Life Lesson #20: In the name of the Mambo, the Rumba, and the Cha cha cha!

Fifteen or so years ago, if you were in a hotel in Taiwan, you could be pretty sure of two things:

One - the light bulbs were going to be no more than thirty watts;

Two - after about midnight, you could hear the systematic ringing of the telephones down the halls.

The reason for number one? The rooms were filthy. Even if the Taiwanese Board of Tourism awarded the hotel three stars, it would be no more than the equivalent of half of a star here. Apparently, the standards over there are not so high. Therefore, the rooms were gross. Dirty enough that the hotels wanted the lowest bulb wattage possible without making it impossible to see.

The explanation for number two? Hookers. The ladies of the street would gather in the hotel lobbies and call each room, one by one, until someone would invite them up for a quickie.

I learned these two intriguing Taiwanese bits of information from Mambo King (as in one of his favorite movies, a soundtrack he always plays at work, and a movie he let me borrow, vhs style), my sixty-five-or-so-year-old coworker who runs our shipping and logistics department, on our business trip to Southern California.

When I first learned I had to go on this four-day expedition to set up some product audit procedures at our warehouses, you could say I was nowhere near enthusiastic. But the moment I learned I would be going on this excursion with Mambo King, I was ecstatic. It’s hard to simply say why. I feel it is much easier to explain through a montage of Mambo-licious trivia.

MK sits next to me at work. Every morning, I come in to hear music blasting through his computer speakers (he has the crappiest hearing, second only to my dear Grandpa Al). Such musical gems: The Fame soundtrack; Alicia Keys’s debut album, Songs in A Minor, as well as her follow-up, The Diary of Alicia Keys; a Bette Midler compilation, I’m assuming her greatest hits (if you have the balls to call them that); The Phantom of the Opera soundtrack. On a good day, I’ll hear Fleetwood Mac’s The Dance (the live version from their 1997 reunion). Basically, you never know what you’re going to walk into. The only thing you can guarantee is that it will be painfully loud and played on repeat way beyond lunch time.

Mr. Mambo brings his wife of some twenty-plus years, Barb, to Chili’s Grill and Bar almost every weekend. He loves going there, particularly to liquor Barb up on giant frozen margaritas. I love that the Chili’s motto is “It's more than just the food that sets Chili's apart. It's the fun. The energy. The dining experience that lifts your spirits and leaves you thinking, ‘Let's do this again - soon!’” He met Barb at his card club (I’m guessing the bridge kind) when we was young and had a twenty-eight inch waste. I’m guessing its forty inches now.

The King always drinks Rusty Nails. They are made with four parts scotch whiskey and two parts Drambuie, with a twist. He always orders his with Chivas. He gets irate if they forget either the twist or the Chivas. He also gets loaded off of about two of these. I can usually tell exactly when he reaches the point of intoxication. He folds his arms over his forty inch waist, shakes his head when people are talking to him and says things like “How am I supposed to know that? No one tells me anything!” and “What can I say? I mother people to death.”

Which leads me to the next Mambo King bit of info. He mothers me to death (his phrase, not mine). At work, he always buys me coffee and when he thinks I’m not eating enough, he also will get me one of those disgustingly large and freakishly hard chocolate chip cookies that delis always keep next to the cash registers. He wouldn’t let me drive the rental car at any point during our trip, partly because I have a vagina and partly because of my age. He also couldn’t let me eat any meals by myself and refused to not order us dessert: ice cream, one scoop vanilla, one scoop chocolate, two spoons. I believe this is why the man has a forty inch waist.

Mambo Man wears those horrible water shoes. To the pool. Along with hideous flowered swim trunks and a white t-shirt with the Tasmanian Devil, aka Taz, and strewn papers coming out of the breast pocket, the phrase Whatta Ya Mean It’s Only Monday?! embroidered on it. He wears this regardless if it’s Monday or not.

His favorite television shows are Gilmore Girls, Bones and House. I have never watched an episode of any one of these programs, so I can’t really comment on them. I did, however, go to college with the Gilmore Girls chick, and this makes Mambo King very happy every time I tell him. So I do. Like, every day.

I used to think the Mambo Meister worked in the bell business. I didn’t really understand, but I thought, well, someone’s got to make bells. And there are all types of bells – the Christmas kind, the ones for your front door, the type so you can ring for your butler. I just learned he’s actually been saying the belt business all along. This is why he traveled to Asia at least two dozen times (I guess to visit factories and such). Hence he always has a story about international hookers.

Perry Cuomo and Frank Sinatra give the Mambinator much inner turmoil. He loves them both but has never been able to come to decision as to the better performer. He loves Perry’s cool, laid-back style. But Frank was a great entertainer, even on the days his voice was off. I really pissed Mambo King off when I said I like Dean Martin.

His Highness is a self-proclaimed movie junkie. He’s got movies in every form: DVD, VHS, Beta and some other crazy term he always throws around that means nothing to me (Maybe 8-Tracks? Although, I could have sworn that was music, but hey, what do I know.) He gives me one to watch every few days. I found one in particular most disturbing, for a few reasons. Because he’s my coworker, because he’s old and because of what it might imply in terms of what he thinks of me. The movie is Half Moon Street, a 1986 flick in which Sigourney Weaver plays a professor by day, prostitute by night. The back cover reads: When erotic fantasies become deadly nightmares. Where sex will make her rich…and love could get her killed. Throughout the picture, her character says some form of “girls like uncomplicated sex.” Amen, sister.

So, I got to spend four days with Mambo King. And overall, I was pleasantly amused the entire time. Even when I was stuck going out to dinner with his friends and must have looked like some trophy girlfriend to anyone else in the hotel restaurant, or when we almost died when he made a turn and got us stuck between a giant truck and those smaller pick-ups that drive behind them with the words WIDE LOAD written on the back (to prevent people from driving behind the wide load trucks).

Life Lesson #20: I can get along with the most bizarre people out there. Mambo King most certainly included. I actually enjoy all his idiosyncrasies (as well as most people that I come across).

Sure, at some points I want to kill the man. Like when I’m on a business call at work and Wind Beneath My Wings is blasting in the background. Or when we get lost in Chino, California, searching for a Dunkin Donuts that doesn’t exist. Or when I have to sit next to him poolside as if best friends, his swimmies securely on his feet and cup of decaf coffee resting on his forty inch waist.

But who else is going to teach me that it costs the equivalent of fifty bucks for some monkey business from a gorgeous Taiwanese woman who knows barely more than “Hi, my name is Swan, what can I get you tonight”? Not anyone I can think of.

And so here’s to you, Mambo King, and every little moment of joy you bring me. I hope you get your wife nice and toasted this weekend and are rewarded accordingly.

Free of charge, of course.

Life Lesson #19: Mommy and Daddy will always love you, no matter what the future may hold.

Lately, H.F.T. and I have been feeling like the children of divorce.

Our parents, Madonna and Earl, recently broke up. It’s been very hard on all of us. Obviously, for the two people in the relationship. But what I never thought was that we would also be so affected.

It’s been rough. But I think the turning point has arrived. While there was never a custody battle per say, H.F.T. and I definitely felt as if we would have to split our time between Mom and Dad. And I think while it was easiest to just avoid any involvement in the first place, the time has come to step up and deal with the situation like the adult children that we are.

I met Earl through Madonna. When we were still in college, I didn’t know him that well. After we graduated and we all moved back to New York, and then a year later, Madonna and I decided to live together, Earl and I wound up becoming very good friends outside of his relationship with her.

We bonded over making fun of Madonna’s awful taste in music and our penchant to quickly judge people. Some of my most cherished memories I have with Earl are sans Madonna: getting wasted to watch the season finale of Friends at my LES apartment that had rats the size of babies; trying to get The One to ask a seventy-five year old, drunk, Belgium woman who insisted she knew ‘'the philosphy of life" out on a date (he never did, and so we never learned just what the philosophy is); and getting tackled by a drunk-from-the-Drift Earl outside his Hampton’s summer house when he found out I paid for the cab home.

And of course, Earl took his friendship with H.F.T. (before she started dating her boyfriend) and I very seriously when it came to protecting us from assholes. When it didn’t take him long to figure out that we actually don’t mind most assholes, I knew he was a great friend.

Now that I‘ve taken some time to examine the past few weeks of The Breakup Aftermath, I‘ve noticed that I‘ve gone through the phases that most children of divorce exhibit.

Denial and Silence: I totally refused to acknowledge that my favorite couple in the world was no longer. That was just crazy talk! And so I decided to close my ears and assume that in a few days (max, weeks) they’d both tell me it was some crazy joke to mess with my head. If anyone asked me if they broke up, I rolled my eyes and said "they’re totally getting back together."

Regression: Due to my inability to deal with this, I started acting more childlike than usual. A few unnecessary tantrums at work. Going to sleep inappropriately early during the week. Nail biting. I stopped short of wetting the bed.

Bodily Distress: I got really sick the other week. One hundred percent allergy/sinus stupidity. It had nothing to do with the parent situation, but it fits nicely with my theory here, so I’m going with it.

Hostility and Guilt: Generally speaking, I can be hostile, so that’s not too out of the ordinary for me. But guilty? So not me, even when I really should be. But then I started feeling really bad about quitting my job, avoiding my mom’s phone calls, and shamelessly trying to get this guy I like to come home with me. That had to be because of the breakup.

Panic and Confusion: I got really freaked out that I’d never get to hang out with Earl again. Even though I know that’s never going to happen, I kind of made myself believe it. I panicked that when we did finally see each other out somewhere, we’d ignore each other or exchange nothing more than awkward pleasantries.

Luckily, the stages finally came to an end and I’m back to my usual healthy, guilt-free, floozy self. And so last week, I felt like I really needed to hang out with the old man. When H.F.T. decided her birthday celebration would be this past weekend when Madonna would be out of town, I thought that Earl coming out with us would be the perfect gift. Every parent should be part of their children’s milestones, and turning twenty-five is no exception in my book.

It was a fun night. A whole bunch of us went out to the midtown area which, as the twenty or so other people that ventured into the night probably noticed, was completely empty. Maybe people realized the summer kickoff is only two weeks away and are trying to save a few bucks, and calories, before then. I’m not sure. Regardless, as we walked from one bar to another, witnessing a random Bridge and Tunnel idiot eyeing H.F.T. and a drunk, half-naked girl screaming into her cell phone, I shook my head in disgust and conspiratorially looked at Earl.

“Welcome to Cheeseball Alley,” he said.

The words came out of his mouth and I suddenly realized: while the breakup was rough for everyone, shit happens. People move on. And for those as lucky as me, you still get to be friends with the people that matter most.

Life Lesson #19: When your best friends are no longer a couple, it’s probably going to change your world a bit too. What’s important, though, is to realize that you have relationships independent of theirs, recognize that good friends are hard to come by, and make the effort to keep those people in your life.

Even if it means only seeing them every other weekend, and on prearranged holidays.

Life Lesson #18: Commuters, Beware! Ride the 6 train today at your own peril.

I have no balls.

Get your minds out of the gutter people. I mean this figuratively.

The reason why this concerns me is because I used to think I did – for most of my life.

I’m not so sure if I should be upset about this or not. I’m still trying to weigh the pros and cons of this recent self discovery (or admittance - also debating that as well). But I can say for certain that I am perturbed at the notion that I’m not nearly as tough as I thought. Or that I assume most others to believe.

This week has brought three events that have led me to this truth.

Monday, I gave my notice at work. Sure, sounds easy enough. It was not. I was terrified. To the point that I spent most of last weekend running to the bathroom and breaking into a cold sweat at some of the most inappropriate times. I made myself so sick with the idea of sitting down with my boss to bear the news that I’m guessing I averaged about an hour of sleep on Sunday.

When I got off the elevator Monday morning, I barely made it to my desk without vomiting.

Now, the actual conversation my boss and I had lasted only two minutes, of which twenty-five seconds or so was spent in silence as El Jefe stared at me in what I’m guessing was disbelief. It’s almost ironic, given how much time I had wasted worrying about it. And unnecessary, since I gave him till the end of the month and promised to help train someone to replace me.

Nevertheless, it was awful. I sat on my hands to stop them from shaking and sounded like Gilbert Gottfried my voice cracked so much. Anyone watching would have laughed at my display of fear. While I had envisioned it going down with me acting like Peter from Office Space, I wouldn’t be surprised if I looked more like poor, bumbling Milton.

“Um, so I, well, I needed to talk to you, because, um. Okay. So I’ve decided – and not at all because I don’t feel like I’ve really grown here and that I don’t love working for this company, it’s just that, well. Um. So basically, I’ve decided that I’m going to move. And, well, my last day is going to be the end of this month. Unless of course you really need me to stay! Because, well then I can probably stay if you really needed. I mean, I have plans for the summer, but if that’s a problem, I guess I can change them. And I’m so sorry to do this, it’s just, well, it’s something I really want to do and…”

Really, I’m glad no one else had to bear witness to that conversation. It might have made their ears bleed.

Cinco de Mayo brought another incident that made me second guess my thick skin.

A friend had a fiesta at his giant apartment, which also has a massive roof. There were a good two hundred or so people there. Many of whom I knew, if not by name, then definitely by face, including a guy who I had a thing with not too long ago. You could even say it’s still going on, since he simply stopped calling me after three months. Yep. Just stopped. After I gave him a second chance, which I now blame on no one but myself.

A side note here, but amusing enough to mention: My first ‘serious’ boyfriend, eighth grade. We went out for the better part of the last two semesters and were still ‘bf and gf’ when we had our graduation at the Westchester County Center. And then he stopped calling. And so I stopped calling him. When we ran into each other over a year later (my parents decided catholic high school was in my future, his did not), he came up to me and asked if we were still going out. To this day, when we bump into each other, we joke about how we’ve been cheating on each other for so long now, maybe we should just get married and make it official.

My point is, though, this isn’t someone I just met out one night and gave my number to in the hopes he’d call. Nope. This is someone with whom I went out on dates. I was the first person he showed his new apartment to. I was the girl he called, every day, while he was in another country on business for one week and the other side of the country for three.

So generally speaking, being he moved on to hotter and/or better without so much as a warning (maybe a "hey, its not working”, or “sorry, I’m not interested anymore”, or “well, I kind of met someone else”), I figure I have a right to be at least slightly annoyed. At this stage of the game, a little common courtesy shouldn’t be that hard to come by. When I don’t get that, well, really, that’s just not cool.

I could have very easily taken Friday night’s festivities to be the bigger person, go up to him and say hello – especially since I was a few margaritas-with-vodka-instead-of-sour-mix in (Not my idea. Rather, some guy manning the bar who insisted it was the perfect replacement. I promptly hired him to make said margaritas and flavored snow cones at my going away party this summer).

What did I do instead?

I pretty much ignored him. Then booked out of there at the first opportunity. And this is someone who I wasn’t really even upset about having reached a dead end with in the first place! I mean, sure, I was a little shocked and slightly disappointed, but once it was over, I didn’t care very much. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to confront him. A horribly lacking display of toughness, to say the least.

And finally, Sunday.

I woke up with the worst head cold and fever combo I’ve had in a while. Like the wimp I’m proving to be this week, I’d do anything for someone to take care of me right now.

Usually, when I’m sick, I take to turning off my phone, closing my door, and huddling under the covers. All I want is to be left alone to sleep for countless, uninterrupted hours. I don’t want to deal with people or problems or anything of the sort.

But the new, wimpy me wants someone to lay in bed with her and make her tea, to watch some crappy daytime dramas and eat chicken soup. I’m like every guy I make fun of who reverts to a small child when he gets hit with the first sneeze. I actually started crying when I stubbed my toe on the way into the shower. Kind of makes me want to kick my own ass.

And now that I think about it, there’s even a fourth reason for me seemingly turning into a girly girl! Being I gave my notice, have a buttload of unused personal and vacation days, and feel like total crap, I most certainly could (and probably should) have called in sick.

But no. Instead, I came in and will sneeze my way through the day. I’ll probably even stay later than usual. Just because.

Life Lesson # 18: While I always considered myself to be more on the strong side than not, I might have some softie tendencies after all. At least this week I certainly did. I’m hoping it’s just because I’m feeling under the weather and my mind is clouded over with Vitamin C and Nyquil.

I might have to go kick someone’s ass or get into a screaming match on the subway to get myself back into the true spirit of self.

Life Lesson #17: Like Mother, Like Daughter.

My mom bought me legit ‘dirty sex’ underwear.

When she gave them to me on Sunday, a souvenir from my parent’s recent cut-short trip to London (thanks to their youngest, as you may recall), I thought, hmm, these are pretty. Oh, and the right size. Perfect.

By the time I got back into Manhattan, I was thinking, wait a second. These are not just pretty, they’re kind of dirty. I’m talking black, sheer, with some red flowery design.

A raised eyebrow and giggle from Madonna confirmed my thought process.

This is underwear made to be seen, taken off, and then thrown haphazardly into a corner of the room.

This is underwear made for sex.

Which leads me to conclude my mom believes one of two things about me.

Option 1: I am in the need of some booty. Stat.

Option 2: I am a slut. Period.

Either way, I’ve got to admit, I’m a little perturbed.

Let’s go with Option 1. There are a few reasons why she might come to this conclusion. I’m going to go with the fact that I rarely mention guys, besides my friends she most likely knows, as the main reason she might believe I get no action.

The truth is, as close and she and I are, I refuse to tell her if I met/am dating/slept with/broke up/am plotting revenge/hope to get in bed/never want to see someone again. Because she has this nasty little habit where she‘ll ask about them all the time. And when she can tell it’s getting on my nerves, she’ll drop it for two months. Then, out of the blue:

“So, how’s [insert name here]?”

“What?”

“I asked you how [insert name here] is doing.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“Oh, don’t give me that. You were dating him for Christ’s sake!”

“You’re crazy.”

That’s how it usually goes. Half the time, I can’t even figure out how the woman even knows a name to begin with. I’m assuming it’s her stealth-like mom hearing and/or snooping skills. During the holidays, she must have overheard me tell H.F.T. about going out with some guy I met recently. A few nights later on the phone:

“So, how are things going with [insert name here]?”

"What?"

“Oh you know, the man you went out to dinner with the other night! What does he do again?”

“What do you mean ‘what does he do again‘? I never told you in the first place!”

“Well how am I supposed to know anything then if you never tell me these things?”

“What? You’re crazy.”

She’s a big fan of that line. I think she first started using it when she finally found out I broke up with my ex-boyfriend of almost four years a good month after the actual breakup (which I guess kind of gives her the right to feel that way, but still). Not because I was too upset or embarrassed to tell her. I just didn’t want to bother to go into the details. And then have to answer a bazillion questions that have nothing to do with anything.

So ever since then, mum’s the word.

Another part of it may be that when she asks how my weekend was or what I did the night before, it often includes something I did with my friends. Whether or not it ended with said friends, I keep that to myself. And so, she probably assumes I do little more than dinner with the girls, happy hour with the coworkers, and afternoon strolls with Liberace.

Take this past weekend.

Version told to mom: Thursday night Yankees game with Madonna and Goose, Friday night bartending, Saturday night out with the usual crew, Sunday afternoon grabbing a ride with a friend who drove me to Westchester.

Actual version: Thursday night Yankees game with Madonna and Goose followed by a late night at a local bar in which too many shots were washed down with some quality, high school-reminiscent making out. Friday night, bartending with a guy I just met who now has my number so we can ‘hang out’ the next time he’s in the city and/or call me this summer for some free surfing lessons. Saturday night (which actually started late afternoon, but that’s neither here nor there) that ended with the guy from Thursday night driving me to my parent’s house on Sunday.

This selective story telling, however, might actually be only fooling myself. Hence, Option 2: mom thinks her daughter’s got a bit of a problem.

You see, my mom’s no fool. She was a dancing queen of the seventies. The woman was engaged three times before my dad. She was a fan of Studio 54. Her friends still joke how she only took off her four-inch heels when she broke her ankle (presumably dancing at Studio 54). She still gets hit on by most men, regardless of age, when going about her usual day. I know a few of my friends who’d like to get her in bed.


So for me to assume the woman thinks Option 1 is more than likely naïve of me. She prides herself in how well she raised her daughter, which probably means in more than the being-polite-to-strangers and making-sure-to-brush-at-least-twice-a-day sort of ways.

Oh, and let’s be honest here. When I got dropped off on Sunday, my dad was in the driveway after having just cruised round the ‘hood on his Fat Boy.

“Hi Dad! How are you?”

“Hey Penny. Good. Great day. Who was that?”

“My friend.”

“You’re crazy.”

Life Lesson # 17: My mom gave me dirty sex underwear because she’s no fool. We may not talk about these things and actually hearing about what an average weekend includes might send her into cardiac arrest, but she knows.

And if I reap free gifts because of it, well then that’s great.

And so, thank you mom. May you never, ever read this blog.