Bug is Brown Bagging It From Now On

This Bug doesn't believe in bad luck. I have no qualms about walking under ladders. I open umbrellas indoors. Broken mirrors are benign to me. Black cats don't make me nervous. You know what does? A moldy cannoli. It was my stroke of good fortune the other day to get one of these and send me into a tailspin. When I bit into it- it tasted a little funny. Funny like...oh, I dunno. Old beer and sweetened sour milk? But I didn't inspect it right away since I was driving. It wasn't until after I'd had my salad and moved on to dessert that I looked and noticed something spotted in the cream of the cannoli. It looked a little like chocolate chips and I naively thought, "That's funny. I thought I ordered a plain one." Then I saw the 'spots' were tinges of green all throughout and proceeded to completely bug the fuck out. Why does this always happen to me?



A few years back I ordered lunch with co-workers from a new seafood joint that opened up. I got the beer battered fried clam strips with a side of fries. Thank goodness I'm a chatty girl when I'm ready. Had I not been- I never would have paused between my run-on sentences just as I brought the fork to my mouth and seen a 'short and curly' wrapped around one of the morsels. I was horrified. Enough to totally forget my professional surroundings when I yelled, "OhMYGod! Is that a PUBE on my CLAM STRIP?!" Not a good day.

Listen, for those of you who don't know, Hot Pockets should remain frozen until ready for consumption. Got that? Frozen. Not refrigerated in an overpriced sandwich vending machine. So overpriced that when you finally break down and spend the money it would cost for an entire box in the supermarket for just one- that it may be black and fuzzy on the inside from being passed over for weeks. That was my lesson. Now I want you to remember it so you never have to suffer the disgust and anguish I experienced years ago in my cubicle. I used to carry a toothbrush to work back then so after a few seconds of dry heaving with no result, I promptly brushed until all I could taste was blood. But what I really wanted to do was shave my tongue, rinse with gasoline and pop a lit match into my mouth.


It's not like all of this just started happening to me yesterday. When I was 11 years old, I bought a Bomb Pop from the ice cream truck and hopped on my BMX (or was it a Mongoose?) I can't recall. While showcasing my hands-free bike riding skills between enjoying this nice little summer treat- I looked down too late to see that a gnat had landed on the tip of it just as I put into my mouth. I gagged. I spit. I dropped the popsicle. I grabbed the handle bars. I crashed into a parked car. That, my friends, is the true definition of discombobulation.



The above foods are filed under Again Never due to the trauma I experienced. Anyway, I went straight back to the deli after work to show them why I almost died at lunchtime. The manager apologized profusely, gave me back my money and then offered me a fruit bowl for my inconvenience. I asked him if it was fresh. "Of course! Nice lady like you? Fresh. Yes!" Sure. Now I'm "Nice Lady". Hours earlier though, he found me worthy of being "Moldy Cannoli Girl". Bastard. I'm done with all of it. Popsicles. Clam strips. Hairy Hot Pockets..hey, I'm seeing a theme here but I'll keep it clean (for today). And just think of all the gross things you might have already ingested because you didn't even catch it. I know it has nothing to do with luck or its flip side, either. Just eyeball your food fiercely, People.

Next time around I'll take the gun and leave the cannoli.

blessed, alive, thankful...in that order

"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?"-The Shadow

To say that my Thanksgiving morning started out like any other would be far from the truth.  In fact, it would be an outright lie.  I awoke to a day that was mixed with turmoil, stirred by animosity and bubbling with potential violence.  Needless to say, I tried my best to carry on with the day as though none of these factors bore any weight.  So foolish of me to ignore the omens.

I was up before the sun and made my way to the basement laundry room of my building. My thought was- it's a holiday and not yet 6 a.m. so no one should be down there.  I'll be in and out in no time.  I opted for the closeness of my building rather than lug three heavy bags across the courtyard to my car and a nearby laundromat.  When I got there- it was dead silent. An eerie, early morning quiet that makes you feel you're the only one in the world who's up and about.  No machines going. No dryers tumbling.  Deserted.

Then I saw him. Scruffy and unshaven.  A nest of matted dirty blond hair topped his head.  His hands looked meaty and swollen.  He said, "Hey. How's it going?"  I reply, "Good Morning."  I began loading the machines when it struck me that he was down there but  not using the laundry facilities.  I engage him.  "Are you waiting for the machines?"  He looked skittish.  "No, I'm waiting for him to pick me up for work. It's cold out there, you know?" Immediately I analyze his words.  Why would he say 'him' like I'm supposed to know who he's talking about?  And if he lived in the building, there would be no need for him to wait outside in the cold.  I nod. I didn't want to be rude.  Just because someone looks unkempt doesn't necessarily mean they're up to no good.  He asks me for a light. I don't usually carry matches but I had them.  I don't usually carry a screwdriver either, but I had one that morning. I hand him the book of matches. He lights up under the No Smoking sign.  As bold as I am, it's something I've never done in that basement.  It rubs me the wrong way. I leave. 

Forty minutes after the wash cycle, I make my way back downstairs.  Thankfully, the sun is up.  At first glance, it feels like I'm alone.  As I step in a little further, I see a figure crouching behind the huge dryer closest to the wall. He peeks out at me then walks out into the open.  Asks me for another light.  Says he can't believe he lost the one I gave him.  At this point, all friendliness is out the window. I tell him no.  Sternly.  All the while I'm wondering what the hell he was doing hiding behind the dryer, but I say nothing.  He leaves through a back door that locks automatically once closed.  As I'm pulling clothes from the washing machine I hear a knock at the same door two minutes later.  I ignore it because anyone who's allowed to come through there- more than likely has a key.  Deep down, I know it's him again.  I pretend not to hear the knocking but he walks to the window across from where I'm standing and points to the door. 

I hold up one finger as if to say 'Gimme a second'.  He saunters back over to the door.  I take the screwdriver from my bag and slide it into the back pocket of my jeans.  Against my better judgment I walk over and crack the door slightly with my left hand; my right hand firmly gripping the handle of the Philips behind me.  Oddly enough, I'm cool as a water fountain but ready to jab seven inches of metal repeatedly through his neck at the first sign of foul play.  He starts out by saying that he's staying with his mother right now.  (In my mind I'm saying God bless him if a man this beat up still has a living mother somewhere) Then he proceeds to hold a wallet out towards me.  He claims that I'm welcome to hold on to it to ensure he returns- if I can help him out with seven dollars.  Again, I internally dissect his words.  He didn't ask for $1.  He didn't ask for $5. Such a peculiar and specific dollar amount.  Drugs perhaps? Now, it's been said that I got most of my education by watching movies.  And I've always playfully disputed that.  But, if not for Catch Me If You Can with Leonardo DiCaprio, I might have fallen for this wallet trick that is supposed to instantly gain your trust.  I mean, who's going to leave their wallet with you and not come back, right?  Wrong.  That can be anyone's wallet.  A dead man's wallet for all I know. "I have no cash." I say it brusquely while closing the door on his face.

Through the window, I watch him walk by to the front of the building.  I can only see from his torso to just below his knees.  He does something strange.  He splays his fingers wide apart and then clenches them into a fist. Repeating the move until he's out of my sight.  I find the entire episode unnerving but I'm not shaken for some reason.  When I'm sure that he's gone, I return to loading my wet clothes into the two dryers. I load up the second one, the one I saw him stooping behind and shut the huge circular door.  With it comes the loudest clamour. It's heart-stopping and for the first time that morning, I'm startled.

I look to the right of the dryer where the noise came from and see the biggest pipe wrench I've ever seen in my life.  Over 18 inches long.  I pick it up and it seems to weigh at least twenty pounds.  I drop it.  Replay the scene in my head as I realize his hands were on that wrench just ten minutes ago.  My hands start to shake at the thoughts of how it could have gone.  My skull split by one blow with his weapon of choice.  Blood. Everywhere. Bludgeoned to death the same way my aunt was in our native Trinidad a few years back.  No one knew I was down there.  No one could have known.  Even though I was ready to fight for my life or even take his if need be, I still shuddered at what could have been.

Right then and there, on that day...I truly gave thanks.  No, not an ordinary Thanksgiving at all.  Not in the least.

Players only love you when they're playin'...

In the dream, it's sunny... and almost too bright a day. There is a garden party of some sort going on with live music being performed from a gazebo. Everything is set in white. The scene is reminiscent of the Catalina Wine Mixer...only there's no Will Ferrell there. Just rows and rows of heavy white folding chairs on lush grass and a sprinkling of wide round tables covered in white sheets. Odd, but in the dream I know they are sheets and not tablecloths for some reason. I take a seat near the front and watch the performance distractedly. I'm there alone although it feels like I was supposed to meet someone there. But who? Something makes me turn my head. I spot them sitting side by side at one of the tables. I turn just in time to see him deliver an affectionate peck to a bare, tanned shoulder. Her face is flawless and bears the look of someone blissfully unknowing. She looks familiar- like I've seen her before in a collection of photos. Women of every imaginable shape and hue that are supposed to be special to him in one way or another. To the untrained eye they all look friendly, but only they know for sure whether it was- or could ever be more than that. But in the dream, that quick kiss betrays all appearances. What follows is hot, unadulterated rage.

In a flash, I am on my feet and charging towards them, leaving overturned chairs tossed this way and that in my wake. They fly off my fingertips as if they shared the weight of feathers. People seated around me seem to scatter and virtually disappear. No one is left but the the three of us, it seems. They give chase. No matter how fast I run, they are just out of reach. And I am blinded by thoughts of what I will do if I get my hands on either one. Suddenly the scene switches to a casual backyard cookout. There is a woman, a different woman seated at another round table- howling in pain. I never see it happen- but a long metal stake or pole has fallen from some immeasurable height. Or perhaps just the clear blue sky. It impales her fleshy thigh through light colored jeans. Her femur is no doubt in two pieces. She needs medical attention. Fast. People surround her in panic. Someone yells to give her room. Another voice is screaming to call an ambulance. Pandemonium. All the while, I am consumed by a quavering calm that whispers fiercely into my ear, ' Who gives a fuck about her? Where did they go?'

They are gone. I never catch them. Never see them again.

***

When I research the main details, I learn that to chase something or someone in a dream highlights you drive and ambition to go after what you want. Or perhaps the dream suggests that you are falling behind and have to catch up with everyone else. Considering the distance or gap between the pursuer and the pursued indicates your closeness to the issue. To dream of impalement suggests a forceful , violent or passionate release of repressed emotions. It then says to consider which part of the body is being impaled, so I look up the thigh. To see your thigh in a dream symbolizes stamina and endurance. It refers to your ability to perform and do things. That it wasn't my thigh but some random woman's confuses me a bit. I no longer cared about a fellow human being or pain and suffering. I cared not that more pressing issues were going on around me. I was deadlocked on a target that was not within my grasp. It was time to give up and I simply wouldn't admit it to myself. My fury had to place to go. All of this absolves nothing and brings me no closer to peace.

I guess when the rain washes me clean, I'll know.

Say It Ain't So

Sometime last week when I heard about former NFL quarterback Steve McNair being shot to death in a murder/suicide I was unfazed. As cold as that may sound, it's true. Perhaps it's because I had never heard his name before or maybe because I don't follow football- I had no real reaction beyond the initial, "Oh sh*t. That's messed up." Well, this time it's different. On the heels of a whirlwind weekend of traveling and partying (on a boat no less) I felt like I crawled out from under a rock and learned the shocking news about Arturo Gatti. I still can't believe it. This Bug loves herself some boxing. I've been following it since I was a little girl. I can remember sitting on the living room floor while my father and his friends watched Hagler vs. Hearns- the only girl completely absorbed in the match while my sisters remained upstairs totally disinterested.

I made it my business to watch Arturo "Thunder" Gatti whenever he fought. I liked his style. And even though he would cut easily- he was a tough son-of-a-bitch. So tough in fact, that I never expected to hear that he was strangled to death with the strap of a handbag. The details are sketchy but his 23 year old wife is in custody because her story was wishy-washy and they found his blood all over her purse strap. Am I wrong for wondering what type of purse it was? Fendi has some pretty strong straps but so does Gucci. I guess at the end of the day, it matters very little. The most important thing is that a life was cut short by a selfish person who thought only of themselves. In one fell swoop, she has orphaned their child and stolen a precious gift from others. I'm still amazed that this tiny woman was able to overpower someone who knocked people out for a living. But as I've examined before- if a woman is determined, the strength comes from somewhere. We've all heard that a woman scorned has no comparison, but this is just too much.

These men need to wise up. Water seeks it's own level. If these athletes don't realize by now that building a life with a girl almost half their age can be bad for their health- I don't know what else it will take. In Gatti's case- his ex-stripper Brazillian beauty was 14 years his junior; in McNair's it was 17 years. These hot young things have an agenda- and if it goes awry, the worst case scenario can play out for all to see. Worse than any career ending injury or dog fighting scandal. I don't know why exactly, but this one saddens me. I'm reminded of comedian Phil Hartman when I think of McNair. He was killed similarly by his own wife before she turned the gun on herself. When I think of Gatti, I imagine all the events that may have lead to his untimely end in a swank Brazillian resort while on his second honeymoon. Only those two know how many fights and rows acted as a catalyst to his death. Bottomline: The ones who have no say are most deeply affected by these violent actions. Suffer the children; a tragic end to an unlovely tale.

How 'Bout That?

Hola Peoples. I'm coming off a "weak-end" or should I say a strong beginning that started on Friday. After a strong cocktail of laughter, alcohol, pain, debauchery and Hip-Hop blended perfectly- This Bug would like to share a few things she learned about herself and the world in three entirely too short days.


Women are by far more outrageous than men when it comes to strippers. If you've ever been privy to an 'exclusive' party- read: no club regulations, you know what I mean. Suffice to say that male dancers probably enjoy their jobs a helluva lot more than their female counterparts. In short- I think they get away with things that are probably illegal in most states and a few prudent countries. Ever seen a chick get her ass lit on fire? I mean...literally. He had to be violating a few Fire codes during that process. My memory card is holding enough blackmail to set me up for life as we speak. Did I mention there was a midget?


Before this weekend, I never knew how much the sight of a 13 year old appreciating Hip-Hop from my era could warm my heart. Seriously. I was touched. And this is not a passing curiosity, either. The boy goes IN. Perhaps the apple doesn't fall far from the tree after all. Who knows. It just pleases me to know that that kinda love lives on. Ain't no Old Skool. Ain't no New Skool. The boy is proof that there is only True Skool. "I used to live downtown! 129th Street." Next time you ask Young Blood, "What you know about that?!" give an open ear...you might be surprised at his response.


Everybody and their Momma will be looking for you at the party you committed to weeks earlier. So maybe you shouldn't drink so much at the stripper party previous engagement and there will be no need to clone yourself or send back numerous "I'm on my way" text messages to inquiring minds. I'm just sayin'...

After two wisdom teeth extractions, there is no comfort in knowing what's to come. I woke up this morning with one half of my face looking like Slappy Squirrel. I'm not sure if it was a reaction to the medication I was taking or how ineffectual I made it by guzzling Goose & Cran and few Jello "Shots" that were made in plastic syringes. (Don't ask.) But nothing compares to the real needle I will soon face. Yikes.


So that's my Weekend Wrap-up. Just a few things I took with me. And a few I'd like to leave behind. Did I mention there was a midget?




Photo Courtesy: Corbis

Do I Feel Lucky?

Gun, with Occasional Music

A trickle of cold sweat runs from my armpit down the side of my body. My back is now ramrod straight. The phone is ringing incessantly. Downstairs, someone or some thing is banging on the door. I look and see that it is shaking with each blow. Whatever is on the other side means business. Do I answer the phone or the door? I can hear the dainty sounds of a music box; surreal and terrifying somewhere in the background. The maddening ringing never ceases. I pick it up. Calmly, I say to no one in particular that they are not to call here- that I am calling the police as soon as I hang up. As I press the first 1 in 911, the knocking stops. Phone in hand, I step closer to the now silent door. In the time that it takes to turn my head, I am no longer alone in my apartment. Inches from my eyes- a hand comes into focus. There is no face attached to this hand. The hand that is tautly gripping the largest, gunmetal gray firearm I have ever seen in my life. This is not a robbery. This is just pure evil- exacting revenge for my being aloof and not acknowledging its presence. I hear the chamber click loudly between my ears. My eyes pop open. Awake at last.

Note to self: No more Caramel Cheesecake right before bed.

Forget love. I'd rather fall in chocolate. On second thought...

Good Lord. This is beyond disturbing. I can't quite put my finger on it. Is it the weird permanent smile on that otherwise bittersweet face? The wild, vacant (most likely edible) eyes? His all too happy, pep-in-the-step gait as he moves vigorously through his day; his sweet bodily bits ravaged by sexy chocophillic White women all over town? I don't know, but a shudder travels down my spine with each viewing.

(This Bug closes her eyes tightly while repeating, "It's only an Axe commercial. It's only an Axe commercial. It's only...")

And you thought this guy was creepy. Jeez !