I'm on the phone with an airline, trying to book a flight to Geneva for Neo. The trip is for an undisclosed presentation he is hoping, but is not required, to attend. To entertain myself, I baselessly assume it's for an intensive Swiss S&M conference.
The unintelligible agent on the line asks me to spell out Neo's reservation code.
"G-E-X-W-X-V."
Agent repeats, "G-E-X-W-X-B."
"No, no. G as in..." The first word I think of is Gandalf, but I'm not sure if Lord of the Rings is big in India.
"G as in good, E as in egg, X as in Xylophone, W as in What, X as in Xylophone again, and V as in... uh..."
My mind is blank, except for one V word that I dare not use. I make eye contact with the boy-next-cubicle Blandon, and he has a smirk on his face. He knows, by the way I am stammering, that I can only think of one blaring word:
Vagina.
Vagina? Really? This is the only word I can think of right now? I'm sure there's a Freudian explanation for this.
I'm still stammering. I look around my cubicle for anything that might start with a V. Phone, book, thumbtack... crap! Nothing.
I hear Lenny Bambino snickering in the corner, and although this is admittedly hilarious, as far as I'm concerned he's not allowed to laugh at me.
And that's when, through my hatred of Lenny, I'm saved.
"V as in Vexation."
Thank you, Lenny, for being an endless source of literary inspiration.
13 October 2010
12 October 2010
The Best and the Worst of Columbus Day Weekend
I had the best Columbus Day Weekend ever.
Friday night, I had a friend anniversary date with Mikki at Radio City Music Hall—a showing of The Two Towers, with a live orchestral and choral performance of the score. We ogled Aragorn, Faramir, and the beautiful concert harp.
Saturday, I bought a 22-string harp from a guy named Tim Taylor. He bought me a glass of whiskey and asked me if I could teach his son to play piano. Sorry Tim Taylor, I don’t think I can improvise piano-teaching skills the way I’ve been improvising everything else in my life as of late: teaching English, being an nude art model, working for an advertising company, fitting clients for expensive and non-refundable clothing... and now, playing the harp. I don’t know how to play the harp.
Sunday night was my second shift at Funfetti Café. Instead of ladling a serving of creamy tomato soup into a bowl for some of my customers, I had mistakenly ladled them a serving of chunky marinara sauce. We all laughed and I made lots of money. Which is good because I just spent $500 on a harp I don’t know how to play.
Monday, my weekend still wasn’t over. I played hooky from Badvertiser, and instead went to an apple orchard upstate with Mikki and friends, where we drank champagne and wine, ate cheese, smoked various legal and illegal things, took self-timer photos, rode on the backs of random golf carts—basically ended up doing everything one can imagine doing at an apple orchard, except for picking apples.
In the meantime, in the real world, Badvertiser was suffering my absence. Really, they needed me. Someone on Friday night had locked the office out of the well-ventilated/poop-friendly bathroom, and they needed me to give them the spare key (little do they know, I leave my jangly janitorial keychain in my desk drawer at work). That bathroom was out of commission for the rest of Friday, throughout the weekend, and for all of Monday.
Someone might have been able to acquire a spare key from Kozi, the girl next door who hates Badvertiser more than I do, but her office was closed for the holiday.
Monday was not a holiday for Badvertiser. Badvertiser had the worst Columbus Day Weekend ever.
Friday night, I had a friend anniversary date with Mikki at Radio City Music Hall—a showing of The Two Towers, with a live orchestral and choral performance of the score. We ogled Aragorn, Faramir, and the beautiful concert harp.
Saturday, I bought a 22-string harp from a guy named Tim Taylor. He bought me a glass of whiskey and asked me if I could teach his son to play piano. Sorry Tim Taylor, I don’t think I can improvise piano-teaching skills the way I’ve been improvising everything else in my life as of late: teaching English, being an nude art model, working for an advertising company, fitting clients for expensive and non-refundable clothing... and now, playing the harp. I don’t know how to play the harp.
Sunday night was my second shift at Funfetti Café. Instead of ladling a serving of creamy tomato soup into a bowl for some of my customers, I had mistakenly ladled them a serving of chunky marinara sauce. We all laughed and I made lots of money. Which is good because I just spent $500 on a harp I don’t know how to play.
Monday, my weekend still wasn’t over. I played hooky from Badvertiser, and instead went to an apple orchard upstate with Mikki and friends, where we drank champagne and wine, ate cheese, smoked various legal and illegal things, took self-timer photos, rode on the backs of random golf carts—basically ended up doing everything one can imagine doing at an apple orchard, except for picking apples.
In the meantime, in the real world, Badvertiser was suffering my absence. Really, they needed me. Someone on Friday night had locked the office out of the well-ventilated/poop-friendly bathroom, and they needed me to give them the spare key (little do they know, I leave my jangly janitorial keychain in my desk drawer at work). That bathroom was out of commission for the rest of Friday, throughout the weekend, and for all of Monday.
Someone might have been able to acquire a spare key from Kozi, the girl next door who hates Badvertiser more than I do, but her office was closed for the holiday.
Monday was not a holiday for Badvertiser. Badvertiser had the worst Columbus Day Weekend ever.
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