They Call Me … Curb Job

I sat at the corner table typing away on the computer and spotted them as they waited for their drinks. She was giggly and nervous about the cookies near the register, and he smiled at her as he paid for the drinks and carried them to the table. First-date people. 

They’re an interesting breed. She was nervous about saying the wrong thing and he directed the conversation and tried to stay cool as he noticed his socks weren’t matching. They didn’t want anything embarrassing to happen. Anything that may ruin their chance at happiness for the next eight weeks.

I couldn’t help but laugh … this is not what happened to The Guat.

I remember having the hots for this one dude. He was tall, athletic and muy good-looking at the time. He caught my eye at a friend’s party. He had no idea who I was of course, but after some stealth investigation on my part, I found out he had been friends with her five brothers for ten years, loved U2, and had no girlfriend. I liked him.

My friend dropped hints to her brothers about my availability, and eventually the message got around to the dude. So one day as I walked out to my car, which was parked down the block, he asked if he could call me sometime so we could go out on a date. I nearly fell down then and there from all the swooning my heart was doing.

I told him I was going out with my friend next Friday night, but we could go out on Saturday.

See you then.

On Friday night, I got ready to go out with my friend. I put on my best Levis booty jeans and blouse. I added a little extra hair pomade to my curls, so that I wouldn’t look like Amanda Miguel in the crazy humidity of the night. I also added a little bit of makeup that day.

All of this just in case I ran into The Dude. Well, that’s not really true. I knew I would run into him. They were all there every Friday night. The brothers, The Dude, and a couple of other friends. About 10 to 12 guys outside my friend’s house, just hanging out. I thought I was ready for the accidental run-in.

As I approach her house I paused. Damn it. There’s no other parking space available other than one in front of her house. Directly in front of her house, between a large blue Ford truck and a brown Buick Regal. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I took a little longer than usual at the stop sign, because I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to parallel park in front of 12 guys, one of them being The Dude.

I didn’t know what it was, or why I was so nervous. I could park. I’d done it thousands of times at work, on busy streets, and at home. But in front of all these guys? Dude. If I drove past them, they’d know I didn’t want to demonstrate my parking skills, so I decided to go ahead and do it. I felt my heart racing.

 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As I pulled forward, the car across the street drove away. It was one of those Exaggerators with shiny rims. A huge space was made available. There was a Volkswagen Beetle in front of the space and a drive way behind it. Perfect. I didn’t have to parallel park. I was so relieved. I drove past the house, did a perfect driver’s test U-turn and then approached the spot. I didn’t even need to turn down the radio for this parking attempt.

They noticed me as I pulled up across the street. In retrospect, I wasn’t driving as slow as I needed to be … as I approached the space I was started to feel the passenger side of the car elevate. I was a little lopsided. I was at an angle. However by the time I became aware of what was going on, I couldn’t stop.

All of a sudden I heard a BOOOM-BOOOOM!

As I realized what happened I didn’t know whether I should drive away or put the car in park. I shook my head, put the emergency brake on, put the car in park, and turned the engine off. Apparently I had driven on and over the curb. The BOOOOM-BOOOM was the sound of my tires and rims jumping off the curb, and making a hard landing on the street.

This awesome exhibition of parking skills was witnessed by 12 guys, including The Dude. I was mortified. I could see from the corner of my eye and the side mirrors that they were all staring at my car. I really didn’t want to get out. But I had to … there was no escaping it.

As I got out of the car, they all turned their heads in different directions, pretending they were interested in the moon, the stars, the architecture of the neighbor’s house, shoelaces, telephone polls, the lawn, or the handle bars of a motorcycle.

As I got out of the car I walked quickly past the guys and waved hello without really looking at anybody. I entered the house and headed to my friend’s room.

“OH … MY … GAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWWWD. I can’t believe that just happened!” I plopped my body face first onto her bed and proceeded to tell her what happened.

She sat there with her mouth wide open.

“Maybe we’ll wait ten minutes before leaving …”

When I got home that night I wasn’t sure what to expect the next day … my first date with The Dude. I imagined I had already made an awesome first impression.

The parking incident didn’t come up until our second date. We were hanging out at Gordon Biersch Brewery, and I had gone to the restroom. As I made my way back to the bar he was talking to a friend. They hadn’t seen me as their backs were turned.

“So what are you doing here?”

“I’m on a date.”

“With who?”

“Emilio’s sister’s friend.”

“Wait. You’re here with Curb Job?”

“Um … yeah …” I said as I stood behind them. 

They both looked at me. Silence.

“But Curb Job is just my middle name. Nice to meet you.”

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Embarrassing Moments, Love, and Magic Mountain

You ever have one of those moments, where you just want to crawl under a rock?

Yeah they happen often in my life. I was reminded of one of my top five moments while looking for a book through some old boxes, and I came across some old pictures.

It was a group picture of my junior high school crowd at Six Flags Magic Mountain. A group of basketball-and-volleyball playing chicks and dudes enjoying roller coaster rides and laughter.

Image via ryangoslingworkout.net

Then I saw him in the picture. Those eyes. If you can picture a Latin version of Ryan Gosling that was him, wearing jeans, an OP t-shirt, and Nike shoes. He was my first love crush and this trip proved to be a memorable one.

Ohhhh. He made me weak in the knees. My Latin Ryan Gosling.

We had just gotten off  that raft ride where everyone gets soaking wet no matter where you sit. As I got out of the raft, he extended his hand out to help me get out of the raft. Dude … as we held hands …. I swear I heard “This Magic Moment,” by Jay and The Americans.

As we made our way to Colossus — an awesome ride with gut-wrenching drops and a speedy coaster where you can ride forwards or backwards– it happened.

Six Flags Magic Mountain (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We were cracking up, recollecting who was screaming on the ride and who got soaked. He let go of my hand to tie his shoe. I turned to face him and continued the conversation.

As he got up, we turned to the left and walked down the hill. The guys were calling us, telling us to hurry. There was no one in line. I still must’ve been on cloud nine because I didn’t see it. 

But there it was and it saw me.

CLANG!

A large metal pole. The kind that has a light attached to it … yeah a light post. I crashed into a light post.

I know what you’re thinking. It was dark wasn’t it? Night time.

No. Broad daylight. Probably like one o’clock or something.

My forehead and entire face hit the lamppost and made a noise loud enough that complete strangers stopped what they were doing and checked me out — the dumbass who crashed into the pole. I was a little dazed after bouncing off a giant piece of metal.

My friends and my crowd? They were cracking up. They couldn’t help themselves.

Me? I was mortified. Not only was I in physical pain, but the fact that my Latino Ryan Gosling was like a few feet away gave me emotional pain as well. He had a front-row seat to the show.

I didn’t know what to do. What could I? I rubbed my forehead and chuckled a bit. I had my head down.

He came to my side, shaking his head, and chuckling.

“Are you O.K.?” He asked brushing his hand across my forehead.

I laughed.

“Ummmmm. Yeah.”

He kissed my forehead, gave me a hug and said:

“C’mon. Looks like I’m gonna have to hold your hand the rest of the way. Just in case there are any more poles.”

I smiled. I didn’t mind the hand-holding.

 

My Near-Death Pinkberry Experience

“You want a swirlee?” My friend asks as we pass by a frozen yogurt store. “Ha ha…just kidding.”

To most people this is not funny. I don’t find it too hilarious myself, but it does spark a chuckle when I remember what happened…

pinkberry (Photo credit: donnjmck)

I’d been sick for a while now, but thought I was getting better seeing how I only coughed 15 to 20 times the last hour, I thought I would reward myself with something sweet. Chocolate is usually my go-to celebration, but I figured I’d be healthy and go for some swirlee frozen yogurt.

So I headed to The Americana. For those of you from Los Angeles, it’s similar to The Grove except it’s in Glendale with the same fancy smancy Gucci and Prada people. For those of you who aren’t…it’s an open air shopping, dining, and entertaining piazza with cobblestone pathways, grassy knolls, bronze statues, and water fountains. Totally not a hangout for a Sporty Spice like myself, but figured they’d have some tasty treats.

I noticed a Pinkberry Store and thought aha! It was meant to be, and even though I was wearing a track suit (looking like Run DMC) I thought I could still fit in with the high-life Gucci, Prada, Coach people. So I ordered a kid’s size with granola, coconut, and melon. I figured I would walk back to my car and eat it instead of staying there. I probably enjoyed three or four spoonfuls before it happened…

As I approached the intersection something happened where I felt I couldn’t breathe…I was gasping for air, like those people in JAWS when they’re going down and they’re drowning but I was on land and there was no shark.

I guess the coconut or granola went down the wrong pipe or something. I was gasping for what felt like forever, before I signaled to the lady standing near me “hey…I think I’m choking over here can you smack the shit out of my back for a minute?” I thought it was a pretty universal signal seeing how I was gasping for air, waving my arms, and pointing to my back…she gave me the tap-tap-tap.

     Duuuuuuuude! Con ganas man!

I guess some Latino teenager and his girlfriend noticed that: A) I was gasping, clinging to the crosswalk pole and my life, and B) the older white lady didn’t have enough umph in her non Gucci whacking hand, that he stepped in and began smacking my back. I started coughing and something came loose and I finally started to get some air. 

     “Wow are you O.K.?” He asked.  “You gave us a scare there?”

      I waved my hand and smiled as I contined coughing.

     “Thanks,” I said hoarsely. “I really appreciate it. Thanks.”

     “Are you sure?”

     “Yeah I’m sure I just need a minute.” 

      And so I kept coughing.

The minute wasn’t really to gain my composure or thank God or anything. It was about the urine. Did you know that when you cough that hard you can actually pee in your pants. Yeah…urine. I didn’t think I would be peeing in my pants until I was 70-something. But apparently I did…in broad day light. There I was at the Americana corner among Prada, Coach, and Gucci people getting the crap smacked out of me because a Pinkberry topping went down the wrong way and as I started getting air, warm urine drizzled down the inside of my legs. I guess it would have been O.K. if the pants were black or dark blue or even if I was wearing jeans, but no…. there I was with a pinche sky blue track suit where if a Macy’s perfume lady spritzes you, it looks like you were on Splash Mountain…So there I was…toda miada for the whole Armenian and White population to see. What could I do?

Pooooooooooooos nada.

 I crossed the street in my miados–my urine stained pants which were not so warm anymore– and walked back to my car. I figured only something like this could happen to me when I actually had an hour to myself…my “alone time” away from the kids. It’s amusing being the Guat sometimes, and others…well…
 
Note to self….watch out for those Pinkberry toppings. If you’re a nerd like me, you’ll probably need someone close by to smack the crap out of you.