My husband often jokes when we go out by warning me, "Now, honey, try not to get pigeon-holed by some random man who tells you his life story, okay?" Because he knows it's an inevitably, as certain as, well, you get the drift.
I always, always, look like that RCA ad with the guy in the chair and his hair blown back? That is sooo me.
Today I was at the Natural History Musee with a friend and his sons and the minute, I mean the absolute minute we walk into the main atrium, I get pigeon-holed by a, it turns out Pakistani man. How do I know? He told me. Along with a lot of other things.
I asked my friend later if this happens to him a lot. Because before he abandoned me to my fate, the man was speaking to both of us. You see, I've often wondered this: is it a gendered thing or is it a race thing? And since we're both East Asian, and he looks nice, I thought I'd perform an spontaneous and informal sociological study. His answer?
"No! That never happens to me!"
"Oh I just wondered. It always happens to me."
He laughed at me. "Well I guess you just have an open, non-judgmental face. All I know is, that *never* happens to me."
So there you are. Apparently it is a fairly unique phenomenon that occurs with some frequency with me.
Gee. I feel so fortunate.
"So what did he tell you? Like about what he did at UCLA?"
"No! He told me, like, the most intimate details of a very sad period in his life!"
My friend laughed so loud, he startled my younger daughter into crying.
"Whoops, sorry! Dude, that is so funny."
"Yeah, well, haha. You're the one who left. And you know what? All I said was that he was young! You know, cuz he kept saying how he didn't want to say how old his son was because then we'd know how old he was? And then he went ahead and told me how old his son was. You know, after you left."
My friend showed absolutely no remorse. None. "And?"
"So his son's in his 30's and he's only 56 so I said he's young. That's it! And then he told me his life story!"
Well, it turned out that…you know what? I’m saving this story for another time because this story has a very amusing denouement.
Clearly,
someone was looking out for me that day. Now, I’m not a religious person but I have
experienced one too many incidents of déjà vu and serendipity to reject the
possibility that there is something, some kind of phenomenon, that is, in a
word, awesome.
First
was lunch. Now, because I like to cook, well, I have this actual passion for food. I find it so ironic
that at one point in my life, I was anorexic because I just adore food. I realize
that I’m one of those supertasters, people who have more taste buds per square
inch on their tongue. I often don’t care what the atmosphere is if the food is
awesome, and I find that shunning chains and glitzy restaurants is the way to
go. Except, admittedly, for Patina group. But on the whole, this is a good
rule.
As
to the food, wherever I am, I adapt. I enjoy fried foods as much as the next
person—possibly even more, though let it be said for Bostonians that Woodman’s
is not as good as Farnham’—and so the
Natural History Museum’s café offered some sort of fried chicken sandwich (uh,
yum, and yum, I’m thinking) and so my oldest daughter chose Mac and Cheese
while I ordered the fried chicken sandwich with, of course, French fries. Well,
evidently the man at the counter was used to parents ordering children’s meals
for themselves as well as their children because he thought I said “grilled
cheese sandwich.” How fried chicken became grilled cheese is anyone’s guess,
but when I excitedly went to the front counter to retrieve our food, it was
with intense dismay that I discovered my fare was to be of the
American-mystery-cheese-melted-between-two-very-white-slices-of-bread. And they
didn’t even use real butter.
Sigh.
However,
at that moment, a random woman who noted that there were three children between
my friend and I came up and offered a perfectly good, uneaten, still in its
container, child’s meal of a hot dog and French fries. She tried reassuring us
it had not been partaken in, but I was already reaching for the thing. “Oh,
yeah, I’ll take that!” I think I may have been a bit unseemly, actually, with
how enthusiastic I was.
At
that point, we began conversing about, what else, food. There is this Korean fried
chicken chain, do not sneer if you
have not had it, that makes the absolute
best fried chicken. Ever. I mean, light. Tender. Moist. And with these sauces
they put on the outside that are to die
for. Ahhh. I have a very discriminating palate and I have had lots of authentic southern fried chicken. From friends and
even my oldest sister’s ex who was born in the south. So I know awesome fried
chicken.
Well,
it was a tragedy. They had closed one of their outlets in a local mall. Yes,
mall. Stop rolling your eyes. It was a good
thing. Until, that is, they closed. He informed me that he was taking a friend
on his first pilgrimage and when they got there, it was with devastation that
he discovered it was closed. I, too, was immediately devastated and promptly
informed my husband.
At
which time a very important and heart-felt texting conversation occurred
regarding the tragic loss of our local Kyochon and why in the world the
population surrounding Fox Hills Mall was unable to support said establishment.
This lasted several minutes. Fortunately, my friend then observed that it was
time to leave the museum, we could swing by the K-town (short for Koreatown,
for those who do not herald from LA), go to the original LA Kyochon and get
some takeout.
If that wasn’t enough, he informed me that our
local CVS was having a sale on a twelve-pack of Belgian beer which included
Leffe Blonde and Dark, as well as Hoegaarden. For, essentially, a dollar a
bottle. Well, this just perked me up no end and despite the fact that I was
strolling over seventy pounds of weight up and down ramps and such, I fairly
skipped towards his car in the parking lot across the street.
I thought, this day can’t get any better, but it
surely did because his son decided that he wanted to ride on daddy’s shoulder. So
there I am, holding my older daughter’s hand while pushing the stroller with my
other hand and he’s to my left. And then, “Aaaaachooooooo!” Yes. All over my
friend’s head.
Well, as any supportive friend should do, I laughed.
I laughed so hard, I had to stop moving and put my hands on my thighs and just
bend over. He laughed half-heartedly and protested, “It’s not that funny!”
Yes, it was.
Initially, his denial was so strong that when I brought up how funny I thought the whole incident was--what are friends for--he said he “forgot”
he wanted to check his hair for any suspicious foreign objects.He was really, really reluctant, clearly, to run his hands through his
hair. The rest of the day, he kept telling himself that after all it was “just
air.”
Really, I did not
think this day could get any better but it did. At the K-town Kyochon, we were
waiting for what was an eternity and out of boredom, and to distract myself
from being my younger child’s high chair for the fifth day in a row (five days
running of taking my two daughters out and entertaining them because of a
two-week spring break), I decided to hug my older daughter and tickle her.
I just love tickling her. That giggle has got to be
the absolute best music I have ever heard. It’s pure joy. Abandon. Enjoyment. It is simply joy to listen
to.
Well, she tends to get pretty crazy trying to
simultaneously scramble away from me while begging for me. Keep in mind we are
sitting in a bench seat. She twists away from me and she claims that she hit my
elbow, though I’m still convinced she hit her face against the back of our
bench (don’t worry, they are cushioned) and…her third tooth fell out!
It was so ready to come out that her other tooth
had already begun to grow underneath and there was very little bleeding.
She was soooo thrilled. As was I. She had wanted it
to come out and it did.
Perfect.
Now, I do recall being very happy with change from
the “Tooth Fairy” when I was a child, but honestly, I don’t give her an
allowance and she is as innocent as the day is long. So I’m having the “Tooth
Fairy” give her a gift certificate for a new pair of inexpensive shoes since
she, like every six year old, is hard on her shoes and she outgrows them
quickly. Besides, it’s been a rough two weeks. Whooping cough. A sprained
ankle. And now whiplash. I think she could use a new pair of shoes, don’t you?
Posts
