Aiding desperation

26 07 2009

Even though I’ve lived in Texas for just over 2 years now, I have yet to change my cell phone number.  Not that this is the point, I’m just saying.

This afternoon, I received a text message:

“this ace? *l&k, denise*”

I don’t actually know what that means, but I ignored it.

10 minutes later, my phone rings.

Me: Hello?
Female caller: Hellooo.
Me: Um, hello?
FC: Hi, who is this?
Me: (I really hate when people call ME and then instead of identifying themselves, ask who I am). Who are you looking for?
FC: Well, this is the deal. I accidentally gave this guy your number instead of mine.
Me: Uh huh.
FC: Has anyone called you?
Me: No. Bye!
Me: What.
FC: If a guy calls you asking for Brooke, could you give him this number and ask him to call me?
Me: Are you kidding me?
FC: Just give him this number. You’re sure a guy hasn’t called you?
Me: (laughing before I hang up)

Oh please, now I’m a dating/answering service? No way. No way in hell, lady.

UPDATE: It’s 12:33 a.m. C just got home and I was relating this tale to her. Suddenly, my phone rings! C says, “I bet it’s the guy!”
I answer, lo and behold a guy asks if Brooke is there. “Wrong number!! CLICK.”

C says if he calls again I should answer “Brookview Convent, may I help you? Oh, I’m sorry, she’s taking her vows right now, not only of chastity but also silence. You should have called earlier today. Go with God!”

FUTHER UPDATE, Monday: The same girl starts calling my phone today. Like 10 times, seriously. I don’t answer. Finally, she texts me.

“Hi i talked to you yesterday about a number callin u…has anyone called you yet???”

I respond, because I am sick and tired of this shit: “You have got to be kidding me. I’m not your answering service. Stop contacting me.”

Which prompts this from her: “Umm there really is no need to get rude…i was just asking u a simple question & yesterday you could hv told me u didnt want to…obviously u having some damn problems today…but no problem dude. — ima be aiight.”

Can you even believe this? Is this actually my life? YOU IMPERTINENT LITTLE TWIT SHIT. Really now, I am shocked at the behavior of some people.  Soon after that, she started calling me again so I wisely blocked the number. People are WEIRD, man. But I’m absolutely thrilled to know she’ll be “aiight.” Tiny little idiot.


Late night offers

24 07 2009

It’s no secret that I stay up VERY late at night. Sometimes I don’t go to bed until after the sun comes up. I try to reverse this and sleep along with the normal people. Sometimes it works for a while. But, left to my own devices, I snap right back to being a night owl.

That’s not the point. The point is that last night (this morning) I went to bed at 4 am, which is early for me! I had been lying there for a bit, about to fall asleep, when I had a sneezing fit. Of course, C wakes up a little bit.

Me: (sneezing uncontrollably)
C: (groggily) Blarg. Y’ok?
Me: Yeah, I’b fide.
C: Really?
Me: Yup, just sneezing.
C: Ok. Do you want a towel?
Me: Um, no. I’m going to get a tissue, though. I don’t think I need a whole towel.
C: (suspiciously). O-kay.

At that point she quite literally falls back into her pillows and begins snoring.

So I asked her about it this morning (she’s making me us breakfast right now!).

C: Oh yeah! I remember that.
Me: Why would I need a towel though?
C: Because when you sneeze, you get really snotty and gross.
Me: Wow, thanks.
C: Just looking out for you.

I don’t know whether to be flattered at her attention to detail (though she’s exaggerating) and concern or be kind of insulted.


26 01 2009

I just got off the phone with my mother (hi Mom!) and had to tell her that I didn’t plan on walking in the graduation for my Master’s in May.  I could have sworn I told her this before, but she’s apparently been under the impression that I would be.

Well, I’m not.  For several reasons.

First of all, graduations are just boring as hell.  Second, UT is a huge school and even if they break up the ceremonies by department, it is going to last forever.  Third, I just don’t feel like it!  I still don’t know for certain if I want to stay for a doctorate and if I do, I don’t really want to walk for what wouldn’t be my terminal degree.

Now, I have walked in two other graduations.  One high school (okay, GED, it was lamer than you could imagine) and my undergrad.  But the second one was special and I wouldn’t have missed it anyway.  It was the Katrina graduation, January 2006, and UNO had pulled a fall semester out of thin air following the storm.  Professors scattered all over the country came together and made online courses and crazy satellite campuses and just did the damn thing.  It was very cool.  And that graduation was so celebratory for so many reasons.  We all cheered at everything, no matter how small.  We heard how the president of the university convinced the Coast Guard to bring him across the lake to the school, he and others hiked over the levee and rescued the servers.  We all cheered when they said the name of a department as the graduates walked in.  We cheered for hours at everything, but mostly our own perseverence.

However, we invited lots of our friends to that (C and I were both graduating, a feat in itself) and NO ONE CAME except for MY parents.  I would just like to point that out.  I guess I’m still a little bitter about that.

Anyway, I don’t feel especially motivated to walk in this graduation for tons and tons of reasons and no amount of persuasion is going to change that.  I told my mother that we will be visiting in May for a combined birthday celebration, we’re bringing M with us (maybe) and she can just roll graduation into all that.  Yippee.  Give me some crawfish, a poboy, and a daquiri and I say that’s good enough.

Of course, then my mother mentions that I could get presents.  I tell her I own so much crap that C and I are actually trying to declutter.  Then she switched her game and tried to tell me that my father was crying in a corner due to my new status as an ungrateful, horrible daughter.  I said, “This is neither the ending of The Natural nor The Benny Goodman Story, so I know he’s just fine.”

Not doing it.  Can’t make me.  So there.

Learning the Rhythm

14 01 2009

A conversation with A made me remember one of my greatest friends tonight.  Not that he’s ever too far from my thoughts, but still.  I still miss you like mad, babe.

Eddie was a sensualist. Not in the sexual way (although that certainly came into play as we grew older) but because of his love of beauty. All beauty, especially music. He could be brought to tears by a good guitar riff, or a spectacular piano melody. But rhythm was his true love and he engulfed himself in it. One day, when I was fourteen and he was sixteen, he arrived at my house. I was in a mood, one of those moods that spontaneously pounce upon fourteen-year-old girls, and was sulking in my living room. “Field trip!” he announced. We went to New Orleans and walked to a corner near a construction site. He grabbed my arm to stop me and closed his eyes.

“What are you doing,” I asked. “Are you sleepy?”
“Shut up for a minute,” he said patiently.
“If we’re just gonna stand here, I came out for nothing. There are plenty of construction sites in Slidell. Aren’t we gonna DO something?”
“I said shut up. Have I ever brought you out here and not shown you a good time? If you shut up I can find it.”

Suddenly, he did. He opened his eyes and smiled.

“Okay, do you see that big yellow thing over there? The one that’s pounding the street?” he asked.
“Uh…yeah. So?”
“That’s the bass drum. Hear it? It’s a real slow beat, in 4/4. Now pay attention.”

I looked at him with my right eyebrow cocked in sarcastic bemusement. I had no clue what he was getting at. My early teenage attitude was on the rise and I was about to say something, but he beat me to it.

“I said shut up. You can give me that shit when we get home, but for now I need you to listen. So, we have a bass. Alright, hear that glass? Like a crashing, tinkling sound. Those are the cymbals. The hammer over there, that’s the snare. The heels, hear em? Those are the rims. Now close your eyes and listen.”

I did. I closed my eyes, before he yelled at me, and leaned my head back for good effect. I stood there, thinking what a moron and then…I heard it. I heard it. I heard the beat of the bass start it off, I heard the clicking of a woman’s high heels at a faster tempo. Someone threw a bag of trash somewhere, crash.  Glass broke, cymbals shivered. I heard something new: swish, swish. A street sweeper had come along. I opened my eyes and looked at Eddie. He was thrilled; he’d always wanted to try brush sticks. He pulled me in front of him and began to beat a rhythm on my back. We stood there, audience for the street corner concert, and listened.

You know you’re from Slidell

17 12 2008

Some of these I’ve heard, and some I made up.  I guess I’m feeling nostalgic and homesick today.

We all once feared Bayou Liberty when we first started driving. We conquer our fears.

The bridge over the railroad tracks at the end of Front Street scared us all at one point.

You were scared shitless in Drivers Ed by crooked-toed Anna Merryl and her husband with the bump on his head.

You don’t understand why the DMV is past a hairpin curve in the road, which makes the driving test worse.

You’ve gotten drunk at the Point.

You miss the old playground stuff at John Slidell. Like the fort and the giant tall thing with the ladder rungs too far apart for anyone and the only way down was the scary fireman’s pole.

You found a piece of cardboard and slid down the hill at John Slidell.

You waited in your car for 30 minutes to get a snowball on Gause even though there was nobody at the walk-up. It was just too hot to get out.

You think the speed bumps on West Hall are a joke and get mad when the person in front of you actually slows down for them.

You know how the Bayou Liberty/St. Genevieve bridge sounds and you can imitate the noise.

Whenever you drove over that bridge and it creaked, you always kind of thought you might fall in.

You feel reassured every year you see the old guy with the white beard on his bicycle collecting cans.

Ditto for the hat/rose lady on I-10.

You’ve ever had to grab a pirogue or a canoe to paddle down your street to the store following a thunderstorm.

You still think Check-In-Check-Out has the best shrimp poboys.

You remember when they actually had guards in the stands in front of Eden Isles.

You still wish you could make Frank come back and open the Soda Shop back up.

You still have your blue Soda Shop punch cards just in case one day, he does.

You’ve ever seen a woman get out of her car at a blocked intersection to kick a turtle out of the road.

If you had to attend a softball game at Fritchie Park, you were a little sad because John Slidell was more fun.

You’ve participated in a cake-walk at the Saint Margaret Mary fair.

You snuck out to New Orleans and tried to get back before curfew.

When sneaking out to the French Quarter, you knew you were taking the right exit (Canal) because you saw the Rosenberg’s sign. (1825! Tuuuu-lane)

You were mad as hell when Rite Aid bought out K&B.

You can still identify (and use as a standard) K&B purple.

You made a mad rush for Boiling Point on Thursday nights because that’s when they had a dozen oysters for $3.25

Your school went to Skater’s Paradise for special occasions.

You ever performed in a recital or a play at the original Minnacapelli’s.

You were shocked on the day when you turned to the Zephyr (106.1) and heard country music.

Not only do you know the difference between “old” and “new” Kingspoint, you have lived in each.

You still refer to the current Hobby Lobby as the old Walmart.

You’ve gotten dizzy on the yellow spinning thing at the park behind the old K-Mart (now it’s a gym?)

You’ve suddenly had to shout your conversation over a train.

You’ve ever had to pick up a friend in Pearl River and the directions include turning either before or after “the big chicken.”

Going to dinner at Doug’s on Robert Rd. was considered really fancy.

You still call Lakeview Rat’s Nest Road.

You would go out of your way to GG’s because their vending machines were cheaper.

You’ve been to a bonfire when it’s over 80 degrees outside.

Easily frustrated

2 12 2008

A couple weeks ago, I was getting ready to leave for class.  This involved a mad scramble for anything and everything I would need.  I was talking to C on the phone and suddenly . . .

Me: Dammit! I can’t find my phone!  Have you seen it?
C: Yeah, it’s on your head.
Me: Oh, real helpful smartass.  Seriously, have you seen it?
C: . . .
Me: Oh! I’m talking on it, aren’t I?  Sorry I called you a smartass, then.  Gotta go, love you!!
C: Weirdo.

Networking: ur doin it wrong

7 11 2008

My mother, like everyone else in the known universe, now has a Facebook page. I was on the phone with her while she was setting up her account:

Mom: Why do they want to know where I went to school?
Me: Because
Mom: (apparently looking through the questions that they ask you). They want to make it easier for people to find me. No. No!!! Oh god, why would I want that?
Me: That’s kind of how it works.
Mom: Well gross! I don’t want people to track me down! Why do I want to talk to people I went to college with?
Me: Wow, you’re perfecting the anti-social networking. You should join myspace instead. And then we can call it Mine, ALL MINE space.

Later in the conversation I had to explain to her what a zombie is. I told her that C was dressing up as one for Halloween and, somehow, she wasn’t clear on what makes a zombie?

Me: They’re like the living dead.
Mom: Like vampires?
Me: No, they don’t suck blood. They eat brains and they’re not as smart as vampires.
Mom: Do they eat brains because they’re stupid? Is it how they get smarter?
Me: Um, no. Well . . . no.
Mom: Why do they do it, then?
Me: I don’t know.
Mom: Why are they walking around? How do zombies get made?
Me: Depends on who you ask.
Mom: I’m asking you.
Me: There’s a few different ways, I guess. I’m not sure.
Mom: Does C know?
Me: Maybe?
Mom: If she doesn’t know much about them, why did she dress up as one?
Me: Because it’s Halloween and it’s easy to do zombie makeup.
Mom: She didn’t look very dirty. Not at all like she climbed up out of a grave.
Me: Not all zombies were buried first.
Mom: How come?
Me: Was I like this when I was a kid? Because I’d like to apologize.

And just to clarify, it was close to 2 am at this point. We were so far into C-time that it was scary.  How does Mom always find a way to make me realize I don’t know stuff?  It’s amazing.