Random Things

I’m going to totally pussy-out of writing “Relationships: part 5” this week. I started two nights ago and couldn’t get my thoughts to connect properly. Then, last night, I realized I was suffering from exhaustion, so I went promptly to bed as soon as I got home. Tonight my car broke down, so I am pretty much at a loss for writing about anything that’s not silly or random. What a fucking week!

A Thought To Ponder

I was thinking about people in terms of growth and transformation the other day and how a person can be static like a piece of furniture, or fluid. A static thing can sit and be lovely and useful in one place – like a coffee table, for instance – but over time, because it doesn’t move or adapt to its surroundings, and because life causes change whether we like it or not, it just slowly gets chipped away. Its color fades and the marks appear. The same old piece of furniture with an altered appearance. A fluid person who does change and doesn’t sit in one place, instead of just getting chipped away at, takes new experiences and uses them to transform into a completely different presence altogether. It was a nice thought. That we are capable of transformation and not just being static, slowly worn objects. And then I realized I was comparing a person to a coffee table and thought, “That’s just fucking stupid.”

Silly Gringa!

Doug and I went to Home Depot one Saturday to get light bulbs and also to get me a big, mean, nasty hot dog. It was a pretty day, too, so we parked the (now broken) car and skipped (walked) to the concession stand.

It used to be that the concession stand was a tiny rolling number, but the box they have out in front of the Home Depot off of Sunset now is much bigger. Maybe they get so much business now that they need space for two or three cooks. Well, good for them! As long as I can still get a big, mean, nasty hot dog.

A staunch woman stood outside of the little eatery with her arms folded against her chest, a frown in my direction and said, “You want something?” I said, “Yes, I do! Do you have the hot Polish hot dogs?” Since it was, technically, a new establishment, I thought it might be better to make sure, first. She pointed to the menu, “We got that.” “Oh,” I said, not seeing anything about hot Polish hot dogs or another other kind of hot dog, for that matter, on the surprisingly small menu. I said, “Well, you have hot dogs, right? I don’t see it.” She said, “Yeah, we got hot dogs,” and yelled my order to the cook. I started to tell her what I wanted on it and she pointed to a nearby table with condiments. I said, “I don’t see jalapaños on the table,” and she yelled for the cook to add jalapeños to my dog. I paid and said, “Graçias,” and walked away thinking, ‘Wow. This must be a five star joint because she is rude!’ but I didn’t actually mind. I expect to be treated rudely by Hispanic women. I expect to be treated rudely by Caucasian women, and Armenian women, and Jewish women, and Italian women, for that matter.

Finally, the time came to eat my spicy hot dog. I accepted it from the cook’s hands and took it to the condiment table where I doused it with hot sauce. But upon closer inspection I decided it really didn’t have enough jalapeños on it. When you loooove jalapeños, a mere scattering is a measly amount, so I braved my way to the window and beamed at the cook and said in the nicest and most polite way, “Can you please give me more jalapeños? I really love jalapeños!” He just looked at me for a second and then shook his head, ‘Yes.’

I waited. And I waited. I waited some more. I got nervous. I said to Doug, “That dog sure is taking a long time. I hope he’s not shitting in it just because I like jalapeños.” Doug shrugged, which didn’t make me feel any better.

I walked up to the window and looked in. The other cook, a woman, was staring down at what he was doing, intently. Then she looked over at me, then back at what he was doing. I wasn’t too nervous, really, because I hadn’t been rude to anyone. Somehow I knew it wasn’t something I couldn’t handle, but I was filled with some trepidation because I couldn’t figure for the life of me what he was doing. Finally, he turned around and gave me back my dog. I looked at it. ‘Oh,’ I thought, then looked up and said, “Graçias,” politely.

There are dark green jalapeños that are pickled and sometimes they are hot, but they’re not the hottest kind of peppers. Truth is, there are many different kinds of peppers and I know from experience that some of the lighter green peppers are much hotter than the dark green peppers. What’s more is that the seeds really pack the biggest punch in the ‘spicy’ department. Basically, if you can’t handle spicy things, what this guy gave me would melt your face.

My dog was covered, I mean covered in light peppers and seeds on top of the standard dark green jalapeños he had originally put on it. I’ve never seen so many seeds on a hot dog before. He sprinkled them carefully all over. I hid my delight, because I instantly understood what was happening. He wanted to get a laugh at my expense. He was thinking, “Oh yeah, gringa [Spanish for ‘white girl’]? You want spicy? I’ll give you spicy!” I sat down with my dog, then got up again, deciding to douse it with more hot sauce, then sat down again. I bit into it. Oh… it was… divine! It was so good!! Halfway through the dog I started laughing. Doug stared at me, “What?” I snorted, “He thought he was going to kill my taste buds with these peppers and seeds! He thought he was fucking with me.” I explained what I was talking about and kept laughing. Then I looked over. The guy was standing off to the side with his arms folded in front of his chest, looking at me with the same dark scowl I’d been met with by the woman who took my order! Without being obvious I hissed at Doug, “He’s watching us!” Then we got up and and collected our things to go into Home Depot. We had to walk past him so I made eye contact and smiled. He continued to scowl. Then I said to Doug, loud enough to be heard by the Menacing Jalapeño Bandit, “Best fucking hot dog I’ve ever had!” Then as an afterthought, “Could’ve been hotter, though.”

A Poem To My Car

That sweet summer,

When romance bloomed,

I squeezed your wheel,

You purred and vroomed.

We fled together,

‘Cross miles of road,

In your sexy-ass trunk,

My treasure – stowed.

But now you’re cold,

You run not oft,

I stroked your engine,

You spat and coughed.

What did I do?

Did I push too hard?

Did I dent your affection?

Is your chassis scarred?

You broke my heart,

Our love, unhitched.

I replaced every part,

You owe me bitch!

🙂 Happy Weekend, Everyone!!