 Physical therapy
It's 9 o'clock on a Saturday
The woman in the apartment above ours has taken to playing "I Am Beautiful" on full volume lately. Sometimes candles are lit. Sometimes her dog barks along. But always, always the repeat mode is selected. She sings along with such fury and conviction, I'd like to take her out for a drink sometime. We could talk about the foils and follies of X-Tina, the political implications of Britney Federline, and the repeated failure of words to get us down. Initially, we could warm up by playing the song at her place, belting loudly at all the best parts ("No matter what they say/ No matter what they say/ Oooooooooo"). Then it'd be off to Coyote Ugly for another singalong with the loveably abusive, smokingly red-hot waitstaff. We'd follow it up with a Coyote of the Month-worthy romp on the bar, and finish with complimentary shots from the tie-clipped businessmen gone wild in the corner. Take that, words.
 Plaid, Amish, and patchy
Curses
The note I passed about Mariselda in the fourth grade changed everything. "Mariselda," it read, "is a bitch." I cleverly tucked it into a pencil sharpener, whereupon Mariselda cleverly tucked it into the teacher's outstretched hand at the front of class. An emergency parent-teacher conference was arranged. Hip and young, Ms. Smith didn't care that all my spelling-word stories ended with the characters falling off a cliff. She didn't care if you used cursive or not. She liked to quote the Talking Heads. She refrained from doing so now. When she arrived several hours later, my mom asked to see the note in question. She was upset but clearly did not want to let her defenses down. With a masters in counseling and a strong belief in the creative use of school supplies, my mom advocated that words were just words. I sat in the corner, as stressed as any 9-year-old could be. To demonstrate my aggravation, I sighed heavily, attempting to run my fingers through my hair. Except. I couldn't. My mom looked at me as if for the first time. Plastered to my forehead, zigzagging down my neck, and jutting unnaturally at right angles, my hair contained a full tube of moveable-hold Paul Mitchell styling gel. My mom softened. My hand wrenched free. A flurry of white gel flakes rained down. "Mandy's been trying out this new look," my mom said meekly. "It's not really working."
 O, pioneers
Holy war
The Creativity Crusader looked pained as he surveyed the glittering hotel ballroom. "Some of the most beautiful music I have ever heard," he began. The Crusader, a balding middle-aged man, paused for dramatic effect. The audience clutched their marigold mimeographed agendas. They nervously examined his talking points, complete with zany clip art and wacky headshot. "Some of the most beautiful music I have EVER heard," he repeated, "came from a deaf woman." He extended his arms heavenward as Christ might have done were he too crusading to incorporate performance tactics into corporate brand strategy. "I never truly knew how to see," he said, "until a blind man taught me how." Now the Crusader had our attention. Thirteen mind-benders later, he skipped around the ballroom, handing out plain white pieces of paper folded in two. I opened mine and read the heavily granulated note. "WHEN YOU HEAR THE WHISTLE, CLOSE YOUR EYES, CRUMPLE THIS PAPER, AND THROW IT AT YOUR NEIGHBOR!!!" He lifted a shiny blue whistle partway to his lips. His tongue hung loose. "A one, and a two, and a—" The sound of shrieking, crumpling, and momentary gaiety filled the Sheraton. A pen hit my leg. A glass of chilled lemon water went flying. I opened my eyes. The room had been creativated. At the rear entrance, a busboy wheeled in the noontime coffee cart and scowled.
 Offline in 1979
You're older than you've ever been, and now you're even older
1) The 2-year-old I used to babysit tries to remember me six years later. "Wait," Max says, looking at my 6'2" frame and squinting. He giggles.
"Didn't you used to have a dog that was bigger than you?" 2) My mom visits kindergarten on Grandparents Day.
The teacher asks everyone to introduce themselves. My mom finishes her story last, and the bell rings.
"No time for questions, I'm afraid," the teacher says. "Thank you, Pat, for coming to visit today."
Two 6-year-olds approach my mom hypnotically, ignoring the bell. Ignoring the teacher.
They want to know.
"What is your favorite color?"
"What street do you live on?"
My mom answers, and they thank her.
3) I move out of the studio apartment on Argyle Street. The 8-year-old boy with the pitbull named Tank asks why I have to leave.
"You'll get a new neighbor soon," I say. "A nice one."
The boy shrugs and adjusts the chain on Tank's neck.
"Yeah," he says, "but you was nicer."
 New York, 92nd Street Y, 1996
Standup revisited
My cross-neighborhood tour of the Midwest brought me to Phyllis's Musical Inn again last night. Special thanks to the key-tar player for tips on finding the elusive comedy "zone." Highlights included:
...I'm having trouble keeping up with technology. No matter what I do, Amazon keeps giving me more recommendations to improve my life.
I thought buying one prenatal yoga video as a gift for my sister would be enough, but they are absolutely relentless on this topic.
Have you considered, "Postnatal Yoga?"
Other people also liked, "The Dummies Guide to Working Out With Your Fetus."
30% off when you buy "9 Essential Ab Crunches No Unborn Child Should Live Without."
...but I digress. I have to tell you about my recent visit to the wonderful world of chat rooms. I hadn't ventured into one since I was 19, when Mr. Basketball did not actually want to talk about basketball.
Ten years later, I hoped to find my peer group interested in actually having a conversation, perhaps about the upcoming election or embryonic stem cell research.
I decided to enter the 20s community room first.
"Hello, peer group," I wrote. "What's everyone talking about tonight?"
"Titties," came the quick reply from BLKDK4U2SK.
"!!!!!!" he added.
I moved on to the 30s with high hopes.
I hunched over my keyboard and banged out,"Hello, chatters." There was no response right away, which seemed like a positive sign.
Then TIMBER33 piped up with the age-old question, "Who likes ass?"
It was KRISTIE1972 who coquettishly replied first. "I do." Considering this, she added, "My pussy feels wet."
I held faint optimism as I entered the 40s room.
TABITHAJ asked, "How is everyone feeling tonight?"
"I'm doing okay," I started to reply, but I was quickly trumped by SINNERGY2 who decided to speak on the room's behalf. "I just came so hard," he proclaimed, followed by the inexplicable, "BRB."
I was not going to be so easily defeated. I entered the 50s room, imagining grandparents on AOL everywhere, maybe some drinking tea.
GRNEYDWMN wrote that she was taking a trip to Mesa, Arizona soon. That seemed pleasant. I responded, "When are you leaving?" GRNEYDWMN typed, "Next week. Ever been?" And before I could even reply, DUSTIN2004 swooped in from out of nowhere to invite us to take a trip on his cock instead.
The room was quiet for a minute. Then.
"Okay," GRNEYDWMN answered.
I gave up and ordered a few more prenatal yoga videos instead.
 Friendly cetaceans
The id
On Friday night I dreamed of Sea World. Mike and I sat at the top of a giant amphitheatre. He began talking to an older man sitting on the upper tier of the stands. "I'm going to get closer to the dolphins," I said, and pushed forward to the front. I watched the show, blissful. When I returned, I found Mike still engrossed in conversation. "You'll never believe it," Mike said, gesturing to the older man. "He used to work for the Clinton administration in the Department of Transportation." I smiled at them both. "I like the dolphins," I replied. "They have all sorts of different names, and I want to touch them."
 Hatless
The great debate
The Hummer slammed into reverse next to me. I stared straight ahead, ignoring it, and continued to ease my Saturn into the meager space left between two sport utility vehicles at Addison and Clark. Clearly, I had been there first. The window rolled down. A crusty pair of pink frosted lips began screaming at me from the passenger's seat. A crispy orange jaw in the driver's seat cackled with laughter. "You stupid, fucking ugly bitch," Pink Crust chanted. "You stupid, fucking ugly bitch." She looked at me for a response. "Nice hat, you stupid, fucking ugly bitch." She really nailed me on the hat. It was pretty nice. I squared with her. “You know, I'm actually just running inside for a few minutes if you want to wait." Pink Crust looked at Orange Crisp. A nonverbal consensus was reached. "You stupid, fucking ugly bitch!" Pink Crust chirped rapturously. "See you later, you stupid, fucking ugly bitch!" The Hummer peeled out, squealing into the Taco Bell around the corner.
 The Internet
Show me that smile
When I finally introduced my mom to the magic of the Internet four years ago, she wasted absolutely no time in finding what she wanted. "So you're okay?" I asked, showing her the search engine maneuver again. "I'm just going to run to the bathroom, but I'll be right back." When I returned, she had 20 different windows open, and they all contained varying degrees of information about Alan Thicke. She looked very happy. "He hosts 'Miracle Pets'," she said. "I love that show." My mom retired this summer at the age of 62. She continues to enjoy television. Her new San Diego cable provider, unfortunately, does not carry PAX, but they do have VH1. "They just keep playing the same thing over and over again so it really helps you figure out what's going on," she tells me. "I learned all about Tupac yesterday." "What did you learn?" I ask. "It was a rap misunderstanding," she says.
 Good posture
Knock 'em dead
The first time I told my story in 2000, I practiced it diligently in a bathroom stall beforehand. I sucked on hard lemon candy and warmed up my vocal cords, posing difficult theoretical questions while fiddling with one of those stubborn, one-sheet-at-a-time toilet roll dispensers.
Strengths? Weaknesses? Hobbies? Favorite Chicana magical realist author, and why?
When you bomb out on a question once in your life, you never forget. My in-person interview at Pomona College in 1992 brought such heartbreak. "My favorite book and author?" I repeated back to the handsome, prim alumnus quizzing me in a room filled with nothing but books and authors.
I smiled and stalled, my head swimming with "Billy Budd," "The Scarlet Letter," and inexplicably, the "Ain't I A Woman?" speech. I fiddled with my pearls and ripped suede jacket.
"Right now," I said with a steeled grin, "I'm just really into different magazines."
Back in the millennial bathroom, I continued playing hardball with myself. I gesticulated to a batch of graffiti as I practiced speaking purposefully, expressively.
"Well," I said. "Essentially, I left newspapers because I found that time and time again, I was simply tearing things down. Since then, I've looked for professions where there is an opportunity to build something up, be a part of something."
Essentially. What I didn't tell the stall was how much I hated knocking on doors Christmas Day to get the skinny on a mysterious gunshot death.
"Did you know your neighbor?" I asked door after tinsel-laden door. "Because this guy, he's dead now, and he could have been murdered, or it could have been a suicide. And I was just wondering..."
The door—invariably—slammed shut.
"...did he seem more like a guy who would be murdered, or just suicidal?"
 Hiding from the world in 1980
Low tech, high touch
My parents' bedtime stories always consisted of the same oddly soothing formula. 1) Imagine you and your friends are on a giant fan. 2) The fan starts spinning. 3) You fly off and have wonderful adventures together.
 Bright lights, teal lobby, circa 1992
Talk hard, steal the air
1) Kevin tells me about his dream, San Diego, 1992. "When I'm asleep sometimes," he says, dead serious and throaty over pumpkin pie at Denny's, "sometimes I see this gigantic eye. Hovering. Over everything." He pauses to take a bite. "And when I look at it," he continues, "I can see it's crying..." He pauses to chew. "Tears of blood."I smoke my cigarette. "Oh, wow," I say. "Yeah." 2) Ivan writes me a letter, Chicago, 1994. "Dear Mindy, your gone in Chicago but I am missing how sweat you are. I am going to follow the Dead this summer and want you to come with me. Lets keep in touch." 3) Brown-haired guy approaches me on the beach, Florida, 1996. "You're reading a book about Lenny Bruce," he says, leaning down to touch the cover. "That's one of those guys. In that R.E.M. song." He looks at me. "So he's cool." "Yeah," I say. "You're right." We're silent. He kicks the sand and smiles. "The thing is," I say. "I kind of just want to read." "Well," he says, turning. "That's too bad for you. Everyone tells me I'm terrific in bed."
 Please go to the Tate Modern the next time you are in London
Two stories of South Africans
1) Kazamula I met in Des Moines. A physically imposing black man, he spoke with a quiet certitude about life as an assistant police chief in his home country. He was in Iowa to participate in a law enforcement exchange program, and I was writing a profile on him. My editor inspired me to dig deeper, to go farther. Who was the real Kazamula?
It was 1998. Times were great, and food was good. So I took him to Applebee's.
He didn't say much over his grilled steak fajita rollup and tropical ice tea, but he did say he didn't want the evening to end. He didn't want to miss a thing. So I took him to "Armageddon."
It was before the seizure-inspiring quick cuts in the climax, in the middle of the hamfisted Animal Crackers on the belly scene when I looked over at him, uncomfortable and ashamed of American cinema.
When the movie let out, in the harsh daylight outside the Cineplex Odeon, I squinted at Kazamula and squeaked, "So what did you think?" He spoke slowly and looked right into my eyes. "Mandy," he said. "That is one of the best movies I have ever seen."
2) Edward I met at The Comedy Store in London, December 2003. White, preppy, and into financial analysis and surfing, he had been living in London for several years at that point. Edward was in charge of the night's Christmas junket for JP Morgan. He had one extra pass for an accountant who didn't show, and he didn't want it to go to waste.
"Here to see the comedy?" he asked. "Want to go for free?"
I did. When I ran into Edward a few minutes later at the bar, he laughed. "Might as well put you on our tab, too, eh?"
I sat with him and three rowdy rows of JP Morgan employees. They enjoyed pitchers of ale as well as ribbing the awkward IT director who became the focal point of one comedian's what-is-the-deal-with-the-guy-in-the-front-row routine. Edward offered to explain any subtleties of British humor that I might not get.
The comedian on stage launched into a lengthy riff on the Queen.
What. Is. The deal?
I was silent, and Edward leaned toward me. "Relationship with the royals," he whispered. "Very love-hate."
 "...likeably unpretentious and unguarded." ---Kirkus Reviews
Hard-won lessons of taking the photobooth picture
1) Don't go in alone.
2) You might look like an asshole.
3) Even when you do that carefree thing with the hands.
 Eternal sunshine
Are you earning 2 percent on your purchases today?
There's nothing like a good poster board display. I used one to mount my history fair project in the seventh grade, my science fair project in the eighth grade, and my career fair project in the ninth grade.
At Costco on Sunday, as I stood in line for the cash machine, not too far from the soylent green relish and onion pumps in the food court, a corporate version of the classic poster board display grabbed my attention.
Awash in soft tones of gray, charcoal, and charcoal gray, it made me wonder if I would ever be able to care for, or feign interest in, discussions about high-end cabinetry. It also made me realize I don't attend nearly as many fairs as I used to.
Sample edges of counter tops jutted out from the display in bright gold and ebullient silver. Funkily askew pictures showed white, black, and Asian people smiling and relaxed, thinking about various kitchen solutions. They looked confident, and why wouldn't they be? Oval word bubbles sealed the deal.
"Dependable."
Your husband may leave you, but this cabinetry won't.
"Reliable."
You may feel sad, but your counter top is happy.
"Affordable."
You deserve to have quality things.
"Non-emotional."
Your heart may say no, but...
Wait. What the fuck?
My head whipped back to the gold slab I had absentmindedly touched before.
Non-emotional.
That's when I realized. Costco now sells coffins.
 Greasy
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