Go Ahead, Jon Gosselin, Make My Day

Every morning I go to the same gas station on my way to work.

A few posts back, I found a dog there.

Today, I found a man there.

Well, okay, so I didn't really "find a man" there per se. In fact, we didn't even speak.

I pulled up and got out of my car to purchase my overpriced energy drink of the day. I turned my french rap down so that no one would notice how much of gangster I am. Walking up to the entrance, I tried clicking the door-lock button on my remote to no avail. Something about this particular gas station blocks the signal. Every single day I try to make the doors lock using my clicker and every single day they don't lock. Luckily, I never buy more than a single energy drink and I bring in my wallet, phone and keys, but it makes me uneasy to open the door to the Mapco and never hear the satisfying click of my car doors locking behind me.

On this particular day I was feeling pretty svelte and awesome looking. I was wearing a new blue and white ruffly shirt underneath my black suit jacket tucked into my black criss cross BCBG skirt. Which, by the way, is the only thing I own that could in any way be called designer. I bought it at TJ Maxx for 10 dollars on clearance. In any case, I was wearing an outfit that, in my opinion that morning, made me look both sexy and expensive. So when I opened the door to the Mapco, I noticed a few heads turn.

The usual couple of landscaping Latinos were getting coffee and conchas, those little shell shaped glazed donuts. I had been on a diet for almost three months, and had lost nearly 25 lbs. I reached for the sugar free red bull. Once stepping into line, I was distracted by a older gentleman, maybe in his late sixties, in front of me who seemed very chatty.

"Look at you all dressed up!" He stopped talking to the older lady in front of him and actually tipped his hat to me. "You look so sharp, I gotta let you go in front of me." And he stepped to the side.
"Aw, thanks." I smiled. I did only have that one drink. It wouldn't take but a second for me to pay.
"You must work in an office building. People who work in office buildings don't smile enough. You have a pretty smile."
"Thank you!" I said, and turned just in time to see the guy at the front of the line turn to leave.

I swear he looked just like a skinny, more attractive version of Jon Gosselin. Dark hair with a dark complexion, and deep set eyes. I noticed the eyes first because they slid sideways at me as he pushed open the door. He was dressed nicely enough. A button down shirt and some black pants. I didn't get a good read on the shoes, which always seem to be the most telling article that men wear, but that was all because he kept looking at me, burning a hole through the side of my face as I turned back to the older gentleman.

"Do you smile much at work? I bet you don't. I bet you only smile when the boss is smiling."
I put my drink up on the counter.
"I smile! My boss smiles a lot. Maybe that's why I smile so much."
He was pumping gas outside, I noted, looking through the window.
"People don't smile unless the boss is smiling. Why is that? I want all my employees to smile. All the time. Office people are never happy, are they."
I swiped my card. "Well, they treat me pretty well at my job. So maybe that's why everybody smiles." And the clerk handed me my receipt.
"Well then you've got a good job! Stick with it! But I don't have to tell you that, they'd keep you around just for decoration," the old man said. And he laughed a little too loudly.
"You have a nice day, sir!" I smiled back at him and pushed open the door, myself. I was thinking about what the old man said for a second about how office people never smile. I decided that he was probably a manager at some shop or store, and he was probably a darn good manager, too. I bet he wasn't rich, but he was good people. Like Flannery O'Conner thought was impossible.

The Jon Gosselin lookalike broke my concentration. He was still looking at me from the gas pump. Back and forth, here and there. It wasn't a creepy steady gaze or anything. Just an I'm-letting-you-know-I'm-looking kind of thing. He looked professional. He looked nice. And established. He looked down to shut his gas cap, and I smiled to myself, hopping into my unlocked car. I left the door open for a few seconds and made room in my cup holder for the very unhealthy Red Bull I was about to drink.
Glancing up at my rear view mirror, I saw the back end of his black Honda drive off.

Even though we never spoke, he had already made my day.

It was almost overkill when I passed his car heading toward the turn lane and caught him looking for me again. And the last time I saw him, he passed my car on his way around a corner. In my peripheral vision, he was STILL eyeing me.

Okay, so you might find that a bit creepy. But it made my day. Compliments and open gawkers? Bring it on. At this low weight, which I haven't been since a bit after college, I expect these things. And I revel in them.

Frankly, though, if Jon Gosselin had spoken to me, I would have spoken back. Still, if I'd found that it actually WAS the REAL Jon Gosselin, I might have run screaming in the other direction.

Carlos Baute is a Poetic Liar

Early last year I watched a lot of Spanish tv. Over a period of about two weeks I saw the same blond Venezuelan actor/musician on a total of 3 television shows. I saw him on a morning show being interviewed. I saw him on Sabado Gigante. I saw him on Belleza Latina. And by the second time I saw him, I was in love. He was so cute and skinny and bright and knowing-looking. He kinda looked like a sunshiney bad boy. He had this toothy grin that blinged with white sparkle and he was always laughing.
So after enjoying the song he played on each show, I downloaded his whole cd. It became a fixture in my car's 6 cd changer. He sits in position number four, and has for an entire year. Right behind my three french rap cds, and before my Aventura cd.

All of his songs are love songs. Melodic and acoustic splashed 90's pop rhythm, the hooks on the songs have an amazing build and are a perfect compliment to a sunny day with your windows rolled down. Unlike American love songs, though, they're not about dirty sexy love. They're incredibly romantic. They talk about marriage and kids and the kinds of things every girl secretly wants to hear. I could have eaten Carlos Baute with a spoon! The whole idea that a guy was out there thinking those things made me giddy. Especially if the guy thinking them was as attractive as Carlos Baute.

One day, though, Daniel Castillo rained on my parade.

I was driving him to a soccer game and singing along to a song that sounded like this:

"Me quiero casar contigo.
Quiero dormir contigo.
Quiero que lleves mi apellido
Nuestros hijos, tu sonrisa.
Te quieres casar conmigo.
Quieres vivir conmigo.
Quiero pasar el resto de
mis dias con tu compania."
Which, of course, means:

I want to marry you.
I want to sleep with you.
I want to give you my last name
and give our children your smile.
Do you want to marry me?
Do you want to live with me?
I want to spend the rest
of my days with you.

"You like that song?" Daniel asked.
"YES!"
He paused for a second, pulling up his knee socks before saying, "I think maybe Carlos Baute is a liar with poetry."
I laughed. "A liar with poetry? Why! The whole cd follows a pattern, Daniel. Early tracks are about him falling in love with someone who is is best friend, and then they have an anniversary song, and he wants to marry her, and the last song is about always remembering those early good times together!"

Daniel's eyes grew wide, and I knew he was about to give me some major scoop. He had looked the same way when he was telling me about how Cristiano Ronaldo and Paris Hilton had sex in the back of a limousine. And how the pop artist Belinda (see pic below) had taken a fancy sports car in exchange for her virginity. Because, clearly, Daniel had been there. I rolled my eyes and braced for it.
"No no no... Carlos Baute, I see him interviewed on Don Francisco Presenta. And you know what he say?"
"What did he say?" I was already slumping. "I know he's not married. So whoever he's talking about, they didn't actually get married, but I thought..."
"Don Francisco ask him a question, like he ask everybody this same question. He say what is your favorite thing to do? What is your favorite time? And you know what Carlos Baute say???"
"What did he say..." Darn it, Daniel, I thought, you're gonna ruin it for me."
He say he like to take some girl and go some place, like tropical paradise place, and make a big vacation."
"Well... that's not so bad."
"Yes! Yes it is bad!" Daniel was not smiling at me. "You know why? It's because Carlos Baute say his favorite thing to do is make a big vacation and all he wanna do the whole time is mucho sexo and mucho comer. All he wants to do is have lots of sex and eat lots of food."
I laughed a little bit. "Really?"
"Yes. I saw him say this."
"Well, what about getting married and giving the girl his name and all that?"
"Nada. He wants sex and food."
"Ugh! ...he probably didn't mean it that way. He probably only does that with one woman. Not some woman."
"No, he says different women. All this things in his songs are big, big lies with poetry. He says anything for the girl to give him sex." I turned into the YMCA parking lot. "I'm sorry, Barbie."

So, Daniel was convinced Carlos Baute was a man-slut. And I was convinced he was beautiful. It is true that I often give people more credit than they are due. When I thought about it, though, Carlos Baute was really just the cover of a romance novel in my head. The stories he told in his songs were sweet and made me happy, and as I parked my car near the soccer field filled with Guatemalans and rich white people about to get their butts kicked, I decided I didn't care who Carlos Baute was in real life. As far as I was concerned, all his songs were about me.

To this day, I will listen to him with my windows rolled down, and my sun roof cracked open so the air blows through. I sip artificially sweetened coffee on ice, and sing along even when the people next to me at the red light stare. Daniel Castillo has come and gone, and left his dents, but Carlos Baute still loves me.

So I don't care if he's a poetic liar. Or if he beds a thousand Belinda's every night. When I play the cd, he loves me. He is what I want him to be. And that's all that really matters.

En Cambio

Sadly, despite my system flush, and attempt to rid myself of unnecessary stressers, I have added stressers that have little to do with my social life.

A week and a half ago I decided to plan a trip to Aalborg, Denmark, through Germany, and finally to Paris, France where I would attend a french rap concert featuring La Fouine. La Fouine, as you may know, is my ABSOLUTE FAVORITE french rap artist in the world.

And I do love french rap, probably too much. I love it even when its inappropriate, because I wouldn't know. I love the way it sounds, all tough and delicate at the same time. I love that it's cheesy and fun. Its sense of humor is always a bright spot to my day.

I had been enjoying my time back at the only Temp job for the company I love and would die to work for.
I had been enjoying English Outreach classes on Sundays, classes I volunteered to teach, but hadn't yet.
I was looking forward to my presentation at work.

Then things got hairy.
My friend in Aalborg informed me that he cannot travel outside of the Sweeden-Norway-Denmark region because he is living in Denmark on asylum and recieves assistance from the government. Upon hearing this news, I angrily calculated that I had already spent around 400 dollars in preparation for the trip and the concert.
"You can still come to Aalborg!" he said. "We'll do some fun stuff here in Denmark! It is beautiful. You're gonna love it!"
But I was mad. I was really, really mad. To be honest, here he was thinking the trip was about spending time with him, when it was really about spending time with EUROPE. I wanted the trip for ME, not for him. I wanted to be romanced by the location, not the person I was visiting. I never officially cried, but when I got into my car after reading his email, and La Fouine came on my cd player, I might have shed a single tear.

My trip to Europe was put on hold indefinitely. I was extremely disappoined in myself, in my Danish friend, and in my helplessness to travel alone. I just didn't think I could do it. It had crossed my mind to attend the concert alone, but I was terrified of being stoned by angry Frenchmen.

Two nervewracking events soon occurred in quick succession.
I taught the Advanced class at English Outreach.
I gave my presentation at work and shocked everybody with my old Forensic skills.

A couple days later I was approached about a position that might be opening up at a high end bank. I jumped on it, scored the interview, and three days later, during the interview, was offered a job. The thing is, I don't really want to leave my current position at all. But I need a career, not just a place holder, and I need medical insurance.

Sigh...
I haven't had a good nights sleep in almost a week. I continually grind my teeth and dream about strange things like driving in the dark without any headlights, which seems oddly symbolic.

Slowly, and with much chagrin, I spitefully told the Danish dumbo that I would NOT be coming to Aalborg to stay with someone who hadn't even figured out his own legal status. I called France Billet in Paris using the $6 credit on my prepaid phone account to stay on hold for over two minutes and beg the CSR to help me in English sil vout plait! Canceling the tickets and retreiving my 110 dollars was a weight off my shoulders.

Still crushing me, however, was the job decision.

As of about one hour ago, I have officially chosen the bank.

Still. I am sad. The whole situation is a catch 22 of sadness. Sad if you don't go, sad if you do.

CHANGE, my friends, is the word of the day.

I can still remember my first few days of fourth grade. I hated it. I had no friends. I cried upon asking someone where my classroom was. I had to ride the bus for the first time. It was awful.

I can remember waking up and putting on the kitty cat sweater with little red button eyes, and sitting down with a bowl of Captain Crunch in front of the living room tv. I dreaded the bus like nobody's business. I HATED it. But Sesame Street was on. I remembered Sesame Street from when I was in Kindergarten and first grade. In fourth grade, everything was harder.
A song came on the episode of Sesame Street, and I have never forgotten it.

"Things are always changing. So don't be sad and blue. Change can make you happy; it can bring you something new."

I never forgot that song, and I sang it as a mantra, along with a couple poems I had memorized, just to calm myself down sometimes on the bus.

Things ARE always changing. How right you are, Sesame Street. How right you are...