The Comeback Kid

The Comeback Kid

I am the queen of delayed comebacks. I typically let people release their anger by verbally beating me and I just take it. It’s not because I am a wimp, I mean, on the rare occasion when I can think of something to say, I say it, but mostly I just sit there, mouth open and stare. I believe this is why I make a good administrator in high stress corporations. When I am asked at interviews “How do you handle people when they are highly stressed and volatile” my response always includes such adjectives as “laid back” and “very patient", however, if I were being one hundred percent truthful, those two adjectives would be replaced by “slow” and “thick witted”. Don’t get me wrong, when I am amongst friends and people I am comfortable with I often enjoy witty banter but in situations where I am truly upset, I just sit there and drool on myself. This is something which has plagued me ever since I was young.

The earliest memory I have on my path to becoming the “No Comeback Kid” was in the third grade at soccer practice. Our soccer team was in a line doing a shooting drill. I loved shooting drills because for such a short person I had quite the foot. I was four people away from taking my turn when Jack Cranston took a shot ran in a circle and then cut in front of me. I had decided during the prior school year that Jack Cranston was somewhat of my nemesis. The reason being, he looked like me. He and I had the exact same bowl cut (thanks mom), we were the same height, we dressed the same and we had almost the same Huffy dirt bike. However, let the record show that my dirt bike had pegs and his didn’t. That’s right Jack, STICKEN IT! Of course I wanted to be a boy so looking like Jack was mostly my fault, but still my third grade mind had decided that he needed to die. So when he cut in front of me, I was enraged. I grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him around. “Who said you could cut?” I asked crossing my arms and widening my stance. You know, just in case he wanted to fight. Seriously, this is how my young brain worked. “I did” he replied. Maybe he didn’t notice my fighting stance, because if he had, I am sure he would have been afraid. I sat there in silence squinted my eyes and turned red. I had no comeback. ‘I did’? “I did’? Genius. That may have been the best comeback I had ever heard. I was completely befuddled. I brewed about it for the next half hour. Jack’s “I did” ran through my head during the rest of the shooting drills, the corner kick drills and it wasn’t until we started moving to the end of the field to do sprints that it came to me…that’s right… a mere 30 minutes later.

I tenaciously walked towards Jack, going over the glory that was about to befall me when everyone heard my masterminded comeback. This moment was going to be that epic moment that the third grade talked about for years, maybe even until we graduated to middle school. I walked up to Jack and his friends, stood directly in front of him raising my voice just a little so his friends could hear and stated “Of course you did because who else would?” Jack looked at me dumbfounded. That’s right Mr. Cranston, take that. I saw a fellow team mate, Tom Jordan, shift from one foot to the other and thought he was going to shake my hand. I started to bring my hand towards him when I realized that he was just shifting his feet so I diverted my hand to my hair and tucked one side of my bowl cut behind my ear. Oh that was close. I wasn’t going to ruin a heroic comeback with a mistaken handshake. I was smarter than that. After a couple of seconds Jack looked me dead in the eyes and said “Huh? What are you talking about?” All of Jack’s friends started laughing. At this point most people, even third graders, would know enough to let it go, drop it, move on to the sprints and save whatever pride they could. But I wasn’t most people; I was Deidre Daly with a bowl cut, boys clothes and a dirt bike with pegs who had the comeback of the year. I decided to just repeat it louder, “OF COURSE YOU DID BECAUSE WHO ELSE WOULD?” Everyone turned towards me. I shook my head and smiled. Nobody knew what in the name of all that was holy I was talking about. The silence that followed could ruin a person and was broken by a random voice, “Gaylord.” What's worse is I would have repeated my statement a third time and possibly added an explanation had my coach not saved me. He walked over turned me around to face the field and blew his whistle. We all started sprinting.

Of course throughout the rest of the year I retold the story and added the necessary changes. These changes involved a quick retort which flew out of my mouth not seconds after Jack cut me, with teammates picking me up onto their shoulders and cheering and a hand shake from Tom Jordan. I would have added to my tale a trophy for “Best on the Field Comeback” at the town soccer awards ceremony had I been able to get my hand on one. But the reality, as I said before, comes down to two adjectives: "Slow" and "Thick Witted"

"Taxi!"

It was a Thursday during the spring and I had been living in San Francisco for well over a year. My friends Tim and Alex had asked me to join them at a bar in the Upper Height to meet Alex's girlfriend, Ann, whom had just moved to San Francisco from Boston. I gladly obliged. I had heard a lot about Ann and was excited to meet her. Tim asked me to stop by his place after work first because he lived a couple of blocks from the bar. I went over and he made us some drinks and then we headed out to the bar.

We were at the bar for approximately one hour, or three drinks, when Alex and Ann showed up. We went through the typical introductions and I asked if they'd excuse me while I went outside to the back patio to smoke a cigarette. When I went outside there was a large group of approximately 10 or 15 people. I stood on the out skirts and lit up my cigarette. After some time I realized they were passing a joint around and when it came to the person closest to me she turned around and asked me if I wanted some. In my head: "No I really shouldn't, but thank you." Out my mouth: "Sure, thank you!". If you have read my 'Wine, Weed and Rebecca' post you know this is a bad idea. If you haven't read my "Wine, Weed and Rebecca' post well then I'm going to let you in on a bit of a secret: This is a bad idea. I smoked a couple of hits off the joint and proceded to do what I always feel it necessary to do when in such a situation which is to power smoke 5 to 20 cigarettes.

I smoke a lot of cigarettes when feeling messed up for several reasons.
A) I like to buy as much time as possible in hopes that in just a few short minutes I'll feel less…well, just less, period. This has never worked yet I tell myself it does.
B) I like to be fucked up amongst strangers because I don't worry about acting weird. Strangers have no frame of reference.
C) I like cigarettes. A lot. It's rare now a days that I smoke them (not as rare as I tell people...MITCH, but still rare) but that doesn't make me any less fond of them.

So I'm boiled as an owl as the kids say these days…and chain smoking like Courtney Love in the 80's…and 90's…and now? and one of the group members who had left the patio comes back with a Bacardi Limon visor. Two things which should have been obvious to me but weren't at this moment:

1. The visor is obviously a free promotional gift being given out at the bar with little mini shots. You know, the free shots that are called 'lemon twists' or 'lemons drops' but are really just vodka in a plastic mini cup served by not so mini boobs?
2. Free promotional visor = terrible.

"OH MY GOD, I LOVE THAT VISOR!" What? What kind of a foolhardy person loves that visor? Well apparently when I am drunk and stoned and chain smoking on a patio in the Upper Height, I do. The guy wearing the visor looked at me with great pride as if finally someone else understood just how special his new head wear was.

"Really? They are giving them out free inside,I'll go get you one!" he turned to run inside with my voice trailing after him, "Oh. My. God!!! That is so awe-some!" Was it Deidre? Was it really awesome? The boy returned with the visor, which I placed directly on my head. Sideways. And upside down. This said something...and what it said was:"Deidre Daly, you are distressing".

I decided I had had enough 'outside time' and was fine to go back in… with my new hat. It was safe to say that I left my friends as Deidre and came back as…well, a crazy lady.

"Um, what happened to you?" Tim asked, as he pushed a new drink in my direction.
"I was just smoking outside". I replied not knowing if he was asking why I took so long or if he was commenting on my general appearance.
"Weed?" Anne asked.
"Yeeees…weeeeed." I answered. How did she know?
"Oh man, I would love to smoke."

I grabbed her hand and headed straight out back telling her my tales of the visor and my 'new friends' outside and how they were 'a great group of people' and how 'they'd LOOOVE to share their weed with her'. I opened the door and everyone turned around. It was dark out there and the only light was pouring out from behind me. They saw me as a shadow. My silhouetted visor which was sideways..and upside down. Have I mentioned that? My frantic ponytails were flying out the top. Standing next to me the unknown figure of Ann. There was silence.

"Hey Everyone! It's me! Deidre Daly!" Yes I said my full name, even though I hadn't even told them my first name.
"HEY!" They all yelled back. I was with my people once again. I introduced Anne to everyone. She shared a smoke and a laugh and we returned back together. We had one more drink and Tim suggested we four go back to his place. I thought that was a splendid idea. I Took one step outside and realized I was in a bit more of a state then I had thought I was in. I let them get a couple of steps ahead of me, stuck out my hand and yelled "TAXI!". I got in and when they looked back, I was gone.

"Hello Miss, where to?" Asked the cab driver.
"The mission please, I live off of 16th". I responded while pushing into the middle seat and leaning forward to talk to the cabbie. I do this, ask Sue. The cab driver's name was Abdul, he was middle aged, overweight and middle eastern. Maybe Pakistani?
"How has your night been? Busy?" I asked.
"I just started my shift an hour ago" He replied while looking at me through his rear view mirror. "You are very beautiful" he added.
"Oh stop". But really, I WAS wearing my new head piece. The cabbie knew hot when he saw it.
"No really. You are beautiful and have a beautiful smile. What is your name?"
"Deidre Daly." Again, with the full name. "Turn Left please" I said while smiling largely and tilting my head to the side. The Pakistani cab driver made me feel like a woman. After two more directional instructions and raised eyebrows through the rearview mirror, we pulled onto my street.
"Here we are." I said as I dug into my bag for my money. I went to hand him the fare and tip. He reached back, there was no glass/plastic divider in this car, took the money...and my hand. He pulled me towards him slowly and started leaning in. Is he going to fix my visor? No. He wasn't. He was getting closer to my face and past the bubble of strangers, then past the personal bubble of a coworker, then past the bubble of a good friend, parent, boyfriend and gynocoligist. There was no denying it, he was going in for the kiss. And that was when I, Deidre Daly, paid my middle aged, overweight, middle eastern cab driver named Abdul, tipped him AND then proceeded to make out with him. He didn't even give me my money back.

Cargo Boats:

Assorted Observations regarding taking a cargo boat from Pulacallpa, Peru to Leticia, Colombia.

The travel books said that each cargo boat would have the day it was leaving written on the chalkboard on the side. This particular boat's chalkboard said "Martes", and luckily for us it was "Martes" (Tuesday). Therefore, we tied our hammocks on the boat. We sat on the boat all day. We waited all night on the boat, fell asleep on the boat. Got up on Miercoles (Wednesday), got drunk on the boat with our new friend Aryeh by eleven AM and the boat finally departed by three PM on Miercoles (Wednesday).

First observation...don't trust the chalkboards on the side of cargo boats leaving from Pullcalpa Peru. And when you try and verify the departure day with the captain and he says "Si Vaya Hoy" what he means is, "No vaya Hoy".

Second observation: You don't sleep in room's on cargo boats, you sleep on a hammock which you tie to the rebar of the boat.

Third observation: You can fit three hundred people in hammocks, 25-30 chickens, 3-4 monkeys in boxes, 10 pigs, 4 cows, assorted luggage, 200-300 cargo boxes, food stuffs, six toilette's two small 'stores' (which is a cooler of beer) all on one boat.

Forth Observation: Three hundred people in hammocks, 25-30 chickens, 3-4 monkeys in boxes, 10 pigs, 4 cows, assorted luggage, 200-300 cargo boxes, food stuffs, six toilette's two small 'stores' which is a cooler of beer all on one boat smells bad. And by bad, I mean a mixture of hot trash, Doritos and old diapers would smell better than the boat did. Balls.

Fifth Observation: When you ask someone if there is a 'basura' on the boat don't be alarmed when they say 'Si' and then proceeded to take the trash out of your hands and throw it over their shoulder into the river.

Sixth Observation: Breakfast looks like murky water and milk combined. It's hot and may come with two pieces of stale bread...and by stale i mean less like the 'day old' bagels that you can get in the states and more like the bread you find in the back of your cupboard that was from last year..if you shellacked it and then encased it in iron. When you get to the bottom of your bowl, you may see something...or two somethings. They are OATS. Two oats. This is oatmeal.

Seventh Observation: Lunch is the best meal on any cargo boat. Unidentified meat, rice and boiled Yucca.

Eighth Observation: Dinner on the cargo boat is soup. With chunks of meat. And by meat I mean random feet of chickens and hearts and such.

Ninth Observation: Monkeys like chicken hearts. But they do not like girls named Deidre and they scream and try and claw her when she walks by.

Tenth Observation: Pigs are gross animals. I would give up eating them all together...if bacon didn't taste so damn good. Bacon's the winner. Bacon wins.

Eleventh Observation: You can have the woman who sells the beer put in your "Ready to Die" CD on her boom box. Then you can listen to it in front of little kids and say "bitch, fuck, shit, and punk ass nigga" along to the lyrics and the kids smile at you because they don't know what in gods name you are talking about.

Twelfth Observation: Yes, I am obviously still immature and get a kick out of observation eleven. Madds can probably attest to this seeing as how pleased Emma was with "Do the Jane Fonda".

Thirteenth Observation: I'm pretty sure there were more babies sucking on their mother's teat at any given moment on this boat than you would find on a cow farm.

Fourteenth Observation: It is not uncommon to see the child finish up sucking on said 'teat' and then look up to their mom and say "That was great, thanks mom" and then walk away. OK, they didn't really say that...because they spoke SPANISH, silly readers.

Fifteenth Observation: Much of the serious business on Cargo boats goes down at two o'clock in the morning. Like paying your agreed fare to your destination point, drug checks and passport checks.

Sixteenth Observation: I am functionally retarded on cargo boats at two in the morning. There was a passport check once and the dude sleeping next to me woke me up and told me (in Spanish) that there was a passport check. What I heard was "Meal time". I proceeded to get out my meal ticket and my food bowl and stood up to get in line. Connor looked at me with a grin, shook his head and held up his passport. The two men standing there with machine guns were not amused.

Seventeenth Observation: I have an unhealthy relationship with food.

Eighteenth Observation: Most of the cooks on cargo boats are ginormous and gay. They can sometimes be seen rocking lip stick and heavy eye make up.

Nineteenth Observation: No one is shocked by observation eighteen and so act like this is old hat. Who says 'old hat' that is under ninety years of age? ME!

Twentieth Observation: If you get the chance to do this. Do it. It was one of the most unique experiences I've ever had to date.

DEIDRE COOKS

Pork Chops:

i was cooking pork chops the other night for connor and i. that in itself is humorous enough i'm sure but it gets better. i wasn't sure how long to cook them. i sat scratching my head wondering what to do. does anyone REALLY scratch their head or is it more figurative? sometimes i actually scratch my head just for effect. i digress, i remembered that we had one of those meat thermometer thingy-ma-jiggs (warning, all this technical jargon may throw you off, but try and keep up with me here). it was rumored that the thermometers come w/ instructions telling you what temperature certain kinds of meat are supposed to reach before you can safely consume them. the rumor was right, there were instructions and they said that the pork chops were supposed to reach 165 degrees. they had been in the oven for approximately twenty-five minutes. yes, it took me twenty-five minutes to figure out the intricacies of the meat thermometer...it's a complex tool. i stuck the meat thermometer into the pork almost bursting a blood vessel in my eye from having to push it in so hard. i was unsold on whoever designed this thing, i mean, c'mon why not make the end sharper? to top off my discontent it took the thermometer longer to register the temperature of the meat than it taks for my eighty-seven year old grandmother to get to the store...and she doesn't drive. i watched the thermometer, mouth open, waiting, it finally stopped moving at one hundred degrees. apparently these suckers took a long time to cook. so i kept waiting five minutes and then reinserting the thermometer back into the pork which now resembled swiss cheese because of all the holes i'd poked in them. the porkchops were registering at one hundred and fifteen degrees after they had been in the oven for fifty-five minutes. i hated pork chops. connor walked in and said that it smelled awesome. yes it did. i told him that i'd had two chops in the oven for over fifty minutes but they weren't even close to done yet. he looked perplexed by this piece of information. how did i know they weren't even close to done? well, because i'd been using the 'meat thermometer'. i went to show him the temperature of the meat and when i opened the oven and pulled out the rack exposing the pork chops connor doubled back. 'why do they have so many holes in them?' i explained that it was because of the 'meat thermometer'. which i said with a slight tone of arrogance. that's right, who was domestic? deidre was domestic. deidre's the winner..deidre wins. tee hee. I grabbed my new found tool off the counter and proceeded to search for an untainted spot on the meat. this must be what a heroin addict felt like trying to find a working vein. these are the things i tell myself from time to time to make my life seem a little more exciting. from my peripheral vision i could see connor slowly shaking his head. i turned to him and noticed a grin spreading across his face. he started reaching for my tool, "what are you doing?" he asked as he snagged the thermometer out of my hand. he proceeded to pull the thermometer OUT of it's round large plastic case. check please! "have you been sticking the thermometer inside it's case into the meat?" pause. more pause. "PFFFTT...no." And by 'no' i meant 'yes'. he proceeded to stick the sharp metal point into the pork chop (show off) and we watched the red line shoot up so fast and high that we both ducked a little as if it was going to explode in his hand. The temperature was over 180 degrees. i'm pretty sure I could have roasted an entire pig on a spit in the back yard and it would have been done at that point.