skip to main |
skip to sidebar
A Cold Cup of Tea with a Friend
The travesty of great relationships between men and women, I speak of friendship and nothing more, is that someone will cross the line.
…In the morning, I sat at the breakfast table wearing the same clothes as the night before. Wardrobe barely wrinkled from sleeping on top of her down comforter, not underneath with her. My choice, not hers. A loud, humid whistle filled the kitchen, distracting my thoughts from the fidgety sleepless night. My water was ready, and as it seems, this steamy hiss would serve as her alarm clock. I had 4 minutes, to await her entrance, and to steep the perfect cup of tea. It's just the right amount of time to turn scorching purity into a nice cup of darkened reality, and it was her average travel time from bedroom to kitchen on these mornings. Douse and soak. Douse and soak. Douse and soak. Perfect. As I removed the teabag, she entered the kitchen with sleepy eyes wearing that robe I swore she stole from the set of "Fight Club". I began to stand, to fetch my usual sweetener, but she stepped her fuzzy warm foot behind my chair leg and whispered in my ear, "I'll get it". I was uncomfortable because even though last night was different, I was still trying to keep it the same. She continued her stride to the cabinet that housed the little plastic bear filled with the bee's golden reward. She found it where it always was, next to the powdered sugar I used when cooking her Swedish pancakes. As she made her way back to the table with the bottle, it was already inverted. It hovered slowly over my cup with the top already flipped. Déjà vu of every night I've stayed over. When the abnormally slow motion stream of honey began to fall, her index finger darted into harm's way to catch the initial drop. At first I wondered why, but it was clear when she pulled away and placed it on her tongue. A taste? An innocent taste, so I thought. She maneuvered her finger back to the steady pour, but I was still focused on her tongue. "Say when?" rolled off her lips. Without turning away from her, I tried to respond, but was abruptly shushed with a sticky pointer. Awestruck, I sat paralyzed as she continued to spread it evenly across my bottom lip. She made a second pass and stopped. Mute. I couldn't speak or move, as she began to walk away. With her head slightly turned, I could barely see her lick her finger clean, not to rush the chore. And when she reached the entrance to the kitchen, now the exit, she turned and used the same finger to invite me to follow…
And my tea got cold…
Thank You Easter Blasphemy, Bawk Bawk
As I’ve said before, I'm only agnostic and dyslexic 2 days out of the year; on Christmas and Easter. And for the rest of the 363 days, I'm just not sure if I believe in doG. Now, some people would say that is blasphemous. And I would say the only thing that rhymes with blasphemous, is, kiss my ass. If you want to get all theological (on my ass) I would remind you the words “Theo” and “Logical” are antagonistic, like an oxymoron. And if you don’t know the difference between agnostic and antagonistic, you are an oxy moron. Which is an oxymoron itself (dictionary.com oxy – denoting something sharp). But that's not my point... My point is, I witnessed pure unbridled blasphemy yesterday...
*Flashback to age 6 or 7...
…I could see their yellow buoyancy through the cellophane wrapper as their blank innocent stares balanced in parallel. As I tore the plastic encasement I could almost hear the pseudo chirps begging for mercy and absolution. Bound together by marshmellowy benevolence, I tore a single hatchling from its coop. The first abrasive bite of heaven, coated my teeth and lips with gritty sweetness. At that exact moment, I knew, Peeps were a gift from doG...
*Back to yesterday...
Yesterday I was shopping for Easter candy and my faith was destroyed. Upon the shelf sat, “Sugar-Free Peeps”
doG Help Us!!!
*Postscript – What position are the Yoga Peeps doing in the picture? Oh yeah, Downward Facing doG…
The Lion and the Lisp
Some of the best moments in life are when you can turn to friend and say, “Remember that time when..." and spout off a story with crystalline cognizance. And even more so, the back and forth harmony reliving it as if it happened yesterday with vivid LSD-like perception. And then there are experiences so hazy even the silver lining around the cloud of bong smoke fades faster than the daybreak amnesia. Which brings me to this morning when that simple lisp from someone in the “coffee line” triggers an audio double take beckoning whiplash flashback. Their bitter attempt at enunciating the word “Somebody” reaches back 20 sum years into my subconscious mind but barely touches my chin to my shoulder. I wish I could say I remember that night fully, but I can remember only bits and pieces. So here’s my pathetic attempt to tell a story I can’t even remember, that probably is only funny to me and those in attendance, of a time where my lack of common sense barely trumped my adolescent hormones, and above all the realization that 20 sum years later my decisions just might not have been sound…
So there we were cruising on Broadway, or in laymen’s terms, driving 5-10 mph on the same road back and forth in the hopes of meeting girls. Cruising just sounds cooler. Now here’s where it begins to be unclear. I am pretty sure I was a passenger on this occasion, due to the level of imbibed jagermeister and “air pollution” that muddled this already foggy night. And more evidence to the fact is that I ended up in a limo, and I know I didn’t arrive in one. But we will get back to that. So like a pride of lions on the Serengeti (As in “a group of lions”, not to insinuate that we were “proud” of this night) we pursued the gazelle’s with all our hunting prowess. Our competence and ability proved daunting, or maybe the gazelles were just way to fast on this sultry landscape. Many chases that night ended in a dry mouth of dust (And yes that is also a back reference to the earlier “air pollution” metaphor; I’m just that good). Just as the night was proving to be a failure (Due to lines like “Are you looking for Mr. Right? or Mr. Right now? Because I can be either one), there was promise on the desert horizon. More like an already thinned and feeble herd of gazelles at an oasis (or a bachelorette party in a stretched limo). They all had their fair share of aquatic bliss (or alcohol) which we knew would slow down the chase. As we pursued without haste (and moral ambiguity), one gazelle stuck out as the weakest link with this one sentence, “Thumbody get me a thigarette”. No sweeter slurring words had been spoken, clearly insuring my choice of prey. This gazelle was clearly impaired and the lion in me said pounce. A lunge here, an escape there, a bolt here, a retreat there, until finally cornered (in the limo). Carnal instinct took over and the gazelle finally gave in to her fate. The entire herd assembled and was invited back to our undiscriminating den. To which the night faded into darkness and recollection from this point on would be a mix of speculation and purely random sparks of memory. The next morning when I awoke (to the 4th worst hangover I ever had, and by the way 1st, 2nd, and 3rd are great stories also) all the gazelles had fled, running I’m sure…
All this reminds me of a quote I once herd, oops I mean heard. I’m not sure who authored it, but it goes a little something like this.
“Every morning in Africa, a Gazelle wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning a Lion wakes up. It knows it must outrun the slowest Gazelle or it will starve to death. It doesn't matter whether you are a Lion or a Gazelle... when the sun comes up, you'd better be running.”
Postscript: About half way through the night and about ten “Thumbody get me a thigarette” comments later, I realized it wasn’t the alcohol causing the slur. It was actually a lisp.
