The 300 (Minus 60)

A while back I wrote a post likening my low white blood cell count to The 300. Yesterday I went in for a followup to see how many of them were still alive and if they'd perhaps enlisted new members.

They have not.

I like my hematologist, but she has a very strange bedside manner. She came in and immediately asked, "How are you today?" Normally, that's just a simple pleasantry. With her it was a genuine question that would be followed by a furled brow and further questioning.

How are you today?
Fine.
You don't feel sick or anything?
No.
Are you taking any medications?
No.
Nothing at all?
No.
No herbal supplements?
No.
Nothing from GNC? Maybe something you bought online?
No.
And you're not sick?
No.
Were you sick recently?
No.
Hmm. (Confused look)
Is something wrong?
(Deep breath) Well...

A lot of words came out of her mouth after that. I prefer to stick with my 300 analogy:
Draw blood from someone and you'll find an army of white blood cells. Draw my blood and you only get 300 guys, but they're Spartans. They can get the job done (expeditiously). Well apparently Sparta is going through it's own sequestration and defense cuts must have caused them to lay off some guys...like 20%.

We're now the 240!

I know it doesn't have the same ring to it, but I'm trying to stay positive here. So was my doctor. For the record, I think I'm doing a better job than she was.

Okay, so it's not like you have cancer or anything. I mean, I can't guarantee you'll NEVER get it, but for now you're okay. And I mean I really believe this is benign, so you should be fine. [insert awkward pause and furled brow...again] It's just...I've never seen the number this low. And you're sure you feel okay?

At that point I did feel a slight pain in my chest where the confidence in my health used to be. She told me about a procedure they could do to see if I have bone marrow (or enough of it or something like that). They'd give me steroids and then wait four hours to see if more Spartans would come running. I was all for that until...

But I mean, it really isn't conclusive and everything would still go back down. We'd just know that your body was capable of making more.

I then asked, But what if it doesn't make more? Could you... fix it or something?

No. We'd just have you come in more often. There really wouldn't be anything we could do, which is why I don't really see a point in doing it.

She took the next few minutes to reassure me that she thought I'd be okay. But...
With numbers like this, if you ever get a fever I would definitely rush to the emergency room. [insert blank stare from me]

Like, are we talking a high fever or...?
Anything over 100, I'd suggest you go to the ER.

Rather than explain how much my ER copay is, I just decided to regale her with my tales of surviving past fevers. She was astounded.

Wow. With these numbers? Well, just use your best judgment I guess.

I'd like to thank my grandmother once again for all of her home remedies (baking soda, ginger ale and Go somewhere and sit down! ) I have no doubt that her concoctions gave the 300 240 the strength to protect me.

Dear Metro

Dear Metro,

(Curse word) (Curse word)(Curse word)(Curse word)(Curse word)(Curse word)(Curse word)(Curse word)(Curse word)!

Wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Yesterday was very stressful for me. I had to rehash some things that are already unpleasant and extremely challenging, so by 4:30 my brain had decided to go home early for the day. Riding around with co-parent, I was unable to even remember how to get to my daughter's daycare. I saw the infamous K Street traffic in front of me as I made a wrong turn and realized that I was just one more bad thing away from having a Michael Douglas "Falling Down" moment. I pulled over, told her that I was gonna walk the rest of the way, and we'd see her tomorrow.

Walking is my go-to stress reliever. Many a crisis has been averted thanks to a long walk. So, I walked about eight blocks to the daycare and picked up mini-me. We walked another eight blocks from there to the subway where we made a mad dash through the station to catch the mythical train that was supposed to be coming in 2 minutes. It was only after I paid to go through the gate that I noticed the million man march gathering on the platform.

My daughter doesn't do crowds, and to her credit, there were a lot of people making even me concerned about being just one nudge away from a 750 volt rail. Three minutes later, I realized that the sign was still stuck at two minutes. A woman explained to me that it had been that way for at least ten. It was now 5:06 and all of the cubicle monkeys were fleeing their cages. The station was really packed now. My daughter lost her cool. Cue: meltdown.

The train arrived mid-meltdown and wouldn't you know it, it was packed. No one made it on or off. I didn't even try. I was having a hard enough time managing the expectations of the people who thought they could attempt to trample me as I carried mini-me and not feel the wrath of the folded metal umbrella stroller. They erased the times for the next train arrivals. Apparently there was a power outage at another station, so...yeah.

We left, which, as any Washingtonian can tell you, still costs you money even if you didn't actually go anywhere. I considered catching the bus, but that idea was scrapped when I saw 200 pissed off people have the exact same idea. So... I put her in the stroller and started walking. A nice clock in front of a bank told me that it was 101 degrees outside. I doubt it was that cool. We stuck to the shadows like the Batmen we are, and every two blocks I made my daughter drink some water.

There's an old saying in DC that I just made up that goes: Once you've walked half the distance to your destination and the bus still hasn't come...you might as well walk the rest of the way.

And that's exactly what I did. I walked 4.3 miles...uphill...in church shoes. And I sang Black or White the entire way because that is my daughter's new favorite song and seeing her do the head twist and shoulder shake movements from the end of the video was the only thing letting me know that she wasn't having a heat stroke.  It didn't even occur to me that yesterday was the anniversary of Michael's return back to Neverland or wherever the hell he ended up. Wherever he is, I like to imagine that they have a desert there and he's in the middle of it still having a dance-off with that claymation bunny from the Speed Demon video.

 

We Are the World

Random Word Generator
(For those times when I have absolutely nothing to write about)

Poster
Hmmm. This is random. Does anyone else remember back in '92 when Batman Returns was about to come out, and people kept going around stealing the movie posters out of the bus stop shelters in DC? It would be really interesting/cool/sad to walk in someone's house 21 years later (yes, it's been that long) and see one of those up on their wall.

Cards
I knew this day would come. I have a confession to make: I wasn't always squeaky clean. There was a time when I was a stone cold criminal. I didn't care what I took or who I hurt. The year was 1985 and three-year-old me asked my mother for a box of Ghostbusters cereal. She said no. I just remember thinking, "If she won't buy me food then I know she won't buy me these." I picked the item up, put it in my pocket and walked right out of the store. I was so coldblooded that I waited until I got to church to start playing with them. It was a pack of  "The Jacksons Victory World Tour" trading cards and stickers. My mother saw me and beat the hell out of me right there on the pew. I remember looking up and seeing Jesus' face...literally. My church has a giant painting of Jesus on the wall. From behind teary eyes, it looked like He was shaking his head. I never stole again.

Teddy Bear
For my Kindergarten graduation I received a Teddy Ruxpin. It was a momentous occasion. I played with him for all of two minutes before I got another dose of good news. In a rare "never to be seen again" moment, my mother AND father decided that we'd go to the movies to see Who Framed Roger Rabbit...together. It was a day for the record books. The whole way home I was excited. I'd just moved on to 1st Grade, we went to see a movie that I wanted to see in the regular theater and I didn't have to wait for it to go to the dollar movie, and I was going home to play with my new best friend, Teddy Ruxpin.

I got home and Teddy was nowhere to be found. I screamed like my child had been kidnapped. Eventually I found him face down in a bucket next to the kitchen trash. I screamed like it was a human body. "GRANDMA! WHAT HAPPENED!" Her story is that she saw it on the couch, picked it up and then it started talking. She thought it had "the devil in it" and threw into the kitchen.

My Graduation
Okay, this one isn't random, but that Teddy Ruxpin story reminded me of something. I'm playing my Kindergarten graduation over and over in my head and I still can't decide where the line is between my rosy memory of it and the reality of how cheesy it was.

As is true today, I was always one of the shortest ones in the group. I think I was either first or second to walk in. There were pieces of brown masking tape randomly placed on the floor and stage. One piece was where we were supposed to stop at the entrance to the multipurpose room. Then the teacher would start playing "We Are the World" on this brown box-looking DCPS-issued record player and we could start walking in when Lionel Ritchie started singing. "Wait for the person ahead of you to get to the second piece of tape before you start walking. Take one step then stop. Take another step then stop. It's a march, not a walk." I don't know why I still remember that clear as day.

I also remember all 15-20 of us being at our seats long before the song was over, so we just stood there with our hands at our sides until it went off. I memorized everyone's part, because my memory was strange back then too, so my job was to be ready in case someone else got cold feet or forgot. It wasn't done tactfully. If they were at the mic and forgot a line, then I just yelled it out. "PARIS FRANCE IS THE FASHION CENTER OF THE WORLD!"

That's another thing. There was no theme or logic to our graduation. We just got up and said random stuff. It wasn't even stuff we learned throughout the year. I think the teacher was trying to keep her job by making it look like we were recapping our many lessons from the school year. It should've been obvious when we jumped from topic to topic. After that Paris thing, we talked about the cherry blossoms downtown, African drums, and then...the least logical or school related:

All of the boys had to stand up and move to the back of the stage. We counted to ten and then started walking slowly to the front while shouting:
We love Doug Williams
with all our heart
He made us proud
and he's given us a start
He's the best quarterback
we could ever send
to the Super Bowl
with the Redskins
(count to four in your head then lift your fist over your head)
HAIL TO THE REDSKINS!!!

After it was over, we all stood up on stage and marched off to Tevin Campbell's, "Tomorrow (A Better You, A Better Me)."

[caption id="attachment_3416" align="alignnone" width="604"] We are the world, we are the children...[/caption]

It's A Beautiful Day...

Those damned ninjas with their onions!

You know what? I'm not even ashamed to admit it. I'm sitting here reading this article on Buzzfeed about Mr. Rogers, and it has me tearing up a little bit. He had to be the most genuinely nice man on Earth. When I was little, Mr. Rogers was the show I hated to watch, but couldn't turn the channel.

For starters, he talked directly to the camera. That screwed me up as a little kid, because I thought he could see me. I'm not ashamed to admit that I used to talk back to the screen.
"Hi neighbor!"
"Hi Mr. Rogers."
"I hope you're having a good day."
"Not really. My grandmother won't let me go outside, but I...Oh, you're just gonna cut me off. Okay. Well, yeah I guess we can go to the land of make believe, but I'd like to come back to why I'm sad."

He dumbfounded me, because he was so nice...and patient. I wasn't used to adults talking to me like that. When I was in Kindergarten my teacher used to tell us to "Put your head down and be quiet! It's time for y'all to take a nap and I'm trying to watch my stories." Meanwhile I could hear the announcer on the portable TV in her desk drawer, "The Young and the Restless. Sponsored, in part, by Crest!"

I feel bad, because as a kid I didn't really know what to do with that kind of unconditional support and niceness. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't like my family was sending me to work in the salt mines or something, but we're talking about an 'up and coming' black family in the 80s. They were grooming me to go out and face crack-era DC. My grandmother is the same one who taught me to brew my own cup of Folgers on the stove in a pot before walking myself to school in the morning. Clearly, "It's A Beautiful Day In The Neighborhood" was not the mood in my house.

Anyway, I feel bad because after First or Second Grade, Mr Rogers seemed corny to me. Life had taught me that no one talked like him in the real world. It wasn't even safe to go in some of my neighbors' houses, yards or personal space without express permission from my mother or grandmother.

A new guy moved in the neighborhood once and baked everyone a cake and then went door to door introducing himself. It looked so good, and I salivated as my grandmother carried it from the door and straight to the trash can. "You can't trust people." Another neighbor moved in and hoisted me and another kid over his shoulders and into the air so that we could "fly" like Superman. She 'cussed' him out! Then I got an impromptu lecture, "Intro to Pedophilia." I was five.

Whether she was paranoid or not, I'll never know. What I do know is that I spent way too much of my childhood watching the news and reading the paper, and her concerns were definitely grounded in reality. The world was screwed up, and I had to be careful. "People aren't nice without an agenda."

A few years ago I watched either and episode of Biography or E! True Hollywood Story where they basically said that Mr Rogers was the real deal. None of it was an act. It brought everything full circle, and I can't really explain it, but it made me happy and sad at the same time. What does it say about our society that, by seven years old, some of us have already ruled out niceness and decency? It took another twenty years of life experience to realize that it's possible that there really are some decent people in the world. What could we all have become if we could've cut out the middle?

Since I'm being totally honest here, I'll admit that I actually went back and watched a few episodes recently. Over the past few months so many "life events" have occurred. It's the kind of stuff that can seriously cripple one's self esteem and sense of self worth. Mr Rogers looked right through my computer screen and said, "I like you just the way you are. Life is special, because you're in it."

Best neighbor I never had

Father's Day Recap

Ever so often I get a private message from someone who says that I make parenthood seem so fun and that they can't wait to have kids. I believe in truth in advertising, so I feel a duty to share both sides of the coin. If you read yesterday's post, your heart may have grown two sizes too big. Allow me to put it back the way it was.

My day began yesterday with a parade.

[caption id="attachment_3411" align="alignnone" width="604"] Aerial shot of the "Ordale J Allen 'Father of the Year' Parade[/caption]

A lot of people will take the self-righteous route and say that being a father is its own reward. These people are lying to you, and you may want to question your friendship with them. Being a father is great, but rewards and/or monetary donations are gladly accepted. The very first thing I asked my co-parent for was sleep. We alternate days with "the child" and on the weekend that often results in one person waking up at 6 with her and calling the other person around eight to tag them into the battle. My gift yesterday was a hefty dose of ZzzQuil and the right to sleep until God decided I should wake up. I slept for ten hours and it was everything that I imagined it could be.

Unlike entry-level parents, I've figured this thing out. My daughter isn't even three yet, so the concept of "it's Daddy's day" means absolutely nothing to her. In truth, Father's Day at this age is less a day of appreciation and more a day of recertification. My daughter put me through the ringer yesterday. After my great sleep and parade, I was treated to lunch at Red Lobster. It was naptime, so there was a minor meltdown, but co-parent took care of it. After lunch, however, it was all downhill.

"Let the Tantrum of Fire commence!"

Somehow a "quick" stop at Target turned into a 2.5 hour experience. I ended up taking my daughter to the car for the last 20-30 minutes where she did everything but steal the car and run over pedestrians. I popped something in my lower spine while trying to wrangle her into the car seat, and then she and I went home. Unable to move freely and seriously questioning the assertion that generic ibuprofen is as effective as real Advil, I spent the next few hours realizing just how nonthreatening I am to my daughter.

Attempts to distract her with Finding Nemo and Toy Story were unsuccessful as all she wanted to do was play and run around and serve as a host body for Zuul. She took a quick power nap which gave her enough energy to move at full speed, but did nothing for her temperament, and I spent most of the time feeling my heartbeat through my vertebrae. I decided to put her to bed early, so that I could go to bed early and sleep off some of that pain. Whereas I normally go to sleep around 11 or 12, I was out like a light at 10:00.

That light was cut back on at 10:22 by my daughter's shrill thanks to a nightmare or just her realization that there was still an hour and thirty-eight minutes left in "Recertification Day." I jumped up in pure panic from the sound and then fell back down in pain and slowly limped over to her aid. I took her to the bathroom, told her everything would be alright, and put her back to sleep. By 10:50 I was back asleep, and then awake again at 10:58, because she wasn't tired anymore.

We played that affectionate game where you sit on the floor next to her bed because your back hurts too bad to stand up and you keep rubbing her back and trying to get her to go to sleep before just giving up and crawling back to your own bed with her behind you thinking it's a game where she's supposed to climb on your back and snap whatever parts of your spine are still intact. Yeah, that one.

She ended up getting in the bed with me and, through the power of suggestion (slapping and kicking the hell out of me), convinced me to just sleep at the edge of the bed. Two hours later she woke up again and I just gave up on sleep. Maybe it was delirium, but I realized that sleep was the enemy. If I could learn to let go of the archaic notion of rest, then I wouldn't be so frustrated at that moment. It was a zen moment.

At some point the sun came up, I made her breakfast that she didn't eat and I took her to daycare. Someone said something about, "Did you have a nice Father's Day," and I smiled to keep from crying...and now here I am writing this post. The upside is that this license to be a daddy is good for another 364 days.

Happy Me Day!

Did I ever tell you the story about the fettuccine alfredo? No? Pull up a chair.

The year was 1997 and tenth grade me took a girl out on a date to Uno's. Don't laugh, but both of us came from "humble" upbringings, so Uno's was fancy to us at the time. Now keep in mind that my upbringing was so full of humility that I didn't have my first steak until I was nineteen. If you can understand that, then this next part won't make you laugh too much. I wanted to impress the girl, so I ordered what sounded like a fancy dish to me: Blackened Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo. I didn't know what the hell it was. I honestly expected something that looked like a cornish hen with some type of fancy stuffing inside. I thought that maybe "fe-too-seen" was some kind of cheese. (Go ahead and laugh)

Obviously, I was surprised when a plate of noodles in some kind of white sauce was put down in front of me with cut-up pieces of chicken inside. I hid my surprise, however, and played along when the waiter asked if I wanted him to grate some cheese into it. "Of course, it's not complete without that." In my head, I was thinking, "At least I was right about "fe-too-seen" being a kind of cheese. (It wasn't)

The rest of the date isn't even worth mentioning. We went to the movies. I walked her home. Blah, blah, blah. All that stands out is how good that fettuccine was. I don't know why this is true, but people often remember their first experience with something as better than it actually was. I went back to that Uno's many times and never came across another plate that was as good as that first time. Hell, I've had alfredo of much better quality from dozens of places over the years, but for some reason that first time stands out to me as the best thing I'd ever tasted. That is until about a few months ago.

I learned how to make a decent alfredo sauce from scratch several years ago. It's not hard, but I have my bougie moments, so the super expensive parmesan isn't always in my budget. One particular day, however, I made some and it was phenomenal. Heaven and Earth moved, and Gabriel blew his trumpet when I stirred that spoon in the pot the last time. It was finished. And you know what? It was WAY better than that meal I remembered from Uno's all those years ago.

I had just enough left over for the next day. It was so good that I decided to forgo it at lunch and just wait to eat it for dinner. It's sad, but I looked forward to it all day. I fantasized about it on the way home from my daughter's daycare. We got home and I heated up the last of her favorite meal, smoked sausage and macaroni and cheese casserole. She had her plate at the table and I started heating up mine. I heated it up on stove just because it was too good to go into a microwave. I put my garlic bread in the oven and about five minutes later, I was ready.

I got to the table and as I sat down I noticed that my daughter's plate was completely empty. It was like that scene in Jurassic Park when the raptors ate the cow. I swear that there were teeth marks in the plate. "Oh, you're done? Well, you can go look at TV." But she didn't move. Instead she gave me the same look that she had on her face before she started eating. It's the "Feed the Children" look. "Can I have some more?"

"Oh, I'm sorry sweetie. That was it. You ate a whole plate."
"Hungry. Can I have some more?"
"You ate all of it. That's it. There is no more."
"Pasta?"

I could lie and write something funny about how I had an internal debate. "You can make more kids. This pasta is unique!" But the truth is that there was no debate. The look on her face was sincere. She was still hungry. It was a growth spurt. She ate all of her leftovers and outside of giving her a hot dog, which I try to limit to once every week or two, there wasn't much left in the fridge that I could whip up right away. The sequence of events went like this:

My brain: I'm about to ____ this pasta UP!!!
Her: Hungry. Can I have more? Pasta?
Me: [Pushing plate of pasta to her and replacing adult fork with her toddler fork] Here you go.

I didn't think about it. I just gave it to her. A few minutes later,  I was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and she was making cave paintings on the table with alfredo covered fingers.

(What is the point of this story?)
It's Father's Day. When I think about what it means to be her father, I think about that alfredo. Someone once crudely told me that love is sacrifice. Although I know what the word means, I still reject it due to the negative connotations associated with it. There is no hesitance or difficulty in making decisions when it comes to her. I don't feel like I'm giving up anything. Whatever I have I gladly give. It's not calculated, it's not in exchange for praise or reward. It's instinctual. I don't think. Short of raising a tyrant, I exist to make sure she's happy and taken care of. And I absolutely love it.

I absolutely love her.

 

 

Fast and Furious 495

Random short thought that was too long to fit in a Facebook status:

Fast and Furious 17 was really good, provided that you can suspend ALL disbelief and any rudimentary knowledge of Physics. Just once, however, I'd love to see a realistic car chase or race in a movie. If it were set in DC, for example, then Dom (Vin Diesel) would race down the street until he got to the Beltway. About ten seconds after taking the on-ramp, he'd have to swerve onto the shoulder due to bumper to bumper traffic.

He'd race down the shoulder until he got to a work zone where the shoulder is blocked by construction vehicles, but, being the quick thinker that he is, he'd find an alternate route. He'd slam down on the clutch really hard as if that has any effect on how a transmission shifts gears and then he'd swerve off onto another highway like 95-North or better yet, 270-North. He'd be racing along at about 5, maybe even 10 miles an hour, which is pretty fast and not to mention furious for rush hour traffic in DC. Once he hits an HOV lane and opens it up to about 22 miles an hour, there'd be no catching him.

Parent Teacher Conference II

My daughter's second parent-teacher conference was yesterday. Takeaways from the meeting include:

• My daughter is an asshole


• My daughter can't act


• My daughter can scrap

Apparently the other padawans were building a tower of blocks. My daughter stood back and watched them. Now me, being her father, would've immediately become suspicious, but the daycare people have been trained to be optimistic when it comes to children. Eighteen seconds is the current world record for my daughter to stand still in a room full of toys without having a hidden agenda.

Anyway, the kids got their tower to whatever height is impressive for three year olds. It was at that moment when my daughter...you already know where this story is going. No need to build suspense. So the three year olds are standing around their fallen tower, all searching for the toddler way to convey, "What the fuck, dude?" My daughter is standing there giggling, and the teachers have to go over and look authority-like.

They, being optimistic, try to explain to her how feelings, emotions and disappointment work. Hoping for her next Oscar, my daughter looks around on the floor until she finds the mat and then thrusts herself down. She then looks up to see if anyone is watching. When she gets no response, she stands back up and does it again...you know, in case they missed it the first time.

As if they're in a real movie, everyone in the room decides to do another take of the scene: The kids rebuild their tower, the teachers give my daughter the benefit of the doubt, and she stands there as they get ready to complete their tower. Then she smiles, knocks that shit over, and starts laughing again.

The teachers were clear to point out to me that she wasn't trying to intentionally hurt their feelings. They recognized that it seemed as if the kids were entertainment to her. She found their reactions funny, and thus decided to do it again. It sounds like the motivation of all cartoon villains, but it's not really news to me. I still maintain that my daughter can probably read and speak a few languages. She's just figured out how to play all of us. As I like to say all of the time, "But they were all of them deceived."

So anyway, I don't know if this was related to the tower or not, but there's a little boy in the class who is a few inches taller than her. That's saying a lot, because my daughter is one of the biggest kids in the class even though they're all about a year older than her. So Ivan Drago is standing toe to toe with my daughter on the mat. The way that the teacher's described the height difference, my daughter must've been staring at his throat or something. All of a sudden, she tackled him to the ground. This apparently happens often.

Once again, they were clear to point out that she didn't seem to be trying to hurt him. "It wasn't revenge for anything. She wasn't angry. She seems to have been playing with him." I just sat there and kept trying to think of something sad or depressing to keep from laughing. The teachers laughed, but I didn't know if that was a test to see how bad of a parent I am. I just tried to look disappointed. It probably came across more like I had gas or something.

 

DH Lawrence

I was talking to someone this morning who is down on their luck and starting to wade into the dangerous waters of self pity. It's interesting how far down the heathen spectrum I've slid. There was a time many, many years ago when I would've quoted scriptures for encouragement. Now I seem to just have a head full of rap lyrics. This one came to mind:

I don't ask for nothing that I don't demand of myself
Honesty, loyalty, friends and then wealth
Death before dishonor and I'll tell you what else
I'll tighten my belt before I beg for help
Foolish pride is what held me together
Through the years I wasn't felt
Which is why I ain't never played myself

I just play the hand I'm dealt
I can't say I've never knelt
before God and asked for better cards
Sometimes to no avail
But I never sat back feeling sorry for myself
If you don't give me heaven I'll raise hell...

-Justify My Thug (Jay-Z)

I was real close to hooking up with a girl in college when I had a moment of stupidity. In the conversation that followed, which would be our last conversation, she told me, "Don't ask for something that you yourself can't give." That's probably one of the most important things I learned in college. Every personal relationship since then has been guided by that principle.

As for the second stanza...
No one will ever pay you what you're worth. No one will ever respect you more than you're capable of respecting yourself. The world is filled with people eager to build a monument to your shortcomings, failures and mistakes. The last thing you should do is give them the bricks. If no one else believes in you, believe in yourself.

I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.
-DH Lawrence

 

 

 

Daddy and Zoe's Greatest Hits

I posted this to Facebook yesterday. It's something I've been working on in my spare time...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nTn-tVBrevo

Prom Promise

Ah, prom season. At least for DC Public Schools. MD and VA got out sometime in May. My prom wasn't until the second week of June. Anyway...Ah, prom season. Talk about a night of disappointment. I had this vision all through high school that I'd go with my 5 star girlfriend in a stretch limo. We'd dance the night away and then...other stuff. Yeah, that didn't happen.

I broke up with my girlfriend at the beginning of the school year and then this other girl I was talking to canceled at the last minute because her boyfriend got out of jail early. I ended up going with my other ex-girlfriend from the year before who was, at the time, my best friend. She was a looker, so it worked. Until it didn't.

I had a buddy who was going with my date's best friend and he called me up one day to confirm what his date said: "We're all riding together." I assumed my date set it up, so I said it was okay, even though it wasn't in the plans. It wasn't until after the prom that my date and I realized that we'd been had. She didn't set that up, but was told that I set it up. Whatever.

A stretch limo wasn't in the budget, because I abandoned my bright future as a movie theater concessionist earlier that year. My aunt let me borrow her brand new Explorer, which was just as good, because those were the bigger SUVs back then. I ordered my tux a week earlier and eagerly awaited the prom. The plan was simple:
Get my hair braided in the morning
Pick up my tux
Pick up the corsage
Pick up my buddy
Pick up our dates at my date's house

What could go wrong?

I woke up late and missed my appointment to get my hair braided. The lady agreed to see me later, so all was well. I had to pick up the corsage first because they closed before the tux place closed. The flower shop lost my order, so I had to wait for them to prepare it. I hit the traffic from hell on the way to get my tux, AND on the way back to my house. A normally 30 minute trip took 2 hours.

I got home, showered and got ready, but I couldn't find the damned cufflinks or the jewel pin for the top button of the tux. I checked the whole house before a light bulb went off telling me to check the car. In the middle of the street, I found the plastic accessory bag. It had been run over repeatedly and everything inside was crushed. I took a pair of pliers and "fixed" them.

My family gathered at my grandmother's house to see me off, so I went around the corner and waited for my aunt to show with the truck. She came right on time and we took a bunch of pictures before it was time for me to go. My aunt couldn't find her keys. My cousin had just learned to walk and hid her keys somewhere in my grandmother's house. It took us about a half hour to find the keys. By this point I was really, really late, but the prom still hadn't started.

I called my buddy and said, "Hey, I'm running late. Call the girls and let them know." He said okay. I finally made it to his house and we were all set to go when I realized that I had no clue how to get to my date's house. It never occurred to me to get directions. My buddy didn't know either. This was before Google Maps, so we asked his mom who said she could lead us there in her car better than she could tell us.

She hops in her car and we follow her, only we're going about 17 miles an hour. She slows down at every green light in case it turns yellow and then I realize we aren't even going the right way. We end up in an apartment complex where his grandmother lives. She's decided that grandma should see him before we go. Grandma asks me to take pictures too, even though I've never met her before. By now, the prom has started. We finally leave.

Danica Patrick resumes her breakneck speed down the road and we turn into a 7-Eleven. She tells him to go inside and get her a copy of today's paper. To this day, I have no idea what was that important that she needed that paper at 9:30 at night. Anyway, we eventually make our way to my date's house. It was about 30 miles away and at a speed of about 17 miles an hour, we got there around 10-10:30ish.

We knock on the door, corsages in hand, and we're greeted by a very unenthusiastic "Humph, it's you." Her mom, my favorite person in the world, had the look of disdain on her face as she explains, "They went upstairs and got undressed because they thought you stood them up." Huh? But I told him to call and let you know we were running behind. "Oh, I forgot to call." So then I hear my date cursing me out from upstairs. Her mom then tries to convince her and her friend to go.

All of the pictures taken at that moment involve my date rolling her eyes at me, and intentionally trying to stab me to death with the little pin on the boutonniere. We then leave. On the way there his date asks that we stop so she can buy some film for her camera. Before I can protest, my date reminds me that we're the ones that made us late, so her request is reasonable. We stop at CVS...right after they just got robbed. So there's a ton of cops out front and inside, but we have to go in and wait because it's the only place open that late.

We finally get to the Grand Hyatt where the prom is being held and valet parking is now closed. We drive around for...ever, and we eventually park illegally so that we can at least say we made it inside before it ended. We get inside, grab a plate of hot wings and I eat one bite before the photographer announces it's the last call for pictures. We take a picture that is off centered because he was in a rush, and as soon as we finish the picture they announce that it's the last dance. We run back into the hall and have the last dance. I think it was "If Only For One Night." I can't remember.

There was an after party. We almost ran out of gas on the way to that, but that's a whole 'nother story for another time.

Empire State of Mind

And they said it couldn't be done!

This past Friday I finally put to bed the notion that no one could possibly walk around New York for 14 hours straight AND spend less than $20. It's that close mindedness that led people to believe that the world was flat. Only a visionary like myself--and maybe a few homeless people--would be able to accomplish such a feat. Seriously though, I had a good time.

Now I've been to New York plenty of times, but this was only my second time as an adult. As a kid, I went up there to visit my grandmother's side of the family a few times a year, but we always got the Underground Railroad treatment. We left and arrived at night. We went inside someone's house and never came back out. Everyone kept coming by to see us, welcome us and tell us how much better things are up North. Everybody greets you like you're Nettie and Celie from the end of The Color Purple. "Me and you will never part..."

Anyway, it was my first time being able to actually tour NYC on my own. The experience was...an experience. I was in the city a full 28 seconds before I saw someone get arrested inside Penn Station. I like that. Set expectations low right from the get go. Under promise and oversell! Shortly after that, I saw a cop curse out a woman pushing a stroller. In the cop's defense, the lady was like a foot outside of the crosswalk. "Hey, get your kid back inside the crosswalk. One of these cars will plow her right over and then you gonna be upset because your kid got killed." The baby didn't really understand what she was saying, but I think it terrified the five year old who was beside her.

A blind woman turned to face the guy standing next to me at the crosswalk and said, "Please let me know if any cars are coming." He and I both had a mild heart attack, because she was saying this while walking against the light and in the path of this speeding car. He stopped her and rather than say thank you, she got an attitude. "I told you to let me know."

I must say that I have never seen a higher concentration of beautiful women anywhere else. Now they had an equal number of changelings, but the pretty ones were breathtaking. I fell in and out of love on every block, but the one who captured my heart was this gorgeous 5'2 latina wearing a white and red sundress. She had that classic kind of beauty. And up until she punched her boyfriend in the face, I was in love.

I don't know what happened. They were holding hands walking my direction under one of the arches in Central Park and then I heard her say,"Who the fuck you think you talkin to? I'm not no little punk. I'll fuckin punch you in the face. Don't play with me. You ain't no man. You ain't gonna do shit to me." And then she just walloped him in the side of his temple. It was like watching Ali's shadow punch. I saw her hit him with a right hook, but his body stammered to the left, which leads me to think that she was really a southpaw and that thing was fast.

When I wasn't watching people attack one another, I walked...a lot. I walked the Brooklyn Bridge and about five miles into Brooklyn before things started to get too elephant graveyard for me. Then I turned back, walked to the Staten Island ferry and took a free ride past the Statue of Liberty. I came back and walked from Battery Park through and to the northernmost edge of Central Park. Then I turned around and went back to Times Square. And that was just a few of the 14 hours.

Suffice to say, there isn't a part of Manhattan that my feet didn't touch. I think I earned the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King Junior Montgomery Bus Boycott Merit Badge. I don't even wanna know how far you have to walk to unlock the Runaway Slave achievement.