So over the weekend, we were drying some uh plant matter (delicious imported green plant matter) in our bedroom, beneath a sunny window in a casserole dish. It was still superfresh.
Our roommate's mother, a Liliputian elderly Chilena of the wealthy O.G. School, came over while we had to go to work on Saturday morning. I guess our roommate wasn't expecting her; he'd only just gotten home from the night before. We, most certainly, were not expecting anyone either. She was getting an estimate for painting (which is now en curso, and fucking smells).
"Abraham," she asked. "Why do your new friends keep their broccoli in their bedroom? I know they are chefs, but is this special American broccoli or something?"
To his credit, he managed to keep a straight face while getting out, "I don't know, mom, but I think they are going to use it to make a special broccoli dish!" She just sniffed disdainfully - perhaps at the 'special gringo smell' and muttered something about weird white people.
***************
My other roommate, the Duuuuude, just got home from the States for a wedding. I asked him if he wouldn't mind calling FedEx for me and asking them to reschedule my package delivery, because I couldn't get anyone who spoke English there. He speaks above-average Dude Spanish, being from San Diego, and a dude, naturally. It's hilarious to listen to, but it gets the job done just fine.
He grabbed the invoice slip and dialed a number. Then looked pensive for a moment. Then started talking to what I assumed, at first, was a human being, and then realized was a voicemail. We had also just partaken in a glad-you-survived-your-10-hour-flight serving of the aforementioned broccoli.
This message was, like, epic. He was trying to pretend he
was me, among other things. When he finally hung up, post-rambly message in garbled, completely dudefied Spanish, I just looked at him.
"Uhm, you got a voicemail? That's.... pretty weird, it's an 800 number. Did you dial the right number?" "What? Hmm. I dunno, just the one right here, which is... oh fuck... I think that's your work office, not FedEx [the phone number for the destination, which was our school's address and info]."
The next morning at work, I got to listen to that 3 minute voicemail message left,
flapping in the wind like a rabbit tail on a stoned surfin'-lawyer's Halloween costume, in beautifully ridiculous dude Spanish that declared itself to be me, at least four times.
I like it when I'm the least absurd person I know. It's... refreshing.
Happy Tuesday.
