Crystal Jackson

Archive for the ‘awkward’ Category

stink eye

In awkward, people be trippin', shopping on January 15, 2012 at 12:44 pm

I always get my weekly grocery shopping out of the way on Sunday morning, no matter how late my Saturday night might have been. If you don’t go early on Sunday, you end up knee-deep in the throngs of slow shoppers. They chat in front of the produce scales instead of weighing their shit and moving on. They leave their cart in the middle of the aisle to look at something shiny that caught their eye. They stand three across discussing the merits of this salad dressing versus that. It’s maddening for a person who walks fast and writes her grocery list in the order the items appear in the store in order to eliminate unnecessary browsing. Sounds fun, huh? That’s why I go alone.

Because it’s early and I pretty much literally roll out of bed, put on clothes and head to the store, I don’t make much eye contact while I’m shopping. Not looking to get into a conversation with the chipper lady who’s been up since 6 or the crusty old man who can’t find the chutney.

I was nearing the end of my weekly chore this morning when I broke my rule. I was on the main aisle and needed to turn left to get some detergent. There was a guy coming my direction whom I needed to let pass before I could move forward. I glanced up, and he was looking me dead in the eye. Giving me the stink eye. He looked at me like I’d just puked on his grocery basket or called his mama a whore. I’m looking at him, probably with surprise on my face, and he’s staring at me as he continues pushing his shopping cart, having to turn his head as he goes by in order to maintain angry eye contact. This went on for a few seconds, which is fairly intense for this type of interaction.

It was so weird, I sort of wanted to turn around and follow him to see what the deal was. Instead, I kept walking.

Awkward.

 

I need to get out more

In awkward, food and drink, Houston on October 21, 2011 at 12:36 pm

Dark Star Orchestra

New drinkin’ hole: Went to House of Blues Saturday night to see Dark Star Orchestra. It was my first visit to the venue. I liked it okay, though the drink prices are like you’re at the airport. Before going to HOB, we had a drink at a cute little bar across the street called Reserve. They pour a nice glass of wine and have an extensive whiskey selection. I’ll go back, even though the median age of the clientele seemed to top out at about 25.

Rolling jackass: Between the parking garage, Reserve and the HOB, we encountered a beggar on a bike. He was one of those panhandlers who tries to give you a line of bullshit, and when you don’t respond by handing over your money he becomes aggressive and belligerent. On our second encounter with him, with us again acknowledging him and again not handing over any money, he called us “dumbass motherfuckers.” Oh you smooth talker. I can’t be certain, but I think he may be the guy I encountered a few years ago when I worked at the Alley.

Dark Star Orchestra: This band strictly plays songs written and/or performed by the Grateful Dead. Specifically, they recreate Grateful Dead shows, song by song. The show they played Saturday night was a recreation of a show at Winterland, December 29, 1977. It’s great fun for the Deadheads in the audience (that would be James in my scenario) to try to nail down which year the concert they’re recreating happened, based upon the song list. I like to drink wine while this is happening.

Dead can(‘t) dance: Look, I don’t want to be mean about this. I think it’s great when people feel moved to dance and do so with abandon. I dig it. But here’s the deal. I don’t know if it’s the weed or the booze or the whiteness or the fact that jam band music isn’t really meant to be danced to, but the dancing at a Dead or DSO show is this herky-jerky, twirling, wiggling, spaced out thing without discernible rhythm. It makes it especially hard to work your way through a crowd. You can’t judge the upcoming movements of the dancers because they’re pretty all over the place, jerking this way and that and then suddenly twirling around. At least they’re nice when you run into them. Which you will do.

Funny money: Around midnight or so as the band was in the middle of its second set, I saw a grizzled old dude in a tie-dye tee shirt (that actually describes about 1/5 of the audience) drop a folded bill. I bent down to retrieve it and saw that it was a $100 bill. You might have smelled a rat at this point, but I’ve actually found a $100 bill on the floor of a bar before (granted, it was at Disney World where magical shit like that is supposed to happen). I chased after the dude to return it. He wouldn’t take it. Said, “It’s only money.” Yeah, it’s great to be all hippy and shit, but come on. After insisting he take it back, and after his consistent denial of the bill, I realized it had to be fake. Do you know how much weed and patchouli this guy could have bought with $100?

you can tell it's a fake in the bright light of my house but on the floor of a dark bar toward the end of the evening between the shuffling feet of dancing people and pools of spilled beer, this looked damn real

The paper is a nice weight and the bill was folded in half, so you don’t notice at first that it’s only about 2/3 the length of a regular bill. On the back of the bill it says:

This shit is BUNK!
Your drugs probably are too…
The Bunk Police are here
to solve your illicit mysteries.
WWW.BUNKPOLICE.ORG

According to their website, the Bunk Police go to music festivals and other places where illegal substances are most likely being sold/shared and test the product. I don’t mean “test” it like they smoke it in front of you. I mean with chemicals and shit. And it would seem that the stuff people are smoking/snorting/placing on their tongues isn’t very pure these days. Not my problem until they start diluting wine, but others might find this of interest.

but he carried a little black bag

In awkward, people be trippin', stupidization on October 13, 2011 at 1:37 pm

I'm ready to give you your exam, everybody

An 81-year-old man in Florida struck a deal with prosecutors to avoid trial in a case of door-to-door breast fondling. Seems the old coot went around an apartment complex offering “free breast exams.” One of the women who thought this was a great idea (yes, there was more than one) said that he was carrying a little black bag, so it seemed legit. Um, yeah, if you’re living in the 1880s and need a doctor to place some leeches on your forehead to suck the bad thoughts out so your crops will grow again and Paw’s dry socket will heal. The only people carrying black doctor bags these days are hipsters.

She smelled a rat when he fondled her breasts instead of “examining” them and his hands moved to other, non-breast, parts of her body. He was in another woman’s apartment by the time the cops came. Who knows how many women might have fallen for this had the first lady not called the po-po. How are there this many stupid people in one place? Was their apartment complex built on a nuclear waste dump?

When asked for comment after the deal was struck, one of the victims said, “I’m not really worried about what happens to that crusty old man. I was recently contacted by a prince in Africa who needs me to help him transfer a large sum of money. With the reward he’s offering, I’ll be sipping piña coladas by the beach for the rest of my life.”

Okay, that last thing didn’t happen, but the rest of it did. What a country. In communist Russia, you have to fondle doctor’s breasts.

well that was awkward

In awkward, sartorial issues on August 30, 2011 at 12:43 pm

While working for Channel 8, I was a member of the UH gym. It’s a brand new facility with all the latest equipment, and I liked exercising there. (Forget the fact that I was often the oldest person in the gym, including staff, instructors and moms who were there picking up their college-age students.) When I quit working on the UH campus, I lost my gym privileges. Which was okay because it was mid-June and too hot to think about doing much more than going from air-conditioned car –> air-conditioned job –> air-conditioned car –> air-conditioned home –> repeat.

Now that summer is nearing its burn out phase (be gone, ye right bastard of hellfire and brown grass), I felt ready to get back on track. Literally. So I joined the Y again. I was a member when I worked at the Alley, frequenting the old downtown location. Like so many things in Houston, the original downtown location has not only been closed but completely razed (to make way for a…vacant lot), and there’s a shiny new facility a block or two away. I wanted to sign up after work, so I thought I’d avoid the crowd by going to the Y on Augusta instead of the one five minutes from my office downtown. The Augusta location was busy as could be, so that didn’t really work out right. Neither did my experience in the locker room.

When I was done with my workout, I went in search of a sauna in the women’s locker room. (I hate Houston summers but love saunas for some reason. Maybe because I’m only in the sauna for ten minutes while the heat in Houston lasts three years every summer.) I didn’t find a sauna but I did find a steam room. While saunas smell like cedar, steam rooms always smell like humid, dirty socks. I poked my head in the steam room to see if it smelled different than I expected (it didn’t) when something moved in my peripheral vision. It was a chick in the whirlpool. Only, instead of having a good soak for her muscles, she was somehow completely above the water (and naked) (of course). Like, her hands and feet were in the pool but her body was above the water. And she was making some sort of movement that, how shall I put this, would suggest that she was really enjoying the whirlpool. We had a split second of awkward eye contact, then I turned and quickly exited the room.

I’m not a prude, and I don’t have an issue with nudity. But come on. It’s not like the ladies locker room is the sexiest place to be and she just couldn’t help herself. I know that movies make it seem like the air is steamy and all of the women have hot bodies and are running around in little panties and tickling each other, but the reality of it isn’t so. Even at the UH gym where the average age was probably 20. Not even close.

My next trip to the gym was to the downtown location.

run, Forrest, run

In awkward, Houston, the outdoors, things that surprise me, zombies on August 19, 2011 at 2:25 pm

On my way to work this morning, I was over near I-10 and Hardy (on the feeder road) when I saw a uniformed HPD officer running down the street. I looked around to see who/what he was chasing/being chased by. Didn’t see anything. Then I noticed he was wearing a backpack with something very heavy inside that caused the pack to bounce against his back as he pumped his legs. Bowling ball? Bag of donuts? He sprinted around a corner without looking around for a ride or any other form of assistance, and I drove on to work.

Not like I’d have given him a ride if he’d looked my way and made the high sign. My first instinct was that maybe he needed some help, but then the more cynical city dweller inside stepped up and suggested that maybe he isn’t really a police officer at all. Perhaps he’s looking for some well meaning yet stupid good samaritan to pick his ass up, and the thing in the backpack isn’t donuts or a bowling ball but instead is a receptacle for your head.

It’s disturbing to see the po-po hauling ass on foot. You rarely see them outside the air conditioned comfort of their sedans. Maybe he’s in the police academy and was doing some sort of endurance test, having to run in 100 degree heat (yes, even at 9 in the morning) while wearing a heavy pack. But itsn’t it odd that the dude would be fully decked out in a cop uniform and be training by himself?

Oh, I know. Maybe he was being chased by zombies.

okay, we GET it

In awkward, people be trippin' on July 17, 2011 at 12:16 pm

Stopped at Walgreens in the middle of the day yesterday to pick up a few sundries. Cruising down one aisle I had to squeeze past an old dude who was taking up a lot of space as he perused the condom and lubricant section. Good for him, I thought (with perhaps a slight shudder) and kept walking. A few minutes later I ended up in the check out line behind him. The girl scanned his three items – a big box of condoms, some shave gel and that hot/cold lubricant stuff I’ve seen ads for (hot for him, cold for her) (or maybe it’s the other way around). She placed everything in a small white plastic bag. He was slowly counting out his money – all ones – and said that he didn’t want the bag. The girl looked at him like really? and slowly brought the items back into daylight.

He’d taken up all the space on the counter with his display of dollar bills, which he was oh-so-slowly counting and recounting, so the girl had to hold his Saturday night special in her hands until he was done (that’s what she said). He kept looking around to see who was watching. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction, I made sure I was looking elsewhere when his head swivelled around (that’s what… nevermind). Read the rest of this entry »

well there goes that fantasy

In animals, awkward on June 27, 2011 at 1:45 pm

hoping for this

ended up with this

A couple of years ago, I was maybe going to write a play about a woman who gave birth to a monkey. I referred to this work-in-progress (which existed only in my brain and not on paper) as the “monkey baby play.” So when James saw a listing for a TV show a couple of years ago called My Monkey Baby, he recorded it for me. For research purposes. Read the rest of this entry »

squatch

In awkward, zombies on June 13, 2011 at 10:06 pm

don't look into its eyes

Another exciting night in the Jackson/Noles household. First, we’ve been taking turns hiding that little naked doll (which belongs to my niece and was left here accidentally) (or was it?).  I just walked into the dark kitchen, and James, who was in the living room, asked me to see if he’d put his keys on the rack. I saw this in the dim light, and it scared the shit out of me. Doesn’t take much.

I joined James on the couch for a bit to play a rousing game of Plants vs. Zombies on my phone while he watched a show about people hunting Bigfoot. Only, instead of calling it “bigfoot,” they call it “squatch.” As in, sasquatch. And one of the guys is named Bobo. I’m looking at the little screen of my phone, not looking at the big screen of the TV, and it all sounds ridiculous. Bobo and Squatch. Bobo and Squatch. Sounds like the name of a hipster pasta restaurant. As if hipsters eat carbs. Read the rest of this entry »

and now for something completely different

In awkward, luddite vs. iDevice, people be trippin', the internets, things that make me happy on April 21, 2011 at 2:19 pm

dumb dumb
Standing half naked in a dressing room stall yesterday, I heard a woman talking to her child the next stall over. The child wasn’t behaving, so she asked him if he wanted a “spank spank.” He did not. A moment later she asked,  “Did you lose a shoe shoe?” He did. She helped him put it back on. “Why don’t you play with your train train while mommy gets dressed?” What the fuck fuck, I thought. And maybe also said out loud.

running sausages
I was hanging out with a dear friend and her old friend from middle school a couple of nights ago. As is typical when old friends get together, my friend and her buddy were talking about the good old days. The old friend casually mentioned that my friend was a mascot in high school. I didn’t know this. I hate mascots and have outlined the many reasons why here. My friend was not a costume-with-the-big-head type of mascot, though, so we’re cool.

As the three of us were discussing mascots and my, perhaps irrational, hatred of them (the old friend is a psychoanalyst) (so, you know, that was fun), I got entirely too excited talking about the running sausage mascot that got smacked with a bat at the Brewers game years back. Do you remember that? Here’s a link to the news story. You should watch it now. I’ll wait. “No one’s laughing now,” the reporter says. “I am,” I say, through tears. Never has the word “sausages” been used so many times in a news story. Genius.

As I described the sausage smacking situation to the psychoanalyst, whom I’d met literally minutes earlier, I could feel my face and neck getting hot. Not because I was embarrassed. Because I was so excited to share the story with the uninitiated. (The “I’m not a bad person” disclaimer:  the woman wasn’t hurt beyond a skinned knee and maybe a bit of post-traumatic running sausage disorder – totally worth it for the joy she provided so many.)

Next tweet
You’ve probably seen the link to that can be my next tweet elsewhere (twitter, specifically), but if you have an active twitter account, this is a fun exercise. It predicts what your next tweet might be, based upon your past tweets. Here are a few it predicted for me (my real tweets make only slightly more sense):

  • No) ritual de burger – blog post: randomness of Mick Jaggerish thing going to use my friends’ facebook?
  • Ha! Front hard.
  • Also – blog post: you see on like you in Houston today? about diminishing Houston to watch the big girl.
  • That article makes me alone with language)!
  • Burger – blog post: happiness vortex.
  • Belaboring the good poboy. Not old school Antone’s, but sometimes I would just shower less. Ha!
  • Fight stupidization on where I had a conversation over here. Be happy, bitches.

Indeed. Hilarious and oddly illuminating. Be happy, bitches.

well that was odd

In awkward, random on March 27, 2011 at 5:34 pm

Someone just knocked on the door/rang the bell. We weren’t expecting anyone. I wasn’t wearing a bra. I quickly put one on.

I look through the peep hole. A small, chubby woman or maybe a child has his/her back to the door. I open the door. The dogs are going crazy. It’s a cacophony of barking and a twister of prancing energy behind me. The dogs are ready to eat whoever is standing there. The person turns around when I open the door. It’s a kid. About ten or eleven. Seems frightened of the dogs, so I step outside and shut the door.

He asks, “Do you have a son?”

Uh, no? We don’t have kids.

“Oh. I thought because of the basketball goals…”

No. We play with those.

“Oh. Okay.”

And that was it. He walked back to his bike, which was parked in our driveway, and rode off. He was carrying a white plastic grocery bag with something in it – rocks? pecans? child-sized doses of crack? I don’t know. And I don’t know why I didn’t think to ask him – if we did have a son, what then? Was he going to challenge him to a game of basketball? Would it make sense to challenge the child who lives in a house with not one but two basketball goals? Obviously anyone with two basketball goals in the driveway takes that shit seriously.

Of course, we don’t take it that seriously. We just happen to have two goals in the driveway. I gave James a goal for his birthday a couple of years ago, and we ended up with Mason’s goal from his house. If you are interested in taking the goal that I gave James (Mason’s is much nicer, so we’re keeping that one), let me know. It ain’t fancy, but it gets the job done. Make sure to call first.  We may be busy playing HORSE with a ten or eleven year old chubby boy who doesn’t even live on this block who goes randomly door-to-door looking for someone to play with.

Lanford Wilson

In awkward, theatre, writing on March 24, 2011 at 4:33 pm

I was saddened to hear of Lanford Wilson’s passing today. He was a playwright – a Pulitzer Prize winning playwright, in fact – who taught Edward Albee’s writing workshop at UH for a couple of semesters. I was lucky to have been in one of those classes, benefiting from Lanford’s generosity of spirit and gentle encouragement for all us jackass writers.

Here’s a moment involving Lanford that captures my perpetual awkwardness and what a sweet man he was. We were both at a party given by a local playwright. Big, beautiful house with all of the typical accoutrements of a nice home and then some.

I’m standing in the kitchen, jacking my jaw about some bullshit or another, probably well into my third drink by this time. Lanford comes up to me with an arm outstretched. I didn’t notice the cup and napkin in his hand (or didn’t really think about it) as I gave him a tight hug, assuming in my party-mood and socially lubricated state that he felt compelled to walk across the room and interrupt a conversation because he needed to give me a hug. Ah, that wasn’t the case, though.

See, I was standing in front of the trash can. It was one of those hidden ones that live inside the cabinet and roll out on casters if you know which magical drawer to pull. Rather than shrink away from my hug or look at me like I was a creepy weirdo, Lanford generously returned the hug and then reached for the trash can, his original target, to toss his cup and napkin.

I always appreciated him for that.

And other things, too.

cockeyed, large corneas, immature (so I’ve got that going for me)

In awkward on March 14, 2011 at 2:01 pm

I went to the eye clinic on campus last week instead of the place I’ve been going for two decades. As an employee, I received a super-dee-duper deal on my exam. Plus, my old place couldn’t find contacts that fit right the last time I was there, and I thought a new place might have better luck.

Going to a new doctor allowed me the opportunity to share a creepy memory from childhood (which I’ve shared with every eye doctor I’ve seen, none of whom were amused).  See, there was this show when I was in, maybe, middle school. A network television murder mystery, I think. The victim is sitting in the chair getting ready for an eye exam. The doctor swings around the thing that goes up close to your eyes (the one where you have to choose “Which one is better? One? Or two? One? Or two?” and it’s a really shitty choice because both kind of suck and you’re afraid you’re going to choose the wrong one, which will cause your glasses or contact lenses to suck and make your eyes worse than they already are). Anyway, the doctor swings around the thing that gets right up next to your eyeballs, only the murderer had rigged the machine so that there were two big needles poking out right at eye level. So instead of having to choose between one and two, the person in the chair had their eyes gouged out. It’s been thirty years, give or take, since I saw that few seconds of television, and I think of it every time I go to the eye doctor.

Because the doc who saw me last week is pretty fresh out of school, some of our interaction was…different than what one might expect from a seen-it-all, bought-the-tee-shirt doctor. For instance, near the end of the exam, she asked if I’ve always tilted my head to the side, which she’d noticed I’d been doing off and on during our conversation. I said that I’d never really thought about it but feel like it’s something I’ve done for a long time.

“Why?” I asked.

“Oh,” she said, “it can be an indication of something.”

“An indication of what?” (Because I like to have shit to google.)

“It can be an indication that your eyes aren’t aligned. But I know they are because I already did that test. I was just double-checking.”

“So you’re saying I might be cockeyed?”

(laughing) “No, no. You’re fine. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Now all I can do is wonder. Why do I tilt my head? And why has no one mentioned this to be me before? I told my family about it yesterday, which prompted Tohner and Dad to both turn their heads sideways while I was talking to them, saying they were just trying to look me in the eye. So supportive.

Then the doctor tried to find contacts that fit my eyes. The first lenses she brought me “work on 95% of the people who try them.” Sure enough, they didn’t work on me. Nor did the second pair. Third time was a charm because she picked some extra large lenses. Seems I have abnormally large corneas, according to the doctor, and that’s why it’s hard to find lenses that will sit still on my eyes.

Perhaps sensing that I was beginning to get a complex about my gigantic, misaligned eyes, the doctor tried one last salvo. “I’m sure you hear this all the time,” she said, pausing just long enough for me to run through the various things I hear from strangers. “You don’t at all look like you’re 40. You seem much younger.”

Ahhh! Success! I feel so much better-

“Or maybe it’s your attitude,” she continued, unwisely. “You don’t act like you’re 40.”

She obviously doesn’t subscribe to the quit while you’re ahead school. What’s funny is that, with all of this, I still really liked her.

(frozen) flotsam

In awkward, weather on February 2, 2011 at 4:39 pm

**For those of you wondering about the cheese enchilada class – it was a lot of fun, and I’m pretty sure I have the knowledge necessary to make some kick ass TexMex enchiladas at home. Going to give it a test run on Superbowl Sunday. If it goes well, perhaps I’ll branch out and actually invite people over to try them in the near future. Now I need to figure out where to buy lard…

I was mistaken about who would be taking the class with me. Rather than old lady fan girls, it was 30-something fan boys. There were four women and seven men, and the three women who weren’t me were married to three of the men who were there. And the men were more active in the conversation than their wives were, so one could argue that the women were along for the ride.

A couple of the guys seemed to have come with talking points, making sure to ask lots of “insider” questions of our host. It always makes me uncomfortable to watch someone have an emotional, giggling hard on for someone they deem to be a celebrity. Sadly, since I was the only person who didn’t bring a friend to the class, I had no one to roll my eyes at. I looked for a hint of acknowledgment in the eyes of my classmates, but they all seemed blissfully unaware of how irritating these two guys were. Guess I’m the Princess and the Pea of social situations. So fucking sensitive.

**I’ve noticed over the past little while that I have some sort of shrinking disease. When I go to work in the morning, the rearview mirror is exactly right. Yet every day when I drive home, it isn’t. As if the mirror has moved…or I’ve shrunk. For a while I readjusted the mirror in the evening. But that meant I had to re-readjust it the next morning, once I’d returned to my full height. Evidently, my job is pressing down on my shoulders and compacting my spine. I need to get one of those standing desks instead of sitting all day.

**It’s so cold outside and getting even colder tonight than it was last night, I’m considering inviting the (imaginary?) ax-wielding hobo who lives in the shed in the far corner of our backyard to come inside to warm up and have a cup of cocoa.

waving, not drowning

In awkward, travel on September 1, 2010 at 3:57 pm

I work from home on Wednesdays (when I don’t have a meeting or some other thing that requires my physical presence rather than my electronic one). I like working from home for numerous reasons, including the fact that I can quickly run an errand in the middle of the day instead of joining the throngs after work. Rather than hit the grocery store late morning today as was my plan, I ended up not going until after 2PM. Which meant that school let out around the time I was coming back home.

Taking the back roads through a neighborhood, I ended up behind a school bus full of elementary school kids. We were sitting at a stop sign, and I noticed that three of the kids were peering at me over the back of their seats at the rear of the bus (where the bad kids sit). I waved and smiled, fully expecting one of the kids to shoot the finger or slowly lift up his shirt, flashing a gun in his waistband. To my delight, the kids waved back and laughed. This was evidently so much fun for them that they told other kids on the bus that there was some lady in the car behind them that would wave if you looked at her. So other kids popped up in the back window and waved. How cute, right?

We turned out of the neighborhood and onto a busy street. I was about to zip around the bus when it suddenly stopped in front of an apartment complex. So I stopped too. Only now, I have six or seven little kids who are staring at me and waving. And it seems that – literally – the entire bus load of kids is getting off at this stop. Every last one. So we sat there for at least three or four minutes though it felt like 15 or 20. Even the kids seemed to sense the awkwardness because they stopped waving. But they didn’t stop staring. We just looked at each other in our awkwardness, no one willing to look away. That is, until it was time for them to exit the bus. They popped up without another thought my direction and got off the bus. Then the bus lurched forward, and I headed home.

One of the nice things about being a woman isn’t I didn’t have to worry about the po-lice being called…

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