Fat Camp & Johnny Depp Miscellany

This day has been a medley of emotions running the gamut from delight to heartbreak.

The delight began as soon as my mp3 player's lone AAA battery died this morning and I was forced to listen to the conversation around me. From what I was able to piece together, Gap Lady was singing the praises of a local fat camp, or as it's euphemistically named, "Healthy Weigh of Life," to one of the Wizened Crones. It seems the crone was either looking for a job for her daughter during the summer as a fat camp counselor, or she actually wanted to send her daughter to fat camp. It was unclear.

The delight swelled when, at my first meeting of the day, the group was treated to a puppet show about the dangers of cigarette smoking. There really is nothing sweeter on this earth than the palpable awkwardness of a room full of professionals watching a puppet show while swilling their morning coffee and masticating on cream cheese-smeared bagels.

My delight overcame me when the two college-aged puppeteers began their show. The male half of the duo was about 5' tall and 250 pounds with olive skin and a greasy ponytail wearing thick yellow-framed glasses that screamed, "I am an ar-teeste!" and a voice that was a spot-on ringer for Johnny Depp. I was enraptured listening to the dangers of tobacco addiction and lung cancer from Willy Wonka/Edward Scissorhands/Raoul Duke himself.

After my brush with the Johnny Deppesque puppeteer, my day came crashing down. The second meeting of the day handed me the news that one of my favorite colleagues is retiring. I'm going to miss her terribly. Mighty Zen N, you're a woman for the ages.

All was not lost, my day was buoyed when I passed a hallway and saw that the maintenance staff had left their many cleaning carts and trashcans parked outside the break room. This made me smile as I thought of roughnecks lining their Hogs up outside a biker bar. I would no sooner mess with a grizzled biker than I would any member of janitorial services. Because either way, you're going home with some broken bones.

Say What?

Monday mornings are usually on the quiet side. But not today.

I found myself uncharacteristically disinterested in both my book and music this morning so I tuned out and stared out the window. That is until the Gap Lady and one of the Wizened Crones snapped me back into cognizance with their chatting about car washing and tractor repair. Seriously: tractor repair.

The two of them chatted for a while and I got the impression that Gap Lady really wanted to talk. After a few minutes of silence she says:

I just don't know what to make of all this political stuff.

My eyes widened, my jaw clenched, I leaned forward slightly, and I held my breath. I was beside myself with anticipation.

The response was a total let down. The wizened crone said matter-of-factly that she'd been hearing alot of ads for Obama, but very few from Clinton.

Then she said she heard that it was supposed to rain later.

And then there was silence.

It was, gentle reader, a deliciously awkward moment.

A Special Place in Hell

When It settled on to the van yesterday, someone commented that her arm cast from a recent surgery had been removed. Can't say I noticed the cast, or overheard about the surgery, or even noticed her absence for that matter.

What I can say is that it's true I never really cared for It (I think the name really says it all). We've had our differences, she's into dog breeding and perms and I can't really relate.

Athough, never underestimate the unifying power of hate.

As It told us yesterday, her 70-odd year old mother, who was at a local hospital receiving chemotherapy, was robbed in an elevator.

One of the Wizened Crones breathed, "That's shitty."

Apparently there were two scumbags running this scheme wherein one scumbag pretends to fall and while the victim attempts to render aid, scumbag #2 steals their wallet. Nice, huh?

The duo then proceeded to rack up more than $6,000 in charges on this woman's credit cards in less than 2 hours.

To the two worthless motherfuckers preying on an elderly infirmed woman: Fuck. You. I can't imagine anything worse that having to look at your own face in the mirror and see yourself for the vile shitstain that you are.

Freedom Fries

Traffic jangled even my steadfast nerves when this morning's drive, which usually takes about 30 minutes, clocked in at 1 hour and 27 minutes.

It was slow going, but going nonetheless. The following conversation began as follow up to one of the wizened crones talking about getting permits for her show cow (I don't know either, just stay with me).

Driver: So, Wizened Crone, have you gotten the permits yet to have your show cows on your property?

Wizened Crone: No, not yet.

Dora the Explorer: Why do you need permits for your cows anyway?

WC: When we first bought the property, there were no restrictions for farm animals. Now the neighbors are complaining about our cows, so we have to get the right permits to keep them.

D: Ugh. We have a neighbor like that, he's a pain in the neck. His cows are always getting out and a few weeks ago, my daughter's boyfriend was coming home and he hit one.

[Editorial aside: I assure you this conversation actually happened and that, no not everyone who lives in Texas owns livestock.]

D: This neighbor is really crazy. I think he must have gotten a deal on potatoes one time because once I saw the bed of his Escalade filled up with potatoes and there were potatoes rolling all over the street in our neighborhood...

The cabin fills with hysterical laughter due, in part, to tales of the rural Escalade-drivin' potato bandit and a heady brew of exhaust fumes from the hour in bumper-to-bumper traffic.

D: ...I wonder what he was doing with all those potatoes.

Don't we all.

Vangnettes

Nothing too significant has happened on the van lately. This is due, in part, to the small ridership of late. It seems as though many of my fellow passengers have started their holidays early. Traffic has been lighter than usual and with all the vacant seats, there's a little more room to stretch out.

So, I have a few stray bits of story to tide us all over until either the van gets in an accident (which shouldn't be too hard as our Monday driver is a late braker) or the rest of the vannies return after the new year.

Who is Britney, anyway?

One of the wizened crones has been going on and on and on about an unidentified person named Britney. As in: "Britney's going to miss the snow when she gets here. Britney is supposed to be here next week. Britney would love that for Christmas. I was thinking about bringing Britney to work with me while she's here." Who the hell is Britney? And why do I have to overhear so much about her without knowing the back story? I theorize that Brit is either a daughter off at college or a child of divorce being shuttled to and fro during the holidays. Or a dog.

She speaks!

Venti actually spoke to me. This momentous event happened about a week ago and I am just beginning to recover from the shock. The discussion in the van was on the subject of gifts with purchase. I said that my recent acquisition of the latest Harry Potter movie came with a calendar. Which, of course, I have no use for but couldn't resist because of its regifting potential. Venti apparently overheard this (revealing two things: 1. She can hear and 2. She speaks English) and tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Did you have to buy the Harry Potter DVD to get the calendar or were they giving it away?" I think I was too stupefied to immediately respond and wound up muttering with a dry mouth something about Circuit City.

El Mundo Pequeño

On a recent trip to the local pet store for holiday provisions, I ran into Gap Lady. For a moment, my down-home Southern-fried hospitality seized upon me and I said, "Why hello, stranger." Who talks like this? She greeted me with her aw-shucks charm and told me not to forget the dog biscuits. Seriously, this woman is beyond adorable. Even if she did try to kill me once. It was a little strange bumping into a fellow rider away from the van, sort of like God is running out of extras in the movie of my life.

Vansacked

Here's a Friday treat for your Vanpool Chronicle delight.

With end-of-the-week spring in my step, I arrived at the van a few minutes early. I settled in and cracked my book as we began our drive toward the city. Which is when the rider seated behind me erupted, "That's him! The guy I was talking about!" We all turned our heads to view a scruffy fellow standing on the corner.

Evidently, while waiting for the driver to show up this morning one of the wizened crones saw this man drop trou in the parking lot and relieve himself. It is unclear whether or not the man noticed she was there (I choose to believe he did).

So I had to give voice to the question everyone was thinking but had not yet asked: "Was he facing toward you or away from you?"

He was, gentle reader, facing toward her.

This story delights me on multiple levels. First, public urination is funny. Second, the suburbs are ludicrously lily-white and sedate. I'm in favor of anything that gets blood pumping with these people that's not a sale on mayonnaise or ammo at Wal-Mart. Third, since moving out of city, urban sights like homeless people and potholes have become pretty rare. Seeing that man made me a little nostalgic for life in the city, but it seems that on this morning, the city has come to me. And peed on my vanpool.