Phrases I've Taught My Friends

Never pulled off any great cons but I got a whole group of people, spanning family and coworkers (present and past), to call sparkling waters "fizzy waters." And just through natural charisma! 

Or pity. Or boredom. 

My children drink fizzy water at same clip I do. Our house files with rhe slithering hiss of them popping a can right before bed. We will sit in our wood paneled basement with the built in bar and hi fi stereo (Long defunct, set by a guy named Bud, the former owner) and full the air with opening cans. Save it's not shitty dad beer but generic fizzy water. 

Never seen a pineapple fizzy water. That would make my son happy. For fall I once got a set of pumpkin spice fizzy waters. Those really crystallized all the hate fizzy water get save when you "scream peach through a desk fan in other room" you still can maybe get some taste of peach. The PS H20 had all the flavor of snorting pumpkin pie spice without any sweetness. My mom used to put pieces of pumpkin like bay leaves in her beans. Only the green Puerto Rican pumpkin mind you. The quintessential orange pumpkin did not exist there even imported. 

There was also Puerto Rican lettuce, a frilly leafy kind grown hydroponically on the island. That one company had the lock on the market and it became the island lettuce, romaine or a head of Foxy always imported. Puerto Rican lettuce, the old ladies said, would make you drowsy.

I've also fooled people into Mami stories. These are tales of my mother solving problems and being an absolute bonkers person doing so. 

"Do you have any more Mami stories?!" I would get from women too beautiful to be talking to me. Men too interesting to be seem with me. 

One Mami story is more of a repeating moment, sort of a family meme that repeats itself over and over. Sometimes Mami would have the pressure cooker and be frying something on the stove at the same time! She would have a pot of rise going in background also beacuse why not?

To my mother (And to me. All ghoulish jokes aside I will never own one due to the fear. And it being 2023. Mostly fear, however) pressure cookers were death dealers. The Nazgul from Lord of the Rings? A pressure cooker for sure had to be one of those dark riders. 

She would seal the lid and then let it cook while the spindle on top hissed and wheeled. 

"Don't get close!" She would say if you got in even a four foot sight line of it. It tasted fear and sensed movement, a terrifying pastiche of several villians. 

Only scarier thing than a pressure cooker was frying something. Which my mother did quite often. Porkchops (chuletas) or bistec empanado  (breaded fried steak) or tostones, arañitas, or sorrullitos (fried plantains and or corn meal) or, rarely, almohabanas (rice meal cheese buns made with cake flour)....always something frying. 

"Get out!" She would scream as she flung thawed meat and plantains into the amber oil. My mother resued oil until it was the color of Tang. And then it would pop and gurgle and belch grease. "Watch out" she would yell even if I was two rooms away.

But sometimes she would have both going. She would make this culinary version of Scylla and Charybdis and dare us to thread the needle if we wanted a glass of water or get to the backyard. 

"Be careful!" She would then take a sharp suckimg breath like the gasp of air after seeing someone take a stumble "No, don't get close! Go away!" Talk to my mother and you would be safer in the core of Three Mile Island. Stuck 10 feet below the summit of Everest. Anywhere but in that kitchen.

Stickers

When I worked at a school, teachers loved handing put stickers. This doesn't seem too odd to us aging Millenials and Gen Xers. We literally sometimes got gold stars on graded homework. Or, if lucky, a scratch and sniff one with a cartoon marshmallow next to a campfire that says "Hot Stuff" It always smelled chemical like synthetic wave sweetness. 

But these were decent stickers. The vinyl kind that you could slap on the side of a water bottle. 

These came in random huge lots from Amazon. "Can I get these?"they would send me in an email and I never said no*.

But they, upon arrival, would need to ve checked. Like Halloween candy. They often came with random and very not K8 friendly things. These seemed designed by a graphic design AI that watched Porky's five times in a row.

A real wild one was a vintage roller skate with looping text on the side that said "Girls in bikinis on roller skates" 

One was a plate of spaghetti that said "Send noods" in saucy red font like a splatter of marinara.

"Nice melons!" next to an other wise cartoon vinyl still life of a watermelon, honeydew and cantaloupe.

If not thirsty then they could be oddly deflating

"It's ok!" said one that my daughter got. Each letter alternating autumnal colors. 

"It's ok" is what you say when the kitchen messes up your order. Or when you have nothing left to say to console someone. Your wife says that to you after an argument. "There there" must have been too many letters.

"It will get better" said another in neat pink letters hemmed by a chasing comet. 

Why would you want a sticker of that? It has to be ironic like the sign that reads "Another day in paradise" over the nurse's station. Note that "Another day in paradise" is also in the manic sticker bag and yes it has palm trees.

Manic sticker bags also dance right past copyright into "fuck it. It will cost them more to sue us" territory. They are nice unofficial versions of EVERY pokemon. Even lame ones like Feebas. Steve and Alex from Minecraft in every pose with every item and weapon. Axolotls in pink, blue and gold. The Fortnite piñata. Kirby and Kinge DeeDee with carnival hammers. 

Finally there are just the straight up vice ones. All centered on alcohol. Here the stickers are similar looking, but legally still ambiguous enough, to their name brand counterparts. That is as sticker of a bottle of Fireball whiskey. As obvious as they are in the tub at the gas station. Doesn't say Fireball but those swirls kind of look like that cartoon devil. There is also a sticker of a bottle of wine and once the Assistant Principal pulled out a "Yes way Chardonnay" sticker from a bundle.

These manic bags have loose quality control and just goblin mode.

*Some would say I was too nice. Some said I was a sucker for anyone even tangentially cute. What I will say is it was an easy win for an otherwise hard job they had to do. Stickers? Yeah no problem.

The post is full of spiders

There are spiders so large in the space between the shower and the interior wall that they make shuffling sounds. Sounds like a deck of cards being manhandled. When your family really gets into Uno for one weekend or one long power outage and it's that bite of cardboard on cardboard. That is the noise the spiders make.

They peer into my shower and notice everything with their eight eyes. The Sudsy Bear soap that smells like Florida Citrus Grove. And the matching Herbal Essence Rosemry shampoo and conditioner. 

I'll share a secret. I don't use the shampoo. I just use the Suday Bear. The bottles are there in case a lady friend spends the night. Also have one set of fresh towels to never be used in case of that. The bottle of generic 9 in 1 body wash is for bachelor's of the plebian variety.

Another secret? Don't have many lady friends visiting. Just big noisy spiders.

I told my landlord about the spiders. He lives above me in my Lakewood duplex on Hickory Avenue. "They are so big that they need shoes!" 

He dismisses me. "No way. It will be winter soon and they will all die" 

I'm setting the news alert on my phone right now. The terms are "ohio," "spiders," "death" I'll hear one day how big spider kills Doug the landlord. Just strangled him with the hairy wiry legs that each must be size of a pool noodle. The spider won't move into the apartment. It will hard shuffle back into the walls.

I sleep at night under mosquito netting. It'd an interior canopy of gossamer meant to discourage the spiders. I imagine them dropping down from celliling like a Muppet from sixth circle of Hell and push through the fabric. Not enough to break it but enough to push the balled cloth and its wiry brittle knuckle down my throat. I stop snoring and gag to try and throw it off. Stab at it with the Bic pen for my dream journal. When I get up I'm coveted in yellow green ick and the spider curls inward in its dying throws. Got one. I hear shuffling. I swear it sings "Hello my fucking rag time guy" and now there are more.

Hatchet Coming

 Getting up each morning now involves a minimum of three wheezes and an audible groan along with the clickety-clack of some knee. A random ankle. Left or right? It varies. As I end up on the wrong side of middle aged I am still alternating between personalities. My friends have locked into personalities.

The bourbon guy with endless $80-dollar bottles of brown that he will never drink.

The technologista guy talking about crypto and AI.

The vintage gal able to find lovely dresses and kitchenware from the leftovers of the Rust Belt.

The motorcycle guy.

The positive affirmation lady. I cause good things and good things will come to me.

The collector. You pick what but just waiting for the market to turn on XYZ thing. 

I don't have a locked in personality save the anxious guy. The fussy guy. My wife tells me "You seem to only operate when you can worry."

I dabble in all of the above. Maybe not affirmation but I try to get that "heart" reaction on chats with friends and colleagues and always searching for that high. 

Recently, I found myself sharpening my hatchet. Which, considering I own a hatchet and varying small knives rated from everyday to kick ass, along with a sharpening block, that maybe I am a knife guy. A blade master. That sounds bad ass. But, I suck at sharpening. Another fine motor skill lost on my stubby hands. I am able to get big burrs out and I guess they are sharper but I want the immediate bite against my thumb as I feel* the blade and have them slice through the newspaper all the knife gurus have laying about their workspaces.

My hatchet lives in the trunk of my car. Which contains many items I consider "emergency needs" but could also quickly pivot into "enterprising serial killer"***.

There is the hatchet. 

Then the wrecking bar. Not a crow bar as its not hook but a solid shaft of iron painted deep October goldenrod yellow. It has a bladed wedge tip on one end and then a slight curve at the other end. 

Then two sets of jumper cables. A portable tire pump that runs off the car's cigarette lighter** and two pairs of work gloves. There is a roll of paper towels and armor all wipes. A roll of duct tape. A bag of N95 masks and sand paper squares A 50 foot extension cord and then the tool box. In the tool box got the usual stuff plus a headlamp I stole of a low voltage electrician, wire strippers, Sharpies, extra strength sticky squares, electrical tape, utility knives, voltage testers, random screws and a can of WD40. 

In my previous line of work I bounced between sites and it was nice to have tools at the ready. I did find use of all of these in a K-12 EDU setting even the hatchet which the trio of fifth grade boys deemed "awesome." 

To, I guess, my credit, all these items have helped at some point. I did once help jump someone's car in a random lot out on Green Road on east side of Cleveland suburbs. The wrecking bar helped with moving furniture and prepping for bulk pick up day. That is my tool box now. Our normal one buried under boxes yet unpacked from our last move. Its a handy little space in the back of the Honda Civic.

Maybe  I am the problem solver guy. Always worried.

*I wanted a stronger verb here but everything I came up was too suggestive even in context. Caress? Finger? Stroke? 

**I can't call it anything but that even knowing it is not the power port.

***Listing it all out for the post it really is suspicious. I am one pair of women's underwear and pair of heavy rubber gloves from being rolling probable cause. 

A Job

 I don't dream of labor. The ideal job would be writer. But, that ship sailed. I look at the news and realize I am supremely fortunate to have landed where I am professionally. Its ok. Some say good. And it could for sure be worse.

I do want the physicality of moving around. The warehouse job where you actually did something. But, then a chance to just take a break. Stacking pallets? Loading carts up with derelict and leaky UPS batteries? That is a young man's game. I was just helping for a sec. But, I got some important emails to write. 

I don't want to rely on others and chase people down to help. "When will you make it to this client? They called and were upset." "Sorry to chase via email but I need you to sign this agreement!" I don't get hit with the "not my job" very much anymore* but no one has enough time or energy to put out all the fires. Meanwhile I need to stay in my cube.

How nice it is to be emotionally separated from work. It is 5pm and the day is over! Check emails after hours? Who do I look like, the President. But, what do I do know? My therapist will say I was "addicted to chaos" and I pay her to be right. 

These are co-workers. That you like. But, not brothers and sisters like the warehouse job. Not people you are emotionally invested in. That sucks that Deb in Finance is made at me but it is what it is. At the other places? When I was younger? I would be devastated.

I am glad to not give it all my emotions. My love, my anger, and all of my sorrow** But, I want to. Open up and be raw and exposed. To then lash out when it just guts you and leaves you driving back home in silence. No music or nothing. 

*Have worked with custodians who don't clean. Truck drivers who do not back up their trucks. Volunteers who asked to be paid. And school nurses who refuse to take temperatures. 

** G Gundam reference for those in the know. 

Cringe

Today, I spoke for a solid minute into the headset mic asking a question during a group call to then find, I was on mute. And, no one said anything. No friendly "Oh hey, you are on mute. Can you say that again?" Everyone ignored that purple ring around my sullen avatar. 

It made me think of grating horrible and awkward moments. The ones that make you get up at 2:45am and wonder "How did I say that!? How did I survive?" The ones seared into your mind.

Here is one. A true story. My sister is much older than I. By, about a decade. By the time she was out of college and beginning her adult life I was in early high school. One time, she brought down a boyfriend to visit the family on the old island of Puerto Rico. The guy (Real nice guy. Ended up marrying him) wanted to learn Spanish and write down phrases to practice. He asked to go to a drug store and get a notebook. I overheard this and said "Oh, I have one you can use." I ran to my desk and found a tiny spiral bound notebook and scanned the pages. They were all clear. Which, was good as I had one notebook where I would write the most purple prose. Star Wars fan fiction (The Adventures of Kryat Squadron) and then narratives to myself of pretty girls in high school and how they would, of course, adore me. I once noted how Marilyn M wore her volleyball uniform all day (That was allowed if you were on a team) and how that was awesome. How Rachel H dressed up as Supergirl for Halloween and the wind hit her skirt just right sometimes to get a peek at her underwear. Did I tell you this is cringe?

But, this notebook? No, it was clean. I double checked it and gave it to to the guy. As I walked back to my room I heard him say "Is this a love poem?" and then I ran and locked myself in the space. I turned on the window AC and made it blast along with the stereo so that I could pretend to ignore any rings. "Let me see," was last thing I heard my sister say as I ran way to bury myself. Hours later they went to dinner and I snuck into his room* and scanned the notebook and...fuck...there was a poem there. About Irma A and how she was formed from all the elements into this goddess and it had to be dealt with ASAP. I ripped the page to pieces and flushed it in separate waves down the toilet. They never brought it up. Maybe they forgot? Or maybe they were too kind but this is the only record. To be read by the few eyes that see this.

Here is another cringe one. It also involves my sister save we are much younger and in the countryside of the hilly interior of Puerto Rico. I don't remember the town but the scene is something out of Sound of Music save everything is tropical. But yeah the rolling hills and open gullies set by wood framed country homes. We are there because a neighbor of ours (Who was Basque. What an Inception of the historical losers. A Basque guy living in Puerto Rico!) would take us to this big Basque party up there and we just went because it was one of those things your parents dragged you to. My childhood is lots of parties sitting on chairs or in corners trying to find a tv to watch. My sister was there playing with other young girls. She was always more outgoing and she and three other girls (I assume somehow Basque? There could have been maybe one Basque guy and he just had the gift of too many friends) playing Monopoly.

"Can I play?" I asked. They said sure. And I rolled some number and landed on the rail road. "What does that mean?"

"Oh you get on a train and have to leave the game. Thanks for playing" They all said.

And I believed it! Fuck! I just walked away to walk around the grounds and wait until Mami said it was time to go home.

This blog could be cringe but I think it can be too sincere sometimes for it to be too awful.

*My mother being Mami made sure to keep the adults in separate beds as they were not married. But only because "What would his parents think?" And, I don't know. They were not there.