Friday, December 28, 2012

The Magic of the Words "Excuse Me"

The holidays bring out the best in some people, but, unfortunately, the shittiest people still migrate toward department stores. Can you imagine that? Hundreds of angry, mean people all packed in close proximity to one another picking out things that don't apply with their coupons? And none of them say, "Excuse me."
So it's not normally that big of a deal, right? Like over half the people who walk the face of the Earth do not utilize the words "excuse" and "me" together in a sentence unless it follows the syntax "Can you excuse me from...?" Note the lack of the word "please" as well. As a sales associate at Macy's with an adorably cute smile that extremely juxtaposes with my personality, it is my duty to carry holiday cheer to these evil, sweaty meatsacks that fill up our hallways during this time of year. Luckily, the holidays put me in such a great mood that I don't normally have much trouble fulfilling this task until hell week right before Christmas when they covertly try to push my hours toward the sixty mark. For the most part, I'm perfectly pleasant. That should tell you how much I love the holidays.
What I don't love is when people walk slow. But I can understand that they're leisurely shopping, and they probably don't take into account that I have a job to do. I have a choppy, fast Asian walk. I have fairly long legs. It's a deadly combination, especially in the petite department where everybody is either old and/or has short stubby legs. I'd just walk over them, but that would be considered rude. It took me many bruises on the knees and elbows to figure out the safest routes past clearance rounders and sweater tables to avoid sluggish customers.
But here's the thing: as the holidays rolled around, there got to be less and less available routes for me to take. There were people everywhere. People on people. I don't claim to be claustrophobic, but when I can't avoid the torpor of shoppers, I feel physically stifled. And then the holidays begin to go downhill.
Every time I wheel my rack around, whether it's in my department or somewhere else, I always make sure to say "Excuse me" because I do not wish to be sued by some fuckface who puts his or her foot in my way. Contrary to popular belief, it is proper etiquette to wait for your obstruction to move before proceeding because then you know that they have heard you and your "excuse me" does not go squandered. I waited a long time for those motherfuckers.
Even if they can't speak English, I know they can hear me. Those racks are squeaky as fuck. Yet, they still pretend they can't see me. Bitch, please. I am dipped head-to-toe in black with a bright yellow rack at my side and I know you can feel those daggers my eyes are shooting into the back of your skull. And you can hear my repeated mantra "Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me." If I keep repeating it, obviously the message has not been received, so perhaps you should turn around to see if you are the receiver.
So clearly if customers don't react to the phrase "excuse me" they certainly aren't going to use it. My foot gets stepped on? Nothing. That bitch looked me in the eyes and then turned around and kept walking. No apology. No excusing herself. Ugh. When I'm helping another customer, people have no qualms about interrupting me to ask a question. First of all, don't interrupt me when I'm with another customer. Or ever. Second of all, if you're going to interrupt me while I'm with a customer and you don't want me to rip your head off, say "excuse me."
So, world and shoppers of Macy's, it seems that there are two options available. You could utilize the phrase "excuse me" and adhere to it when others foist it upon you, or you can walk fucking faster. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to re-lace some sneakers.
~ToriannaLamba

Sunday, November 11, 2012

My Cat: A Ruthless Killer

First, I feel it obligatory to offer an apology. I'm sorry that I offer absolutely no regularity in my posting schedule. I'm sorry that I've been working my little rump off for a company that doesn't care about me. I'm sorry that my immune system has temporarily failed so I'm battling a terrible cold. And I'm sorry that people are so jealous of me. But I can't help it that I'm popular. And I don't want to be punished for being well-liked.
Plagiarism of movie scripts aside, I have come with a warning. As I was fervently reading books no one cares about and writing essays no one will read, I came across a worrisome fact: my cat hates me. Now, my BFF Katie will tell you all that we don't know if animals have emotions or feel pain--we only know that they react to stimuli. But I write today to tell you that I think my cat has emotions, and if he continues to act on them, he probably will feel pain. Unless he kills me first.
Day One:
I'm huddled up on my couch, burrito-d in a blanket as it has just begun to rain outside. My eyes are fervently darting across the page as I attempt to finish the last chapter before I have to get ready for work. None of the prose is sinking in, but it doesn't matter. As long as my coffee-stained bookmark rests at the end of the assigned section, I'll have done my homework. I'm about fifteen pages from the end when my cat leaps onto the arm of the couch, right behind my head.
I ignore him.
He butts me with his head.
I turn the page.
He sticks a cold, slimy, wet nose in my ear, giving me (what I assume, by cat standards) a wet willy.
My fixed stare is torn from my book momentarily while I shout, "Yacko!" at him. Yacko does not flinch. He simply stares back.
A little fazed, I revert my attention to the final pages of chapter six and finish my reading. It is five o'clock, which gives me just enough time to do my hair and touch up my makeup before leaving for work. Feeling in no mood to impress customers I don't care about, I redo my eyeliner and pile my hair atop my head in some sort of samurai topknot. The fashion-conscious might refer to it as a "Ballerina Bun," but I'm Asian, and samurais are cooler
I plop back onto the couch to pack something to eat while I stand behind the register and stare at people messing up my folded cardigans when Yacko jumps back up onto the arm to sit next to me. I ignore those impatient green eyes boring into my soul, for if you look him in the eye, all of your weaknesses are revealed. Or that's how he makes it seem, anyway. He starts sniffing at the topknot flopping back and forth as I stuff as many pretzels that can possibly fit into a zipblock bag. Then he bites my skull.
I jerk my scalp away more out of confusion than pain, and the thick strand of hair still caught between his teeth comes out of the bun. But I don't have time to fix it now; I must run out the door or else I'll be late for work (God forbid).
Examining my hair in the small vanity mirror on my sun visor in my car, I see that Yacko has been successful in messing up my hairdo. And not in that cute oh-I-just-threw-my-hair-up-like-this-and-it-still-looks-awesome way. Nope. I look like a nine-year-old who wanted to do her own hair for picture day. That's not very descriptive. It looks bad. That's all you need to know.
I fix it until the incessant honking behind me tells me the light has changed...
Days Two-Five:
I can't sleep.
Yacko has been outside my door meowing for the last three hours. Not constantly--I could sleep through that. Just off and on every twenty minutes until either I or Dad get up and tell him to shut up.
At around four-thirty these nights, I'll get up and throw a shoe at him. If I'm lucky, I'll get one with a spiky heel one of these nights.But I have too many shoes. Maybe I'll go through them in the morning. But probably not.
Recently, he's discovered that meowing may be harmful to his health, so he takes to scratching in his litter box. Dad is okay with this change, for his room does not share a common wall with the bathroom that houses the litter box.
He knows I can't possibly punish him for going to the bathroom.
But he's not going to the bathroom.
When I wake up in the mornings, the litter dust is just beginning to settle, and my bathroom still reeks of cat urine. Sometimes I feel like I smell the same.I wonder if that cute boy in my music class thinks so too... Then again, what boy is into cat-bitten hairdos and an intense aroma of ammonia?
Day Seven:
Today, that little bastard won't stop attacking my ankles and wrists. My biology professor asks if everything is alright when he spots the four, evenly spaced cuts slicing down my wrists. I tell him my cat has been attacking me, and he laughs and so do I, but on the inside, I'm crying.
Day Thirteen:
I wake up from a nap realizing that my head is unusually hot and I can't breathe. I wonder if this is what death feels like, until I realize that Yacko is sitting on my head bathing himself.
Day Eighteen:
My English essay has a large, yellow spot on it and smells like cat pee.
Day Twenty-Six:
As I clean up three separate piles of barf--the trademark for which Yacko has earned his name--he sits next to me and meows until I give him more food. After he engorges himself, he promptly barfs it all back up again.
Day Thirty:
He no longer sleeps when I am home. I constantly look up to see him staring at me with those calculating green eyes. Sometimes he licks his lips.

This concludes the log of my observations from my devil-cat.
Luckily he's not sitting on the keyboard tonightadhgf;lk

Friday, September 21, 2012

The Tale of the Squeaky Escalator--A True Story

The escalator was in dire need of some WD-40, and no one had the insight to press the 'stop' button.
"If we stop the escalator, everyone will have to use the elevator," said Unnamed Coworker.
"Or go home," I said.
Since my word had no gravitas whatsoever, I was forced to trudge through my three-hour closing shift accompanied by the soothing sounds of a squeaky escalator, which sounds something like a sea lion if one is unfamiliar with the noise.
Due to the famine of fleshy, absorbent humans lurking around my department, the sound waves had nothing better to do than bounce off the walls and echo loudly on the tile floors.
My night began as follows.
Hang up swim suits from fitting room. Put them back on 9.99 rack. Pick up swim off floor and hang it up.
"What's that noise?" said Woman Who Throws Bathing Suits.
"The escalator is broken," came my reply.
"They should fix that," Woman Who Throws Bathing suits tells me.
I nod and walk away.
Circle department. Put coats back where they belong. Button and zip coats on front lines. Squish the down coats and watch them spring back into shape.
"What's that noise?" asked Lady Who Drapes Coats Over Racks Instead of Hanging Them.
"The escalator is broken."
"Can't they fix it?"
I stared at her for a few seconds before I said, "Not until we figure out its wants and needs."
And by the fifth customer, I started to get really creative with my answers.
"It's singing you the song of its people."
"It craves human sacrifice."
"It's the spirits communicating by way of the haunted escalator."
Until, finally, Lady Who Is Rude To Sales Associates demanded, "What's that noise? Why don't you fix it?"
"What noise?" I asked, puzzled, swiveling my head this way and that.

I realized that night, after I watched Lady Who Is Rude To Sales Associates ask five other innocent bystanders if they heard a constant squeaking noise, that working with stupid people entitles you to mess with them. That makes me a sociopath, I think.

The End.

Friday, September 7, 2012

Watermelon


“Wow, baby, that had to be at least five feet!”
            “How big is that, Daddy?”
            “Bigger than you!”
            Jeremy, Rosie, and I are sitting in the backyard eating watermelon and spitting the seeds everywhere.
            “I heard that if you swallow the seeds, a watermelon will grow inside you,” Rosie tells us in between sputtering the seeds out of her mouth. “Did you swallow a watermelon seed, Mommy?” She fixes her eyes in wonder at my protruding belly, watermelon seeds still stuck on her cheeks and lips.
            “There’s something much more special growing in Mommy’s tummy,” Jeremy tells her mysteriously.
            “Gummy bears?” she asks me, in wide-eyed awe like I’m Willy Wonka or something.
            Jeremy frowns. “It’s not edible, baby,” he tells her.
            “Oh,” she says, and spits another seed.
            He meets my eyes and finally catches sight of my cheeks.
            “Laurie, what are you doing?” he asks.
            “You look like a squirrel,” Rosie giggles.
            I wink at her and start spitting the seeds I have stored up.
            There are a few things a husband shouldn’t know about his wife. How loud she can burp, how much she spent on this season’s Louis Vuitton handbag, how much she weighs, for instance. Jeremy knows all of these things about me. He does not, however, know how far I can spit watermelon seeds. This is also something he could do without knowing. But I figured if he knew the other facts, he could deal with this one as well.
            His mouth is agape as I hock the last seed. This is the norm when he finds out things he probably shouldn’t about me. Except for when he heard me belch for the first time. Most people don’t want to hang around with their mouths open when someone burps. Especially when that someone happens to be me.
            Rosie, on the other hand, is clapping and giggling wildly.
“Again!” she shrieks. “Again!”
I take another bite of watermelon and shoot a seed at Jeremy’s nose.
He shakes out of his stupor and frowns at me.
“Were you impressed?” I ask.
“Because you spit seeds like a machine gun? Yes,” he replies. “Because, aside from your monster burp, that was the most un-ladylike thing you’ve ever done? No.”
Great. So he still remembers.
On the other side of Jeremy, Rosie is attempting to recreate my fantastic spitting spree. She ends up choking on a seed.
“Nice,” Jeremy grumbles, while shooting me a dirty look and handing Rosie a glass of water.
I shrug. “Well, at least someone appreciates my talents.”
“Nice to know it’s someone who doesn’t know the meaning of dignity yet,” he shoots back under his breath.
“What’s ‘dignity’?” Rosie interrupts, looking up at her father, a strand of drool dangling from her mouth.
*          *          *
“Mommy look,” Rosie breathes. “It’s perfect.”
She pops out from behind a rounder filled with baby clothes and shows me a white romper embroidered with watermelons.
“I think it would look very beautiful in this thing,” she says admiringly, patting my tummy.
“Sweetheart, it’s not a watermelon,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says, hands on her hips, rolling her eyes. “It’s two baby boys who will be my younger brothers, and I will love them,” she recites. “But what if it’s a false alarm?” she adds hopefully.
“You would rather me give birth to a watermelon than two baby boys?”
“Watermelons are delicious,” she informs me.
I think about it. A watermelon just might be easier to give birth to than twin boys. Certainly more easy to take care of. We’d just have to leave enough room for it in the fridge. Although, that would put Jeremy out a little. I mean less space for food and—no. Stop. I am having two baby boys. Not a delicious, juicy watermelon.
“You’ve seen the ultrasounds,” I remind her. “They clearly look like two babies, not a watermelon.”
Rosie wrinkles her nose. “They do? And besides, they could be wrong.”
“Who, the doctors?”
She nods, matter-of-factly.
I’m silent for a while, letting the absurdity of this claim sink in.
She stands there and stares right back at me, like a director watching an actor forget his lines.
It’s not sinking in.
“You think the doctors are wrong,” I repeat. “The doctors. Who went to medical school. For eight years. Those doctors?”
She nods again.
“They’re not,” I say simply, and continue my walk through the department store.
“But how do you know? It could be anything in the world!”
I exhale sharply. “Based on everything I know about biology and what your father and I did last Valentine’s Day, I’m pretty certain there’s a baby growing inside me.”
She blinks a few times. “What does Valentine’s Day have to do—”
“Never mind,” I cut her off and continue moving onward.
Rosie trails dutifully behind me, and eventually, we’ve gathered enough clothes to make any associate’s sales goal.
“Do we have enough yet, Mommy?” Rosie groans. “They have more clothes than me, and they’re not even people yet.”
I smile at her. “We just need one more thing.”
“Okay.”
I kneel down next to her with some effort. “Okay, love. I want you to find something for yourself.”
She looks at me. “Seriously?” she asks.
“Seriously,” I laugh. “You’ve been a good shopper for Mommy today, so you deserve something special for all your hard work.”
“But all I did was grab the same exact thing you did,” she admits.
“And you saved Mommy half the work. Now go find something!”
And off she runs.
I sit down at the couch in front of the fitting room and wait for her to come back. This pregnancy is a lot harder than Rosie’s was. Everything from my knees down is swollen from the weight of these two boys. Plus the process of going through childbirth twice in a row is a bit daunting, especially since it took me seven years to get the courage to even think about having another child. Jeremy says I was overdue, and that’s why I’m stuck with twins now. I think he devised some maniacal plot to make me have twins. He was really adamant after Rosie was born about having another baby. But I was more adamant about taking a break. Childbirth creates ugly people. I have learned to control that ugly person and use her to my advantage when needed. Together we make the perfect partners in crime, fighting for abstinence for new mothers everywhere.
“I’ve found it!” Rosie races back to me, brandishing something above her head.
“What did you find, baby?”
She proudly holds the prize out in front of her. It is a bra. A gigantic bra.
“Is that really your size?” I ask.
She nods. “I asked the saleslady to help me,” she reports proudly.
“And she gave you a 42 DDD nursing bra?” I ask, snatching a glance at the tag.
“Yeah. I told her I wanted a bra and then I pointed at you and said you told me to get it. Then she gave me this one. Look, it has goldfishies on it!” she says, lovingly stroking one of the cups.
I glare at the lingerie saleslady. I want to tell her I’m a 34 C, when I remember that I’m pregnant. I look back at Rosie, who is excitedly hopping from foot to foot, waiting for the moment to try on her new garment.
“That’s really what you want?” I ask.
Yes, Mommy!” she says impatiently.
“Alright,” I accede. “Go and try it on, then.”
She races into the fitting room.
“Are you doing alright?” the bra woman asks, approaching me.
“Just fine,” I tell her.
“What did you come in for today? Did you find what you’re looking for?”
I blink a few times, look down at my heavily pregnant stomach and then at the mountain of infant clothes keeping me company on the fitting room couch. “Wine glasses,” I respond.
“Should you really be drinking in your—er—state?”
“No need to worry,” I say, patting my tummy. “I’m drinking for three these days."
She quickly changes the subject. “How’s that nursing bra I picked out for you?”
“It’s for my daughter,” I reply.
“Your daughter?” asks the lady. “Is—is she pregnant too?”
“Oh, no. She’s seven.”
“That’s a little young to be getting her first bra, don’t you think?” she asks, feigning her judgment poorly.
“First?”
“Alright, then,” she says quickly. “My name is Marilynn. Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with.”
I tell her “thank you,” and she walks away.
“Finished!” Rosie says as she prances out of the dressing room.
“Alright,” I say, heaving myself onto my feet. “Let’s go pay.”
We walk to the register together. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marilynn speed-walking over to meet us.
“How’d everything work out?” she asks.
“They fit like a glove,” I reply, as she folds a set of white onesies.
She gives a forced laugh and begins to ring up our items without further attempts at conversation.
“One more thing,” Rosie says, as Marilynn bags the last item. She places the nursing bra on the counter. Marilynn can’t help smiling.
“Ah, so you’re getting the nursing bra too,” she says to me. “It fit correctly?”
“It fit like a glove!” Rosie interjects.
*          *          *
 “Laurie?”
“Yes?”
“What’s this Rosie has on?”
I assume it’s the bra. “It’s a bra.”
“I see that. But why did you buy one for her?”
“Because she wanted it.”
“She wanted a 42 DDD nursing—”
“I already went over this with her,” I call.
From upstairs in the nursery, I hear Jeremy and Rosie exchange whispers. Then I hear the fridge open. Then I hear Rosie’s giggles and her clomping footsteps up the stairs.
“Mommy, look!” she says from the doorway. Her goldfish bra is cradling two small watermelons. “I swallowed a seed and now I have twins too,” she giggles.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

There Should Be a Universal Size

So, I'm at work folding pants. (Yeah, this is going to be another post about work.) The manager suggests, "Why don't you size them?" Because I have nothing better to do with my time than put pants into size order. And because all of our customers will innately know that once the display is folded, the jeans are in size order, and they won't have to fling jeans left and right to find their size.
In case it's not apparent, I am being sarcastic. Putting pants/cardigans/anything is size order does nothing, because department store customers are brainless and don't know how to count. No, that's unfair. Most associates (like me) don't size them in the first place, so they don't expect the displays to be in size order. But they're still stupid.
This is why there should be a universal size.
Imagine: you're having a bad day because some disgusting person vomited all over your area of employment, your coworkers undermine your authority in front of customers, and the customers undermine your authority by thinking they know more about your job even though they're dumb and you've held that position for over a fucking year--I digress. So you think to yourself, Gee, I bet new clothes and being rude to a sales associate would really make me feel better. Now imagine walking into a store, seeing something cute, and not needing to try it one because...it's your size! Everything is your size! No longer do you have to wait in long lines to get into a sweltering dressing room that reeks of body odor and vomit (somebody vomited in my fitting room today; I apologize for the repeated mental images). No longer do you have to worry about something not looking right on you!
Of course, this would entail everyone needing to be the same body-type. So, we'd either all need to get thinner or get fatter. My guess is the latter, since there seem to be more fat people than skinny people. Which is okay with me. Honestly, skinny people, take one for the team.
Once we all had the exact same physique, there would be no more judgement about physical appearance. Except for facial features. But we don't want everyone to be the same. I'm not trying to create a science fiction nightmare here. I just want to get out of sizing clothes and doing item locating.
Now, imagine the benefits for your friendly neighborhood Macy's sales associate!
She would not have waste her time sizing shit. All of the displays would look beautiful because everything would stack so nicely. She would not have to get pulled from her department down to juniors, because even junior girls can't make that big of a mess when they don't need to search for shit. She wouldn't have to leaf through six clearance rounders, the fitting room, and the entire stockroom to find a $9.79 clearance t-shirt in a size medium, because there wouldn't be a size medium. She wouldn't have to call San Francisco, where they never pick up the goddamn phone. Everyone would buy more because everything would look good, and her sales would be fantastic. She wouldn't have to play maid and clean up for the pigs who use the fitting room to vomit. She wouldn't have to make sure the sizes on the hangers matched the sizes on the tags. And switch tickets would be so much easier to detect.
Of course, this benefits you too, Macy's customers, for imagine how much happier I would be if I didn't have to waste my time searching for your stupid size because you were too stubborn to purchase the shirt when it was regular price and in stock. Imagine how much happier I would be if I didn't have to clean up after grown women because they think they're good enough to leave all of their clothes in a pile on the floor on top of the pile that was there from the previous bitch, along with all of their trash, food wrappers, hangers, and tickets that they ripped off the clothes. I would be so much happier. I wouldn't feel like saying "fuck" or some derivation of that interjection every other word, and some of my smiles might actually be genuine.
So the time has come, Macy's shoppers, to attain equality--of size. Start by spending $25 on clothes and using the other $25 to buy the godiva chocolate located at every register. Then you can use your $20 off of a $50 purchase while still maintaining the calories. Coupons work on chocolate, but they do not work on everyday values. Doesn't that say something? Yes. It says, "Start eating." Unless you're the ideal size. (Which I haven't figured out...How about a 13? That's my lucky number. Yes. Let's go with 13.) Then, you are perfect just the way you are.
~ToriannaLamba

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

I Am a Cart Thief


I really try to act like I am not better than the people at Walmart. Sure, their clothes don’t always fit, personal hygiene is not the highest priority, and the men folk have no issue with spitting cat calls at anything that resembles a female (even if their main woman is nearby), but the Walmart shoppers and I, tragically, have one thing in common—we both shop at Walmart. I could sit here and write a defending statement telling you all that I only go there to buy cat litter, but, really, what difference does it make?
In the early years, I used logic to convince myself. I was not overweight. I bathed regularly. My buttcrack was nestled happily inside my underwear, which was inside my pants and away from the public eye. Therefore, I was better. And yet, I wasn’t treated any different. If anything, people picked on me more because I was buying brand name Tidy Cats instead of the Walmart brand Cat Tidy. Because I thought I was so much better than all of them. Which I did. But I didn’t admit that to myself right away.
Then I turned to denial. I only went there because they had cheaper prices than the grocery store. Did Safeway think I was stupid? I wasn’t about to pay fifteen dollars for a thirty pound bag of cat litter when I could get it for six bucks somewhere else. And that was for the good brand! The brand that would hide my dear little cat’s odors and make his litter box virtually vanish into thin air. No, I was smarter than the system. And if I was smart, I was better than the people of Walmart, right?
Wrong. It was still the same syllogism. The people who shop at Walmart are no good. I shop at Walmart. Therefore, I am no good.
But being in college has taught me a lesson or two about pride and frugality. I go to Walmart because my cat deserves the best. Just not if it’s over six bucks. And it turns out, like all the other Walmart shoppers, I have flaws as well.
Whenever I begin my shopping experience at Walmart, I always go in through the Garden center, because I don’t like to be greeted. Frankly, I think that job is a waste of human flesh, and certainly a waste of my time. I don’t like conversing with customers—and I certainly don’t like conversing with people when I’m a customer. Also, I can get my own cart unstuck from the tangled mess a lot faster than the elderly lady who is inevitably employed as the universal Walmart Greeter. The parking lot makes me depressed enough. I don’t need my day to be ruined by watching a frail old lady duke it out with the shopping carts. I’m stronger than she is. She and I are equidistant from the carts. It’s much easier for me to hulk smash my way through the shopping carts, but the Walmart Greeter will not have it. It is her sole responsibility to get me a cart and she will get me a cart, goddammit. So whenever I offer, she shoots me a look of disdain, as though I doubt the seriousness of her task (which I do) and hobbles off to begin another battle all so I can get two bags of cat litter. I’ve heard that they have taken to having the cart all ready when you walk through the door, but this is America. Let me do things on my own.
Although I like to boast my super strength, it only comes to me in times of severe anger. I’m never angry at Walmart, because I think most of the customers carry concealed weapons of some sort. The point is: I can’t carry two thirty-pound bags of cat litter without a cart, so I have to find some way past the greeter. However, Walmart hates me because I am an aloof bitch who used to think she was better than everyone there so they roped off the carts. During Superbowl season, they surround the carts with cardboard towers filled with potato chips. Either way, they are only accessible by way of the greeter, so I must find another way to get my shopping done.
The first time I figured out that the carts were isolated, I backed away slowly into the abyss of the store to rethink my strategy. I could go back into the parking lot and take an abandoned one. I could steal it from the greeter when she’s not looking. I could—that was when I stumbled over an abandoned cart. It was empty, save a three pack of Chapstick. I shrugged, tossed the Chapstick out and wheeled it over to the pet section. Upon my retreat, I heard someone bellow, “Ma, the cart’s up ‘n’ dis’ppeared on us!”
Thus, I became the cart thief. Sometimes, it’s easy; I’ll find abandoned carts and take them under my wing. Sometimes, I have to wait until backs are turned before I make my move. Sometimes, I take certain items with me to save on shopping time; thus, lessening my time spent in Walmart. Sometimes, I do that without meaning to because I’m about to get caught. It’s low and inconsiderate, rude and uncalled for. But I realized that it makes me no better than the people who shop at Walmart. And I’m okay with that. Of course, the people who shop at Walmart aren’t all bad. But if they’re dumb enough to leave their cart in the middle of the aisle, then they have just allowed me to have a good day, a way to transport cat litter, and a less-stinky bathroom.
And that’s how I roll at Walmart.
~ToriannaLamba

Monday, July 16, 2012

Portland Loves Everybody...Except Californians.


So, these past two weeks, I’ve had the pleasure of visiting my sister in the great Pacific Northwest. We spent a lot of our vacation time in Portland, Oregon, which I’ve heard much about (admittedly, mostly from my sister). She has been fervently attempting to convince me to move up to Washington with her, but I really do love Cali too much to leave it. Or maybe I love the sun/tan skin/the beach/rain for a specific period of time per year. Besides, with all those other starving artists, The Burn Book would have a lot of competition, and I don’t compete well.
So on my very first trip to Portland, I am greeted by a gigantic sign demanding, “Keep Portland Weird.” They have no reason to make those demands, for weirdness is in high supply. I guess it just serves as a threat to us “Normies.” I never considered walking around barefoot and not wearing deodorant to be weird. Unsanitary, maybe. But that’s why I am frowned upon in this society of hipsters, hippies, and hobos.
Don’t get me wrong—I had a great time visiting Stumptown. I love not having to pay sales tax. I also love street fairs and wonderful food. I love strange boutiques, and I am a rather huge fan of wacky facial hair. I do not love being a complete outsider, however. One might think not fitting in would be most welcome in Portland, which it is—unless that oddity is being a Californian.
My sister had been advising me from day one to disguise my California residency. I scoffed. Being a Californian is one of the things I am most proud of, besides being able to type with my toes. I didn’t really think it would be that obvious that I was from the Golden State. Indeed, I was mistaken.
I have what is known as “Cali Swag,” and I, unfortunately, do not know how to turn it off.
Before I even got to Portland, my cover was blown. I got a sweet deal on a flight direct from SFO to PDX on Virgin America, which is a very nice (and hip!) airline. I should’ve known from that alone. Every passenger kept commenting on how ready they were to go home. Clearly, I was the only one visiting Oregon on her own volition. When asked why I was travelling to Portland, I mumbled, “Family” indistinctly and turned away before they could ask me questions about the gas mileage on my car. The flight attendants all wore ripped skinny jeans, tight graphic tees, and red lipstick. Each of them had a different hairstyle reminiscent of a ‘20s pinup girl, and they referred back to me with different eccentric pet names. Of course, the airline does not have anything specific to do with the demographic of the location in which I was flying to. It was my fellow passengers who smelled me out. I chose a window seat, for several reasons—namely because I am easily impressed with aerial views. I expected to have my nose glued to the window the entire time, with my headphones jammed in my ear blasting some classic bay area slaps, getting all that hyphy shit out of my system before arriving in the land where women are respected and people talk slow in songs. That is how I would have spent my flight had I been arriving in any other destination. However, I was going to Portland, where the people are completely friendly and all up in your biz. It’s totally not a bad thing, but it’s quite a change from the unfriendly world of my beloved bay area. I talked to so many strangers on that flight, it would have made my mother cry. They have absolutely no qualms about touching you to get your attention—regardless of if you are a surly Asian girl blasting E-40 facing the window away from all other passengers—and interrupting your present activities to talk about what kind of sweatshirt you are wearing. It’s an Element sweatshirt. Yes, it is a boy’s sweatshirt, and I bought it for me, and it is totally against the vendor’s intention for a girl to wear it. And yes, it is super awesome of me to partake in such a rebellion.
The first real giveaway was my vernacular. There are only a few places where the term “hella” is socially acceptable. Guess which place isn’t one? Regina George once said, “Stop trying to make ‘fetch’ happen. It’s not going to happen!” “Fetch” would happen in Portland. Because Regina George said it wouldn’t. I also don’t abbreviate every adjective in every sentence that I ever speak. Yeah, I know my shirt is totes adorbs but how hard is it to speak the whole adverbial phrase? I thought they were making up words. Which I suppose they were, if freedom of abbreviation counts as word inventing. It’s just the ‘guage of Hipster, where e-thing is abbreves and has a “Mc” in front. And then whenever I tried to describe something, I felt everyone giving me this face like, “You talk too much.” McOuch.
Second: my demeanor towards the weather. It was mostly cloudy and 62 degrees when I landed in Portland. Luckily, that was practically identical to San Francisco, where I had flown out of. I skipped out of the plane in a sweatshirt, jeans, and hiking boots (they wouldn’t fucking fit in my carry-on), so I thought I would fit in pretty well. I was more than a little taken aback when I saw people trouncing around in shorts and tank tops. It was raining. But, what did I expect, right? Oh, and apparently the people there are immune to rain. During my first week, it was a sort of constant misty drizzle in which it was impossible to see unless you squinted. Nobody else had to squint—they all had fake glasses to protect their sensitive eyes. Magical hipster glasses—that’s what they are! The kind that don’t fog in the rain but repel water droplets better than Harry Potter’s when they were enchanted by Hermione. So I guess the fake glasses have another purpose besides making you look deep.
Third: I was the fool taking pictures of everyone. I suppose that’s a dead giveaway anywhere you go; however, I’m Tori. My camera is constantly in my purse, because I like to be prepared when funny things happen. My purse is also a miniature version of my car, and we all know that my car is the Turtle Car. But I noticed as I snapped picture after picture that they all had this smug, complacent expression whilst looking at my camera. That was when I realized they had no qualms whatsoever about being photographed. Naturally, that made me not want to photograph them. So, I suppose it would be more accurate to say that I was the fool taking spy pictures of everyone. Take that, conceited bastards.
These are the top three among many distinguishing factors that singled me out for ridicule behind my sun-kissed back from the lofty hipsters of Portland. I’m sure they would have loved to say these things to my face after I refused to purchase just one of their trifecta of homemade jewelry, hand-crafted soaps, and deep surrealist paintings, but rudeness is too mainstream. And FYI, oh weird hipsters: I did buy a homemade toe ring. And it broke when one of my four cousins ran over my foot on her way to play in the ocean. Cheap ass hipster jewelry. Obviously it wasn’t made for California terrain. ;)
~ToriannaLamba

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Trojan Man


“Shut up, Megan Fox!” I grumble from under the covers.
            “Who?” She sits bolt upright.
            Megan Fox barks again.
            I pretend to fall back asleep.
            “Who were you talking to just now?” She’s onto me.
            I poke my head out from beneath the sheets. It’s too early for dumb girl drama.
            “Megan Fox,” I repeat. “She’s a super-hot actress. That’s also the name of my dog.”
            She laughs. At least, I think she’s laughing. She could be cackling or shrieking too. Maybe that’s what she thinks laughter sounds like. Someone should set her straight.
            She falls back onto the bed and sprawls out, like she’s about to make snow angels with my sheets. I scoot all the way to the edge of my side, hoping maybe she’ll get the message.
            She doesn’t.
            I sigh. Since she doesn’t appear to be leaving any time soon, I figure I should probably get some work done.
            “How was it?”
            She closes her eyes and tilts her head back. “Amazing.”
            I wrinkle my nose. No one likes an exaggerator, and, truthfully, that wasn’t my best work. “Yeah, I’m going to need you to be more honest than that.”
            She rolls over on her side to face me. I take this chance to reclaim some of my territory on the bed. “I am being honest.”
            I dedicate my every ounce of strength into not rolling my eyes. “Praise doesn’t help me. I know I’m good. I need criticisms.”
            She blinks a few times and then frowns. “Your rhythm was a little off, I guess?”
            Super. I love it when people answer my questions with other questions and not answers. “Can you expand on that?”
            “I don’t really feel like—”
            I close my eyes and hold my hand up to make her stop talking. “Too fast? Too slow? Give me something here.”
            She sits there with her mouth open a while before saying anything. I think she might start leaking drool onto my bed. I really hope she doesn’t. That’s the exact reason I don’t let Megan Fox sleep with me, and I wouldn’t want one bitch getting jealous of the other.
            “Too fast,” she finally comes up with.
            I nod. “That’s a typical comment—”
            “Typical?”
            I grit my teeth. I hate being interrupted. “So that was the bare skin with the lubricated—”
            “Are you taking notes?” she demands.
            “Trying to,” I hint.
            “You can’t take notes about it!”
            I set my pen and tablet on my lap and look up. “Well, no, not if you keep interrupting me.”
            Instantly, she’s out of the bed. “I’m leaving.”
            She starts buzzing about the room, picking up her belongings, and I feel the sudden urge to play some ‘90s montage music.
            She moves surprisingly fast for someone with such short legs—she’s only about five feet, and she’s got the narrowest hips I’ve ever seen. That’s actually why I chose her. I didn’t think anything could fit between them.
            I continue jotting notes to avoid further conversation—fair complexion, thin, freckles, red hair…Irish? I look at her again. She’s putting her left shoe on her right foot.
            Megan Fox starts barking again. It sounds like she’s right outside the front door, which means there’s probably somebody standing there for her to bark at. I think it’s Stephan. I look around the room. My client still hasn’t left, but I can’t keep Stephan waiting.
            I leave her in the bedroom and stumble to the door, pulling some clothes on along the way.
            “Hey Stephan,” I say, opening the door.
            “Does it bite?” he asks, motioning toward Megan Fox, who is snarling at him, teeth bared.
            “Nah, she just makes a lot of noise.”
             I reach over and scratch her behind the ears. She loosens up a bit and wags her tail. Stephan stealthily slips past me into the house.
            He has the usual large brown box, which means two really good things: I still have a job, and they’ve finally listened to me about my mailing concerns.
            Fred, my mailman, is a giant pain in the ass. He likes to sort my mail. Bills go on top. Then letters. Followed by magazines and catalogues. Ads are always on the bottom. I think he just does it to leaf through my mail, which is a little bit illegal—right? But packages are the worst. They require him to come all the way up to my front door and knock. And then demand my signature. Every single package.
            Once he’s got me trapped on the front porch, he takes the opportunity to say where the package came from loud enough so that all the neighbors can hear.
            Believe it or not, Fred, I can read shipping labels. I know where these boxes are coming from.
            I tried not answering the door, but instead of leaving the packages on the doorstep, he kept them until I finally gave in and signed. Those packages were necessary for me to continue my work, so I did what I had to do. I got a German Shepherd: the mailman’s worst enemy.
            She’s big.
            She’s ferocious.
            She drools.
            It’s a deadly combination.
            So why did Fred continue to pester me with useless, embarrassing small talk? Because he’s got balls of steel. And that makes me think I bought a giant, barking dog for nothing.
            On the bright side, my months of complaining finally paid off when Stephan agreed to deliver the packages to me himself.
            “So, what’d you bring me?” I ask him as I close the door.
            He sits down on the couch and opens the box to reveal 125 brand new boxes of condoms. I plop down next to him and pick one up to read the label, just as my client is making her way to the living room. She looks at Stephan. She looks at me. Then, she looks at the huge pile of condom boxes between us.
            “Disgusting,” she says and strides out of the house.
            We are silent for a moment.
            “She reminds me of Wilma Flintstone,” Stephan says after a while.
            “She reminds me of an idiot.”
            He nods slightly in agreement. Then he turns his attention back to the box in my hand. “These are the Ultra Thins,” he explains. “They’re forty percent thinner.”
            I frown, looking at the packaging more closely. “Didn’t I test these already? I thought they hit the market last September.”
            He looks away and shifts his weight from one side to the other. “There was a problem.”
            My head snaps up. “What kind of problem?”
            “We may be facing a lawsuit.”
            “A lawsuit? For what?”
            “Discrimination.”
            I give him a blank look.
            “We’ve had eight extremely similar complaints filed about breaking condoms, five of which resulted in an unwanted pregnancy. It’s starting to look like we don’t account for all types of females in our sample group.”
            I rack my brain, trying to think of what kind of girl I haven’t slept with yet. Nothing comes to mind.
            “The obese.”
            “Fat chicks?”
            “The obese,” Stephan repeats. “All claims filed have been from couples with an obese female. We’re being accused of discrimination on the premise that the Ultra Thins are ineffective exclusively on the obese.”
            “But I did include one in that sample group!” I retrieve my notebook from the bedroom. “Look, it’s right here, on July twenty-eighth. Hannah Norris, 213 pounds.”
            He reads over my notes. “You weighed her?”
            “I’m good at guessing.”
            He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Regardless, one sample isn’t going to be enough evidence in court. We’ve got about three months to get prepared, so you have until then to do as much research as you can.”
            “What if it’s not the girls?”
            He waves his hand. “I’ve got men of all shapes and sizes helping us out on this one. Consequently, we have to compensate them too, so your pay’s going to be a little bit lower than usual.”
            I cringe. “How much?”
            He avoids my eye. “I’ll get back to you with that.”
*          *          *
            “Can I buy you a drink?” I ask, while signaling the bartender to bring me a martini.
            She gives me the once-over and scoffs. “You don’t think I’m onto you?”
            That’s an unusual reaction. I evaluate my appearance in my head. Business casual (complete with ironed button-down shirt and slacks), fresh haircut (but not too fresh—about a week old, to escape that “too-neat” look), and that new cologne I just bought (Lacoste). The usual.
            Maybe that’s not what heavy girls are into. I rethink my strategy.
            “Can I buy you something to eat?”
            She narrows her eyes and sits down slowly, just as the bartender arrives with the drink. “Alright.”
            I hand it to her, unsure of how to begin the conversation. “So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
            She raises her eyebrows. “This is a nice place.”
            Like I said
            I quickly push that thought out of my head and instead say, “I’ve never seen you around here before.”
            “So you come here often?”
            I shrug. “I know some of the regulars around here.”
            “Oh, I bet you know the regulars really well,” she says into her drink.
            Bitch.
            “Do you want to order?” I abandon all traces of friendliness and focus on getting her the hell away from me. I don’t usually have to make conversations with my clients, unless I count the occasional “Do you like that?”
            “What’s your name?” she asks.
            Cool. That’s a great answer.
            “What’s yours?” I counter. I don’t like to give information unless I get it in return.
            “I asked you first.”
            Touché. “Lucas.”
            “Nicole.”
            “Well, Nicole, would you like to order?”
            “Why do you keep pushing the food?” She turns to face me.
            More not-answers.
            “Hello?” she demands.
            She’s looking me right in the eyes, waiting for an answer. I fidget slightly in my seat and look away from her impatient gaze.
            “Because I thought you might like to eat?” Oh, shit. Now I’m answering with questions.
            She glares at me. Does she hate that characteristic too? Maybe she’s not that bad. “Is that a fat joke?”
            Bitch squared.
            “It’s an observation. Most people like food, wouldn’t you agree?”
            She is momentarily pacified.
            “I think you need some hard liquor,” I tell her.
            “Do I look like an idiot to you?”
            “No, you look like someone who needs some hard liquor. You’re so sensitive. You need to lighten up.”
            “You look like someone who gets girls drunk and then takes them home, fucks them, and feels pleased with yourself afterwards because they had a drunken orgasm.”
            Wow. Bitch times infinity.
            I look around the room, seeing if there are any other possible targets for me to pursue. Negative. From my seat at the bar, I can see into the dining section of the restaurant. It’s pretty much empty, except for a few couples who are gazing into each other’s eyes in the shitty lighting. Holding back my condescending scoffs, I inconspicuously turn my attention back to the more familiar bar.
            There are a few women chatting on the other side of the room. Girls always have to sit on the couches, which means I have to walk all the way over there to even start interviewing. I much prefer the seats near the alcohol. Here, the brightest lights in the entire building shine upon the circular bar, glinting off the tower of vibrant glass bottles, making me feel like the only one worth paying attention to. Besides, I look better in bright light, and the ladies don’t trust a man they can’t see.
            The girls on the couches look (and sound) totally wasted. I try to tell myself that I don’t want to deal with unnecessary giggling, nasty girl throw up, and vapid childhood secrets, but it’s so hard when they all have such awesome bodies. There’s a Latina-looking one nestled in the corner, looking at me with inebriated, but fiery eyes. How long has it been since I was last with a Latina? Her waist is about half of Nicole’s. Why are all the girls who come here so skinny? I miss skinny girls. This one is a lot more difficult than I assumed. I thought fat people were supposed to be jolly. Judging by her appearance, it’s going to take a lot of alcohol to get her to even consider coming to bed. Maybe I should just abandon ship. I look at my watch discreetly. Shit. There’s no way I’m going to find anyone else this late. I look back up at Nicole, who is still scolding me.
            “—and if you had to deal with all the assholes I deal with, you’d be sensitive too, so shut your damn mouth!”
            She ends her tirade, breathing heavily. I slide my credit card across the counter to the bartender, sensing that our date is just about over.
            “I hate food,” she says.
            She had me fooled.
            “I’m around food all day. And where do I come to escape? A restaurant.”
            “You could go clubbing?” I suggest.
            She glares at me.
            “The park?”
            Her eyes are reduced to slits.
            “Excuse me, sir?” The bartender interrupts me right as I’m about to suggest the gym.
            “What’s up?” I ask him, glad to take my focus away from Nicole’s laser scowls. I felt like my face was about to melt—like she had heat vision or something. I wish I had heat vision.
            “Your card’s been declined.”
            “I don’t suppose you’d mind picking this one up?” I ask Nicole while looking at my hands in my lap.
            When she doesn’t say anything, I muster the courage to steal a peek at her expression.
            Daggers.
*          *          *
            The mail slot in my front door opens. I see Fred slide the envelopes inside, and then I see his beady little eyes peering through the slot. I parked my car around the corner just so that he would think I wasn’t home. Apparently that wasn’t enough.
            I hold my breath from my position underneath the dining room table, and wait for the slot to squeak closed and for the footsteps to recede. The other day Fred caught me while I was playing fetch with Megan Fox outside. He announced to the whole block that he hadn’t seen that usual brown box from Trojan Man lately. I threw the tennis ball at him on accident.
            I hear him start the mail truck, but I wait a few minutes, just to make sure he doesn’t come back. Then I scamper out from under the table and make a lunge for the top of the pile.
            My bank statement is on top, where Fred always puts it. I tear open the envelope, and my eyes scan the paper for my balance and let out an inward groan. It seems as though “cutbacks” meant using my wages to pay off my company credit card. I barely have enough money in my account to pay my mortgage.
            I know what this means. No more electricity. No more running water. No more grocery shopping. Just like last time. My job relies on a house—namely a bedroom. As long as I keep the mortgage paid, there’s still hope.
            I pick up the phone and dial Stephan. I figure it might be smart to talk to him before my electricity is cut off.
            “Hello?”
            “Hey, man, it’s Lucas. How are you?”
            “What do you want, Lucas?”
            Damn, he saw right through me.
            “Yeah, so, I hate to bother you, but I’m really feeling those cuts to my pay.”
            Stephan sighs. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”
            It was worth a try. I fall backwards onto my couch with a heavy thud. “How goes the lawsuit?”
            “I’m up to my eyeballs in legal documents, and I don’t see any way around this except to get the research in.”
            I flinch. I hadn’t had much luck with my research. Fat girls aren’t easy in the least. I still had yet to bring one home, and this is the first time in a while that I have to sleep alone. I don’t like it. I’ve been letting Megan Fox in the bed, just so that there’s something living and breathing lying next to me throughout the night. It seems shorter with someone there to keep me company.
            “Have the other guys reported anything?” I ask.
            “Not yet,” Stephan says. “But what about you? You have more experience than they do. Have you gathered a large sample group yet?”
            I bite my lip. He sounds really desperate. “See, here’s the thing,” I begin. “It’s really hard to get it up when I don’t have food in my system.”
            “I can’t pay you any more than I already am,” Stephan says. “You’re already getting more than the other guys.”
            “But what am I supposed to do about food? This job takes a lot of energy.”
            “Use your good looks?”
            “That’s not the same as money, Stephan,” I snap.
            “It was a joke.”
            “Yeah, well, you suck at jokes,” I grumble.
            “Look, I’ve got to go. Just do what you do with girls, but for food instead of sex, okay?”
            He hangs up.
            I stare at the phone. Stephan must really be stressed out. He never makes jokes.
            I put the phone back where it belongs and think about what I’m going to do for dinner. It must be so easy to be a girl. All you have to do is look pretty, go out, and then wait for someone to buy you food. Totally unfair. I look good. I work out five days a week to look this good. I wear stiff button-down shirts to look this good. I dye my hair a rich auburn to look this good. Girls are suckers for guys with dark hair and blue eyes. Most girls are, anyway. About eighty-two percent my clients said they were.
            Nobody buys me dinner.
            “I really wish I was a girl,” I say to myself. Did I really just say that out loud?
            “I really wish I had heat vision,” I amend a bit louder, just in case anybody was listening.
            My stomach growls something fierce in response. It wakes Megan Fox up.
            I’m jealous of her too. I haven’t bought dog food for her in weeks since I discovered her rooting through other people’s trash. She seems to be doing just fine, although sometimes she gets some wicked gas. That’s worth the saved money, though.
            My stomach protests again. It’s time to weigh my options. I could either pay for my food with my good looks and sweet words, or I could dig through my neighbors’ trash. As if they don’t already think I’m a freak.
            I grab my keys and head out to the nearest Panda Express.
*          *          *
            “Can I take your order?”
            “Are you on the menu?”
            She’s not amused. “Would you like to sample our Beijing Beef?”
            “It’s like you’re speaking the language of love right now. Say more Chinese words.”
            “Order already!”
            “Hurry up!”
            “I’m hungry.”
            She glances at the accumulating line behind me, and then focuses back on me. “Your order, sir?”
            “An order of orange chicken and a side of you,” I say.
            “I’m a lesbian,” she replies.
            “I’m a circus clown.”
            “What?”
            “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought it was my turn to tell a lie.”
            “She’s not interested!”
            “Get out of the way!”
            “I’m hungry.”
            “Look, sir, can you please just place your order? We’ve got people waiting behind you.”
            “That’s nothing compared to how long I’ve waited for you.”
            She looks thoroughly disturbed. “What do you want?” she hisses. “Free food? Is that what you want?”
            “If that counts as a date,” I say and wink at her.
            She scowls at me. “Here’s some chow mien that’s been sitting under the heat lamp for over two hours,” she says. “It’s yours. Just leave and don’t come back.”
            I snatch the food before she can change her mind. “Thanks for the date, Tiffany,” I call over my shoulder as I head towards the door.
            Something wide and soft blocks my escape. I take a step back. It’s Nicole. Her nametag says, “Store Manager.”
            She has her hands on her hips, and she’s looking a bit like my mother used to when I would bring home my report cards. Except Nicole is younger. And her dirty looks are ten times worse.
            “Excuse me,” I say politely, hoping she doesn’t recognize me.
            “Follow me,” she says and turns toward the back of the restaurant.
            I consider running—I doubt she could catch me—but Tiffany looks as if she’s about to vault the counter and hunt me down if I do. So I follow Nicole instead.
            “Sit,” she says when we reach her office.
            I obey. I can’t see my face, but I imagine it looks something like Megan Fox’s after that one time I caught her peeing in the house. She looked so guilty that I felt bad for yelling at her. Maybe Nicole will take pity on me too.
            “Is this how you make your living?” she sneers.
            I abandon my puppy dog face, since pity is clearly out of the question.
            “Do you just roam around, finding unsuspecting girls to flirt with and get free food from?”
            I want to deny it, but that pretty much sums up my plan. “Just this once,” I say.
            “Really? And that’s why I had to spot you that night at the bar?”
            “I was going to pay, but my credit card was declined!” I sound so lame right now.
            “You’re ridiculous!” She picks up a fortune cookie from the bowl on her desk and chucks it at me.
            “Ouch!” I say.
            “Man up!” she says. “Aren’t assholes immune to pain?” She throws another one at me.
            “My feelings aren’t,” I mutter, attempting to dodge it.
            “You don’t have feelings!” She starts firing at will. I hastily slide out of my chair and hide behind it.
            “Stop it, you crazy bitch! What’s your problem?”
            “You think everyone is in love with you?”
            Really? Even when she’s angry she can’t answer questions correctly?
            “You think every girl wants to sleep with you?”
            “Not you, obviously,” I say over the hail of fortune cookies. “That’s why I stopped hitting on you after the first five minutes.”
            “You think it’s funny to play with people’s emotions?” She ceasefires for a second. “Let’s all hit on the fat chick! Let’s see if we can trick her into thinking we like her!”
            I peek out from one side of the chair. She pelts me with a cookie. I duck back into hiding.
            “Did you ever think that you might have an issue if you bombard the people who hit on you with fortune cookies?”
            “I have an issue with assholes!”
            I take the white napkin from my take-out bag, spear it on a chopstick, and wave it above the chair where she can see it. “If I explain myself, will you stop attacking me with words and fortune cookies?”
            She doesn’t say anything.
            “Please?”
            “Alright,” she accedes.
            I slowly rise from a fetal position on the ground and stand with my hands up. I’m not quite sure about the procedures for this. I turn to face her. Her hands are cookie-free, so I drop my arms to my sides.
            “Well?” she demands.
            “I work for a condom company.”
            She throws a cookie at me.
            “I’m serious! They hire me to test out their different types of condoms on a wide variety of girls and write up full and detailed reports before the products hit the market.”
            She lets out a snort. Which evolves into a giggle. Which evolves into laughter. I feel my cheeks burning red.
            “What’s so funny?”
            “You’re pathetic!” She gasps for air. “A condom company? That’s disgusting!”
            My ears start to get hot. She’s a manager at Panda Express, and she’s calling me pathetic?
            There are tears trickling out of her eyes now. My fists clench. Impulsively, I grab a fortune cookie and prepare to launch it at her. But I refrain, knowing she’d whoop my ass if I begin another battle. Instead, I pulverize the cookie in my hand, crushing it into tiny crumbs. This helps ease some of the fury. I see the fortune poking out. Your most desired wish will come true.
            Greedily, I stuff the debris in my mouth and swallow. How long do these things take to work? I focus what I hope is an intense glare upon the hysterical Nicole.
            One minute.
            Two minutes.
            Six, seven, eight minutes.
            Still no heat vision.
*          *          *
            A jolt of pounding on my walls wakes me up.
            No, wait. That’s somebody at the door.
            I check the time, and roll out of bed to answer it. It’s much too early for Fred, and if I don’t shut Megan Fox up now, I may have another lawsuit on my hands.
            A very round silhouette is planted before my front door. I freeze. Is it Nicole? Did she follow me home after I snuck out of her office? What if she’s back with a fortune cookie cannon?
            Then I remember, she thinks I’m a total loser because I’m an esteemed condom-tester. No, I was the original condom tester. And even with those new hires, no one can do the job like me. I look back at the bedroom, and then with a smug burst of confidence, I whisk the door open.
            It’s a lady with a baby.
            I feel the wall of confidence begin to crumble, starting from my throat and toppling all the way down to my perfectly round ass.
            Her eyes are wide, with dark circles underneath, and her hair is dry and frizzy. It looks so brittle that even the smallest gust of wind might cause it to shatter. The infant is nestled in her soft and fleshy arms, and she doesn’t seem to have lost her baby weight yet.
            “Lucas?”
            Fuck, this lady knows me.
            “It’s Hannah.” She doesn’t give me a chance to respond. “Hannah Norris? We hooked up a while ago.” She looks down at the baby, then back at me with a weak smile.
            July twenty-eighth. Hannah Norris, 213 pounds.
            I stare at the baby, wanting to scream and cry at the same time.
            Look Hannah, I want to say, that’s not my baby.
            What do you mean it’s not your baby? He looks just like you.
            No, bitch. That baby is obviously black. How dare you try to pass it off as mine?
            Her tired eyes would scrutinize the infant. He’s definitely white. You’re definitely white, so…
            I would panic. Oh, so now you want to play the race card?
            A burning sensation from my eyes jerks me back into the present. Even in my imagination, I suck at arguing. Fuck, my eyes really hurt—I’ve definitely been staring too long.
            Or maybe that’s the flames building behind my eye sockets, getting ready to erupt in a wild conflagration to engulf and incinerate all my problems from the face of the earth.
            “Lucas? What’s going on?”
            The fragments of that wall of confidence are about to tumble out of my perfectly round ass in a mad rush of—as doctors might refer to it—diarrhea. My jaw is clenched so tight that I can feel my teeth cracking. My eyes have officially stretched as wide as they can.
            The inside of my head sounds like an angry tea kettle as I see her emerge from the bedroom, sheets wrapped around her soft folds like a makeshift toga. Cleofatra, I think, with sudden inspiration. Then I see a fragment of an Ultra Thin Label stuck to her foot and that diarrhea is converted to barf, which conveniently gets caught in my throat. All I can do is watch as she discovers the mother and child hunkered in my doorframe. Then, my glorious success story of a client turns to me.
            “Who’s this?” she demands.
            I swallow the barf. “Hannah Norris, 213 pounds.”
*          *          *
            “Lucas? You okay?”
            “Of course I’m okay,” I say into the phone. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
            “We’ve had quite some bad luck with the other testers. It seems as though they had the same—problem—that you had.” Stephan coughs. My baby-daddy status makes him uncomfortable.
            I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder so that I can use both hands to rummage about in my nightstand. “What was the deal with those condoms?”
            “It turns out the Ultra Thins were too thin. Small amounts of semen could leak out. Did you know the obese are actually more fertile?”
            “You don’t say,” I mutter, finally grabbing hold of my sharpie.
            “Yeah, well the prospect of fatherhood didn’t suit some of those other testers too well. Most of them asked to be transferred to different locations, far away from here. One of them is in our advertising department now; he came up with a slogan yesterday.” Stephan sounds like a teacher who doesn’t know the right way to tell a parent that her child pees in the potted plants.
            “Let’s hear it,” I say, ripping the sheet from my bed.
            “‘Making sure the only mistake you might have is the one lying next to you in the morning.’”
            “Harsh.” I plop down, crisscross applesauce in the middle of my floor, and attempt to write on the sheet. It has those fuzzy balls on it from overuse, so my handwriting looks like a second-grader’s. That might be an improvement.
            “It’s completely mental!” Stephan says. “They’ve all been acting like that. I might have to fire them, which will be difficult, since they’re new fathers.”
            I say nothing, focusing on the more immediate task in front of me.
            “I’m hoping I don’t have to do the same to you,” Stephan adds.
            “I’m not crazy, if that’s why you called,” I say.
            I hear him exhale. “It’ll be just like old times, with you as our senior, and only, tester.”
            I switch the phone to speaker phone and begin to unbutton my shirt.
            “Of course wages won’t be quite the same, since we lost the lawsuit,” he continues.
            I tie the sheet around my neck and leap atop my mattress.
            “Is fatherhood treating you well?” Stephan asks.
            With my cape flowing behind me, I stand naked on the bed, feet solidly planted in a heroic pose. Placing my hands on my hips, I glare at the phone, incinerating it to bits with my heat vision.
            “I’m not crazy, if that’s why you called,” I say to the pile of molten plastic.