Wait. You're legal right?

Posted in | at 2:50 PM

The catastrophe in my previous scenario was one large enough to make me want to go out get drunk and forget it all. I call Sega, the boy from the party, and have him swing by to escort me for a night on the town. He takes me to a small Ethiopian bar in East Oakland which featured loud reggae blasting through the curtained windows. The bar had seemingly closed for the evening but 2 knocks and a special handshake later, we were on the inside. I follow him towards the back where the kitchen is and he picks up a plate of a juicy hamburger and fries. "Anything to drink?", he asks me. "Vodka and tonic. Thanks". We go to sit down near the deejay in a secluded lounge area. He cuts the food in half for us to share but I politely decline. Moments later after he scarfs down the entire plate alone (he was really hungry), he looks at me. I sip my cocktail and smile coyly. I wasn't really in a talking mood. Not after the death I had just witnessed less than an hour ago. I let him do the talking. I sip my drink. We bob our heads to the music. Finally, he goes to the bar and orders himself a dry gin. "Ever try?" And that's when I become tipsy to the fullest. Not quite drunk, but definitely acting ditsy. I laugh a little too loud at his jokes and lean in closer when he puts his around me. I giggle non-stop. "There's an after-party at the warehouse if you want to stay out longer." Absolutely. It's as we are walking to the car that I realize we have both been drinking. "Wait! We're drunk. You're drunk. We can't drive." "Nooo...you can't. I'm fine." I stop in my tracks. He turns around. Then I spill everything to him about the nightmare on Lakeshore avenue. The car, the woman, the 911 call, everything. I am rambling a mile a minute and I cant stop. I stop to breathe but I cant seem to catch my breathe. Suddenly he interrupts and grabs me by the waist and lifts my chin up to meet his eyes. "Everything will be fine, sweetie". Somehow I knew this was bad news bears, but something about his security and my intoxicated state made me trust him and get into the car. Fortunately, we make it safely to the Warehouse where I find out that we have to sneak him in because he isn't old enough to drink. "You're how old?!", I demand. "20. Ill be 21 in November though." Grreeaat. "You know what? Let's just go get some food and call it a night." So he puts inserts the key in the ignition and we both listen as it coughs and dies. "Umm...can we stay just a little longer?" Needless to say, I spend the evening with the last guy I will probably date in California. At least for awhile.

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A Walk to Remember

Posted in | at 2:23 PM

Its funny, the lessons you can learn at random yet very significant moments in your life. I had no idea that I would be berated with feelings of wrath, pain, and fear, all at once while hurridly walking home from my job at Walgreens late one one evening. In that instant, I went from trying to decide whether to wear the trendy silver flats with rhinestones or the sexy black stilletoes, to whether to call 911 or pray to a God I haven't spoken to in years. Just before deciding on the shoes and switching my thought process on what to do with my hair, I stepped into a cross walk 12 meters away the cracking sound of a woman thrown violently atop the hood of Volkswagen bug and then falling head first onto the pavement. The vehicle slowed down as a crazed driver and hysterical passenger peered down at unmoving body. When the woman flinched, confirming she was not dead, the bug sped screeched sharply and sped away into the night. "Sorry..I'm so sorry", the driver shouted.  My heart pummeled put of my chest. I looked around at the bouncer at the bar nearby and the man pumping his gas at the 76 down the street who may or may not have witnessed the event, but in any case were not reacting. Meanwhile, the woman sits up and steadies herself. "Are you OK", I run up to her not knowing what else to say. She stands up. "I just got hit by a car!" After the ambulance, paramedics, police cars, and fire squad hit the scene, she is frantic, fully alert, and pissed. " Who the fuck do they think they are?! He was clearly drunk..."I was still stunned at it all. Oakland, California has taught me the people can react all sorts of ways in a situation. After giving my witness and wishing the woman a better evening, I wonder home not quite as concerned about the date I planned for the night. I hug my mother and thank the goddess that it wasn't me and that no one lost a life.

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Dude...where's my pod?

Posted in | at 5:15 PM

Now that I have finally the made to agonizing decision to relocate across the country, I had wonderful task of telling my friends and family. The news was followed by an array of comments ranging from "You're going where?" (as if they didn't hear me the first time) to "But its so cold there"(as if I wasn't aware) to my personal favorite... "So what...you just didn't like California anymore?"(as if it were about them). Moving really is a bitch. My family nearly had a meltdown yesterday as I relayed the good news. My friend though I was abandoning her and almost had a panic attack. Even my ex called me up to see if it were really true. I told him yes and elaborated upon all the great opportunities I had lined up for myself. He told me that was wonderful and then added that California just isn't for everyone. To add to my plate, I have a giant storage Pod containing all my belongings and I need to retrieve it somehow. Its quite humorous actually. The fact that the Pod system somehow got one over on me and ended up charging huge amounts of hidden fees and taxes making their services not such a worthwhile investment in the end. I vaguely remember this horror movie happening to me two years ago when I first arrived in San Jose. There is still much to do and people to visit and shifts to cover at my old job. But success comes with a price. Which reminds me...I should probably drop that Chemistry class that I am suppose be in at Northwestern in Minnesota. The one that started 2 hours ago? Yea that one.Now here is the big news. My good friend Ella is also moved to uptown from Ecuador where she taught English to children. She is living in a nice house with another roommate and would like me to be the third chic to fill the vacant spot. But then I would have to forfeit my dream of a quaint studio. The choice is tough. A sorority house with girlfriends, bonfires, and late night gossip or a studio in the heart of everything, where I can have things my way, and as many cute guys in and out as like. It got me thinking...will I ever be ready to live on my own.Will I be able to tolerate myself and my own annoying habits? Or am I more comfortable around other people as they force me to be an adult and responsible?I called Ella to complain to her about my fears, hopes, and dreams. It was then that I realized that she spoke with such a thick Midwestern accent I felt as though I had been sucked into the depths of Fargo. Not that there's anything wrong with that, as Jerry Seinfeld would point out. I just never noticed it before. California after all is the land of neutral accent. Everyone else is talks weird. Before I knew it I had ended the phone conversation with "Ya sure!" and "You betcha!" These swedes would be proud. Now all I need to do is gather some swedish meatballs, Swedish Fish, and whip up a side of isterband.

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Minne-WHO-ta??

Posted in | at 2:36 PM

Its been a gas, life in California. Palm trees. Sunshine. Cultural people wandering in farmers markets. Weekend trips to LA. Frat parties in Berkeley. Too many drinks on my 21st... and my 22nd. And most Thursdays. Of course of all this is enjoyable in a cozy little home with your family. That is until your family decides to move forcing you to find your own cozy little spot. But not to worry. Craigslist has a blessing as well as a curse. In a matter of weeks I discarded the notion of living on my own in the Bay Area with a pharmacy technicians salary. So I swallowed my pride and the roommate search began. I interviewed with a co-op in Berkeley whom advertised a huge bedroom and free meals every night given you cook for a house of 11 at least one every 9 weeks. I figured although my idea of cooking is throwing whatever is in the refrigerator into a skillet and calling it scrambling it into a heap is pretty rudimentary, I'm sure they wouldn't mind. Of course I was the one surprised when I arrived to the mansion and they explained to me that their favorite hobby was savaging for dumpersted food. And how everyone in the house must participate in this "chore". So maybe the granola folk weren't for me after all. Next please. Two college students whom I had interviewed on the phone for at least an hour were excited at the prospect of having me aboard. I wasn't too keen a living with fellas I barely knew but they seemed so clean-cut. Honor society, class president, organizing volunteer events, and running student support groups for their own personal enrichment. I agreed to meet them at the house the three bedroom house in West Oakland. Of course as soon as I entered West Oakland, the scenery changed dramatically like in a movie script. People stared at me with blunts in their mouths, one men carried a brown paper bag and exchanged money with a parked vehicle while one kept watch. Two prostitutes strode down the sidewalk waiting for the next customer. The liquor store on the corner was surrounded by a group of people throwing dice and cash on the pavement. And then there was the house. I immediately turned around and called the students to explain that I was very sorry but my mother is sick and needs to be taken to the hospital. So after careful consideration and weighing all my options, I agreed to room with a young woman who lived by the lake. I was instantly attracted to cute apartment and her roommate, who would be moving out. The roommate offered me the room and I began buying furniture to load up in my new space and telling everyone the good news while corresponding via email to my new roommate Nancy, whom I had not yet met. It was during one of these exchanges a few weeks later that she dropped the bomb that while she has enjoyed our emails she has chosen someone more suited to her aesthetics. This really stung since I was already living in an empty condo where my family had left me to my own devices. So I decided to pack up and drag myself to go visit my father in the Twin Cities. He was really supportive about my change of circumstance and offered to let me stay in his home while I sort things out. In fact, up until the first 24 hours I was considering his offer when in fact my worst fear came true. He began treating me like a child. And not just any child.  A child with an IQ level indicating a borderline deficiency in intelligence. Great guy though, really. But kicks one day I decided to check out the housing market on Minnesota Craigslist. My jaw nearly dropped to the ground as a read posts featuring large studios and one bedrooms not located in the ghetto and not costing a kidney transplant. So I offered to drop old pops off at work the next morning as I scouted the Calhoun area for gold on the form of a home. Then I applied to local pharmacy, who not only considered me, but offered me a job. Then I drove to Bloomington and applied to Northwestern Health Sciences University and they enrolled me in classes starting the following week. I was enamoured as well as angry. Why can I do so easily in the Midwest what I've been trying to do on the West Coast for months. It would be stupid to turn down such great opportunities. And what do the words approved, accepted, and hired spell? AAH...

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Is it a Table or a Bed?

Posted in | at 9:29 AM

Its been awhile since I've last been to a doctor clinic for a visit. It was probably at a pediatrician, in fact. So I guess I may have forgotten how things run around the place. For example, when my name is called from the waiting room, the first thing I am told to do is stand on the scale. My numbers then flash before my eyes mocking me as the nurse jots down the data. I am then led into the office where I am asked to sit on the table with the giant toilet paper looking cover. The nurse proceeds attach various things to me in order to obtain my blood pressure, temperature, and heart rate. All standard procedure, I suppose. What kills me is the next question. "First date of your last period?", she asks me without looking up. I never know the answer to this one. Why on earth would any woman choose to remember anyways? It can be a very traumatic time of the month. "Hmm...I can't seem to recall. But how about the last date of my first period?", I offered in replacement. "Oh, no thank you, dear. The doctor will be with your shortly."

After 25 minutes, still had not arrived shortly. I was due at work in about an hour or so and I called to let them know I would be late. The manager didn't seem to mind. He just cared about a healthy employee so I live up to my full potential on the job. I am thus amazed at a doctors power to stop time in its tracks. There I was sitting on the table in some kind of limbo where I was not being treated and not in the outside world, waiting for Dr. Fisher. For all I know, she could have been helping other patients in need, out shopping for a new dress, attending her son's bar mitzvah, or or pondering over a menu at the new French Bistro. I considering giving her a ring to place an order for myself if she was in fact grabbing lunch. I too was hungry afterall. Instead, I made a mental note to go to medical school. I want to be on charge of all time, also. Just think of the hundreds or thousands of patients sitting on tables, waiting or their doctors to arrive. They have no fear of being late for anything because check-ups are crucial and you absolutely must wait for them. And while my patients are happily waiting, I, as a doctor, can pick up my dry cleaning or catch a matinee.

I contiuned to wait for the doctor as I pulled oumy ipod to listen to some tunes. Then I laid back and closed my eyes. Finally, I got up to cut the lights before returning to my bed, er table.  I heard a light tapping on the door as it was opened. "Jorie?", Dr. Fisher asked. I sat upright when the lights flickered on calling me nack to reality. "Well, it's nice to see you're making yourself at home", she says. Nice joke. But then she gets down to business. I painlessly listen to her discussion of my medical records and medications and why its all relevant to me. Why wouldn't it be? Yet, halfway through the seminar I have a burnig itch to remove myself from the table. I was beginning to feel like a speciman. It should at least be called a bed, not a table. The word alone promotes a certain comfort and familarity. I'm not asking for 200 thread count or anything of that nature. Just a little incentive to come back here. At the very least, we can surely find some replacement for the toilet paper covering, I think. Maybe Charmin or Angel Soft would do the trick. "Any questions?", I am asked.
"Not at all.",\I responded jumping gleefully off the petri dish table.
"See you soon, then."
And then she is off to save another citizen from the world of time and deadlines. I, on the other hand decided to lay back down and relax on my table. After all, I do need to be healthy.

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The Top Clock Hat

Posted in | at 9:45 PM

Back in 9th grade I was assigned a project in which I had to invent something useful. I could not for the life of me come up with an invention. Eventually I just partnered with someone else and mooched off of their ideas. I wish I had that opportunity again because I could probably make millions now. The idea came to me in my Freshman English class this morning. Mr. Goldstein had during our previous class made a big deal about not giving us breaks during the two hour lecture because it takes away valuable learning time. He did point out, however, that as compensation we would end lecture 10 minutes early. Since Goldstein happens to suffer longwindedness, I just know I can't be the only person staring at the clock as it passes the marker for the end of class. I vaguely remember him rambling about the grammatical errors or something from our assignments as I wonder what time the next bus will arrive. After four more long minutes, it hits me! He has no clue what time it is. I slyly glance over my shoulder and scan the back of the room where the professor is facing. Sure enough, no clock. Not even a shadow from the sun to announce that the hour is done. It all makes sense now.The professor is trapped in a time warp of lecture and cannot escape. And how could he with no indication of real world time anywhere in his line of vision? As the his teaching continues, I have the flashback to my high school project. I would invent a Time Top Hat. It would be a tall top hat like gentlemen used to wear back in the day. To use it I would front and center in any lecture hall containing a time challenged professor. The front of the hat would have a huge digital clock in the red numbers. Five minutes before the end of class, the numbers will become gradually brighter. The minute class in scheduled to cease, the hat will turn complete neon red, a fat lady will sing, and confetti and streamers will explode from the interior. Now if I could only find my 9th grade teacher...

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