Yoink! Stolen from the email archives of CS Lewis in honor of her Birthday

I spent this morning and early afternoon at our local DMV.   Since I have been meaning to become a legal citizen of this metropolis for some time now, I thought that I would take advantage of this free time so generously mandated by puppet company for which I work and change my Virginia license to a New York one. Also, I sort of had to renew it, because technically my license expired 8 months ago.   As is normally the case whenever I go to well populated areas, chaos ensued.

I rolled into the DMV at what I thought was on the early side, 9:30am.  Clearly the rest of Manhattan had the same idea, because when I got off of the elevator, the line just to get in line was wrapped around the waiting room.  In fact, it took a full five minutes just to step out of the elevator, as the end of the line had wound itself over to us.  We all took turns holding the door open and cursing the banner which hung over our heads, mocking us with its slogan, “Don’t stand IN LINE!  Visit us ON LINE!”

Finally I get off of the elevator and stand patiently in line to get in line.  To set the scene, basically there is a line to get into the door, and through the door there is another line, where you tell the trusty DMV employees your situation.  They direct you to another line, where you get your picture taken and hand over your necessary paperwork.  And then yes, there is yet another line, and this one is the doozy; this is the line where they give you a number and lure you with the false promise of actually getting your laminated license in your hot little hand.  You don’t. They mail it to you in 10-15 business days.  I waited 2 hours just to hear that. Oh, and to be accused of having a warrant out for my arrest.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

And so I begin to wait.  My number, might you ask, was B308.  It did not bode well for me that they were on A60.  I notice a lady nearby who is having trouble with her written test.  She caught my eye and whispered, “Hey!  What do you do if your tires break down n’ shit?” I stared blankly at her, because I don’t know how a tire, per se, would break down.  So I asked her, “You mean, if it pops or something?”  At this point, the security guard notices our exchange and comes over.  I’m thinking in my head that I am going to DMV jail for aiding and abetting a cheater.  Turns out that he was a nice fellow and just wanted to clarify the question for her.  He ended up giving her the answer as well, thankfully allowing this clearly competent driver out on the streets.  Well done!  I wish I had a copy of that test, because I wondered on the way home what feasible multiple choice solutions there could have been to confuse her. A.) Keep driving?  B:) Paint your car?  C:) Go back in time to when you had a normal tire?  Anyway, her new nickname shall be Cheater McPumpkineater.

I’ll skip ahead through the next few hours, which I spent running up my cell phone bill by answering “Beetlejuice” whenever someone called.  I thought, perhaps, that after a second or two I could explain that I felt like Beetlejuice in that last scene of the movie when he is in the waiting room.  Unfortunately I confused my grandmother who, when hearing “Beetlejuice,” promptly said, “Oh, sorry, wrong number” and hung up the phone. That killed me.

Finally, the heavens opened up and B308 was called.  I ran over to the counter and handed over my paperwork and my passport. The employee entered in my info, asked me my middle name (it’s Susie*) and then began staring intently at the screen.  All of the sudden, she says dramatically to me, “You have a NDR!”  Now, I have no clue what an NDR is, but my stomach dropped as I thought about the unpaid parking tickets that are still sitting on my desk.  I also thought that perhaps my name ended up on some sort of watchdog list after the whole jewelry box/bomb fiasco, proving once again that I am persecuted for having impeccable taste.   She called over a fellow employee with a very professional, “Boo! Get yo’ ass ova’ here!”  Boo came over and began pounding on the Control key several times.  This highly technical maneuver revealed the following inflammatory information: C.S. Lewis has a warrant out for her arrest in Kentucky.

Now, I have been to Kentucky several times because I have family there, and to my recollection, I have never broken any law in my travels.  Sure, there was the time that I crashed my cousin’s dirt bike into the side of their barn after mowing down several rows of ripened corn.  But that was when I was eleven.  I have been a model citizen ever since then, at least in Kentucky.   So surely there had to be some sort of mistake that even the infallible Control key move might not catch.  We finally figured out that my middle name is “Susie,” and the other C.S.’s middle name is “Suzy.”  So C. Suzy Lewis of Kentucky is a badass.  I never did learn what poor CS II is wanted for, but hopefully she has learned that if you do the crime, you or someone else with relatively the same name as you will do the time.

As I waited for Boo and company to process my paperwork, I saw Cheater McPumpkineater next to me, arguing with the DMV clerk over what type of credit card they take.  Apparently at that counter, they could only take the Discover Card.  So she yells at the clerk, “Who in the hell only takes Discover?  Is that that crazy one with the bald headed guy?”  The clerk and myself were baffled at this question, until I realized that she must be talking about The Diners Club card, which used to be pitched by the late, great Telly Savalas*.  The reason I think this is funny is not because she was confused about the names. I mean, in her defense, they do both start with “D.”  I just find it hilarious that she is referencing a commercial that has to be at least fifteen years old.

So, 4 hours later, I headed out of the DMV.  And in 10-15 business days, I shall have a license of my very own that I will undoubtedly misplace soon.

* Not really, but you know, keeps the pseudonym working…

**Who loves ya’, baby?

B.O.L.O.*- grey, bi-lobal, wrinkled mass of tissue weighing about 3 lbs.

People.  I have had my mind blown.  Several times today, and in the last few weeks, but I think today I’ve really done it.

 

So, yesterday I bought a plane ticket to Cairo for a 2.5 week sojourn through Egypt at the end of Ramadan.  Picked up my lonely planet guide- saw two pictures, and freaked out.  So excited.  Can’t comprehend that I will be looking at the sphinx, or the location of the great library of Alexandria.  Cannot. comprehend.

 

This morning, I went to see Dr. Doom (AKA the E.N.T.).  I’d spare you the gory details, but then there wouldn’t be any.  He removed a copious amount of seriously the most disgusting, (mostly solid), foulest- smelling biological tissue I have ever seen (keep in mind I majored in Bio in college, saw a two week old dead body as a kid and have been to Louisiana).  So many colors- every earth tone and green you can imagine.  At one point, I thought he was pulling my eyeball out through my nostril.  Ears still not popped. 

 

Then, I headed uptown to hit MyIntimacy.  This is where it happened.  It’s that bra shop you’ve seen the commercials for- 90% of women are wearing the wrong bra size, blah, blah, blah.  I’ve been meaning to go for some time.  I go in, get a “fitter,” enter the booth and take off my shirt, as instructed.  I was wearing my best-fitting bra.  I was actually Tut-tutted.  “You need to take that thing and throw it in the garbage.”  Um, OK I said.  She told me to get real close to the mirror and turn my back to her.  A long pause was followed by a “mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”  “back is so small, that’s the problem.” 

 

really?  not the two enormous bags of fat hanging from my chest?

 

“turn around.”  So, I do.  She sizes me up for a minute- all visual, no tape measures here, not for Mireille.  She’s been doing this for many, many years.  “I’ll be right back.”

place holder for angry post about manipulative romantic movie storylines that remind one of the fun diseases that await them in old age.

or. my total nuclear emotional meltdown due to the fucking notebook.  not for what you’re thinking, but the senile dementia.  thanks for reminding me of what i have to look forward to, you bastards.  i’d just made it through the holidays happy and relaxed.  fuckers.

and the romance wasn’t even that good.  when they see each other after ten or five or fifteen years?  doesn’t share the same oxygen as when jack and ennis reunite in brokeback mountain.  i hate trickly manipulative back-stories that lower your defenses so you don’t pay attention to the fact that you don’t like any of the characters or sympathize with them for being beautiful, rich and unencumbered by real problems.

this is why i don’t watch romances, people.  they just piss me off.  royally.  call me a cynic and i will gladly agree.  but if you’re going to twist my feelings with unrealistic bullshit, make it worth my while.  and put cary grant in it, goddammit.

a woman’s heart is a deep ocean

that’s what i learned tonight, kids.  

i finally sucked it up and watched titanic with sunny d, settling our bet from the march madness brackets at long last.  i have to say, while it’s not the worst movie i’ve ever seen (i fully expect battlefield earth to hold that honor forever), it pretty much lived up to my expectations of cheesy dialogue and extremely predictable scenes.  in fact, the only thing i didn’t entirely expect was learning that guggenheim died on the boat. 

now, you might be saying to yourself, “Self, of course isosceles knew what would happen.  the overall story is well known and the movie was a mega blockbuster that everyone was talking about.”  fair enough on the first point.  but on the second, i really didn’t hear it.  mostly because i would stick my fingers in my ears and go “la alalala alal ala la la a la la la” until people stopped. 

what?  i never claimed to be the model of maturity.

anyway, mostly i was bored and irked at the fact that nobody seemed all that bothered by the cripplingly cold waters, until jack freezes to death at the end.  oops.  did i give that away?  isn’t it unbelievable? 

ok.  i have to admit that i did come close to tears at the end, but mostly because after looking at bill paxton’s earring, the superbad acting of the “old lady,” and the moment she throws the diamond away, i was saddened that kate winslet was a part of such a piece of, uh, mediocrity.

and then it happened.  i truly emotionally connected with the film.  rose dies an old, old lady in her bed, like she promised jack.  and that emotion was outrage.  i was as irate at this moment as when all the professors put their pens on russel crowe’s table at the end of a beautiful mind.  i keep hearing brian cox’s speech in adaptation that charlie kaufman attends, which he ends with “And God help you if you use voice-over in your work, my friends. God help you. That’s flaccid, sloppy writing. Any idiot can write a voice-over narration to explain the thoughts of a character.”

my final review: even if this movie was really, truly good, it would not be worth the eternal hell it has unleashed on the world via celine dion and her heart going on.

stab! bang! aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh

well, kiddies, it’s happened.  i’ve finally gotten over the first hump: i acutally feel better.  my physical therapy has begun to have a lasting, measurable effect.

i noticed this going in to stab therapy on thursday.  i was walking in, and while not pain free, the pain was less pervasive and less severe than normal.  despite the utter teddy bear debacle that rained down on monday and all the associated stress that came with it, i wasn’t a complete wreck. 

i mean, you can only imagine.  i have my most important brand in my most important territory rocking, rolling and generally kicking aussie ass when my local agency goes bankrupt.  with a whole lotta my dough in the bank.  bucks that have already been spent to make the most amazing program- something i was planning on wowing my company and the industry with.  and bam!  lockdown.  and here i am on the other side of the world, holding the bills and not much else.  to top it off, try explaining to anyone that you’re staying up past midnight and feeling severely pressured because the freaking teddy bears are in crisis.  you don’t exactly engender a lot of sympathy.  or credibility, for that matter.

anyway.  i won’t go into detail because it just sounds more and more ridiculous.  the point is, people, that i feel the difference.  despite the stress and the travel and the irregular schedules and all of it.  i feel better.  i’ve been going to stab therapy for nearly nine months and was beginning to lose hope.

little by little, i’ve been healing.  i guess i just got to the point that it was appreciable enough for me to notice. 

or maybe it’s just due to all the sex.  whatever.  i’ll take it.

(total aside: spinal tap is on.  it’s the mini-bread scene.  christopher guest is genius.  i don’t know how they even get through the takes without losing it)

a motorway for rabbits

 cs lewis and i spent much of our first three days lounging beside the resort pool or on one of the beaches.  tenerife has black sand beaches, with a finer grain than those of hawaii, and a remarkable natural beauty and varied climate, which is marred and scarred by the endless strips of english snackbars and souvenir stands.  i guess this is inevitable in tropical isles that are developed, but it is disconcerting nontheless.

desiring to see more than ads for 1 Euro happy hours and packs of english families clutching the comforts of home and dragging them the thousand miles to this beautiful spot off the coast of africa, we decided to take an island tour.  no, not the most “authentic” of experiences, but a diversion and a chance to learn about the actual island itself was a welcome change of pace.

we boarded a bus full of the usual “excursion” suspects, with a wonderful and incredibly funny guide named pieter, who hailed from holland.  i won’t give you the digital version of your grandparents strapping you down for a slide-by-slide narrative of a trip to boca raton, but i will mentions assorted factoids and anecdotes (forgive me, my sweets).

long story short: tenerife was formed by volcanic activity eons ago, the island was once populated by prisoners from north africa, was taken over by the spaniards when eight of the ten kings were captured and the remaining two suicided, became a giant banana plantation, and then the tourism began. 

we got to see the dragon trees, los gigantes (or, as i like to call them: the cliffs of insanity!), the oldest town on the island (ovataro), puerto de la cruz and the black madonna of las candalarias.

we had brits, germans, russians and a nice wee french madamioselle on the bus and pieter impressed and shamed us by speaking all fluently and with flawless accents.  i think that cs and i were the only ones to get his humor, or maybe it only worked in english, but this dude was hilarious.  cs and i were hysterical at nearly everything he said, not to mention our own ridiculous jokes (alright!) so we giggled the day away.  i’m pretty sure that pieter thought we were high and/or drunk, but it was like that the whole trip.  i must send a quick shout out to maya rudolph’s whitney houston impression for a good fifty percent of the laughs.  or cs’s version of it.  either way, it was amazing. 

eh, i just decided not to go into the whole day.  i’m sure everyone’s grateful.  i need to fully recover my senses in order to report on barcelona, alcochofa y tomate, rio grande and the catalan boy que deseé poner en mi bolsillo….

hit me with your best shot

- you’re sex on legs.

- you have any english in you?  no? want some?

- please, you beautiful hair.  come back to my house of love.

- it’s so hot that you won’t come home with me.  morals really turn me on. 

- i have this bet with joey that i’m the better kisser.  will you be the contest judge?

- i’m sixteen stone of pure man and you have the most set teeth that i have ever seen.  we must go out.

- damn! where you from, girl?  i need to know where they make ‘em like you so i can get me one.

- with your beauty and my brains, we could do anything.

- you know, susan, if you’da been just a little bit nicer to me, just a little bit, i woulda slept with you.

- hey, wanna go back to your place and watch the empire strikes back?

key things to know.  well, not really key.  more like relevant.  one, to quote the inimitable whitney houston, my name is not susan.  not even my middle or confirmation name.  second, that last one worked.  twice.  with two different guys.  what?  since when did i deny being hopelessly nerdy?

as you may have guessed, these are some of the more choice pick-up lines i’ve heard over the years, which came to mind as i zombie at home watching tv on saturday night.  by choice, people, by choice.  seriously.  scout’s honor. anyway, god bless ‘em all, i say.  because every one of them is more attractive than a guy who emails me pictures of cats with clever sayings superimposed on the photos. 

NB: this last sentence contains sarcasm, but leads me to an earnest tangent: what the hell is an LOL cat?  i thought someone was joking (badly) when i heard that term.  then i heard it again.  and i started thinking that once again, the kids were onto something to which i wasn’t privy.  so i did whatever any slightly out of touch, but not entirely clueless, thirty something does.  i googled it.  and lo, according to the software those fine folks out in silicone valley built, it’s an actual phenomenon, sweeping the web.  not only that, but the number one blog on this very site is all about them.  LOL cats.  ‘LOL anything’ is immediately disqualified from the possibility of being funny.  or even slightly amusing.  to top it off, they’re pictures of cats with sayings that match their “facial expressions.”  like that poster you thought was exceedingly lame in your fourth grade classroom with a kitten hanging from a branch and the caption “hang in there” posted underneath.  a phenomenon, people!  let me just say that there’s more than one reason to be happy to reach your thirties.

wait.  i didn’t start out to talk about these damn things.  it was about pick up lines.  which, after the cat thing, seem so much less egregious. 

what i’m trying to get to is that i’d like to invite the fine folks out there to share the best, worst, most sincere or nonsensical line they’ve ever received, given or overheard.  oh, and whether or not it worked.  it’s only fair.  i ‘fessed up to the empire strikes back thing. 

breathlessly awaiting your responses…

Protected: names have been changed to protect the clinically insane

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the digital divide; fellas, listen up!

Boys, this one’s on the house. 

I’m going to give you a little insight into something that drives a majority of ladies, chicks, broads, skirts, girls, women, females crazy.  It actually makes the top of most deal-breaker lists.  A complete and total turn off.

wut is it? u ask. wut could b so bad as 2 make girlz want 2 puke on ur faces?

Text speak, aol-speak, whatever you want to call it.  It’s disgusting. 

Inane abbreviations and mispellings appropriate ONLY for twelve year old kids with ADD who never knew better.  You save a couple of key strokes on your computer or hits to the entry pad on your cell phone, but you’re losing an inestimable amount of stock points.  It’s the single most emasculating thing a man can do to himself.

I’m all for parsimony, and I know we’re all busy, but trust me, the extra second you’ve saved yourself is not worth the hits your manhood is taking.

No, I’m not exaggerating.  I know many girls that will immediately write off a guy who texts or IMs her in this manner, or WORSE, emails this way.  It may seem shallow, but consider it.  We’re looking for men.  MEN.  Not little boys.  And not idiots.  It makes you seem illiterate, unintelligent, ineloquent, delinquent, remedial, and to some, like you can’t take two seconds to try and impress a lady.

So, take the time to actually spell out words, as close to the actual spelling as you can manage.  The T9 or word setting on your phone is there to help you; it’s your friend.  It helps you speed up your typing AND is like a little spell-check angel.  It will also remember non-standard words that you use often (like the way Silvija’s name is spelled, or the name of a favorite bar, or even shit, tits, boobs, whatever you like to write).  Email has spell check.  With IM, you’re on your own, but most people are forgiving, as long as you make the effort.

I’ll break it down for you, to make it real easy like:

1.  Turn on the T9/ word function on your phone.  It’s there to help you.

2.  Do not write LOL, LMAO, TTYL or some such inanity under any circumstances.

3.  Do not write in ALL CAPS.  IT LOOKS LIKE YOU’RE YELLING AT US.

4.  Do not insert smiley faces to punctuate.  Indicate that you are kidding some other way. (ha ha, heh, etc. are acceptable).

5.  Do not insert numbers into words to spell them out (gr8, l8r, etc.  Who are you, Avril Lavigne?).

6.  Do use whole words.  It indicates you can think. 

7.  Do use punctuation.  It indicates that you care about what you’re saying.

Now, I will admit that there are some ladies who don’t actually mind the abbreviations of the modern texting age and use them themselves.  Of course, if you happen to be conversing with such a lady, it is totally appropriate to “speak” in kind.

8.  However, IT IS NEVER OK TO EMAIL this way. 

9.  Err on the side of caution.  Most ladies feel this way, so unless you’ve seen your potential girl* use such language, don’t do it.  Better safe than sorry.

I mean, hey, it’s not like we’re expecting you to learn the difference between their, they’re and there or it, it’s and its or to, too and two or even your and you’re.  Though, you can really impress a lady (and your parents and co-workers) by mastering these few tricks.

You always say you don’t know what women want.  Well, I’m here to tell you.  It may hurt your feelings, but nut up!  It’s for your own good. 

*of whatever variety- this can even kill a sex-only relationship as it can bare a direct relationship to the degree of attraction a lady has for her male companion.

truth in advertising: when reality meets the tsa

so, on one of my many early morning jaunts to the cleve of late, i was standing in a very long security line at about, oh, five thirty in the morning.  nervous travelers abounded, anxious to catch their flights, but the line was not moving.  this gave me several long minutes to really take in the ambience of the continental terminal at lovely LaGuardia airport.

i look to my left and there’s a life size poster for the TSA or the Port Authority of NY/ NJ and their amazing dedication to customer service.  It read something like this: “We’re dedicated to your comfort and satisfaction as much as we are your safety” with a nice smiling lady assisting a customer.  Next to this was an actual, though decidedly less smiley, airport employee.

cue the really late and extremely nervous woman who runs up to said employee and asks if she (the employee) can help as she (the flyer) is definitely going to miss her flight because the line has not moved.  to which she (the employee), clearly inspired by her calling and mission responds:

“lady, that’s too bad.  ALL these people (sweeping hand gesture) gonna miss their flights.  now get back at the end of the line.  next time you might wanna get here early.”

and, scene.