Monday, June 27, 2005

Kathy Thermador

I'm pretty sure that by tomorrow I will be able to slither out of myself like a snake. I'm not talking "slither out of myself" in some kind of spiritual, Jewel's-book-of-poems kind of way; I mean I will literally be able step out of my own skin. I am so sunburned I cannot laugh or smile without causing serious pain, so it's a lucky thing I work in a place where I have little occasion to do either. I'm hoping that when everything sunburned peels off I'll be able to carefully step out of my excess skin like I was taking off footie pajamas and use this extra me as a decoy. You know, prop it up at my desk, put its hands on home row, and then have a leisurely two hour lunch at the good Italian place around the corner.

Brad is here visiting. He got four new tires for his birthday and I'm glad he's chosen to immediately wear down their treads trekking to New York for a week and a half. He got in on Thursday night, sufficiently hopped up on Red Bull and pissed off at Yorktown traffic to tear a man to pieces with his bare hands. After unloading his entire wardrobe from the car, we decided to throw caution to the wind, let our hair down, and really live it up.

Our grand aspirations led us to Starbucks, that most intrepid of destinations, and the only place in Yorktown that is not my house and requires less than a five dollar investment. We had a frappucino in the shadow of the Firemen's Carnival's rickety ferris wheel. The sweet music of the steel's complaints was an excellent soundtrack to the thirty eavesdroppable adolescent conversations going on on the unusually crowded patio. After we met up with Kai, we took a quick spin through the carnival that was just long enough to remind me why it was I wanted to go to college in the middle of a cornfield.

Abandoning the prospect of fried dough, we instead headed over to the crazy diner for some cheese fries, consumed under the familiar (but nonetheless upsetting) eerie stare of forty porcelain dolls.

On Friday, I tore through my daunting four-hour work day with all the speed of a coked-up Olsen in a paparazzi car chase. I got home at two-thirty despite traffic in my lane being held up by a schoolbus and traffic in the adjacent lane being even more held up by a backhoe. Brad and I had lunch at Pasta Cucina, which was totally empty inside. I suppose that's what it's like if you're famous enough to have a restaurant cleared out for you, so, in retrospect, I'm glad we're getting the practice in now. After the legally-required trip to H&M, we tried out a new ice cream shop expecting the usual two scoops and sprinkles and instead found the pinnacle of human achievement: the rice krispie treat ice cream cone.

Man. So good.

On Saturday we took a ride to the monastary to visit my friends the ducks, who have grown hearbreakingly large since the last time I saw them. After a good half an hour sitting and watching them fall off of rocks and step on turtles, I can easily understand those old guys who sit on benches and feed pigeons all day. I made Brad hike up four flights of stairs to see what looks like a card catalog of dead Buddhists. We left shortly thereafter. That night we headed to the snob theater in Pleasantville where I finally saw Mad Hot Ballroom, which I recommend to anyone who ever pretended to wipe the germs off your hand after you had to dance with someone in grade school.

And then Sunday, yesterday, we woke up unbelievably early, dragged my brother out of bed (sustaining a swift kick to the shin in the process), and headed down to Jones Beach for the day. Our car was stuffed with all the necessary beach accessories: towels, sunblock, water, flip flops, and a cooler crammed to the brim with homemade food, soda, and a negligable and basically decorative amount of ice. We managed to get to Jones Beach state park with little difficulty.

Once inside, though, we became all too well acquainted with the rotary at the far end of the park.

Jones Beach is full of impossibility. It's impossible to find the West Bathouse where you're supposed to buy your parking ticket. It's impossible to find a parking space in lot 6. It's impossible to find lot 4, and, even when you do find it and find space, it's impossible to find the underpass below the highway. It's impossible to walk through the underpass without having something drip on you.

It's surpisingly possible to find a decent spot on the beach, but only if you've woken up impossibly early like we did. Once there, it's impossible to go swimming if you can't find your lousy bathing suit. It's impossible not to count the camel toes. It's impossible to take your eyes off the couple whom your brother has aptly named "Fat Tony and Tits McGee," especially when Tits is canoodling on Tony's lap and her top is slowly slipping. It's impossible for your brother to dig to China, though it is possible for him to make a pretty decent sittin' hole.

I'll tell you, though, what it is possible. It is terribly, terribly possible for a piece of American cheese to fall out of your sandwich onto your crossword puzzle. When you flick it off, it is oh-so-incredibly possible for this cheese to arc a huge distance across the sand to land square in the middle of a girls back, where it will stay for an impossibly long time.

It was a good day. Well, until we got out of the sun and realized that by "SPF 60", our sunblock actually meant "succulent marinade." Chris's and Brad's backs got burned, along with Brad's calves and my everything visible. I would say I'm pleasantly pink if I could think of one pleasant thing about feeling like someone was holding a hundred-watt bulb to my forehead. Plus, I've had the What happened to your face?!?! conversation two or three times already today. I'm beginning to run out of ways to say I got sunburned, and am wondering if it might not make the day go faster if I just started lying.

"Don't ever open the microwave before it beeps!"
"Chemical peel. Ah, the price of beauty. I think I look good for seventy-one, though."
"Strawberry Tang incident."
"Just. So. MAD."
"My mother demanded I wipe that look off my face. Turns out that's impossible."

1 Comments:

Anonymous stupidboy said...

I just spat tea all over my desk laughing! Oh dear.

8:16 AM  

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