Things my mother said

These excerpts are from my 2002-2004 diary. I was just looking through it, seeing if I could plagiarize myself for the good of this blog, and instead, I got caught up with my parents' rather dark sense of humor:
---------------

We got off the ferry and started walking back to the apartment. Dad was in front. Someone told him to look back at little Billy, and he turned around and promptly backed into a garbage can, almost falling in. It was like slow motion as we grabbed at him to keep him upright. He cut himself quite badly.

As we expressed loud sympathy, he said, "Oh, don't worry. It's just God's way of telling me where I belong."
---------------

I told Mom last night that California is heaven.

She said, "I don't know if I really want to live somewhere like heaven. It'll just remind me that I'm going to be in heaven shortly."

Although I know her sense of humour, I was too shocked to say anything.

"Silent, are you? So you agree?"
---------------

When I asked them where they were moving, Mom said they had bought a little van with a shower, and were just going to hit the road. Dad said they would do a Hitchcock, but go south by southwest. She really had me on the van, until I kept pressing them about the other amenities it provided besides a shower.

I never did find out where they were moving.
---------------

Dad's reading 'A Thread Across the Ocean' about the transatlantic cable. Mom came up and said, "Your father's got a noble face."

I said, "You both look regal. Aristocratic."

"No, I don't, but your dad does. I can see his effigy."

Dad kept on reading throughout this conversation. Mom said, "I keep trying to get a rise out of him, but it doesn't work."
---------------

This one is from when I was living in London:

"G, who discovered penicillin?" I asked.

"Pasteur."

"No, no, the guy had to have been British."

"This is when one needs the Internet."

I said I knew a faster way to get the answer, and called my parents. My dad was out of breath when he answered the phone: "You know that Chinese wall we have. Well, we've been putting together a box for it. It's getting big enough that by the time we finish, it'll be just the right size for a double coffin for your mother and myself."

"Dad!"

He chuckled, and I could hear my mom laughing in the background.

(When I related this to G, he shook his head and said, "Your family has a really black sense of humour.")

"Dad, I actually called with a specific question. Who discovered penicillin?"

"Fleming. In 1928. He was sitting at his desk when the spores floated in through the window and landed on a bacterial culture. He noticed that all the bacteria died, and wrote it up and published. But he didn't do anything about it. Ten years later, at the start of the war, the government got hold of it and that's when penicillin first became available."

I looked smugly at G, as he had called me a loser for not using the Internet. But, I swear, my dad knows everything. And, he has a back-up anecdote for everything. And what he doesn't know, my mom does, though she always doubts herself at the end and will ask him for verification. Dad seemed quite interested that the spore-producing pub still exists.
---------------

Mother called. She's worried about the sale and the moving, and said she had been angry with Dad, but that they had a good talk at Starbucks. She recounted it:

Dad said, "We can move to Niagara-on-the-Lake, you know. I like it there, too."

"But it wouldn't be good for your work."

"I want to be with you."

Mom told me, "That was so sweet of him to say, I about melted."
---------------
And now, part of an email my mother sent me in October of 2001 (I had just moved to London):

Dearest Kellas,
Surprise, I received an e-mail -- from you, which cheered me up considerably. Everything seems to be going well for you. And I am so glad that that is so, since a better person could not be found to enjoy such a condition. A toast to you -- that Kellas should be happy always. I enjoyed your walk along the river, after leaving the tube, and felt I could see it myself and the surroundings. The sunshine would be welcome here -- it's cold with a brisk wind bringing a reminder of winter soon to come.

...

Well, my dearest girl, it's time --
love now and forever, Mother.
---------------
My mom passed away in October of 2004.

I tried out for Big Brother, and I'm not from Las Vegas

I warn you now, we're all going to have to drink heavily to forget the story I'm about to tell you. I mean, admit to.

Drum roll, please....oh, forget it.

I tried out for Big Brother XXXXIV. I don't know why. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Until I saw the people in line. The application asked, "What have you done that you're most ashamed of?" I wrote, "Apply for this job."

An acquaintance who used to work for Fear Factor once said that part of his job was assigning new job titles to the female contestants, who were all Las Vegas prostitutes. Like, they'd become Dancer, or Massage Therapist. I thought, how funny, but it must be an exaggeration. Well, the two women next to me in line were both from Las Vegas. One was a dancer, the other a massage therapist. It's rather an odd feeling, when one suddenly realizes one's competing with whores for a job. Not golden-hearted whores like in "Leaving Las Vegas," or "Dying in Las Vegas," or whatever that Nicholas Cage movie was, but 'Garbled-Psuedo-Japanese-Mantra-Chanting-Won't-Shut-Up- Chain-Smoking-Freak-Whores.'

They asked me how much the job paid, and if it was full-time. "We've only seen it once," they said. I'd never seen it, but somehow, I became a fountain of wisdom for all the people surrounding me. Even the guys were from Las Vegas.

When I finally got to the Price is Right stage and was up in front of the red curtain where they interview you for two minutes, they affixed something that I thought was an electrode to my shirt, but it turned out to be a microphone. Then they asked me my job.

"Itinerant database programmer."

The two interviewers exchanged glances. "What does that mean?"

"Oh, Perl scripting, Mysql, Unix..."

They were silent. Then, "We don't understand what you're talking about."

"Can I have another question, please?"

"Are you competitive?"

"No, not at all."

"What would you dislike most about being in a house full of strangers?"

"Well, I hate melodrama. I'd hate to be sucked into any arguments or anything like that. But I'd bring a book, and just read, if that happened."

Afterwards, I looked up the contestant profile, and realized I didn't fit.

Oh well. You can't imagine how disgusting I felt afterwards. I thought it would be a lark, but if I were Catholic, I would have gone for confession. As it is, it took almost a full week before I could even tell anyone about it.

Hohum...another letter in the FT

When I realized no one was going to respond to my first letter in the Financial Times, I decided to do so myself:

"Sir,

More than one person who read my letter ("Scientist or drop-out? It's no contest...") took from it only that I want to date a scientist. Lest anyone get the idea that I am shallow, I would like to make it clear that I am also hoping for a breakthrough in the Doha trade talks -- any policy leading to a global increase in wealthy, educated single men (scientist or otherwise) is fine by me."

I have a travel story, too

I was in Berlin walking through the Tiergarten park, when I saw what I thought was a fat, nude sun-bather. I had a new camera attachment for my Palm Pilot and wanted to try it out, so I surreptiously snapped a photo (I wasn't yet used to how people in Berlin love to be nude in public). I downloaded the grainy photo onto my computer and sent it to a coworker as a joke...like, look at the photo of the big fat nude guy in the park! Then I happened to look at it more carefully -- it was of two nude men having sex. It was awful...especially as I had a crush on this coworker. Thankfully, he deleted it without looking at it (upon my urgent request). I'm sure he would have wondered why I was sending him a photo of a gay couple going at it.

My first letter to the FT

I apologize for being so excited, as one should never display excitement about one's own achievements (pretending not to be excited only increases the admiration of others, I know), but, well, I'm just too excited. I got a letter published in the Financial Times. Of course, I realize that this will make it clear my achievements have not been great. The last time I was this proud was when I was in 10th grade and won the 'Letter of Peace' contest. But nobody even knew I won that, because my humanities teacher, after promoting the contest for months, tried to squish the news -- he wanted someone who didn't skip class to win. But, I still got to give an emotional reading about my vision for world peace to the DeKalb Elks Club, who promptly implemented it. (And you have all seen the results.)

Ah, Mr. LoCascio, if only you could see me now!

Actually, maybe not. At least not until I wash off my face mask and vacuum up the spider I just killed in my kitchen with "Outdoor RAID".

Because the FT is a pay-site, here is my letter:

"Sir,

I presume that those politicians who see a threat in Asia's growing scientific capabilities ("Do not fear the rise of world-class science in Asia") likewise would feel more secure living next door to an unemployed drop-out, as opposed to a wealthy scientist. I myself would choose the scientist (especially if he were single, but that's beside the point of this email)."

Excuse me. I am now going to press the newsprint to my forehead and find a tattoo parlour.

Vibe control

Last night, a puffy, Steven Seagal look-alike stopped me enroute from the wine table and said his friend really wanted to meet me. He gestured at the short, old man standing next to him, who grinned at me with great verve.

"He's really rich," Seagal said.

"Does that mean he has no other qualities?"

"And he's a lot of fun." Seagal sped off. So I was left there, paired off with my nameless, ancient admirer, who didn't seem inclined to speak.

"So...." I said. He nodded enthusiastically. I couldn't think of a follow-up, though. I was mesmerized by his Chicklet teeth. Perhaps he was grinning only because he couldn't close his lips. The way his hair clumped together in three or four thick, solid strands across his balding head made me think of sea kelp.

"Do you like surfing?"

He shook his head, still grinning. I grinned back at him.

"I'm from New Jersey," he said at last. "I moved here for the weather."

"Aahh.... I've never been to New Jersey." The silence took over again, until Edwin wandered into my reach and I yanked him over.

"Edwin, this is some rich guy."

Edwin shook his hand. "Nice to meet you." Then all three of us were silent, smiling like maniacs at each other.

Finally, I devised a cunning plan. "I have to go to the bathroom. Excuse me." When I returned, I went straight back to the wine table for a refill. Every time I looked over at the old man, he was staring at me, grinning. So as not to be rude, I smiled back.

"So, you two seemed to really hit it off," Edwin said.

"What? Are you kidding?"

"No, you were totally vibing."

"I was not vibing. I was just trying to think of a polite way to leave him."

"Well, it sure looked like you were vibing to me. I mean, you didn't have your arms crossed, like you do now." I uncrossed them immediately. "You were standing at him like this." Edwin posed wide-eyed and open armed, kind of like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. "And you were smiling at him. You looked really happy. I mean, I've never seen you smile so much."