The OFFICIAL Unofficial Achewood Message Board
Trivial Pursuits => Wild Card => Topic started by: Asherdan on August 02, 2011, 08:37:31 pm
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(http://i.kinja-img.com/gawker-media/image/upload/s--k5m636Zb--/m5dvkzj95cd6xl0k4nnx.gif)
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Some days, I'm just glad to know that Ash is out there in the world somewhere.
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Oh no, that was the perfect response.
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This reminds me... Did I ever tell you guys the story of the drugged up lady in my doctor's office and a converstation about the cost of my boots? I can't recall and the search function never behaves for me. I'm thinking I didn't because it was during the time I was working in HIV care, when I had no time to breath, never mind post her. I certainly have no memory of typing it out if I did. If I haven't I will, but it's a long one and I don't want to repeat myself. Anyone remember that one?
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Me neither.
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I have no recollection of that story. In a similar vein, I met a certifiably crazy person (http://www.flickr.com/photos/pmcd9/3808237254/) a couple of years ago. I ran into her at the store last week. Update: Still crazy.
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Awesome. I've started writing it out. It's a long one. Will post soon.
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I just gave you a tcodp in anticipation.
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Hey, that's ol' T-Bone Wolk on bass. I remember him from the SNL band.
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The story of the lady and the boots
You ever walk into a room and know that things are not going well? That was what happened to me when my husband and I arrived at our doctor’s waiting room for our annual physicals. We walked in and the tension was palpable. That something was most definitely wrong hung in the air like a wet fart and could be read on the faces of several of the waiting patients. I figured it was the usual problem – our doctor tends to be pretty invested in his patients and would therefor run up to an hour late or even more, which typically turns people cranky. The waiting room of this office is boring as hell – the same posters have hung on the wall for over a decade. There is nothing to do but sit there and baste in your own boredom and cringe over some person hacking up a lung while you wait your turn.
When we entered there were two seats left, side-by-side, which was odd, because there were a few people standing. My husband and I were seated. That’s when it became abundantly evident that the tension in the room had nothing to do with wait times.
In an instant it was clear that the lady seated next to me was fucked up out of her mind. Having spent nearly half a year working with people involved in the sex trade at the HIV clinic I worked at at the time, I recognized her uniform – the skimpy, garish clothes, the make-up that says “sex for sale” without actually being sexy in anyway. There she was. She sat sprawled in the seat next to me, leg in cast, with crutches. The entire room full of other patients was collectively leaning away from her and attempting to ignore her blatant presence. God knows what she had done to isolate herself prior to our arrival. She was sort of weaving in her seat, obviously drugged. In the same moment as I recognized her for being her kind, she saw me for being my kind. The sort of person you could talk to, who would listen without judgement. I think she called me “sweetie” as she offered me a slurred greeting.
In that moment, I recognized that I had two choices: I could ignore her and join the ranks of the uncomfortable people trying to avoid the mess that was this lady, or I could engage her in conversation. I figured, why not make her more comfortable and probably give everyone else something interesting to eavesdrop in on? So I greeted her back, pleasantly, engagingly. I was instantly this lady’s favorite person, and as with all people in her state, I just let her guide the conversation, which quickly turned to her love of “Coast to Cast” with Art Bell and her belief in alien life, the stars, the universe and cosmic forces. As she expunged these beliefs, she sort of talked in this performative way to the whole room, while occasionally, leaning in to me to whisper some “just between you and me” type comments. My husband sat on the other side of me, his typical quit, bemused self. As the conversation progressed, the “just between you and me” asides shifted to her informing me repeatedly of how the newest doctor to join the practice readily gave out Oxy, Zanex, uppers, downers, etc. “All you have to do is ask, honey.” The conversation was a somewhat delightful mish-mash of crazy loopiness, and I sort of glanced around the room and it seemed that most people, including my rather shy husband, were clearly enjoying my knack for keeping this lady talking so delightfully. Everyone had relaxed.
Then she saw my boots.
(Let me take a step away from the story at hand and tell you about my boots. I had wanted these boots for over a year, and I had taken a two hour round trip on the subway in a city I did not live in just to purchase them. They were an absolute splurge, and I will admit freely that I spent more money on them than on any other pair of shoes or article of clothing in my life. I bought them as a gift to myself upon the end of the seven-year odyssey of writing my big play. They are a pair of deep red patent leather boots, sort of Victorian meets modern. They are fabulous. I’ve been told so by a transgender person who was waiting in a food bank line-up, so I know it’s true.)
So this lady sees my boots and exclaims, “oh, look at your boots! Where did you get these boots?” I explain that I got them in Toronto. “Of course, you can’t get boots like that here! (to the lady sitting on the other side of her, who is doing her best to be in the room, but not of the room )“don’t you love those boots? Look at the colour! How much did you pay for these boots?” I reply that I paid “enough” for them. “Well it was worth it. I would pay fifty dollars for these boots! Did you pay fifty dollars for these boots?” No I had paid more than fifty dollars for the boots. “Of course you did, they’re worth more than fifty dollars! Look at these, oh they’re so nice. I would pay a hundred dollars for these boots. Look at them. What colour are they? Is that wine, would you say they’re wine coloured?” I tell her I suppose the are. “They’re the most beautiful boots I’ve ever seen. I would pay two-hundred dollars for those boots. Did you pay two-hundred dollars for the boots?” At this point she is now stroking my boot slightly with her hand. She somehow, awkwardly, slips partially out of her seat, crouching closer to them to get a better look or feel. I am becoming alarmed that things are escalating in some inarticulatable way. No, I had paid more than two-hundred dollars for the boots. “More than two-hundred dollars for the boots! Well look at them, you just can’t find boots like that everyday.” I mumble something about how “sometimes you have to splurge.” The tables have turned and I know that I am now the entertainment for the room and not the other way around. I think of my husband, and the fact I have not even told him how much I paid for the boots. I take a side long glance and he is clearly enjoying this. I realize I just have to end this. “Did you pay four-hundred dollars for these boots?”
“Yes.” So quiet. But every person in that room heard me. There is an astonished pause as everyone digests this inconceivable fact. In that moment, even I can’t believe I spent four-hundred dollars on a pair of boots in that endless moment that hung in the air.
“Four hundred dollars? Four hundred dollars for those boots? I would pay four-hundred dollars for those boots. I don’t have that kind of money, but if I did, I would pay four-hundred dollars for those boots. Those are the nicest boots I’ve ever seen.” She goes on to realize the man beside me must be my husband, and with my pair of four-hundred dollar boots she wants to know what he does for a living, but he explains that I paid for the boots myself. Mercifully, now that the cost of my boots is cleared up, my husband and then myself are each called one after the other into the examination rooms. As I leave, the lady continues to talk to everyone about the boots. The words “four-hundred dollars for boots” is the last thing I hear as I step into the examination room to wait.
The physical goes as usual – my doctor is his normal professional self. I ask him to write out a prescription of my usual medication, but my mind is really out in the waiting room, still rolling over the scene that just played out.
After my exam, with some relief I see that my husband is done and ready to go, and that the lady is no longer there. We make a swift exit, and as soon as we’re out of there I ask my husband if he could hear what the lady was whispering in my ear about the new doctor handing out prescriptions for Oxy and such, but he did not, so we had an extra little chuckle about that. Then we get to the truck, and I realize I forgot to take my own prescription. I hurry back inside and my doctor is standing there with his front desk receptionist talking in the hall just off the waiting room. They both look up at me as I hurry toward them. I explain that I forgot my prescription. My doctor responds “nice boots. I would pay four-hundred dollars for those boots.”
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Post script: shortly after this situation the new doctor left the clinic and there is an article in the local paper about how several doctors in the city have had their licenses suspended for handing out prescriptions for abused substances inappropriately.
Fairly recently (about a year later) I visited the office and there were signs up everywhere about how the doctors will not issue Oxycodone prescriptions at the walk in clinic, so clearly this former doctor’s patients have been a bit of a issue for them. As the receptionist walked me to the examination room, I looked down and noticed she was wearing some nice boots. I said “well this time it looks like you’re the one wearing nice boots.” She laughed so hard I could still hear her as she closed the door and headed back down the hall.
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TL/DR. I'll be back later.
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That was a fantastic and hilarious story. I must now demand to see these "nice boots."
One big thing that I took away from that story is that although you have chosen to walk away from writing as a profession you clearly still have the writing bug and I, for one, am grateful that you choose to share your stories here.
Also, is your play published?
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I can only hope that someday I will own something so fabulous that it will be blessed by a transgender person waiting in a food bank line-up.
On the one hand, that story is 100% complete without illustrations. On the other, I really am curious to see a photo of those boots.
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I'm not sure I want to see a picture of the boots, what if they are not as fabulous as I imagine?
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I want to see the boots so I can lust after them. I am not a shoe lady, but I adore good boots. Mmmmmm, boot porn.
Also, that is one of the best short true stories I have ever read on the internet or elsewhere. You should do something with that, there are magazines that pay good cash for stories like that for their "back page." Flipping hilarious.
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Also, that is one of the best short true stories I have ever read on the internet or elsewhere. You should do something with that, there are magazines that pay good cash for stories like that for their "back page." Flipping hilarious.
I have three jokes under consideration by Readers Digest.
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Yeah, I'm not sure if the boots will live up to expectation either. They are packed away right now in a spot that's hard to get to, so I'm gonna let laziness prevale.
As for Paul's questions about my play getting published... I had an offer for it to be published as I noted elsewhere, but then the people who made the offer never replied to my follow up inquiries. There has been just zero response and I'm losing hope.
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I have three jokes under consideration by Readers Digest.
I sent in one that ends "I'm sure not going to ask for any more fuck*ng potatoes". I never heard back.*
*May not, in fact, be true.
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I want to see the boots so I can lust after them. I am not a shoe lady, but I adore good boots. Mmmmmm, boot porn.
Didn't your Touambie without ##### submission feature boots?
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Yes. Yes it did.
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Got a new cell phone last week. This thing is just impossible to figure out. I got so frustrated I used the F word on the phone with my mother.
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Got a new cell phone last week. This thing is just impossible to figure out. I got so frustrated I used the F word on the phone with my mother.
Mine had kind of a steep learning curve, but I love the hell out of it now. Took about a month.
What kind is it?
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Mine had kind of a steep learning curve, but I love the hell out of it now. Took about a month.
What kind is it?
motorola razr [[snicker]]
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What kind is it?
It's an LG Cosmos.
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Is Carl Sagan somehow involved in your ringtone situation? Because he should be.
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Got a new cell phone last week. This thing is just impossible to figure out. I got so frustrated I used the F word on the phone with my mother.
I have a visceral memory of the first time my mother ever heard me use the word fuck. It has been prominent in my mind since the age of fifteen or so.
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Me too! I was like 25, and some guy got out of his car and approached our vehicle in traffic. My mom and my sister were in front and I was in back. I tried to get out but they kept locking the doors. So I rolled down my window and, well, said some regrettable things. It's never really been acknowledged, but I get the impression they kind of understood. Also, mostly happy that I didn't get out of the car. But yeah, I wince every time I think about it. I never swear in front of my mom.
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I was coming up the stairs into the kitchen after what passes for a bad day at junior high and cursing up a storm with that heady abandon only an adolescent can manage, and them I got to the top of the stairs and realized my mom was there. I was terrified. She never said a word about it.
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I have never dropped and f-bomb in front of my mother. I almost did once, when I was a teenager, but I made the noticeably awkward transition to "Fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff ffffffffrrrreakin'" and she gave me a sidelong glance but didn't call me out on it.
The only times I've ever said any swears of any kind in front of my mom have been minor swears, like "shit" and "piss," and usually only when quoting my paternal grandmother.
My mom's mom never swore, she wouldn't even say the word "sex" out loud. She spelled it. When I was younger, I figured she just didn't want to say it in front of "the kids," but this persisted even after I was married and she was well into her 80s.
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I once told Sister McSweeney, my third grade teacher, that the boys were being mean to me and using swear words. She wanted to know what words, but I said I was too embarassed to say which ones. She said I could whisper them to her. There was no one else in the classroom at the time, but for some reason, whispering felt reasonable. So I have a memory of whispering "fuck" into a nun's ear. Which is awesome. I really liked Sister McSweeney. I wonder if the school (http://www.stccs.ca/images/36100010.jpg) still feels a creepy and semi-haunted as it did when I was a kid.
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I once told Sister McSweeney, my third grade teacher, that the boys were being mean to me and using swear words. She wanted to know what words, but I said I was too embarassed to say which ones. She said I could whisper them to her. There was no one else in the classroom at the time, but for some reason, whispering felt reasonable. So I have a memory of whispering "fuck" into a nun's ear. Which is awesome.
(http://img13.imageshack.us/img13/1333/likeicon.jpg) (http://imageshack.us/photo/my-images/13/likeicon.jpg/)
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So it's common for us, in our household, to jokingly quote that "Fffffuuuuuuuuuu" rage comic guy.
The other night while at dinner in a Thai restaurant, I informed my son that summer vacation was pretty much over. To this he responded, "Fffffffuuuuuuuuuuck". Then he sat there and blinked a couple times, just as surprised as the rest of us that he had left the follow through on it.
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I was cursing in front of my mom at like 7 years old. Different things people worry about, I guess. The only time it was an issue is when I took one of those little fortune teller things kids play with (where you pick a number and they move it then pick a color or whatever- it is like 4 triangles that for one big triangle?) and wrote a bunch of curse words on it and then played with that with girls. They told on my, and the principal took it away. Then I had to have my mom sign it, but I waited until we were at my fake grandmas house to have her sign it. She was pretty pissed, I think mainly cause she volunteered at my school a lot and because I showed her at my "grandmas", both things that embarrassed her. I don't actually curse that much anymore, and never would if I could control it. It kind of just makes you sound stupid.
In Oklahoma, at least with the people I knew, it was pretty common to use gay and retard to describe things that you didn't like. In Colorado I am not really around people like that. My boss says retarded all the time and it really bugs me, actually. I say actually, because, IDK, I don't really picture myself as a dude who gets offended, but maybe I do. I definitely notice it.
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Oh, we weren't like... offended, or hurt... I just think we (including him) were surprised that he said it.
Besides, he's in High School. That's totally the time to work out your "Dirtiest Dudes In Town" ya-yas.
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My mom is horribly offended by foul language. I, on the other hand, use "motherfucker," "fuck*ng hell," and just plain "fuck" so frequently that a couple of weeks ago, when Pedro and I were having a heated discussion*, my six-year-old came down the stairs yelling at both of us, "Mama! Papa! NO FUCKS!"
He has figured out that those are angry words, and he Does Not Like. I guess you gotta respect that, especially coming from a kid who has a hard time attaching any kind of meaning at all to most spoken words.
I felt pretty bad about my potty mouth after that. Hasn't slowed me down much, I suppose, but I'm more careful to leave the room where my kids are before I let fly now.
*We were not arguing with each other, incidentally. We were discussing an problem with his school registration, and we were both very upset with the school system. If you follow me on Facebook, you may remember this. I was livid.
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My boss says retarded all the time and it really bugs me, actually.
Do you call your boss out on this?
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my six-year-old came down the stairs yelling at both of us, "Mama! Papa! NO FUCKS!"
He has figured out that those are angry words, and he Does Not Like. I guess you gotta respect that, especially coming from a kid who has a hard time attaching any kind of meaning at all to most spoken words.
Are you sure he wasn't concerned about getting another baby sister?
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I never used to swear much as a kid, at least not around people, to the point that I remember swearing in front of some of my female friends when I was about 15 and they were surprised because they thought I was a sweet young man.
I've overcome this disability but now I have to go the other way and consciously filter a lot more when I'm changing situation, my friends and I swear like sailors but I was helping out with a science week thing for some middle school kids at the place I'm staying, doing a presentation at the school sort of thing, and on the way home my buddy commented I should watch the language at schools, turns out I dropped a couple of s-bombs without noticing. Not the worst thing in the world but not appropriate to the context I was there under.
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I have to work hard to swear. I probably sound like a high school vice principal trying to be cool. I think the only time I do it naturally is when I hurt myself.
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Do you call your boss out on this?
I did not. I fucked her over way more though, so that was cool. She kinda fucked up my life by telling me I would make basically twice as much as I made. Which is pretty huge when it is like $600-700 (pretty livable) vs. $300-400 (not happening with my addictions-plus the job required $60 in gas every pay period) every two weeks. I... I quit in the absolute worst way possible and was a huge prick to her, it was sick. She said thanks for being responsible as a way of trying to guilt me to finishing the day, I told her your welcome in the nicest way possible and left while she was still yelling at me. I was trying to fuck up just one of her days as much as she fucked up my quality of life.
On the other hand, I only did this cause one of my roommates and easily the best friend I have ever had moved yesterday and I needed to hang with him. He moved to go to school, so I am just hoping we both get successful and then figure out a way to move to the same place. It is probably the biggest motivating factor I have ever had, and really, really sad.