Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Same-Sex Marriage

How 'bout this weather! I've only lived in New York for three years so I'm still getting used to it. It's warmer outside than it was. What I mean to say is that outside it was noticeably colder before it got this warm. I've noticed the change, anyway. I also think other people have noticed. For instance, I was around people at one point today, and one of the people at that point said to me, "It's getting warm out!" "Yes, I've noticed that," I replied to the person. I think that's what life is mostly about: noticing things and replying to people. I've gotten pretty far on that.

This afternoon I was enjoying the warmer-ness as I was walking to work and I got a craving for a sandwich. I LOVE sandwiches. I love them so much that for a long time I wanted people to think of sandwiches when they thought of me. I wanted to be "that sandwich guy." I wanted all my friends to think, "Oh here comes Cole! I bet he has a sandwich with him! If not I bet he WANTS one! Man he loves those things!" But it never caught on. I even tried to always carry a sandwich with me, even if I didn't want one. I had sandwiches coming out of my pockets! But nobody ever noticed. Eventually I gave that up. Anyhow, today I had a craving for a sandwich. As I thought about what kind of sandwich I wanted, I started to wonder just how many sandwiches I've probably eaten in my life so far. I started to do the math. Now, I probably didn't have my first sandwich until I was about three, so that leaves 19 years of sandwich-eating. So I thought "multiply the average number of sandwiches I eat a week times 52 and multiply that by 19." But then I realized I probably ate a lot more sandwiches while I was in school than I do now, so I had to re-think my multiplication. I won't go into any more math detail, but I was crossing First Avenue and my sandwich count was somewhere around 1,800 when a cab stopped abruptly before almost plowing right over me. AHHH! Apparently, a red hand on the traffic light is a pedestrian crossing signal meaning "DON'T WALK" and not "DON'T WALK (UNLESS YOU'RE IN THE MIDDLE OF COUNTING SANDWICHES." I've only been in New York three years though, and that's one of the rules I hadn't learned yet. Luckily I wasn't pummeled by the cab. Unfortunately the cab was rear-ended because it stopped so quickly. I was beyond pissed. Now I had to start back at my first sandwich all over again because I was distracted. "Forget it," I thought, "I'll start counting again when I'm less angry. If I count sandwiches when I'm upset I'll probably do the math wrong."

I told this story to a girl I work with and she told me, "that's illegal."
"What is?" I asked.
"You can't leave the scene of an accident, especially if you pretty much caused it. You have to stay until the police arrive." She replied.
"But I'm not the one that stopped the cab!" I said.
"But you're the reason the cab driver had to!"
I then asked if it made any difference, legally, that I was counting sandwiches. She told me it "No, it does not make a difference."

Oh well! Like I said, I've only been here three years. I'm still getting used to all these New York rules.

Oh! And I've eaten about 3,742 sandwiches in my lifetime so far. Wait! Make that 3,743! AHAHAHAHAHA!


Dusty St. Amand said...

You're absurd.


- RM said...

First, I love how the title has nothing to do with the story.

Second, I can't help but wondering if this occurrence actually happened or not.

Anonymous said...

As ham sandwiches go, it was perfection.

A thick slab of ham, a fresh bun, crisp lettuce and plenty of expensive, light brown, gourmet mustard.

The corners of my jaw aching in anticipation, I carried it to the picnic table in our backyard, picked it up with both hands but was stopped by my wife suddenly at my side.

"Hold Johnny, (our six-week-old son), while I get my sandwich," she said.

I had him balanced between my left elbow and shoulder and was reaching again for the ham sandwich when I noticed a streak of mustard on my fingers. I love mustard. And I had no napkin.

I licked it off.

It was *not* mustard. No man ever put a baby down faster.

It was the first and only time I have sprinted with my tongue protruding.

With a washcloth in each hand I did the sort of routine shoeshine boys do, only I did it on my tongue.

Later my wife said, "Now you know why they call that mustard 'Poupon.'"