Not so slick

While walking through the mall on the way to the food court one lunchtime, I asked my coworker Shane about why a mall would have a Bath & Body Works so close to a Body Shop. Are they different? Do discriminating people have reason to visit one store over another? Shane suggested that there must be a difference, but it's only germane to people who would ever enter either store.

That night, I mentioned the twin pairing of Bath stores to Rachel, who told me that there is a sognificant difference. That led her to reminisce about a container of Body Shop Pink Grapefruit lotion that her roommate had back before we were married. Rachel had enjoyed this lotion until the roommate mentioned that it was almost depleted. Rachel immediately replaced it, but never felt comfortable using it again.

The next time I walked through the mall atrium, I told the guys I would catch up with them in a few minutes. I detoured straight to the Body Shop, picked up a tub of Pink Grapefruit Body Butter, paid for it and took it back to the office along with my salad. "Gentlemen," I said, smugly brandishing my Pink Grapefruit goo tub, "let me tell you how I'm going to earn some husband points." I even suggested that my coworkers try employing the same setup:

Ask, "Honey, is there a difference between the Body Shop and Bath and Body Works?" Take note of wife's response, return next day with gift.

That night I kissed Rachel hello when I came in the door and told her I had a present for her. I handed her the bag, and she said "Oh, the Body Shop!!"

[pause]

"Body butter??"

"Yeah, pink grapefruit, remember?" I said, my confident smile faltering.

"That was shower scrub." (SHIT! Goddamn details! Body butter is different from shower scrub?!?)

Rachel looked up and gave me a big affectionate hug. The gesture was appreciated. But fellows, take note.

train riders

Yesterday as I boarded the Route 100, I saw a young man with Downs syndrome sitting in the third row, looking at his hands. He was wearing a Chuck E. Cheese shirt - with an embroidered logo, which I assume distinguishes Chuck E. Cheese employees from mere enthusiasts. I ended up sitting one row behind him, on the opposite side of the aisle.

At the next stop, he looked very excited to see an older lady get on the train and pay her fare. He slid over to the window and waved at her in a small motion. She walked right by him to take an empty seat in the back of the train, of course, since she didn't recognize him, and the young man looked crestfallen. He grabbed his hair with both hands and bent forward until his forehead resting on the seat in front of him. His face betrayed anguish.

That's when he started with the heavy metal lyrics, whispered under his breath so only I could hear them.

This SUCKS! You're FIRED! You're a FAILURE! I HATE YOU! You're going to get WHAT'S COMING TO YOU!!

He started very soft, but as the train pulled into 69th St. yard he got a little louder. You're going to HELL! I wonder if he works within earshot of the kids.

some bicycles are improved by fish

I have a coworker named Jim who has long maintained that bacon is the perfect food. He says it goes with anything else you might eat. If it doesn't improve it, he says, at least it's still wonderful. For example, if he was eating a bowl of ice cream and someone handed him a strip of bacon, he'd gladly alternate spoonfuls of one with bites of the other.


He has tried the chocolate/bacon mashup. At a fancy hotel brunch buffet with a chocolate waterfall on one side of the room, and an omelette bar at the other. He said it was fine.


Back in January, I saw a recipe for bacon ice cream on a blog. I saved it for future use.


On Monday, in honor of Jim's birthday, I brought in my ice cream maker, a quart of custard, crushed pecans and 12 oz of crumbled bacon that I had prepared the night before. Over lunch, I enlisted the help of my tablemates who normally sit together in the employee lounge to help agitate the ball containing rock salt/ice and custard/bacon. It took about 20 minutes, and then I started serving up bacon ice cream.


Jim got first taste. He liked it.

Mike went second, he pronounced it okay.

I went third. I really liked it. A lot.

Andrew declined to taste it. With disgust. Let's just say that I've never seen him order a salad, so it wasn't fear of saturated fats that was inhibiting him. As his boss, I considered ordering him to taste it, but decided instead to be gentle.


Some people around the lunch room - about 50% - were willing to have a spoonful. The rest made a wrinkly face of disgust.


Comments received (beyond the "whatever made you want to create this abomination?" variety):


"Eewww."
"It tastes...so wrong."
"I thought you were Jewish."
"That's definitely bacon."


Jim had seconds. I offered him a nicely wrapped pint to take home, but he didn't think it would survive the commute.


I sent an all-staff e-mail inviting anyone who wanted to try bacon ice cream to come to the employee lounge. I admit to being a little disappointed in the lack of adventure my coworkers displayed. I ended up freezing the two remaining pints solid and taking them home with me.


Rachel made the "Eeeww" face. The kids said they liked it, but left most of it. I offered tastes to my neighbors. They made the "Eewww" face.

I realize this isn't doing a good job of selling what I thought was a delicious recipe, but you probably already know in your heart if you're the kind of person who is going to enjoy bacon ice cream.

Ruined for me

On the evening of July 3rd, a friendly neighbor pressed a drink into my hand. It was bright red and served in a plastic cup. The taste - strawberries, ice, and a little metalic vodka tang- called up some memories. Specifically, it called to mind a party I went to during my freshman year of college. I was working up my nerve to go talk to a pretty young woman, trying to memorize a first, second and third series of conversation topics. I went up to her, opened my mouth but instead of talking I said "Bllaaaaaaaahhhhhh."

I had no experience with alcohol. I didn't drink in high school. I never really picked up the feel for it. I would see other people drinking and becoming elated, and I would just get sleepy. I would hear conversations about different kinds of beer - what do you prefer, Joe, wheat beer or a hoppy ale? - and think they all taste kind of the same to me. If I drink a glass of red wine, I need to go lie down on the nearest couch.

I accepted the July 3rd cup. After drinking its contents, I felt about a 5% lack of inhibition relative to my baseline, a drop so minimal as to be statistically insignificant. I forgot about that cup until the next day, which sucked. I was tired, grumpy, dehydrated and constantly irritated by kid noises. That was from one drink, which might have had half a shot glass of vodka in it, and it's not the first time this has happened.

There is no point in drinking alcohol anymore, except when explaining why would cause me more harm and embarrassment than leering and/or going to sleep. I won't even miss it, but I am sad to see another closed door on the options hallway of life.

I also no longer enjoy the sight of hot high school girls. I used to get a happy little charge when I'd see them but now I feel a punishing game show wrong answer buzzer. I'm more glad and less wistful about this change. I recall a kid named Robbie from my home town who never recalibrated his attraction to girls his own age. He went away to college, but always came home on weekends to scout out the newest freshmen. I wonder if he's moved back to Connecticut, and if he still wears his NHS BAND jacket on Saturday evenings.

too kewl to eeww

I was walking down 19th St. after work. After a few minutes, I became aware of a cold, wet feeling where my nylon satchel was brushing against my arm and hip. I peeked inside the exterior pocket and remembered a banana I'd put in there last week. At the time, said banana had been fairly ripe, and I'd brought it to the office intending to eat it before it died on our kitchen counter.

At this point, I realized that the banana had melted into juice and slime and was passing through the fabric of my bag. It was cold because the A/C in my office is aggressive enough to preserve a corpse.

I decided not to extract the dead banana right there in full view of downtown, rush-hour Philadelphia. Instead, I adjusted my shoulder strap so the bag was held with a centimeter gap between the contaminated surface and my body.

Fortunately, fruit flies did not carry me away before I had a private moment near a trash receptacle.

cold demeanor

I saw my GP this week. The last time I saw him, about two years ago, he'd asked gruffly if I was getting my medical care somewhere else. My previous visit had been three years earlier.

I don't like my doctor. For context, I'm the kind of guy who likes my mail carrier, and wants the meter reader to like me too, bt something about Dr. G. irritates me. Maybe it's that we're almost the same age, both Jewish, from New England, have kids the same age and live in the same town, but he gives off an air of contempt, like he can't believe he has to deal with me.

I am the only white man I have ever seen in his practice. I've been going to this clinic ever since I graduated from college in 1992 and established my first residence in West Philadelphia. He's been there since 1996.

At my last visit, Dr. G. huffed that at 35 years old, it was time for me to come in at least once a year. Last year I got something irritating in my eye, made a same-day appointment and saw another doctor. I considered that my 2006 visit. This year everything was running smoothly, so I scheduled this visit for a day when I was taking off from work anyway.

Dr. G. asked a few awkward questions, then told me he might as well do a full check to see if I had anything growing on my skin that I shouldn't. He told me to undress down to underpants, then left the room.

It took me ten seconds to strip down to boxers, and then I sat on the exam table to wait for the doctor to return. I was right under the A/C vent. 62° air was blowing down on me. It was freezing.

After five minutes, Dr. G. came back in the room. He made a snarky comment about my boxers - I'll give him the benefit of the doubt: perhaps he was trying to be humorous - as he quickly checked my back and listened to my lungs through his stethoscope. Then he grabbed a pair of latex gloves and sat down on the stool across from the exam table.

Of course, THIS was the moment when he wanted to talk like we're friends. We had a quick discussion about kids and summer camp, totally normal except that I was practically naked, freezing, and aware that the latex gloves mean I'm about to get felt. I couldn't decide whether to stall or precipitate the inevitable. I elected to keep the conversation going.

The good news is that I do not have a hernia. The bad news is that I can't remember ever having my balls juggled by someone I don't like as much as I don't like Dr. G.

Reformed Train Buddies

There's a guy I see some days on my commute. He walks stiffly, wears a scowl, and reads mean-spirited church newsletters. The one that caught my eye had a regular feature called "The Homosexual Agenda." When I saw that, I was reminded of the Anne Lamott quote, "You know man has made God in his image when it turns out that He hates all the same people that you do."

On Monday morning, the uptight guy was standing on the train platform reading a text called "Sodom and Gomorrah." It didn't look like a travel brochure.

The train was already full when it pulled up, and all the seats were taken. Those of us boarding at my station had to stand in the aisle. Uptight Guy nudged a sitting passenger and said "Hey Steve, how are you?" He smiled, the first time I'd seen him perform that trick. Steve greeted Uptight Guy. They made some quick, predictable small talk about vacations being too short. Then Steve returned to his work.

I was standing up next to Steve and had a clear view of his lap. He was writing in blue pen on a yellow legal tablet. It struck me as quaint, a very 20^th century activity. I saw his leather valise and tasteful suit and made him for a lawyer. Because I'm nosy, and since I couldn't read my book while gripping the seat back for balance, I started to read over Steve's shoulder.

We came up from the riverbank and Suzie laughed because her pants were stained

How sweet, I thought. He's writing a letter. Maybe it's to his daughter at summer camp.

She pulled them off, and then her panties too.

Okay, maybe. If Suzie is two years old, then this is still fitting into my framework.

We decided to go up to my place because Suzie thought her parents were home.

Just as I was growing sure that this was not a camp letter, Steve sailed into a minor writer's block. He used his sunglasses case to shield his writing from the woman sitting in the window seat, who wasn't watching anyway. He worried his lip, wrote a few words and scratched them out. Finally, he moved to a new line and added in a spasmodic burst,

When we were done, we came downstairs.

Steve! You skipped over the most important part!

Our train pulled into the terminal, and Steve packed away his legal pad. I struggled to align the facts into a sensible narrative.

1. Steve is friends with uptight gay-hating guy
   
2. He writes erotic fiction on the train
   
3. He doesn't enjoy it and/or he has no talent for it
   

My conclusion: Steve and Uptight Guy met each other in an Ex-Gay program. Steve was working on his homework assignment.

My Kind of [Entrance to] Town

Two years ago, while on vacation in New Mexico, Rachel stretched her arms out radiantly and declared that this vista before us, popping with mountains, was where her soul felt most at home. "Don't mountains just make you feel right?" she asked me.

I mumbled noncommitedly. They're nice. Mountains, like Broadway musicals, inspire great happiness in other people, and I have nothing against them. I just don't seek them out. Sometimes I feel bad when everyone else is having crazy endorphin rushes and I'm looking at my watch. Am I calibrated incorrectly? Does this lack of mountain-love signal a deeper character problem?

This morning, I woke up early in my New York hotel room. I walked to Zabar's bakery in Grand Central Station, before the big rush of commuters. I prowled the corridors of that big, beautiful train station and took the time to drink in the schedules, the brilliant Zodiac ceiling, and even the informational display about the long-delayed Long Island Rail Road tunnel connecting the Sunnyside yard to Manhattan's East Side. I read it all. I touched the displayed sample of 500 million year old mica schist that the tunnel borers are digging through.

There's going to be a new train station in New York for the first time in 90 years! There hasn't been a new mountain in New Mexico in, like, forever.

Grand Central Station is where I feel that happy tingle that my family was enjoying on the Southwest trip. It reminds me of being a kid and visiting my grandma. I thrill to being part of the rush at salmon spawning speed, and I love standing still, out of the way, and watching the motion from a single vantage point.

I recall a New Yorker cartoon where a woman says "I thought I liked babies, but as it turned out, I mainly like baby clothes." That's kind of how I feel about trains and stations.