Leftovers With Bryan

I'm good. Just go.

2010-10-18T21:10:00.000-07:00

“I wish the real world would just stop hassling me.” Matchbox Twenty

I sit near the front door at work. Therefore no one enters or leaves, even for the restroom, without a stroll past Yours Truly. I promised myself early on that someday I'd blog about all the different ways people have of acknowledging me when they walk by my desk. What most don't realize is that I don't require them to do so every single time. For some reason, they must. But after they've already said "good morning" or "hi" when they first see me for the day...it is the passings later on that get tricky.  

Here are the highlights. Most don't involve actually looking at me.  

1. An annoying fake grin.  

2. Repeating my name a few times in a sing-songy way that is more  annoying than all the fake grins in the world.  

3. Raised eyebrows.  

4. Pretending to be captivated by something on the ceiling.  

5. Blurting out the slogan from an old T.V. commercial.  

6. Pointing out what the weather's doing. The weather I apparently  can't see through the large, blindless window directly behind me.  

7. Tapping lightly across my desk. With their fingers, not their feet.  At least that would be entertaining.  

8. Making that clicking tongue sound. Meanwhile, nobody here is a pygmy.  

9. Humming or singing to themselves. Hey, it fills the silence. The one I was using to get some work done.  

10. An agonizing attempt at humor. Yes, I've actually heard, "Is it  Friday yet?" and "Working hard or hardly working?". Then he or she  trembles with joy. Good one, you droll devil.   

11. Saying something softly enough that they might be talking to  themselves, but loudly enough that they might be talking to me. Is it  rude to respond? Is it rude not to?

  12. Asking how I am. Of course, this is nice. But when I ask the  same in return, they often reply with a pleasant "It's Friday" or a flat  "It's Monday." One of these days I'm going to greet them with, "What day  is it?" and see if I get, "My psoriasis itches like the dickens!"

  13. Laughing like a mental patient, by which I mean for no apparent  reason. I think this one is my favorite. There's only so many times a girl  can take this before she starts to check for the perpetual booger.  

14. Sticking their face partway into whatever I'm eating instead of just  asking what it is.

  15. Asking if I'm bored. If you're offering a solution, I'm afraid you're too late. I WAS bored, until the person before you left bits of spittle and an eyelash in this oatmeal. Now I'm figuring out what to have for breakfast.  

16. Announcing how badly they have to go to the bathroom. I would so  appreciate more details, but alas, you're in a hurry.  

17. Telling me how cold/tired/hungry they are. They all do this. Evidently there's some sort of Alaskan sweat shop back there.  

18. Asking if I saw The Biggest Loser last night. I didn't. We will repeat this conversation exactly one week from now.  

19. Quipping, "Is it five o'clock yet?" I like to start crying and reply that I can't tell time, and I'm humiliated that they've exposed my private shame.  

20. Glancing at my name plate and asking if I have a brother named  Harry. Ha-ha! Stop it, you! Go to the head of the class with the Jerry  Lewis fans from #10.

20 Questions

2010-10-11T19:34:00.000-07:00

“Don’t answer me.” The Alan Parsons Project

Not long ago, Bryan underwent back surgery. A couple of days beforehand, he sent a long email to me and his family with questions he'd compiled to ask the neurosurgeon. He wanted us to add any more we might come up with. Below is what I sent back. At his prompting, I’ve decided to post it. He seems to think I was kidding, and I don't know why. Most of these seem pret-ty important to me… 

Can you make me fly like Superman?  

Will I learn to enjoy country music so I’m not a whiny crybaby at my girlfriend’s house on Sundays?  

While you're in there, can you look for some medical reason why I'm so  dang awesome?  

Why do my houseplants usually die?  

Do you know what that super-creepy thing was in my bottle of hot sauce  that once?  

I think I like girls. Is that normal?  

Do I dance in my sleep?  

When will I be old enough to understand grown-up stuff?

  Will you please remove my cervix?

  If I kiss myself in the mirror, is that bad?  

Does anyone say you look like Dr. Hook? May I call you Dr. Hook?  

Will you hold me in your big, strong arms for a while?

  Have you seen the “Talky Tina” episode of The Twilight Zone? Can we  schedule a follow-up appointment to watch it together?

 Is it true what they say about white people being superior?  

Can I have some Kool-Aid?  

Have you ever heard of that “swine flu”? Isn't that some crazy stuff?!  

While you are operating, could you and the others refer to me as “this  cute little feller with the body freckles”?  

And could you also tell the nurses that in your medical opinion, my body  was sculpted out of marble by the gods?  

Why do I cry when I listen to Lou Rawls?  

How comes I no talks so good?  

Well...I guess that's about it. Let you know if I think of any more.  

Good luck!
 Jen

Top 30 Ways My Current Office Is Just Like The Daycare I Used To Work At

2010-10-04T20:25:00.000-07:00

“Forever young, I want to be forever young.” Alphaville

30. Not being allowed to do anything
29. Falling down a lot
28. Accusing others of “faking” when they’ve been out sick
27. Abundant tattling
26. Talking louder than a sonic boom
25. Calling their mom when they forgot their lunch
24. Crying
23. Making others cry
22. Playing in the urinals and sinks, then lying about it
21. Being cranky because they stayed up too late watching Darkwing Duck
20. Nose-picking
19. Thumb-sucking
18. Falling asleep anywhere they find themselves at the moment, including, and in some cases especially, the bathroom
17. Bizarre sense of entitlement
16. Offering best friendship in exchange for stupid stuff
15. Believing they are good dancers, and that others would love to see proof
14. Keeping secrets nobody gives a crap about
13. Using derogatory terms, then pretending not to know what they mean
12. Gratuitous use of “you’re not the boss of me”
11. Laughing at jokes they don’t get
10. Telling jokes they don’t get
9. Adorable crushes on people who are way out of their league
8. Dressing up like Spiderman
7. Fearing the roar of the auto-flush toilets
6. Spilling dirty information about their parents
5. Disinviting evil-doers to their “birthday”
4. Refusing to stay in timeout
3. Descending on free candy like sleazy photogs on a sex-addicted golfer
2. Fabricating trips to Disneyland
1. Not knowing how to drive

I Brake For Bombs

2010-09-27T22:00:00.000-07:00

"Hold on tight. You know she's a little bit dangerous." Roxette

Alright...so, I'm not the best driver. And I admit it, okay? But I am trying to improve, and I've never actually touched another car with mine. Well, there may have been that once. Which happened a few times.

But driving is just so boring, and a mind as easily distracted as mine presents a special challenge. And for this, I came kinda close to rear-ending Richard Belzer on the road this morning.

Now, you know you love to write when you're almost sorry you didn't wreck with someone, because of the story it robs you of.

So here is how I imagine it would have gone:

Smack.

Jen and Richard get out of their cars.

Jen: Oh gosh! Are you the Law and Order guy?

Richard: Well, now I'm just the guy you hit with your car.

Jen: Wow! Richard Belzer! Funny story...the casting director I worked for saw you doing standup once in the eighties, and she said it really stunk!

Silence.

Jen: Yeah, she said it was just time-to-go-home-now embarrassing. Isn't that so funny?

Crickets.

Jen: Aw, crap. Is it too late for "I'm a big fan"?

Louder, angrier crickets.

Jen: "That will buff out"?

A Short Scene I Overheard At Work

2010-09-18T18:09:00.000-07:00

“There’s something happening here. What it is ain’t exactly clear.” Buffalo Springfield (For What It’s Worth)

Male Coworker #1: Oh, I was gonna tell you…I did what you told me last night.

Male Coworker #2: Better results? 

Male Coworker #1: Yes.

Male Coworker #2: Everything…working better? 

Male Coworker #1: Yes.

Male Coworker #2: (with a sly smile) Well, there’s a whole lot more we can do.

There you go. Now it’s in your head too. Except you don’t know what either of these men looks like.

Advantage: You.

Top 20 Things I Learned at My 20th High School Reunion

2010-09-12T22:26:00.000-07:00

“Still crazy after all these years.” Paul Simon

20. Oh for the sweet love of all that’s holy – it really has been 20 years since I was in high school.

19. Greg Fields will always be funnier than I am.

18. I can still stay up till 2:00! But only if I want the next day to feel like a smack in the head with a shovel.

17. Old crushes never really die, they just kind of…make fun of you now.

16. I was right back then – I DO still like “Cum On Feel the Noize.”

15. If you tell Ryan Joy to follow you out to your folks’ house in the country, know what he is driving, or at least his cell number. Otherwise you may end up circling the parking lot for fifteen minutes, barely missing each other, Abbot-and-Costello style, several times.

14. Mr. Tegethoff, Kelly Smith and I are the only two still cool enough to spend a late night forking your yard.

13. Nobody from back home gives one little crap about Michael Jackson anymore. You can bring up his death if you wanna be startin’ somethin’, but what you’ll get back is only cricket sounds. And one uncomfortable comment from Julie Burris.

12. Free Methodists can grow up to be devilish little things.

11. If you’re coming home at 1:30 a.m. and the porch light has been on since your parents went to bed at 10, you will freak out three large, loud locusts you didn’t see, when you go to open the door. You’ll have to make a few attempts, each time running back into the yard in your high heels wailing, “I just wanna go to bed, you little bastards!” You’ll wonder if you’ll have to sleep in the camper.

10. Remember that picture of you that took you until well past college to forget about? Yeah…that one friend still has a copy.

9. If an old girlfriend remarks, “You haven’t changed at ALL!”, just take the compliment. Replying, “Well…I’m not jealous of you anymore” is likely to just bring the room down.

8. Yearbooks aren’t the best traveling companions. Just bring a few cinder blocks instead. They’re lighter and okay to lose.

7. Samantha Fox’s “Naughty Girls (Need Love Too)” can still bring out the bored biology student in Kit Bowman and me. Who needs a karaoke machine when you’ve got two awesome microscopes and an about-to-graduate sense of invincibility?

6. Kit would no longer even consider pouring any sugar on Joe Elliott.

5. At Lakeside Park, fried chicken and potato chips are a perfectly balanced meal. I need more Lakeside Parks in my current life.

4. Couldn’t Electric Slide then, can’t now. My slide is hopelessly…acoustic?

3. When you pull out a keepsake note to share, passed between a friend and you in government class senior year, read it silently to yourself first. You were just as dumb then as she was.

2. If you’ve done a little film acting, and when asked about it you want to convey that so far they’ve been short, indie films, find better wording than, “They’re not really the kind of movies you’d take the family to see.” Oh…please…just…don’t say that.

1. Call me “citified,” but Kansas is country-er than Roy Clark eating corn pone off a confederate flag.

Of John Wayne and Hasty Rodents

2008-09-23T22:34:00.000-07:00

“Baby, do you understand me now? Sometimes I feel a little mad.”
The Animals (Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood)

Let me explain to you a little something about Bryan’s temperament: It can’t be explained. I suppose the closest I could come would be to say that he tends to take the big things small and the small things big. I admit he is normally such a rational, self-possessed individual, and in the face of ugly circumstances I appreciate this to no end about the man. It is stupefying, but I’ve seen very serious things go wrong for him – some part of his life that took a wrong turn, and then spit in his face and stole his wallet – and I’ve swooped in to help, only to watch him pass it off with barely a twitch. But many of this world’s pettier annoyances…well… those can be, equally perplexingly, just a bit too much for him.

I give you the example of watching television. Don’t you just love I Love Lucy? Right – who doesn’t? Bryan. He finds it not funny. But this, with him, is not a matter of taste. He simply instead experiences the show as “frustrating,” and avoids it the way I do balancing my checkbook, or talking longer than five minutes with my mechanic who doesn’t speak English any better than I speak Automotive. Now understand, Bryan grew up not really watching I Love Lucy the way I did. But he did grow up watching television, and I had presumed that by the time I met him, had a firm enough grasp on the concept of fiction versus reality.

Not so. Lucy’s globally famous and beloved scrapes, pickles, and pinches are just lost on my Bryan. Her dubious decision making actually pushes his buttons, and he is not unlikely to scream at her, with the same desperate terror as a frantic horror film attendee who cries out, “Don’t go into the bathroom!” I learned this about him the time we sat and watched a bit of the episode where the Ricardos and the Mertzes go on a cruise together. They’ve left Little Ricky on land with his grandmother, and Lucy is experiencing separation anxiety. She waves to the boy from the boat, crying and clutching her little hankie.

Apparently seeing it coming, Bryan tipped forward in his seat and scowled, just before Lucy deboarded the boat altogether, against Ethel’s wishes, to give the baby one last kiss goodbye.

“No!” he wailed, with a slap to his furrowed forehead. “What is she doing?”

“Uh, you know this is just for fun, don’t you?” I asked. But he was too far gone. Just as the ship’s horn blows its “all aboard” warning, Lucy gets her skirt irreversibly caught on some guy’s bicycle, so she rips the skirt off, revealing her lacy white slip in what was surely a display of gratuitous nudity in the 1950s. But her act of indecent bravery not withstanding, Lucy has, quite literally, missed the boat.

As the ship pushed out to sea, leaving Lucy on the ramp in a panic, Bryan nearly suffered an aneurism.

“Bryan?” I gaped. “What in the name of Jeff is wrong with you?”

“Well. She deserves it,” he resigned in a mini huff, and then went to read a nice relaxing book.

Yep.

There is another episode I love in which Lucy convinces Ethel to help her steal John Wayne’s footprints from the front of Grauman's Chinese Theatre. She wants them for a “souvenir” of this trip to Hollywood– and isn’t shameless, unadulterated thievery just so forgivable, even cute, when the perp is Lucy? After the two have pulled off the heist, Ricky finds her out as he always does, and his signature Spanish tirade startles her so badly that she accidentally breaks the cement slab to pieces. No sweat – a quick pull of a few industry strings and Ricky has gotten John Wayne himself to make a new set of his footprints for the theatre. They will replace the property in secret, and the poor, stressed-out Cuban will have helped his squirrelly little woman dodge yet another trip to the slammer. Then Lucy breaks that set of footprints, too - and another and another…slab after slab getting ruined in this way or that, testing poor Mr. Wayne’s patience beyond any cowboy’s reasonable limit.

I bring it up only to say I am thankful Bryan remains happily unaware of this particular installment in Lucy’s adventures. I have thus far viewed this one alone, in peace. Had he been there, I’m guessing that after heaving something heavy at his red-headed nemesis he would have come up short to pay for his newly-needed ulcer treatment and my new television, and we would have just argued about which one was more important.

The second instance I offer up occurred when we were watching the hilarious show Maximum Exposure, otherwise known as Max-X. Even Bryan knows this one is funny, and if you’ve seen it then so do you. It was an animal rescue episode; a giant bulldozer scooped into a raging river to deliver a nearly-drowned beaver onto dry land. The operator lowered the apparatus, full of water and a thrashing beaver, slowly to the ground. Just inches from safety the animal forced itself over the side, and fell on its back with a thud. Though the little guy appeared fine and scampered for home, Bryan could not help sending him off with a rebuke.

“Stupid,” he scoffed. “He was so close - why didn’t he just wait?”

“Honey,” I said gently. “Um…he’s a beaver. Betcha he just doesn’t realize what their intentions are.” Was “stupid,” after all, really the fairest assessment? Hadn’t he just been eager? Isn’t that what his kind is known for anyway?

In the days that followed this incident I teased and teased Bryan about it, eventually coining the phrase “Dumber than a Max-X beaver.” Which got under his skin, but now he sometimes uses the expression himself, apparently finding the analogy altogether apt –spot on.

And, finally ~ Late one night at my place, Bryan was preparing to go out with his guy friends to see a movie. He was spearheading the outing himself, so he swiped up my cell phone, sat down on my sofa, and called one of those pre-recorded movie info lines to secure a time.

What began as the picture of tranquility, as Bryan’s requests met with less and less cooperation from the machine he was dealing with, became something very, very different. I could see the transformation creep over his face as he lost touch with the fact that this was not a real person he was talking to, nor would it turn into one no matter how exasperated he became.

As the number of times he had to hang up and call back escalated, his simple commands of “yes,” “no,” and “find a theatre” began to give way to disgruntled sound offs that were entertaining but fruitless.

“Burbank,” spoken enough times, became, “Bur-bank-Cali-for-nia,” and finally, “Burbank, idiot.” And when he had taken all he could bear of “I didn’t catch that,” Bryan took his final swing with a weary, “That’s because you’re stupid.”

I know of approximately twelve questions that, asked at exactly the right time, could cause a turbulent scene in any relationship, no matter how stable, and I now carelessly asked one of them to Bryan.

“Can I try?”

I guess he was already spent. “Alright. You try,” he conceded without a struggle, and went into the bedroom to call a friend with internet access.

I (ahem) got it right on the first attempt, breezing through the robot woman’s promptings with the ease of a…well, a woman. I then took the sheet with the movie times into the bedroom, and handed it to him with a smile. Not a gloat, but a show of support, of relief. Yet somehow my attitude seemed irrelevant, Bryan communicating without a word that my simply performing the act itself made me a smart alec. He accepted the scrap of paper with conviction, squinting at my scribblings as though they were a well-sweat-out science project, or some sort of business proposal I had drawn up, but in either case was turning in much too late for any serious consideration. Then he looked at me and yielded, “How did you do that? That’s amazing.” I shrugged, and went to the kitchen.

He wandered in behind me, put the jotted show times on the counter, and looked into the fridge. Closing the door, he glanced around, patted his pockets, and asked, “Where did you put that little piece of paper?” With one hand I put a piece of cold chicken into my smart mouth, in lieu of biting my tongue, I suppose, and with the other I pointed a casual finger at the missing item. He seemed to realize simultaneously that he had put it there himself, and that we were both far too adult to make a thing of it. Silently taking the note, he wandered back out to refocus all his energy on picking his movie time.

Bryan is the smartest guy I know. But even the brightest of us have those days when we just feel dumber than a Max-X beaver.

Eye Can See Clearly Now

2008-09-09T15:59:00.000-07:00

“Doctor my eyes, tell me what is wrong. Was I unwise to leave them open for so long?” Jackson Browne

Bryan is a documentary film buff. Any old doc’ll do, but he is quite partial to the whistle-blowing variety. The ones that shine a spotlight on some invisible underground wickedness going on under our noses every day. Not familiar? Here's a typical storyline.

Open on a scene of squeaky, struggling puppies who are being ripped from their mother's teats for some financial reason. The smart ones are shipped in egg crates to a dank and drafty warehouse to pull around cargo too heavy for them, the slow ones have their brains tugged out through their nostrils and served at extravagant banquets to McDonald's executives. Not evil enough for you? Wal-Mart executives, then. Bwa ha ha ha ha!

"What do you mean you don't want to watch it?" Bryan cries as I recoil into the back of the couch. "I picked this out special for tonight!"

Please don't misunderstand. It's not that a girl doesn't appreciate being romanced in such lavish and disgusting ways. Also, I care about The Man's disregard for things like little puppies and their brains. It's just impossible to watch and even more impossible to imagine a world without those crispy little fries, or...you know...come on. Wal-Mart.

"Do you have something else in mind?" he asks. And I do, and it is What Not To Wear, and he doesn't think so. So as the last puppy looks into the camera and spells out "help" with its quivering tail, we settle on a decent jazz station and a conversation about anything but puppies or french fries.

It is not surprising, I suppose, considering the similarity of his musical tastes. Bryan enjoys a good wallow in songs about people dying of loneliness, crushing regret, anorexia, poverty. Among his favorite hits are I Just Shot John Lennon by The Cranberries, Harry Chapin’s notorious downer Cat's in The Cradle, and the foot-stompin' good time that is The Rape of the World by Tracy Chapman. This makes his aversion to country music unexplainable. He never hears the stuff, so I need to tell him what the rest of the world knows so well - nobody suffers like a country star. He does not know the misery on which he is missing out. Why, Charlie Rich alone could turn him from a non-drinker into a sobbing alcoholic in one night. Here, hook up my Pod, scroll to Patsy Cline, and copy off She’s Got You. Have a lump-throated blast.

He tries. Making a difference is important in this world, and nobody knows it better than Bryan. He boycotts McDonald’s unless I hand him a free-sandwich coupon, would buy a hybrid car if he were a rich guy, and may occasionally watch The Tonight Show but would like to hear Jay admit he’s not as funny as Dave – just once. A work in progress. I am one too.

I so am that I must confess, for all the weight Bryan heaps onto his own shoulders, I am the worrywart in this relationship. My grandparents were the first to point out that I'm a "fuss budget," this being their nickname for me when I was very young. I hated it. (To their amusement, I would predictably stomp my small foot and demand they take it back. I also had no idea what it meant.) But right they were. It's who I am. Seriously, I sit down with my budget every month and factor in the fuss. Got worries on your own mind? If you find you just can’t leave them all behind, listen to me, okay? It’s because that DeBarge is full of crap, and forgetting about them takes a little more than the beat of the rhythm of the night. (Although I do recommend a dose of The Beach Boys. Sometimes all it takes to soothe the savage beast is a moment of Brian Wilson cooing, “Don’t worry, baby. Everything will turn out alright.” Strange but true.)

But if you are not looking for help, worry your heart out. It’s easy – as per the aforementioned films, planet earth serves up plenty to fuss over. Just close your eyes and point right now to anything you love to eat, wear, watch, or sit near, and there is a study going on at this moment to prove that it causes cancer, wrinkles, or cancerous wrinkles.

I have what I would call a very low grade of hypochondria. (And it scares the crap out of me - I hear people die from it.) Bryan’s preoccupation with health extends only to this occasional feeling he’s had since he was little that one of his eyes will pop out, and he has to put his hand over it to keep it in. Not the old myth that if your eyes were open when you sneezed they would fly out. Just this sensation he gets, he says about once a month, that his eyelid is folding in behind the eyeball instead of lying on top of it, and seconds count, get that hand up there or it's Socket City. (I chuckled, then pondered, then thanked him kindly for the chance to add "Bryan's eyes falling out" to my ever-expanding list of irrational fears.) Beyond this, however, the man believes himself indomitable, a fortress of antibacterialism, able to leap tall viruses in a single shot of Pepto-Bismol. “I’m sure it’s fine” is his catch phrase for everything from the sniffles to being engulfed in flames. I told him once I will see to it that “I was sure it was fine” is etched on his gravestone when the time comes.

Amazing, then, that I ever talked him into a trip to the doctor that day. What is it with men and doctors? Is it really so hard to admit you need one? Of course to Bryan it's not only hard, it's utterly ridiculous. But he had felt he had something large in his eye for an entire day and night, so away he went. The doctor’s finding was that a fleck of iron had lodged itself in Bryan’s eyeball, and what was more, was beginning to rust. Awash with sympathy pain, I held my eye and screeched as he described in detail the scratch, scratch, scratching of the instrument that removed the speck but left a tiny dent in its place. Then he recalled he had started to notice his eye was bothering him the day before while washing dishes. The metal must have come from a pan he was scraping to remove burnt-on sauce from his batch of chicken wings. The pain passed and I ended with a joke. But he was unamused by the nickname I gave him – “Rusty.” Well, at least I can clean a dish without needing safety goggles.

Our stop at the emergency room was enough to turn anyone against medical science for life. We didn’t know why, but Bryan’s stomach was hurting him so badly he could barely walk. A few hours of gentle nagging and we were on our way to spend the entire night in the depressing abyss of California Hospital, a place too crowded to afford us a room. Ever-so fortunately we had arrived just as EMTs were beginning to pick up folks who were dropping like flies at a rave soaked in alcohol and, now I don’t want to alarm you, but apparently some types of illegal substances as well. Who knew you could encounter such a thing in South Los Angeles on a Saturday night?

At about 1 a.m., noticing my face had faded to green and my fingers were pressed over my eyes, Bryan asked what was wrong. “Oh, nothing. This is my happy place!” I whimpered. What could possibly have been upsetting me? Certainly not the unveiled head injury over there, or the guy lying here with his pants open who has survived some sort of crotch accident. Worse still, the bulletin board announced it would soon be Emergency Nurses’ Week. We were too early to celebrate, and they were giving away hats and everything. So much for ever knowing what the surprise gift was going to be.

Not that it was a total loss. I did get to listen to three security guards argue for thirty minutes about who’s best - 50 Cent, Ice Cube, or G-Unit. There was the empty Trojan wrapper Bryan spotted in the trash can of a staff-only room, and the weird doctor who knew very well that her patient was Bryan, but for some reason looked me square in the eye and told me my white blood cell count was low and my liver may be functioning improperly. At least I think that’s what she said – it was tough to filter out the lively e.r. soundtrack of vomiting and moaning.

I held onto my sense of humor for as long as I could, gripped it with both hands and sunk my nails in deep, but by the time they finally wheeled Bryan off for testing it had slipped away like a greased pig. Being the Mel Brooks fan that I am, I took a deep breath, leaned over the gurney, and whispered, “We’re gonna get that alien out of you. And if it sings and dances, we’ll be the best ones at the circus.” Then he was gone and I went back to the waiting room to seek the company of smelly, wheezy, snoring strangers and their insane children. What luck! There were plenty of each.

Two visits with a physician within two months. Perhaps he’s learning. Lord knows I try. The day he was playing basketball and smashed his fingers into another player’s chest with such force that he and others heard them crack, I begged him to get them checked. He refused. Then, days later, his little finger purpleish and the size of a corndog, I received this text message:

"You'll be happy to know that I'm scheduling an appt with my doc to check out my pinky. It's worrying me a bit. I’m sure it will be fine. I just don't want it to heal weird if I did indeed break it.”

"Weeeellll...listen to this now!” I texted back. “So the ol' girlfriend might not have been so crazy after all, eh?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. You were right to want me to get it checked out, but it was impossible to know that until after a few days, I think."

"Yeah...how were you to know that jamming your fingers so hard you hear them crunch might be a bad thing?"

No reply. Checkmate.

Take A Buddy To South Beach

2008-08-26T21:24:00.000-07:00

“I want candy. I want candy.” Bow Wow Wow

To my dear friends who’ve heard about this journey, and have gasped and suspected me on a runaway train to Anorexiaville, one large disclaimer: I admit it. I have never had a truly fat day in my life. And I eat. You’ve seen me eat. A few of you see me put away pizza like a USC linebacker at Dave and Laura’s house every Sunday night. But I had to do something.

Because I have this sugar problem. If there is such a thing as a bona fide sugar addiction, you’re looking at Betty Ford. My sweet tooth is a tyrannical master. I mean it; whereas people nowadays will say “give me some sugar” to mean something romantic and cozy, I’m telling you if it’s me, just do it. Take the instruction at face value, because the price if I don’t get it is too high for you to pay. Apple fritters are my favorite, and are readily available at any donut shop, so get going. Oh – and ask them to heat it.

Cut me a break, I’m German. Sugar was practically a currency to our family. Corn syrup flowed from the taps in that house. The stuff never missed a family gathering, and in fact became a family member all its own. A family member whom I would always wonder, deep down, did my parents love more than me?

We krauts are so fond of those confectionary pleasures. My stepfather, a German himself, always made light of it – he’s always made more jokes about the family’s eating habits than, well, than I do. Even going so far as to remark here and there that the sticky white demon was "good for" a person. I know he was kidding. But evidently in my youth, I did not. I’m told that one day while sitting in the breakfast nook at the house of my very German grandmother, even she could see a problem with the amount of sugar I was spooning onto my cereal, and tried to interfere. I was having none of this nonsense and corrected, “Well, Grand-ma! Don’t you know that sugar is GOOD for you?” So cute. Oh, you poor, trusting little soul. Will you stand by your convictions when you’re the only one in your second grade class with false teeth?

Digression. Apologies. The point is, I was about to take on a task that goes against the very grain of my nature. All grown, out on my own, and firmly rooted in the belief that Baskin-Robbins is where good German girls go when they die, I simply took a second look. Obesity, diabetes, heart disease…none of them sounded like things I would much enjoy. I decided to take control while I still weighed plenty less than my car.

So, Bryan and I started noticing around the same time as each other that we had been slapping on a bit of extra poundage around our midsections – each noticing this about only himself and not the other one, or boy would you be reading a different story right now. It was now I fully realized that being over thirty meant our bodies were finally telling us they’d had enough – this unwritten agreement we’d had in college about us doing anything we felt like to them while they stayed independently taut and hearty was expired and no longer eligible for renewal. I know this is a gradual process, but to me it felt more sudden. Like one day I was sitting at a stoplight when I glanced down at my body, and she said, “That’s it, sister - the free ride is over. You’re going to get off your sorry butt and carry this honey of a load yourself from now on.” I can’t lie – it hurt being dumped in this cold and candid way, but my body and I had both known this time would come, and that when it did she would be making the first move, because I was too chicken and oh so very lazy.

So my man and I talked. His end of the conversation began exactly as it was supposed to: “What’re you, crazy? Baby, you look awesome. I’m the one who’s fat…” And after he had paid his boyfriendly dues, I crept carefully past the part where a girl easily gets into trouble – the moment where she should have dropped it sooner and accidentally corners the poor sap into agreeing that…well…now that she mentions it…she could stand to drop a few. I was not prepared to lose weight and my boyfriend at the same time, so I just kissed him and moved on.

Both of us dissatisfied with what the mirror had to say, I went forth and read up on this and that diet, just to see what sort of eating habits might target the fat that builds up around the waist. The answer my meticulous research returned was that it was a good idea to steer away from carbohydrates for a while, especially the processed, “bad” carbs – you know, the ones you really, really love eating and which help make life worth living. You would not be required to do this for the entire plan, but survive a few weeks of it and your round little tummy would thank you by being more little and less round. This was hardly new – the low-carb craze was already beyond its heyday by the time he and I caught on that there may actually be something to it.

The South Beach Diet. Better than Atkins, more advanced, and certainly easier. The book and supporting experts were most encouraging about this first step in the process, the one without your carbohydrate friends, which goes by the name of “Phase I.” They report that most people are fine after a couple of days, their cravings having disappeared, and their hunger being satisfied at all times. We were sold. I led the way, Bryan jumping right on my bandwagon, the expectation being that, between the two of us, the bandwagon would be sixteen to twenty six pounds lighter by the end of two weeks.

Turned out cutting those bad ol’ carbohydrates was darn hard and made us…what’s the word…crabby. And yes – though in our beginner’s enthusiasm we had denied it for as long as we could – also hungry. (Bryan’s diagnosis: “That guy’s full of crap.”) So there was exceptional bickering over increasingly small things, until the day it hit us that we shouldn’t be shooting the soldiers in our own platoon, and we squeezed together again to get the job done. The enemy was still an unrelenting bastard, but at least we were again united and standing.

We did well for a time after this, even perfectly. And then, quite simply, we didn’t. After about eight days of demonstrating a Marine Corps level of discipline, the desire for bread, or even any of bread’s most distant cousins, began to itch us both. When the yearning for any member of the carbohydrate family – we would have taken the embarrassing, creepy uncle the other carbs never talk about – became too much to bear, we scratched that itch. But to our military credit, just a little. We had so far been allowed almost nothing but eggs for breakfast, and now understood how something you normally like could become something vile, once it seems to be coming from every orifice you have available. Therefore, the first time we gave in, we dishonorably ate not eggs but yogurt in the morning. Later the same day we shared a handful of tortilla chips, and giggled like two ornery little scallywags sitting behind the church with a box of cheap cigars.

These tiny acts of nutritional indiscretion were a slippery slope, of course, and as these things normally do, quickly led to bigger crimes. Bryan started asking my opinion about the grey area that held things like popcorn, ketchup, and baked beans. Then came the more serious speculation on both our parts: if part-skim ricotta cheese is acceptable…then why not nacho cheese? And who eats nacho cheese without all that other stuff underneath it? Say, what do you think of a harmless little plate of chili fries? One generous slice of black forest cake? Two fistfuls of deep-fried Mounds bars?

At last I was accosted by the vision that saved us: Bryan arriving home from work, and following a staggered, granulated trail to the bathroom. He bangs on the door, and my voice, now twisted from young and womanly into “Gollum” of Lord of the Rings stabs back, "Leave me alone! I don’t want your help!”

And so we were back on track.

We were not yet out of Phase I (which by now I was to referring to as the “Screw You, Dr. Agatston” phase) one Saturday, when Bryan and I had split off to run errands, and the imperative stop at the supermarket had fallen upon him. I arrived back at my place before he did, and moments later he called and mentioned he had picked up a rotisserie chicken for dinner. I love rotisserie chicken, and by the time it arrived, I’d had a good twenty-five minutes to dream about the little devil. I was lying on the couch, faint with sucrose deprivation, when I heard Bryan’s key in the door. My hot, luscious bad boy was here at last, and so was Bryan. For all the foresight and discussion that had gone into this new eating program, this spicy little visitor had been unplanned, and I greeted him with the dietary gusto of Henry VIII and the agility of a junior high track star – scaling the coffee table in a blur, jumping into the doorframe, and spearing the beast onto my club with a grunt.

“Give me the bird,” I groaned.

Now, here was a man who had just returned from the thankless, tedious, and costly chore of food shopping, fifty percent of which was for me, with no thought of reimbursement. With a reception like this, it’s some wonder I wasn’t flipped the bird instead. And were it not for the grocery bags crowding his hands, who knows?

“You could help me” was all the scolding I sustained for this greedy little display. Which I of course gratefully did. I mean, a rotisserie chicken!

We lived. We cleared the dark and treacherous woods of Phase I, sailed through Phase II, and presently reside, sort of, in the permanent state of Phase III. And through it all, we learned the hard, scientific facts: Diets stink. Do I still love sugar? Mmmm…sugar. But Bryan lost a few pounds, and hey, so did I. We changed our way of looking at food a bit, and are healthier for it. We even stayed together.

Not bad for a girl whose first solid food was a cheese Danish.

Marshmallow Dreams

2008-08-12T19:33:00.000-07:00

"Hot summer streets, and the pavements are burning, I sit around… It’s a cruel, cruel summer." Bananarama

Do you know the old joke, "I dreamed I was eating a giant marshmallow, and when I woke up, my pillow was gone"? Well I have a better one: As I write, there are about seven food products in my entire freezer, and three of those, for a reason unknown even to me, are bags of jumbo marshmallows. Not very funny? That’s because it’s true, which I guess gives it more of a weird, sad sort of quality. And I have a little story to go with it.

Living in Los Angeles this past summer was…holy cow...hot as the devil’s blazing armpit. Trés misérable. (And don’t tell me it’s a dry heat, because I’ll just get mad.) In spite of the weather, I absurdly spent most of the season at Bryan’s apartment, which does not have air conditioning, and is on the second floor, on the wrong side of the building for how the afternoon sun hits it. So being there at almost any time was like a summertime snuggle right inside that nasty underarm, a cozying up by the fireplace at the devil’s house. In his attic. With no ventilation. Wrapped in a parka and ski mask. And he is treating you to a fire sandwich with a tall glass of Dave’s Insanity Sauce.

I do have a small air conditioner at my place, but I try not to use it, doing my part to save both my budget and the environment with one responsible, sweaty, self-sacrificing decision. And Labor Day weekend, a special time every year when you are responsible for showing up at barbecues and being happy about it, was brutal. The thermostat broke into the triple digits, the sun spewing its ruthless sizzle, hotter and hotter by the hour, as if it had something to prove. Sort of like a sad and middle-aged prom queen racing her new sports car around and around the neighborhood, things coming from the stereo that were too young for her and much, much too loud. "Yes, you’re hot! We get it!" the city cried. "And if we agree you’re hotter than you’ve ever been, will you leave us alone?"

I still did not give in to the siren song of my air conditioner…well, not completely at least. For an hour or two before bed one night, I let the thing blow its cold and costly breath, submitting myself beneath it like a Tibetan peasant, hoping that by the time I turned in for the night I would be unable to feel my fingers and toes. I could then shut it off, and drift off to sleep on a snowy cloud of nippy dreams. It would not matter how hot the room became later, because I was dog tired that night anyway, and was going to dose myself with Benadryl for good measure.

I nearly pulled it off. I switched off the air at bedtime, threw open my windows, and set the floor fan at the foot of my bed on its highest speed. Just as expected, I fell into a hard sleep within moments – blissfully, snoozily unaware of what I was really up against.

At approximately 1:15 a.m., I woke up. My comfy, feathery little bed was now a sweltering wading pool of perspiration and tangled cotton. I was so tired, so drugged…I could barely make out what the problem was, my basic animal instincts telling me only, "Get somewhere cold, fast." I tottered out of bed, stepping into and on the several boxes of stuff I had brilliantly left in obstacle course fashion in the surrounding floor space.

With an "oops" and an "ouch" and a "crap, it’s hot! " I found my kitchen, and flung open the freezer. I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t know my own name. I was the walking dead, drawn from the grave against her will, smoked out of her resting place by a merciless California summer that was too hot even for the deceased.

I vaguely recall my mind touching on the tiny, lunchbox-type ice packs I had been using at Bryan’s to sit on, lie on, or otherwise apply around my body just to get through the day. But just as quickly, I knew I had brought none of them home to my own freezer, and would have to figure out something else. I squinted against the interior light, and grimaced with drunken disdain at what my poor little Kenmore had to say for itself: a Hershey bar, two brown bananas, a carton of egg substitute, the box under the ice maker – devoid of any ice because I had taken that, too, to Bryan’s. "Lord, girl – go to the supermarket! " is what I ought to have heard. But those basic instincts weighed in again with, "Just take something, anything – if it’s cold, you want it in your bed."

The marshmallows. I must have settled on seizing whatever most closely resembled a bag of ice. The entire event had taken just seconds, me with neither the patience nor the presence of mind to make any deliberate selection, and I now made my way back to bed, bleary eyed and clutching a full bag of fluffy white frozen goodness.

Marshmallows. I had read recently, when looking up different ways to keep your home cool without air conditioning, that you should fill a sock with rice, and freeze it; then put it under your pillow at night, and anytime you turn the pillow over while you sleep, the new side will be so comfortingly cool. A swell idea. I had not done so. But I believe my thoughts followed loosely along these lines as I dropped the bag onto my pillow. This’ll do, I reasoned, with a fleeting notion that I should put it under the pillow instead of on top. At that moment, however, my heavy head fell upon my small plastic bag of icy manna from heaven. So cold…so soft…I sighed as I re-entered the gates of dreamland.

In the light of the new day, I opened my eyes and gazed upon a mysterious package of my favorite s’mores ingredient, lying at room temperature beside me on the mattress. What the crap? I wondered. Was this how it felt to go barhopping and awaken the next day with a person you don’t remember ever seeing before? "What exactly happened in here last night?" I considered asking my strange little bedfellow. And then I remembered, ever so slightly, what I’d done.

"I slept with a bag of frozen marshmallows last night," I reported to Bryan when I got to his place.

What could I do? It seemed best just to come clean.