Q&A with Mrs. Jay

Just two BFFs talking real.

Me: How was your flight?
Mrs. Jay: It was pretty smooth - slim to no turbulence.

Me: Be honest, did you come to see me or your in-laws?
Mrs. Jay: Mr. Dub, actually.

Me: Best hamburger in Phoenix?
Mrs. Jay: That's a good one. I've got to go with Delux or Freddy's. Also good: Stax.

Me: If you were lost on a deserted island, what one food item would you want to have?
Mrs. Jay: No doubt - refried beans.
Mr. Dub: That's disgusting, but I don't blame you.

Me: What's my best feature?
Mrs. Jay: It's a tie between your "East-West" chest or your Asian butt.
Me: Would it be more appropriate to call it Oriental?
Mrs. Jay: No, people are Asian, things are Oriental.
Me: Good to know.

Me: If you could describe our friendship in one word, what would it be?
Mrs. Jay: Oh no.
Me: That's two words.
Mrs. Jay: Beautiful. Or sensual.
Me: Whaat? I was thinking something like, "Crazy."

Me: Favorite memory from middle school?
Mrs. Jay: It's a toss up between the Headbanger's Ball bar mitzvah or painting the school stage without permission.

Me: What is something you know about me that no one else knows?
Mrs. Jay: Oh, the People Mover comes to mind.
Me: I think other people know of my escapades on the People Mover.

Me: Any thing you want to say to the blogosphere?
Mrs. Jay: Nienie, who is taking all those pictures of you and your kids?

Me: Have you always wanted a little man to live on your shoulder?
Mrs. Jay: No, that was you.

Me: Any last words?
Mrs. Jay: Make it sound funnier. Do some editing.

Be-Fri

Guess who's coming to dinner ... and breakfast and lunch, too, for the next few days? My BFF, Mrs. Jay. I'm very excited to spend some time with her and her trio of adorable boys, although housing them in our 900-square-foot bungalow* might drive them crazy.

In honor of her trip, I've decided to share one of our classic memories:

One day after school, Mrs. Jay and I (along with brookegfunk and her former boyfriend, who shall remain nameless) decided to head back across the street to our high school and have a swim in the fountain. Originally constructed in honor of students who had died, the fountain only worked for a few months of our entire HHS career, but this happened to be during that time, so we thought we'd take a dip in its unnaturally blue water. After chillaxing for a few minutes, we realized the water was both heavily chlorinated and dyed blue. Our clothes - we had neglected to wear swimsuits - were spotted with blue and white stains. Just then, a school janitor found us and came to berate us about our unsanctioned swim. Nervous, we jumped up and did what any honest youth would: we stole his janitor cart. We took off at a speedy 10 mph, but ended up crashing into a wall. Thankfully, no damage was done, but we had to take off and seek refuge in the choir room for a few hours to make sure the coast was clear. It wasn't; we were confronted by some security guards while trying to cross the street. The others took off running, leaving me to fend for myself. I may or may not have lied.

The end.

Wow, that didn't sound as cool on computer screen as I remembered it, but I will be interviewing Mrs. Jay tomorrow for my daily post, which should be engaging.

Any question suggestions?


* Did calling my apartment a bungalow make it sound more quaint?

Tales from school

I don't know if the elementary school I attended was just randomly freakish, or if most elementary school teachers develop bizarre eccentricities after years of stickers and line-forming. Whatever the case, I had some wack-jobs for teachers. Let's review:

Kindergarten: After moving in January, my new, "big-boned" teacher promptly breaks both her legs after locking herself out of the house and trying to climb in through a small window. Her replacement is mean, barks orders to us children in German and often complains that we don't know how to read yet but fails to do anything to resolve that. (Luckily, my mom did a great job at home.)

First grade: My teacher tells us to call her, "Mommy," but not to tell our parents. I feel guilty to two-time my own mommy, so I start calling her "mom" or "mother" instead.

Second grade: Somewhat normal, this teacher still boasts a 100+ Keds shoes collection and matches most of her outfits to their various colors and designs. Animal prints are a popular theme. She also chain smokes. About every five minutes.

Third grade: Pretty sure I lucked out with a normal teacher this time, though there may or may not have been a painful divorce and affair going on for her at the time. Whatever the case, she often sobbed at her desk. I should know, she moved mine right next to her because I was a bit of a chatterbox.

Fourth grade: This guy may be in prison. We rarely did schoolwork, but we watched TV all day, mostly faithfully "Good Morning America" and "Days of our Lives." He would make fun of any student mercilessly. He hung our Christmas tree from the ceiling. He seemed to have an unnatural affection for some of the female students. And he insisted on reminding me that I wasn't as cute as my sister, who was the size of a small mouse at the same age, whereas I was tallest person in my class.

Fifth grade: Not so bad, thankfully, though my teacher was a former P.E. teacher who developed skin cancer and opted to stay inside that year. Let's just say that most of our schoolwork involved jumping jacks.

Sixth grade: I actually loved both of my teachers that year - some sort of team-teaching gig - until one of them got pregnant out of wedlock and ran off to Alaska to be with her boyfriend. And then I moved to another school with totally normal teachers.



What's your best school story?

Free-dom Fries

If you haven't caught on yet, Mrs. Jay and I had an unconventional youth, which may or may not have something to do with the fact that we are just unconventional people. (Though her family really takes the cake - let's just say dressing in costume is commonplace at Glamma Fabulous' house.)

One of our favorite things to do in our youth was get things for free. And I don't mean calling into radio stations in hopes of winning concert tickets. I mean, conning people into giving us things for free that typically cost some coin.

For example, we would often go to the McDonald's drive-thru late at night - as employee fatigue is helpful in these situations - and ask for "The free quarter-pounder meal deal." Usually the employee would say, "What free quarter-pounder meal deal?" We would respond, "The free one. The one that doesn't cost anything."

On and on the back-and-forth banter would go, usually because the employee thought there must be some promotional offer we were confusing our "free meal deal" with. Most of the time, they would eventually give us the food for free, probably to shut us up.

Looking back I suppose this was dishonest, but at the time it seemed resourceful. I mean, we were practically Eagle Scouts with those skills.

If we happened to be hungry during daylight hours, we would just go up to the McDonald's cashier and ask, "What's a French fry?" The cashier would be incredulous, possibly debating whether to call CPS as I was clearly a neglected child, and say, "You've never had a French fry?" I'd say, "No, but they sound good. Can I try one to see if I like it?" Inevitably, the staff would pour a heaping helping of fries onto a tray for me to sample. They'd gather around curious as I shouted, "By golly, these are good!"

All for free.

Granted, I'm pretty much going to hell for this, but I like my fries crispy anyway. And, to be honest, I don't really like McDonald's fries (or anything on their menu for that matter). My favorite fries are In-N-Out fries, animal style. And if you ever come across a sweet potato fry, hook a sister up! I love me some sweet potaters.

What's your favorite fry?

Showtime, Synergy!

Drunk people are some of my very favorite people.

Not angry drunks.

Not moody drunks.

Really, ridiculously, talking a little too loud, invading your personal space drunks.

And when Mrs. Jay and I were young, we seemed to encounter these type of drunks on a frequent basis. (Don't ask why - we typically avoided high school keggers.) And some of our best drunk encounters happened when we were camping at the beach.

There was a time that a drunk guy came up to my face, and thisclose said to me, "Do you know what ocean that is?"

I said, "Um, the Pacific Ocean."

"But how can you really know it's the Pacific," he said. "Until you strip naked and swim it at night?"

Before I could answer and/or strip naked, he hopped over the fence and jumped off the cliff above the beach.

Wait, that's story isn't so funny now that I think about it, though he did survive as I remember it.

Mostly we just used drunk people as a test audience for our most outrageous lies. Our standard one went something like this:

Us: "Hey, want to see our dance routine?"
Drunk people: (Too loudly) Yes!

(We perform a dance routine with lots of jazz hands and some freestyle tap dancing.)

Drunk people: (Practically screaming) You are sooo good!

Us: Yeah, well we were on Star Search once. Our group was called Synergy. We got 3 and a quarter stars for that routine, but the other group, Dancetastic got 3 and THREE quarter stars. So we went home empty-handed."

Drunk people: (Thinking they're whispering, but they're still shouting). "You were robbed!"

Us: "Yeah, it was painful. We're getting therapy."

What's your best drunk encounter?

And, yes, Synergy is a tribute to Jem. (Coincidentally, we used to dress up like Jem and the Holograms in high school, but that's another story.)

Kiss and Tell

For your edification, I’m currently camping on the beach in San Diego with my best friend and her family.

Our BFF-ness was cemented with such camping trips during our youth. Realizing we were equally boy-crazy and equally dedicated to lying to win over our fleeting crushes really brought us together.

Lest you think camping on the beach is like camping on the woods, let me assure you that while you do sleep in tents, there are bathrooms, electrical outlets and warm showers if you have some spare quarters. Depending on the location of the campsite, civilization might be across the street or just down the road. And the beach is either out your tent door or down a flight of stairs.

So even though we were camping, Mrs. Jay and I always packed our best clothes and a boatload of makeup. (Though to our credit, we were never high-maintenance girls.) We’d primp every night after a day of laying out and trying to surf. Then, we’d troll the roads outside the campsites looking for guys our age. If that failed, we’d look for guys under 18. And if that failed, we’d settle for anything under 21.

Of course, anything under 21 wasn’t always interested in something around 13 so we often had to fudge our age. I think we were 17 for three years straight. Our ruse usually worked or at least no one was bothered enough to confront us.

While I cannot confirm or deny any rumors that are still rampant in the San Diego metropolitan area, our deceit may or may not have resulted in some extracurricular kissing. (No worries, mom, nothing serious.)

One year I kissed Mrs. Jay’s cousin while he was wearing his clothes backward in an ode to the then-popular Kriss Kross. Another year I kissed a boy who was so uninteresting I actually came up with a brilliant closet organization scheme while we kissed atop the lifeguard station. And then there was the time that we went to Disneyland, and I kissed a professional volleyball player, but that’s another story.

(This is the point that I could tell you about the time that Mrs. Jay kissed a Christian rapper in our tent while I was sleeping right next to her, but since I’m a good friend I won’t embarrass her. For the record, she has apologized repeatedly for the incident and avoided Christian rap in my honor.)

I don’t think I’m going to be kissing any boys this year as Mr. Dub is back home working hard for my spending money.

But I will be taking a trip down Memory Lane this week in honor of my beach vacay, and I’m hoping you’ll join me.

Which means it’s your turn to tell us your most random kissing story.

We won’t tell.

Promise.