Oh crap, I thought with a flicker of annoyance licking the sides of my mind, I think I just got puke on my leg.
Tuesday started out ugly in my internal digestive system. I wasn’t feeling well in the morning—downright ghastly if I were British. But I went to work anyway—fake it till you make it, I always say.
I found myself spending more time in the bathroom than in my cubicle or in meetings. I had to bolt from one meeting in particular and then after that—I bolted home. I hoped I could make it there before the multi-directional “fireworks” resumed.
Food poisoning. And baaaad food poisoning at that. Worse than the time Uncle Fritz hung some bacon out to dry on the back patio and then fed it to me. Since his house has a sink, a toilet, and a shower all on different levels (right on top of each other—a plumbing catastrophe) I spent my fevered illness bolting up and down the “ladder of fun” as I now call it.
Misery.
So after two days of blurred interaction with my bathroom I emerged weak, empty, and still feeling quite nasty. My phone rings. Several times. Since I’d taken Tylenol PM I couldn’t exactly move my body—the stuff is paralyzing. Frick. But once I finally emerge from my coma I pull up the phone to see whose calls I missed:
Tutoring and the Movie Star.
I call her the Movie Star because she is, in fact, a movie star, but she also acts like what you would think of when you describe a movie star--- beautiful, histrionic, charming, mesmorizing, fills up a room.
Dragging myself from my body imprint in the couch I got up to go find my tutoring kid. I say “find” because his parents kept calling my cell phone saying “he’s at his dad’s.” then “he’s at his moms” then “he’s at his dads.” Then:
“I don’t know where the hell he is.”
The Movie Star leaves a different message: “M is really looking forward to meeting you! See you there!”
See me where? Oh crap-- Salsa dancing.
Since my vocal chords haven’t yet resumed functioning I text her back:
I can’t come. I’ve had food poisoning. Besides, I’d look like death.
She texts me back:
PULLLEEEEZE come by even for a little bit. He is DYING to meet you. What can I bring you? We can do a little 5 minute make-over in the bathroom.
WHAT?! Are you kidding me? I think as I stare at my phone. But being the people-pleaser (particularly if they’re histrionics and are lovely or remind me of my mother) I make up my mind to go.
“So you’re going to go meet the strip club Jesus guy?” my sister asks me as I try brushing something onto my face to make it not look so pasty and greenish.
“Unfortunately, yes. The unfortunate part not being because of the strip club thing. The unfortunate part being because I might barf all over him.”
My tutoring kid wasn’t at his mothers when I arrived. Apparently she can’t get along with him for the two hours each week she occasionally allots him when he’s not living with his scattered but dedicated dad.
“R was acting out so I just told him, you know what? Go home to your dads.”
I wanted to punch her in the face (she’s extremely abusive to R which is why he lives with his dad) but took a deep breathe and rushed to the house while the dad called me:
“Uh, I think he’s at my house. But I’m not there,” he said.
“No worries—I’ll go check on him.”
By the time all of this transpired I was already an hour late to the Salsa extravaganza but I eventually arrived with an urgent message on my phone from Movie Star.
“Ok so don’t freak out but our dinner party has shrunk significantly—one couple just broke up in a very dramatic therapy session and one couple is still in negotiations about a movie they're doing in Canada next week so they can’t make so it totally looks like a double date but I’m really sorry about that because that’s not what I intended..”
This was all said in one breath.
So I meet the man described by Movie Star’s husband as a mocha-choca-latte Tom Cruise look-a-like. They were right—definitely attractive. However, his expressions for some reason reminded me of one of those puppets whose jaw is dislodged from his face—you know, the ones that ventriloquists use? Yeah. I kept looking for the strings.
Before I know it we’re up and dancing—hello!—and uh, that was special.
"Just dance and you can go barf later," Movie Star says with a smile that could kill you. Or maybe that was my illness rising in my throat.
Later I realized Mocha-Man and I were definitely not going spar as I would like when I asked:
“So how did you get into the restaurant management business?”
And I stumped him.
Seriously.
He sat there with a confused expression on his face and then said,
“That’s a really good question. Huh. I don’t know if I know.”
Holy moley that’s a bad memory….I think.
But before I could speculate on it further he starts telling me about how lost people in Los Angeles are (agreed) but then goes on to say things like “it’s just ridiculous when people don’t believe—that they don’t believe in the man upstairs. I mean, how can you not? If you think about it long enough you have to acknowledge, I mean, you HAVE to acknowledge that there is a God and he’s controlling everything we do.”
I didn’t say anything. He went on:
“And you know people need to realize that where you are is exactly where you are supposed to be spiritually. Everyone is where they have to be spiritually. And we are all on the right path….”
He lost me as the band got louder. I just stared as he continued to talk (and I mean, this guy was a CLOSE talker) about faith as it pertains to other people. Ok, so he used to run a strip club, whatever—we all have things we need forgiveness for—but why his faith life seemed to be about telling other people they are ridiculous for not believing seemed quite sketchy to me.
Before I could wish that I might just vaporize into thin air Movie Star pipes up with one of her funny stories.
“So you know I was a competitive gymnast when I was young,” she said and I did know that. “And my parents wouldn’t let me take ballet to supplement it because they thought anything having to do with dancing was sinful.”
Yikers.
“And then I got ostracized by the gym teachers because they thought I wasn’t committed enough because I didn’t do ballet. I was fourteen. And then as I progressed I kept competing and then my parents wanted me to compete in culottes because leotards were too revealing. You know, Southern Baptists or whatever,”
“Oh geez,” I said, “That sucks, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah well…a year later I was pregnant,” she added and then smiled simply.
I love that woman.
Tuesday started out ugly in my internal digestive system. I wasn’t feeling well in the morning—downright ghastly if I were British. But I went to work anyway—fake it till you make it, I always say.
I found myself spending more time in the bathroom than in my cubicle or in meetings. I had to bolt from one meeting in particular and then after that—I bolted home. I hoped I could make it there before the multi-directional “fireworks” resumed.
Food poisoning. And baaaad food poisoning at that. Worse than the time Uncle Fritz hung some bacon out to dry on the back patio and then fed it to me. Since his house has a sink, a toilet, and a shower all on different levels (right on top of each other—a plumbing catastrophe) I spent my fevered illness bolting up and down the “ladder of fun” as I now call it.
Misery.
So after two days of blurred interaction with my bathroom I emerged weak, empty, and still feeling quite nasty. My phone rings. Several times. Since I’d taken Tylenol PM I couldn’t exactly move my body—the stuff is paralyzing. Frick. But once I finally emerge from my coma I pull up the phone to see whose calls I missed:
Tutoring and the Movie Star.
I call her the Movie Star because she is, in fact, a movie star, but she also acts like what you would think of when you describe a movie star--- beautiful, histrionic, charming, mesmorizing, fills up a room.
Dragging myself from my body imprint in the couch I got up to go find my tutoring kid. I say “find” because his parents kept calling my cell phone saying “he’s at his dad’s.” then “he’s at his moms” then “he’s at his dads.” Then:
“I don’t know where the hell he is.”
The Movie Star leaves a different message: “M is really looking forward to meeting you! See you there!”
See me where? Oh crap-- Salsa dancing.
Since my vocal chords haven’t yet resumed functioning I text her back:
I can’t come. I’ve had food poisoning. Besides, I’d look like death.
She texts me back:
PULLLEEEEZE come by even for a little bit. He is DYING to meet you. What can I bring you? We can do a little 5 minute make-over in the bathroom.
WHAT?! Are you kidding me? I think as I stare at my phone. But being the people-pleaser (particularly if they’re histrionics and are lovely or remind me of my mother) I make up my mind to go.
“So you’re going to go meet the strip club Jesus guy?” my sister asks me as I try brushing something onto my face to make it not look so pasty and greenish.
“Unfortunately, yes. The unfortunate part not being because of the strip club thing. The unfortunate part being because I might barf all over him.”
My tutoring kid wasn’t at his mothers when I arrived. Apparently she can’t get along with him for the two hours each week she occasionally allots him when he’s not living with his scattered but dedicated dad.
“R was acting out so I just told him, you know what? Go home to your dads.”
I wanted to punch her in the face (she’s extremely abusive to R which is why he lives with his dad) but took a deep breathe and rushed to the house while the dad called me:
“Uh, I think he’s at my house. But I’m not there,” he said.
“No worries—I’ll go check on him.”
By the time all of this transpired I was already an hour late to the Salsa extravaganza but I eventually arrived with an urgent message on my phone from Movie Star.
“Ok so don’t freak out but our dinner party has shrunk significantly—one couple just broke up in a very dramatic therapy session and one couple is still in negotiations about a movie they're doing in Canada next week so they can’t make so it totally looks like a double date but I’m really sorry about that because that’s not what I intended..”
This was all said in one breath.
So I meet the man described by Movie Star’s husband as a mocha-choca-latte Tom Cruise look-a-like. They were right—definitely attractive. However, his expressions for some reason reminded me of one of those puppets whose jaw is dislodged from his face—you know, the ones that ventriloquists use? Yeah. I kept looking for the strings.
Before I know it we’re up and dancing—hello!—and uh, that was special.
"Just dance and you can go barf later," Movie Star says with a smile that could kill you. Or maybe that was my illness rising in my throat.
Later I realized Mocha-Man and I were definitely not going spar as I would like when I asked:
“So how did you get into the restaurant management business?”
And I stumped him.
Seriously.
He sat there with a confused expression on his face and then said,
“That’s a really good question. Huh. I don’t know if I know.”
Holy moley that’s a bad memory….I think.
But before I could speculate on it further he starts telling me about how lost people in Los Angeles are (agreed) but then goes on to say things like “it’s just ridiculous when people don’t believe—that they don’t believe in the man upstairs. I mean, how can you not? If you think about it long enough you have to acknowledge, I mean, you HAVE to acknowledge that there is a God and he’s controlling everything we do.”
I didn’t say anything. He went on:
“And you know people need to realize that where you are is exactly where you are supposed to be spiritually. Everyone is where they have to be spiritually. And we are all on the right path….”
He lost me as the band got louder. I just stared as he continued to talk (and I mean, this guy was a CLOSE talker) about faith as it pertains to other people. Ok, so he used to run a strip club, whatever—we all have things we need forgiveness for—but why his faith life seemed to be about telling other people they are ridiculous for not believing seemed quite sketchy to me.
Before I could wish that I might just vaporize into thin air Movie Star pipes up with one of her funny stories.
“So you know I was a competitive gymnast when I was young,” she said and I did know that. “And my parents wouldn’t let me take ballet to supplement it because they thought anything having to do with dancing was sinful.”
Yikers.
“And then I got ostracized by the gym teachers because they thought I wasn’t committed enough because I didn’t do ballet. I was fourteen. And then as I progressed I kept competing and then my parents wanted me to compete in culottes because leotards were too revealing. You know, Southern Baptists or whatever,”
“Oh geez,” I said, “That sucks, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah well…a year later I was pregnant,” she added and then smiled simply.
I love that woman.
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