replied. “We can finally get somebody qualified to teach us.”
“Kylie, I’m serious.” His tone had not changed, but I knew those slightly-flared nostrils. He wasn’t lying. I thought I would be okay. Then I thought I would throw up.

The exciting/embarassing/nearly life changing conclusion to follow!

About The Author.

2009-06-20T11:21:00.000-07:00

Okay. So it doesn’t generally get personal at An Acquired Taste, but some occasions are too momentous to go unmentioned.

I graduated yesterday.

That’s it.

Okay, not really.

Mendelsohn hugged. Lawler sniffled. Morrison said ‘fuck’, and wore a skirt; the former expected, the latter an entire surprise. Kyle Blumberg gave me a condom expressing the poignant sentiment, “2009, Damn We’re Fine.” I gave a speech and Nikki cried. [My mother, I’m sure, would like for me to note that it was a valedictory speech, otherwise this information would remain unshared, I assure you] I stayed up all night at Disneyland with the Best and the Brightest. In short, It’s A Small World has never been so hilarious, or so metaphoric. Upon arriving back home, absolutely could not sleep. To Denny’s with the cream of the crop. Had my coffee with cream. An Entire Grand Slam, Devoured [a first]. Home. Dad cried [a first].

Then I finally slept. For Fourteen Hours.

And it is only now that I can thoroughly reflect on the whole event.

Only now, I don’t really want to.

Those of you who experienced it with me will understand why. Those of you who didn’t, I’m not sure any stretch of my vocabulary can do the whirlwind justice. I would just like to say that I love my class. I love my teachers. I love the bus driver who wrongfully accused me of mimicking his accent. I love that my faulty keyboard will not type the letter “o”. I love how I realized today how often I type the letter “o”. I love everyone I took a picture with. Really, truly, sincerely, vehemently. I would say that I’ll miss you, but that assumes no future contact. And, with the exception of maybe that bus driver, that is simply not an option.

“We’re the class of 2009. We made it ours. And we made it.”

Home Street Home

2009-06-08T22:59:00.000-07:00

Technically
Guess I owe it to the slow town to call it home.
There I’ve seen so many firsts, worked so hard
And Withdrawn.
But I love my rural pocket of isolation
When hot concrete and overbearing ambition suffocate
I can always go back and be no one in Tujunga.

For Skye.

2009-05-28T22:45:00.000-07:00

So, like a fool overwhelmed by the magic of college plans and too many appetizers, I did not get your contact info. When you visit here, please leave some sort of way I can get back in touch with you.

Everyone not Skye, I'm sorry. This is not a valid post. Everyone that is Skye, it was stellar meeting you.

Any she.

2009-05-23T20:23:00.000-07:00

It was Iron Man. It was a gospel version of the song Iron Man. Why?

Even something so peculiar as a choir of Christ lovers harmonizing semi-satanic heavy metal couldn’t take her mind off the lump of bran cereal and soymilk currently curdling in her large intestine. Which was only a byproduct of the adequacy currently curdling in her confidence.

“Hi, this is Bryan, leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

She’d left a message. Four hours ago.

And an e-mail.

And a nonchalant picture comment.

And waited.
And now she was passing his winding street, wondering if it was stalkerish to knock on your boyfriend’s door without warning or invitation. Everything should be okay. No reason to think otherwise. It actually didn’t bother her too much, maybe. She’d like to be above those superficial teen infatuations. She used to feel so wonderfully separate from that unrealistically glorified thing ‘romance.’

She didn’t even like him all that much. Sincerely.

Yes, and she did feel rather ridiculous when her caller ID read Bryan seconds later.

It Rains.

2009-05-20T21:33:00.000-07:00

Oven home to mile-high-apple-pie,
Pounds of fruit peeled the night before
When raindrops were falling seeds.
Tea kettle sings, I miss sunny pleasantries exchanged by birds a little less.
A rainy day is so easily cliché.
I love to wash my hair hard rainy nights.
Rain within a Rain.
I know it’s strange.
A rare, strange, simple, smiling
Moment.

The Paradox of Patriotism

2009-05-20T10:49:00.000-07:00

Being an American means I have the freedom to describe it cynically. It also instills me enough loyalty and gratitude to feel guilty for contemplating doing so. I can choose. How I want to dress. What I want to say. Who I want to love. What I want to do. What I want to eat. I can make money doing nearly anything. I am constantly faced with options, many of which lead to positive outcomes. I am also trained in the mindset that encourages me to begin all these sentences with ‘I.’ Never say anything that might offend anyone. Don’t spank your kids. Please mom? Well, alright. How do you feel? The myriad opportunities make it easy to assume that you’ll succeed just because you’re you. The freedom and choice that comes with being an American is delicious. But why does one deserve it? Perhaps all humans deserve these infinite daily opportunities, but as Americans, we have come to expect it, and feel deprived without its constant offer.

Double-Twist-Cradle (or, how I found out I had osteopenia)

2009-04-22T17:10:00.000-07:00

Keep in mind, first person narration does not always indicate the author's perspective...

I don’t want to do this. This can’t be safe. I mean, these girls won’t even carry their backpacks filled with more than mascara and a cell phone. How are they supposed to hold me over their heads for thirty seconds singing an uplifting cheer about our disappointing football team and grinning painfully, all while looking absolutely gorgeous?
I don’t know. Maybe it’ll be okay. Jessica’s been in cheer for two years. She can probably handle it. ‘Okay. I’m ready’ I say. My three bases tighten their ponytails and assume battle positions. I step into their soft, vulnerable hands, considering the millions of possibilities for broken bones in a human’s body, and wondering who the hell decided cheerleaders should not wear padding. I decide not to pick my ever-increasing wedgie, then deeply regret it. ‘Go! Fight! Win!’ scream the girls who I’ve entrusted with my skeleton. I am lifted into the air with force and speed, and my fear dissipates. Slightly.
I hear far away, ‘Crap! My nail polish chipped.’
My left side wavers in her hands. The other girls try to reassure her, but it’s too late.
And those stereotypes drop me.
And yet, I feel fine.
And then, as I recognize the scratchy feeling under my skirt as pom-poms, I realize why. The girl, the weird one with the long red hair that always wears high-heels to school, is underneath me.
I’m pretty sure her nose hadn’t bent that way before.

Crush

2009-04-05T12:18:00.000-07:00

Amporn Yudsowan is Thai. She is not very beautiful. She doesn’t love anything anymore.
Amporn’s parents divorced three days after her eighth birthday. They continued to live together until her mother found a small apartment in downtown Los Angeles. It was near enough that her father could visit, a freedom he chose not to take advantage of. But Amporn didn’t mind, maybe. The separation had only intensified her mother’s affection, and Amporn was indulged in many nights of cold Pad See Ew noodles and gentle strokes against her slick black hair from lonely hands. More frequently she was allowed to sleep in her mother’s bed, a privilege expressly forbidden by her father. She loved her mother dearly.
She began to drop Amporn off in the morning with her uncle, aunt, and cousin. While her mother looked for shops to cashier or wealthy women to clean for, Amporn would play Snow White with cousin Jaidee. Her aunt made them bananas in coconut milk while they watched Disney movies, arms linked. One day when her mother dropped her off, only her uncle Kamol was there. She hardly knew him. He led her in. Something about his smell and they way he closed the door made Amporn sick inside. He followed her to where she was sitting watching TV on the living room floor and sat beside her. Amporn froze, tried to concentrate on The Little Mermaid as Kamol removed her elastic-waist jeans and threadbare flowered panties. When Kamol finished, he gave Amporn back her clothes, and brought her an Orange Crush soda in a glass bottle. Amporn’s father worked in an Orange Crush bottling factory. She kept the bottle cap.
Amporn couldn’t tell her mother. Amporn already felt responsible for the split with her father; she couldn’t bring herself to ruin another man her mother depended on. Women in her culture were valued for their silence. Amporn didn’t understand how her mother could love Kamol, how she could leave Amporn there with him. Amporn stopped sleeping in her mother’s bed.
As her mother breathed warm sleep, Amporn lay awake on hard carpeted floor. She walked through the kitchen to the tiny bathroom, turned on the light. She looked in the mirror. Midnight-lake hair. Big brown almond eyes. Too big nose. Thin pink lips. Kamol was all over her. Even when everything was gone, she’d still had the reassurance that her face, plain as it was, was her own. Now the family resemblance was unavoidable. He’d been inside her, and now she’d see him forever in her round cheeks and long neck. She hated him. She hated her mother. And now, she hated herself.
Amporn stepped softly to the unpacked boxes, and found the small green one. She opened it. Amporn examined the shiny multicolored metal of hundreds of Orange Crush bottlecaps. Grape. Strawberry. Lemon-Lime. Blue raspberry. Ginger beer. Chocolate. Every Friday since he’d started there, her father had given her another new flavor. It was something special. She’d kept every one.
She would always walk with her head low; not out of shame, but in search. She spotted one – a Peach Orange Crush bottle cap. Amporn wondered if her father had touched this one. Amporn stepped softly, not to disturb the park sand. She passed a funhouse mirror beneath a faded plastic slide. Her warped image comforted Amporn. The reflection made her legs unrealistically long. Somewhere in Amporn’s mind, past years and galaxies and a thousand untold secrets, Amporn’s long legs and neck became features on a Sub-Saharan giraffe. No one saw her face above the acacia trees. This will be her favorite place.

The Pity Date - Part 4: The Exciting Conclusion!

2009-04-04T21:49:00.000-07:00

“So anyway, where were we, music?” I tried again. I was sure he liked something other than video game theme music. “Don’t you like the Red Hot Chili Peppers?” “Whatever gave you that idea?” Well, what gave me that idea was that everyday since the ninth grade he had worn a Red Hot Chili Peppers sweater. That’s what had given me that idea. But pardon me for jumping to the conclusion that just because you wear a band’s merchandise every day that you might at least have some fondness for their music. “Well, you wear their sweater every day,” I said very sweetly. He sighed and shook his head and looked at me as though he were about to explain something to a retarded child. “That’s only because their logo is worn by the warrior elves in “Glenderry Clan.” Oh, stupid, stupid me. I should have realized that you don’t wear merchandise of something you like. You buy merchandise of something you hate and pretend it’s of something you like. Of course. “Well, personally,” I said, “ I like the oldies. That’s what’s so cool about his place, all the old songs that they have in the mini jukeboxes. Like, well, this one’s not so old, but I still really like it.” I said the last sentence while slipping a nickel into the jukebox slot and pressing the buttons for “Girl’s Just Wanna Have Fun”. I figured If Cindy Lauper couldn’t make me happy, no one could. Unfortunately, my nickel never made it to the slot. Just as I reached to drop it in, Alex’s hand came crashing down upon mine and knocked the nickel from it’s course. “Why’d you do that?” I said to Alex in disbelief. “These machines are such a waste of money,” he replied, bits of hamburger flying from his mouth. I didn’t even bother wondering what his problem was. That was a waste. “Hey waiter. Waiter. WAITER!,” said Alex as the waiter sauntered in slow motion to our table, flipping his hair softly and smiling as he walked. “Everything okay guys?” he asked. Yes, everything is fine. Everything is fine as long as you are here, supreme, magnificent waiter. “Actually, where is your bathroom?” asked Alex. Could it be? Might I actually get a moment to myself? “Sorry, ours is busted. There’s one in the food court I think’s still open.” “Okay. I’ll be back Suzy.” As if I was worried. He walked away and when finally he could no longer be seen, I breathed in and out deeply. I was so exhausted from trying to please everybody all night. If he really hated me as much as it seemed he did, why didn’t he just leave? Then, from somewhere behind me, I heard, “This one’s for the dazzling lady with the almost certainly bad tipper for a date at table 6,” in a classic DJ voice. Then, I heard the slightly annoying whine of Cindy Lauper’s voice ring out all over Johnny Rocket’s. The waiter sat down at my table where Alex had been. “You wanna know a secret,” he said very seriously. I nodded. “Our bathroom is in perfect working condition,” he said. “Well that’s extremely thoughtful of you, but he’s gonna be back any second and I wouldn’t want to see him explode at you for having the audacity to breathe his air.”
“Oh, he won’t be back for a while. See, that’s the rest of the secret. I’ve been planning this all along. I put laxatives in his tea.”
“No you didn’t!”
“No, I didn’t.” This guy was cute, funny, and had good damsel in distress instincts.
“So what, did’ya lose a bet or something ?” he said with a smile.
“No,” I started with a sigh, “This date of my own free will.” I realized it was the first of many times I would be asked this question.
“So, um, why?” he said seriously.
It was the same question I had been asking myself all night. “I was always told to not judge a book by its cover.” I shrugged it off, not entirely believing it myself.
“Well then what are you supposed to judge it by?”
You know what? That really made sense. Just because Alex dressed like a nerd didn’t mean he was one, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t one either. In trying to give him a fair chance at a date, I had let him walk all over me.
“Oh Dr. Phil, is there any way to get out of this now?” I pleaded with my waiter in mock distress.
He curled his index finger and raised it to his chin. Really, it was a very good Dr. Phil impression. Almost as good as my Mr. T. “Has he done anything illegal?” he asked seriously.
I tried to think. He hadn’t come within arm’s distance to me all night.
“No, he’s been a perfect gentleman,” I said dejectedly.
“Well, then I’m afraid you’re stuck for at least another twenty minutes. But I’ll be here same time tomorrow. Maybe we could continue our session then?”
Before I could answer, he got up from the table, but winked as he left. I saw Alex coming back over, and I was sorry that I couldn’t talk to our waiter more. But at least now I had hope. It would be over soon. And maybe I’d come see that waiter tomorrow. After all, he had witnessed, first hand, my incredible suffering. He at least owed me a pity date.

The Pity Date - Part 3

2009-03-31T15:46:00.001-07:00

So they finally let us into the theater and apparently we got really good seats because Matthew didn’t complain at all. And Alex, who really hadn’t spoken much to me since we’d gotten there, sat right down next to me and gave me his jacket.
“It’s gonna get pretty cold”, he said looking down.
“Aww, thanks Alex.” Wow. He was gonna let me get girl cooties all over his jacket. This was a pretty big step.
So then the movie started and everybody got really quiet and the whole theater went dark. The titles came up and everyone clapped. My eyelids started to feel like lead.
The movie was kind of a blur. Grakken made plans to defeat Lord Chlamydia, Jolinya appeared in something skimpy, and that was basically it. Oh! But what was actually even remotely cool was at the end, you find out who Lord Chlamydia is, and it’s Mr. T! And then, to add utter ridiculousness to this whole sad movie, you find out that Lord Chlamydia is actually Grakken’s dad. Can you even believe? Wow. What a shocker.
So then after the movie, I didn’t want to insult these guys by telling them how badly their movie sucked. So I said, “Wow. That was pretty cool, huh guys?”
The looks of anger and absolute hatred they had given me before paled in comparison to the ones I received now. Christ. These guys really must have gotten a kick out of making me feel like an idiot. Really, what had I ever done to them?
“Are you kidding? It was an entire disappointment. From start to finish I had the intense urge to vomit.”
I looked around and was unpleasantly surprised to find that it was not Matthew that had made the comment, but Alex. Alex, who had ASKED ME OUT ON A DATE.
“Yeah. I hated it too. I could barely stay awake.”, I said. Even if they did hate me, at least we were now all on the same page.
“You didn’t even do it the justice of staying awake?”, asked Matthew disgustedly. Did he do it on purpose, just so he would never have to agree with me?
“He is a vile terror, and must be handled with caution,” said Todd. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about me, Alex, Matthew, or the movie.
“So Suzy, do you wanna go eat or something?”, asked Alex.
OK. I don’t even know what the hell is wrong with this guy. He’s a jerk to me all night with the one exception of letting me borrow his jacket (which, I may add, smelled like tuna and peanut butter), and he expects me to continue this pathetic little attempt at a date? I seriously don’t know what his malfunction is. Moreover, I don’t know what my malfunction is, because I went with him.
So here I am, 11:07 p.m., in the Johnny Rockets in the Burbank Mall, sitting in a really marvelous red vinyl booth, with a bi-polar jerk that can’t decide between two hamburgers, and a waiter that is actually a total babe. Really, I promise I will never again do a good deed for someone unpopular ever again.
“Just get the Smokehouse,” I said. “That way, you can pick off the mushrooms and cheese on one side and It’ll be just like the original.”
“Greasy?”, said Alex. Really, how stupid of me. I should’ve known better.
“Ok, then I’ll get the Smokehouse, and you can get the Original, and if you want we can share.”
“That’s a good idea,” said the waiter to Alex, as if he were a tiny saint on his shoulder. Alex looked up at him meanly.
“Well if you think it’s a good idea than I guess it must be,” Alex said with sarcasm clinging to every word.
“Ok, then I’ll just get you guys your burgers,” said the waiter uncomfortably, wondering what he had done to invoke this guy‘s wrath. God, he was cute.
“Chagh.” Man, wasn’t this over yet?
“Well that was a waste of two hours and eight dollars.”, said Alex.
“Yeah. But it was kinda cool when it turned out that Mr. T was James Franco’s dad. Have you ever seen Mr. T do that thing where he goes ‘First name, “Mr.” Middle name, “period.” Last name, “T”? It’s really funny.” Now Alex was looking at me like I was crazy. I had just done a spectacular impression of Mr. T, and all he could do was stare. I can’t believe I thought he would think that was funny. “Umm, no I have actually never seen that before.” “Oh.” This was seriously uncomfortable. The pressure of the silence hit my ears hard as I tried to think of what to say next. As if he could hear my thoughts, the waiter came and asked if we wanted refills. I said no. Alex said yes, rather rudely actually. I think this must have been, like, his seventh iced tea or something. “So, what kind of music do you like,” I asked. Music, the great equalizer. Perhaps we could find some common ground here. He brightened at the chance to talk about himself. “Well, I really like the Zelda theme songs, and the Halo and Halo 2 background music. It’s on my Ipod. You wanna hear?” You know the sound they play in horror movies when someone is being repeatedly stabbed? That is the sound that played in my head as he offered me one of his headphones. They were the kind that you have to stick all the way inside your ear, and they were covered in wax and pocket lint. I could actually feel my brain hold it’s breath. “Oh, no thanks. Sorry, but I just got over an ear infection.” “Oh, okay,” he said rather sadly. He put the nauseating headphones back in his pocket. Really now, it was a matter of my own health and personal hygiene. Anyone, even Alex, would’ve done the exact same thing in my situation. Then the waiter came over with our burgers. I realized how hungry I actually was. “See what a mess it is?”, said Alex after the waiter set the Smokehouse down in front of me. Actually, it was not a mess at all. It looked really delicious. “So, does that mean you don’t wanna split it?” I asked. “Did I say that?” he retorted. Did he want to take me out on a date? Or did he just do it so he could feel superior all night? “You haven’t really said anything yet.” I was deciding whether or not I wanted to get mad. I didn’t. Instead, I just cut half of my burger and gave it to him. He reluctantly did the same.

The Pity Date - Part 2

2009-03-22T10:20:00.000-07:00

So when we got to the movie theater, it was only like, 2:45 or something. Only then did it hit me that I would be spending five hours with this boy and all of his friends.
Five hours.
Five hours.
Five awkward, lonely hours, waiting for this stupid movie to start.
Even as early as we were, we were still seventh in line. It didn’t really matter to me. Like I said, this movie was a total Star Wars rip off. The only real selling point of it was that it starred super babe James Franco as Grakken, the leader of the rebel army. I could watch him play golf for two and a half hours and not get bored. But, as it happened to be, I was not watching James Franco play golf. I was sitting with the most uncomfortable, uninteresting people in the whole world. For five hours.
For the first hour, I tried to learn everyone’s names. There was Matthew, he was kinda short and pudgy. His hair was very light blonde and pulled into a ponytail behind his soft pink ears, and his dark blue eyes were slits in his round, doughy face. He was wearing his “Grakken” T-shirt, in honor of the special day. I think he hated me, maybe.
Then there was Steven. He had oily, tan skin that reminded me of the way a turkey looks after it’s been basted. Steven wasn’t too tall, but he was really gangly. His curly black hair was cut short, and he had acne all over his face and neck. He, too, wore a “Grakken” T-shirt, only where Matthew’s had depicted a gory war scene, Steven’s was of the mega hot alien princess, Jolinya. He was actually pretty decent to me, but a little jumpy.
And last there was Todd. This guy was seriously queer. He was completely pale, I might have even thought he was albino if his hair hadn’t been jet black. He was tall and bony, and his eyes were big and dark. He was actually pretty good looking, except he was dressed in full Grakken garb, with metallic-green space-age armor and weapons and everything. But the really weird thing about Todd wasn’t how he looked or what he wore, but what he said. He only spoke in “Grakken” quotes. I swear. He would only say something if it had been said in one of the “Grakken” movies. Can you seen now why I was having second thoughts? I’m really not a mean person, I don’t even think I’m any better than any of these guys. But would you have jumped at the chance to spend an evening with these future mother’s-basement dwellers?
So like I said, for the first hour I pretty much tried to remember these guys’ names and find some interest that we shared so I wouldn’t look like a stuck-up princess that thought she was too good for these social bottom-dwellers. Because I really didn’t. I had no problem hanging out with these guys. I just wished we had more to talk about.
“So”, I said to Alex, my date, “You guys are all pretty into ‘Grakken’, huh? I had never met so many angry stares in all my life. It wasn’t as if I were actually so dense that I couldn’t tell that these guys liked this stupid movie. I was just starting a conversation. Maybe no one had ever tried to start a conversation with them before.
“That is an intense understatement”, said Matthew, rolling his eyes as if it pained him to keep them fixed on me. “We are more than ‘pretty into’ it. Couldn’t you tell? Or had you not noticed Todd’s attire?”
Man this guy was a jerk. Who the hell peed in his Cheerios? “Oh, sorry. I thought it was a fashion statement. I often wear green metal to parties just because I know that no one else will. I guess I’ll have to find a new way to stand out.”
“Ha, yeah”, Alex laughed nervously. He looked at me and gritted his teeth. I looked around. Could he possibly be angry at me? There was no way this was happening.
“I detect a strong aggression in this novice”, said Todd with a sly smile. These guys had got to be kidding.
“Hey, I know”, said Steven, a little too happily. “Why don’t we explain ‘Grakken’ to Suzy. You know, so she can follow what’s going on.” He reminded me of the host of a kid’s TV show or a camp counselor something.
“Wow, would you guys really? That’d be great”, I said with absolutely no sarcasm.
“Yeah, good idea Steven”, said Alex.
“I suppose if we must”, said Matthew.
“It would be our supreme honor to set you on the path to enlightenment”, said Todd.
And so the three began to tell me the story of Grakken and his travels through space. Now, I really did not care a thing about Grakken or this movie or anything. But I knew that it would take these guys at least five hours to explain that whole thing to me, and in letting them do so I could avoid any more uncomfortable conversation starters.
So here’s what I gathered from what they told me about this seriously asinine movie: Grakken, our hero, was born into a peasant family. The evil Lord Chlamydia (it’s pronounced Kla-mi-die′-uh. I made the mistake of laughing and was almost pummeled by Matthew) is his arch nemesis. Under different circumstances I would have asked if he was ruler of the Herpes Cluster near Uranus, but now I didn’t dare. On the day of his birth, Chlamydia destroys his planet, but at the last minute he is saved by the man that will later tutor him in the ways of the Tarok. So anyway all the movies are about Grakken and his fight to defeat Lord Syphilis or whatever, and in every movie he almost does, but at the last minute he always gets away or clones himself or something. So that’s basically it. Oh, and there’s always bound to be loads of sexual tension between Grakken and Jolinya. And that’s really all there is to Grakken. I really don’t see why that took five hours.

Can Suzy's night get any more uncomfortable? Or will Alex surprise her? The teen-anxiety continues next week!

I want to hear what you think! Comments are more than welcome, even anonymous ones :)

The Pity Date - Part 1

2009-03-14T17:37:00.000-07:00

Searching intently, his eyebrows furrowed so deeply that it seemed as though they were hesitant lovers, pining for a secret embrace. “Smokehouse…original… smokehouse…”, he murmured softly into the shiny laminated menu of the Johnny Rocket’s in the Burbank Mall. He had been trying to decide what burger to eat since we’d sat down. “I mean, the Smokehouse, it’s got mushrooms and cheese, which I love,” he was looking at me now, and speaking in a louder voice, “But it’s kinda greasy. But the original, it’s got tomatoes, and ketchup, and mayonnaise. I guess what I’m saying is, it’s never let me down, you know?”
I didn’t know. I really hadn’t the faintest idea of what that guy meant by anything he had said to me since he had asked me out. “Yeah.”, I said. I just wanted him to choose.
His eyebrows resumed their lusty affair as he once again stared at the sticky plastic menu. I couldn’t understand how anyone could do this. I mean, the waiter’s been standing here for like, ten minutes already, and it was already pretty late, like almost eleven or something. When we walked into the mall, all the stores already had their little security gates down and everything, but he still insisted on Johnny Rocket’s. Half the lights were already off when we walked in, and they were cleaning the tables and everything. But he sat right down in one of those super neat red vinyl booths and asked to see a menu. Now I really just wanted to go home.
I couldn’t even remember why I had said yes to the guy. I mean, physically he was definitely tolerable, perhaps even mildly attractive, but his social ineptitude much outweighed his pleasant physical attributes. He was tall, probably around 5’9”. His light, sandy brown hair was in a sort of a modern bowl cut that came a little over his ears, but was parted in the front to reveal his darker brown eyebrows. His skin was pulled tight over his long, swooping forehead and beak-like nose. His cheekbones were high and his whole face was covered with light acne.
When he walked up to ask me, he looked really nervous. He wore dirty jeans and a T-shirt that said “PC megabytes” with the italics and everything. He looked down the whole time and was rubbing his scalp raw with trembling hands. I was sitting and waiting for the bus, and I think I knew he was coming for me. Maybe it was because he would only look at me when he thought I couldn’t see him, or maybe it was how all his friends would kinda punch him in the arm when I’d walk by, but I just knew. I also knew that this moment was pretty much inevitable, so I wasn’t at all surprised when he came to an abrupt halt right by my side.
“Chagh”.
That was his super suave start to what I could already tell would be an extremely romantic event. The sound that he made was somewhere between a gag and a low, grumbling cough. But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even make a disgusted face. In fact, I smiled at him really politely. “So hey.”, he says to me, still looking down, “Hey, ‘Grakken 5, the Rebel Army’ comes out tomorrow, and a bunch of my friends and I are going, I wanted to know if you wanted to go with us. I mean, with me. Like, on a date. We wouldn’t even have to sit with my friends if you don’t want to.”
Well, to tell this guy the truth, I wouldn’t like to go. I wouldn’t like to sit for two and a half hours through some Star Wars wannabe movie and then sit through another two and a half hours while he and all his friends grumbled about it, and then have some awkward ride home while this guy just coughed or gagged or scratched his head or something. No! No I would not like to go.
“Sure, I’d love to go. And of course I’d sit with your friends. That sounds like a lot of fun.”
“Ok. Cool. Good. Yeah it’s gonna be really fun. And I didn’t mean to offend you or anything. Of course you can sit with my friends and stuff.” God, this guy was really suffering. Just then, he looked up at me and I saw his eyes for the first time. They were kinda dull brown, generic eyes, nothing too interesting. But deep in the brown, there were flecks of this pure blue. It was really nice. But his eyes were so big and sad and in that moment I knew that I had made the right choice in saying yes. I knew that by saying yes, I had just granted him instant credibility with all his friends for, like, ever. Not that I’m so particularly amazing or anything, just that having a date at all would definitely be something his buddies could marvel at. “Ok, yeah I’ll just take you right from school because it shows at eight, but we gotta get good seats.” Now he was actually looking sort of excited.
“Ok. Tomorrow, Grakken 3. Awesome.”
“You mean, Grakken 5.” He said it that way that most nerds talk when they feel superior, like when you get their favorite anime character’s name wrong or something. Maybe I hadn’t made the right choice in agreeing to go after all.
I wish I could say I had been completely wrong about not wanting to go. I wish I could say that I was ridiculous for ever thinking that I would have anything less than a spectacular time on this romantic journey. I wish I could say that. But I can’t. It would be a lie.

...Come back next week for more awkward...because it's always more funny when it didn't happen to you!