The Department of Bubblegum

BLOW YOUR LUNCH!

For some reason I feel compelled to pick out ridiculous gifts for my friends Holly and Jeremy.  One of my favorite places to shop for them is at Walgreens, where I search out bizarre and useless candy items.  I once bought them a lollipop shaped like a tongue, which protruded from a plastic face bearing the likeness of a zoo animal.  The degree of protrusion could be controlled by a plastic slide.  While visiting them in Grand Rapids a couple weeks ago, I came across some hot dog bubble gum in the bargain section of a local Walgreens, marked down from $1.29 to 32¢.

Everything about it cracks me up: the fact that the text covering the "hot dogs" reads: "BLOW YOUR LUNCH!"; that it's made to look like a package of Oscar Mayer lunch meat both disgusts and delights me; and that it's made in China for the Ford Gum Machine Company, Inc. of Akron, NY simply baffles me.   Someone ordered this gum to be shipped all the way from China, where it was made with the ingredients listed on the nutrition label (plus or minus who knows what), then packed into a shipping container and transported to Akron, NY, where it was distributed to a Walgreens in Grand Rapids, MI, and marked down to 32¢.  It's notable that the price tag marking it down is no shabby affair - it didn't come shooting out of a pricing gun, it was printed using a computer and a sheet of labels, and includes the dates that the sale price is good: 09/23-10-03/23/11. 

I bought three packages, but not before accidentally dropping one that split open upon impact with the floor and sent all six pieces of fruit flavored, hot dog-shaped bubble gum into tiny shards across the aisle, prompting M to say: "I can't take you anywhere."  Fortunately, nobody else seemed to be paying attention.

When we met up with Holly and Jeremy, I gleefully dug the purchase out to show them.  "You gave that to us before," Jeremy said, "twice."

That's okay, I'll just wait until Christmas and send it to them again.

INSPECTED BY DEPT. OF BUBBLEGUM

September 26th - Notes from The Brayton House

I.  I first came here in May with Angelica, we needed a hotel in Grand Rapids on our way to and from the U.P.  We wanted something close to the Amtrak station, and were hoping for something cheap.  Someone was smart enough to make their website bandbofgrandrapids; it was the first listing that came up when I typed those words into a Google search. "Goooood morning, Brayton House, this is George, how can I help you?" a man with a radio announcer's voice answered when I called.  I told him the dates we needed, and he described each of the three rooms available -- what kind of bed was in it, how much it cost per night.  The smaller rooms were $80 a night, and the big room with bay windows was somehow only $5 more.  I said we wanted the big room, and asked if it was possible to get two beds.  George paused, and asked: "Well, what's the situation, are you two ladies?"  "Yes," I said, barely containing the urge to laugh.  "There's a cot that we can bring in but it's not very comfortable," he said.  I said it was probably fine just to have the one bed, but before booking the room he made me call Angelica first to clear it with her.  "No way, I'm not sleeping with you," she said, in her flattest sarcastic voice, which can be mistaken as serious if you don't know better.  I called back to reserve the room, and George asked if I had a credit card.  "Just to hold the room," he explained, "we accept cash, checks, and credit cards, but we prefer cash because the bank fees are killing us." "Okay," I said.  "We take Visa, MasterCard, and American Express," he continued, "do you have one of those?"  "Yes," said.  "Well if you've got that rascal out, I'll take the number now," he said.  I relayed this tidbit to Angelica.  "All I can say is," she said, "welcome to my people." 

II.  In our room, there were stacks of old magazines: Smithsonian; National Geographic; The New Yorker.  I read a 1976 New Yorker article on the Carter v. Ford Presidential race.

III.  In every room is a sheet of paper that explains, in flowery, italicized font, the house rules:

No rules - No regulations

Most of our guests are ladies and gentlemen, who are just naturally decent and orderly, and are considerate of the rights of others, therefore, the "rules and regulations" they have applied to their own lives are much better than any printed list we might suggest.


To that very small minority of people who through ignorance or just plain cussedness, smoke or burn candles in the building, endangering the lives of all our guests, who drink loud and long, who have their televisions going full blast when others have turned in for the night, who think it is their (right) privelege (sic) to take towels and other articles when they leave, who throw refuse most anyplace, who feel the entire water supply belongs to them, who allows (sic) their children to roam the building without supervision, and who leave a dirty mess in the rooms.


A list of "rules and regulations" a mile long wouldn't change their habits of living, therefore, none has been applied.


We enjoy having you as our guest and hope your stay is pleasant and memorable.

IV.  Also in every room is a brief history of the house, typed on letterhead with a black and white rendering of the building in the header:

THE BRAYTON HOUSE
516 College Street

James P. Brayton was the builder and original owner of the house we are enjoying this evening.

Mr. Brayton was born November 23, 1840 in the state of Wisconsin.  At age 15 he moved to Michigan and earned his living as a county surveyor in Ottawa County.  He was assisted in his job by his father.  Through this position he came in contact with men who were making history in Michigan lumbering operations.  Some of these individuals were:  T.R. Lyons, T. Steward White, and Thomas Friant.  Mr. Brayton himself became well known all over the United States.

In addition to buying and selling lumber for himself, his signature was accepted as the last word regarding the value of standing lumber.  Mr. Brayton was a quiet man and aside from being an early member of the Masonic Lodge, he was not a figure in society and did not take part in public life.  He built this house in 1889.  The architecture of the house is called Georgian Revival and it is listed on the National Historical register.

The next owner of this house was Stewart Foote, President of Imperial Furniture Company, which at one time was the largest manufacture (sic) of quality tables in America.  Mr. Foote occupied the house from 1920-1935.

In 1935, James McInerny, (President of McInerny Spring and Wire Company, the world's largest manufacturer of seat springs for automobiles) purchased the home.  He and his family lived here until 1945.  During their ownership, the kitchen and bathrooms were remodeled and wallpapers were put up.  They also adjusted the size of the ballroom on the third floor in order to add three extra bedrooms.  The Carriage House was made into living quarters at about the same time.

In 1945, Mr. McInerny gave the house to the Catholic Diocese and it was used as a residence for priests until 1970.

Mr. Walter Kehres, Director of Waldon Village, an alternative high school, purchased the home in 1970.

In September 1971, the property was bought by Gene and Phyllis Ball.  Mr. Ball passed away in 1976.  Mrs. Ball continues to reside in the home, as well as rent out some of the guest rooms to tenants.

V.  Phyllis likes to serve breakfast early.  I'm here again in September, this time with my husband.  We're visiting Holly and Jeremy, who were already putting up several people in their apartment; the Brayton House is only about a mile from them.  "What time do you want breakfast?" Phyllis asked us when we checked in.  "We're here visiting friends, and we'll probably sleep late tomorrow," I said. "So, nine o'clock?" She asked, her unblinking eyes fixed on me from behind her wire-rimmed glasses.  M considered saying something jokey about nine o'clock not really being late, at least not to us, but reconsidered.  "Um, we're meeting our friends for breakfast," I said, "I don't want to trouble you with making breakfast for us, but thanks."

VI. Phyllis reminds me of David Letterman's mother.

VII.  Phyllis leaves two After Eight mints on a little red tray on the nightstand when she makes up the room.  Angelica thought they were condoms.

VII.  There's a WiFi connection, but it's not very good.

IX.  I went for a run in the morning, then took a shower.  Phyllis opened the door to the bathroom while I was drying off.  I gasped as I saw the top of her gray head, which only comes up to my shoulders, and held a bright yellow towel between my body and the widening crack in the door.  "Oh sorry," she said loudly, closing the door, "sorry, I wasn't sure where you'd gone or where you were."  "That's okay," I said from inside the bathroom.

X.  There are 20 rooms in this house, and only 3 are rented out to guests.  There's an entire floor I haven't seen, not to mention the carriage house.  The wallpaper, bathroom and kitchen fixtures date from 1935-1945.  Antiques and curios are everywhere, including quilts hung from picture molding on the walls.

XI.  Someone at the end of the hall, in the residential part of the house, has a TV or radio turned on at a low volume all day, and I can hear people walking on the floor above us.

XII.  In May, on our way back from the U.P., Angelica and I stayed in the same room with the bay windows that we'd stayed in on our way north.  We sat on the porch eating burgers from Black Castles - a burger joint that looks like it operates out of the converted living room of somebody's house, has a pool table, framed photos of Malcolm X and Tupac, and a TV set that blared infotainment news when we walked in.  Our order came to $7.50; the cashier - who was the only other person there besides us, couldn't break $8 so he gave us back $1.  Angelica found two quarters in her purse so that we could pay what we owed.   On the walk back, we realized we'd just visited the neighborhood where, back when the Brayton House was first built, the day servants lived.  A group of  Heritage Hill tourists  stared at us from across the street.  One of them walked over to us and asked: "Do you own this house?". 
"Yes," Angelica said, in her flattest sarcastic voice, which can be mistaken for serious if you don't know better.

The Wedding - or - The Road to Pentwater

I set the alarm for 6 a.m., but it didn’t go off. M magically woke at 6:30, and we hit the road an hour later in a borrowed car heading towards Michigan, Eastern Standard Time, and Holly and Jeremy's wedding. I met the bride in late 2002 when we were coworkers at a national nonprofit organization. I walked into her office shortly after being hired and saw an image of comedian David Cross on her computer monitor, and knew then that we were destined to become friends. We were even neighbors for a while, I knew the guy who owned the house next door and the rent was cheap, so she and Jeremy moved in. They had a set of E.T. walkie talkies, and we kept one in our kitchen, turning it on now and then and speaking into its belly to see what was going on next door. It wasn’t very effective since we’d have to call first and tell them to turn their E.T. on, but it was fun nonetheless.

Time spent with Holly and Jeremy is frequently spontaneous and immature, and makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. Once while driving on Ashland Avenue Jeremy began yelling things out of the passenger side window. I told him to yell "alcohol is a social lubricant," and he did, hanging his head out the window like a dog and howling it at pedestrians. Eventually the phrase was condensed to "social luuuuuuube," and still later to a single word, "soshalube." For days afterward we muttered it to each other in a kind of half-cough.

We were fairly casual about visiting between our homes, and I walked into their living room once to find a small pile of toenail clippings on the edge of the coffee table.
"Are those toenails?" I asked Holly.
"Yes," she answered, mortified. I knew what they were instantly, and I knew that they had to have once been a part of Jeremy’s foot because M does the same thing in our living room.

Their apartment was in the attic and had slanting walls where the roof inclined. It was cute, but small and poorly heated, so they moved out after a year to a bigger space near Logan Square. Holly quit her job in August of 2005, and I followed suit shortly. It was an adjustment; towards the end of our time working together we shared an office with a window that overlooked Lake Michigan, and it was fun going to work knowing she’d be there. About a year ago Holly and Jeremy moved to Grand Rapids, and we’ve seen them once or twice since then. They’d been together for seven years before they got engaged, so it was almost as if they were married already, but I was looking forward to watching them make it official. They'd chosen the small town of Pentwater for their wedding because Holly's family has been spending summers there since before she was born; for years they've had a bumper sticker on their car that says "Pentwater, Heaven, What's The Difference?"

We took the Kennedy to the Skyway and drove through Gary and northern Indiana before crossing the border into Michigan and connecting to Route 31. Signs for the Blue Star Highway appeared on the side of the road, and I thought it sounded like the most beautiful highway in the world. We passed Schmuhl Road, crossed the Paw Paw river, and as we approached Holland I realized I had an urgent need to find a bathroom. M pulled into a gas station and I walked into the adjoining convenience store, where a woman sat behind the counter engrossed in a phone conversation. I looked around the small space hoping that the bathroom was inside the store, but saw no evidence of one. I got the cashier’s attention, and hadn’t even finished forming my question before she threw a key attached to a piece of wood on top of the glass-topped counter in front of her without breaking the rhythm of her conversation. I walked outside and slipped the key inside the lock of the bathroom door, the promise of sweet relief just seconds away. What I saw sent my urine into reverse; even with the lights off I could see a pyramid of toilet paper sitting glacier-like in the middle of the toilet bowl, accented with streaks of brown that cascaded down onto the toilet seat. Like a glacier, a small percentage of its mass showed above the waterline. I walked back into the convenience store and threw the key onto the counter with the fury of relief denied. The cashier absentmindedly picked it up and hung it back on its hook behind the register.
“Do you have another bathroom?” I asked, “that one’s dirty.”
“Oh really, is it bad?” she asked, the phone receiver still pressed to her ear, "yeah," I said.
“No, that’s the only one we have,” she said, and turned back to her conversation. I marched towards M, who was finishing up at the gas pump.
“That toilet is disgusting,” I announced, “we have to go somewhere else.” We drove a few hundred feet to a Denny’s, and I marched right past the hostess to the back of the restaurant. I burst through to the first toilet and was so relieved that I started laughing as a torrent of urine exited my body. I heard a rustle coming from the adjoining stall and realized that I wasn’t alone. I finished quickly and washed my hands, and giggled again after reading a sticker affixed to the paper towel dispenser that read:

BEFORE YOUR SHIFT BEGINS
AFTER A BREAK
AFTER BEING SOILED BY WORK
AFTER A SMOKE BREAK
EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS

On my way out of the restaurant I passed by a friend of M's, a professional painter who, in exchange for tattooing from M, painted our living and dining rooms when we first moved into our house six years ago. He was on his way from Chicago to a wedding in Saugatuck, and I wouldn't have recognized him, but he'd approached M in the parking lot and they'd exchanged greetings.

Back in the car I began to notice that the town of Holland, MI had a Dutch theme; there were signs for Tulip City Airport, I spotted a mini golf course with a windmill on the putting green, and we drove past a sign in the shape of a Dutch clog advertising the Wooden Shoe Antique Mall & Restaurant. At Felch Street we spotted a car with four Jesus fishes attached to the rear.
"That guy just really, really, really, really wants you to know that he believes," I said.
"He also really runs red lights," M said, as the believer blew through an intersection ahead of us. We continued on past both Ransom Street and Ransom Street West, Macatowa Legends Golf Club, and a convoy of vehicles transporting boy scout troops to a jamboree.

We pulled into Pentwater at about 12:30 p.m. Michigan time, changed out of our traveling clothes and walked to the village green. The wedding ceremony was short but poignant. Holly walked across the green with her father and stood on the steps of the gazebo with Jeremy, where they exchanged vows. Their dog Enzo served as the ring bearer, with assistance from Brian, the brother of the groom. Once Enzo delivered the rings a round of applause came from the guests, and a woman with salt and pepper hair who I recognized as Jeremy and Brian's mother leaned forward and said:
"Good job Brian".

Afterward there was a reception under a tent on the lawn of the Ida Jean Bed & Breakfast. Teary eyed toasts were made by the two sisters of the bride, the father of the bride and various friends, as well as the single funniest brother of the groom speech I've ever heard. Jeremy and his brother Brian have many similar features, but while Brian has a full head of hair Jeremy has none. In some circles Brian is known as Hairemy, and he opened his speech with:
"People say that my brother and I are a lot alike, but there are some things I do that he doesn't... like buy shampoo." Much dancing and revelry followed, and at midnight the party moved to a local bar called The Antler. M and I headed to our cozy B&B, dog tired from our travels.

We spent the next day with the bride and groom, and a handful of other guests, passing an idyllic day swimming, watching the sunset, drinking beer and sharing stories under the stars. Since we were on the far western edge of the eastern time zone the light lasted until ten o'clock at night, adding to the sense of magic. By the time Monday rolled around it felt as though we'd been there for weeks, and had completely relaxed into the small town routine of greeting strangers on the street and never walking more than four blocks to get anywhere. We'd spent more time with Holly and Jeremy than we have in years, and made connections with some of their friends in the process.

We made the trek back home on the same roads we'd driven up on, with a view of new billboards. One bore an ad for an "adult superstore" called the Lion's Den that featured the silhouette of a lion with a full mane standing closely behind a lioness in a pose just shy of coitus. Another advertised Buck Snort Lodge Products, and a third advertised a restaurant called the Texas Corral with the catchphrase "Just drop the shells on the floor," an odd selling point. In Michigan City, Indiana, a billboard read "What can wash away my sins? Only the blood of Jesus," but I wasn't sold on that either. We pulled off the highway twenty yards from it it to stop at the Indiana Welcome Center, and parked next to a man who got out of his car sporting brown polyester pants and thick lamb chop sideburns. It was as if we'd not only crossed over the state line to Indiana, but had also crossed over to 1975. In the ladies room every third bathroom had a sign announcing that it was out of order, and the clock in the main entryway was set for Chicago time.

Just before stopping at Culver's for butter burgers (if you've never had one you're missing out) M spotted this bumper sticker on a car ahead of us: "If you can read this, thank a teacher... and since it is in English, thank a soldier."
"Wow, that's great," I said, "since everyone in the service speaks English as their first language."
"Not to mention that the only war fought on U.S. soil was against England," M added. I considered this for a moment.
"What about the Alamo?" I asked. We were cloudy on the specifics, but if you'd like to take it up with the driver, they have vanity plates from Michigan with the word "ANJULS" spelled out - in perfect English, naturally.

How I spent thirty nine dollars and fifteen cents today.

"I'm going to Cermak to get ingredients for The Recipe", I said.
"The Recipe?" my husband asked, voice rising, "I've been waiting for The Recipe for weeks!"

Sometimes when I'm at Cermak Produce, a local grocery store that caters to the Central and South American populations in our neighborhood, I'll see an ingredient that piques my interest and buy it, thinking I'll find a way to incorporate it into a meal somehow. Recently I picked up a can of hominy that had a drawing of a dark-haired woman in a Mexican hat, smiling and looking sideways at something out of frame that only she could see. "Adelita Pozole Blanco", the label read, and I was sold. I'd recently been fed hominy by friends who knew what it was and how to cook with it, so I felt confident. I went onto epicurious.com and typed in "hominy", and scrolled past all the difficult looking recipes until I found one called Southwestern Black Bean And Hominy Salad. It looked simple enough so I printed it, and left it on the desk by the computer for three weeks. I put The Recipe in my purse, and left the house.

The first order of things was Walgreen's, where I had an overdue prescription to pick up. M wanted ice cream, "real ice cream", as he put it, not the off-brand stuff I'd brought home from Cermak last week. He'd wanted chocolate ice cream and the only brand Cermak carries is called Joe & Ross, which is made in Cicero, and tastes slightly of paper pulp. When you scrape away a layer, the ice cream underneath is a lighter color than on top, and I'm not sure what this means. Our Walgreen's carries Ben & Jerry's, so I picked up a pint of Chubby Hubby for M, and a pint of Häagen-Dazs coffee ice cream for me.

Next I stopped by the photo supplies and frames aisle, where a middle-aged man clapped his hands and pulsed back and forth in time with the overhead music, an easy listening version of an early Ohio Players song. I wanted a cheap frame for a napkin that had been decorated with rude drawings a few summers ago when Holly and Jeremy came over for dinner. On it were depicted the full range of outline drawings that might be found in the spiral-bound notebook of a seventh grade boy: a W, depicting someone's rear end, expelling flatus represented by four straight lines leading to a small cloud; two concave lines representing a woman's torso, with one breast that looked like an eyeball, and the other obscured by a Kermit the frog-like hand; the profile of a goateed man with an X for an eye, drinking from a beer bong that was held magically in the air by no one, a bottle with an X on the label pouring liquid into the top of the funnel; and finally, not one but two depictions of hands flashing the symbol for "the shocker", one clad in a leather spiked bracelet, the other with curved lines around the thumb and pinkie, indicating movement. The napkin had decorated our refrigerator for some time, and then in preparation for a visit from M's parents had been moved into a kitchen drawer. Holly and Jeremy are getting married this summer, and we've been accumulating gifts appropriate for the occasion. I found an 8" x 10" frame for $4.49, and placed the two pints of ice cream on top of it like a tray.

I made my way to the pharmacy, where I gave my name to the the mild mannered, balding pharmacist.

"Chubby Hubby," he said looking at my groceries, and then chuckled.
"Yeah, ha ha," I said.
"Is that your favorite flavor?"
"Uh, no, funnily enough it's my husband's favorite," I said. He scanned my prescription across the electronic eye of the register, then the two pints of ice cream, and the picture frame; my total was $17.08.

Next stop was Cermak. I walked through Walgreen's sliding doors and headed south, passing a darkened storefront with bags of grain in the window. "The Oriental Store" was printed on its green awning, and taped to the inside of the window were three pieces of paper that read:

3
Horse
17.99

At Cermak I got the remaining ingredients for The Recipe: an avocado, cilantro, yellow peppers, a jalapeño pepper, and a tub of green salsa marked with a bright orange sticker reading: "Hot", to distinguish it from its neighbor, guacamole, similarly labeled: "Mild." In addition, I picked up a bunch of bananas, and a mango with a sticker that read "Estrellita", simply because I thought it was a cute name. M and I took a Spanish class about a year ago, and I'm still in the phase of learning the language where the sounds of certain words delight me. When Cermak first opened, a cashier gave me my total in Spanish, and I was thrilled.

"She spoke Spanish to me!" I said to M, "do I look Hispanic today?"
"Well," he said, surveying me up and down, "you don't look un-Hispanic."

I brought my items to a checkout lane, and waited my turn. Above the belt were impulse items, and I was distracted by a chocolate bar named "Kranky" that had a picture of a happy K with a smiling face on it. The woman in front of me was buying Mexican hot dogs in shrink-wrapped packaging that read "Fud". Finally it was my turn, and my items totaled $12.07.