Compliment?

Last week, my wittiest little student complimented and then zinged me in a matter of seconds.  We greeted each other at the beginning of our session.  He said, “You look beautiful today.” 

“Thank you,” I responded.  “That’s a very nice compliment.”

“I hope my future wife will be as beautiful as you…” he continued.

My smiled brightened as I threw back my shoulders and sat up a little straighter, ready to bask in more niceties. 

“Except, I hope that my future wife will be 20 years younger,” he concluded.

My body (and ego) deflated instantly.

Smells

I encounter a variety of smells in New York City on a daily basis. Today, I passed through five different smells on my two block walk from the subway to our apartment. Some good, some not so good.

I stepped out of the subway and waited for the light to change next to a sewer grate. I held my breath as a cloud of, literally, sewage engulfed me. I bounded across the street as soon as the light changed and dived headfirst into the sweet aroma of roasted nuts from the vendor on the corner.

I continued down the block and my mouth watered as I passed the Super Taco burrito truck. Warm tortillas and steak filled my nostrils and made my stomach growl in anticipation of dinner. The smell of black beans and rice lasted for only 30 seconds before a wave of fresh laundry placated the need to stuff my face with street meat.

I walked to the corner where I caught whiffs of rotten fruit from the garbage bags lining the sidewalk.  Laundry/rotten fruit/laundry/rotten fruit. I alternated nostrils and inhaled quickly depending on which way the wind blew. I focused so intently on my breathing that I almost missed my light. Luckily, the next half block was void of pungent fumes.

My short jaunt to and from the subway is a smorgasbord of smells. I've learned to inhale when appropriate, and I've learned to hold my breath and risk passing out from a lack of oxygen as well. I thought living for so long with my dad and my brother would have better prepared for a variety of foul odors, but I guess not.

Smells, both good and bad, are just a part of the city that I have to accept.

Hot Commodities

A girlfriend and I walked to "happy hour" last Friday to meet our co-workers to celebrate a week of completed work.  As we crossed the street, a minivan drove by and the middle-aged man driving catcalled to us.  My girlfriend and I looked at each other in disbelief.

Are we now in the age bracket where this is the type of men that we attract?  Men in minivans?  Yikes.

It Wasn't Me

On Friday night, we ate dinner at a nearby Greek restaurant.  I excused myself from the table to use the restroom.  I walked into the single-stall ladies room to discover that the person before me had thrown a wad of paper towels into the toilet.

I didn’t want to flush the toilet because (thanks to several years in the restaurant industry) I knew that the toilet would clog or overflow.  So, I headed toward the kitchen and caught our waiter.  I explained that someone – but not me –threw paper towels into the toilet and I didn’t want to flush it.  The waiter shook his head and said, “Okay, one moment.”

He then turned to the kitchen of five male cooks and waiters and loudly explained the problem in Greek, a language that I don’t understand.  I awkwardly stood near the door.  I thought I had clearly stated that I was not at fault, but I somehow think that was lost in translation because the entire kitchen staff stopped and looked at me and shook their heads when my waiter finished explaining the situation. 

A cook then stepped around the corner of the counter and said, “Don’t worry.  I fix the problem.”  I again declared my innocence.  “It wasn’t me!"  But, somehow, that claim fell on deaf (or Greek) ears.

The cook took a few steps toward a door in the floor that led to a cellar.  He repeatedly yelled, “Jesus”, into the darkened hole.  Jesus, another restaurant employee, climbed out of the cellar.  The cook explained the situation again, but this time in Spanish, another language that I don’t understand.  Mid-conversation I hear the word, “caca,” one of the few Spanish words that I do know.  “Caca” was definitely a word I did NOT use! 

“No!  No!  I know that word.  Not caca,” I said, dumbstruck that I said the word to strangers and in an attempt to defend myself.  “Paper towels.  Paper towels in the toilet.”

The men just looked at me.  I then waved my arms and proclaimed, “I DIDN’T DO IT!” 

Jesus nodded at me and snapped a pair of rubber gloves over his hands.  The cook laughed and said, “Don’t worry.  We fix it.  He’s toilet doctor.”  Jesus then strode by me.

Next time, I will just use the men’s room.  

Save My Seat

Today, I played with one of my little four-year-old clients in the back gym at work. We busily drilled plastic screws in and out of a PLAYSKOOL workbench. We were the only ones in the room.

Then, a lady walked in and out of the room.  She left the door ajar and noise filtered in from the hallway. I asked my little client if he could shut the door so that we could continue to play and talk in a quiet atmosphere. He jumped up and excitedly said, "Yes, but please save my seat!"

I looked around the empty room and smiled. "No problem!" I yelled.

Buddies. That's what I'd call us.  Buddies.