7 Minutes with 6 fingers and the Big Guy

I had the most absurd visit to Dunkin' Donuts the other day.

I go in and order a plain bagel with plain cream cheese and a large latte. Ordinarily I would get a black coffee, but I had just received news that I was hired for this position I really wanted, so...actually, I don't know why I'm explaining my need to treat myself.
Anyway, apparently you cannot simply get a plain latte. You must choose out of 70 plus flavors and then specifically ask for it to be "hot" instead of iced or cold or whichever other temperature they use for coffee these days.
Yes, I know that part was annoying, but it had to preface this:
While the man behind the counter is endlessly listing espresso flavors, this guy behind me begins to sigh really loudly and continues to bemoan and for the 30 second wait through which he must suffer. I was perfectly content with hearing him obnoxiously mutter, "Come on!" until he says, "Don't you know what kind of latte you want? It's really not that hard! Jesus!"
Color me PISSED.
Without turning around, I retorted, "Take it easy, big guy. You'll get your coffee!" As I turned around to complete my response with an icy glare, I saw my main offender. I was right, he was a big guy. A big guy. Huge. I felt terrible. I call people "big guy" "man" "dude" "champ"...any number of things. I've never had it backfire on me like that before.
I turned back around with my mouth open only to realize that the guy handing me my bagel had six fingers. He had a smaller thumb attached to his regular thumb. The small thumb even had a nail. My mouth opened wider.
Two things make this situation more absurd than it already was to begin with:
1.) My librarian friends and I always joke with each other if one of us is dressed as or behaving like a stereotypical librarian. Well, folks, that day I looked like no one other than your local prudish librarian. Which may or may not make what I did on my way out even more ridiculous -
2.) I stuck out my tongue. As I was leaving, the "big guy" gave me this horrible sneer and narrowed his eyes at me. So, I behaved as any other middle-class, educated, decent human being would. I stuck out my tongue at him. It was like instinct. I still have no idea why I did it, but the toddler in me seemed to have a quicker reaction time than whatever etiquette I've been taught. Ultimately, I don't regret doing it, but it's just curious to me how I did it without really thinking.

I think what pisses me off most about the situation is that I pride myself in being a really accommodating customer. I've never sent food back, I tip really well, I don't complain about waiting, I (usually) don't even think twice about picking hairs out of food and continuing on. Seriously, when it comes to serving me: I'm a dreamboat. So when someone else displays absolutely asinine behavior for no reason at all other than the customer in front of them is listening to their choices, I see red.

In a perfect world, I would've just gotten a black coffee. Then again, in a perfect world, the guy serving me wouldn't have had three thumbs.

On ABBA

I finally watched "Mamma Mia!" last week. It made me realize (or just rediscover) a few things:

1.) Meryl Streep might just be the funniest woman on the planet. And she really is gorgeous.

2.) Pierce Brosnan's voice is mediocre-on-toast. How, you ask, did the producers work around that? Why, simply by removing any buttons on his shirt that would impede his chest hair from flowing out, over, and into the minds of all the middle-aged women of the audience. Seriously, it was ridiculous. It made me think of the only Garfield comic strip I can quote, where Jon Arbuckle's grandmother (or elderly aunt, or whatever) is asked what she wants for Christmas. Bawdy broad that she is, she answers, "Oh, just a nice throw pillow. Stuffed with John Travolta's CHEST HAIR!"
I'm telling you right now...Brosnan's glistening curls could be knitted into a nice afghan big enough to cover all of this blog's readers. Namely, me.

3.) On a similar note, I'm completely convinced that the producers found any excuse to get Colin Firth's shirt off throughout the movie. I'll be the first to admit that Firth gets me a little hot under the collar...but my attraction is entirely not torso-related. I suppose what I realized here was that some women maybe are into Colin Firth's chest and stomach. Women who are attracted to him for his physical appearance, and not for his mumbling, awkward, slightly insecure British behaviors. Weird.

4.) Listening to ABBA is as close to a celestial experience as I'll ever have. The movie didn't make me realize this but I made sure to loop ABBA while commuting all last week...so I've had a lot of time to deconstruct my feelings about them.
I've called them a guilty pleasure before, but I'm taking that back right now.


The thing about the Northern Europeans is that they seem to have found the formula for beauty in art a long time ago and now they're just building upon that. Obviously I cannot spell out this formula, for I have no Northern European blood in me.
Take, for instance, Gustav Klimt's "The Virgins":

If you just look at the female figures, their forms are fantastic! Even the turn of the back of the one in the lower left corner is near-perfection. What does he do to improve upon a probably already awesome sketch? Adds all of these crazy patterns and shapes and beautifully outlandish colors. That for me, is a visual summary of what ABBA does with their music. I truly believe that a lot of their songs can stand on their own, with just the lyrics and the melody. But they chose to build upon that with guitar riffs, piano hooks, and all-around decadence. It's the musical equivalent to a naturally pretty woman fixing up her hair and getting dressed to the nines.

I'll end this by offering up a small anecdote that articulates how emotional and excited I get about ABBA. A few years ago, while walking around the Towson Festival, I stopped at a used book booth. As I was browsing, I heard this flute being played and I looked up. Across the booth there sat this little old man, playing that flute. The song he was playing was "Chiquitita" and as soon as I realized what it was, my eyes filled up with tears. Partly because it was ABBA, and hearing that man play that song made me realize how universally good that song is...but more importantly because before I realized what song he was playing I just assumed it was some ancient folk tune. That song sounded as timeless to me as anything. I really could've knelt down and wept right there. From fuckin' ABBA! It was like right there, at that moment, I had a glimpse of what humans are capable of creating.

Damn Swedes.

UMBC've come a long way, baby!

UMBC is like a ghost town tonight. I'm not too shocked by this, though, because it perfectly illustrates how foreign I will come to feel on this campus from now on.
I'm kind of sad about the fact that I'm done with this place...so, to mourn my losses and celebrate this university's impact on me I will now thank UMBC for what it's given me:

O dusty toilet seat in my secret stall, nestled within my secret bathroom in the AoK library. I used you for the last time today, my friend. Was that a sob you choked back as I stood up? Or my thighs bemoaning their last hunch-squat over you? You've been true blue.

O old lady in the Administration building's cafe. It was you that first introduced me to the wonder that was (and is, but no longer for me) the frequent coffee drinkers' card. When I had one more punch to go before my free coffee, you said, "Make it a large one!" And I did, Doris (or Bea, or Ruth, or Sylvia...greatness like yours needs no name). I did make it a large one.

O Atrium, located in the front of the library. Not until my last semester was I aware that you were called an Atrium because, well, you don't really have any traits that I thought an "atrium" would have to possess to be called as such. I had my first Thai peanut salad in you...and my last one. Turns out, too many peanuts in a salad is not always a good thing.

O 88 steps outside of the Fine Arts building. My friend Sarah took a nasty spill on you YEARS ago and still has bruises. And yes, because of you, I joined the short-lived facebook group titled "I've got 99 problems and 88 of them are the steps outside the Fine Arts building."

O smoking section to the left of the FA building, where all of the English students would smoke. I had many an interesting chat with comrades, professors, janitors, etc. right there with you. I was also standing near you when someone told me they overheard my love, Larry David Professor Falco say that I was a force of nature. Nay, I say it is you, smoking section, who is any number of forces of nature. Of course, when I say force of nature, I mean a light drizzle, or humid evening, or pollen season. But I say it lovingly.

O Math/Psych building. I had countless English classes within you and will never be able to understand why that was. They should've added another slash to you if they were so keen to use you for subjects for which you were clearly not meant to be used.

O UMBC, with your hideous bauhausian late 1960's architecture and your swampy, swampy pond. You with your buildings that smell like chalk and b.o. I really will miss you. No longer will I walk down Academic Alley (which isn't actually the technical name for the main row of academic buildings, but I heard it during my first semester there and thought it was pure gold). No longer will I puzzle over why we have one of the least-terrifying mascots in the nation...the Retrievers. Never again will I buy over-priced, but surprisingly good! sushi from your cafe in the commons. Never again will I have to do the weird jog/walk/hike up bookbag trot across campus when I'm late for class.

Thanks for everything, pal.

Stay tuned, citizens!

The following blogs pertain to a senior seminar for English/Teacher Education. Read on, if you like, but they might just bore you to tears.
I'll have something me-related up here soon. Don't worry about holding your collective breath...I already know you are.