Target code red

In front of me in a line twenty-seven people long: One trashy couple, early twenties. Girl wearing black jeans and scrunchie; guy with buzz cut and sleeveless t-shirt.

Their purchases: 1 pair mesh see-through panties; one tube KY personal lubricant; 1 copy of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Volume 5.

I don’t even want to know what these people get up to in the evenings.

August 29, 2006 | Filed Under PoBCo, minutiae | 14 Comments

Portraits of Baltimore County: The Wrath of the Receptionist

She’ll forward all your calls AND spit in your coffee. Do not fuck with her, man.

I saw her in person. It was during a smoke break at work, out by the dumpster. She spewed forth such shaking, vitriolic ire that spit flew in many directions and her voice reached an octave only select breeds of dogs can hear.

She was a certain kind of Baltimore girl, a downeast On The Bay take-no-shit Baltimore girl, the kind of girl that will stop in her tracks, roll up her sleeves, and beat you until you cry. The kind of girl who’s always itching for a fight, always dialed to 11, always done taking shit from you. “I’m done taking shit from you,” she’ll say.

I had an encounter with this certain kind of Baltimore girl a couple of months ago, driving to Emily Flake’s booksigning at Atomic Books, in Hampden. My last-minute decision to make a right hand turn pinged the Pissiness Meter buried in her subconscious, and off she went, that’s all she wrote, please send flowers. Epithets, curse words, fist-shaking. Steam rolled from her ears. Flames blazed from her nostrils. Her golden chains and many-hooped ears began to glow. The opening of the car door combined with the blank, dead heat in her eyes convinced me that no red light in the history of traffic semaphores had power enough to keep me within striking distance.

This girl, this certain kind of Baltimore girl, is so tough that to look at her will make you cower. You fear for your as-yet-intact face, your hair which is currently still attached to your head. Words which only Satan himself dare speak froth forward from her lips.

No, you do not want to anger this certain kind of Baltimore girl. And if this certain kind of Baltimore girl is your receptionist, I suggest you bring your own coffee and field your own telephone calls.

October 15, 2005 | Filed Under PoBCo | 5 Comments

Missed Connections

You: Extremely tall, cute accent, brown hair, 5-month-old son, in line at Target. Me: Extremely short, no accent, brown hair, 8-month-old son, blowing much bucks in the next line. We made our offspring wave to each other. I felt that Mommy spark — did you? PLEASE CALL.

No, seriously.

August 31, 2005 | Filed Under PoBCo | 2 Comments

Struggling suburbs

The Sun has an interesting series going on about housing prices in the region. We just bought our wee Cape Cod in July, so real estate stories always catch my eye.

Today’s article was about Baltimore’s less-fancy suburbs, like Dundalk and Parkville, and how they’re the last bastion of affordable housing, which is kind of important if you’re, say, a teacher or a part-time newspaper-putter-together-er.

Where I’m from, in Northwest Ohio, a $300,000 house had four garages, six bedrooms and a racquetball court. Here, that’ll buy you a “normal” three-bedroom SFH in a nice neighborhood, or a townhouse and some nice furniture. The house we’re living in would probably go for $60,000-$80,000 back home — at least half of what we had to pay here. I think it’s just nutty.

In fact, that’s why Owen is in daycare this afternoon. An important goal for our son is to give him a single-family house with a yard, the way we grew up. To do that around here, we both have to work. It sucks that families can’t get by on one income like in the olden days.

March 21, 2005 | Filed Under PoBCo | 6 Comments

Portraits of Baltimore County

“Let me show you sometink ah-MAY-zink!” you purr, pouncing at us from your kiosk on the lower level of White Marsh Mall. You are wielding a back massager, hand lotion, tension-reducing vibrators, soothing facial cleansers made from the milk of some long-forgotten Yugoslavian yak.

Ah, you vixen, with your Eastern European accent, your Russian fingers snaking out to feel up my husband under the guise of “something amazing.” Your Estonian good looks. That Romanian physique. Your glossy Czech Republic tresses. And who could ignore those pouty Slovakian lips?

You and your Ukrainian sisters, lined up and ready for action, a new member of your troupe every time we visit. Where do you come from? Who is bringing you here? And dear God, why White Marsh Mall?

But more importantly, what is my husband going to do with 350 back massagers and five liters of yak lotion?

September 8, 2004 | Filed Under PoBCo | 3 Comments

Portraits of Baltimore County

To the guy in the black Pontiac stopped on Walther Boulevard: It is really, really declassé to open your car door and do the technicolor yawn about six inches from my car. Not to mention nasty.

To the teller at the Towson Bank of America: Your loquaciousness and joie de vivre really brightened my day. I enjoyed hearing about all eight generations you have so far researched and wish you the best of luck in your future genealogical endeavors.

To the security guard at the Mini-Library: Keep on rockin’ out, chica.

And now, to the deaf, dumb and blind salesclerk at Crate and Barrel: Your absolute fucknuggetry so completely soured my outlook toward my fellow man that I considered jumping off the top of the M&T Bank Building to my miserable, ineffectual death. Then I remembered that you were the miserable, ineffectual one and I thereby resolved to a.) never in my life shop at Crate and Barrel again, even if Iain’s best friend were registered there and b.) find some way to make you pay for the hour and a half I spent wandering painfully among useless, overpriced kitchen accessories. May this garlic press find its way to your groin area and never let go.

July 30, 2004 | Filed Under PoBCo | Leave a Comment

Busy bee

A’ight. I’m up too late as it is, but feel the need for speed. Or posting. Whatever.

So my brother was just here with his lady friend Ashley, visiting on their way to a crew regatta in Philly, which I hope they win. They just kicked the collective ass of Florida, so I have high hopes.

For the record, brotherman was the first of either of our families to come visit, so he scores extra Christmas presents this year.
Did I really just use an emoticon right there? Where, oh where have my standards gone?

Anyway. Up early tomorrow to leave for Ohio for the bachelorette party, the wedding, Mother’s Day and my sister’s 16th birthday, all happening in a convenient two-day span. Leastwise, it better be early, because our water is being turned off “sometime” between 9 a.m. tomorrow and 4 p.m. Thursday. Thanks for the notice, buddy.

Supremely looking forward to the wedding of my best friend and college roomie Ska to her beau; I just hope I don’t cry too much. Perhaps the Kleenex I’ll be stuffing in my bra will do double duty. Matron of Honor duty will certainly keep me on my toes until then!

A Portraits of Baltimore County non-shoutout to “Todd,” he of the pierced lip and white Pontiac, who had the unspeakable gall to offer his services as a tattoo artist from the backseat of the car stopped next to me at the light near the Bel-Loc Diner.

Dude, I appreciate your word-of-mouth advertising, but no way in hell am I getting a tattoo from you. No offense. And while I’m at it, it’s not good manners to bother a tired newspaper designer when she’s headed home from second shift and must turn around and pull first-shift duty in seven hours. I’m just saying.

Anyway. Here’s to good weather and fine driving … You may not hear from me for a while.

This post brought to you by: I Better Be Quiet Now from the album “Figure Eight” by Elliott Smith.

May 4, 2004 | Filed Under PoBCo, daily grind | Leave a Comment

Cars are dumb, and I am too.

So I got the car-recall thing taken care of this morning, at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m.

I went to the Chevy dealer down the street, which was weird, because I always go to a fast-lube kinda joint for my oil changes et cetera, and I haven’t been to a dealer since I bought the damn thing, so I didn’t really know the protocol.

Anyhow, dropped it off, and brought my big fat book with me into the waiting area, expecting to sit tight for the hour and a half it was expected to take to get fixed. But this woman came in and sat next to me, and for Christ’s sake was she a mouth breather. It was like she was snoring, all phlegmy and audible, louder even than the Early Show blaring from the TV. Set my teeth on edge.

So after 20 minutes of tapping my foot and surreptitiously putting my finger in my ear to block the rippling wheezing sound coming from my left, I had to get out. I walked to the Safeway, where I purchased my first-ever [that’s right, FIRST EVER] cup of Starbucks brand coffee. It was OK. Pretentious little cup of joe, nothing special in my opinion.

Anyhow, walked back, car is sitting out front. I light a cigarette and drink my coffee, again having no idea where the service guys were or if my car was already done or not even started, but noting with huge relief that SnoreLady was gone. I must have hung around that waiting room for 20 minutes like a big fat ignorant chump. Finally, the lead tech guy comes over and goes, “Uh, Mrs. E, your car’s done, has been for a while … you can leave now.” Ach. Such an idiot I am.

Anyway. Had this thought the other night: I want to start a regular feature on Supafine. I was gonna call it Portraits of Baltimore — POB — but figured Portraits of Baltimore County was a wee bit more accurate. The plan is to document the interesting strangers I meet in normal daily encounters, such as grocery shopping or making a fool out of myself at the auto shop, and profiling them in PoBCo. Of course, I’ll be careful not to provide too many identifying details for fear of libel and defamation charges, but that’s OK.

Anyway, SnoreLady was going to be the first, but I coopted her to do the tale above, so we’ll have to wait for next time.

Until that next time comes, I gotta get my ass to work [in my new-and-improved car, which I no longer fear exploding].

April 30, 2004 | Filed Under PoBCo | Leave a Comment