On Lactation, the He-Woman and the Great Smuggling Ring of 2005

Well, I made it to Chicago.

Somehow I was able to drag my sick butt from bed and make it to the airport in time to catch my crowded flight to the Windy City.

I arrived at 1:00 and took the train into downtown to meet Scott. Our reunion was not the emotional climax some would expect, but when you are as close as we are, saying hello and goodbye just seems silly. Even half a globe and sixteen time zones hasn’t deadened this friendship.

We made our way to Scott’s work where I was reunited with Seth, an old friend from college. Again, the reunion was less than epic. At this point all I could focus on was the pain in my throat and my lack of sleep. I needed to crash.

Scott and Seth came up with this brilliant plan to smuggle my upstairs into the lactation room. Used by women who are nursing, the room was currently out of commission and I could just sleep in there until the end of the day. Glorious.

Sadly, the room was occupied. I think someone else needed some down time. Or some up time. Either way I was once again left without a place to rest. Then Scott suggested a room upstairs that no one ever uses, but we had to hurry and be quiet. Apparently this place has a very strict no-visitor policy. The smuggling continued and the three of us semi-stealthily made our way through the building. Finally I was deposited safely onto an old couch in the dark. I couldn’t have been happier.

I was on the couch for roughly two minutes when the door opened and a very large woman entered. I debated whether or not to just lay still, but decided it was better to let myself be known. I sat up with a small cough and the woman jumped.

“Oh Jesus Christ!”

“Sorry. Did I scare you?”

“Yes! Yes, you scared me! Who are you and what are you doing in here?”

For a split second I was fairly certain her plan was to call the cops and then sit on me to keep me from fleeing.

“I’m a friend of Scott’s. I just got in from out of town and he said I could rest here until he was ready to go home.”

Her large bosom continued to heave with what was either fear, anger or hunger.

“Do you know Scott?”

“Yes! Yes, I know Scott. But this is not Scott’s room.”

“Sorry.”

She stormed out of the room and I called Scott. He came and got me and took me home. Thanks to the evil He-Woman, he got to go home early. And I got to take a nap.

Thus, my adventures in Chicago have begun.

On Vacation, Packing and Wondering If I’ll Make It

As you read this I will (hopefully) be on a plane to Chicago.

I as write this, I am not so sure that will happen.

It’s almost 9:00 the night before I am to leave and I have yet to pack. My throat is on fire. And if I had the courage to take my temperature, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t look good.

In exactly seven hours I will need to unearth myself from my sheets and make my way to the airport. There is a pile of clothing on my bed and another in the dryer downstairs. Both are waiting to be packed. And all I can think about is drowning my sorrows in NyQuil and going to sleep.

All I want to do is get away for a few days, see Scott and dance to Erasure. All I want is a vacation. All I want is for one tiny little ray of hope to peek into my world.

Why can’t life just cooperate?

On David Spade, Pubes and Messing with the Mob

Of all the people I encounter on the bus, the one I fear most is the pudgy, middle-aged white woman with the severely rosy cheeks. Her skin is quite waxen, and is broken up with a veiny redness. Her hair is short and dry, looking more like a really cheap David Spade wig then the hair of an actual person. Her glasses are thick and pink, apparently designed to bring out the color of her damaged skin.

Now, let’s not jump to conclusions, however. I do not fear her because of her atrocious looks. Oh no. I fear her because she is trafficking drugs for the mob.

This woman has a very suspicious routine.

She sits in the same seat every morning. If, for some reason, the seat is taken, she will sit as close as possible and move as soon as it opens up.

She will remain stoic and silent throughout the trip. Until we cross over Greeley, that is.

As soon as the bus is completely across the intersection her phone will ring. No matter how early or late the bus is running her phone will ring at that exact moment. She will bring it to her fiery cheek and listen for roughly thirty seconds. She will not say a word; her lips will not move an inch.

She will hang up the phone and reach for the cord, calling for her stop. As she exits the bus she will look up and down the street suspiciously before scurrying away.

I’m convinced the mafia has her by the short hairs. Assuming, of course, you can have a woman by the short hairs.

A) Her appearance would suggest a disguise. No one has that many problems going on. Not even David Spade himself.

B) Someone is watching her. How else would they know exactly when to call?

C) She is scared. Why else would she act so strange when leaving the bus?

I fear that she is in the game against her will, but there is nothing either of us can do to stop it. I’ve seen the Godfather movies. You don’t mess with the mob.

One day there will be a horse’s head in her seat, and I ain’t gonna be the one to help clear the mess.

On Babysitters, Nightmares and the Clown in the Corner

This is a true story as told to my by a trusted source. I apologize in advance for any nightmares it may induce.

She was sitting in a strange living room watching a buxom red-headed mermaid lament her life under the sea on television with a couple of drowsy children. It wasn’t how she necessarily wanted to be spending her night, but the family paid well and if she forced herself to admit it, she really did like the kids.

What she didn’t like was the creepy clown in the corner. Why anyone would need a life-sized statue of a clown was beyond her. She could only assume one of the kids had a thing for clowns. Or maybe a birthday was coming up. Either way, she just wished she could get rid of it. She knew it was crazy, but she swore it was staring at her.

The night wore on and she did her best to ignore the clown. As the second Disney movie came to an end she herded the children to bed. Thankfully they didn’t put up much of a fight. She was way too tired to deal with a cranky toddler.

She returned to the dim living room, picking up a dropped blanket on her way. She collapsed on the couch with a sigh. Looking up, she shivered. Was it her imagination or was the clown smirking at her?

The phone rang causing her to jump. That stupid clown had her on edge. She needed to get a grip.

She walked to the kitchen, leaving the clown behind her, and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello. How are the kids?”

She breathed a sigh of relief. She’d half expected a killer with a penchant for gruesome pop quizzes to be on the other end.

“They’re great. Just put them to bed.”

“So things are going well?”

“Yeah. Everything’s fine. But I was wondering if you mind my putting a sheet over the clown statue in the living room. It’s kinda creeping me out.”

There was silence.

“Get the kids and get out of the house. Now.”

“What?”

“There’s a man who has been roaming the neighborhood stalking families and breaking into homes. Get out now.”

As she ran to get the kids, she passed the living room and saw that the clown was gone.

On Blisters, Denny’s and Hassles with the Homeless

What is it with me and homeless people?

Saturday night some guy stopped me on the street and gave me some tragic story about how he had his family were in town (for a reason I never quite caught) and they’d had all of their money and possessions stolen.

I quickly flashed on myself being mugged by his “family” (as I was certain they were lurking in the bushes) and steered myself toward a Denny’s. Everyone is safe at Denny’s, right? Well, as long as you don’t eat anything.

The man followed me and kept up the sob story. He was a marine (he showed me the tattoo to prove it) and he had been walking all over town all day looking for anyone who could help him. To prove this he lifted his pant leg, lowered his sock and pointed out a number of puss-filled blisters.

Lovely.

I finally relented and gave him two dollars. I could tell he thought I was being cheap, but in reality two bucks is a lot of money for me. I may give off the impression of wealth, but I work for a Catholic university. And I’m salary. You do the math.

The money wasn’t enough, however. He also wanted a ride. His family was staying across town at a shelter run by the Portland Fire Department and he didn’t think he’d be able to walk back. I told him I didn’t have a car. Typically this would be true, but luck would have it that I was mobile that night. I’m such a liar.

Finally he gave me a defeated look and limped off. Poor guy.

All in all it wasn’t the most horrible homeless experience I’ve had to date. I don’t think anything will beat the time an angry man chased me through downtown when I asked if he took debit. I should just learn to look down and keep walking. And keep my mouth shut.

God bless the homeless.