Actual Things I Have Actually Said. To People. Out Loud.

Triggers: General Filth

If you haven’t already realized from my previous posts, it is probably a bit of a trial to have me in your life, either as a friend or neighbour, customer or co-worker, or – for my lucky husband – as wife. My thanks, as ever, to my friends (and my husband) who not only put up with me and my weird brand of humour, but who stand by me even as I embarrass them, sometimes in public places.

Who’s Checking Out Whom?

Last minute plans for a late cooked supper brought me to the beautiful organically-inclined food market (not Whole Foods) near us. I chose my items and got in line for checkout. The lovely young man who tended the checkout process was truly lovely, with dark eyes and honeyed skin, thick black hair, sparkling dark eyes. I remember admiring him, and this is relevant, trust me. He greeted me and I asked, as I always do, how he was doing, and I listened, as I always try to do, to the answer. 

“I’m okay,” he said, hiccoughing, “but I’ve had the hiccups all day.” 

“Have you tried…”  and I then proceeded to inquire after all the remedies that he had, no doubt, been hearing from other concerned customers throughout the day:  drinking water from strange positions, being startled, holding one’s breath, eating a spoonful of sugar, reading the news, etc. Nothing, apparently, had worked. I was suitably sympathetic. 

Then, as he leaned towards me to grab one of my items so as to rake it over the scanner, I leaned towards him and murmured, “You know, you are a beautiful man. I think you’re really attractive.”

That was all, but it was enough. He froze, our eyes about 18 inches apart, gazes locked. I waited a beat before saying, in a less intimate tone, “Did that terrify you??”

Another beat, and he burst out laughing. He gushed over my timing, at my having totally drawn him in. I then asked him, “Well, what about your hiccups?”

He paused for a moment of self-appraisal before exclaiming, “They’re gone!!!” 

We laughed, and I assured him that I was going home to my husband, that he didn’t need to worry about the next time he might see me, etc. I saw him only one time after that, from afar, but I was glad to have rendered that small kindness: a woman in her late-40s coming on to the beautiful young man at the checkout and scaring the hiccups out of him.

Too Far?

There is an ill-starred strip of shops on a single block around the corner from our home. Shops here come and go with alarming frequency, are reinvented and reimagined with regularity. These stores include a children’s clothing consignment shop that has seen a few owners in its time and at the time of the encounter described below, ownership had changed yet again. Certain that this would be an improvement – the most recent owner had been a real harridan, a very unpleasant woman – I stopped in to meet the new neighbors. 

Another customer had preceded me. She was talking to the new owner and it was apparent that she, too, had not been a fan of the former owner. “We had a disagreement when last I was in,” she recalled. “She was not a nice person.”

“What happened to her?”, I inquired, always wanting the details. 

“She died,” said the new owner. 

“How did she die? Was she ill?”, I pressed.  

“Well,” the new owner hesitated, “she killed herself.”

The other woman looked as horrified as I felt, and stricken. “I feel terrible!”, she exclaimed, “I fought with her when I was in here last!” 

I thought for a mere second before turning to her and telling her, “That’s probably why she killed herself”. 

She looked at me, stunned, and for an awful second I didn’t know what she was going to do. Then she burst out laughing and, relieved, I joined her. I don’t think the new owner knew what to do or say, but I felt that the customer understood me perfectly:  It wasn’t about you, I was saying, it is tragic and sad, but it wasn’t about you. 

I Was Confused…

A friend on the telephone was doing her best to entice me into joining her on an outing downtown. 

“We can have lunch at the Roman pizza-by-the-slice place, and then we can go…” whereupon she embarked on a series of slurping noises that left me truly perplexed and genuinely in the dark. 

“Wh..what, you’re going to go down on me?”

There followed a silence that I believe I had never heard from her end of the phone, and it lasted long enough that I broke it with a more reasonable question, “What are you suggesting that we do after pizza?”

“Go get some ice cream at Bella Gelateria!”, she choked out. The “you fuckwit” coda to the sentence remained unspoken. 

She laughed, but I think she was a little scared… Oral communication can be a difficult thing.

And Jewelry Is A Personal Thing

Before my first-ever trip to Italy, I took an Italian conversation class at the Italian Cultural Centre. One evening’s exercise had us partnering with a classmate and planning a trip to an assigned Italian City. Then, we shared our adventures with the rest of the class.

My partner was a very earnest woman who was about twenty years my junior, and the two of us ‘went’ to Modena. Her itinerary for our day was modest but predictable, including as it did a few museums with pretty art, the outside market with many interesting things to buy, and some fine meals with delicious food and very delicious wine. I took the exercise a bit too seriously, however, using it as an excuse to try out my Italian vocabulary and to inject a little excitement into our imaginary trip.

And so, allora: finding ourselves in Modena, I thought it appropriate to begin my description of our day with us on the square (la piazza) enjoying a luscious glass of Modena balsamic vinegar for which the town is famous and which,

I stated, neither of us enjoyed drinking all that much. Then we went to the market (Il Mercato) where I was able to exercise my jewelry-oriented vocabulary. Yes, I’d made a point of learning the vocabulary for things I’d want on my actual trip to Italy; I wanted to be prepared when faced with the glories of Italian jewelry. And so I related, to the captive and very patient class, how I tried on le collane (necklaces), gli anelli (rings), una corona (a tiara), i bracciolini (bracelets), gli orecchini (earrings) and – here I paused and asked my teacher, in English, “How do you say ‘nipple clamps’?” My partner was horrified, but my teacher was somewhat used to my humour at that point and she laughed, as did most of my other classmates.

The following week, I was able to inform the class exactly how to ask for nipple clamps. I pass on this wisdom to you so that you, too, can get what you need when you’re next in Italy. (You’re welcome!):

Nipple Clamps = Le pinzette stringicapezzoli OR I morsetti per capezzoli

Chequing Me Out

I was with the same friend as in #3, this time in person and in Costco. It was in the old, primitive days before I had figured out I could pay with a debit card rather than with an old-timey cheque, and I was writing one on that day for the 8 pack of LED mini-flashlights, the gel pillow that I needed (and still love, gotta say) and all of the other joys that Costco provides. It is a wonderful, terrible place, Costco is, full of seductive Siren cries from the 3.5lb bags of peanut M&Ms that recognize the Odysseus in me; persuasive cooing and pleading from the discount books in the store’s center; a background sibilance of whispers from the multiple packs of things you had no idea you needed (let alone knew they existed) and certainly not in those quantities…

Back at the checkout, I wrote a cheque for my purchases. My cheques bear only my husband’s and my names on them, first initial only; no address or phone number or astrological sign, no mother’s maiden name or first pet’s name or the name of my elementary school. When I handed over the cheque for my purchases, the young man running the register asked me to note my address on the top of the cheque. I complied, and he compared it to my driver’s license, looking at it long enough that I could imagine he was memorizing my birthday and noting the height of my curly ‘fro. He then requested that I add my phone number. Again, I complied, and as I handed him the cheque yet a third time I leaned in and whispered to him, suggestively, “Call me…”.  My friend thought it was hilarious and the young man, bless his heart, also laughed, probably from relief when he realized that I wasn’t actually hitting on him. There is nothing like Costco to bring people together.

Over-Sharing At Work

The hour was late at the cancer agency in Boston, a good time to finish off my administrative chores, when a colleague/friend popped her head into my office door and let me know that she was off to her Jenny Craig diet program check-in. 

“I’m going to get weighed,” she said. 

“So wong,” I replied.

She blushed to her eartips, smiled and waved me off.

And finally…

   

Hello, Kitty!

I took care of our neighbour’s geriatric cat for a week or so, always a pleasure and certainly nothing for which I expect anything more than a verbal “thanks!”. But these neighbours/friends always tend towards generosity, and on this occasion they added a touch of intimacy in their gesture of gratitude, presenting me with a lovely gift bag which included some personal unguents and a small vibrator.

A few weeks went by. On day, I ran into one of the couple as he was about to get into his car. He asked me how I had enjoyed their little gift? I didn’t mind the question but if you know me (and after more than a quarter century he knows me well enough), you know to be careful what you ask for. I did not disappoint: I told him, “That vibrator just about burned my clit off!”

He looked at me for another few seconds before getting into his car and driving away.