Blog
Don't call me by my name
Growing up in the South, you get used to things being mispronounced. If you ever realize that they have been, that is.
Mitch also grew up in the South. If only we had been friends back then. But just like my grandma, and all those wrinkly people at the family reunions, he also calls me Way-Yes.
I got a message from him. And that’s exactly how he started it.
He didn't want pity
Today was Thursday, my favorite day of the week because it’s close to the end but not yet. Despite that I still had enough worries to last into next week already.
I noticed him in his wheelchair which could have been as large as a refrigerator. Half of his body melted into the table as he ate his cheesecake with strawberry topping.
He finagled the next bite into his mouth.
The virtual tantrum
I was in the book store the other day looking for the new book about Tuberculosis.
There was a child probably about five and in full meltdown mode. Her Mom who looked more tired than most moms grabbed her by the arm and began to tug her outside. The girl pushed back.
I thought, “I’m glad I don’t have to put up with that.” Then I remembered I do—and there’s a monthly fee attached.
One-way ticket
My Lonely Planet travel guide said to ring this number after I landed. It was the best hostel in Cape Town.
He came to fetch me in a VW van. Almost too nice he was. My first thought was that maybe what my family had worried was true: the locals would put me in a pot, boil and eat me. Turns out a braai meant something entirely different.
It was only a few years since Apartheid collapsed and the start of everything.
What will they think?
I was in kindergarten. Most of the time it was fun, especially since Mrs. Cook reminded me of my grandma.
In our classroom there were two restrooms. One door had a picture of Kermit the Frog and the other had Miss Piggy. Those were the rules. One day I really had to go. Kermit was locked. Miss Piggy wasn’t. But then what would everyone think?
Dad came to pick me up at school. I was wet with nature and tears. On the drive home he told me everything would be okay.
Clamoring for a selfie
We were standing there talking in front of St. Vitus Cathedral. There was no yesterday or today, just this moment.
The monk’s crimson robe drew stares that I hadn’t previously noticed. Teenagers in football kits pushed their way through the crowd to get closer to him like he was Ronaldo. They all wanted a selfie.
I felt how conflicted he was. What came next was the middle way.
The muffin man
My client called from the Manhattan office crying. Her boss had eaten half of the blueberry muffin that was to be her breakfast.
In one bite, while staring right at her.
He owned the world of PR. It made him a very powerful man. He’d frequently banish the team to the supply closet to sort pens and clean.
Am I becoming insentient?
It was well after midnight. I was asleep, kind of that half-sleep where your brain is still turned on and thinking about things.
I got up for the nightly trip to the toilet. There was a command line passing through my head. Reviewing project files. Processing. Ruminating on it. Stand by.
I couldn’t feel anything. Was I awake?
How he wore his face
At the gym I ran into two college kids from California, one tall enough to be a basketball post.
They worked out in street clothes and street shoes. Over their playlists they shouted their progress back and forth. They were at every machine all the time. The regulars slammed their weights down.
I tried talking to the basketball post. Nothing but that vacant stare in return.
Hot potatoes
I still feel dumb every day when I speak Czech. Those hot potatoes will roll around in my mouth no matter how hard I try.
The other morning at the hospital, I was chatting with the nurse. On my way out she said, “You have very nice Czech.” After that, I went to grab a coffee and was chatting with the cashier about the coming weekend. On my way out she said “You have very nice Czech.”
“But these hot potatoes,” I kind of stuck my hand in my mouth. She said I shouldn’t worry about it so much.