Why is this funny?

Wasn’t it Diana Vreeland who wrote “You’d be a fool not to buy a cape this year”? Here in Seattle, one doesn't see a lot of capes. My spin would be, "You'd be a fool not to wear socks with sandals this year." I guess to each his own.

Once, while visiting a gift shop on the coast, I made a snide comment about a bunch of beach rocks with little eyes glued on to them. The shopkeeper, fairly defensive, told me they were her 'bestsellers' and that they 'went like hotcakes'. It all comes down to taste. For example, five years ago I wrote some patter for a woman's club act. Her introductions and her transitions between songs were ‘flat and uninspired’. Her words, not mine. Of course, once I saw her act, they were my words too. We had a long chat right after the show and a few days later, I emailed her a few of my ideas. It was an entire week before she requested a meeting and when I arrived at her apartment she was somber and serious-faced. I just assumed that she didn’t like what I’d come up with but it didn’t surprise me. The bulk of her act involved a Cuisinart, which she wore on her head like a hat. I never understood why and neither did the rest of the audience.

So, she sat me down, held up the printed version of my email and asked, very sincerely, “Tell me. Why is this funny?” Now there is a question no one should ever be made to answer. Like “Tell me why I shouldn’t just kick your ass right now?”, or “What were those pair of pantyhose doing underneath your bed?”

I didn’t answer her. Instead, I found myself thinking about all of the household appliances she might have chosen that would have been more effective. If kitchen headware is your passion, why not go for a sleek inverted colander, or perhaps a garlic press or lemon-juicer strategically positioned and tilted? Then, tie the entire look together with potato mashers on each knee, and perhaps a whisk, caught up in a flurry of silk at the waistline?

But no, she chose a food processor. On her head. Bulky, asymmetrical, and the power cord? Please! That was so 90’s. That sort of headware fashion was meant for another time. That was the era of George Forman grills and the like, worn frivolously and inappropriately to the wrong events. I mean, who wears a Crockpot to a baby shower? Probably the same person who would wear a hand-crank ice cream maker on a first date, after Labor day! Shocking, and with reckless regard for decorum. These individuals may have considered themselves to be frontrunners but they were, in reality, contributors to the decline of appliance-hat fashion.

“I said ‘Why is this funny?’” she repeated.

I didn’t answer her question, but I did offer her a piece of advice.

“You’d be a fool not to wear a toaster this year” I said. End of story.

jenny padilla

I lived in Long Beach California. I moved there with plans to attend Cal State but, because of the cost of out-of-state tuition, decided to work for a year and become a resident before enrolling in classes. I had my heart set on waiting tables at a local Marie Callenders restaurant because, as I remember explaining, it felt all 'countrified and cozy, like an open-faced turkey sandwich on a chilly autumn day'. Months later, considerably disillusioned, I accepted the solitary job of cashier at a Fotomat. Describing the Fotomat kiosk in which I worked as diminutive would be generous. The embarrassing little building was plopped down on the gravelly edge of a Kentucky Fried Chicken parking lot - clearly an afterthought. I would spend my long shifts eating chicken and snooping through everyone's pictures, looking for the nudie shots. Once, a lady complained about all of the greasy fingerprints that covered her four year old daughter's face. I feigned ignorance and concern. That was the only good thing about the job. Well, that and not having to worry about getting along with your co-workers - since you didn't have any.

One of my roommates was from Pasadena. He was smarmy, drove a loud Camaro and laughed at everything I said. The other man was kind and quiet. A devout Christian. Not quite twenty, his ex-fiance had recently left him for a woman and he seemed to be in a perpetual stupor because of it. The apartment building was the quintessential Southern California - u-shaped, three level, pool in the middle - type of complex. People used the walkway railings to dry clothes and there was seldom a time when some baby wasn't screaming. Radios and stereos constantly competed and there was a motorcyle at the bottom of the pool, submerged. I remember thinking it was hilarious no one ever commented on the motorcycle. Even on hot days when the pool was crowded. Everyone just swam around it and over it. It was like something you might see in a tragic water slide park. The manager was mean and scary so no one would complain about anything. I'm pretty sure he was an ex-con, with his tank-top wardrobe, cigarette mouth, tattoos for days and his shiny sunburned skin. I'm guessing it was his motorcycle. There was a great story there, but he wasn't talking and I wasn't asking.

A young girl lived three doors down. She was probably eighteen. We used to swing dance in my apartment. I don't remember how we met but, like myself, she had big dreams. She 'knew everyone in the industry' and was going to be famous one day. Remember, this is Long Beach. She said that her stepfather 'basically owned Paramount studio' and she was, at that very moment, being considered for a featured role in a new television series called The Dukes of Hazzard. Jenny Padilla lived in the apartment directly below mine. A petite, elderly hispanic woman, she had Multiple Sclerosis and some other condition that made it impossible for her to turn her head. Most evenings she would play her Lowrey drum machine organ. Cole Porter's 'Anything Goes' was her favorite tune and I would toss out compliments whenever I walked by her window. Jenny and I became friends. Since I had a car, I would drive her to doctor's appointments and make weekly trips to the grocery store. Eventually, she allowed me to play the organ. On rainy afternoons, we'd watch All My Children and Ryan's Hope while eating Top Ramen, the only thing I could afford to eat at the time.

One day, Jenny announced that she was moving in with her son in Bellflower, a small community about thirty minutes east of Long Beach. Sadly, there was no room for all of her possesions so she was forced to give some away. The night before the move she called me and asked me to come down to her place. I sat on her couch while she told me how much I had meant to her, how she could never repay me, and how she wanted to do something really wonderful for me. My eyes darted around the small apartment to the few possessions I would choose if offered. I was pretty sure she was going to give me the Lowrey organ or the television set since I had, on several occasions, expressed interest in 'getting something just like that' one day.

Jenny grew teary as she spoke but I knew that her tears had more to do with leaving her home than saying goodbye to me.

She disappeared into the kitchen and returned holding a blue, enamel plated colander. She proudly pushed it at me and said 'thank you for everything'. I wanted to ask her what she was going to do with the organ, but instead I thanked her for the colander, saying 'I really needed one' and 'how did you know?' The next day, we loaded up my Dodge Colt and made the trip to Bellflower. I dropped her off, hugged her, thanked her again for my colander, then drove back to Long Beach.

I didn't make it the entire year in California. One night, some 'mysterious illness' forced me to the emergency room. When the doctor urged me to check into the hospital for tests, I packed my bags and drove back to Washington state. The day after I returned to Seattle, the mysterious illness was gone and never returned.

Even though I was a bit disappointed at the time, looking back I'm glad Jenny didn't give me the drum machine organ. Here it is, three cities, thirty-nine apartments, four relationships and twenty-nine years later, and I still have that colander. In fact, I used it last night.