Send them all to Africa -

Again, from the Parfait Files:

Yesterday, as I convinced my thigh muscles to pleaselordpleasepushthatgiantstackofweightsupandawayfrommybody, Parfait was in an inquisitive mood.

Parfait: "Mademoiselle, I bet you read those magazines about all of the crazy people, like 'Oh, what is he wearing?' and 'What is she doing'...?"

Moi: "Um, are you talking about celebrity magazines?"

P: "Oh, yes, Mademoiselle. They are all about Britney Spears and Brad Pitt."

Moi: (struggling to prevent a large quantity of weight from tumbling backward into my fragile knees and crushing my lower extremities) "Um..."

P: "You know what I think they need to do with Britney Spears?"

Moi: (Setting lock on weight machine as to prevent the aforementioned leg-smashing from happening, knowing that this will be a good one) "No...what?"

P: "I think that she should go to my country."

Moi: (delighted that my prophecy has come true) "You want them to ship Britney Spears to Cameroon? What would she do there?"

P: "Oh, Mademoiselle - she would find peace. Britney Spears could have peace in my land."

I dissolve into laughter.

End scene.

Swing, batta, batta...

From the Parfait Files...

On Friday, I lugged my tired, germ-ridden body to the gym for the first session in several weeks with the one and only Cameroonian trainer, Parfait.

While exhorting me to pump it up during a particular exercise, Parfait inquired as to whether or not I liked playing any sports besides soccer. I do, and I told him as much. I then added that one sport that I've never, ever, ever been good at is baseball (substitute softball, if you will) - I just lack the stick-ball coordination necessary to even corner first.

To this, Parfait had an immediate response:

"Oh, mademoiselle, I must be slow or maybe retarded because I cannot understand why American men like to take that little stick and hit that ball. I just do not understand."

[Enter signature high-pitched laugh]

I did what anyone would have done in that situation--I dropped my weights and laughed my ass right off.

munching

Overheard in L.A., whilst eating brunch:

(Scene: Two butchy lesbians seated to my left at a Carribbean café, discussing lesbian sex in VIVID DETAIL, then diverting to a discussion of their mutual circle of friends...)

BL 1: So, my friends all came up with nicknames....like Shayna is Sheniqua and Laura is Lakisha...

BL 2: Well, what is YOUR nickname?

BL 1: (Appearing confused) Um, I don't HAVE a black nickname...because I'm BLACK.

BL 2: (silence) Oh. Right.

Cruisin'

Rejoice, women of the world, for I have found the best place to meet men:

Venice Blvd. between Robertson and National, I swear.

It is in this glorious stretch of semi-abandoned wonderland that I have been flagged down not once, but twice by nubile young male motorists.

Today it began with a technique I refer to as The Parallel Drive...the car on your side (most usually the passenger side, which makes this maneuver all the more special), suddenly slows down and starts driving as if magnetically attached to your vehicular forcefield.

After this slick move came the come-hither hand motions; I glanced once, to be sure I wasn't hallucinating a hawk or something fluttering outside my passenger window (it had been a long day), and then again, locking eyes with a dude sporting a serious fade and driving the auto world chick magnet, an Aztek.

This is where it gets tricky, my friends. I was about to dive into a road rage-reducing book on CD, when I realized that I actually had to roll my window down and find out why Kid n Play was wildly gesturing in my direction -

You see, the last time a gentleman flagged me down on that particular stretch of Venice Blvd, it was to tell me that my right front hubcap had flown off somewhere near Overland and bounced off some guy's rims before boucing off some other guy's bumper.

Concerned Motorist: M'am, you should probably go back and get that.
Unconcerned Motorist: (Crawling in rush hour traffic) Yeah, sure. Thanks. (Sacrificing wayward hubcap to the gods of the roadway in order to avoid slowing my drivetime commute)

So I couldn't risk not knowing whether or not my car was once again producing projectiles.

Vaguely Concerned Motorist: (Keenly aware that it is impossible to keep one eye in front and one looking at homeboy) Yes?
Aztek Warrior: I'm sorry to bother you, m'am. (Always with the "m'am") You are just so beautiful.
VCM: Wha...? (Stopping at red light)
Aztek Warrior: (Joining me at red light) I mean, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a question...
VCM: (Driving rapidly through green light)
Aztek Warrior: ( Engaging in The Parallel Drive) You're just so beautiful - can I take you out for a fine lunch or dinner sometime? Or maybe invite you to one of my concerts?"
VCM: (Putting book on CD into player, rolling up window)
Aztek Warrior: Wait...wait....girl, you'd get to come backstage, I promise...

The left lane. Hot new pickup spot. Just make sure you have automatic windows, or else you're screwed.

Thome pretty good pathta

Today began with yesterday.

And an ill-fated piece of chicken.

I sat in a borrowed chair at my own dining room table, supping with a fine selection of Katy's ex-roommates and such, when I speared a ricotta-smeared cut of chicken. I registered the fresh basil, the tomato, something herb-y, and then pain.

Oh, the pain.

A sharp, horrid pain that shot right down the right side of my tongue, where I'd mashed it between my ravenous molars. I shot a panicked look at Jonathan, to my right. I said, "I think I may pass out." I saw quick flashes of bright light. Jonathan looked confused.

Then I just looked straight ahead, focusing hard on my tongue, trying to will the pain away. Meditating on that hunk of pink flesh and muscle, half-panicked that I gnawed a chunk of it off, effectively cannibalizing myself.

Then I ate some decadent, silky chocolate mousse pie, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do when you chaw half your tongue off? Chocolate is the food pyramid's equivalent of Vicodin, I am sure of it.

I woke up this morning instantly aware of my tongue, of my saliva sort of pooling around it. I am a serial teeth-gnasher at night and I did myself no favors during my slumber. The entire right side was sort of...well...scalloped. I stared at myself in the mirror. My tongue was deformed.

And it hurt like hell.

I went to work, conscious of my mangled tongue every long minute of the drive. When David arrived at the office, I felt compelled to explain what happened:

Me: "If I thound funny, it'th becauthe I bit my tongue latht night."
David: "Wow, what were you eating?"
Me: "Thome pretty good pathta."
David: "Well, that's all that matters, then."

Yeah, I gave myself a temporary speech impediment.

After slurring myself through our Monday staff meeting, I went to Costco for an eye exam. While I filled out the paperwork, I noticed a vaguely elderly gentleman with a sort of neo-jheri curl staring at me. Once caught, he blurted out:

"I am so sorry, but you are really beautiful."

Me: (Checking "No" next to Glaucoma) "Um, thank you."
Neo-Jheri Man: And you have really nice skin. Just great skin."
Me: (Checking "No" next to Cataracts) "Thath's really nithe of you. Um, thankths."
N-J Man: "I don't mean to be rude, but are you a model? You look like you could be a European model. You just have grrreat skin!"
Me: (Checking "No" next to Old Guy Hitting On Me) "Uh, no."

I made it through the appointment unscathed and presented my Amex to pay, but alas, it was not allowed.

"You take Vitha?"

Yeah, they took Vitha.

Except for my card was declined...twice. I called the company and they explained that I reported my card lost or stolen....in early August. Which I never did. Because it was right there in my wallet, accounted for. My Vitha, nestled in its little pocket.

After twenty minutes of my spitting out of the right side of my mouth and hassling the call center lady, I convinced her to at least accept the transaction for the sake of my continued sight, especially since one sense was already impaired. Then I was home free.

My last errand of the workday was a trip to mail out approximately 11 large boxes. I stood in line next to a bouncy girl dressed in the color wheel equivalent of Pepto Bismol and a decidedly hairy dude in a festive mix of tie-dye and paisley. And sandals. With socks.

While I stood behind my tower o'boxes, the two of them forged an inexplicable bond and the girl began yammering about Burning Man:

Pinky: "Oh my god! So you've been to Burning Man, too! So you get it! It's all about love and peace and we're out there in the desert just building our own utopia, and when we're in that dome, with the rainbow ribbons flying around, spinning and holding fire, that is what society is supposed to be like. You know? Yeah, exactly. And I just think that people have the wrong view of us, like we're some sort of cult, like a gang or something just out there in the desert. They don't understand our true spirit. It's not like we're all camped out there in these little groups, like, planning bad things to do to people."

Clashing Patterns Man: "So, well, uh, I'll see you there next year..."

Pinky: "Oh, yeah, well, look for our group. We all dress the same--all pink!--and kind of have our own secluded area that we camp in; we're called the Pink Ladies."

CPM: "Oh."

Two Things That Brightened My Friday Even Further Than I'd Imagined

1) When I was listening to the radio and a guest on the show was making up his very own version of The Kinks' "Lola" and rhymed "LaVar Burton" with "Beef Curtain."

2) When I was doing some sort of sadomasochistic thing at the gym (wherein Parfait instructed me to pull the weight of 10 oxen whilst squatting at an uncomfortable 40 degree angle whilst thrusting my chest out like a tranny with overfilled implants), and said instructor suddenly initiated the following conversation:

Parfait: Mademoiselle, do you have any brothers or sisters?

Mademoiselle: (Grunting like an overworked Romanian peasant girl, straining under weight of oxen) Uh, yeah. A sister.

silence.

Mademoiselle: (Inner monologue realizing that P-Diddy wants me to ask if HE has siblings) Do YOU have any brothers and sisters?

Parfait: (Signature, high-pitched laugh emits from giant head) I have twenty-four.

Mademoiselle: (Dropping oxen, feeling tiny muscle threads start to splinter away from the pack) WHAT? All by the same mother and father? Or different ones?

Parfait: (Clearly bemused. SO VERY HAPPY that we have the chance to discuss this; not paying attention to my crumpled body leaning against the wall in the wake of oxen.) No, no, no, Madame. My father have three wives.

Mademoiselle: (Clearly shocked. Eating flies. Making undecipherable sound. His father have three wives.)

Parfait:: Yes, in my village, polygamy is normal. (Leaning in uncomfortably close, swishing his finger around in the air in front of my nose) In my village, the more wife and children you have, the more respect you have. The chief, you know how many wife the chief have?

Mademoiselle: (Inner monologue only making mumbling sounds now)

Parfait: Mademoiselle! You look so funny! The chief have 200 wife! 200 wife!

Mademoiselle: (Finally realizing that this may be the only time I get to interview a Cameroonian polygamist-in-training; seizing the opportunity; regaining use of voice) So, Parrrrrfait, how many wives do YOU want to have?

Parfait: (Emitting that high-pitched sound again, like he's a pec-heavy helium balloon slowly losing air) Madame! I think you are afraid of many wife in this country. I am not married now. But, if I meet a pretty girl, why don't I marry her, too, instead of cheating on my other wife? The whole word do it this way; only America is backward. The world would be happier place if we all had big family.


There you have it, folks. The secret to world peace, as told by a hulking, log-necked Cameroonian personal trainer at LA Fitness.

je t'adore l'eau!

This week was the week that my cat picked to start rubbing his wet little cat-nose all over my face at approximately 5am - each morning. Without fail.

This week was also the week where I accidentally deleted all of my work mailboxes from my mail program.

This week was also the week wherein a dirt-caked dude motioned and attempted to whisper sweet nothings to me whilst peeing on the sidewalk in front of the post office; incidentally, the post office where I was nearly escorted out after engaging in a verbal disagreement with the very stupid postal worker lady behind Window No. 1 who insisted that I needed a pin number to use the work-issued, specifically-for-the-post-office-so-I-can-mail-packages-to-dudes-like-Ben-Fong-Torres-which-I-did-this-week gift card that said "Gift Card" on it.

However, this week was also the week that, at 8:30am, a man sauntered into the office and said that he had free water for me...

Oh yessss... FREE water. For me.

The upside had arrived.

Aqua Delivery Man: Hi, I'm (insert generic, one-syllable name here). I have your free water sample from Contrex.

Still Half-Asleep Me: (Dude, CONTREX? Sounds like an incontinence drug). Uh, I don't think I ordered free water.

ADM: Well, I spoke to Allejandra...Allejandro...Allegria...

SH-AM: We don't have an Alle-whatever here... (Reconsidering, after brain finally computes word "free")...but, say...what kind of water is that?

ADM: Contrex! It is natural French mineral water designed for women! It will [insert catch-phrasy crap here that sounds totally bogus]! How many cases do you want - there are 12 bottles to a case.

SH-AM: (Considering how we already get overwatered bi-weekly by a different, overly-zealous ADM) Um, one is fine.

Time elapses. Consider the bad choice I made in "brewing" the instant-decaf coffee that was hidden behind the shiny foil party hats (yes, really) and plastic plates. Stomach starts to turn. Eat a chunk of dark chocolate sitting next to the Maker's Mark (yes, really). Wonder when I'll wake up.

Suddenly - a noise from the doorway -

Contrex Man: (Wheeling in a giant palette of boxes) How about 4 cases! So thats...12 liter bottles in each case. Where should I put them?

SH-AM: (Holy Jeezus, that is a lot of freakin' Contrex Water.) Uh, in the store room.

Contrex Man cheerfully dropped all 20 tons of Contrex Water and, no joke, 30 pamphlets (for our large office of 4 staff) and bid me adieu. I stared at the space that used to be the storage room, now occupied by a mountain of Contrex. I took a bottle. I sipped. It was weird. I kept sipping. It was free.

As luck would have it, none of my co-workers enjoyed the mineral-y tastes of fresh French Contrex. I am now the proud owner of 48 liters of weird-tasting water. FREE water. My week has been redeemed.