"Spell flabbergasted."
"May I have it in a sentence please?"
"I was flabbergasted when my neighbor walked outside her apartment, in our very public complex, wearing no pants, no underwear, but a full rug, chatting on her cell phone."
"f-l-a-b-b-e-r-g-a-s-t-e-d"
"flabbergasted"
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
Frogs
In third grade I learned that the Spanish word for frogs was rana. I’m terrible at languages, to the point of mental retardation. So for that entire year the only r word or word with a na sound in it I learned was rana. Including my own name. The Spanish teacher thought I had some weird obsession.
My aunt’s a science teacher. Once she took me on one of her class field trips to a pond and talked about the wildlife there. One example was the bullfrog, which has two eyelids. A light tap will cause him to lower the second eyelid. Ten years later the image of twenty fifth graders poking a frog in the eye has still not left me.
My sister and I used to bring home frog eggs in buckets to see them hatch into tadpoles and eventually tiny frogs. Every year my mom would make us leave the buckets outside and every year we’d sneak them into our room. Most of the eggs would hatch. Half the tadpoles would survive. My mom and dad would finally catch on when tiny frogs invaded the house like an Egyptian plague and the smell of dead tadpoles permeated the air. It was always a surprise to my sister and me too. After the first day or so, we always forgot that we had hidden the buckets in the closets or under the bed. I truly believe my mothering skills have improved since then. My sister truly believes she’ll make a really good aunt.
I’ve experience a frog bomb. Naturally occurring. My friend had a dead, bloated, water logged frog on her driveway, an eyesore yes, but I believe she was just afraid that the neighborhood dogs would eat it. Honestly, she’s just crazy and I’m not sure of her reasoning. Anyway, she was compelled to move it. I offered to drive over it with my car a few times. Not an actual solution, but it did solve the problem of having to touch it. Instead she grabbed a shovel and we gathered around. As soon as that shovel touched that frog it exploded. All over us. I do not want to consider what was in the two pound dead bloated frog. Now we had to move bits and pieces and scrape the damn thing. I would have just let the dogs eat it, take their chances, I was never very fond of them anyway.
My aunt’s a science teacher. Once she took me on one of her class field trips to a pond and talked about the wildlife there. One example was the bullfrog, which has two eyelids. A light tap will cause him to lower the second eyelid. Ten years later the image of twenty fifth graders poking a frog in the eye has still not left me.
My sister and I used to bring home frog eggs in buckets to see them hatch into tadpoles and eventually tiny frogs. Every year my mom would make us leave the buckets outside and every year we’d sneak them into our room. Most of the eggs would hatch. Half the tadpoles would survive. My mom and dad would finally catch on when tiny frogs invaded the house like an Egyptian plague and the smell of dead tadpoles permeated the air. It was always a surprise to my sister and me too. After the first day or so, we always forgot that we had hidden the buckets in the closets or under the bed. I truly believe my mothering skills have improved since then. My sister truly believes she’ll make a really good aunt.
I’ve experience a frog bomb. Naturally occurring. My friend had a dead, bloated, water logged frog on her driveway, an eyesore yes, but I believe she was just afraid that the neighborhood dogs would eat it. Honestly, she’s just crazy and I’m not sure of her reasoning. Anyway, she was compelled to move it. I offered to drive over it with my car a few times. Not an actual solution, but it did solve the problem of having to touch it. Instead she grabbed a shovel and we gathered around. As soon as that shovel touched that frog it exploded. All over us. I do not want to consider what was in the two pound dead bloated frog. Now we had to move bits and pieces and scrape the damn thing. I would have just let the dogs eat it, take their chances, I was never very fond of them anyway.
I’ve always wished I could run from the kindness of strangers….
I’ve found that there are three types of people who will just go up to a perfect stranger and spill their life story: crazy people, people who are hitting on you, and Southerners. Unfortunately here in Virginia, those categories get blurred more often than I’d like.
I’ve never really been friends with my neighbors. Growing up, the only neighbors I had were my cousins, so that didn’t count. And everyone knows New Yorkers don’t talk to their neighbors, so I was under no obligation there. I would like to meet and befriend my neighbors, but I’m beginning to think Richmond, VA might not be the place to start.
Last night, I get out of my car, spot a neighbor, say hi, expect to continue on my way, but no. She launches into the crazy Southerner life story speech. I learn that her friend is sick, she hates laundry, has a dog that doesn’t live with her (where then?), wants one of those house broken cats that don’t need no litter box, and the reason she is on her hands and knees is to eat pills from the ground. At this point I’m still ok with the level of crazy. Then her wrist is shoved in my face, paralyzed two days ago, no reason. I’m invited into her home. John Deere everywhere. Pink John Deere. I wasn’t aware they made that. She tells me my teeths is really pretty, not the strangest compliment ever received (sexy feet). I’m desperately trying to make my escape as the fifteen pound box of kitty litter cuts into my wrist. But I don’t want to be a total snob for no reason.
So here are reasons. After I told her my name again, for the seventh time, she asks me where I’m from. Then she invites herself along the next time I head to NYC so she can get one of dem fancy purses for real cheap. She ain’t never been no wheres you see. Then she tells me not to be afraid of where we live (adorable apartment complex), despite our neighbors, the 80 year old guard is a friend of hers. I apparently make the mistake of looking like I care, so she tells me what’s wrong with our neighbors.
The girl at the end of the block, well, she’s a crack head, she can tell that right off. She don’t mean to talk bad about people, but yeah, ain’t nobody looks like that that ain’t a crack head. The girl in question is simply an African American college student who has the misfortune of not being 60 pounds overweight. Damn crackheads. Then there’s the Jamaican fellow, who’s nice enough but that’s the pot and why does he keep such strange hours. Apparently anyone with dreads is Jamaican. I’ve never got the impression he smoked anything but the cancer sticks this city is weaned on, and he works nights. Next. That retarded fellow. God damn retard. He came up to her little niece and said hi one day and she looked right at her niece and told her, "if he ever says anything to you again, you scream and yell, push him over and coming running inside, you hear?" The poor man is handicap and has assisted living. He can’t go anywhere without his nurse, is as sweet as a four year old and about as developed. And someday he’s going to think the apocalypse has come because some little girl is going to start shrieking and shove him down. Wonderful.
At this point the horror on my face was clear enough to read all the way to Connecticut, so she felt the need to defend herself. So she states clearly, “yeah, I know, I know, I’m a racist.” Wait, did I hear that correctly? Then again, “Yes, I’m a racist, I just don’t trust nobody who ain’t white.” Do they still make people like this anymore? I blacked out for the rest of her speech and finally managed to sputter that I had to leave. Now. I now have a new mission, to make friends with a crackhead, a retard, and a pot smoking Jamaican. Racist repellant.
I’ve never really been friends with my neighbors. Growing up, the only neighbors I had were my cousins, so that didn’t count. And everyone knows New Yorkers don’t talk to their neighbors, so I was under no obligation there. I would like to meet and befriend my neighbors, but I’m beginning to think Richmond, VA might not be the place to start.
Last night, I get out of my car, spot a neighbor, say hi, expect to continue on my way, but no. She launches into the crazy Southerner life story speech. I learn that her friend is sick, she hates laundry, has a dog that doesn’t live with her (where then?), wants one of those house broken cats that don’t need no litter box, and the reason she is on her hands and knees is to eat pills from the ground. At this point I’m still ok with the level of crazy. Then her wrist is shoved in my face, paralyzed two days ago, no reason. I’m invited into her home. John Deere everywhere. Pink John Deere. I wasn’t aware they made that. She tells me my teeths is really pretty, not the strangest compliment ever received (sexy feet). I’m desperately trying to make my escape as the fifteen pound box of kitty litter cuts into my wrist. But I don’t want to be a total snob for no reason.
So here are reasons. After I told her my name again, for the seventh time, she asks me where I’m from. Then she invites herself along the next time I head to NYC so she can get one of dem fancy purses for real cheap. She ain’t never been no wheres you see. Then she tells me not to be afraid of where we live (adorable apartment complex), despite our neighbors, the 80 year old guard is a friend of hers. I apparently make the mistake of looking like I care, so she tells me what’s wrong with our neighbors.
The girl at the end of the block, well, she’s a crack head, she can tell that right off. She don’t mean to talk bad about people, but yeah, ain’t nobody looks like that that ain’t a crack head. The girl in question is simply an African American college student who has the misfortune of not being 60 pounds overweight. Damn crackheads. Then there’s the Jamaican fellow, who’s nice enough but that’s the pot and why does he keep such strange hours. Apparently anyone with dreads is Jamaican. I’ve never got the impression he smoked anything but the cancer sticks this city is weaned on, and he works nights. Next. That retarded fellow. God damn retard. He came up to her little niece and said hi one day and she looked right at her niece and told her, "if he ever says anything to you again, you scream and yell, push him over and coming running inside, you hear?" The poor man is handicap and has assisted living. He can’t go anywhere without his nurse, is as sweet as a four year old and about as developed. And someday he’s going to think the apocalypse has come because some little girl is going to start shrieking and shove him down. Wonderful.
At this point the horror on my face was clear enough to read all the way to Connecticut, so she felt the need to defend herself. So she states clearly, “yeah, I know, I know, I’m a racist.” Wait, did I hear that correctly? Then again, “Yes, I’m a racist, I just don’t trust nobody who ain’t white.” Do they still make people like this anymore? I blacked out for the rest of her speech and finally managed to sputter that I had to leave. Now. I now have a new mission, to make friends with a crackhead, a retard, and a pot smoking Jamaican. Racist repellant.
What its not
This will not be a blog about ads. There will be no mention of advertising, the Adcenter, the Brandcenter, the students of the aforementioned school, or my work in said institution. I believe that the 18 hours or so a day I obsess about that singular subject is enough. However, I will talk about anything and everything else.
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