always the comic tripper
Pad thai had been on my mind for four days. Yesterday on the way home from work I stopped at Thai Kitchen and ordered shrimp pad thai made spicy to go. Exhaustion consumed me. While waiting I crossed the street to the liquor store. Wine. A glass of wine would nicely wind down a body and mind weary with day gone long. Warm, slow sleep.
Carrying four bags from the previous two days’ whereabouts, and the much anticipated pad thai and wine, I entered the house. I could have slept right then. Much had transpired during the day and the night hadn’t contained enough sleep. But I was hungry and dreadfully needed to wash my hair. So I ate the pad thai. And then I cleaned myself. Poppy-sleepy.
My roommates were in the process of dinner when I went to the kitchen for more ice water...
This morning during my 40-minute drive to work NPR informed me at least 20 times that today would be a very hazy, humid 95 degrees which will feel like 105 degrees. In the Fahrenheit. I have no complaints because most of the places I will find myself will be air-conditioned (this modern day and its two-sided pennies, what happened to nature, man, but christ, all sympathy and empathy to loved ones without air conditioning in this purgatory). It’s been making me very thirsty.
...Upon returning to my room to clip my fingernails, which had been cragging for three days, and to recline, I remembered that I had put the clippers in my pants pocket a couple days ago. I like to clip my fingernails while walking outdoors. More than one person has told me this is "fucking weird". It's what I like, and we must do what we can. I checked all pockets and the clippers were gone. So I returned to the kitchen with my car keys, on a mission—at which my roommates requested a container of Ben & Jerry’s half-baked and some Mandelay. Some day a tube of Mandelay will sit upon our kitchen table like a bouquet of cattails.
At the grocery store, droopy-eyed but with new clippers I stood deliriously peering into the freezer, scanning for half-baked. A little old lady—they seem to be trailing me lately—dropped in quietly next to me and spoke—an infectious and girlish smile blushed across her face: "They’re so much cheaper than usual!" Immediately I pictured her in a tiny old house, multi-colored afghan stretched across an old couch, bong in her hands, giggling while Ed Sullivan re-runs play on the tube. I call-and-responsed her delight even though I didn't know how much the ice cream usually cost.
With new fingernails clippers, half-baked for my roommate, and heck one for me for another time, I returned home. No Mandelay, no bouquet. At last I could sip that wine and recline. I took the corkscrew out of its place and pushed its tip into the cork.
It wasn’t going in, so I pushed harder. And harder. Tried another spot. The cork was mangling into pieces. Finally, though, the screw began twisting in and I pulled down the arms of the device to pull the cork out. A success!?—no, the cork had split in half somehow and the bottom half of the cork was stuck in the neck of the bottle. I took to it like a seasoned mechanic. I went to the kitchen for a thin-blade knife. I would work the cork out. Or I wouldn’t. I went ahead anyway. Then I tried the corkscrew again. No give. I tried the knife, gently easing the blade into the bottom half of the cork. In, in. Pop!—
At this point I pictured myself in two scenes:
1. An episode of Three’s Company, quirky kitchen scene. I guess I’d be Jack, opening a bottle of wine for a date sitting in the living room. She’d fly through the swinging door to the kitchen to see why he was taking so long. He’d, embarrassed, grab the bottle and hide it behind his back, while slumping against the counter.
2. A deep dark drama about an alcoholic who’s run out of money and this cheap bottle of wine was all I could afford. There was no choice but to get that cork out. Vigorous and tantrum-y I would shake and prod until the tincture was down my throat by no matter what means. I would destroy my house and family with this disease.
—Like a boulder from high on a cliff the cork dropped fast and heavy into the wine. Purple splashed in every direction: my clean face and hair, the walls in front of and on either side of me, all over my desk, the keyboard, the mouse, the speakers, the printer, the post-its, the lava lamp, the CD, the pile on the floor I hadn’t known what to do with, the pictures of my friends and of me and my brother. Juliette Binoche, she was spattered vast; Bjork made it out with only three tiny purple dots. Irony: just two days earlier I had dumped an entire glass of water on this very desk and had taken everything off it for drying. I put the wine in its place and scooped myself a serving of the half-baked and then read a book while sleeping.
Yesterday’s multitudinous dours climbed a skittish mountain, which I hadn’t noticed until they peaked and blotted out their own magic-marker borders. Beyond stalling cars and pesky maladies and fuck-up staff and the heavy task of trying to please, there is comic relief. Windows are open.
Carrying four bags from the previous two days’ whereabouts, and the much anticipated pad thai and wine, I entered the house. I could have slept right then. Much had transpired during the day and the night hadn’t contained enough sleep. But I was hungry and dreadfully needed to wash my hair. So I ate the pad thai. And then I cleaned myself. Poppy-sleepy.
My roommates were in the process of dinner when I went to the kitchen for more ice water...
This morning during my 40-minute drive to work NPR informed me at least 20 times that today would be a very hazy, humid 95 degrees which will feel like 105 degrees. In the Fahrenheit. I have no complaints because most of the places I will find myself will be air-conditioned (this modern day and its two-sided pennies, what happened to nature, man, but christ, all sympathy and empathy to loved ones without air conditioning in this purgatory). It’s been making me very thirsty.
...Upon returning to my room to clip my fingernails, which had been cragging for three days, and to recline, I remembered that I had put the clippers in my pants pocket a couple days ago. I like to clip my fingernails while walking outdoors. More than one person has told me this is "fucking weird". It's what I like, and we must do what we can. I checked all pockets and the clippers were gone. So I returned to the kitchen with my car keys, on a mission—at which my roommates requested a container of Ben & Jerry’s half-baked and some Mandelay. Some day a tube of Mandelay will sit upon our kitchen table like a bouquet of cattails.
At the grocery store, droopy-eyed but with new clippers I stood deliriously peering into the freezer, scanning for half-baked. A little old lady—they seem to be trailing me lately—dropped in quietly next to me and spoke—an infectious and girlish smile blushed across her face: "They’re so much cheaper than usual!" Immediately I pictured her in a tiny old house, multi-colored afghan stretched across an old couch, bong in her hands, giggling while Ed Sullivan re-runs play on the tube. I call-and-responsed her delight even though I didn't know how much the ice cream usually cost.
With new fingernails clippers, half-baked for my roommate, and heck one for me for another time, I returned home. No Mandelay, no bouquet. At last I could sip that wine and recline. I took the corkscrew out of its place and pushed its tip into the cork.
It wasn’t going in, so I pushed harder. And harder. Tried another spot. The cork was mangling into pieces. Finally, though, the screw began twisting in and I pulled down the arms of the device to pull the cork out. A success!?—no, the cork had split in half somehow and the bottom half of the cork was stuck in the neck of the bottle. I took to it like a seasoned mechanic. I went to the kitchen for a thin-blade knife. I would work the cork out. Or I wouldn’t. I went ahead anyway. Then I tried the corkscrew again. No give. I tried the knife, gently easing the blade into the bottom half of the cork. In, in. Pop!—
At this point I pictured myself in two scenes:
1. An episode of Three’s Company, quirky kitchen scene. I guess I’d be Jack, opening a bottle of wine for a date sitting in the living room. She’d fly through the swinging door to the kitchen to see why he was taking so long. He’d, embarrassed, grab the bottle and hide it behind his back, while slumping against the counter.
2. A deep dark drama about an alcoholic who’s run out of money and this cheap bottle of wine was all I could afford. There was no choice but to get that cork out. Vigorous and tantrum-y I would shake and prod until the tincture was down my throat by no matter what means. I would destroy my house and family with this disease.
—Like a boulder from high on a cliff the cork dropped fast and heavy into the wine. Purple splashed in every direction: my clean face and hair, the walls in front of and on either side of me, all over my desk, the keyboard, the mouse, the speakers, the printer, the post-its, the lava lamp, the CD, the pile on the floor I hadn’t known what to do with, the pictures of my friends and of me and my brother. Juliette Binoche, she was spattered vast; Bjork made it out with only three tiny purple dots. Irony: just two days earlier I had dumped an entire glass of water on this very desk and had taken everything off it for drying. I put the wine in its place and scooped myself a serving of the half-baked and then read a book while sleeping.
Yesterday’s multitudinous dours climbed a skittish mountain, which I hadn’t noticed until they peaked and blotted out their own magic-marker borders. Beyond stalling cars and pesky maladies and fuck-up staff and the heavy task of trying to please, there is comic relief. Windows are open.
5 Comments:
Clipping fingernails outside is quite smart. Clipping fingernails in doors only leaves sharp little daggers in the carpet, on the sofa. I applaud your cleanliness.
You were one of the "more than one" who said it was fucking weird. I'm glad you've seen some light. Daggers in the carpet is bad news.
Wine all over everything? Ugh.
I'm sorry but for some reason I find scenario #2, the desperate alcoholic, much more funny than Jack Tripper scenario #1.
I'm ok with clipping fingernails outdoors (though I've yet to try it) but whist walking? That is beyond my scope.
I don't remember saying it was weird. Did this happen at that BBQ you had? I was in a bad place that day and now revoke my orginal stand on the entire fingernail clipping issue.
No, it was in DC. I believe we were waiting for a bus and it was cold. You said, "That's fucking weird."
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