You know what's hotter than hot? It's not abs. Not eyes. Not arms or thighs or even a well-shaped butt that is high and tight. (OK, I lied. That last one is kind of hot.) I'll tell you hat's hotter than hot. It's banter.
I love banter. Banter, when done masterfully, is as good as it gets. I consider myself the Queen of Banter, don't you know? So when someone can step up, accept a challenge to go toe to toe with me, ignite the twinkle in their eye, cock their head, and give me a run for my money, I am all in. All in, I tell you! Bring it.
If you can forsake all others for a moment in time, and point by point match me on wide-ranging topics such as micro-brewed beer, marriage equality, art, Milwaukee's restaurant scene, the glaring truth that no one cares about the Bucks, the glaring truth that it is not possible to care too much about the Brewers, the Pope, and then end it all with a Shakespeare quote, I'm pretty much all yours. Do it all with a layer of sass and sarcasm? I mean really, just take me now. I'm a puddle.
And sometimes when this happens, your friends whisk you away from a perfectly beautiful match of banter to go eat a mediocre (at best) meal at a restaurant you hate. While disappointing at the outset, that's okay too. Because the second best thing to it actually happening is having an encounter that reminds you it will happen again.
About Me
- Jen
- A girl who rose from the ashes...and now is trying to make sense of this complicated world through her writing.
Monday, November 3, 2014
Sunday, November 2, 2014
A Healing Hug
It was a hug I had been thinking about for some time, a hug I really wanted to give. Yesterday, that hug happened. It felt extraordinarily sad and cathartic and necessary. I loved that hug and I've been thinking about it ever since.
The hug I gave was to Dontre Hamilton's mom. Dontre is the young man who was shot to death by a cop in Red Arrow Park a little over six months ago. There are many varying accounts of what happened that day, and I suppose we've all surmised our own truth by now. My version of the truth is that Dontre was in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the audacity to have wrong skin color. He was sleeping in park located in a segregated city and apparently that's just not allowed. My version of the truth makes my stomach turn.
It has also been widely reported that Dontre had a mental illness. In my mind, there was no need to widely report this, though. Whether or not Dontre had a mental illness was relevant to his life, but not to his death. I've spent many hours thinking about Dontre and his family, my heart hurting so much at times I thought it might burst into a thousand pieces. It is a situation that has been an injustice to end all injustices. It is a situation that has made me weep.
Dontre's family, in my humble estimation, has been nothing short of inspirational. They came to the National Alliance on Mental Illness fundraiser walk in May not even one month after Dontre's death, banded together by their matching T-shirts and their compassion for the people who help those living with mental illness. They have organized rally after rally to get the attention of the city's policymakers and to promote peace and resolution. They have respectfully but firmly asked for answers of our District Attorney and the Milwaukee Police Department. But all the while, they have attended event after event and peacefully participated. I'm not sure I could do what they do.
So when Dontre's family showed up to yesterday's Dia de los Muertos event - an event that had a special focus on those who had lost their lives to violence - it was no surprise to me. I watched them as they stopped to take in the ofrenda that had been made to honor Dontre, hugged one another and wiped away some tears. As I was making my way to leave the event, I felt compelled to talk to the family and say what had been on my heart and my mind for months now.
I told them how deeply sorry I was for their loss, and that their pain had been carried every day in my heart since that terrible day in April. I told them that I had massive respect for their family, for the way they have carried themselves with dignity and grace in the wake of tragedy. The family members I was speaking to thanked me for my words - words I'm sure they've heard from countless others - and pointed me to Dontre's mother who was a few feet away. I approached her and said many of the same things, this time adding that I work in the mental health field. I told her that there are hundreds of people like me in Milwaukee who are working tirelessly every day to make things better for families like hers, and that no matter how big the barriers or how high the stakes, we won't stop. What I know, that I hope I conveyed to her, is that we won't stop because of the Dontres and the moms of Dontres and all the other people whose lives are affected by the stigma of mental illness and its ruthless path. I know that we won't stop, simply because we can't.
With that, I got a grateful, tearful hug that felt like the best hug I've had in some years, maybe ever. My passion doesn't rest very often, but now I'm not sure it ever will. It got fueled with the best inspiration I've had in a very long time.
The hug I gave was to Dontre Hamilton's mom. Dontre is the young man who was shot to death by a cop in Red Arrow Park a little over six months ago. There are many varying accounts of what happened that day, and I suppose we've all surmised our own truth by now. My version of the truth is that Dontre was in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the audacity to have wrong skin color. He was sleeping in park located in a segregated city and apparently that's just not allowed. My version of the truth makes my stomach turn.
It has also been widely reported that Dontre had a mental illness. In my mind, there was no need to widely report this, though. Whether or not Dontre had a mental illness was relevant to his life, but not to his death. I've spent many hours thinking about Dontre and his family, my heart hurting so much at times I thought it might burst into a thousand pieces. It is a situation that has been an injustice to end all injustices. It is a situation that has made me weep.
Dontre's family, in my humble estimation, has been nothing short of inspirational. They came to the National Alliance on Mental Illness fundraiser walk in May not even one month after Dontre's death, banded together by their matching T-shirts and their compassion for the people who help those living with mental illness. They have organized rally after rally to get the attention of the city's policymakers and to promote peace and resolution. They have respectfully but firmly asked for answers of our District Attorney and the Milwaukee Police Department. But all the while, they have attended event after event and peacefully participated. I'm not sure I could do what they do.
I told them how deeply sorry I was for their loss, and that their pain had been carried every day in my heart since that terrible day in April. I told them that I had massive respect for their family, for the way they have carried themselves with dignity and grace in the wake of tragedy. The family members I was speaking to thanked me for my words - words I'm sure they've heard from countless others - and pointed me to Dontre's mother who was a few feet away. I approached her and said many of the same things, this time adding that I work in the mental health field. I told her that there are hundreds of people like me in Milwaukee who are working tirelessly every day to make things better for families like hers, and that no matter how big the barriers or how high the stakes, we won't stop. What I know, that I hope I conveyed to her, is that we won't stop because of the Dontres and the moms of Dontres and all the other people whose lives are affected by the stigma of mental illness and its ruthless path. I know that we won't stop, simply because we can't.
With that, I got a grateful, tearful hug that felt like the best hug I've had in some years, maybe ever. My passion doesn't rest very often, but now I'm not sure it ever will. It got fueled with the best inspiration I've had in a very long time.
Dia de los Muertos
I know, I know. It is one of ninety-nine (or more) things that makes me strange - or as I prefer to say, "quirky." I don't mean that I like death in such a way that I am looking forward to my own, or I enjoy the death of others. To say that I love death is more to say I am fascinated with it, that I am more or less comfortable with it, that I think it should be as much a cause for celebration as it is for sorrowful mourning.
I had friends in town for the weekend and we were looking to fill our 48 hours together with the most unique brands of fun we could find. In light of that, the annual Milwaukee Dia de los Muertos celebration at Walker Square Park seemed like a good choice. A group of six of us assembled at the park and took it all in. The smells of burning wood and incense filled the air. Many people, young and old alike, were dressed in fancy garb and had their faces painted. A circle of drummers kept the beat going. Sugar skulls and ofrendas provided colorful, heartfelt and at times somber visual reminders of what the day was about. It all culminated in a tantalizing sensory overload.
This small, grass roots event was started four years ago by a group of people who just decided it needed to be done. They believed, and rightly so, that it was a way to bring people into a community that is misunderstood and to unite the city's citizens with a common thread. After all, what thread is more common to all of us than death? Many of us, myself included, have already suffered a great many losses and had to find our way through the grief - a grief we may very well carry with us to this day. All of us, myself included, will have to face our own departure one day. Death, it seems, is the great equalizer.
As the parade was about to start, a few people shared words of wisdom. One of them, a quiet, soulful man, stood at the front of the crowd and gently told his story of his people who had passed. In his story, he referenced the feeling he carries with him that his grandparents are always with him. As he said this, he motioned his hand toward the sky, and at that precise moment two hawks flew in and landed on the tree above his head. A gasp was let out by the crowd in unison, and tears filled many of our eyes. It's a moment that doesn't even translate well in writing; it was a true "you-had-to-be-there moment."
We then all walked in the parade together, something that hadn't necessarily been planned but was the right thing to do. It occurred to me as we walked that we are all in this together, this thing called life. And while death is just one part of that, it is the part that reminds us of how important it is to live.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Two Ships
I looked at him and realized twenty-some odd years had passed. I can't say with any degree of honesty that I had ever loved him, but then again the timing had never been right for me to have the proper chance to love him. Maybe in the right set of circumstances I could have, but to think so is nothing more than sheer speculation. I certainly had spent a good couple of years hard crushing on him. And then when he was out of my sight, I pretty much forgot about him.
But then one night, all those years ago, we ended up in the same place (a divey, dirty small town bar) at the same time (a hot summer night) by pure happenstance. There were a lot of contributing factors - cheap beer and a lot of it, raucous laughs and his bruised heart - that resulted in us staying up until the sun peeked through the windows. Kissing even though we knew we shouldn't, laughing, talking, examining figurative wounds and then laughing and kissing some more. And that was it, really. It was lovely and fleeting. He was gone once again, headed his own way and I headed mine.
So to see him again all these years later, hair graying at the temples and laugh lines around his eyes, was really something. But I looked at him, and then I looked at his ordinary wife (who is no doubt perfectly lovely and wonderful but ordinary nonetheless), and I thought, "I bet she makes him Swiss steak for dinner. And I bet after dinner they watch Dancing With the Stars." If that sounds judgy, I promise you it's not. Eating Swiss steak and watching reality TV is a perfectly acceptable way to live if that's what makes you happy.
But it occurred to me, right then and there, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that I am no ordinary woman. Even if I tried with all my might, I could not be that ordinary woman. No, I am complicated and layered, difficult even. And sometimes twenty-some odd years of time passing gives you perspective that everything is exactly as it should be, ordinary or not. It's a good perspective to have.
But then one night, all those years ago, we ended up in the same place (a divey, dirty small town bar) at the same time (a hot summer night) by pure happenstance. There were a lot of contributing factors - cheap beer and a lot of it, raucous laughs and his bruised heart - that resulted in us staying up until the sun peeked through the windows. Kissing even though we knew we shouldn't, laughing, talking, examining figurative wounds and then laughing and kissing some more. And that was it, really. It was lovely and fleeting. He was gone once again, headed his own way and I headed mine.
So to see him again all these years later, hair graying at the temples and laugh lines around his eyes, was really something. But I looked at him, and then I looked at his ordinary wife (who is no doubt perfectly lovely and wonderful but ordinary nonetheless), and I thought, "I bet she makes him Swiss steak for dinner. And I bet after dinner they watch Dancing With the Stars." If that sounds judgy, I promise you it's not. Eating Swiss steak and watching reality TV is a perfectly acceptable way to live if that's what makes you happy.
But it occurred to me, right then and there, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that I am no ordinary woman. Even if I tried with all my might, I could not be that ordinary woman. No, I am complicated and layered, difficult even. And sometimes twenty-some odd years of time passing gives you perspective that everything is exactly as it should be, ordinary or not. It's a good perspective to have.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Bliss
A hug from a friend whose life just changed for the better. A beautiful new baby in your arms. A wedding ceremony of someone you adore who spent 25 years finding her way back to the man she would rightly marry. A gorgeous starry night outside a Frank Lloyd Wright house. An open bar. A dress that feels flattering. An accompanying sweater that feels warm. The smell of burning wood. Eight hours of uninterrupted rest. Waking up to the sound of the Lake Michigan waves crashing up against the rocks on the shoreline. Free breakfast. A slow, meandering drive along the lakefront. Fall colors that take your breath away. An apple orchard. A silly picture that makes you belly laugh. A clean house, fresh sheets and a stocked fridge. Two cats peacefully napping at your side. A delicious dinner prepped for a sister you never get tired of. A week ahead you are actually looking forward to.
Some weekends you just really get it right.
Some weekends you just really get it right.
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Fist Bumps for Everyone
I endure the same slow, mundane drive to work every day. I see the same landmarks, the same buildings, sometimes even the same people in the same cars. I drive the same 26 minutes, five days a week, and even with a myriad of options, I almost always take the same route. As I turn off of Wisconsin Avenue onto 92nd Street - the home stretch before I arrive at my second home - I see her in all her glory: Fist Bump Lady.
Fist Bump Lady, who shall be known as FBL henceforth, is the crossing guard at a crosswalk that leads directly to the Froedtert Memorial Lutheran Hospital. Short, pleasingly plump, and with an ever-ready smile on her face, FBL never fails to deliver. Sunny days are met with an extra spring in her step. Rainy days are no bother, and why would they be when you've got a bright yellow slicker and sturdy galoshes? Sleet and snow? No problem, for FBL is ready for that, too. I can't say for sure that she has one of those stocking caps that looks like a panda bear, but she seems like the kind of person who would. She is ready for any of the Wisconsin elements, and cheerfully so.
Person after person, professional after professional, doctor after doctor - all are greeted with the same degree of enthusiasm, and all are offered a fist bump to start their day off right. A few outliers avert their eyes and rush past FBL. Most accept the offer, and give FBL a smile and a hearty fist bump back. A few other outliers have taken FBL under their wing, and bring her coffee or other treats (after a compulsory fist bump, of course.) It seems that in the land of all things Froedtert, FBL has become the mascot for healing what hurts us.
I admire this woman, FBL, because of her consistency and her zest for life. I don't know a single thing about her, other than what I have witnessed as I wait at the crosswalk day after day, eager to move ahead 2 more blocks and make the turn into my home-away-from-home parking lot. But I do know this: she has made happiness her priority and nothing is going to get in the way of that. Not working a job most of us would not care to do. Not crappy Wisconsin weather, which is crappy too much of the time. Not even the occasional hater. No, no, no. FBL has made a choice to be happy no matter what, and through her deeds shows us it is a choice we could all make. Thanks for reminding us how to be in this world, FBL: That whoever we are and whatever we do, we can always be of good cheer.
Fist Bump Lady, who shall be known as FBL henceforth, is the crossing guard at a crosswalk that leads directly to the Froedtert Memorial Lutheran Hospital. Short, pleasingly plump, and with an ever-ready smile on her face, FBL never fails to deliver. Sunny days are met with an extra spring in her step. Rainy days are no bother, and why would they be when you've got a bright yellow slicker and sturdy galoshes? Sleet and snow? No problem, for FBL is ready for that, too. I can't say for sure that she has one of those stocking caps that looks like a panda bear, but she seems like the kind of person who would. She is ready for any of the Wisconsin elements, and cheerfully so.
Person after person, professional after professional, doctor after doctor - all are greeted with the same degree of enthusiasm, and all are offered a fist bump to start their day off right. A few outliers avert their eyes and rush past FBL. Most accept the offer, and give FBL a smile and a hearty fist bump back. A few other outliers have taken FBL under their wing, and bring her coffee or other treats (after a compulsory fist bump, of course.) It seems that in the land of all things Froedtert, FBL has become the mascot for healing what hurts us.
I admire this woman, FBL, because of her consistency and her zest for life. I don't know a single thing about her, other than what I have witnessed as I wait at the crosswalk day after day, eager to move ahead 2 more blocks and make the turn into my home-away-from-home parking lot. But I do know this: she has made happiness her priority and nothing is going to get in the way of that. Not working a job most of us would not care to do. Not crappy Wisconsin weather, which is crappy too much of the time. Not even the occasional hater. No, no, no. FBL has made a choice to be happy no matter what, and through her deeds shows us it is a choice we could all make. Thanks for reminding us how to be in this world, FBL: That whoever we are and whatever we do, we can always be of good cheer.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Right on Time
I've been known to describe myself as "neurotically punctual." My need to be on time does not come from a place of moral superiority, nor does it come from deep consideration for others, really. If I sit back and analyze why it is so important to me to be on time, I'd have to say that good old fashioned anxiety is at the base of it all. Nothing more, nothing less.
I don't know where this came from or why it came about. I was recently talking to an evaluator of a grant I manage who is exponentially more neurotically punctual than me. So much so, it has actually annoyed me at times. (Bearing in mind, of course, that usually the things that annoy us most about others are the reflections of ourselves.) She told me that as a child, she was grounded one full day for every minute she was late when her parents set a curfew. At least she has a reasonable explanation for why she turned out the way she did. I, on the other hand, cannot explain why I am such a freak.
Last fall I got to see my time-related anxiety come to full fruition. My friend Vance and I decided to get tickets to go see Book of Mormon in Chicago. We were all haughty about it, too. Like we are so cultured and cool and then we were all "we should do this more often because we are so evolved and shit." So we bought our tickets and then somewhere along the way my sister and brother-in-law decided to go too. They got tickets and we made plans to all ride together and have a day of merriment.
The big day arrived and I could not have been more excited. As a means of maintaining control of the situation and, let's be honest, the timeliness, I offered to drive. Jess and I agreed upon a time of departure and we were all set. But as I was filling the car with gas at a gas station near Jess's house, I got a text from Jess: "Where are you?" It didn't take long to figure out after another text exchange that Jess was at my house, and I was a couple minutes away from being at hers. Aaaargh! So after a quick consultation it was decided they would come back to their house and we would take off from there. No biggie, I smugly thought. I had built in plenty of cushion for us.
We got on the freeway and started to make our way to pick up Vance on the fashionable east side. We exited North Avenue, and hit wall-to-wall traffic. I mean, it was a parking lot. At 10:30 a.m. on a Saturday. It was hard to figure out what was going on, but it turned out to be the day of Al's Run and thousands of people were trying to get to the same place at once. The same place we needed to get to. Damn. My heart started to palpitate a little. I stayed steady, though. This is not a problem, I told myself. We've got this.
We picked up Vance who had been instructed to wait on the corner ("Tuck and roll in, baby!" we screeched as we pulled up to him) and when he got in the car Jess and David shared they needed something to eat. We made a quick detour to Koppa's so they could get a sandwich. I will be the first to admit that this is where things started to turn ugly for me. I waited in the car while the three of them went inside, because I was in an illegal parking spot and I was not in need of a sandwich. I plugged in my GPS and programmed in our theater parking garage address. I could see by the estimated time of arrival that I had 18 extra minutes to spare - and we hadn't even gotten out of town yet. I looked in the windows of Koppa's and I saw nothing. Back to the GPS - 17 minutes. Back to the store windows - I see David, Jess and Vance pointing at something in the store and laughing. (My inner dialogue was something like this: Jesus, people! Get your freaking sandwiches and get back in this car!) Back to the GPS - 16 minutes. This business continued until they got back to the car and we were down to 14 minutes to spare. Fourteen minutes of cushion between us and very expensive theater seats in Chicago. Here we go, kids - strap yourselves in!
It was another whole ordeal to make our way to the freeway (because of all these damn runners, seriously people!) but we finally did. I put the pedal to the metal and set the cruise control. Everyone else was happily eating their sandwiches (which I recall had lots and lots of onions on them, as well as some mayo dripping down the side of their hands - but that is neither here nor there.) I was doing my best to not look at the (dwindling) cushion of time on the GPS. We had two hours of traffic to endure, and a lot could happen between now and then.
As luck would have it, we encountered very little road construction and only one or two significant areas of having to slow down on the way to Chicago. The GPS stayed steady with a good thirteen minutes of cushion. Until we got to about a mile from the theater, that is, and then we hit a wall of gridlock traffic. Inch by inch we moved forward, and I felt like my heart was going to pound out of my chest. Driving in downtown Chicago under any circumstances is daunting; doing so when you have a strict deadline to meet is downright maddening. We eventually made our way to the front of the theater, which felt like pure hell because the parking garage was still two and half long, slow, painstaking blocks away. Jess and David were excused from the car so at least half of us could be on time.
Left only to our own devices, Vance and I endured. We now had seven minutes to spare. We finally made our way to the parking garage. At last! We've done it! Level one: full, and seven minutes to spare. Level two: full. Level three: full and I feel like swearing up a blue streak. Level four: full, and six minutes to spare. Level five: full! Level six: full, with five minutes to spare and NOW I HAVE TO STOP BECAUSE THERE IS AN OLD LADY WITH A WALKER. Vance and I were now screaming at each other. "Jesus! A lady with a walker! Are you fucking kidding me? A walker?! We do not need this right now!" We were laughing at our pure horribleness and almost crying and completely freaking out. Level seven: Parked! Four minutes to spare!
We ran to the elevator, got to the street, and ran as fast as our little legs would take us. We got to the theater, and Vance asked where the restrooms were. The theater employee exclaimed, "There's no time! You need to get in the theater or they will make you wait until after the first act to go in!" So we put our bladders on hold and made our way to our seats. Turns out, we had what were perhaps some of the best seats in the house. We turned to each other - hands shaking, sweat on our brow - gave each other a big hug and commented that we felt like we just won the Amazing Race. We sat down, and with one minute to spare, waited for our chance to watch a beautiful, ridiculously funny and blasphemous show.
And the moral of the story is, if it hadn't been for that old lady with a walker, we'd have had two minutes to spare. I'm just sayin'.
I don't know where this came from or why it came about. I was recently talking to an evaluator of a grant I manage who is exponentially more neurotically punctual than me. So much so, it has actually annoyed me at times. (Bearing in mind, of course, that usually the things that annoy us most about others are the reflections of ourselves.) She told me that as a child, she was grounded one full day for every minute she was late when her parents set a curfew. At least she has a reasonable explanation for why she turned out the way she did. I, on the other hand, cannot explain why I am such a freak.
Last fall I got to see my time-related anxiety come to full fruition. My friend Vance and I decided to get tickets to go see Book of Mormon in Chicago. We were all haughty about it, too. Like we are so cultured and cool and then we were all "we should do this more often because we are so evolved and shit." So we bought our tickets and then somewhere along the way my sister and brother-in-law decided to go too. They got tickets and we made plans to all ride together and have a day of merriment.
The big day arrived and I could not have been more excited. As a means of maintaining control of the situation and, let's be honest, the timeliness, I offered to drive. Jess and I agreed upon a time of departure and we were all set. But as I was filling the car with gas at a gas station near Jess's house, I got a text from Jess: "Where are you?" It didn't take long to figure out after another text exchange that Jess was at my house, and I was a couple minutes away from being at hers. Aaaargh! So after a quick consultation it was decided they would come back to their house and we would take off from there. No biggie, I smugly thought. I had built in plenty of cushion for us.
We got on the freeway and started to make our way to pick up Vance on the fashionable east side. We exited North Avenue, and hit wall-to-wall traffic. I mean, it was a parking lot. At 10:30 a.m. on a Saturday. It was hard to figure out what was going on, but it turned out to be the day of Al's Run and thousands of people were trying to get to the same place at once. The same place we needed to get to. Damn. My heart started to palpitate a little. I stayed steady, though. This is not a problem, I told myself. We've got this.
We picked up Vance who had been instructed to wait on the corner ("Tuck and roll in, baby!" we screeched as we pulled up to him) and when he got in the car Jess and David shared they needed something to eat. We made a quick detour to Koppa's so they could get a sandwich. I will be the first to admit that this is where things started to turn ugly for me. I waited in the car while the three of them went inside, because I was in an illegal parking spot and I was not in need of a sandwich. I plugged in my GPS and programmed in our theater parking garage address. I could see by the estimated time of arrival that I had 18 extra minutes to spare - and we hadn't even gotten out of town yet. I looked in the windows of Koppa's and I saw nothing. Back to the GPS - 17 minutes. Back to the store windows - I see David, Jess and Vance pointing at something in the store and laughing. (My inner dialogue was something like this: Jesus, people! Get your freaking sandwiches and get back in this car!) Back to the GPS - 16 minutes. This business continued until they got back to the car and we were down to 14 minutes to spare. Fourteen minutes of cushion between us and very expensive theater seats in Chicago. Here we go, kids - strap yourselves in!
It was another whole ordeal to make our way to the freeway (because of all these damn runners, seriously people!) but we finally did. I put the pedal to the metal and set the cruise control. Everyone else was happily eating their sandwiches (which I recall had lots and lots of onions on them, as well as some mayo dripping down the side of their hands - but that is neither here nor there.) I was doing my best to not look at the (dwindling) cushion of time on the GPS. We had two hours of traffic to endure, and a lot could happen between now and then.
As luck would have it, we encountered very little road construction and only one or two significant areas of having to slow down on the way to Chicago. The GPS stayed steady with a good thirteen minutes of cushion. Until we got to about a mile from the theater, that is, and then we hit a wall of gridlock traffic. Inch by inch we moved forward, and I felt like my heart was going to pound out of my chest. Driving in downtown Chicago under any circumstances is daunting; doing so when you have a strict deadline to meet is downright maddening. We eventually made our way to the front of the theater, which felt like pure hell because the parking garage was still two and half long, slow, painstaking blocks away. Jess and David were excused from the car so at least half of us could be on time.
Left only to our own devices, Vance and I endured. We now had seven minutes to spare. We finally made our way to the parking garage. At last! We've done it! Level one: full, and seven minutes to spare. Level two: full. Level three: full and I feel like swearing up a blue streak. Level four: full, and six minutes to spare. Level five: full! Level six: full, with five minutes to spare and NOW I HAVE TO STOP BECAUSE THERE IS AN OLD LADY WITH A WALKER. Vance and I were now screaming at each other. "Jesus! A lady with a walker! Are you fucking kidding me? A walker?! We do not need this right now!" We were laughing at our pure horribleness and almost crying and completely freaking out. Level seven: Parked! Four minutes to spare!
We ran to the elevator, got to the street, and ran as fast as our little legs would take us. We got to the theater, and Vance asked where the restrooms were. The theater employee exclaimed, "There's no time! You need to get in the theater or they will make you wait until after the first act to go in!" So we put our bladders on hold and made our way to our seats. Turns out, we had what were perhaps some of the best seats in the house. We turned to each other - hands shaking, sweat on our brow - gave each other a big hug and commented that we felt like we just won the Amazing Race. We sat down, and with one minute to spare, waited for our chance to watch a beautiful, ridiculously funny and blasphemous show.
And the moral of the story is, if it hadn't been for that old lady with a walker, we'd have had two minutes to spare. I'm just sayin'.
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