The World Is My Porkchop (Express)

I slowly sauntered towards the bar, enjoying my state of being, enjoying the buttery air stroking my cheeks. Not cold, not hot, simply being. No one else shared the streets with me, street lamps slowly beginning to glow. I almost turned away from the bar, content to enjoy the rare solitary night in the city. As I drew closer, I heard faint notes. As I continued, the notes became louder, clearer, more recognizable. I realized I was smiling, unintentionally, my step quickening. I bopped up the stairs and entered the dimly lit, low ceilinged room. There at the end of the long narrow room were the boys of Porkchop Express. I gently elbowed my way through the Jack Daniels’ infused crowd. I sat down, inches away from the music.

I’ve known them for a while, maybe 3, maybe 4 years. But they’re different people when they’re playing their music. Concentrated bliss. Joy, radiating. And funny. Not that they’re not funny otherwise, but moreso when on stage.

I can’t really say which is my favorite of their songs. Hippy Girlfriend definitely has the catchiest tune, the chorus won’t budge from my head for days after a show:

Oh, I’m in love with my hippy girlfriend

and I just can’t understand

How she can smell like patchouli, and smoke lots of reefer

but still love a redneck boy like me.

But the music of Pancakes is haunting. The verse is melodic, soft, flowing:

Sunday afternoon and I’m sleepin if off.

Too many beers last night my mind’s in a fog.

Gotta fill my stomach with something solid.

Hollered my girl’s name and she got right on it.

Then, with utmost force and a clash of chords:

Bitch better make me pancakes

Make me pancakes.

And it works. The whole bar always sings along. And likes it. Even the women. Go figure.

But perhaps the best is an ode to the woman who bore us all: our mothers.

Momma never taught me my p’s and q’s

Or to wash my hands in the bathroom sink

I never learned how to tie my shoes

But momma she taught me, she taught me to drink.

I left the show with my head full of twangy, catchy country rock lyrics and a smile on my face. Thanks, guys.

What You Want, Baby I Got It

I attended a dinner party in which I was one of very few women surrounded by very handsome, very gay men. I entered the party with a bang, literally, accidentally dropping the bottle of rum and bunches of mint I had brought for mojitos. The eyes that focused on me were soon followed by multitudes of hands, stroking my soft turquoise sweater, the feathers surrounding my neckline, and my breasts. “Oh, honey!” “Girl, will you look at that!” “You go!”

But my favorite comment of the evening, “You are a gay man’s dream. You have boobs and a boa, what more could you ask for?”

Gone

I tend to forget that people are no longer in my life, until I’m confronted with harsh evidence proving otherwise. I can’t remember what the name of that book was that my grandmother used to read to me when I stayed with her during the summer, and I make a note to ask her the next time I talk to her. Staring at the note I realize she died five years ago. I sigh.

When talking to my parents, catching up on what’s what and who’s who in my hometown, I inquire about Jake. “Lori, he died last year. Remember, honey?” I sigh. Oh. That’s right.

While cleaning today, I found a credit card receipt from a dinner not too long ago, signed by a now ex-boyfriend. I remembered that evening and smiled. Then fingered that tangible reminder that he is no longer a part of my life. I sighed.

Charlie Brown Moment

For the first time in many seasons we were not seeded last going into the playoffs. Anything was possible. We would clinch the season with a mighty victory. Go Slingshots! We took the field, short one player. The captain sent me to 3rd base instead of my comfortable position at catcher. I was ready. We were fired up. Lots of talk was flying around the outfield. “Go Slingshots!” “3 up, 3 down!” “Let’s go, defense!”

The first batter sauntered up to the plate. The pitch was thrown. He swung – CRACK! He easily made it to first base. “That’s okay!” “C’mon Slingshots!” “We can do it!”

However, all of our cheering did not prevent this trend from continuing with the next several hitters.

Finally. Our big break. A pop fly was hit. Up, up, up. It was mine. I did what I was supposed to do. I kept my eye on the ball. I watched. I moved. I called it. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” I was under the ball. It landed with a smack in my worn glove. “Yeah! Woo hoo! I’m a player! I’m a player!” Right before I began my little victory dance, the ball magically jumped out of my glove. One bounce, right to the ground. The cheers that had begun mere seconds ago turned to groans.

Good grief, Charlie Brown.

Hotel California

I had to travel to Riverside, California, for business last night.

I met a friend in Dana Point, California, for dinner, about an hour south of Riverside. Somehow we ended up eating at the bar, not by conscious choice, but by convenience. We were highly entertained by the guy in the dragonfly wife beater who continually tried to convince either one of us to join him later for a menage a trois. We declined.

After dinner I approached my hotel, somewhat warily. As I gathered my suitcase from the rental car trunk, I heard someone attempting to throw up, to heave, over the balcony. All the rooms opened onto the breezeway, in my opinion, not a good sign. I approached the lobby. It was locked. I investigated, then found a window. A bullet-proof window, much like those at all night service stations. I rapped lightly on the glass.

A tall, solid, bottled blonde woman (man?) appeared. She glanced at me. “Checking out?” she inquired.

I thought for a moment.

“No. Actually, I’m checking in. To spend the night. To sleep.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Slower than molasses in December she processed my paperwork. “Room 201.”

I entered room 201. I stopped. Not that anything really stood out, but it wasn’t clean. I didn’t feel comfortable taking my shoes off. Maybe it was the jumbo sized whirlpool tub in the corner of the room. Right next to the king size bed. Surrounded by larger than life mirrors. Maybe it was the wallpaper peeling from the corners of the room. In some places, just barely peeling, in others, sheets offering themselves up. Maybe it was the hole in the bathroom wall. The hole where it appeared someone had kicked viciously. This definitely wasn’t the home away from home I was expecting.

As in most cases where I don’t feel comfortable, I decided to go to sleep. Pretend it wasn’t there. I opened my suitcase to hang my clothes. My shirt needed ironing. I went to the closet. I found an ironing board, but no iron.

With great reluctance, I trekked back down to the front desk. Rap a tat-tat.

“Hello….” She appeared once again, her gnarly bare toes clinging to the nubby carpet.

“Sorry to bother you, but I need an iron.”

“It’s in your closet.”

“Well, maybe it should be, but it’s not.”

“hmmmph. Well, I’ll need to go and find you another one.”

“Great. I’m in room 201.”

I went back to the room, wondering, wagering with myself how long this would take. 10 minutes? 15 minutes? 20 minutes? Half an hour?

A mere 10 minutes later she appeared at my door. I opened the door and she shoved an apparatus into my hand. I meekly thanked her then dead bolted the door. I looked down at the item in my hand. Technically, it was an iron. It looked like the iron used to door arts and crafts projects, with unidentifiable junk stuck to it, but it was an iron nonetheless.

I quickly ironed my blouse then proceeded to get ready for bed. Reluctant to take off my shoes, I laid clean towels out on the floor and jumped from towel to towel, like a frog jumping from lilly pad to lilly pad in an algae filled pond. I did sleep through the night, only a few times awoken by strange noises coming from above, beside, below me.

When I checked out in the morning, I noticed something very curious. At midnight last night the parking lot was full. I circled trying to find a place. At 7:00 am the parking lot had 2 cars in it. I should have checked for the hourly rate.

We had a girls’ weekend in Pacific Grove. Emily was competing in the Pacific Grove triathlon (and had her best time ever – you go, girl!) and we were there to cheer her on. An unexpected perk – the athletes, in addition to their participant number, had their age inked on the back of their right calf. After the race, as everyone was congregating in the exhibition area, we strategically placed ourselves near those male athletes whose age began with the digit “3.” Gatorade, anyone?

Creature of Habit

Waiting for my plane at SFO…

She walked up to the gate with a determined look on her face. Well, not to the gate exactly, but to a pay phone situated in a close proximity to the gate. She parked her rolly suitcase next to her, propped up next to the pay phone, took out her cell phone, and made 20 minutes worth of calls, never straying more than a few inches from the phone booth. After her last call, she hung up, left the pay phone, and took a seat in the boarding area. Old habits die hard.

Take Me Out to the Ballgame…

The couple in front of us seemed a mismatch. He, a tall, lanky, covered in red freckles oaf. She, a petite, refined, soft-spoken Vietnamese woman. The entire game, he kept leaning over, breathing heavily in her face, and asking, “Are you sure my breath doesn’t smell like garlic?”

Business Travel…

gives me the perfect opportunity to eavesdrop. I eat dinner alone and while waiting for the food to arrive, I pretend to read a book or a newspaper, all the while indulging in my secret vice.

Overheard in Reno, NV:

he: I’ve traveled to 47 of the 48 states.

she: The 48 continental states?

he: No, the 48 United States.

she: Dude, we have 51 states in the USA….

Was one added while I was out of the country?

Beauty Is in the Eye of the Beholder

Overheard at a party:

“You know, ugly people really have it better. I mean, they’ve been ugly all their lives, so when they get older, it’s not such a shock….”