Monthly Archives: September 2011

RED LIGHT CHATTING!

Pitbull says he’s too Latin for hip hop and too hip hop for Latins, and I feel dat. I’m too Maine for RI and too RI for Maine.

THAT'S WHY I GOT HIS NAMESAKE TATTOOED ON MAH BOOB (please excuse the dumb face and semi-see-through sweater)

I’ve lived in Rhode Island for the past four years and I still feel like some trick ass tourist. I’ve been trying to change that; I’ve been trying to become part of the community. And, thanks to red light chitterchat, I’m doing a damn fine jarb.

Whenever I’m driving on a two-lane road (or is it a four-lane road if there are two lanes on either side?), and I’m stopped at a red light, and my window is down and so is the driver’s next to me, I try to make conversation.

My first attempt was with a USPS mail lady about a week ago. I’d found a set of official looking keys earlier in the day, and I wanted to ask if they were hers. I didn’t pick them up or anything, but I figured my description — “silver and very fancy” — would be all she needed.

Sadly, I never got to tell her. We had two red lights together, and she never even looked my way.

The next day I was driving home from work at 9:00 p.m. or so. There weren’t many people on the road, so when I saw a sweet old school buggy, I sped up right next to it to get the conversation started. Since the steering wheel was on the weirdo side (the right) I planned out something real clever to say to the driver. Like, “Hey! Your steering wheel’s effed up, buddy,” or whateva.

Again, my chat attempt failed; green lights all the way home.

Then, last Sunday, it finally happened. A driver man chatted with me on the road! Actually, he kind of sassed me on the road, BUT STILL!

When I pulled out of the grocery store parking lot on Sunday afternoon (after buying a 24-inch sub for $7.99 — did you know that existed?), a flashing cop car ripped by me right away. Behind him were a couple of motorcyclists. At first I thought “Whoa doggy! Them fools should back up off that cop.” Then I saw about a million motorcycles behind the first few, realized it was a convoy, and thought “Whoa doggy! I do not know what to do.”

I had already pulled into the breakdown lane for the cop, but once he passed I didn’t know if I could go back into the right lane. The convoy was totally in the left lane, and it wasn’t like they was in a rush or nothing. Still, I decided to stay in the breakdown lane and continue moseying along.

I drove for five minutes before the car behind me took a turn down another road. I kept on driving and the motorcycles kept on coming. I felt very unsure of what I was doing, but I had my window down and Pitbull pumping so I was doing alright. Then a man on a motorcycle yelled at me through the window and I no longer felt so alright.

Man: MOVE BITCH, GET OUT DA WAY!

Me: Whaddat?

Man: Stop your vehicle! YOU MUST STOP!

Me: Yes, of course, of course! By the way, how are you? What’s this convoy for? Do you like motorcycles? What make is that? Harley, is it? Cool. I call it “H-Dizzle.” Nice helmet, does it hurt to wear? Do you have a strong core? Do you have a strong heart? Do you like roast beef sandwiches? I got a couple of feet of sub I could share with you!

I don’t think he heard my questions, cause he kept on driving and all, but I still felt real good about having engaged in red light chat. So good that it almost overshadowed how bad I felt about being an idiot driver! So good that, after the convoy had passed, I tried to talk to the car that pulled up beside me at the next red light.

Didn’t work.

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I like poop stories. If you don’t, maybe don’t read this

Whenever I travel outside of New England, my body forgets how to poop. It sucks, of course, but it wouldn’t suck nearly as much if — when I finally do remember  — my body didn’t then forget to do this other thing, too. This way more important other thing.

Two summers ago my cousin Petey and I visited our friend Will and his family at their condo in a resort in Puerto Rico. There are a few things you should know.

1. I’d never met Will’s parents before.

2. Will’s parents were adults.

3. I’d only met Will’s girlfriend once.

4. Will’s girlfriend was a real hip art student.

5. Other than meeting strangers, the things that make me most nervous/weird/mute are adults and hip art students and my obvious inferiority t0 them.

The resort this group of superior humans and I stayed at was redinky donky. It had the amenities you’d expect, like beaches and restaurants and pools, and the amenities you might not expect, like a casino and a golf course and a water park. The only thing missing was a pooping conducive crapper.

Actually, dat ain’t true. The condo had three perfectly functioning toilets; one for Will’s parents, one for Will and Petey, and one for Will’s boo and me. I, on the other hand, didn’t even have one perfectly functioning shiz system. In fact, my shiz system wouldn’t function at all.

That charming belly is 50% chub and 50% constipation (that's me in the gray wife beater sitting on the left, by the way)

I went three days with no number twos. On the fourth day, I knew I had to take action. Although I’d never really had issues with pooping before, I was familiar with the latest crap-coaxing technologies. I needed to drink water, eat fruits and vegetables, exercise, and stay away from binding foods like cheese. I got to it (secretly — I didn’t want all those cool strangers to know I had a backed-up booty).

After five days of babying my bowels, I finally managed a turd or two. I don’t know if I got distracted by my success or I was too physically exhausted to be bothered or I was subconsciously showing off. I just know I forgot to flush.

My turd or two sat in that toilet for a couple of hours.

Now, I already mentioned that Will’s lady and I shared our own bathroom. What I didn’t mention, though, was that ours was the only one that wasn’t totally private; it was connected to the rest of the house, too. I like to believe no one else saw it — mostly because when I went back later for a run-of-the-mill pee, it was still bobbing around like dook do. I also like to believe no one smelled it, but since the bathroom was right next to the kitchen, someone probably did.

At least they didn’t think I had a backed-up booty.

I’ve gone dumb

I’ve spent most of the summer hanging out with dogs and babies. In particular, my pup dawg Chico and my niece Heidi.

They both super bomb. Chico is cute and funny and sweet; Heidi is crazy adorable and crazy happy and crazy fun and my favorite new human. You know what neither of them are, though? Smart.

Actually, as far as dogs and babies go, they’re geniuses. Chico can manipulate my mom to do anything — he fakes anorexia to get spoon fed and he fakes a limp to get carried on long walks. He’s a sicko bastard, but he’s clever. Still, since he’s a dog, I can’t do anything with him except make weird noises and throw squeaky toys and beg him to poop.

I can also get crunked with him

Likewise, Heidi is wicked smart for a baby. She babbles with the best of them and knows the facial expression for every word in the English dictionary. I’m sure she’ll be a bookworming math wizard in a few years, but for now, all I do when we chill is make gooftastic faces and blow raspberries and beg her to poop (I also smile a lot).

"This blanket is tasty and my face is the effing best"

The lack of normal social interaction is starting to have an effect on me. I’m going dumb real quickly like.

For example:

1. I went surfing the other day and chatted with a middle-aged, Australian, sleeveless-wetsuit-wearing man. After talking for a minute or two about weather n whatnot, he paddled out far, I posted up on da inside, and the chittychat ended.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Australian Man caught a wave. As he rode the wave in, he passed right by me. He was kind of crouching down and had his left hand sticking straight up and his right hand sticking out to the side. It looked to me like he wanted a high five.

When I stuck my hand out and he ignored it, however, it no longer looked like he wanted a high five.

(P.S. He later told me about his 12-month-old son. Thinking he said 12-year-old, I asked if his son surfed much. You should have seen the look he gave me!)

2. While taking Chico for a walk, I made homies with an old man. He asked me a few questions about myself, and then asked me what da mutt’s name was.

Old man: What da mutt’s name is?

Me: Chico. It means “boy” in Spanish. Funny, huh?

Old man: Oh helllooo there Chico!

Chico responded by lifting his leg on a telephone pole and dripping a pizz. The old man laughed and said to him, “And helllooooo to you too!”

For some reason, even though we’d already said hello and chatted for a few minutes, I looked old man right in his old face and said back, “Hello.”

I really don’t know how I mixed that one up.

3. The back tire on my bike blew this morning when I was about 4 miles away from home. On the walk back I found some grapes on the side of the road, noted they looked delicious, and ate a few. Then my lips got tingly and I thought I was having an allergic reaction. Then I remembered my chapstick had tingle-inducing ingredients in it.

Then I decided I should probably stick to dogs and babies.

Victoria’s Secret makes me look dumb (so does drooling)

Victoria’s Secret is the devil, and I ain’t never going back.

For one, they write “PINK” on most of their clothes. Even clothes that aren’t pink have “PINK” written all over them. If I wore green sweatpants with “PINK” written on the butt, every color blind person that peeped my donk would get all confused and sad, probably. And if I know anything, it’s that anyone who cares to peep my weirdly-wide-grossly-flat donk doesn’t need anymore confusion and sadness in their lives.

Practicing breakdancing in my liar pants

Secondly, Victoria’s Secret markets boyshorts as sexy and hip. Not boxers — which would at least be comfortable — boyshorts, the most terrible undergarment ever invented. I’d rather wear a pair of one-size-too-small, machine-dried, denim thongs than boyshorts. Not only do they leave underpant lines, but they give mega wedgies, too. Unless shoving my hands down my pants to dislodge my boyshorts from my booty is sexy and hip, Victoria should stop lying to her customers.

Finally their employees don’t wear uniforms. That can sometimes cause problems.

Last week, my sister Meg and I went to the Victoria’s Secret at the Warwick Mall. As we walked around the store, I got progressively angrier about their silly clothes and dishonest boyshorts. So angry, in fact, that I choked on my drink and spit a mouthful of drool and water all over the floor.

Even though no one saw it, I felt I should tell an employee. The floors in those stores are awful slick, and the edges of the displays are awful sharp — what if someone lost an eye? I didn’t want that shiz on my conscience!

When I didn’t see an employee right away, however, I figured my conscience could handle some shiz. So, my sister and I left.

Then, my conscience playa hated on shiz and asked me to go back to tell someone. I told Meg BRB and went back into the store. I spotted one of the workers taking underpants inventory and ran over to her. Doing my best to cover the wet spots on my T-shirt, I told her what happened.

“Hi, I just want to let you know that I spit some water on the floor over by the bras.”

The girl, dressed in black like every other Victoria’s Secret employee in the world, stared at me with a look equal parts confusion and disgust. I could tell I’d made a mistake.

“You don’t work here, huh?”

She shook her head no. I looked at the girl next to her, who I also thought was an employee, and asked the same question. She shook her head, too.

Embarrassed they thought I was bragging about my drool puddle, I played it off by pretending I was doing them a favor.

“Yeah… so don’t slip in it, okay guys?”

And, like I said, I’m never going back.

Kindergarten criminal

I remember two things about my first day of kindergarten.

1) I saw two girls, one brown headed and one yellow headed, talking to each other in the snack line. I remember thinking, “Those are the two weirdest looking things I’ve ever seen in my life.” (Both later became good friends of mine, but not until they stopped looking so creepy).

2) I experienced love at first sight with a boy with a killer cowlick and flapping fish lips.

Other than that, my first day consisted of meeting Ms. Pinkham, rocking fresh white kicks, and wearing a tag all day. It was a traditional first day of school.

I don't have a scanner, but I do have a multi-colored briefcase

To me, the second day of school is more important than the first; it’s more telling of the way things will be. Everyone knows the first day of anything doesn’t count, especially school. Teachers let you out of class early and your only assignment is to go to Staples and have the best time of your life buying page projectors and white out with your parents’ money. It’s not until the second day when ish gets real.

On my second day of kindergarten, for example, my mom asked me what I wanted for lunch (kindergarten is still half a day I hope?).

Mom: You hungry, Al? Want some lunch you little chubster you?

Me: Mmm yes! Me hungwy, me so hungwy.

Mom: I don’t understand anything that comes out of that idiot mouth of yours, but what would you like?

Me: Wa wa and bwead, pwease mommy.

Mom: Sounds like a prison meal. What’s wrong with you?

I don’t know what was wrong with me, but when my mom told me my lunch of bread and water sounded like a convict’s lunch, it made me like it even more. It made me want to be a criminal.

And maybe that’s why, before running out of the house to catch the bus, I threw on the jacket that I did. The  hardcore, black, leather motorcycle jacket from my dad’s shop (North Atlantic Leather & Repair — peep dat).

I ride dirty

That jacket was an authentic mini motorcycle jacket. It had more tassels and zippers and snaps than a Hells Angel. It was bomb diggity. And, paired with a stank face and a belly full of prison fare, it made me feel as bad as the baddest mammer jammer around.

At least until I got to school. I’ve never been that into speaking up, and that was especially true in kindergarten. I was really shy and hadn’t started speech therapy yet, so when Ms. Pinkham asked if I wanted to hang my coat on the rack, I shook my head and thought hell nah I don’t want your damn coat rack (politely, though).

The beginning of September is a pretty warm time of year, especially when you’re swagged out in a thick leather jacket. So, as you can imagine, I was sweating mah ballz off. But, not wanting to inconvenience Ms. Pinkham, and especially not wanting to talk, I kept it on all day. As I walked around like a robot in my motorcycle coat, I was sweaty, constricted, uncomfortable, and moodier than a biz.

And that’s why the second day of school showed me how things would be: trying to look cool, while actually looking like a jackass penguin/pit stain farmer.