Failed retail therapy

So, here's the story: I drove to Laguna Beach, because I'd never been there before. I stopped at two bookstores, where I chatted with some nice people about books, and then on my way back to my car, I noticed The Sunglass Hut and decided to get new sunglasses. When I went in, the fat guy behind the counter was telling his lone customer, a middle-aged lady, about polarized lenses. At the end of his speech, she said, "Gosh, I'd never even heard of polarized lenses before."

"They're not for everyone."

"Well, I'm going to have to think about whether I need them or not." And she split.

I said, "You're lucky -- I already know I want polarized lenses." I meant it as a little joke, but his cell phone rang just as I said it.

Then I did at least four laps of all the cases while he told someone, "I need the money before Friday! You can transfer it to my account! I gotta have the money!"

He hung up, said, "Sorry," and drummed his fingers on the counter. After a moment or two, he asked, "What are you here for?"

"Sunglasses."

"Do you want plastic frames or wire frames?"

"I'm not sure. But I do know I want polarized."

He then launched into the exact same polarized spiel he told the other lady. I kept trying to tell him I already knew I wanted polarized lenses, but he just talked over me.

Finally, I said, "Cut the spiel. I've heard it already. My last pair were polarized. I like polarized. I am going to buy polarized."

He stared at me. Then he asked again whether I wanted plastic or wire. I said, "My last pair was wire, but there's a chance I might find them again, so I'm thinking I should get plastic this time. I have a small face, though, so wire maybe looks better on me."

"And...the answer is?"

"I'm not sure."

I went from case to case, pointing and asking, "Is that polarized? How about that one?" He answered yes or no so quietly, I almost thought I was just imagining the tension.

Every so often, he'd say, "You know, it'd be a lot easier on me if you'd just tell me whether you want plastic or wire."

"I'm not sure."

Finally, when I asked to see both a plastic and a wire frame at the same time, he yelled: "How am I supposed to help you when you refuse to tell me whether you want plastic or wire??"

We stared at each other a moment, like two animals contemplating mutual destruction. Then I said, "I've changed my mind. I don't want to buy sunglasses today." I started heading out.

"You know what? F--- YOU! F--- YOU!!!!"

I turned around. "Pardon?"

"F--- YOU AND GET OUT OF MY STORE!!"

"This is your store?"

"F--- YOU! GET OUT OF MY STORE!"

I thought, once I explain things, he'll feel bad.

"What did I do?"

"I asked you, do you want plastic or wire frames! You don't answer. I try to tell you about polarized lenses. You call it a spiel! Well, f--- you, bitch! Get out of my store!"

I waited until he paused for air, then said, "You know, today is the anniversary of my mom's death, and I'm a bit distracted. So, I'm sorry I didn't seem sensitive to your spiel."

Maybe if I had come up with another word besides spiel, it would have worked, but my heart was pounding and it was hard to think. Anyway, it just set him off anew. "I'm sorry about your mom, but you were rude to me. I want you out of my store!"

Then...I can't believe I said this, but...I said, "Someday, after your mom dies, if she's not already dead," (I tried to look sympathetic as I said this, thinking maybe he was an orphan and that's why he was so horrible), "maybe you'll remember this and learn to be a bit more polite."

A couple walked in just as I was saying that. I am not really happy I said that.

He screamed, "You come in here, you try and make me guess what you want, plastic or wire, you won't let me tell you what polarized means, and now you're insulting my mom. F--- YOU, C--T!!!!"

The woman shook her head at her husband and they left.

Suddenly, I had an insight: "Are you on drugs?"

He screamed just like that Democratic candidate in the last primaries, who lost the election when he went, "We're going to Ohio, then Nebraska, then Wyoming! AAAHAGAHGAHTEYAAA!" Then he ran out from behind the counter into the backroom, waving his arms. I really thought he was going to come back with a gun or something. So, I left.

What my coworkers said about Steve Irwin

This morning, I overheard a couple of my male coworkers talking about the death of Steve Irwin. One is about 23; the other is in his early thirties. As I came into my office, the 23 year old was saying, "I mean, I'm sorry, but that's why you don't go near wild animals."

The other guy sounded a bit hesitant, as if he were a soft-hearted bouncer at the gates of heaven. (These two coworkers seem to have a good cop/bad cop routine worked out in routing dead celebrities.) "Well, I'm no expert on stingrays..."

"My aunt's neighbor got stung by one. On the foot."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He had to go to the hospital."

"Wow. Was it painful?"

"Hell, yeah. And you know what he said? He said it was his own damn fault."

My 23 year old coworker would forgive any sin, it seems, except for a lapse in judgement. He clings to his good judgement like a devout Catholic clings to her beads. "I can tell you, you won't see me going anywhere near a stingray. Or anything else that wants to kill me."

I couldn't help but wonder why he goes to the vending machine so often; he's gained at least forty pounds in the last year. Except for his Mustang (which he has yet to buy -- he's going to trade in his Acura), he's a man who prides himself on taking no risks. Once when the other guy said he was going to Vegas and suggested he come along, he said, "I don't gamble."

"Why not? It's fun. Vegas is a trip."

"Huh. I really can't understand what people see in it. You're just giving away your money."

"But dude, it's Vegas! You have to try it at least once. You know, a weekend away from the old lady." (The 30-something coworker emphasized 'old lady', as if he were quoting someone else...probably his father, who when he died left his son a slew of old idioms, such as 'it never rains but it pours.')

"No way, man. I'm buying an HD TV. I want something for my money."

Word of the day: apostate

I finally looked up the word 'apostate'. I'll always remember how dumb the nursing assistant looked, when Mom declared that as her religion. (Of course, I didn't know what it meant, either. But then, I knew my mom, so that gave me a clue.)

The woman just stood there, staring first at my mom, and then at her clipboard; I realize now she had to check a box, and she had no idea which one.

"Does that, like, make you Evangelical?" she asked, her pencil poised.

"No, I guess that would make me apostical," Mom said, chuckling.

The nursing assistant finally marked something -- I wonder what? And then asked her her food preferences.

The next morning, Mom had to go to the Intensive Care Unit.

After a few days, a middle-aged woman came by and stared at me significantly through the room's glass wall. She was wearing an old, sack-like dress (I remember the shoulder pads had metastasized forwards). I finally went out and asked her what she wanted.

She said, "I'm the minister on duty this weekend, and I'm told your mother may need to speak with me."

"Who told you that?"

"They give me a list of patients in the ICU before I make my rounds." She waved a piece of paper, like it was an entry ticket.

"I don't think she'd be interested."

"Are you sure? The relationship with God is a very personal one."

"My mother can't speak right now."

She looked at me as if I were a bouncer blocking her entrance into some exclusive nightclub.

"I can offer words of comfort, then."

When you're in the ICU for awhile, things get weird. This woman seemed so confident of her god-given abilities, I almost believed her.

I went in and stood over my mother, while the minister stared at us expectantly. Mom's eyes were closed so tightly, I knew she wasn't asleep. I looked back at the minister, and she nodded.

"Mom, do you want to speak to a minister?"

She opened her eyes instantly and shook her head no. To me, it was deafening.

"I'm sorry. I'll tell her to go away. She just comes and visits everyone. It doesn't mean anything."

I went back out. "No."

"Maybe later?"

"No. I should have told you, my mother's an apostate."

It seems when a straight-out No doesn't work, a weird reply often does. The word seemed to puncture the woman's messianic armour, revealing the baggy panty-hose underneath.

"Well, then. May God bless you." Her thin, colorless lips tightened, as she added an unspoken, "because I certainly can't."

I felt like I was watching a smack-down match between her conceit and her belief. In any case, she grabbed both and marched away.

How not to deal with grief

It was Saturday morning. I was supposed to go to my second grief support group meeting, but it was so depressing the first time I went, I decided to go for a drive instead. I'd never been to San Diego, so that's where I headed. Just as I reached Irvine, though, it started raining. My Miata's plastic rear window was messed up, and the rain started coming in the car; I thought, well, I've never been to Irvine, either, and got off at the next exit.

I ended up at a huge mall. I went into a craft store and bought some poofballs and twisty pipe cleaners for my four year old nephew. When I came back out, the sun was shining.

(I should perhaps mention here that I have ADD, so I get lost a lot. I've gotten lost so many times that it no longer bothers me, unless I wind up in a neighborhood with a lot of pawn shops and gun stores.)

Since it was nice out, I decided to explore Irvine. I took one random turn and then another, hoping to happen upon the city's interesting part. But it seemed that each new street was more boring than the last. I finally wound up on a road full of business parks. There was no one else around. That is, except for the cop behind me. He turned his lights on and I pulled over.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

"Yes, it's my expired sticker, isn't it. But, I have the paperwork here." I reached into my glove compartment and pulled out a wad of papers. I started going through them, looking for the one saying I had paid my registration and just needed my car to pass smog.

"Do you know where you are?" he asked.

"I have no idea." I laughed. "I was hoping maybe you could help me."

"You are in Irvine."

"Well, I knew that."

"Do you know where Irvine is?"

"I have a vague idea." I was still rifling through my papers.

"Do you know what state you're in?"

"Yes." It suddenly hit me that he wasn't being too friendly.

He cleared his throat, and I looked up.

"You still haven't told me what state you're in."

"California."

"That is correct."

I found the paper and handed it to him. "Could you tell me the way back to the 405?"

"Not so fast. When I pulled you over, it wasn't just because of your expired sticker."

"It wasn't?"

"I saw you coming out of the shopping mall. You kept making turns and you wound up here. Can you explain that?"

"I got lost. I always get lost."

"What did you buy in the mall?"

I opened the bag so that he could see the poofballs and pipe cleaners.

"You came to Irvine to buy that?"

"Well, no. I didn't really come here for any reason."

"You realize, don't you, that your behavior is not normal."

"It is for me."

He looked at my license. "It says you live in Marina Del Rey."

"I just moved there a few months ago."

"Yet, now you are in Irvine. What I want to know is, why would someone who lives in Marina Del Rey come to Irvine...for no reason?"

I shrugged.

"Listen, I want you to recite the alphabet without singing. Do you understand?"

I recited the alphabet.

"Do you realize how fast you recited that? That was not normal. Are you on any medication?"

"I'm on Ritalin."

"OK, I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car."

He gestured at two short, Asian cops standing a few yards away. "They're in training. Ignore them." It seemed as if nothing better would suit them, as they were both staring at the ground.

He then had me do a series of drunk driving tests. I was wearing heels, which bothered him. He asked me to take them off, but I refused. He insisted, and I kicked them off. After I successfully passed his ballet tests, he shone a flashlight up my nose.

"Did you know you have a deviated septum?"

"No. Because I don't."

"Yes, you do. I'm trained to spot them. Did you know a deviated septum is a sign of cocaine use?"

For those of you who don't know me, the idea of me doing cocaine is ridiculous. I was so angry, my heart was pounding.

"Look," he said. "I specialize in detecting drug addicts, and I'm afraid you fit all the criteria: you don't know where you are...."

"I was joking!"

"You are on Ritalin...."

"I have ADD. I've been on it for years."

"Well, in my experience, people who take Ritalin take it when they can't get cocaine. And, you live in Marina Del Rey. Yet, now you are in Irvine. For no good reason."

"I was just going for a drive. I like driving."

"No one 'just drives' to Irvine."

"Well, I know that now."

"Finally, you have a deviated septum."

"Look, my mom died a month and a half ago and I'm still a bit stressed out. I thought if I went for a drive, it would make me feel better." I despised myself for mentioning it, but I was really starting to worry I'd wind up in the slammer.

The cop studied me for a moment. Then, he said, "I'm sorry, but I know people who have lost a parent. And do you know that not one of them just out of the blue decided to drive to Irvine."

He grabbed my wrist. "I'm going to take your pulse now, if you don't mind." He looked at his watch, then announced, "Your pulse is really, really fast. Dangerously fast."

"That's because I'm really, really annoyed."

"Look, I don't think it's safe for you to drive with that pulse rate. That pulse rate indicates a bad reaction to drugs. It's no use trying to fool me -- I'm trained to recognize people like you. It'd be better if you just told me when you last took the cocaine."

"I have never done cocaine!"

"I see. Well, I'd like to know how you got that deviated septum, then. I am going to have to ask to search your car. Officer Wong and Officer Chen will take down your information."

While he rummaged through my car, I told the trainees my job and contact information. They seemed so uncomfortable with the situation, it made me feel a bit better. (My Chicago friend, Beth, yelled at me later for letting him search my car: 'Don't you know he could have planted something on you?')

After returning empty-handed, he asked, "Has whatever you've taken worn off enough for you to drive safely? I don't want to be responsible for you getting in an accident and killing an innocent person."

Once more, I said I hadn't taken drugs and that my septum was not deviated.

"For your sake, I hope you're telling the truth." Then he let me go.

Later, I asked my friend who is a hospital intern to look at my septum. She said it's not deviated.

Remember the medlar

Another tidbit from my 2003 diary:

On the flight home, I sat next to a couple of drunken businessmen. I tried to ignore them, but eventually my neighbor lost interest in the flight attendant and leaned over into my space.

"Are you in school?"

I shook my head.

"But you're reading Adam Smith."

"Yes, but I'm not in school."

"Why are you reading it, then?"

"It's a great book."

“Oh, but he oversimplified a lot of things. I mean, that whole organic viewpoint of economics. He was just copying Darwin.” His professorial air only slightly reeked of alcohol.

"But Adam Smith published this around 1776." He didn’t seem to understand the implication, so I continued: “Darwin lived in the 1800s.”

“Oh...you had me there.” It didn't look like he cared much, though. He ordered another drink. Then, referring to the ink on my hand, he asked, "Did you go out last night?" He smiled at what he must've guessed was our common bond. “I stayed out until 4 AM myself."

"No, that's the word, medlar. I wrote it on my hand to remember it, because supposedly, the oil from the medlar nut is so tasty, goats in Morocco climb trees to eat them." It did look more like a smudge than a word, I suppose. (Note: I don't know where I got this word from. I just did a text search on 'Wealth of Nations,' and it didn't turn up.)

Silence. Then I noticed his complexion. On a healthier day, I'm sure he would have taken the medlar on (for it definitely has an organic point of view).

Now I felt like being inquisitive. "Did you make it to work today?"

"Nah, I woke up at 1 PM." He gave a sour laugh. "I slept through my own talk."

"Will that hurt you at work?"

He shrugged with the remnants of bravado left over from last night -- 1/2 hangover, 1/2 resignation.

I read my book in peace the rest of the way home.

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.
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My mom passed away in October of 2004.