Me: Hi, I’d like to order a pizza for delivery. Roma Guy: Okay. What is your address?
Me: 1234 Berryhill Street (fake address, stalkers)
Roma Guy: 1234 Perilville Street?
Me: No, Berryhill.
Roma Guy: Pleralville?
Me: No, B-E-R-R-Y-H-I-L-L.
Roma Guy: What street is it off of?
Me: We are near the corner of Main and Stratford.
Roma Guy: Hold on, lemme check. (on hold for approximately two minutes)
Roma Guy: [deep sigh] Now where are you again?
Me: Near the corner of Main and Statford.
Roma Guy: What street are you off of? Because you are not on the map.
Me: You know what? Never mind. I’m afraid my pizza will never make it here.
Roma Guy: [irritated and nasty] Fine, then. [hangs up]
I guess it is peanut butter and jelly tonight, kids.
I never have trouble spelling ‘desert’ and ‘dessert’ correctly because of my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Bell.
She one said to me, "Which one would you rather have two of? A big, sandy desert or a delicious chocolate dessert? You would rather have two ice creams than two dry deserts, right? Then you put two s’s in dessert and just one s in desert."
And I’ve never misspelled it since. However, I still have to think back to Mrs. Bell’s memory trick to get it right, lo these twenty years later.
You would be horrified at what I do in the privacy of my own house. You would stand, mouth agape, at the magnitude of lameness before you. You thought I was a little lame, but nothing would prepare you for the embarassing display you’d encounter if you walked into my house unannounced.
I came out about my music defecit disorder disorder long ago. Simply put: I like shitty music. Unabashedly I like mainstream hip-hop with its borrowed beats and lyrics so sexist they could get me barred from the Feminist Grrl Club. If it’s dancable I can forgive just about anything else.
I’ve had Bubba Sparxxx’s latest single in my head all day long. All. Day. Long. "Do something with your hair did…" This is a song that is, best I can gather, about a guy who wants to pimp some girl out for an ass contest. I’m sure there are some other nuisances I’m overlooking, but that’s the gist of it. And I can’t get enough.
Because my brain was infected by Bubba all day I decided to flesh it out and play the song. I just happen to have it on mp3. Tootie loves it. She goes nuts when I sing, "I’ve found you, Ms. New Tootie." (And I think it’s cute, cause I got her at the shelter so I did sort of find her, and she’s still really new to me.) Anyway, just now, after singing the only two lines of the song I know in my head over and over and over all day long, I finally heard it blaring in real life. I sat air-rapping (mouthing the words), slinging my wrists around doing my best Dirty South. No shame.
I feel better and the song is no longer stuck in my head. Sometimes this white girl’s gotta get her flow on, you heard? And no doubt it’s the whitest, most hideous display imaginable. Tootie wouldn’t even look at me.
