That's what my dad says instead of "Congratulations." No, he's not retarded, he's actually a successful, self-made real estate mogul who has yet to master the English language. This despite, 30 some odd years in the U.S. This deficiency would manifest itself in the most devastating ways when I was growing up here in East Texas. I say "here" because I am currently in East Texas visiting my family who have continued their sentence since my departure.
Yesterday, I was having breakfast with my mother after she picked me up from the airport and my dad popped in to say hello. I told him about how I got called to the podium for an unexpected upgrade to first class because of my newly minted "Elite" status on Continental. It was actually a funny story because, after years of flying stand-by as a kid (my parents owned a travel agency and we were always "Non-revenue" passengers, a term I came to equate with cheap bastards), I was terrified of being bumped from a flight no matter what the circumstances. My dad chuckled and said, "Conjulations." My sister, currently camped out at my parent's house as she bitterly awaits her California Bar results, almost choked on her baguette. My mom rolled her eyes and my dad cleared his throat and in what I can only assume was an attempt to rectify his gaffe added, "Good luck."
I could go on but why? Why make the man who is responsible for my birth (not to mention a myriad of issues I'm told I have about men)sound like Apu from "The Simpsons?" Because it's funny. But I'll stop. For now, I'll relent.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Dalliance with "The Daily Show"
I have a crush on a "correspondent" on The Daily Show. I know that sounds ridiculous. It reminds me of the time I had a crush on my Philosophy Professor in College. I was such a hick my freshman year that I walked into my undergrad philosophy class and almost walked right out because the title of the course on the board threw me for a loop. I had just unzipped my backpack and sat down next to some frat boy when I literally saw the writing on the wall: "Contemporary moral problems." "Oh," I said aloud, "I thought this was Philosophy 301." He looked at me as if I had just declared that a football player scored a homerun. "It is," he said with as much contempt as two syllables could convey.
Chastened, I stayed and a glorious one-sided love affair spanned an entire spring semester. He was hardly my type. Tall, disheveled, mid to late thirties with a mop of curly hair and the kind of 5 o'clock shadow that makes someone look more tired than sexy. But, he would wax philosophic and I would pretend he was framing the justification for our scandalous relationship.
This crush has more potential for both success and disaster. The pseudo-correspondent is obviously clever and sharp as a tack when he's going back and forth with Jon Stewart but I have yet to surmise if those attributes exist unscripted, one on one. Furthermore, we're meeting under the pretense of business. I had worked with him on a charity project and asked him to speak on a panel for journalists, he resisted at first, intimidated by the idea of being questioned by so-called "real journalists" in an arena he only pretends to occupy. In the end, tho, he agreed and gave me his phone number. My intrepid reporting skills also led to the discovery that he lives two blocks away from me in the city. Lest you wonder if I'm stalking him, he volunteered the cross streets of his home and I was able to do the basic math to determine the proximity. He's not married but that doesn't mean he's single. And there's still the possibility that he plays for the other team. Although I think that info. would have surfaced on one of the many blogs that post his work. So we'll see. For the time being, I'll simply bask in the brilliance of my ingenuity that has not only opened the door to a potential date but definitely tickets to The Daily Show.
Chastened, I stayed and a glorious one-sided love affair spanned an entire spring semester. He was hardly my type. Tall, disheveled, mid to late thirties with a mop of curly hair and the kind of 5 o'clock shadow that makes someone look more tired than sexy. But, he would wax philosophic and I would pretend he was framing the justification for our scandalous relationship.
This crush has more potential for both success and disaster. The pseudo-correspondent is obviously clever and sharp as a tack when he's going back and forth with Jon Stewart but I have yet to surmise if those attributes exist unscripted, one on one. Furthermore, we're meeting under the pretense of business. I had worked with him on a charity project and asked him to speak on a panel for journalists, he resisted at first, intimidated by the idea of being questioned by so-called "real journalists" in an arena he only pretends to occupy. In the end, tho, he agreed and gave me his phone number. My intrepid reporting skills also led to the discovery that he lives two blocks away from me in the city. Lest you wonder if I'm stalking him, he volunteered the cross streets of his home and I was able to do the basic math to determine the proximity. He's not married but that doesn't mean he's single. And there's still the possibility that he plays for the other team. Although I think that info. would have surfaced on one of the many blogs that post his work. So we'll see. For the time being, I'll simply bask in the brilliance of my ingenuity that has not only opened the door to a potential date but definitely tickets to The Daily Show.
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