Trust me, I've been there. I have locked my keys in the car. With the car running. Twice. I have locked myself out of my boyfriend's apartment. I have locked myself out of my own apartment. I have locked myself out of my dorm room in a towel. In fact, I recently locked myself out of a dorm room at my college reunion. Thank God my friend Tracy remembered how to call Security. We had to wait forever, sitting in the grody hallway, watching the class of '03 parade up and down in their pre-class-dinner glory, reeking of perfume and alcohol. That was pretty bad.
So, I come to you from a place of empathy. It sucks anytime a locked door comes between you and your plans, belongings, or dignity. You stand there, sans key, wondering if that really just happened. I understand, honey. I really do.
That said, it is not my responsibility to remind you to collect your keys, your purse, your cell phone, your snacks, your water bottle, your folder of important papers, and any other personal items from the back room before the last person who has a key to that room, and who does not have a cell phone, locks the door and leaves for the day. Also, stomping around the office will not help. Also, talking loudly on your cell phone will not help.
I wasn't holding out on you - it just took me awhile to think of where the extra key might be hidden. I can think better without stomping and yelling. I know you didn't mean to yell, but your voice is naturally kinda loud.
No, I am not going to tell you where the extra key is kept. But now you know who to call if it happens again. Just please use your inside voice.
Sincerely,
Me.
P.S. You're welcome.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
love in this club...and everywhere
So tonight I was driving from work to Mike's. As I stopped for the light at the corner of Gilbert and MLK, I glanced over at the corner store there because someone was blasting that Usher song at full volume, specifically the romantic keyboard part at the end (in the back, in the side, in the front...). And then I saw him, and the memories came flooding back.
It was September of 2005, and I was a green, innocent field organizer. One of my jobs was to register people to vote in the West End. I was on Dayton Street. Once called Millionaire's Row, it's a grand, tree-lined residential street where, you guessed it, millionaires lived back in the day. And back in the day, it was a way bigger deal to be a millionaire. It is now home to lower-income, mostly African-American renters, as well as a handful of higher income, mostly white homeowners who hide from the poor folk inside their beautifully restored 19th century Italianate row houses, and plan West End Gentrifiers' Club meetings. But I digress.
This older, white Santa Claus-looking man was sitting on the steps outside his apartment. Or maybe it was someone else's apartment, in which case he was loitering. I approached him enthusiastically and, after ascertaining that he'd moved since the last time he voted, got him registered to vote. As he was filling it out, he seemed to be smiling at me a bit oddly, but I was like, whatever, he's Santa Claus. He signed the card, still leering at me. I looked at it. And then down. At. His balls. Hanging. Out of. His shorts. His short shorts. They were very red. The balls were. And very...long. They were practically touching the pavement, people.
"Thankyouverymuchyouwillreceiveyourcardfromtheboardofelectionsinfourto sixweeks," I blurted and ran away. Not really ran - you should never run from a rotund old man with exposed testicles, much like you should never run from a stray dog. I walked fast. I guess I sort of trotted. He stayed put. Those nuts were like anchors. They weighed him down. He was still smiling though. Wouldn't you be, if you were feeling a nice, gentle breeze on your scrotum while watching an earnest organizer skip off to get you registered to vote?
So I saw him again today at the corner store, as the bass line of romance was reverberating in the air. I only got to gaze upon him for a moment (the light changed). He looked the same, except he was wearing pants. Ah, memories. Perhaps I shouldn't have been so quick to leave him. But now we've both moved on. Or something.
Perhaps this story makes you sad for things that could have been. No. Do not be sad. Instead, view this link.
It was September of 2005, and I was a green, innocent field organizer. One of my jobs was to register people to vote in the West End. I was on Dayton Street. Once called Millionaire's Row, it's a grand, tree-lined residential street where, you guessed it, millionaires lived back in the day. And back in the day, it was a way bigger deal to be a millionaire. It is now home to lower-income, mostly African-American renters, as well as a handful of higher income, mostly white homeowners who hide from the poor folk inside their beautifully restored 19th century Italianate row houses, and plan West End Gentrifiers' Club meetings. But I digress.
This older, white Santa Claus-looking man was sitting on the steps outside his apartment. Or maybe it was someone else's apartment, in which case he was loitering. I approached him enthusiastically and, after ascertaining that he'd moved since the last time he voted, got him registered to vote. As he was filling it out, he seemed to be smiling at me a bit oddly, but I was like, whatever, he's Santa Claus. He signed the card, still leering at me. I looked at it. And then down. At. His balls. Hanging. Out of. His shorts. His short shorts. They were very red. The balls were. And very...long. They were practically touching the pavement, people.
"Thankyouverymuchyouwillreceiveyourcardfromtheboardofelectionsinfourto sixweeks," I blurted and ran away. Not really ran - you should never run from a rotund old man with exposed testicles, much like you should never run from a stray dog. I walked fast. I guess I sort of trotted. He stayed put. Those nuts were like anchors. They weighed him down. He was still smiling though. Wouldn't you be, if you were feeling a nice, gentle breeze on your scrotum while watching an earnest organizer skip off to get you registered to vote?
So I saw him again today at the corner store, as the bass line of romance was reverberating in the air. I only got to gaze upon him for a moment (the light changed). He looked the same, except he was wearing pants. Ah, memories. Perhaps I shouldn't have been so quick to leave him. But now we've both moved on. Or something.
Perhaps this story makes you sad for things that could have been. No. Do not be sad. Instead, view this link.
well, well, well....
It appears I have a blog. For many, many moons, I have been anti-blog. I don't even like how it sounds - blog, blog, bloooog. I used to refuse to even say it. I would say "weblog," or even "online journal." Perhaps I was a little pretentious. I just thought blogs were just narcissistic, navel-gazing drivel. Then I realized that I liked narcissistic, navel-gazing drivel - as long as I liked the person, and/or if they had an ability to make their story compelling. Examples: Smashed, anything Plath, my own online personal profiles (talk about narcissistic...) and my friend Lucy's excellent blog (bring it back, Pants!) , which did more than anything to bring me around from my blogism.
So I guess that's all I have to say for my first blog post, except that I found something on my desk chair, something that I was very worried about. But, fortunately, I didn't have to worry, and neither do you, because it was just a piece of black olive.
So I guess that's all I have to say for my first blog post, except that I found something on my desk chair, something that I was very worried about. But, fortunately, I didn't have to worry, and neither do you, because it was just a piece of black olive.
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