art of bank-teller flirting

A friend told me recently that he went out with a waitress who left her phone number on a napkin for him. I had always thought that this was a brassy move. Bold, but relatively harmless, I suppose, and it came briefly to mind yesterday as I drove to get a cashier’s check.

I decided to learn from my friend's example and try it.

I was contemplating how to get my bank teller to ask me out since traditional methods of flirting are nonexistent in a bank. First of all, money isn’t very funny; I can’t laugh at stupid jokes if there is nothing to joke about, and other bank patrons are annoyed with me holding up the line by being chatty. (Plus, it’s chancy for the teller, who is handling money and doesn’t need distractions.)

Touching is out, because of protective barriers. And eye contact is brief, as the teller has to concentrate on the computer screen showing your account information. What is a girl to do when a smart, costumer-service savvy, gorgeous, single man works at her local branch? Slip him my number, on some paper scrap…

Truth be told, it was just a quick fantasy; I promptly forgot about it at the bank, when someone new helped me.

But then, eureka!, New Teller needed help from Gorgeous Teller, and then asked for our business contact information to be written on a slip of paper. No one knew my internal struggle. Should I just give the business phone number? That’s all they really need. But how ironic, that on the very day of my daydream, I got the chance to be a little bold, a little brassy, a little flirty in the bank.

And I left my cell number as well. For the art-of-flirting’s sake.

I was pleased. I walked out to the car. Got in pertly, readjusted my mirror.

And noticed my lipstick had smeared all over my chin.

art of yuppies

I became a Young Urban Professional today. We listened to the Talking Heads and drank Ginger Brew that kicked me in the face with every sip. "Is this going to help our health or destroy it?" I wondered out loud yuppyishly.

What is it that is so appealing about ginger? I also wondered, but secretly. I know people who are in love with it. Not so with me. Every time I encounter it, I instantly become suspicious and defensive. It's a reflex.

Now I've had the root itself--plain. And candied ginger, ginger powder in chicken, etc.. Once, some Chinese friends gave me a warm ginger tea which was hard to wrap my heart around, but it worked well to warm me up, which was the point. But I think part of that was the energy and heat generated by my body to process the ginger as I determinedly drank it.

In Ginger Brew's defense, I also have had it in a lemon sherbet number . It ironically cured my upset stomach in an obviously medicinal way that doesn't usually correlate with desserts. But I was grateful, nonetheless.

"I kind of like how it burns your throat," L said reflectively. (Which, by the way, is the very thing that scares me.)

My favorite spice is garlic, which may not even be classified as a spice, but also goes well with chicken, and buttery things, and unlike ginger, will rarely burn throats. Except once, when the lid of the garlic container came off in the casserole before I baked it, successfully dumping in one third of the jar. I believe garlic is now my sister's most loathed spice. But I say: to each his own.

art of fountain felonies

When L and Company were knee-deep in a fountain, in scuba gear, filming a short skit, a policeman swung by to investigate their suspicious behavior. After a brief round of introductions (in which the officer took down names of the fountain offenders), L turned reporter, recorded here:

L: Can I ask you a question I always wanted to ask a cop?
C (for "cop"): Sure, go ahead.

L: What do you do when you are in the middle of nowhere being pulled over by a police car? How can you prevent being pulled over as a scam?
C: Slow down, then call 911. Talk to the dispatcher to confirm that it is a policeman, then tell the dispatcher that you will slow down, so the officer knows. Does anyone else have any questions?

S: How can you tell if a cop ID is a real one?
C: They should have two forms of ID. They should have a badge on their coat. On their badge that they carry, the top part will have picture ID and their name. All officers and federal agents will have a badge like this. The metal badge is optional.

L: Optional?
C: The badge doesn't have to be metal like the ones in the movies, though most people won't believe you if you don't have one.

L: What is the rule with the state line? If someone does something, can they run across the border and get away?
C: We can still go after an offender if we are in pursuit, even across state lines.

L: What about tree climbing? We've been told it's illegal in a college town.
C: Illegal only on campus. You can throw snowballs, too, off campus, if both parties are in a mutual combat.

L: What are your feelings on pepper spray?
C: Murphy's Law. If something could go wrong, it will. What if the wind blows it back in your face?

L: So, would you like to be in our movie? Ironically, it's about why people shouldn't break the honor code on campus.
C: No, thank you. I don't want to be video taped.

L: Is it against the rules?
C: Personal preference.

L: Are we your favorite people you've stopped?
C: Yeah.

L: Thanks for lying.
C: Thanks for not running away. No really, it was fun. And it was nice to meet people who were so cooperative about being cited...

Anytime.

the art of ugly dumplings ( jiao zi)

“Can dumplings be mei li?” I asked testing the chinese word I learned for beautiful.

"No--Flowers!" G laughed at me. "That word is only for flowers--or girls. Not for dumplings." I laughed with him, though secretly I thought dumplings could be beautiful--mine weren't, of course, but those that S made while teaching me were amazingly uniform.

They looked like half-flowers. The transformation from a small thin disk of dough into a folded, stuffed dumpling was practically a miracle. A miracle that wasn't mine to experience apparently.

"You did a good job." S gave me a thumbs-up as G boiled the jiao zi.

"How do you know when it's ready?" I asked curiously, leaning over his wok.

G shrugged, "By experience."

Experience, again.

"How will I know, then?" I asked, laughing a little.

He grinned, "Someday, you will have experience."

I nodded ruefully. That had sounded very wise-man-on-a-mountain.

Basically, there was nothing for me to do but....I didn't finish my thought. I noticed I could easily tell which were the mei li de jiao zi, and which weren't. Luckily beautiful dumpling or ugly dumpling--they both tasted delicious, which is a lesson you learn in the kitchen, sometimes.

the art of removing an abandoned car warning

Perhaps the policeman thought it was funny, the bright orange sticker that clashed horribly with the bad paint job. It certainly couldn’t be overlooked. Or ignored. We had to get the Little Ole Lady legal again or be embarrassingly impounded. I limped the car to the courthouse, my dad supervising because I had no idea what to do.

I remember last winter—I paced my kitchen, repeatedly looking out the window waiting for my car to revive from its coma, much like a relative on hospital vigil. It was buried under 6 feet of snow for almost two years straight while I was on my mission, and no one knew if it would ever run again.

Eureka! Two days later my brother-in-law, B, took a look, and it was (amazingly) alive. It was freezer burnt looking, the tires were split open (not flat, split), the tank still had the same gas that it had for two years, and it was alive.

And now, I had to give it some mandatory TLC—and renew registration.

Driving it today brought back some memories--like how my brother refused to drive it for fear of an explosion on the freeway. Or how it never had shocks, struts, or a muffler (floats like a butterfly, buzzes like a bee). Or how someone skinned a grey teddy bear and pinned the fur to its ceiling.

Or how I could never officially decide what name to call it--Mongoose Molly? Or The Little Old Lady from Pasadena?

I must declare: my car does not embarrass me. I can drive these mountain roads alongside the new Corvettes and Cameros, Dodge Hemys and Yukons, and I just don't care. Even with the offensive orange sticker, my granny car has a bit of coolness that comes from time. And now it's legally not an abandoned vehicle. (Thanks to my dad, of course, who taught me how to attempt haggling with the courthouse car lady. P. S. I don't think they haggle.)

Of course, I'm giving the car to my parents (for my brother when he returns home) and trading up for a '91 Buick, but I think I might have just given my heart away...

the art of smash brothers

“Glub. Glub. Glub,” says Kirby as he defies gravity to the platform. As I walk past a Smash Brothers competition between K, S and B, one hands me the controller.

“How do I do this?!?” I ask, feeling slightly alarmed. I’m not one to play video games. I crouch down on the floor.

Final countdown, three, two…

“Ready? Start!” S shouts. “You guys are dead…” He expertly moves his character to a position with better advantage.

“What do I do? What do I do?” I try to grab K’s attention by waving my controller in her face. I do NOT know how to do this.

“Hit up; Kirby goes up.”

So, I hit up. Glub, glub, glub. It was like magic. Laborious, slow magic. “What next?” I ask. I start to feel pitiful and desperate.

“Button A punches. B eats people,” she’s concentrating on the t.v. screen as S attacks her.

Why do I get the fat, pudgy ball that doesn’t float? I wonder. Characters jump from one platform to another shooting and kicking each other. I start feverishly hitting A and B.

“Ahh!!” K screams at me. “You ate me!”
“How did I do that?!” I shout back.

ABBABBABBBBAB

“You pushed B!”
“He now has blue hair…” I notice.
“You took my power!” K accuses.
“So what? What does blue hair do?”

She doesn’t answer.

I notice she is occupied again as S tries to kill her. Suddenly someone else is upon me. I freak out, laughing, and glub glub my way up to the next platform. I discover I’m left alone as I wait for someone to attack me. I fall off the platform and arduously float to a hiding place. I notice I’m ranked the highest at the same time everyone else does.

“GET HER!!” someone screeches.
“Oh, no! I can’t do this!” I frantically hit buttons. I’m filled with dread, even as I laugh hysterically. What if they get me?

“I can’t believe she’s winning! I’m already dead…” B says behind my back.
The door bell rings, and in walks visitors. Saved by the door bell! I hand my controller to B.
“She kicked our butts!” K calls as I walk out.

Good luck, Pink Thingy.
ABBABBABAB
and out.

art of buried treasure

Low tide.
I met the ocean in a brief hello,
as the water washed my feet cold.

Behind me,
black shell fragments and broken glass littered the sand.
"The trick is to look at the shapes," she said.

We wandered
through waiting pools that high tide left
and in the rivulets
running to reunite with the rising surf,
to pour into their lover's arms.

Sea glass,
rolled between sand and water,
edges rubbed smooth...
cracked bottles into glass-
and glass, to treasure
offered on ocean's alter.