Where I Will Be This Time Tomorrow:

But this is why I'm really going:


Stracciatella, mmmmmm.

I got published!

Budget Travel- June 2007- True Stories- The one about a heavy breather. Less than a hundred words! Go read it.
P.S. They edited it. It was not a boulder. Who says boulder? It was hardened lava. Hello, Hawaii?

What was I thinking? Vol. 14

Telephonophobia is real.

My fear of the telephone began at a young age. I’m not sure how or why it began, but it did and it affected me adversely for a very long time. According to this website there may have been an event in my past “linking telephones and emotional trauma.” [They also have a telephone number to call if you want put an end to your fear of the phone.] Maybe it was that time I tried to call Santa and got the county jail by mistake. They go on to list a number of symptoms, all of which I experienced when faced with speaking on the phone in the past:

"Symptoms typically include shortness of breath, rapid breathing, irregular heartbeat, sweating, nausea, and overall feelings of dread."

This is why even the idea of temping caused me an ulcer after I graduated and moved out of my childhood home without a job. When push came to shove, I dumbly stated that I would do reception work when filling out paperwork for the temp agency. With a sucker born every minute, they immediately sent me off to a fashion designer, a culinary school and every other level of reception hell available.

Anyway, another such job was for yet another fashion designer. Due to their lesser fame I was not asked if I was thin, pretty or stylish. Instead I was asked to answer phones, as is the usual requirement for reception jobs. However, unlike the other few I’d lived through, their phone service was ancient. No voicemail or answering machines of any kind. I had to ask who it was, put them on hold, intercom (oGAD intercom) the person who the call was for, ask them if they wanted to talk to the person calling, and then transfer the call or take a message accordingly. No one ever wanted to talk to the person calling. There were stacks of pink 'while you were out' pads all over the desk.

So I sat at my temporary desk, anxiously waiting for the phone to ring and when it did my heart took a dive. I answered. There was a thick accent happening. I was scared. The conversation went something like this:

HB: Hello [name of lesser noted designer]
CALLER: Hello! Mister Ander Dare Ivan either shpeener.
HB: I’m sorry?
C: Is Anne Daring there? I need to speak (muffle).
HB: No, she’s out at the moment, can I take a message?
C: Tell her Pancake Carborator called and to (muffle) back. I’m in Ashperg.
HB: Um…Where are you?
C: Aspen. Tell her to (muffle) she gets in.
HB: And what’s your name again?
C: Ratcan Perrywinkle. She has the number.
HB: Um…Pardon?
C: Ashland Fishtwist.
HB: Ok, I will have her call you. Thanks.

I wrote down phonetically what I heard and gingerly placed the little pink paper in Anne’s mailbox. Not five minutes later she appeared. There was an interrogation. I was scared. The conversation went something like this:

A: (accusingly) What does this say?
HB: …Anthony Bergshoner?
A: Who?
HB: I’m sorry…I couldn’t understand him. He had an accent and said he was in Aspen.
A: (with wide-eyed disbelief at my incompetence in her voice) [correct name here]!?! The owner of [lesser noted designer]?
HB: (inaudible) yes?
A: (angry now) Where is he?
HB: Aspen?
A: piercing rays from eye lasers melt my flesh as she looks down at me.
HB: He said you had his number?

This job in particular did nothing to help alleviate my telephonophobia, but alas, I eventually conquered all my years living with the disease without contributing to the wealth of a pharmaceutical company. For me it was a simple cure of forcing myself into situations where answering phones paid for my next meal. I still hate the phone and will always have someone else make the call if I can, but my heart no longer palpitates when faced with the seemingly simple action.

Yay for me!

Rules Of Conduct At A Sold Out General Admission Concert

If you don’t have enough of your drug of choice to share with the rest of the crowd, you can’t have any either.

If you have a bag and insist on wearing it, recognize when you are jabbing someone in the side with it and shift your positioning.

If you are attending a concert where the point is to hear the music, don’t talk.

If you manage to push your way through the crowd to stand directly in front of people who’ve been standing there for an hour already, don’t offer to go back to where you just came from because you overheard someone say who invited Avril Levine? and want them to feel bad about it.

If you do manage to ingest something mind altering, please keep enough wits about yourself to avoid constantly invading other sober people’s personal space. Flailing your arms and head around when no one else in the entire venue is joining your mosh pit of one will earn you hate. Lots of hate.

If you dance like an assh*le, arms and head flailing, don’t curl your hands into fists and pretend to punch someone when they respond to the loud, talking people that asked what your problem is that she’d like to knock you upside the head the next time you throw your head back in some kind of chemical haze.

If you’re the guy whose job it is to sell beer during the concert and have to push back and forth through the crowd, pick a different route each time. The same people will not buy from you if you just passed them five minutes ago.

Failure to comply with any of these rules grants the people in your immediate vicinity the right to slap you silly, or until you sober up enough to apologize for your selfish behavior. Whichever comes first.

Open Letter To A Perfect Stranger

Dear Cousin Larry,
It was a joy to see you at dinner the other night. Halfway across the restaurant. Though we did not dine together, it was fun for me to try to figure out why you looked so familiar and yet couldn’t place you. That distant, blank look on your face was a bit disconcerting, especially after I realized who you were and that I hadn’t seen you in long time. I began wondering if maybe you were contemplating something. Something…awful. There was just enough of a psychotic twinkle in that wide-eyed stare into nothing that led me to this conclusion, but then your date for the evening showed and that look disappeared. Turns out you were just bored. I hope your edamame was as good as mine, and thanks for the mind games!
Sincerely,
Hapabukbuk

Things I May Tell My Potential Future Children

Have I ever what? No, of course not! I would never!
Well...ok. Maybe once.
When I was 19 and old enough to make my own decisions and...
I'll tell you when you're older.

You Know What Really Bothers Me?

The smacking sound a flip-flop makes when it hits a person's heel as they walk down the hallway at work.

Here's the deal: no flip-flops at work and I won't use my super powers to melt every pair you own.

Also...

And we've been through this before, it is unacceptable to chose the stall next to mine when the other 9 are empty.

C'MON.

Mom’s Advice On Travel

My father is an ideal, if somewhat irresponsible traveler. He will go anywhere, anytime with anyone. He came half way across the world to further his education before returning home, and ended up staying. It took him almost 30 years of travelling elsewhere before he boarded a plane back to his country of birth, where he managed to lose his wallet within an hour of landing.

My mother…well, she doesn’t like to travel very far outside her backyard, unless she spots a bird she can’t quite see from where she’s standing. Getting her on a plane is like trying to get a hysterical cat into a pet carrier. Ancient ruins are piles of rocks, museums are full of dust and foreign food of any kind equals a stomachache.

These two polar opposites will be taking a cruise at the end of the month that begins in Rome. By some weird twist of fate, I and my friend Snix will also be in Rome at the end of the month for vacation. Here are my mother's words of warning:


Mom: Are you packing toilet paper? I found this new travel toilet paper-
HB: What?
Mom: They don’t have toilet paper you know.
HB: In Rome?? It’s not a third world country mother, they have toilet paper.
Mom: Last time we were there they didn’t have any. Your father went into a bathroom and he didn’t like it. He said it was just a hole in the ground.
HB: Did you go in?
Mom: No. After he told me that I just held it.
HB: I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a big hole in the middle of the room for the women to pee in.
Mom: I wasn’t taking that chance.
HB: Besides, you’ve never even been to Rome!
Mom: Wherever we were!
HB: Was it backwoods countryside?
Mom: It was…countryish.
HB: They have toilet paper in Rome.
Mom: They say it's rough over there, but I can deal with that. I just can't deal with not having any at all.
HB: I promise you they have paper!!
Mom: Suit yourself. I’m bringing it.

Say It Out Loud Vol. 2

Quotable quotes from Hapabukbuk's viewing library:

Julie: "Say something nice."
Cooper: "Rainbows...that's all I got."

-Julie and Eric's Baby

Today's Secret Word Is...

Ha'Larious.


The penalty for stealing?
A minimum wage job advertising your own stupidity.

Meccaleccahimeccahineyho!

What was I thinking? Vol. 13

I'm hungry.

I've always been proud of my hapabukbukness. It wasn't until I heard Cher's "Half Breed" that I knew how to express it through song. Thus begins a story with an ending you can probably predict. Sort of.

When I was young and carefree (read: unemployed) I traveled out west to hollywood to pursue my movie star dreams (read: hopefully come upon a movie being shot and somehow appear in the background of the final cut). I decided to attend a taping of a TV show (read: hopefully be recognized for my innate acting ability and be asked to step in when the lead "turned her ankle") because I thought it would be fun. It began at 11am and I had eaten a banana for breakfast.

About 3 hours into it, I became hungry.

About 6 hours into it, I became ravenous.

By 8 hours?

The warm up guy, knowing his audience was starving and cranky, promised it would only be a little longer and offered a trade. Chocolate for a song. It was an obvious win win situation. My hand shot up and I regaled the entire crowd (actors included so I like to pretend) with my rendition of "Gypsy's Tramps and Thieves". (I couldn't remember all the words to Half Breed in my weakened state. Gimme a break.) I don't even like chocolate that much.



However, if I ever get to sing about being a Hapa while donned in a headdress and idly sitting atop a horse, I will die a happy girl.

Funny thing is, I'm not kidding.

Premature Evacuation