Category Archives: Characters

I’m Your Fire, Your Desire

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When I pulled into the drive-thru Starbucks this morning, it looked like gridlock on the 405, so I parked next door and decided to walk in.  On my way past the front door, I was greeted by an extremely fragrant hobo and his hobo wife, Nadine. I only her name is Nadine because she put out her foot when I approached and said through the handful of rotten teef she had left (and I do mean teef), “I’m Nay-DEEN and nobody done passes Nay-DEEN without good mornins.” Her accent is probably charming… for the lead singer of a jug band, but I could barely understand her.

So, I went around her, but said good morning anyway. Eau du Hobo stood up as I reached for the door, staring me in the eye while rummaging in a bucket.  I got a little worried for a split second, but then he produced a half-eaten roll of Mentos that looked like it had been run over by a car a few times.

“Look at you!  You are a Golden Goddess of Venutia!” as he waved the Mentos around.  “You are a vision, a Venutia vision!  Look at her, NAY-deen!  She’s a Venutian and I’m just a big ugly alien!  Aren’t I, NAY-deen? From Maaaaarrrrrrrrs!”

Insert big stinky hobo grin here.  Then he offered me a Mentos.

I smiled… I couldn’t help it!  I declined, of course, but I smiled. I mean, come on!  An employee came outside on the tail end of that exchange to tell Smelly and Nadine to move it along because their cart was blocking the doorway and as I followed her back inside to get in line, she turned around and said, “Nothing like an ego boost first thing in the morning, huh?” with a wink.

By the time I got back outside, Stinkpot and Nadine were gone.  My coffee this morning was awful — they must have poured me the dregs of the pot, but the trip was worth it for the hobos alone. I just wish I’d given them my $2.25.

Like They Do on the Discovery Channel

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GFI and I have acquired a new regular at Casa Cocktail (that’s my building — I just decided it needed a name for reference purposes).  Well, we haven’t — Slick has.  He’s got a new girlfriend.  This while the seat on his old girlfriend’s bike that lives on the landing is still warm. But whatever, I’m not here to judge him on his relationship decisions.  I’m here to mock his new girlfriend. Duh.

Let me give you a basic schematic of our building.  If you’re looking at it from the front, I’m on the bottom right, GFI’s on top of me, Slick is to her left and downstairs from him, Nurse New York.  So, we share walls, specifically that one main wall and ceiling/floor where all of our apartments connect.  On our side of the wall, GFI and I have our bathrooms. On the other side?  Slick and NNY have their respective bedrooms.  You can see where this is going.  Oh yeah.

Now, we never hear a peep from NNY. Once in a while I’ll hear her on the phone in her room, but usually she’s off being busy and nursey. However, Slick and his new girlfriend get downright National Geographic up in here!  National. Geographic.  It’s insane.  GFI and I have dubbed her Project X because when she and Slick go at it, it sounds like caged chimps.  Forty caged chimps.

One night on the terrace, GFI tells me that she had to brush her teeth in the kitchen because the thought that a mere 2-foot wall and a medicine cabinet was all that separated her from Slick’s grunting body was just too much to bear.  Then, the next night, I could hear them going at it from the living room.  When I went into the bathroom, it was like they were humping at the Hollywood Bowl it was so loud. 

[insert chimp screams here]

I think last week, mikey came by and he came out of the bathroom saying, “Dude. You can hear your neighbor and his girlfriend going at it.” Oh yes, I’m aware.  They seem to have no concept of time, which is fine. It’s monkeys in the morning, monkeys in the night, monkeys in the afternoon.  (And yes, I know chimps aren’t monkeys.) Hey, I’m all for sex at any time of day. Spontaneity is fabulous… don’t get me wrong, but I try to keep in mind that perhaps the entire neighborhood doesn’t want to hear the result of “my O face”, as it were. And from what I understand, I also don’t sound like a B-grade Matthew Broderick movie.

It really doesn’t bother me all that much… I think it’s pretty funny, actually. Especially now that we have a good name for her. It makes it all that much more entertaining, but I know it’s bugging GFI. Their monkey love woke her from a dead sleep the other night… that’s no good.  So I think next time we’re all out on the terrace, I’m going to warmly rib him about this new girlfriend and suggest that he move his bed to the opposite wall.  Hint, hint. Nudge. Nudge.

Now, props to Slick. He’s either really good (which is just not something I wish to consider) or she’s been watching too much porn and needs to refine her faking technique, but either way, let a girl wash her face in peace, would ya?  Sheesh!

The Really Long One Where I Say Creepy More Times Than I Can Count

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Last Friday night, I grabbed a bottle of vodka from my freezer, a jar of blue cheese olives, threw on my coat and climbed upstairs to GFI’s place for some ‘tinis on the terrace.  Before I could even made it to her door, Slick poked his head out his screen door and said, “OOo!  Are we having martinis?  I’ve got my own vodka!” and he ran over like an eager kid with his own bottle of Kettle One.  So, there we were, neighbors hangin’ out, having vodka. 

About half a martini later (I know, I don’t know what was up with that), I left to go to Target but when I came back, there was some guy up on the terrace with GFI and Slick. It was dark and I couldn’t see who he was, but GFI shouted down to me, “This is Chester!  You’ve got to come up and meet Chester!” I wasn’t really in the mood, it was cold, but she sounded like she really wanted me up there and I didn’t like her being up there in the dark with two guys, one a total stranger.

So I got up and there’s Chester.  He’s an older guy, like in his 60’s with white thinning hair, a golf shirt, jeans and white tennis shoes.  He looks slightly grizzled, like he’s spent time in a whiskey bottle and smelled a bit like it, too.  He was swigging a beer and moments after introducing ourselves, he tells me he’s had half a bottle of tequila before he came upstairs to meet the neighbors.  Charming.

Anyway, this guy is kind of creepy.  He’s lived in our building for 3 years on the opposite side and is a chauffeur. He’s got a town car and a Corvette he parks in the back. We’d never met him or even seen him before Friday night.  Something about the way he looked at me made me really uncomfortable, same with GFI.  He has this wide thin smile (slightly open-mouthed but doesn’t show teeth) and kinda beady eyes that make him look like Robin Williams and Jonathan Winter had a lovechild.  He was nice, so I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but I’m usually a pretty good judge of character.  I usually know how to call it and this guy… he just didn’t sit well with me.  But again, I didn’t want to make snap judgments about a half-drunk stranger in the dark.

(Why do I feel like I’ve said that before?)

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The Weekend Warrior

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I’ve been getting to know my neighbors a bit here and there.  The English Couple from across the street invited GFI and I over for a drink during the holidays, which we’ve not had a chance to do yet, but I think we will soon. They’re really a nice older couple and I’m dying to see their backyard (what I can see of it looks pretty sweet).

I know the guy upstairs next to GFI in Furley’s old apartment.  We call him Slick. Then there’s The Lawyer next to him. Downstairs from him is Granola Guy and between the two of us lives a really cool nurse. I have no name for her other than her first name, so for the purposes of this blog, we’ll just call her Nurse New York.  In the building next to us is Crazy Pajama Bird Man.  He’s got parrots, a poor relationship with his baby mama and can often be found outside in too-big socks and ratty pajama bottoms using a cherry-picker to trim the trees.  And finally, also in the building next door, we have The Patio Lesbians.  Man, those women sure love their patio.

I figured I’d gotten to know enough of the characters for a while, but that was before the man next door to The English Couple got a Harley for Christmas.

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Burgess Fisherman and the Discount Diaper Cream

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Sunday morning, I was up super early and ran out to the grocery store to pick up some peppermint extract. (I hand-rolled 100 homemade chocolate truffles in 4 different flavors. Go on, call me Bree again. tongue wink.) Afterward, I realized it was only about 10 minutes until Target opened, so I pulled into the parking lot and waited. I needed some jellyroll pans.

About 7 minutes till opening, I decided to get out and stretch my legs while other shoppers started to congregate around the front doors.I sauntered up after them and milled around the front door with a brood of moms I would not want to mess with. Those women were there for a Wii and by god, they were going to get one. They all had their running shoes and game faces on.  I was actually a little concerned. I felt the need to let them know I had no interest in Wii and wish them luck lest they think me opposition and beat me down on my way to the cookie sheets.

There was another man standing near me who looked kind of like a cross between a weathered fisherman and Burgess Meredith in Rocky.  Standing about 5 feet away and without us making any eye contact whatsoever, he suddenly turns to me and says, “I like your coat. I used to have a coat just like that.”

“Thank you,” I said and smiled.  Wrong answer.

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Debbie Diapers and the Amazing Technology Craptacular

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When I opened this post and titled it, I thought I wanted to write the whole sordid double-feature story of the Little Router That Couldn’t and The Pokey Little Cell Phone.  But I seriously don’t even want to get into what has been my own personal electronics hell for the last few days, so I’m just going to jump right into the highlight of my hell — Debbie Diapers, some miscreant mom in the parking lot of the Sprint store.

I dragged mikey to the Sprint store yesterday with me in a fit of “I’m Getting a New Phone Before I Throw This Against the Wall” and parked next to us was a fairly nice black town car of some sort.  Mike got out of the driver’s side and as I was about to exit the passenger side, I noticed a woman slowly making her way from the passenger seat of the town car.  She saw me waiting for her, but she took her sweet time.  I realized she had a very wee baby with her, so I took a deep breath and tried to be patient. Finally, she rolls out of the car with her baby and starts to walk away.

Using his Spidey Sense, Mike immediately ran over to the town car, bent over and looked underneath.  The look on his face said it all.  Oh yeah.  Diaper..  Used, stinky, poo-laden, stranger-person’s diaper left in the parking lot.  That has long been a “thing” with me… I hate littering of any sort, I hate it. But leaving a napkin on a table is a far cry from leaving feces under your Lincoln. We have laws against leaving your dog crap on the ground, you’d think that it would be understood that people crap is pretty much a no-go.

It was confirmed that yes, there is, indeed, a diaper under the car and I noticed that as the woman was walking away, she glanced back at us a few times. I was certain she knew we were talking about her.  Perhaps it was my, “She did WHAT!?” that tipped her off.

So, anyway, maybe it was my already foul mood, but I’d had enough.  I figured, “Who cares? I’m never going to see this woman again. What’s she going to do?  Shank me?” While she was still a good few hundred feet ahead of us, she entered the Sprint store. How convenient!  With purpose I marched right through the doors, right past the front desk helper girl (mike stopped to give her the dish) and straight up to Debbie Diapers, who was standing with her assumed husband at the counter.  In a voice loud enough for people nearby to hear, but not loud enough that I looked like a crazy person, it went a little like this:

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Fiddy Wouldn’t Front

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I’ve not been feeling well lately.  Nothing catastrophic, just a bit of a summer bug, I think.  So, I dragged my sorry self out to the grocery store. I figured it would do me some good to get out in the fresh air and off the couch, plus, I really needed some diet 7-up and saltine crackers.

I’m standing in the last aisle of the store (seriously, why do they put the soda and the crackers way at the end by the tampons and dog food?), deciding between fat-free and regular multi-grain saltines for a good couple minutes and noticed a woman out of the corner of my eye, perusing the soda.  To paint a picture for you, she was a heavyset black woman, wearing skin-tight orange stretch pants, a poncho, a knit beanie, flip flops and sunglasses.  She had her own unique style I guess. She reminded me a lot of Big Shirl from What’s Happening only with Paris Hilton-style paparazzi glasses — for all that press we get in the snack aisle. Anyway, she turns to me out of nowhere and exclaims, “Giiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrl!  Why they trippin’ like dat?”

Startled, I looked around and smiled at her in that, “I’m not entirely sure what you’re on about and I am friendly, but please do not encroach on my personal space” sort of way.  She started going off on this rant about how soda costs nothing to make and how could those “soda folks be all frontin’ like dat!”?  I was polite and laughed where appropriate. I was cordial while she went on about how she got the “2 litter” apple green tea for only “fiddy cent” at the dollar store and “these co-prit mothafuckas are robbin’ us!  Just robbin’ and frontin’!”

Apparently, the “frontin’” didn’t sit too well with my new friend because she started shuffling all the 2 “litters” all over the shelf, putting things back in different places, determined to undermine the “soda-frontin’ mofos”, as she put it.  After a few seconds of this, I wished her a good day and tried to scoot before she roped me into some crazy Thelma & Louise crime rampage that might leave me flashing a Coca-Cola truck driver or taking the store manager hostage over an overpriced bottle of Yoo-Hoo.  I’m not going off a cliff for Big Shirl.

As I finally turned the corner, she was moving on to the other end of the aisle and she stopped and called out, “You know, you cool, sugar.  Wanna help me mess up some of that toilet paper?”

Tempting… but no, thank you.

Trigger Happy Jack

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I’ll call him Jack. Not because his name was really Johnathan, but because I can’t remember his name.  I’d just moved to Dallas and didn’t know anyone, so I used this fine phenomenon, the internet, to meet people.

Jack was a writer, a literary genius.  Jack was dark and self-deprecating.  He’d lived in Prague.  I was sick of the bullshit of online dating and decided to cut to the chase.  After one day of conversation, I said, “Let’s meet and get it over with.”

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Whispering Punanni & Slick Dick

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I hate Whisperers.  You know those people I’m talking about—those that find it necessary to get right in your personal space and whisper at you, for usually one of two reasons: they’re gossiping about something you don’t give a rat’s ass about or they’re just smarmy like that.

I have two such people in my office.  One is a girl I’ve dubbed Whispering Punanni because my friend GeeDub says that he can smell her business when she’s over whispering at his desk.  She’s always gossiping about something, usually something as thrilling as last night’s hoochie extravaganza involving apple martinis.  I can hear her whispering way over at my desk.  You can almost hear the spittle.  Whispering Punanni is part of a clan I call the Halter-Top Broads™.  You know, the type of girls who care what kind of car you drive, have rhinestones on their toenails and compare themselves to the characters on Sex in the City.

The other guy is someone I call Slick Dick.  You know the one.  The one who calls people “Guy” as in, “Hey guy, do you have that file for me?” He has an intimate relationship with his mousse.  He wears slip on Kenneth Cole mules with stripped socks, grinds his Starbucks at his desk and smacks of smarm.  He often sidles up to me, completely oblivious to my intentional lack of eye-contact, lest I inadvertently invite him to converse with me, and whispers something like, “Hey Jo…how you doin’?” then he’ll swallow and wink.  Piss off.

Jo.  He calls me Jo.  The few and privileged call me Jo.  My name is Joelle, dude. Not “guy”, not “babe”, and certainly, not Jo.  So why don’t you take your new age tuchus out of my personal space and take Punanni with you.