Here we go a cougar-ing

One Friday evening, our friend Andrew accompanied us out for an evening of diversions and fine libations. The night was fairly typical: Brendan pedi cab rolled up outside our door, sporting his coveted double cart. we asked him about his finace, per usual, and he informed us that they were still trying to conceive. He also informed us that Sarah does not like her gig as a pedicab driver. I responded, "It takes a special person to really embrace this job."  We were also privy to experience his new trick: a double wheelie with no hands ( i thought i was going to die).

This was one of the first nights that Andrew had explicitly come to Scottsdale to engage in our dalliances. Once inside the W, he learned quickly he has a hit. Dressed in a light blue seersucker jacket ( Andrew, if you read this and that detail is wrong, please, correct me), a wiry, tanned 40 something blonde pounced at him. "You are soooo cute," she shrieked while sloshing her apple-tini, "I love this jacket, this whole--" and just as she began to tug at Andrew's face, timmmber: her left ankle twisted in its platform wedge and she nearly bit it on top of the flourescent floor light below. But by the grace of God who may have a soft spot for vulnerable, inebriated cougars, she caught herself. I felt bad for her, so I told said to her that I had done the same thing the night before. "And I didn't even save my drink! You are so graceful!"

With that, we became a 20 minute fixture in Patricia's world. We were introduced to her friends, one a weathered blonde with the extensions of a 20 year old that really just made her look like a more haggard version of Stevie Nicks. Appropriately enough, she departed promptly to sidle up next to a handsome WallStreet Look a like at the bar. I would momentarily catch Stevie sliding her hand around the man's waist whenever she tilted back her head to cackle loudly. 

We also met Billy, Patricia's personal trainer turned beau. Billy was exactly what one would expect a personal trainer from Boston to be: squat but fit with an accent that still lingered after 10+ years out west. He wore tight light jeans, no doubt to show off his quads or maybe because he really didn't know any better. I suspect a little of both. I began to converse  with Billy while Kate and Andrew talked to Patricia about shoes and other novel, assorted topics.

While Patricia promised Kate could stop in anytime to check out her shoe collection, Billy revealed that he used to play baseball in the minors and of course had to quit for an injury. He now worked as a personal trainer at a resort in Gainey Ranch. That is where he met Patricia. 

"You know, I trained her," He turned his head proudly as if gazing on a Grecian Bust, "she looks great doesn't she?" I smiled... awkward city. 

Since Billy was quite the talker, I decided it was ok to ask details about how their relationship had developed. I received only vague answers in which Billy tried to segue back to talking about his baseball days. I did learn that Patricia's divorce from her former betrothed had almost come to a close. 

"It was really messy," Billy shook his head and looked sad, "But I was good through the whole thing. I didn't start seeing Patricia until they officially began the divorce process." I assumed he meant that he did start seeing her until they were separated.

"That's very moral of you," I responded, eyeing for Andrew to rescue me.

"Yeah well I'm kind of old fashioned," Bill nodded still staring at Patricia who had made her way to the bar for another martini. It was true: Billy was old fashioned, or so far i could tell from his clothes,  and that may have stemmed from the fact that he was, well, old. He looked at least 55 or so. 

I used this moment as an excuse to duck into the bathroom. In the past 20 minutes I had learned about a wealthy Scottsdale woman who left her unhappy marraige to find solace with her personal trainer. It was so .... typical. This was exactly the sort of story I would expect to surface underneath the beach fascade on top of the W hotel. However, I had to give her some credit for not actually having preyed on young men like Andrew. Maybe, Patricia was also old fashioned.  

Exiting the bathroom, I spotted Stevie intertwined with Wallstreet and found my friends crowding around a heat lamp across the bar. Stevie laughed and held on tight to Wallstreet. Which was smart, I supposed, considering that she might not be so lucky the next time she went a cougar-ing. 

collectors items

My sisters and I were collectors of freakish things. In her very young toddler youth, Sarah would collect these stuffed rabbit heads with blankets attached. She had 36 of them. She would pick the fuzz off of them until they were threadbare. My mom vacuumed a lot. I, on the other hand, collected clowns. Well, my collection was limited to three, in a range of sizes. The largest was named Obo, the middle was Cousin (he looked a little different from the others), and the third was Junior (for size related reasons). 

A collection can only have value if its owner believes it does. To my sister, those Playschool rabbit blanket-toy fusions were money. My clowns were top shelf. Losing pieces of these collections meant losing your mind, sanity, and torturing our mother for hours. It was her job to find the things we would lose. 

With age, grew the sophistication of our collections. We used to frequently visit Greenfield Village in Dearborn, MI which, in a sentence, is time warp into pre-industrial America-- hello Firestone Farm and Glass blowing shops. In this magical land, it was easy to get sucked into the looniness of muslin dresses and horse drawn carraiges. Here, my requirements of life were simpler, my expectations weaker. Though my sister and I loved nothing more than vomit worthy roller coasters and carnival rides, suddenly, a ride on a turn of the century Carousel with wood carved horses (along with 1 cat, and 2 dogs) was the cat's pajamas. We were tugging at our mother's petticoat, "Mummy, dear, we would fancy a ride on the carousel, oh please do say yes!"

At the end of a good afternoon's mosey 'bout a few displaced farm houses, school houses and that wondrous carousel, we hit the souvenir shop. Again we tugged at our mother's purse strings, "Mummy, can i have a penny for a peppermint stick or a pack of lemon drops?" The candy we would have turned our nose up at or disparaged as old people candy from our halloween baskets was suddenly a prize. Inside the souvenir shop, we were grappling with our last chance to embrace a yesteryear we never ever knew and would soon discard once we stopped at Bennigan's for dinner out on the way home. At home we wouldn't spend hours boiling water over a cracklin' fire or charcoal homework inside primers. We wouldn't save our pennies and knickles for cinnamon sticks and roasted peanuts. No, we would gorge ourselves on the latest gel filled gummy candy and dabble with Rollercoaster Tycoon on the IBM. 

The prized posssession of the gift shop, the coveted prize, though, was not a mere penny sweet stick. We had higher expectations than that. 

Along the back wall of the gift shop were baskets of rabbits feet, all different assorted colors, individually dyed and shaped. My sisters and I poked through the baskets, speculating about which ones to purchased, based upon a variety of qualities. Did it have a protruding nail or some defect in its bone structure? Were we interested in a full sized or a mini foot ( the mini ones were from baby rabbits, I suppose, and were cheaper but probably should've been more, considering that they were kind of like a delicacy)? We held them up to the light and squinted like diamond prospectors in the mines of South Africa. The feet smelled like a nature center, or like the prairies that Laura Ingalls Wilder frolicked through daily. These were the toys that children had to play with in days of old we assumed (completely untrue), and we needed to fit the role. 

According to some sources, rabbits feet were old good luck gems. We just liked to collect them. My favorites were a miniature magenta one and a white one- au natural and free of dyes. I stored them in the top drawer next to my socks and potpourri satchel my grandma brought back from Ireland. 

One day, bored of my rabbits feet lining my drawer, I took them out and put them to use. Inside my closet, I hung them from the metal shelving units, added to control the excess of Lee jeans flooding out into my room frequently. With a little handy work, giftwrap ribbon and tape, I created a montage of rabbits feet hanging from the shelving units. 

Then I lured the family cat into my room and placed her in my closet. Voila- a workout center for the cat. For about a week, the cat lived in my closet. I heard the thunk thunk of her batting the rabbits feet back and forth while I did my homework. 

After the cat tired of the project, I did not dissemble it. I left them hanging, though one by one they managed to disappear, either slipping away into the abyss of my shoes or into the cat's mangled toy collection. They left naturally though, slipping away in the night, in the company of a new collector or just because they weren't so timeless after all. 

An indecent proposal

"Guess who texted me at 2:30 last night?" It is Friday morning and I am in my typical half coma. Every morning, after snoozing my alarm six times, I run into the wall and door frame to the bathroom and, somehow, manage to throw myself together in about 15 minutes. When Noreen comes into the kitchen to tell me about her late night text, I am standing up and eating Rice Krispies in the dark because, like I said, I am only physically awake.

"Who?" I ask through snap crackle pops in my mouth.

"Chase!... not Bouncer Chase but Chase who used to live here!" Noreen laughs. Chase is a guy who Noreen had a crush on for five minutes. Literally five minutes, as in while transiting from one bar to another. By the time we had reached destination number two, Noreen had announced her crush was over. This was about six months ago. He would certainly fit the bill as a stranger friend. 

She continues to tell me that in the voicemail Chase had let her know that he was stranded in Old Town and was too hammered to drive home.

" And then he started begging me to answer the phone, saying "Please, Noreen, I will have to sleep in my car if you don't answer!" I'm glad I didn't hear my phone! How awkward... you can't just call a stranger friend with a request like that!" She skipped off to get ready for work. I mulled over what she had said and dumped soggy cereal down the drain. 

I tried to decide if this was the most inappropriate phone/ text proposal delivered to/received by a stranger friend. Earlier in the week, Noreen had received a text message query for dinner and a movie from bar-backer at a club that shares the same lot as our apartment complex. This message, however, was nothing new. Frequently, she would receive these message. Frequently, she would not respond. Then it would happen again and again. Ground Hog's day, amnesia, or denial, you pick. 

This, however, was not nearly as bad as the text sonnet incident. A few months ago, disillusioned young man had fallen haplessly in love with Noreen. He was a poet of sorts who also happened to work at Burberry. In the course of his unrequited affair with my roommate, he had scored a beautiful  pair of Burberry leather pumps for her at a 90% discount. He had also given her a copy of an F Scott Fitzgerald book, Tender is the Night ( I am fairly sure that he wanted to parallel Fitzgerald charades in his own life). Noreen is a reasonable person. She did take the shoes (I mean, she would've been an idiot not to), but did not tease him with equally poetic responses. Instead, she didn't respond. Despite little to no communication over the course of the summer and early fall months, this young man continued to harbor amorous feelings for my roommate. And then, one evening, while we were getting ready to go out, he texted her to tell her that he was out of rehab (again with the F Scott parallels) and then texted her a sonnet meant to define her beauty. Noreen opted not to respond (though, apparently, no response is far to ambivalent and still leaves a window of opportunity for adoring strangers). 

There is that early 90s Demi Moore-Robert Redford-Woody Harrelson  flick called “An Indecent Proposal” where Redford, incisive mogul, propositions Moore, beautiful and poor but happy, for sex in exchange for some obscene lump sum of cold, hard cash. Moore and her husband, Harrelson, cede their morals and dignity to have their fantasy lives at the expense of another man's fantasy. Moore has sex with him and, ultimately, her holy union of marriage deflates from jabs of lust’s spiked heels.

This is not to say that the messages strangers send to my roommate are quite at this level of intensity or, by any means, requisite of a truly moral agony. In the movie, Gere has the cajones to proposition Moore formally, as if carrying out strict business. These strangers, however, whether propositioning via love sonnets or seeking shelter from many a whiskey’s storm, do so by weakly leaving voicemails or text messaging. Another friend of mine frequently receives nude photo texts from a narcissistic man who went on not more than 2 dates with last year. Said texts are angled to emphasis his ‘roid ravaged torso and, naturally, his member (though I have to wonder if this man has some sort of photo shop option on his phone). These are always amusing and I am quite glad someone out there is willing to entertain a roomful of girls at his own expense. I have to wonder two thing: 1) how long did it take you to snap that self photo of yourself, sir? and 2) Do you really have nothing better to do on a Saturday night? I have also received my fair share of provocative text messages, though I will not go into detail in order to protect those involved. But, in all honesty, could you imagine this bro hand delivering my friend that same picture? Indirect communication is easier, less accountability and almost never any need for follow through.

In lieu of these assorted digital age messengers, one evening, Noreen experienced a sincere, face-to-face love proposal. This proposal came from the rickshaw driver who willing carts my friends and me from venue to venue. Often, he is waiting at the gates before we even give him a call. His name is Brendan. Brendan did time for selling some assortment of drugs, some of which I am guessing he is still doing, and currently resides in a motel downtown. This one-liner paints a pretty bleak picture of our friend, who is quite possibly one of the most genial characters I have ever met. For this reason, I always compliment him on his calves and occasionally buy him a slice of pizza or a grape soda. This seems to go further than actually paying with currency. He has become a phenomenon known as: Brendan-Pedi-Cab.
Brendan has been carting us around on his pedi-cab or rickshaw (whichever bike cart cab descriptive noun best suits your fancy) since last February. Over this period of time, our friendship with Brendan has certainly blossomed to the extent that we are pro-bono work—or so I thought. As it turns out, Brendan had other ideas.

Around August, Brendan informed us that his girlfriend, Sarah, was pregnant. We looked at each other and responded, “Wow!.... congratulations???!”. Brendan didn’t catch the cautionary measures enlaced in our congratulations. He turned back with a radiant smile while simultaneously popping a wheelie over a pizza box in the road.
“Yeah! We’ve been trying for a while!” He looked like the proudest rooster in the barnyard. I thought to myself, one man’s worst nightmare is another man’s dream. Anyway, for the next few week s we would ask after his, er, fiancé as he now described her. One night, as we routinely asked Brendan about his future offspring, he looked back and shook his head, “She miscarried- we lost the baby.” Kate, Noreen, Erin and I looked at each other- brows raised, mouths paralyzed as we tried to find a tactful transition. Luckily, Brendan saved us himself by shrugging, “ Hey, more reasons to keep trying!” We looked at each other, let out deep breaths.
The first weekend of October, we went out to celebrate the end of Phoenix Fashion Week. On this night, Noreen left us briefly to meet up with a friend at E-4, a club that is vaguely reminiscent of Legends of the Hidden Temple, stocked with men that are bigger creepers than the temple guards.
“I’ll see you at home,” she said as she bounced from Dirty Pretty, “ I’m just going for a minute.” She pranced out of the bar.

About an hour later, Erin, Stephany, and I returned to our apartment and found Noreen napping at the doorstep. “I got locked out!” she exclaimed, hopping up, “and I was so tired! and- oh my god,” she paused, “something really creepy just happened.” It was then that she relayed to me that she had not found her friend at E4. Instead, Brendan showed up and pedied her home, the half block that we live away from E4. When he dropped her off, they had engaged in some conversation about how he had met his girlfriend.
“Well you know,” he had turned back to the cart slyly as Noreen stepped out, “I was holding out for someone else…” Noreen, of course, had probably responded in a jovial tone, “oh who, Brendan, Kate?” Kate is, so to speak, Brendan’s keeper and the one who established the foundation of the friendship in the first place.
“Oh, no,” Brendan had responded, “ I was waiting for YOU!” Noreen did the only thing she could do. She played it off as a joke, though she was very disturbed, and booked it for the locked apartment.

So, here it was, a stranger finally propositioned Noreen to her face. And, this time, on the receiving end, it was so much harder to ignore or just not respond to immediately. It was there, sweating in front of her. And it was no Robert Redford in a corporate office.

Rules are apparently [not] meant to be broken

Usually, crocodile tears do the job. The last time I got pulled over, I was 16 and had blown through a stop sign on a residential street. I was also driving 10 over. When the cop tapped on the window, he informed me of the crime I had already committed.

"Really?" I responded, darting my head around like a crazy deer, "I didn't even see it! I've never driven down this street before!"

The cop took my license and, obviously, had to have noted that I lived two block away. He went back to his car to do the usual cop things, dicking around with his intercom and taking far too long for my taste. However, during this window of time, I had the opportunity to conjure up a good case of tears. These tears were inspired by the fact that I would be banned from participating by any means in my nearly non-existent 16 year old social life if my mom found out about this little incident.

The cop poked his head back in my window and gave me a little holier-than-thou speech about road mannerisms while I sobbed and moaned like a dying cow. Just as I thought he was going to give me a ticket, he noted that it was taken care of, like he was one of Martin Scorses' little mob lackeys, but to a cop mob (definitely not as dashing as Ray Liotta though).

I found out later that the cop who lived across the street had been at the dispatcher's office and had recognized the plates. With a little cop angel on my shoulder, I learned no such lesson from that experience. In fact, I took care to drive over the speed limit and roll residential stop signs at my leisure. I, for some reason, thought I had some bizarre sort of traffic violation amnesty. The cops were my friends, winking at me as I slid through yellows and going for more donuts when I turned left when it said 'right only'. I never tried anything very bold, just the little things, just to make sure I was still in the inner circle.

One traffic law in my top 10 most consistently blown off is the "15 mile/hour" speed limit for about 100 meters in school zones. For some reason, I have always rationalized that that speed limit was a sheer formality and code for " just drive 20 to 25, my friend!". It was in the same genre of parking garage speed limits and still a little less important than construction zone speeds.

Today, I learned that driving 22 in a 15 zone can actually cost one the hefty price of a $180 fine and 6 excruciating hours of civilian torture at defensive driving school, located at some mid-rate hotel about 20 minutes from my apartment. I also learned that cops do not take so well to the crocodile tears of a 23 year old woman.

This morning, while I sat in my car, I came to two irrational analyses of why the cop had pulled me over. Though these reasons were completely untrue, they were exceptionally pleasing to me. First, I decided that the cop had pulled me over because of my Michigan alumni license bracket. I decided that he was an Ohio State fan. My second rational came to me after I handed over my license. I decided the cop had chosen to ticket me because my address is in Scottsdale and he was just resentful because I had driven in from a land where cops have considerably more cushy jobs, a few duis and bar fights here and there. I also considered that he was hating on my gender and either a) his speed dating rounds weren't panning out or b) he was locked into marital slump. Of course, it was impossible that this poor man was just doing his job. Imagine that.

I threw all my cards on the table. Now that my mother no longer controls my social life, I had to think of new things to cry about. I put my head against the steering wheel and imagined our former schizophrenic cat, Carmel (d. 2001), in her final moments, basking in the sun on a windowsill with a lazy, drunk expression on her little face. This is probably one of the most tear jerking moments of my life. To really drive it home, I thought about my pending insurance rates (fortunately, due to cruel and unusual punishment of traffic school, they did not go up) and about the points going on my license. If there's anything that makes me cry, it's getting ripped off.

I pulled into the school parking lot and felt my heart sink as I realized I was out of the inner-circle. Robert Deniro didn't want me. The moment would've been perfect if Cat Stevens' Wild World had been piped in, "Ooooh baby baby it' s a wild world/ it's hard to get by just upon a smile, girl". Along the school fences of the play ground, thirty-some 2nd and 3rd graders gawked at me as I passed. Though I was crying inside about paying 180 dollars, I turned to the kids and smiled, "When you get your license, never speed. it's a very expensive fine."

Out of Town Clingers

My roommate Noreen has a penchant for strangers, whom she appropriately deems "stranger friends". On nights when we disregard our actual, legitimate friends and troll the town as a twosome, the night begins like so: We go to Mickey's Hangover for the first drink and mass text all of the 'stranger friends' we can find on our sim cards. It is always the case that she has far more stranger friends than i do, namely because i give random people my sister's phone number instead of my own (usually). The other reason that she has more stranger friends is because she is less likely to offend strangers within five minutes of meeting them. 

This past Friday, we decided it was time to revamp our supply of stranger friends, which has been tapering off. The problem with stranger friends is that they are, well, kind of disposable. Because we do not take the time to actually befriend these people, they are flat characters who lack the complexity of  real friends. After texting our current list of stranger friends, we recieved several lack-luster responses and did not have any real desire to meet up with them. Noreen declared, "Ok, one rule-- we are only allowed to talk to strangers tonight. We need more entertaining stranger friends." Five minutes later, as we frolicked to the next venue, an shi shi ultra lounge called 6, an entourage of graphic-t garbed bros trailed behind us. They were from San Diego and were looking for somewhere fun. This is code for: can we hang out with you?

Rule #1 to making stranger friends: watch out for out of town clingers

Out of town clingers usually travel in packs. They corner you at cross lights with deer in the headlight expressions and the first line is usually, "are you guys from here?" We usually try to stay away from this breed. First of all, they will not be useful for future diversions, apart from a text or two. Second of all, they cling to you like baby kittens, suckling and half blind. Inviting them to join you is, therefore, very dangerous, as it must be for a mother  cat to leave its helpless little babies vulnerable to new bars. This prevents you from meeting new stranger friends who will willingly supply you with complimentary libations and 20 minutes of entertainment a pop. 

We happened to meet these out of town clingers quite early in the night. As we crossed the street, Noreen  signaled to them, "Martini Ranch is right there! You might like it! We are going to 6." Nice, Noreen, nice. 

Of Mimes and Men in Communal Bathrooms

On Saturday evening, i worried that my outfit made me look like a creepy mime artist. I was wearing a short, black marc jacobs skirt with white piping around the edges. I paired it with a black tank and tall, black suede boots. Of course, I was already a few vodkas deep when this fleeting paranoia began. Kate told me I was acting stupid, so I dropped the cause and continued people watching into the colorful garden variety milling around the W's roof top bar. The bar is set to bear some semblance of a beach scene, complete with cabanas, sand, and strategically interspersed palm trees. On this night, Charles Barkley happened to have a table and an entourage of eligible, box-blondes hovering like floozy moths. From this vantage point, the W's beach was South Beach. 

In this diverse, drunken circus, a mime might have been a nice gimmick and an appropriate accent to all of the freak acts circulating the premises. Miming began as an art form to tell a story through deliberate body motions. Though I thought the roots to this 'art' were French, I wikipedia-ed it today and found that it began in Greece before Marcel Marceau and Jean-Gaspard Deburea claimed the white faced, clown-like attributes of the modern mime. When I was in Paris, I was very disappointed that the streets were not lined with these characters immune to saying hello or recommending the best Creperie. It would be a pretty great crutch to lean on in moments when you didn't feel like talking, especially when someone wants sympathy-- I'm sorry, I don't communicate in words, but, if you would like, I will act out the fact that I don't care that you are having a bad day.

As I was thinking about this, my friend Erin returned from the bathroom where she had apparently made a friend at the communal sinks ( yes, the W's bathroom has those great communal sinks. After relieving yourself, you just might get lucky by the hand dryers.). Behind me, her new acquaintance, a seemingly decent enough guy, stood and asked if I wanted a drink. In his hand, he had his own drink, one of those trendy looking Vox water bottles shaped like a hair product. I commented on how great the water bottle was and he replied that he was going to keep it as a souvenir. I gauged that this person probably had a pretty decent sense of humor and responded, "yep, you can put it up on the mantle in your living room next the framed picture of your dog."

Looking back, almost 24 hours later, I'm not really sure how this comment was so offensive or what possessed me to drop this line. I had once read somewhere, probably Glamour or Cosmo, that one of the number one turn offs is a woman who frames pictures of her pets and displays them openly. I thought this was funny and stored it with all of the rest of the useless garbage I have a penchant for keeping. 

"I DO NOT have framed pictures of my dog!" he fired back. In a two minute interval, I had lost a. a free drink and b. Erin's new acquaintance she had met at the soap dispenser. I tried to recover my verbal dart by venturing, 

"Hey, I'm just kidding...what type of dog do you have?" But this was just salting the wound. His face curled into a sour pout and then he did something that no adult has ever done to me in my entire life: he stuck his tongue out and provide an accompanying spitting noise. Before I had time to react, he pranced off, maybe to delete all the pictures of his dog off of his i-phone. 

"Melissa!" Erin exclaimed, "What did you do to that man!" I told her, laughing, and she looked at me and said, "why?" Erin wasn't angry or anything, I just think she was perturbed that I could do so much damage to a stranger with such record time. Ok, maybe it was unnecessary to accuse him of framing pictures of domestic animals, but what sane, grown man thinks its ok to stick his tongue out at a stranger? 

There's a song by an 80s band called Tuxedo Moon that has a line, "In a manner of speaking, semantics won't do..."; so, maybe, his actions made sense. Maybe it was more concise and efficient to stick out one's tongue instead of say, "stupid bitch, go fuck yourself." Maybe it was the least offensive way he could respond to my emasculating dig. At least he was direct. 

We seemed to go to the bathroom in shifts. About a half of an hour later, Kate went to the bathroom while Erin and I patronized a man for being a fashion icon-- he told us in an Ohio twang that he had a 'real' eye for fashion and knew how to make it work. There are no words to describe what he was wearing. In retrospect, I could have used polarized sunglasses. The gleam of his shiny, faux-python jacket and enormous Guido cross made me feel... woozy. Kate returned as we were admiring his watch that he got at a Trade Show in Vegas. Once our bedazzled Tim Gunn decided to mosey off and find new friends, we were able to regroup and Kate revealed what had happened to her inside the communal bathrooms. 

She had run into a guy who I used to dabble with on and off for several months (there's really no better word to classify or describe what this relationship did and did not entail), who had been oddly confrontational toward her. 

"Yeah, it was so weird," she said, "he was walking out and I was walking in and he made a point to stop, point at me, and say, 'I think I know you,' as if we only might have met before." She then recounted how he had told her she looked like she was wearing wax paper (Kate was wearing a silk-tafetta blend Christian Celle dress that happened to be one of my favorites), which he had probably confused with tin foil or cellophane. 

"I don't understand why he couldn't just say 'hi' or, better yet, just ignore me," she wondered, "so much extra effort!" Of course, given the opportunity, she threw it right back at him and commented that at least she didn't wear the same outfit every night in a row and, subsequently, ended the conversation having chalked a tally point:  Kate: 1  guy: -2. 

I thought, even giving him the benefit of a doubt that he was really drunk, that this was unnecessary and wondered what the motivation was. Was it simply to be a dick? Or, was it a means of telling me, through my friend, that he resented me? My five minute friend had stuck his tongue out at me and this former flame had indirectly attacked me by tearing into my best friend. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to having a nice, ordinary conversation. When did the need to codify semantics become so pressing that every form of communication was cryptic and as enigmatic as the Mayan calendar? At this point, even the painted mimes that were not on the streets of Paris were easier to understand than these creatures lurking in Scottsdale. Throughout the course of the night, Erin noticed that he was moving in laps around the spot where we had posted up. Whether it was intentional or not, I do not know nor do I care to find out. Under her breath, with each pass, she would tick off, "one... two....five." I didn't notice. Kate told me this later. 

Or, perhaps, everything was in my head. Maybe there was simply something going on in that communal bathroom that I knew nothing about. Maybe there's a reason to keep public restrooms separate and equal.  

Catechism & Dial Soap

Last night, after returning from the bar, I nearly brushed my teeth with Biore Facial Cleanser. I caught myself mid- press on the top of the pump and managed to switch to Crest. However, when I began to brush, I could tell there was a hint of Biore that must have dripped onto my toothbrush's head. I know I vowed not to discuss play-by-play details, but I thought this one was particularly funny, because I had just washed my mouth out with soap. 

Getting your mouth washed out with soap was my mother's version of a whooping or a spanking and, in that, I think it could be classified as cruel and unusual punishment. I don't remember ever being grounded as a child or really losing any priviledges, but I do recall the pungent aroma of the good old orange dial soap bars as my mother shoved them into my 'filthy' mouth after I had sassed or done something terrible (could this be why I have great gag reflexes now?). Sometimes, if we were lucky, it was from a squirt pump-- the liquified substance was much easier to take. The worst part of the whole painful process was the way the taste clung to your gums and tongue; it was one of the greatest paradoxes of all: how could something so clean taste so incredibly vile?

If I got my mouth washed out with soap before dinner, dinner became spaghetti and Dial or chicken terri-Soft Soap. If you think about it, my mother's punishment, meant to symbolically cleanse me of my filth and ill will, might chalk up to a strategy for someone trying to lose weight: who wants to eat that key lime pie when it tastes like soap?

The taste would linger no matter how i tried to neutralize it: milk, water, cranberry juice. "That's the point," my mom would note, "now you have a reminder of what you did." What was this, a temporary, internal scarlet letter? Did resisting to clean my room or teasing my sister really merit this vestige inside my mouth?

One would think that, if I hated it so much, I would have thought twice about acting out. However, I guess being human really ruined things for me as I usually decided to take my chances and convince myself that, even if i did get caught, I could stick out the purification process. Sometimes, it is better to pick the tomatoes and throw them at your neighbor's windows, sometimes it is better to get it out of your system and face the imminent repercussions. 

Last night at dinner, my friends introduced me to another version of cleansing, less literal than my mom's. Both of them attended Catholic high schools and during their senior year went on a serious, moving retreat called a Kiros, which means "In God's hands". On this Kiros, high school seniors spend hours self reflecting and connecting with God. A self purification and a means to cleanse oneself of anxiety. 

I am also Catholic but I was a Catechism kid-- the only retreat I went on was one right before my Confirmation that i only attended after kicking and screaming (well not literally, but i was not pleased about attending). The retreat did not have any effect on me. I actually only remember two things: 1. I was worried the entire time about finishing an English paper due that Monday and 2. they made us sing that Sophie B. Hawkin's song "As I lay me down to sleep". 

It is funny how, though we were raised to praise the same holy trinity, the impact and the presentation of our religious educations were so... disparate. In fact, though i was a total brown-nosing, straight A student throughout my career in public education, Catechism classes were my outlet to rebellion. Because I knew that my success in Catechism would in no way impact my ability to attend a top university or a score a succesful career, it was low priority. It's kind of sad that I already realized these facts of life as an elementary school student.

While I would go above and beyond on the simplest assignment for school, I flat out refused to complete the cloze passages in my Catechism workbooks about the events that occured in the Garden of Eden or the sequencing exercise about the Last Supper. 

It was in Catechism class that I was, for the first time, sent to the office and given warnings by a teacher. It was also in Catechism class that I befriended a "bad" girl, whom we will refer to as Maggie. Maggie and I both attended the same middle school and had attended the same elementary school. Maggie was a doctor's daughter who hung out with the smokers and got bad grades, despite the fact that she was actually pretty intelligent. Maggie was also not about to put up with this Catechism bull. Though I acted out because I thought it was a waste of time, valuable time that I could be spending watching Dawson's Creek and finishing my math homework,  Maggie acted out because she could, because she was Maggie. I must have admired her, had some sort of twisted respect for this person who so willingly defied authority ( with plenty of witty one-liners to boot) and didn't give a rat's ass about the consequences. Maggie was the type of person who would probably take a bite out of the soap and ask for more, just to make a point.

One evening at Catechism class, Maggie and I were sent to the office after blatantly ignoring our teacher, a squat, sturdy man with pit stains who was a stay at home dad by profession, who had repeated asked us to turn to page 24 to complete partner discussion questions about the return of the prodigal son. Instead, we were, if I had to guess, bitching about how we were missing Dawson's Creek. 

We weren't too concerned about going down to the office; actually, it gave us the chance to get out of class and wander the halls for a few minutes. It wasn't a real 'office' anyway, there weren't any 'real' repercussions. The woman who served as the 'principal' figure was a woman named Carolyn Clark, a pious bitch whose daughter, I would come to learn, would get impregnated at fifteen. Of course, Carolyn didn't know this the day we were sent to the office and it was in her hands to prevent us from falling from grace (my mother, when the pregnancy was uncovered, would snidely remark that maybe if Carolyn Clark had spent less time kneeling on the pew, maybe she would have had more time to keep her daughter from running around). 

After deep reflections about how we could become better citizens of God, Carolyn commanded us, in her baritone, husky voice, to us call our parents to tell them how we had behaved (though our moms would be camped outside the school in about a half of an hour). On the other line, my mom answered, and I explained my unfortunate predicament.

"We'll talk about this at home," my mom said. As I held the phone to my ear I realized that she didn't even sound mad... just kind of disappointed. Hanging up the phone, I did feel a little ashamed and ridiculous, even if being called to Carolyn Clark's office was kind of hilarious. Maggie, on the other hand, rolled her eyes when we were allowed to go back to class.

"what a hag," she said, referring to Carolyn, "talks like a man, too." I snickered a little, but only as a courtesy. I began to think, why did I act out at Catechism? Was it a phase that I was starting to pass out of? And, more pressing than anything else, why wasn't my mom fuming mad?

That night, my mom didn't wash my mouth out with soap. She did say that she wished I wouldn't hang out with Maggie anymore during class. Her disappointment was sharper than the suds tickling my tonsils. As I got ready for bed, I stared at the bottle of Soft Soap and thought about how absurd it would be to wash my own mouth out with soap. I didn't, of course, I'm not that stupid or masochistic. I did, however, sit as far as possible away from Maggie in class for the rest of the year. 

Despite my fall from grace during that year in Catechism class, I've managed to keep a pretty straight edge, staying away from the Maggies, the smokers, and from substance consumption until binge drinking became a socially acceptable norm my freshman year of college. Unlike my friends, I did not have any eye opening retreat experience in my religious education. My religious education was an old battle ax named Carolyn Clark, a wayward brat named Maggie, and a four hour retreat with a cathartic moment to a Sophie B. Hawkins song. Being a 'good' was not something any class could teach me. I learned this over and over the years through dial soap and "i'm disappointed"s from my mom. 

This morning, when I remembered that I had almost washed my mouth out with soap, I thought about my recent behavior and whether or not i could deduce this incident inspired by karma or vodka. I rationalized that it was probably alcohol, as the meanest thing I had done was give some pilot my sister's number, say my name was "Sarah", and lie to him that I was moving to Sweden in two weeks because of the economy. "Family," I told him somberly in the depths of a dark, house-vibrating bar, "I've got no choice but to move back." The man believed me. 

the nicknamer

"mmm... sad clown," she says without flinching, "receding hairline, pasty, potbelly, ugly hair... sad clown." This was one of the most recent nicknames my sister had conjured up to refer to a mutual acquaintance. I had to admit, she was spot on in her classification. 

It is safe to say that my sister, Sarah, has a knack for attributing nicknames to people based on physical features and/or disposition, depending on how well she knows her victim. She's kind of like a Rain Man for honing in on peoples' characteristics and, with a moment of steady calculation, she will mold you into a fictional character, an animal, a retail location, a city or even a noise (this is when she's getting really abstract). It's kind of like the most useless gift one could have. I am insanely jealous that i can't take credit for what i am about to reveal. 

Let's take it nice and easy and look at the animal categorization. Most people can bear resemblance to an animal-- all it takes is one glaring feature and shes' got you nailed. Big, buck teeth? You are a rabbit, or a bunny, depending on how colloquial she is feeling. Now, on the flip side, a severe under bite deems you a bulldog and general dental protrusion might yield a rat or, if you at least a little bit pretty or perhaps more timid, a mouse. Let's look at some other features: beady, deep-set eyes and a hooked nose entitle you as a hawk or an eagle, depending on complexion, and, given a bit more length to your nose you become a heron or an egret.  Bulging eyes and supple lips make you a goldfish. Extreme eye bulge makes you...well... Tori Spelling (sometimes the line grows fuzzy between what can be categorized as human and animal). And, if she deems you a Wildebeest, then God help you.

As you can see, my sister's talent for characterization is one tempered and deeply impacted by physical nuances (if she actually knows you, she will consider personality, too); therefore, her cruelty is much more complicated than one might think. I think it was Nietzsche who mentioned that the nuances are what drive people to conflict (i can't be sure because I learned about Nietzsche primarily in introductory courses during undergrad. As a result of undergraduate intro courses, i can hold my own on just about any topic for just about five minutes before I need to excuse myself.). It seems silly to say that one sibling is a hawk and the other is an eagle simply because the former is a brunette, but i suppose people fight over more inane things all the time. Despite how much they have in common, a singular nuance is too much to say they are the same. 

If i am to make this all relative, Sarah would be the hawk and I would be the eagle. We look enough alike to be noticeably related, except that she is naturally more brunette and I am blonde (though now we are both blonde). As a middle child, she craves attention and I, as the oldest, crave perfection and domination. As a result, we clashed for years, torturing each other physically (i can't count the times my sister would wield hairbrushes at me and try to recreate Houdini's death with her fists socking my abdomen) and mentally (this was my technique, always teasing her about her clothes or something equally stupid.). 

We seemed to call a cease fire when I moved to Arizona. Maybe distance does make the heart grow fonder.Maybe we accepted each others' character deficiencies. It might even be as simple as a desire to band our ill will together toward others. We both share the same love for the absurd and for tormenting unassuming bystanders, for example, through nicknaming. I consider this to be a playful sort of cruelty as it really is irrelevant, especially considering that our prey rarely catches wind of these names, which we create primarily to amuse ourselves. 

When my sister proposed the idea of retail identities for others, I was intrigued and envious that she had outwitted me, simply by thinking of it first. I don't remember, but I was probably saucy toward her until I admitted that it was brilliant (never outwardly, of course, but by embracing the strategy). She introduced the tactic through this little gem of a name about a college friend with whom her relationship was a bit, well, blurred. My sister will never openly admit when she is dating someone/ interested in a guy. It all goes back to that whole idea of nuances; she's a stickler for details and will spend hours affectionately relaying why so and so is a loser, but never admit why she is dabbling with that loser. 

This particular loser she had dubbed "Old Navy". When I asked her how she had created this nickname, she responded, " Usually a piece of crap that will fall apart after a few wears, but, occasionally, a good find!" Was this a backhanded compliment to this poor boy? I would like to think so. So succinct and all inclusive of the person she had described. I was impressed. My respect deepened even though I hated her for a few days after learning about her latest in our coded language. 

We began to generate other possible profiles to fulfill popular men's retailers. Express Men roles down his BMW lease's window to say, "I may look like a million bucks, but this a pastel, white cuffed poly-blend is giving me a rash across my waxed chest!". Armani Exchange elbows you at the club , "Hi, I'm an Italian Stallion and if i turn to much, my left bicep will rip the seam of this great fitted, silk blend v-neck... but they're great to look at and do you like my cross?" Jose A. Banks might boast, at the end of the back 9, "J. Crew is so fucking fruity... stupid bastards with lobsters on their khaki's... since when did preppy become prick-y?" Ok, maybe I'm getting carried away, but you get the point. 

One night my sister revealed to me  the unthinkable: she, the nicknamer, had been nicknamed. I laughed when she told me that our mutual friend, Kate, a native of Scottsdale where I now reside, had nicknamed Sarah as "Scottsdale". She couldn't have been given a more appropriate nickname. I don't know one midwestern girl who spend quite so much tim trying on metallic stilletos that would lead to insta-death on Michigan's frozen turf or who deems techno-electronica appropriate study music before an animal physiology exam. If my sister has a soundtrack in her mind, it is most certainly ' Ooonst oonst oonst" with a few strobe lights intertwined. 

When I speak with my sister long distance, I make it a point to call her by her nickname. In a weird sort of way, it reduces the physical distance between us to just a detail and our bizarre desire to codify everyone comes full circle.  I may live in Scottsdale, but Scottsdale lives inside her, despite the fact that her apartment in Lansing is 500 feet from a cow pasture. 

a couple of 'foodies'

A few weeks ago, I attended an Ivy League Association Happy Hour at a moderately swanky bar, its atmosphere only tampered with because it was attached to the Macy's at Biltmore Fashion Park. As nice as the mall is, I have some reservations about staring out into a parking garage while sipping vodka tonics. 

I was invited to this little fete on behalf of my roommate who attended Smith College, which is considered a sister school to the holy trinity and its elite cousins. At the door we were invited to make name tags. Therefore, I was the girl from "Go Blue" as many strangers commented when they examined my name tag. Subsequently, I engaged in 40-50 seconds of small talk about the 'rough season' and how we have a 'new coach'. 

Inside, the bar was packed by the finest academic hoi polloi that Phoenix has to offer or, at least, the onces who cared to boast about it with sharpie-d on name tags inside an ultra-lounge attached to the mall. Looking around, I spotted Noreen, talking to a couple who looked tame enough but a bit boring. I introduced myself and we transitioned out toward the bar. On the way, Noreen informed me that a glass of wine was $12 ( I figured it was probably Beringer or something equally as nasty and made a mental decision to order well vodka and tonic instead) and that she had begun talking to that tame looking couple on the couch because yet another needy brown man was stalking her. Noreen happens to be Pakistani and is constantly under the reproachful eye of eligible brown men in the greater Phoenix area. Apparently, this character had been concerned that she had 'no friends' and was new to the area, trapped in a crowded bar and unable to relate to the WASPy masses at hand. 

Having ordered my well vodka ( a safe bet at $6.50) I began to purvey the faces in the room and wonder: why did people come here? For myself, it was a combination of entertainment and the anticipation of meeting amusing characters. Some, perhaps, of the business variety, were here to network. Some, like the lingering brown man, for a relationship. But in this desert hodgepodge I suppose many of these people were looking for a piece of their pasts, for a chance to play 'who do you know', for slightly different versions of themselves. Or, at the very least, a swing at a one night stand. 

To my left I noticed that squat looking man wearing glasses had engaged noreen and erin, our friend who intended Trinity, in conversation. next to him stood a tall, thin woman, her hair bleached with a fringe of bangs. She had about four inches on the man. It took me a moment to put the picture together (this is what well drinks can do to you), but I realized that she would momentarily look warily at the man before reengaging in a conversation that only loosely held her attention. When she brushed past him to signal that she was getting another glass of merlot, I realized they were probably married (well, ok, the matching last names on their name tags did tip me off). 

They were the Nuris. Marissa and Larry Nuri. Larry went to Cornell and Marissa did not wear her education on her sleeve. I made a point to smile at her, as if to say, it's ok if you are not Ivy I am also a pariah, but she did not want an ally. Not that she really wanted an enemy either. In fact, the face I thought was wary was actually turning into one of relief. The moment I began talking to Larry really hit the nail in the coffin, so to speak.

After the initial introduction which involved the good old repartee about Michigan's Bad News Bears football season,  Larry and I ran off on a tangent about Oldtown (where I currently reside). I bluntly revealed that I enjoyed my proximity to the bars and nightlife. 

"my wife and I, " he signaled, pointing to Marissa who was expressionless in conversation, "you see she's over there, that tall woman- we used to go to clubs and bars but now... eh " he stopped, looked up as if he was searching for something profound, "but now, we're getting older. We'll usually go for a later dinner and by the time its over we go home." He then proceeded to describe to me about how he and his wife are foodies, lovers of food and fine dining. 

"if you really want a lot of bang for your buck there's this little place, " he informed me ( this segment of the conversation followed a historical documentation about how Marissa has been going to the same club, now called Forbidden, for four decades), "It's right behind that new hotel- The W, that's it- the restaurant is called fusion." 

He discussed the various entrees and pricings ( i won't bore you with the details) and I began to see how he and his wife might have been married out of mutual desperation: she had no desire to talk, he had no desire to listen. But, as luck would have it,  they both enjoyed fine dining.

I do not remember specifically how the conversation ended, but it did end with a reminder to try Fusion. We returned Larry Nuri to his wife, probably to her disdain, and wandered to another corner of the bar. About an hour later, when we exited, the brown man reappeared and reminded Noreen that he had her card. "email me!" she cried as we scuttled off into the depths of the parking garage.

Two evenings later, Saturday night, Erin, Noreen, and I had made plans to go the W and have dinner at the sushi bar attached to the hotel. However, when we arrived, there was of course an hour and a half wait. It was 9 pm so we decided to go elsewhere to eat before heading to the W bar. I remembered Larry's suggestion and mentioned to my friends that we ought to try Fusion. 

It had begun to sprinkle, as we entered the small restaurant not 500 feet from the hotel. As we entered, I remembered that Larry had mentioned something about how he and his wife were going to celebrate their anniversary there this weekend, but could not remember which night. 

We entered the restaurant. Though it had a hip name, the inside looked a washed up dining room in an elderly woman's home. The walls were seafoam and the tables looked like they had been purchased at Art Van's Furniture outlet. No music played and the lighting yellowed above us. It was all but empty, at 9 pm, with the exception of... the Nuris. Larry Nuri scoped us out with hawk-like reflex and, before we could turn to seemlessly move to a different part of the restaurant,  he welcomed us and informed us we were in for a real treat. 

"We're a couple of foodies, you know, and this place is at the top of our list!" He took a sip of wine; Marissa glanced up briefly from the menu before mirroring his action. 

The hostess asked us if the table across from the Nuri's would be fine. We were in a clutch: it would probably be even more awkward to request a seat across the room. We sat down. Immediately, Larry leaned back on his chair, "You girls are going to love this, mark my word. we always get the crab cakes. All of the seafood here is great-isn't it?" he called upon an affirmation from his wife who nodded. He tilted back to his table. 

I noticed how quiet the restuarant was. When Larry was not talking to us, he was occasionally muttering short phrases to his wife, who replied less occasionally. Their conversation was best when seasoned by the din of clinking fork and knives on their plates and slugs of wine. It felt awkward for us to speak to loudly, for fear we'd break the silence and quiet of the Nuris' anniversary dinner in their restaurant. 

We ordered lavash pizza, despite the raves of our pseudo maitre-d.  It arrived as a crispy cracker crust embellished with tomatoes, mozzarella and balsamic vinagrette.

The moment we began crunching, Larry Nuri chanted, "crunch! crunch! a lot of crunching over there! Sounds like some people are enjoying their first time!" I always hate when people patronize via talking about me right in front of my face. Especially when PG sexual inuendos are made. I checked for Larry's wife's expression and wondered how her anniversary made her feel. Here she was, alone in this empty, ugly restaurant listening to her husband analyze and imitate the mastication of strangers.

Larry Nuri had informed me his wife was a native of Phoenix. They had met at a club downtown twenty years ago. As we pay our bill, I look over and think about whether she reconsiders the moment she had allowed him to talk to her, the moment that she had accepted a first date, an engagement and a marriage to this import from Cornell. On paper, Larry Nuri was probably a catch. But was this, in the end, worth two crabcakes at a cheap table? 

However, it is not fair to make these assumptions. Maybe, they really were quite the pair, maybe they were whispering to each other, communicating through some personal semantics. Maybe they were just a couple of foodies. 

another graphic T

I've always considered blogs as trendy and fringing on obnoxious. Every time a friend began a blog, I would secretly scoff, "what makes so-and-so think that what he or she is saying is so important?" I didn't understand why people felt the need to slosh together the mundane details of their lives- "today my dog threw up on the my bed"- and  all of their existential thoughts to date. And then, of course, I would go and read it, shamelessly. 

But I am weak and usually come around to trends eventually. Perhaps I just like the element of resistance before I sheepishly buy that graphic t- shirt again and again. The same graphic t-shirt that, a few months ago, I declared garish. 

The thing is, from the moment that I front resistance, I know I will fall prey to the trend at hand. In fact, I anticipate and project approximately how long it will take me to come around. It took approximately a year for me to accept the bedazzled graphic t-shirt. A few more to start blogging.

Maybe it was out of laziness, shame of laziness, or concern that everyone might discover that my writing capabilities are actually somewhat...average. Either way, I am waving my white flag and blogging. 

I am hoping that the blog becomes more than a graphic t-shirt for me. Eventually, I will let them dissipate into the dark depths of my closet when I decide its time to unearth my polo shirts again. I am hoping that this blog is not something that will amuse me for a short stint before i 'forget'- which really means 'choose not to'- to write in it for weeks at a time. If anything, it can very well serve as a strategic tool for procrastination. I hope that I can take this as an opportunity to highlight the people and places that I find, at the very least, mildly amusing.

Well, as they say in Spain, vamos a ver.