Scenes from an Elevator

(The following is derived from actual events. Names will not be used and location of elevator will not be disclosed.)


Scene One: A girl walks across the upper level of a parking garage after her lunch break. She enters elevator along with an attractive young man. They speak politely and take their places on either side of the compartment: girl on stage left, young man on stage right. Elevator goes up to first floor. Two more men enter. Both position themselves closely to the girl. Middle-aged man stands to her left, older man stands to her right. Salutations are exchanged.

Older man asks girl: "So, are you coming or are you going?"

Girl... innocently, cheerfully, abruptly: "I’m coming!"

Girl immediately wishes she had chosen her words more carefully. Older man maintains eye contact with girl and smirks. Middle-aged man looks down at girl, smiles, and raises eyebrows suggestively. Young man on stage right can be seen bringing his fist to his mouth to cover quiet laughter.

Girl rolls her eyes and gives a clear message of annoyance to each man through her glare. Elevator door opens and young man quickly exits, stage front, still trying to cover his chortling. Elevator door opens again; girl and remaining two men also exit stage front. Girl thinks to herself that those were, quite possibly, the oldest looking 9th graders she's ever seen.


Scene Two: Girl gathers personal belongings and sighs. She leaves her office....late. Again. She boards an elevator on the 5th floor, pushes the appropriate button that will take her to her car in the basement garage. She stands center stage and watches the doors slowly close in front of her. To her puzzlement, elevator ascends upward instead of the reverse. Elevator climbs to 9th floor. Doors open. No one boards. Frustrated, girl pushes appropriate button. Again. Elevator decends back to 5th floor. Doors open, then shut voluntarily. Elevator does not move. Girl passes puzzlement and enters bumfuzzlement. Girl pushes appropriate button. Again. Nothing. Girl pushes "Door Open" button. Girl pushes "Door Open" button 47 more times. Nothing. Girl, still center stage, wonders how to deliver herself from entrapment of elevator. Pulls out her cell-phone. Coincidently (or...not), cell phone is recieving signal. Unusual for inside elevator. Girl calls office in hopes that coworker is still at his desk. No answer. Girl passes bumfuzzlement and enters discombobulation. Air in elevator rapidly becomes stuffy. Girl pulls at turtleneck collar. Girl feels faint. Girl calls another coworker on cell phone. Coworker is patient and reassuring and turns around in car....heads back to building to assist girl over-reacting in elevator. 12 minutes pass. Girl wonders how it will be to spend entire night in elevator. Girl decides she can use purse as a pillow. What if she has to pee?!?!?! Girl not excited....maybe she should call the fire department. Miraculously, elevator moves to first floor without instruction. Doors open just as coworker arrives. Girl hangs head low and doesn't take elevator again for several days.

Scene 3: Girl boards elevator and stands at stage left. Man enters behind her, but does not take place at stage right. Instead, man turns around and stands directly in front of closed doors. Man is so close, his breath fogs the doors. Man makes no effort to turn around or acknowledge girl at stage left. Man looks straight ahead into doors. Girl smells her armpits. Smells pleasantly flowery. Girl wipes at her face. No mustard globs or anything of the like. Girl licks her palm and sniffs it. Minty delicious. Girl finds no reason for man's strange behavior. Man is a freak, decidedly.

(Note: Girl did not smell armpits or lick palms in public. Elaboration added for dramatic affect.)

Cartoon Procreation

Everyone has weird dreams from time to time. It has always seemed to me that I have weirder ones, and at a greater frequency, than most people I know. Although, for the past few months, much to my dissapointment, most of my dreams have been more on the side of commonplace. So I was quite pleased when this one occurred not too long ago.

I dreamed that my friend, Berenice, was pregnant. In the dream, we were all suprised upon hearing the news. But what was more suprising was learning that Tigger was the father. Yes, Tigger from the Hundred Acre Woods. Not only was he the father, but Bere was in love with him, and marriage was in the works to prevent the birth of a little bastard tigerbaby. Bere is, by far, the most sophisticated friend I have. She's very pretty, very proper, and very much a "lady". I could spend a full four years at Madame Boufant's School for Young Women and graduate still cruder, clumsier, and more unpolished than she.

Placing the absurdity of Tigger inpregnating anyone in general aside, the idea of Bere being the "anyone" makes it all the more ridiculous. She wouldn't tolerate Tigger's moxie for more than about 10 minutes on a first date, if he could manage to even get that far. Owl, or Rabbit, maybe....would be a much better match for her. I think I could have an enjoyable night with Tigger. He'd be a hoot to take bar-hopping, anyway. Could probably show me a good time. Certainly wouldn't be one with whom to consider anything long term, though.

I hate to leave Pooh and Piglet out of this. Both would be considerate boyfriends, I'm sure. Pooh would supply any woman with a constant supply of warm smackerals, and would likely be very emotionally giving (he's big on sharing, as I recall). Piglet would be sweet and agreeable, and I'm sure SOME girls like pansies. I guess I almost forgot about Eeyore. He's way too self involved to pursue a relationship. You have to love yourself first, right?

Imaginary Dialogue

When you see people arguing in public, do you ever wonder what it is they're fighting about? I get a kick out of noticing people fight in their cars, particularly. In a car is one of the worst places to fight. You can't escape abruptly without risking the chance of broken legs or, at least, a sprained ankle. Any yelling that may occur is amplified by the small, glassed-in walls. Hiding isn't really any option...from all four directions, you are potenially exposed to any voyeurs (myself included) that happen to be nearby.

I like to make up dialogue in my head (or out loud, if someone is with me) to replace their silent yelling. It's fun to do the same thing with an old or very bad movie. Put it on mute and you've got access to your very own at-home version of Mystery Science Theater 2000 (or is it 3000? I never can remember). But, the car version is a quicker, more accessible form of entertainment.

"You f--king moron! Mapquest says left on Hillcrest, not right on Cresthills!"

(exciting Wendy's drivethru) "I can't believe you just ordered me a diet coke. I didn' t ask for diet! Why don't you just say it? SAY IT! I'm disgusting. You think I'm fat and disgusting and
you can't stand the sight of me in a thong anymore! "

"Henry, if you fart in this car one more time, I swear to God...."

"I can't believe how you were flirting with the valet driver. You were doing it right in front of me! Yeah, I know he looked just like Eric Estrada, but that doesn't make it okay! You know what.....fine.....we're going back there right now and I'm gonna kick his ass!"

"I am, under no circumstances, going to listen to that Fleetwood Mac CD again. I don't care if Landslide IS your favorite song! How do you like this, huh? What? You don't want me to hold it out the window? You don't think I'll drop it?! Oh no....it's slipping...it's slipping....!"

"Go ahead. Dump in your pants; we are NOT stopping! We stopped 4 hours ago! Pretty Woman comes on at 8:00 and you didn't TiVo it on PURPOSE! You aren't ruining this for me again!"

You Should Listen

Keane....incredible band. British...but slowly making their way into mainstream here. I'm sure that, before too long, they'll be overplayed and popular just like so many other bands are. Hopefully they won't lose their unique flavor in the process. Every song of theirs takes you somewhere; sparks a small flame of some sort...... Just as with sounds and smells, I love it that music has a way of reminding us.

Think about your favorite movies. (If all of your favorite movies are crappy, then you can skip the rest of this entry entirely because you won't be able to follow.) I can't seperate movies from their soundtracks. If the music doesn't flow with the emotion of a scene, it grates my tolerance level into tiny shreads. On the other hand, we all know that music can artfully direct what mood is created on film. The very best of these, when you hear them later on, put you back into a scene; into that mood. It's almost as if your catalogs of recollection can't quite seperate your own personal reality from what was obsorbed on a t.v. or movie screen.

A few come to mind...(Some impromptu movie trivia, if you will.)

Exultate Justi being sung by a boy's choir as a young man is forced to grow and mature during the devastation of WWII. He steps back into the innocence he has lost when he is reunited with his parents after years of seperation. triumphic.

The lyric-less poetry of The Polyphonic Spree exemplifies the joy; and then the depression and desperation, that love has the power to drive you into. poetic.

(This one's for the girls.) The Beach Boys' What Would I Be Without You... more about the many forms of love ...I'll spare everyone from another indulgence in that arena.

And who could forget the balladic guitar stylings of David Bowie setting the tone of a demented "King of the Underworld"s obsession with babies and young girls. (Yes, I'm referring to an actual movie. And, NO, I'm not really suggesting that it offers something of meaningful quality.)


So....back to my original topic...Keane. Their music does just what I've been rambling about: Recreates, or perhaps, creates for the first time, detailed memories. Sometimes they're from our own experiences and sometimes they're bits and pieces of pictures and ideas we've vacuumed up along the way.

Now that you're all throughly confused; I'll get back to work.

Wha?...Wha?

Why is it that in SO many HipHop songs, you can hear one or more of the people singing asking in melodic monotony: Wha? Wha? Wha? (for those of you who are VERY white, Wha = What)

Are they confused? Maybe they've just been awoken from a really good dream, and this is their disturbed response.

Has someone accidently stumbled into their studio during recording, and they're politely asking how they can be of service?

Have they misunderstood or misheard the producer, and they're asking for clarification? Surely they would have a hand gesture for such a thing. Or, at least, they would edit it out.

Or maybe they're asking us, the listeners of their fine music, a question. Should we answer back? I already talk to myself in the car, so I guess it wouldn't be that big a deal.

Amazing Love

One of my closest friends, Charla, gave birth to a beautiful son on Monday night. Christopher is amazing....perfect. Almost unbelievably so. Funny thing about the situation is that, until about 9 months ago, Charla rested in the absolute that she would NEVER want to have a baby. She and her husband, Vince, were content with their life together, and felt that their two doggies were all they would ever need to fulfill their parenting desires. But something unexpectedly stirred their hearts, and they decided they would give it a try. Much to their surprise, the baby had already pitched his tent....a couple of weeks before they made their decision. Could’ve been a subconscious biological signal that prompted Charla’s longing for a child so suddenly. I happen to believe it was much more than biology, but to pursue that tangent would greatly lengthen this entry. Besides, I'm sure I'll end up pursuing others before I'm done.

Last night I saw Charla the happiest I’ve seen her in our 8 year friendship. To look at her, you would never have guessed that she ever felt unprepared or unqualified for her upcoming role as a mother. I walked into the hospital room and I could literally feel the love that had come into existence there. Like an invisible incense, it took my breath away, curling and wrapping its trail around me as I entered. Obviously, I’ve known many new mothers, and I’ve held quite a few newborns in their first days; but the experience never stales; never appears unimpressive; never seems prosaic. Hundreds of thousands of babies are born every day in every corner of the planet. The melancholic reality is that not every child is born into love. There are countless numbers of shiny white hospital rooms, meager lean-tos, and darkened back-alleys that breathe no aroma of piety or astonishment (from human presence, that is) when a novel soul is born in its parameters. But, for my own purpose, I’ll allow myself to assume that, statistically, most new mothers love their own flesh and blood.

Its that kind of love, exactly, that blows my mind. Most anyone who knows me well knows that I’m not one of "those" girls who goes crazy over babies. I don’t feel the need to tickle every toddler or kiss the head of every infant I see at a grocery store or restaurant. If I have a biological clock, it’s not ticking. Its digital reading flashes "No Time Soon" in blinding red. No one should worry....I’m not announcing that I want a baby. However, its when I’m reminded that this kind of love exists that I feel a (very) small pang of envy for women who already have it. Sure, I know what its like to love a child. I love my niece zealously. I have loved students (when I was teaching) with a comparable zeal. I love my kitty......if that counts. But I realize that all of this can fit in the shadow, many times over, of motherhood. This love is terrifying. Seems that it would swallow me and never spit me back out. It’s no wonder that most of us are somewhat afraid of loving unbridled and unrestrained.

Bigger picture: as I drove home late last night, I couldn’t stop thinking about how love, in general, truly amazes me. The fact that God gives us the ability to experience it in so many ways and to such passionate extensions is a little overwhelming. And, for some reason, after holding Christopher and observing him with his parents, it was as if I could see all the facets of love in my life intertwine. They braided themselves inside me; a different strand of color for every way I've encountered them recently. Births, deaths, falling in love (and abiding in it), loyal friendships, relentless family support, answered prayers (even when the answer is "no")....... And before I knew it, this knot of thankful, humbled emotion was reavealing itself in tears. I could feel it in my bones and in my gut. It was impossible to ignore. Call me simple or overly "sweet" if you will. My cynicism is usually pretty prevalent in daily conversation, and I don't skip to work everyday singing "Kum Ba Yah", passing out daisies to strangers (although I did swerve to avoid hitting a squirrel today, and I even hugged my boss on Monday). But when I experience even 60 seconds of such a sensation, I feel it needs to be shared.

Enough of that......let's talk about sex and rock-n-roll now.....

Johnny Rogers or Kenny Carson?

Yes, very sad that Johnny Carson passed away yesterday. As a kid, I always had a strange fascination with him. I suppose there was something very mysterious about him in my mind. I wasn't often allowed to stay up late enough to watch The Tonight Show, and I just knew that I was missing out on something EXTRAORDINARY. It must have been so if I wasn't allowed to participate in its viewing every night. That's how parents are, you know; they veil all the really good things in life with stupid rules and bedtimes just to keep kid-dom from infiltrating and taking over. They figure kids have enough in their realm of entertainment; what with their Ataris and My Little Ponies and day-time Nickelodeon programming.

Anyway, one of the first times I did manage to witness the shrouded hilarity of Johnny Carson, he was wearing a funny hat and making a chimpanzee do something silly, no doubt. So I immediately pushed him up by the backside onto a pedestal of greatness. And there he stayed; even if I had to rely mostly on memories to enjoy him.

Despite my affection for this Wizard of Monkey Antics, I could never remember the man's name. I had it etched on my brain that he was Kenny Rogers. Always referred to him as such. I know this partly from memory , and partly because my mother mentions it from time to time. No telling why I could never get past this error. Even at age 25, the name Kenny Rogers still passes into my mind's eye when I see Johnny. I'll bet Kenny never sang with a monkey, though.

A Severe Digression of Memories

I've had several questions regarding my address....fishsticksandapplesauce. I told someone as I was brainstorming for web addresses that I needed to create one that was memorable and meaningful. I'm not sure that I accomplished either one of those things, and I'm also not sure why I thought that it actually matters one way or another.

Surely I'm not the only one for whom the meal of fishsticks and applesauce can associated with childhood. I can remember it like it was yesterday.....Saturday lunches at our house on Wemberly Drive. Four fishsticks on ketchup-soggy bread made the perfect sandwich. The kitchen was of the traditional 70's decor (although we lived there in the late 80's). The walls were printed in the classic orange/lime green/mustard yellow montage. Our table was the same limey green, but was usually hidden by one of many hideous table cloths that our mother had collected over the years. (Some were hand-sown from itchy fabrics, adorned with fringy-tassely things that coordinated with NO other colors in the room. Others were of the plastic variety....the ones that crack in spots and reveal white fuzz backing that pokes through the top.) A disturbingly large number of cats most likely lingered under chairs and around our feet waiting impatiently for falling morsels. Of course, I could have seached deeper in my vault through many other childhood memories for a web address.

Kermit the Frog. We had family wrestling matches with our Kermit doll. He was no ordinary Kermit, mind you. As legend had it, he was a "Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde" type of character who, after drinking Pepsi, of all things, would spin into an enraged fury. Tickles and teethless biting would follow until my brothers and I were limp and laughed-out piles on the floor. It was a terrifying event time after time.

Doll House raids. By default, I was a bit of a tom-boy growing up. My two older brothers dictated much of my free time, whether I liked it or not. One of my girly indulgences, however, was an elaborate doll house that Santa brought me one year. It was my pride and joy. It was decked out partly with ridiculously over-priced furniture, and partly with created pieces that my dad, formerly an interior designer, painstakingly made out of random household items. (styrofoam and fabric swatches, mostly.) My doll house family (we'll call them the Wilsons) were comparable to the Bradys. The mom and dad both sported sweater vests and trendy bowl haircuts. There were 2 daughters and a son in knee socks and delirious smiles.

The Wilsons would inevitably be involved in some type of quaint family activity when tragedy would strike. Unexpectedly, the humble adobe would be surrounded by military tanks and destruction vehicles and menacing G.I.Joes would pour out, ready for action. At the mercy of my brothers, the Wilsons would then endure the same cycle of devastation and torture as they were so used to. Furniture was disarrayed. Parents were tied up. Children thrown from the roof-top. Pets run-over repeatedly by relentless tank wheels. Miraculously, the Wilsons always maintained their goofy-ass smiles through the ordeal. Even despite machine gun beatings and attempted drownings. They were troopers. They still serve as an inspiration to me today.

Looking back, I have to wonder why the Wilsons were ever a target to these militia groups. Mr. Wilson was a simple man. Earned an honest living at an office somwhere (under my bed, I think). Mrs. Wilson busied herself with carpools and bake-offs, and was, by no means, an object of vigilante male attention. It had to have been little Timmy. I never did trust him. His shorty overalls obviously were a cover up for more than just pasty skin. He was probably involved in international drug and weapon trafficing. His bedroom was in the attic of the Wilson home; a big mistake on my part. Way too much privacy for a brilliant and disturbed child.

Degrees of Attractiveness

A comment made after my last entry brought up an intersting topic. Interesting to me, anyway. Can a man be "stunning"? I suppose if any man could be called that, the senator could be. However, I think there are boundaries with the terminology used in
particularilizing a person's appearance. I tend to employ a certain scale of degrees/categories. I wonder if I'm the only one who does this.
These categories are in no specific order. They aren't ranked; one is not more "attractive" than the others. Attactiveness is too complex, too intricate, and too individualized for ranking. And, of course, as they say, beauty is all in the eye of the beholder, right? I'm sure that if we all had a scale, they would all be vastly different. Furthermore, a person can fall into any number of combinations within the scale. Most people, actually, are more than just one. And there could be a completely different scale for UNattractiveness, but I try to focus on the positive. I'll run through my scale and give some well-known examples for emphasis.

For men, 4 categories:
1. Cute (ex: Zach Braff)
2. Handsome (ex: Luke Wilson)
3. Hot (ex: Ty Pennington)
4. Sexy (ex: Dave Matthews)

For women, 4 categories:
1. Cute (ex: Meg Ryan-the early years. She scares me now.)
2. Pretty (ex: Kate Winslet)
3. Hot (ex: Jennifer Aniston)
4. Beautiful (ex: Ann Curry -from the Today Show)

There are extreme categories for each sex, as well. "Beautiful","stunning", "exquisite"....are, indeed, terms I use to describe men, but are more intimate descriptions based on non-physical factors like personality and inner beauty. We all hear "drop dead gorgeous"for both sexes, but I don't know that I've used it for either. "Sexy" is a term I don't use often to describe other women, but I constantly use it to describe myself. It's my blog, so I can say that.

Statuesque, Indeed.....

I must make mention of the blog of my good friend Elise. She has lovingly, generously taken the time to post a story about lil' ol me. She has added a dramatic narration that I probably didn't use myself when telling her the story initially, so her version is most certainly more entertaining than mine ever could have been. You might want to check it out (elise.blogs.com) so that you can follow. Go ahead....I'll wait.

All set? Good. I love it that she starts off with a disclaimer of my not being a "fat-ass". Don't get me wrong, Elise, I appreciate you protecting my image, but I doubt that any of our readers will buy into the description of "statuesque". Anywho.....just for the record, I drink I ordered on day #1 of embarassment was DIET, and my roomates actually frequent the place more often than I. Not that it matters. It all turned out splendidly. I am now, in fact, dating the MacArthur Blvd. Sonic manager. He's the only man who will have me now that my head has turned into a tater-tot. What Elise didn't share was that, along with the first set of coupons he sent in the mail, he dropped in some "Coupons for Lovin" that he made himself with construction paper and a Sharpie. In this case, I think I'd rather cash in the 2-for-1 corndog.

I'd also like to acknowledge the comment posted by the very handsome Senator Chewface (Who, by the way, spends most of his time as an astute politician, but still manages to talk baby-talk to his kitty at night.). Don't be silly, Senator. I would never write about how you puked in your truck. I will however, write about how you puked on the Atchafalaya River bridge. It was breathtaking....him on all fours in the gravel, back-lit by the headlights of oncoming traffic. Sexiest thing I've seen in quite some time.

The advice given in regards to Dooce.com is, and has been for quite some time, well-noted. I believe Elise has that site linked on her own. Interesting story. Also interesting is Cody's charming misunderstanding of the vagina.

Newness

Well, here it is. I have a blog. To be quite honest, I didn't realize this is something that adults actually participate in. Several friends of mine (and regular partakers of the blog) have informed me that this is, indeed, a mature, and even enlightening, activity. So, I thought "what the hey?". I like to share my thoughts, like to hear the thoughts of others......and we all need a back-up project when things get slow at work.

I'm telling myself, perhaps irrationally, that people will actually want to subscribe consistently to my blog site. I have an image in my head of my friends chuckling to themselves as they read my witty antecdotes, pausing thoughtfully to ponder my philosophical observations of the world, and posting interesting responses and questions. We'll all be better people because of it.....an egalitarian community of givers and takers. A small segment of my private utopia. Thomas More would be drying his eyes.

I know I am.