Guys.....Where ARE we?

Every once in a while, I find myself in a situation that leads me to ask "Where are we? Is this America?????"

I don't mean that in the "What has happened to this country?", patriotic, Sarah Palin-ish way. I mean like, literally wondering if  I have wandered into a third-world country or maybe onto the set of a not-very-funny sitcom.  My most recent out-of-geographical-context experience was this past Tuesday when, between the hours of 10:48pm and midnight, I found myself in Wile E. Coyote meets Dangerous Minds meets Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist with some Deliverance thrown in.

Law and Order scene-change music  BUH-bum!

10:48pm  September 21, 2010  
Parking lot outside The Social
Orlando FL

The four of us were in a fragile mental state after spending 4 hours in a dank night club thrashing around with hundreds of hipster weirdos listening to music while drinking beer and tequila.  Imagine our confusion when we went back to the parking space expecting this:

But instead finding this:

Honestly, we were not all that surprised or confused.  I'd like to keep lying and tell you that we were totally blindsided by the whole "The car is gone" thing, but really I think we were almost expecting it.  Rewind to 4 hours and 51 minutes earlier.

Time Travel Worm Hole

BUH-bum!


5:57pm  September 21, 2010  
Parking lot outside The Social
Orlando FL

 Fresh as daisies, we jumped out of the car ready for action!  Approaching the parking lot ticketing machine, the following conversation ensued.  It might not be word for word, but my memory is pretty much a steel trap, so I'm sure it's extremely accurate.

ME:  Hey look!  The parking here is only $5! That's awesome!  That leaves me so much extra money to donate to my many charities! 

MOE:  That sounds awesome!  Derp Derp!

CURLY:  Do you think the ice cream man comes around this time of night?

LARRY:  I hope you guys have cash because I don't.

MOE:  The machine is broken.  We can't pay.

LARRY:  Let me try kicking it a bunch of times impotently.  That should solve everything. 

CURLY: Even just a Snickers bar that has been in the refrigerator would do the trick. 

ME and MOE:  It's our lucky day!  The universe has smiled upon us at last!  Free parking a-go-go!

Four hours and 51 minutes later......

 Obviously we knew there was a chance we could be towed or ticketed or something, especially in light of the huge sign right next to the parking space telling us that if the machine was broken we either had to call some number or not park there lest we be towed and impounded at our expense.  Seriously though, who has time to be reading all kinds of signage and calling all kinds of phone numbers?  Is it really our job to single-handedly fix the crumbling infrastructure of Orlando, Florida?  I don't think so.

All the same, ACTUALLY getting your car towed and impounded on a crazy night out of town, far from home, with three idiots was like slipping on a banana peel, or having an anvil fall on your head.  I knew it was possible, but just seemed too cliche to actually happen.  I think it was the cartoonish nature of the whole thing that kept us all calm.  How can you get upset when you're pretty sure you're in an episode of Seinfeld?

If you've ever watched Sex and the City and thought "That's so unrealistic", then you have obviously never hailed a cab.  The activity is every bit as glamorous and cosmopolitan as it looks on TV.  What is neither glamorous nor cosmopolitan is where the cab dropped us off.

BUH-bum!

11:32pm September 21, 2010
The Impound Lot
Deliveranceville, USA

If ever I have found myself in a location that I would rather no be, this was it.  After sliding our cash payment through the tiny slot in the bullet proof glass of the impound office, we were simply told

"Meet me around back."

"Around back" turned out to be a disgusting cartpath with a row of meth labs and brothels on one side and a 10 foot chain-link fence on the other side blocked off with black corrugated plastic sheets so no one could see inside.  Promises of protection offered by my three companions did not exactly inspire confidence in the face of  roving gangs of crack-addicted transvestite prostitutes.  I was fashioning a shiv from my ticket stub and tree sap when a section of the fence opened outward and the impound lot guy uttered yet another informative and helpful directive.

"There you go."

And there we went. There we went into the lot that at first I thought was paved with gravel, but then realized that I was just stepping on an uncommon amount of broken glass.  The guy didn't even follow us in there. 

In the Locker Room

Recently my limited supply of work-out-at-home self-motivation became depleted and I was forced to go get a gym membership.  I love the gym because it provides a communal suffering experience that I find quite inspiring.  What I do NOT find inspiring is the communal visual experience of the locker room.

It is my understanding that certain unspoken codes apply to the men's restroom, especially where urinal usage is concerned.  I propose that we need a similar set of rules for the women's locker room, but in this case they should probably be SPOKEN, even written in big block letters on the locker room walls, the inside of the bathroom stalls, stitched into the shower curtains, and maybe even tattooed onto everyone's faces as part of membership. I also volunteer my services as a locker-room crier, marching back and forth with a bullhorn, announcing the following clearly and with great enthusiasm:

1. When it comes to public nudity, brevity is the name of the game.  Obviously you are going to have to get naked in order to change clothes or dry off, but at a certain point that time period must end.  For example, if you have recently dried yourself and have decided to spend a few minutes standing in front of your locker applying lip balm, tweezing your eyebrows, and Facebooking about how intense your workout was, why not take the towel from the bench next to you and wrap it around your body, thereby covering your nakedness?  Sometimes I see people where the towel is not even on the bench but in their other hand, just hanging there like they have nothing else to do with it. Because of people like this, I'm developing repetitive stress disorder from averting my eyes.  
2. The gym shower is to cleanse yourself, not to perform lengthy and complicated grooming rituals.  There is a reason the shelf in the gym shower stall provides only 4 square inches of surface space. Necessary toiletry items in this milieu include shampoo, conditioner, and body wash.  That's the end of the list.  Razors, shaving cream, loofahs of multiple shapes and sizes--these are for use at home.  I've been in the shower next to you. I do not like it when your teeny tiny leg hairs come over to my side in their sea foam of used shaving cream.

    3.  Get in and get out.  There is no Starbucks here, nor is there free wi-fi or big screen TVs.  The locker  room is the most hostile environment in the entire gym, but despite the discomfort there are always three or four women huddled around in the changing area chit-chatting like they are in line at Barry Manilow concert.  Having long-since showered and changed, their presence in this venue is both gratuitous and unwelcome.  It's not just the way their obtuse banter echoes off the acoustic tile that causes a problem.  The biggest issue is that you are not supposed to just BE in the changing area, just WATCHING other people change.  Even if my bra is off for a total of 3.5 seconds, and even if I am wearing brand new underwear, I still feel like they are judging me.  It's only a matter of time before they start bringing scones and copies of Tuesdays with Morrie along, at which point I am going to start changing in the alley behind the Sonic Burger.

 If only all locker rooms were like a sexy underwear party, a la the 1982 comedy Porky's. I can assure you that this is not the clientele of Lifestyle Family Fitness in Orange Park, Florida.

I may be expecting too much of people, but it discourages me to have to use up an entire day's worth of aplomb in the five minutes it takes me to change into my yoga pants and sports bra. 

I can pay you in hugs!

The one thing that really sucks about being an adult is that whenever something unpleasant must be done, you are the one who has to do it.  I suppose I could hire an assistant, but I myself am employed as an assistant, so technically 100% of my salary would have to go directly to my own assistant person.  I'm no mathemetician, but even I know that is not a very sound business plan.  Ergo, I am obligated to do these things for myself, most likely over and over again, until I die. 

Scheduling Doctor's Appointments

"Doctor Important's office."

"Hello ma'am I'm a patient of Doctor Important and I'd like to make an appointment."

"Slow down slow down! What is your name?"

"Chloe Peace."

"CARLY?"

"CHLOE. C-H-L-O-E."

"C-H-O-L-E-"

"No ma'am it's "C" AS IN CHARLIE, "H" AS IN HARRY, "L" AS IN LUCY, "O" AS IN OSCAR, -"

"Carly there's not need to spell it again I'm not stupid. Last name!?"

"Peace."

"Can you spell that?"

And you can take it from there.  Women who answer phones at doctors' offices do not "ask" questions. They state the nature of the information that they need.  It's not "What is your birthday?", but "BIRTHDATE."  "LAST MENSTRUAL CYCLE."  "LAST PELVIC EXAM."  Do they really need to know all of that just to get me in to see the doctor about a mole on my arm?  I really think these people are on a power trip, and I want no part of it. 

Emptying the Dishwasher

I've spent a fair amount of time thinking about this one, and I can't say for sure what my problem is with it.  On a bad day, it takes about 90 seconds max to complete the task, but I just HATE doing it.  My best guess is that I am bothered by the tedium of moving a clean object from one place to another.  Kind of like how I don't mind washing the laundry, drying it, even folding it, but actually putting it away cannot be done without a great deal of sighing.  Also there is always the chance that two clean dishes will scrape against each other and make that awful noise that I associate with prison. 

Purchasing Tampons

In addition to the obvious embarrassment of buying an item that everyone knows is going straight to a location that you'd rather they didn't think about, there's the more troubling implication that you are possibly unstable due to unpredictable hormonal surges.  Since I figure they see the box and expect me to burst out crying at any moment, being as I am having my "woman times", I usually make an extra effort to act happy and polite.  I think it may backfire and just make me look like I'm on cocaine.  Maybe by the time I hit menopause I will have found a balance.

That lady is awesome.  If you don't know who she is, I feel sadly for you.  Let's just say she wouldn't have a problem buying Tampax.  She'd probably just slam it down on the counter and announce "I need to purchase these because my uterus is going through a time of transition right now."

Over and over again.  Until I die.

Stumble me and Digg me!

Hey everyone great news! Now if you like a post, you can click on the Stumble or Digg button (or both!) and it will help get my blog out to more readers! 

Thanks in advance.  Soon the internet will be mine....

P.S.  Don't stumble or digg this post because everyone will be like "This is lame!" and never come back.  Find your favorite and do that one...

Jody Rivelli--Elementary School Girl or Terrorist? You decide.

When I was in grade school, a brother and sister shared my bus stop--Jody and Joey Rivelli. Fail names for sure. I chalked it up to the fact that they lived in an apartment building, and were therefore from what I considered as "the other side of the tracks." Don't ask me why I had this notion as it clearly makes no sense. I myself have lived in multiple apartment buildings and never felt the need to have teardrops tattooed on my face or install bars on the windows. It was just a weird childhood misconception...most likely based solely on my experience with the Rivelli children.

The fact that Jody and her brother behaved as though they were in some kind of pre-peubescent motorcycle gang was, I am sure, purely coincidental. I just know that they frightened me. Jody especially set me on edge, as she possessed what I considered to be a "criminal temperament". It was all in the eyes. The looked all sharp and crimey. I imagined that she spent her free time repeatedly throwing a baseball against the side of her brick apartment building and making angsty facial expressions.

While to passersby she may have appeared to be an innocent 8 year old girl, I know the truth, as she proceeded to terrorize me in several ways. I shall outline them for you now so that the wool can be pulled away from your eyes and you can start viewing all children as they should be viewed--with guarded suspicion.

Riding the school bus was bad enough as it was.  The only saving grace for the first two years of school was that my upstairs neighbor Takara Palinski rode with me and therefore I was not a friendless loser (sometimes a puked-upon loser, but never friendless).  The real trouble started when I was in third grade and Takara was in fourth, therefore placing her in the middle school and leaving me to fend for myself. If we have met, you know that I should never, under any circumstances, be left alone to fend for myself.  I do not possess the social coping mechanisms necessary to survive without at least one sidekick, and my lack of sidekicks leaves me open to attack from hostile third party apartment dwelling gang bangers.

A few days after school started, I was getting on the bus at the end of the day to go home and Jody walked up to me in the aisle and punched me in the face. Twice. Now, I don't know if this is common and you are all reading saying "So what? I've been punched in the face eight times just this week alone!" but to me it was definitely outside of the realm of situations for which I had a predetermined response.  This left me with no choice but to go to my default reaction.  I cried.

The remainder of my ride home was spent curled up in the bench seat simmering in a stew of fear, shame, and self-loathing.  By  the time we came to my stop, I had worked out a plan to surgically alter my appearance and move to a suburb better than our own, a suburb with no apartment buildings. 

My mother went sideways when I told her about, as she called it, the "battery" I was subjected to.  Within ten minutes she had spoken to the principal and arranged for the maximum punishment allowed by law--a stern talking-to.  The next morning, at school, Jody delivered the mandatory apology, dropped her head to her chest in the mandatory and universal expression of false contrition, and plotted her revenge.

Call me paranoid, but I firmly believe that when she vomited on the floor in fourth period English later that day, the gesture was intended for me.  It was the perfect retribution as it not only traumatized me, as it was accompanied by much theatrical retching and great splashing noises, but once again my reaction brought shame upon myself, and shame is not a good color on me.  I like to think I calmly filed out of the room behind all the other students, but the reality of the situation was probably closer to this:

Just picture that same facial expression on an 8 year old girl with two black eyes.

Thus continued my long and storied history of public humiliation.

Red and the Pimp

Chloe: If you were able to add one amendment to the constitution,
making it unbreakable and permanent national law,
What would it be?

Anders: Mmmm good question.

Chloe: I'm assuming your answer has to do with boobs
like
'If Anders enters the room, all females under the age of 40 are obligated to take their tops off on command."

Anders: As cool as that would be
it would be selfish.

Chloe: That's the point of the question.
You can be selfish cus it's not real.

Anders: I would rather make a new law that benefitted mankind in an awesome way.
Besides,
that already happens when I walk into the room.
:)

Chloe: booyah
How about…….
if you make more than $1,000,000 a year, like……..
idk
Something that would allow an equalizing to take place?
But I think I'm describing communism.

Anders: hahahaha

Chloe: I JUST INVENTED COMMUNISM

Anders: Oh Chloe your such a commy. You and your obamacare.

Chloe: Okay so how exactly would you benefit mankind with your legislation?

Anders: Well it’s no secret that boobs make the world spin,
so I think I would set up some sort of show your boobs earn reward points system:
Men get to see boobs
There fore making them happy and more productive,
while women earn reward points to spend on certain items
I think productivity would go up.
Crime would fall.

Chloe: and YOU are describing prostitution.
YOU JUST INVENTED PROSTITUTION.

Anders: At least I’m not a commy.


Having typed this chat out into blog form, a few major stumbling blocks are jumping out at me, leading me to the conclusion that I definitely cannot be friends with Anders any more.  Perhaps you noticed them as well.

1. At first I was semi-impressed with his selflessness when I suggested the boob thing.  "That would be selfish. I would rather make a new law that benefitted mankind in an awesome way."  Okay.  How nice of you.  I'm thinking a law that would protect the innocent, feed the hungry, or maybe give complimentary Sani-wipes at the DMV.  But no.  He meant not "It's selfish because I would get a cheap thrill at the expense of the dignity of others," but rather "It's selfish because I'm the only one who would get cheap thrills at the expense of the dignity of others." 
2. In this boob-laden utopia, did you notice that the men are the only "productive" members of society, and that the only role of females is to degrade themselves in order to fuel the continued productivity of the men?  Perhaps Anders would be more comfortable in the year 450 A.D., when the women wore leg irons as they served great goblets of mead to the menfolk.
3. The last problem with the conversation has to do with how I grossly mislabeled as "prostitution" what at most seems like some kind of national strip club or sexy Chuck-E-Cheese. 

I'm not going to address the whole issue of me possibly being a communist.  Maybe later. Right now I have some back issues of The Daily Worker to catch up on.