It’s funny how hot you are…

Sometimes, when people laugh, it is not because something is funny. I am currently observing this in one of my classes, where we are talking about serious issues and this one kid just CANNOT NOT CHORTLE. He chortles throughout class. You say “chicken dinner” to this guy and he cracks up. Like an egg. Laid by the chicken that is for dinner. WHABAM full circle. Or full oval. Like an egg… Okay, I’m stopping. I don’t know what what I just did is called but it won’t happen again.

This kid makes me think, though, about reasons people laugh besides because something is actually funny. I made a list.

REASON 1: To suck up. This is called “being a sycophant.” You laugh at anything someone with power over you says that could be construed, or even MISconstrued, as a joke, because you know it will help you not get fired. I used to do this with an old boss who made a lot of jokes that involved comedy dancing. He really put his ass into his comedy dancing. He was bald. Let’s never speak of this again.

REASON 2: Because the person talking is hot. Nice abs can turn (and HAVE TURNED) an earnest comment about cats into insightful satire about the human condition.

REASON 3: To seem worldly. This is why teenagers will laugh at every possible blowjob joke, even jokes that are like, “Guess what I found in my backpack today? A blowjob!” At a certain point, you get old enough that blowjobs no longer seem like a “worldly” thing to talk about. Then it is jokes about like, current events you should be up on but aren’t, or jokes about doing your taxes because your parents still do yours… but shhhh!

REASON 4: Because you don’t know what else to do. This is why when someone says something to you like, “When I was a kid, I killed my gerbil,” you will probably laugh. You don’t want to yell at them or anything, you guys are just making small talk at a party, this isn’t like The Time, but at the same time you have to do something because WTF ARE YOU VOLDEMORT?!?!?!  Gerbils are innocent creatures. They just want to eat yogurt treats. In this way, they are not so different from humans.

I found love and now I would like to get rid of it

Everyone always says that you can’t go out and find love – love finds YOU. And by everyone, I mean everyone in movies based on books by Nicholas Sparks.  But guess what? It turns out these people are RIGHT. I would never have expected to find love where I have found it, but then it just showed up in my life and it feels great. Actually, it feels creepy and I would like to end this ASAP. It turns out I am in love with the photocopier at my work. I am at least getting really emotionally attached to it.

First, I found out it could send EMAILS. You scan something, and the photocopier (seemingly not a sentient being except wait IT ACTUALLY IS) will e-mail you a .pdf of the document. How many of your friends can do that kind of thing for you? NONE. Try sticking a document in your friend’s mouth – they will probably not even produce the most basic, one sided photocopy, let alone e-mail any kind of FILE.  When I found out about the .pdf e-mailing function I screamed piercingly in my place of work. With joy.

Then, I had to make a lottttt of photocopies this week, and the speed of the photocopier became extremely correlated with my mood. When it was jamming a lot, I began to wonder if life had any meaning at all.  When it was fast, I was listening to the Ying Yang Twins on my iPod and (subtly) dancing in the copy room.  When it was medium fast, I was bored but life seemed like, 75-80% meaningful.

And then, yesterday, the copy machine BROKE. It jammed so profoundly we had to take part of it out and poke around in it with like, tweezers. Half the office became involved. I felt like I was in some sort of reality show where you could win millions of dollars if you feigned interest in the state of the copier, but my interest was not feigned. It was REAL. I was in a serious funk for the rest of the day. Even after the copier was fixed, I was upset that it had once been broken.

It is really too much emotional involvement. Thank god it is now the weekend and me and the copier are on a break. I need some me time. To think about what I want, instead of always what the copier wants, you know?

My Hopes And Dreams

I am about to turn 21, and I have two hopes and dreams for my birthday.

Hope and Dream #1) That it is not like my friend’s 21st birthday, on which he threw up (and cried!  Because he HATES throwing up!), while a person he did not actually know looked on.

Hope and Dream #2) That it is not like my other friend’s 21st birthday.  This friend was a friend from work, and when she turned 21 she decided to celebrate by drinking nonstop for a week.  When the week ended, and she did stop, she realized that she had developed an uncontrollable eye twitch.  To forget about her eye twitch, she started drinking again, which made her eye twitch more, which mad her drink more, etc.  It took her like a month to break the vicious twitching cycle.

So here’s to hoping that on my birthday I don’t barf, and that if I barf I don’t cry, and that if I cry and barf I at least don’t twitch uncontrollably for more than three weeks.

Blergh

I’m really sick right now. Like snot fountain, coughing up a lung sick. So I don’t really have anything interesting to say, except that if you need a way to very cheaply and efficiently produce phlegm, I can HELP YOU OUT and you should call me.

I feel like I should post something from my bed of pain, though. So here are a couple lists I have made over the past couple of months and then not used for anything, because what on earth do you use tiny lists like these for?

Okay. Let’s go.

WORDS THAT SHOULD NOT BE WRITTEN ACROSS THE BACK OF SWEATPANTS
1. Jury Duty
2. Analog
3. Damp

THINGS STRANGERS HAVE SAID TO ME AND MY FRIENDS ON THE STREET IN INDIA
1. “Which country is suffering without you ladies?”
2. “Oh! A sexy bitch!”
3. “It was very nice meeting you!” [Shouted from across the street, with no previous interaction]

HALLOWEEN PARTY-THEME IDEAS BRAINSTORMED BY EMPLOYEES AT THE STORE*
1. Rodents from Hell
2. Zombie game show hosts
3. Food

*not made up.  I wish I was that good at party themes, though – I would be famous!

That’s the best I can do for now but someday, when I am not feeling bad, I plan to write some groundbreaking things about toilet paper so HOLD ON TO YOUR HORSES.

VINTAGE AND REALLY LONG: The Disability Special

I am about to go wander around India for ten days with no internet, so I figure I should leave something long here for you to chew on (not figuratively LITERALLY CHEW IT) until I get back.  So  here is something that I posted before on my ghetto blog that doesn’t exist anymore.  I have edited it since then.  It is better now.  But still REALLY LONG.  And also BATSHIT CRAZY.  Enjoy it if you have the patience.

The Disability Special

I am about to tell you the sort of story you don’t hear often – a story of screaming, disabilites, and bagging at a professional level. But first, some background.

Back when I was a bagger at The Store, I worked under a supervisor named Rob.  Despite the fact that he was a low-level manager of a grocery store, Rob was one of the few Store employees who harbored the illusion that his job was extremely difficult and taxing.  He was constantly stressed and borderline overwhelmed by his duties, which were watching other people work and, occasionally, counting money. Truly, if he had had business cards, they would have said “Rob: Doer of Difficult and Taxing Things.”  And then there would have been a little picture of a man fighting a dragon.  Or, more likely, a little picture of Jesus getting crucified.

An interesting fact about Rob is that, instead of saying things like “time for your break,” he would increase efficiency – at least in his mind – by pointing at you, pointing towards the break room, and then marching stalwartly away.  His unwillingness to speak was so great that he really could have been thought of as a mime enthusiast.  However, I’m pretty sure that he was actually a minimizing-interaction-with-other-people enthusiast.  The man was not a fan of others.  Especially when they touched him.  If The Store was crowded and people accidentally brushed past him to get where they were going, he would visibly flinch.

On an entirely different (but equally important) note, part of my job as a bagger was to help disabled customers with their shopping.  This typically meant blind customers, or customers in wheelchairs who couldn’t reach the higher shelves.  Disabled customers were defined broadly, though – once, I helped a woman who thought that she was being followed by an all-male choir.

I said, “So like… do they want to sing to you?”

“Oh no. They want something even worse than that.”

In cases like that, the man-to-man customer service got a little taxing – especially when, on her way out, that woman peed in the store’s entryway – but it was usually fine.

Except one day.

VINTAGE: The Toothless Transvestite

Another old thing.

The Toothless Transvestite

Transvestites are relatively common in the neighborhood where I work.  I figured out how to spot them from Anna, who told me to check the Adam’s apple and the hands (men’s are larger and hairier).  I also discovered on my own that strangely positioned breasts (too high, too low, or the worst – too far left) are usually found on men with rambunctious falsies, rather than women with rambunctious genetics.  And yet what the neighborhood transvestites share, more than hairy hands or prominent Adam’s apples, is teeth.  They all have them.  EXCEPT ONE.

The outlier is the man I call “The Toothless Transvestite.”  (I just call him that because it’s alliterative, though – he actually has about five teeth.)  I have seen this man regularly for almost two years now, and I always feel bad for him.  It’s not just because eating solid food must be hard for him (that challenge is completely compensated for by the ease with which he can use straws.  No jaw movement necessary for him!  Homie probably gets the words for “lockjaw” and “picnic” confused).  It’s because nothing else is quite working for him either.  His boobs look weird, possibly because they are repurposed shoulder pads.  His clothes are all sort of mildew colored, and don’t fit him properly.  His shoes are kind of clunky heels, and they make his ankles look thick (even though they are not!  He has totally fine ankles.  I don’t know why I know this).  And his makeup is totally sale makeup – it doesn’t work with his coloring at all.  Whenever I see him, I think that there should be a fund for impoverished transvestites, to help them impersonate women more accurately.  But then I think about whether I would donate money to this fund, and the answer is always no.

Anyway… yesterday, I saw the toothless transvestite for the first time since summer started, and HE GOT A MAKEOVER!  He looks FABULOUS now.  He got some new breasts that look entirely like breasts, with no connotations of shoulder.  He got a new dress, with real colors and some flattering diagonal stripes.  He also got some new makeup that brightens his face right up and also – most importantly – HE REGREW HIS TEETH.  Or he got dentures.  But I like to think that he chugged some calcium and grew a new set, like a shark.  In fact, I like to think that he is actually part shark, just because the news headline “Transvestite Goes Swimming, Consumes Entire School of Fish” would be… well.  Pretty compelling.

Anyway, the toothless transvestite’s transformation (OMG ALLITERATION RED ALERT! REMAIN IN YOUR HOMES!) made me really, really happy.  When I saw him, I actually teared up.  You go, homegirl. You GO!

Freaky Deeky

My last day at work was a while ago now, but I stopped by yesterday to see Anna, and we had the following conversation:

ANNA: Be careful in India, Mae.

ME: I will.

ANNA: No seriously, be careful.  I don’t want you to die.

ME: I will be careful.

ANNA:  But you have to understand – there are freaks there.

ME: There are freaks everywhere, though. I mean, there are even some freaks here.  [UNDERSTATEMENT OF FOREVER]

ANNA: Yeah, but not like in India.

ME:  Are you sure?  Look outside.

(Outside, there was a panhandler.  But so much more special than our usual panhandler!  This guy had his hair up in some very nice [okay, that's a lie] Princess Leia buns.  He had also taken his shirt off, revealing his stomach, which was visibly moving because he had apparently just eaten something that was alive.  Like a bear.  Also, while most panhandlers display some sort of sign that says some sort of thing like “I’m Hungry” or “I’m Hungre,” he had no sign.  He just stood there silently, swaying back and forth, tweaking so hard that I just wanted to go BUY HIM SOME DRUGS so he could STOP DOING THAT and PUT ON HIS SHIRT PUT IT ON PUT IT ON.  He was seriously scary to behold.)

ANNA [looking at Mr. Princess Leia]: You kind of have a point.

(EPILOGUE: MPL has been sighted since, and he seemed to be in better shape.  His eyes were at least arguably in focus.  So – happy ending?)

All-Time Low

I usually work 5-hour shifts at work, but sometimes I work 8-hour ones, and during my long shifts I get really, really bored.  Like REALLY.  We don’t get a lot of customers, and I have less responsibilities per hour, and so there are these long tundra-like stretches where I have nothing to do except sing along to the Muzak.  So I do.

But my Friday shift was the worst in a long time.  I reached the point where singing the Muzak did not even amuse (or aMuzak!  HA HA HA) me anymore.  I had reached an all-time low.

And so, to pass the time, I took off my shoes.  And then I put them back on again.

The saddest thing about this is not even that it happened, but that I timed myself on one of the shot clocks – which makes me sound like a baller!  Which I am!  But the clock is for espresso shots, not ball-into-hoop-shooting shots – and,  according to the shot clock, it took me five minutes to take my shoes off and put them back on.

FIVE.

FOUR PLUS ONE.

THREE PLUS TWO.

ET FREAKING CETERA.

MINUTES.

You have to admit: that is a little on the slow side for a grown person.

Dino Time

Yesterday, I was talking to one of our plainclothes security guards, and he had this beard.  It was very, very thin, and it was just around the sides of his face.  I couldn’t really look directly at him because when I did, I thought, “YOU.  You have spent a lot of time alone with a magnifying mirror and a picture of Smoove B The Love Man.”

He was also wearing this enormous, FUBU-y vest that was covered, mysteriously, in colorful dinosaurs.

I was really bored, so when our conversation lagged, I continued it instead of peacing out on Smoove Dino (as I call him).  I said, “Nice vest!  I’m digging the dinosaurs!”

“Oh yeah?  Which one is your favorite?”

This seemed like a weird question, because someone with such a beard could not possibly know about the different kinds of dinosaurs.  You can’t like dinosaurs when you also like tweezing your face.  It’s COSMIC LAW (and I am a COSMIC LAWYER).  So I told him, “The red one” and not “The brontosaurus.”

He said, “Ah, yes.  The leaf-eater.  Personally, I prefer raptors.”

And then I looked at him and realized that we might be living in a POST-FACIAL-HAIR SOCIETY.  Where like, Santa has a Hitler stache and babies have goatees.  Because if you look like your name is “Smoove Dino,” you should not actually know about dinos, and you DEFINITELY should not know what they eat unless SOMETHING is UP.

I was really upset.

But then I got over it because then we talked about how he had a gun – direct quote from him: “It sounds bad to say it, but… I HAVE A GUN” – and that’s the sort of conversation I enjoy most.

I’m not even really kidding.

A letter.

Dear customer,

Hello!  I’m your friendly local barista, and boy do I have a story for you.  A few days ago, I was counting the money in our tip jar, and you will never guess what I found!  I found a wadded up napkin!  In our tip jar!  And I think you peed on it.

Now, customer, never forget:  I love you.  Without your business, I would be unemployed.  But I do not love your possibly-peed-on napkin, and I really unlove where you put it.  Which was in my tip jar.  I appreciate your desire to give me something that is special to you instead of the usual impersonal tip of money, but if I wanted what you gave me, I promise I would have just peed on a napkin myself.

This isn’t just about me, either.  I think this is true of most people.  I think the peed-on napkin is an overrated gift, even taking into account that in most circles it is not rated highly.

So here’s to hoping this sort of misunderstanding doesn’t happen again!

Also, here’s to hoping that you stop being an asshole.

Love and best wishes always!

Mae