Rumor has it that the Cone is alive & trotting triumphantly around HP following a train-hopping trek through the Rockies.
Whether he actually crossed the Rockies or ended up in a Jewel factory yard in Eastern Illinois (again) remains to be verified.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Thursday, September 6, 2007
mrs. nelson's column
Sunday night Ori, Annetay, Lauren, Corr and I are watching a Coen brothers film when the basement phone rings. thinking it might be megan announcing her safe arrival to her new co-op 900 miles away, I went to grab the cordless.
an accented voice greeted me. "is nelson christopher available?"
em...
no one exactly knows chris nelson. no resident in the last 4 years, nor the co-opers we've met from 6, 7, 9 or 10 years ago, have ever met christopher --- although everyone agrees the name sounds "familiar."
most notably christopher nelson is the name under whom our phone is registered. the bills come in his name, and haymarket (as haymarket) pays them. there is no check forgery, but there is also no idea where - or even who - christopher is, when exactly he lived here and whether he knows there are two phone accounts in his name. considering he has student loans for which he's never provided a forwarding address, the theory is that we are the best thing on his credit record.
and knowing how long he's been headlining our bills, no one is exactly hopping up and down to switch the account to their name.
so when someone calls for him, the proper response is not "there is no christopher at this residence" but a simple blurry truth "chris is not home now. may i take a message?"
sunday night, i settled on an answer to subtly, smugly, let this man know anyone who couldn't tell first name from last had telegraphed himself as a salesman, and a mediocre one at that.
"chris," i said, "isn't home."
"is this mrs nelson?"
"nope."
"may i speak with mrs nelson?"
"there is no mrs nelson."
"may i speak to a member of the family?"
"there is no family. what is this in regard to? may i take a message?"
"is this mrs nelson?"
he didn't catch on rapidly.
"no. this is a housemate of christopher nelson."
"well. today i have a wonderful offer for ADS, dish satellite."
"in that case, we have comcast and we're satisfied. we barely ever watch tv."
"so you ARE mrs nelson!!" he declared triumphantly.
"false," i rolled my eyes. "there's no mrs nelson."
"I don't believe you mrs nelson."
if he couldn't sell me dish tv he'll try to sell me an alter ego? cheeky! "what? NO! there isn't one."
"i don't think you're very nice, i don't believe you. you're trying to play with me, mrs nelson, by saying there is no mrs nelson."
"i am a housemate."
"suddenly i mention satellite and you know that you are satisfied with comcast, sounds like mrs nelson to m-"
breathing had paused on the couches in the movie area.
corrigan's voice floated over, "uhh, do you want us to pause the movie?"
"No," i said over my shoulder. then into the phone, "NO, detective! i am a housemate, a mate of the house, do you get it, a room mate, we share a house. there is no mrs nelson. we don't want satellite. NO THANK YOU, and no need to call back. Goodbye."
an accented voice greeted me. "is nelson christopher available?"
em...
no one exactly knows chris nelson. no resident in the last 4 years, nor the co-opers we've met from 6, 7, 9 or 10 years ago, have ever met christopher --- although everyone agrees the name sounds "familiar."
most notably christopher nelson is the name under whom our phone is registered. the bills come in his name, and haymarket (as haymarket) pays them. there is no check forgery, but there is also no idea where - or even who - christopher is, when exactly he lived here and whether he knows there are two phone accounts in his name. considering he has student loans for which he's never provided a forwarding address, the theory is that we are the best thing on his credit record.
and knowing how long he's been headlining our bills, no one is exactly hopping up and down to switch the account to their name.
so when someone calls for him, the proper response is not "there is no christopher at this residence" but a simple blurry truth "chris is not home now. may i take a message?"
sunday night, i settled on an answer to subtly, smugly, let this man know anyone who couldn't tell first name from last had telegraphed himself as a salesman, and a mediocre one at that.
"chris," i said, "isn't home."
"is this mrs nelson?"
"nope."
"may i speak with mrs nelson?"
"there is no mrs nelson."
"may i speak to a member of the family?"
"there is no family. what is this in regard to? may i take a message?"
"is this mrs nelson?"
he didn't catch on rapidly.
"no. this is a housemate of christopher nelson."
"well. today i have a wonderful offer for ADS, dish satellite."
"in that case, we have comcast and we're satisfied. we barely ever watch tv."
"so you ARE mrs nelson!!" he declared triumphantly.
"false," i rolled my eyes. "there's no mrs nelson."
"I don't believe you mrs nelson."
if he couldn't sell me dish tv he'll try to sell me an alter ego? cheeky! "what? NO! there isn't one."
"i don't think you're very nice, i don't believe you. you're trying to play with me, mrs nelson, by saying there is no mrs nelson."
"i am a housemate."
"suddenly i mention satellite and you know that you are satisfied with comcast, sounds like mrs nelson to m-"
breathing had paused on the couches in the movie area.
corrigan's voice floated over, "uhh, do you want us to pause the movie?"
"No," i said over my shoulder. then into the phone, "NO, detective! i am a housemate, a mate of the house, do you get it, a room mate, we share a house. there is no mrs nelson. we don't want satellite. NO THANK YOU, and no need to call back. Goodbye."
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
twilight picnic
Veggie skewers, burgers, tomato-mozza-basil pasta, and union songs to the strummings of guitar and mandolin. Twenty-odd joyous co-opers and a twinkling fire. Sweet September holiday: no labor in sight.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
mysteries
Ben glanced at TMSN, recently back from medical volunteering in Africa, and noticed her jet black shirt with sporty yellow arm stripes, a small stitched on Ghanaian flag, and the bright Helvetica lettering reading GHANA.
"Hey," he asked. "Where'd you get your shirt?"
"Hey," he asked. "Where'd you get your shirt?"
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
not yesterday
Propped topless in bed, typing on his laptop as I left for work this Tuesday morning, Eli asked if the Art Institute offers free admission on Thursdays.
"Yes," I said, "Thursday and Friday evenings from 5-9 during the summer."
"Perhaps I'll go," Eli said, nudging his glasses.
"You do know," I smirked, "That just because today starts with a T does not make it Thursday."
"Yes," Eli replied, sweetly set to thwart my smirk. "But every day starts with a T, April. Because each day is today."
"Yes," I said, "Thursday and Friday evenings from 5-9 during the summer."
"Perhaps I'll go," Eli said, nudging his glasses.
"You do know," I smirked, "That just because today starts with a T does not make it Thursday."
"Yes," Eli replied, sweetly set to thwart my smirk. "But every day starts with a T, April. Because each day is today."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
