We're Gonna Be Friends Right?

Today I met my new sales team. I won’t say which company, but that’s not really important to the story. I basically just talk on the phone all day and as we say, “book the biz.” Well, no one really says that but me. And I say it to my mirror in the morning before I stuff a Pop-tart in my face and saunter off to work.

This whole week has been a week of training calls. Calls come in, I stammer a little bit, we work up a deal, and then they let me know when they’ll get back to me. And if I’m lucky they “hollah back” and I “book the biz.”

I’ve been doing well though. So well, in fact, that my upcoming manager has been raving about me to my new team, before I even get there. “You’re letting the new guy beat you?” and all that. Fantastic. I’m the kid in the class everyone hated. I’m that kid who raises his hand and says, “Um, miss? You forgot to assign homework.”

So today I’m moving from the kindergarten playroom to the big kids’ area. The training wheels are coming off. I get a desk and everything.

I sent an email to my manager asking where I should show up on Monday. Valid question right? He sends me an email back saying, “At your desk. I’ll have Bob show you where to go.” I am a zero. Of course my desk, where did I think he wanted me to report? “Yeah, how about you head on over to building eight, third floor conference room, and sit Indian style facing the corner until someone remembers you’re alive.”

Bob is my coach. Nice guy… I think, I can’t really read him. The guy has a permanent poker face. And he’s huge. He could crush my skill just by thinking about it. Needless to say I’m intimidated even now just knowing he’s out there somewhere, waiting.

He came in and I’m still on the phone, so he stood behind me. Now I’m nervous because I know he’s listening, but now he’s perched in perfect neck-snapping position. Then he sat down and stared through me. I finally stumbled to another non-close and he motioned for me to follow him to my desk.

I walked down the hall like a lap dog, slightly behind him. I’m a five foot nothing and he’s a six two beast-man who could very well have been Nitro on American Gladiators. I had to quicken my step to keep up with his lumbering stride, as I’m holding onto his out-turned pocket like a prison bitch.

Bob points to my desk. It’s kind of odd because it’s not an empty desk on the row, but it looks like it’s occupied with personal items and such strewn about. Then he says, “This was my desk. They’re making me move.” Apparently I’m displacing Bob the Skull Crusher to another row so that I can sit in this desk. The horror of the situation kept me from saying anything. But what would I have said? “Um yeah, I’ll probably put my snow globe here, where that trophy is… And I’ll probably pin a photo of my dog up here where there’s a picture of your wife…”

Then Bob paraded me around the cubes to the rest of my team. Remember, these are all people who know nothing about me other than that I’ve been making them look bad the past week. So they’re thrilled to meet me. Each one sarcastically acknowledged me, “Oh, you’re that Jeff? Yeah, heard a lot about you; had that big sale today… Greaaaaat.” And I nervously laughed, “Hehe, um yeah I got a little lucky. Nice to uh… finally meet you and everything. We’re gonna be friends right?”

My manager is cool though. He’s me in 20 years; an awkward nerd who sometimes has no idea what to say. Plus I have to like him, since he is the only one who seems to be fond of me on the new team.

But we’ll see how it all goes. It was really only the first week and I’ve been known to exaggerate. Or maybe I’ll just get promoted in a few months and won’t have to worry about it. I’ll ask him if the whole team should come in on Saturday.

"Why Can't I Quit You?"

I think it’s time to stop the Brokeback Mountain jokes. It was six months ago. Get over it.

Sure, it was mildly humorous at the time. What’s not hilarious about a guy named Jack… and Ennis… herding sheep.

White trash mongoloids are finally shaking the shock away from their limited mental capacity and responding with a slew of bad puns and lame parodies. Bareback Mountin’ wasn’t even chuckle-worthy the first time, now it’s downright retarded. The slow people are just now jumping on the bandwagon that rolled to a halt a long time ago. You know why it stopped? Because the horse that was pulling it died a while back and has since been beaten into an Elmer’s bottle somewhere.

Like the guy on Fox news who made an incredibly tasteful and not-at-all homophobic remark about the film… yesterday. I’m glad one of the hosts of the morning show Fox & Friends is up to date on what’s happening in the world. A very timely joke there, Julian. Way to be on top of things. And way to be professional.

If you’re gonna make a dated reference, at least make it funny. Because who doesn’t love a Hootie and the Blowfish joke? [Besides maybe Darius Rucker (Hootie sans the Blowfish.)] And you see what I did there? I mentioned the Blowfish and Brokeback Mountain in the same rant and didn’t stoop to an obvious crack about gay sex. The way Hootie would have wanted it.

It’s sad that some people need a tap on the shoulder and the hand slash in front of the throat motion. “Oh, we’re not doing that anymore? Damn. What are we going to do about Scary Movie 4?”

What’s also kind of depressing is that the big controversy distracted from what was a great year in film, including Best Picture “Crash,” which happens to be a film about tolerance, go figure.

Another film that was nominated for Best Picture many years ago is a movie called “Deliverance.” This is a film that includes a very disturbing sodomy scene that is selectively forgotten by most people and replaced by “that movie with the dueling banjos.” On that note, I wonder if Brokeback will ever be known as something other than “the gay cowboy movie.” Maybe “the movie where Heath Ledger tries, but ultimately fails at pulling off a country accent.”

I’m hoping this little rant nips the Brokeback jokes in the butt... And let’s bring on the “United 93” jokes.

Goldfish, Fish Sticks, and the One That Got Away

I went to the grocery store to pick up a few things on my shopping list. I had no idea that fate would also be on that list.

I wandered the isles, tossing things into my basket haphazardly and wrestling with the rogue cart with a shaky wheel. I stopped a moment to re-examine my list, crossing off "fate" and wondering how it got there. Then I looked up.

And there she was, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, standing among the cheeses. I stood there staring and holding a package of bun length ball park franks. Then our eyes met. The rest of the world seemed to melt away. Cheese melted into hot dogs, like a tasty treat for an afternoon snack or late evening meal. Stunned by her beauty, I dropped the delicious meat sticks into my cart next to the Lunchables and the Count Chocula. She smiled and turned, making her way to the Gouda. Our game of cat and incredibly attractive mouse had begun.

I paused for a moment to absorb the hilarity of her being a mouse in the cheese section.

She withdrew and I pursued. I backed away and she followed. I steered my cart into an adjacent aisle and pretended to read the instructions on a box of Pop Tarts. We caught each others glances through the Ramen noodles. I pretended to chug an entire gallon of milk and then fake throw up on myself and she laughed. And when she giggled it sounded like a bell ringing. Like the kind of bell that when it rings, an angel gets its wings. An angel like this one.

Finally I drew up close to her and whispered sweet nothings in her ear. Then, after she adjusted her hearing aid, I repeated my nothings. She swung her wheelchair around to face me. Again, I was amazed by her beauty. The dim fluorescent lighting brought out her eyes among the dark circles and the wrinkled bags. I told her my name and she had a coughing fit. She looked so cute bent over, gasping for air. After a minute or so, she managed to wheeze out a response. I said, "Ethel, that’s a beautiful name. So Ethel, can I call you some time?" She muttered something about a rotary phone and shakily jotted some numbers on a box of prunes. I happily placed the box in my cart. Not the big area, but the top section, where you strap in the toddlers. You know, for extra care.

She forgot who I was after that, so I sensed the conversation was over. I steered my cart away and headed towards the checkout. But, hoping for one last look, I peered over my shoulder. She was feebly trying to maneuver her cart, but had gotten it tangled up in a display for adult diapers. Our eyes met one last time and I mouthed "I’ll call you." And she yelled, "Huh?"

I never really spoke to her again, but to this day I remember that moment. The only contact I have with her is on my birthday, because every year she sends me a dollar.

Neat

I hate the word neat. Not the neat where things are tidy and straightened, but the kind of neat where it means good or interesting. You will never hear me say THAT version of neat, ever. I might say “bad ass” or “totally rad,” but never “neat.”

If I ever say the word neat, you should beat me up immediately. Kick my ass ASAP.

In fact, I have a special set of nun chucks in the event of such a mistake. They’re labeled with the word “neat.” Not the ones on the middle shelf, those are for every day use, but the nun chucks on the top shelf are locked away for such an occasion. You’ll know them because written below it says, “In case of ‘neat,’ break glass.” Smash it. Grab em. Beat me. Especially over the head because I don’t want to remember ever uttering the word. If I happen to slip into any sort of coma, pull the plug STAT. My eulogy will read, “Died suddenly when inexplicably said the word ‘neat.’” My family will understand.

Here’s the kind of guy that would say “neat:”
He’s holding hands with his newly wed wife, and they’re strolling along in the park, smiling brightly because they just finished a duet of “I got you babe” together. And they’re frolicking among the flowers and squirrels and skipping arm and arm.
And the wife looks over at him and says, “Some day when we have kids—.”
“Timmy and Sarah,” he interrupts lovingly.
“Yes, little Timmy and Sarah. We’ll have to bring them to this park.”
And he turns to her and says, “That would be neat.”

I mean, come on, the guy needs to be nun chucked to death. Ninjas should catapult from nearby bushes and trees and other shrubbery, nun chucks flailing. Striking blow after blow, they beat the neat out of him. Even Chuck Norris shows up and kicks him a little. That would be neat.

Stupid Wright Brothers...

This weekend I took a trip. I flew to Colorado, also known as “The Square State.” Let me tell you about it. Come with me, we’ll take our own little trip. Down memory lane.

Like a good little citizen, I showed up early. I got my tickets from the kiosk, which is a funny word to say, and headed towards my gate.

The security checkpoint for me is like one big magic trick. I eyed the security checkpoint like an escape artist, planning the right time to regurgitate the key and free myself from their handcuffs. Ironically, though, it’s usually the key that sets off the metal detector...

First, I mentioned to the closest security professional, “Hey, uhh, my leg is made almost entirely of metal. I will set off the detector, and I won’t be using any wires or mirrors.”

Luckily this particular trick does not require the use of a white Bengal tiger.

I dejectedly trudged through the gate, leading me into the grey area beyond the fourth amendment. I gestured in a “There you have it, folks” manner when it lit up like a Christmas tree. Though, in retrospect, that probably wasn’t the best time to pull a quarter from behind his ear and say, “I see someone else is hiding something!”

I was herded into a waiting pen in the center with all the other potential national security threats. People made of significantly less metal passed by, looking at me and judging, “I wonder what he did.” I just smiled and mouthed, “Watch your back.”

Standing there inside in the fortress of impenetrable security tape, I realized I was being made an example. I was the sacrificial lamb today at Bush Intercontinental Airport. And if they had to saw me in half here in the terminal as an offering to the gods, they would. So when the approaching guard put on rubber gloves, I thought to myself, “That is not a good sign.”

The guard was nice though, only giving me two cavity searches, instead of the standard three. He found a bouquet of flowers and a string of colored handkerchiefs.

He did, however, tug repeatedly on my belt; peering down to see what else I was packing. I panicked a moment… trying to remember if I had left the white dove at home. Now would not be a good time for little Andy to fly the coop. Then I thought, “Maybe the guard sees his card down there,” silently hoping it wasn’t the kings of hearts.
I ended up just doing the “Jedi mind” trick so I could be on my way.


Then it was time to get on the plane, where all my phobias collided and jockeyed for position as the cause of my approaching anxiety attack. Fear of heights. Fear of small spaces. Fear of being scared. Fear of dying. And fear of dying before I find out what the hell is going on with that show Lost.

I lucked out too because the seat on one side of me was empty. And on the other side of the aisle was a hot girl. So in the event that the plane did decide to fall from the sky, she would be there for those last few moments of passion. That’s how I get women to make out with me. I wait until a plane is crashing and she says, “Oh, what the hell.”

Plus the guy in front of me realized he was seated next to a woman and her litter of children and immediately bailed. For all I know he ‘chuted out shortly after takeoff. I don’t care if you’re Mr. Rogers, Ned Flanders wouldn’t want any par-diddly-art of that mess.

I wanna thank Apple for sponsoring my little trip to Colorado this weekend. Sweet sweet iPod provided me a soundtrack to the cruel human experiment that is air travel. I sat there the full two hours with my earpieces in and my crash helmet on (which looks remarkably similar to a beer helmet) sipping Red Bull from convenient tubes, rockin’ out to Aerosmith. I know what you’re thinking, “Aerosmith? What’re you, thirty-two and a half?” Hey, the shuffle feature felt it was appropriate, ok?

Then the flight attendants got up front and did their little song and dance. It was like a parade of bad neckwear, all ascots and scarves. Confetti rained down from the ceiling as Betsy motioned to the emergency exits for her one thousandth time. They even reminded us that our seat cushions serve as flotation devices. But let’s be honest, if we had crashed into anything, it would have been a mountain. Pressing the ass prints of thousands of other passengers to your face isn’t gonna help when you’re performing a nose dive at 500 mph into the beautiful Rocky Mountains. Says it right there on the safety card.

Then, not to be outdone, the pilot gets on the horn and starts taking us through his whole morning. I swear they require a meteorology class in flight school, because he was throwing out all kinds of wind speeds and barometric pressures. And he’s jibber jabbering about the flight plan. “We’re going to swing by Dallas. Might pass over Oklahoma…” This is a non-stop flight to Denver, not the local tour down Hollywood Blvd. I don’t need you taking your eye off the controls so you can point out where Katie Holmes lost her damn mind.

I wonder if the captain of the space shuttle gives them a little run down of what’s going up. “Ok, today we’re going to be exiting the Earth’s atmosphere. I’m going to be taking you straight up. We might experience a little turbulence, but that’s just the rockets detaching themselves. Aaaand it looks like clear skies in space. Thank you for flying with NASA.”

“We are experiencing turbulence…” Experiencing. Like that little euphemism is going to ease your anxiety about being in a flying bus that’s shaking you like the British nanny.

Then the steward-attendants came by with the food cart, both of them full of creepy enthusiasm only Bob Ross could muster. (Not to mention I took a glancing blow from the cart that may affect my ERA numbers in fantasy baseball.) She leans over, her scarf tickling my ear, “Would you like something to drink?” I just kind of gave her the none-for-me-thanks head shake when I really want to say, “No way, if I have that thimble of soda I’ll be up all night.” But I was sorry. I should have reconsidered. What was I thinking? Because after I finished my two pretzels, I was parched.

And then it was over. We took off, we did the safety hokey pokey, we heard a cute story from the pilot, and we had snacks. It’s like kindergarten for grown-ups.

As we landed, all I could think about was the plane a few weeks ago that landed with the front tire completely engulfed in flames. I closed my eyes and hoped my last words weren’t going to be, “Do I have to take off my shoes?”

The pilot hadn’t started drinking yet, so we landed safe and sound. And there it was. The moving walkway. I would pay 10 tickets at the local fair for this ride. I just started speed walking. I felt like the Six Million Dollar Man, reconstructed to walk faster than any man has ever walked. I was high-fiving people as we zoomed by. I’m running in place in slow motion, confusing the hell out of toddlers. If I’m ever rich, all the floors in my mansion will be conveyor belts. One big remote and you can stand perfectly still and just glide your way to the can.

I got off the very long treadmill and I almost got run down by a transport vehicle. I was this close to being road kill in the middle of a hallway ‘cause some granny said step on it. I made it all this way, survived the flight, only to nearly get run down by a golf cart on my way to the escalator. Luckily I saw it coming, so I grabbed the nearest hot chick and we just started making out. Guard got so confused that he swerved and ran over a terrorist. I was awarded the Medal of Accidental Honor. I pinned it on my shirt next to my plastic pilot wings.

I Survived Hurricane Rita and All I Got Was This Lousy Hangover

The sun rose on another glorious morning, breaking in a new day. I thought to myself, “It’s great to be alive,” as I sat comfortably with a smile on my face. Our luxury vehicle purred as it idled along with hundreds of its closest friends on FM 529. We hadn’t moved in over an hour, but it was nice. It gave me a chance to reflect.

Hurricane Rita was on its way to Houston. Mother Nature had blessed it with a little bit of wind, and since it was in the northern hemisphere, it spun clockwise. It was putting on quite the show in the gulf, but was making its way into the crowd to shake some hands. At first I was worried, but I was assured by the TV, radio, President, mayor, governor, FEMA, Red Cross, National Guard, and various weather experts that everything was going to be ok. They told me that there was no need for panic, as they stood out of harm’s way, putting their own safety before the lure of the story.

I had complete control of the dog, which was as calm as my mother was about a pet on her leather seats. I chuckled to myself as passengers took turns using the bathroom at the nearest gas station without fear of missing their ride.

Other cars began to use the turn lane and the shoulder to pass us, but I just figured they were more important and their needs superseded my own. Some might have considered their actions unethical or exploitation of more patient motorists. I, however, knew that the emergency situation affected them more, and the best I could do would be to sit quietly and wave with all five of my fingers. After all, in these times of crisis, we have to band together and help each other out.

And as the Mexican Americans flew by, sitting inside with ten or more of their friends and family, I thought to myself, “Santa Anna would be proud.” He used to always say, “Safety in numbers.” And “there’s always time for a nap.”

One lane of outbound traffic gave way to two, which gave birth to four, which expanded to five. Soon, six lanes of traffic headed west, while any other cars had a fun game of dodging to play with the fleeing Mack trucks. Packed neatly along a country road, as cars swerved on either side us, I thought of rainbows and gum drops and candy cane cities.

A clean convoy of Camry’s weaved its way through the crowd, making clever use of the extra “courtesy” lanes and each other to further themselves in the line. I made a mental note of it in case I was ever evacuating from a city of millions again. A shirtless man bounced along the other side of the car. I remarked about the haste of such a fat city, and we all laughed and laughed.

As we sped along at a cool 15 mph, we sang songs and feasted on the endless supply of snack foods and diet soda. A few times I got out and stretched my legs, just to keep the blood flowing. We all managed to stay perfectly calm, maintaining a collected manner in order to get through the ordeal the best we could. Once or twice we thought of turning around, but pressed on, inspired by Chance and Shadow in the family classic Homeward Bound.

After twelve hours of bonding, we reached our destination, uniting the family once again. I felt like one of the Planeteers, but I had left my heart ring at home and asked if we could go back for it.

During the weekend, as the hurricane tiptoed over the sleeping city, I stayed with a friend in a town that usually takes an hour to get to. Our hands tired after too much patty cake, so we wondered what to do. That reminded us of Dr. Seuss's “The Cat in the Hat,” which we took turns reading to each other. Then, out of options, we imbibed copious amounts of alcohol. (Which means we drank a shitload.)

The day after the storm, the sun rose on another glorious morning, breaking in the new day. So we hopped back in the car, ready to do it all over again.

Oh, It's Flaming Alright

Some people do strange things to their cars. You see SUVs covered in spray-painted camouflage stuck in traffic on a highway downtown. Or someone so rebellious that they covered their back window with “bumper” stickers, including one that says, “I can’t see out my back window.” Cars dropped so low they get stuck on speed bumps. Or monster trucks jacked up so high you have to be wearing a parachute to be a passenger. Oh, and a secondary parachute, in case the first should fail on the way down.

But the style that made me laugh today is the “flames painted on the front” look. The idea is that the car is going SO FAST that it somehow burst into flames. This car zooming down the street, pushing the limits at a cool 37 mph, appears to have caught fire due to the absolutely insane amounts of speed it's generating. I’m sure it looks just as impressive in the parking lot of Chuck E. Cheese, where it is still smoldering from pulling into the space so unbelievably fast.

No car in the history of motorized vehicles has ever caught fire from going too fast, except maybe a Pinto. Even the car that broke the sound barrier didn’t spontaneously combust, but instead made a loud pop, which is the sound of everyone around the world (at the same time) not caring. The only car that ever came close was the DeLorean from Back to the Future, but that car could travel through time and you have to expect some amount of heat when jumping dimensions. Oh, and it was fictional.

I wouldn’t think that catching on fire would be a good thing. Other things that go fast don’t have flames painted on the side. It’s not like NASA is “pimpifying” the space shuttle, and that thing can haul some major ass. Plus I think flames on the shuttle send the wrong message. And frankly, there have been instances... NASA is smarter than that. These are the same people that designed the beds where you can sleep next to your glass of wine. Or drop bowling balls on it. It will remember how you slept, that you like to randomly drop balls from high places, and other strange things you’re into. So basically, NASA is SO smart, THEIR BEDS are smart. So no flame art.

I bet, though, they could paint a fiery design on the front of the military missiles.
So terrorists could look up and say, “Oh, look that missile coming towards us has flames painted on the front of it, it really must be fast.”
“You’re right, Mustafa. It does.”
“You know what? Kind of reminds of that movie Back to the Future.”
“Oooh, that’s a good one. I like that Michael J. Fox.”
“Remember when Doc says, '1.21 jiggawatts!'”
“Oh yes, ha ha. That was funny. 'A bolt of lightning!'”
“Yeah yeah, great movie. Third one sucked though.”
“Really disappointed in that one, I gotta say.”


I’ll be honest, I thought about getting body art for my car awhile back. But flames don’t really belong on the side of a Mazda. Something about the phrase “four door sedan” really kills it.

What I thought about instead was painting a robot on the hood. Something that says, “This car is going SO FAST it’s turning into a mechanized soldier of numerous capabilities.” Like a Transformer. Or even something slightly more menacing, a Decepticon. Or, get this, a Decepticon with flames painted on the side.

Hilary Duff Gives Up

In a startling announcement from Hilary Duff, the teen star admitted that she is “not at all cute” at a press conference Monday.

The 17-year-old actress threw in the proverbial towel five years after her debut on “Lizzie McGuire,” apologizing for becoming famous. Duff told reporters she suspected something was wrong when her movie opened seventh at the box office behind many other bad movies and a documentary about penguins. It was only until recently, she added, that she realized she is “incredibly ugly.”

“Like, I was on the set of my new music video and I walked by a mirror in my trailer,” Duff said. “I took a long look. After I threw up in my mouth a little bit, I thought, ‘Wow, I look really really disgusting.’ I went out and called off the video. I’m just too damn ugly.”

Hilary Duff had a very public feud with mildly-attractive movie star Lindsay Lohan over Aaron Carter in 2003. When asked to comment, Carter responded, “Yeah, I was really stuck between a rock and a hard place there. They’re both hideous girls. It was really just a choice between the lesser of two evils. How did I get mixed up with these trolls? Hermoine, if you’re out there, call me!”

Duff allegedly fell off the “ugly tree” and hit every branch on the way down, according to her mother, who is also not a looker.

Duff concluded the press conference saying, “A wise man once told me that everyone is beautiful on the inside. Well, I sold that to the record company a while ago and believe me, it was ugly too.”

Bathroom Bigfoot

I love my sister. She’s a cool girl. And having her around was nice over the summer. But I’d probably like her even more if she was bald. And she had her own bathroom.

When I head to the bathroom, I’m assaulted by a sasquatch of congealed face powder and shed hair, swallowing me up at the ankles. My feet don’t even know when they’ve left carpet and onto the ancient linoleum. Sometimes it gets so thick that it beckons me from the cracked floor to jump into it like a pile of leaves.

If I take a shower it’s there, mocking me and stretching itself over the drain, forcing me into a race against the clock or risk certain overflow. So there I slosh, calf-deep in murky water, scrubbing myself with a pink washcloth with a kitty cat on it. And all I can think about is the impending tsunami and trying not to accidentally crack my head against the carry-all that hangs from the showerhead bearing various lotions and creams. And sometimes... a luffa.

One time I picked it up, the tangled mass of dead skin cells that had captured our floor. "The Sasquatch." I even considered using a rake, but the amount of effort that would have required tricked me into gathering it with my bare hands. I almost lost an arm.

I went to wash my hands after the ordeal and there was Winnie the Pooh staring me in the face, his head perched on the soap dispenser. He grinned at me as I slammed my fist on his plastic skull and flowery scented soap poured onto my ruddy mitts. It’s only then that I realized that the hair had migrated and infiltrated my sink, leaving me helpless with soapy hands, Winnie my only ally against it.

The hair heap shot up and grabbed me around the wrists, restricting circulation as it pulled me closer. Winnie jumped into action, bobbing his head furiously to provide enough lubricant for my hands to slip free. I wrestled my arms loose and dashed for the door just as I heard Winnie cry out, “Go! Forget about me! Save yourself!”
I summersaulted into the hallway and yanked the door closed, straining to keep the knob from turning. Inside I could hear the death struggle and the muffled cries from Winnie. And then... suddenly... all was silent.

The summer is over now and my sister has moved back to college. Winnie was since replaced by an ordinary hand soap dispenser. But sometimes I still have nightmares about that fateful day. I can still hear the muffled screams of poor Pooh.


I know, I probably sound bitter, but that’s what happens after 6 months of bathing with Bigfoot.

Heart Shaped Nugget

Sorry I haven't updated in a while. I think I'm becoming an agoraphobic. In case you don't know what that means, it's the fear of open spaces. I can't even read Little House on the Prairie without having a fit of agoraphobia.

But tonight, in a serious bout of claustraphobia, I ventured out into the world. Well, not really. Just to Wendy's.

So I pull up to the intercom and I order. "5 piece chicken nugget, a large coke and a large fry." No idea why I made everything singular. Multiplicaphobia, I think.

Then I pay for the late night snack and head home. When I get home and unpack my meal, I notice that I've been given TWO five piece chicken nugget(s), for a grand total of ten. What did I do to deserve these extra morsels? It's like that "Monopoly" Chance card that reads, "Bank error in your favor." Or was it community chest... I checked the calendar, making sure it wasn't my birthday. Or Christmas. And seeing July 27th blank, I suddenly realized: carry-out crush.

I don't know how I made an impression on Lupe at the take-out window, but I must have done something. Maybe it was my smile. Or when I winked at her. Or when she asked me if I wanted my receipt and I said, "No. You hold onto that. Something to remember me by."

Smiling to myself, I munched away, eating the fries first of course. I shrugged it off, knowing that Lupe and I weren't really meant to be. It was then that I pulled out the final nugget... it was shaped like a heart.

A giant, nuggety heart. It looked like one of those big candy hearts, only deep fried to remove the "Fax Me" saying from the surface. I couldn't believe it.

It had been stuffed way down at the bottom, like Lupe didn't want me to see it. But secretly she did. But she wanted it to be a special something. But not too special. But I appreciated the subtlety, and I ate it.