I got a new phone a few months ago, a Samsung Galaxy S4. I’m in love. It’s big shiny and I know how to do everything on it except make a phone call. I plug in the headphones it came with and call my mom. I can hear her fine,

“Hello? Hello? Hello?” Click.

I call her back and explain I’m trying to use my headphones. I tell her,

“Don’t hang up even if you can’t hear me, I’m going to try to get them to work.”

I try the headphones again. She can’t hear anything. I press a button on the headset and it ends the call. I call my mom back. Busy. I call back again. Busy. So telling my mom not to hang up may be backfiring.

I gave up on the headphones for awhile, but now with a boyfriend in North Carolina I’m determined to figure them out. I go online to Samsung.com. There’s a tutorial for everything related to my phone except the headset. There’s an explanation for how to turn on your phone, how to send a text message, how to find the internet, but no mention of a headset.

I start an online chat. I ask for headset instructions. ‘Tom’ tells me,

“Would you mind holding for 3 minutes while I look into this for you?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you for holding. There are no instructions. It should just work.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Try plugging the headset into another Samsung Galaxy S4.”

“I don’t have another one.”

“I would recommend going to Best Buy.”

The other night at the bar we were serving a salmon salad special. The salmon is farmed. I describe it to a 75-year-old regular. He pounds on the bar,

“Honey, you know I like my salmon like I like my women. WILD.”

He reaches out to grab me.

A young couple is at my bar. I’ve seen them a few times before. They are the epitome of hipster. They are so hipster that they could be non-hipsters dresssed ironically as hipsters.

Wrap your head around that one.

The woman tells the man,

“You are a terrible public speaker. You have the same problem I do, but you’re worse. You don’t know how to talk to the bottom half.”

“I don’t want to talk to the bottom half.”

I’m chatting with two guys at the bar. One tells me,

I’m chatting with a guy at the bar. He is wearing a very nice pink checkered shirt. I have a blanket and a robe with the same exact pattern. I tell him.

“I love your shirt.”

“You can borrow it if you take me out for a drink.”

Pink underwear or commando?

So about my bike…

Did you think you had heard the last of it? NO WAY. My bar manager says every blog post about my bike should end with: “To be continued…”

Back to my bike. I took it for a ride this weekend and the men couldn’t stop checking it out. “Nice streamers, nice basket, oh look at that flower.”

Yes we may have been near Provincetown.

To be continued…

For anyone who was worried, I paid Massachusetts. We can be friends again. 

My boyfriend and I head over to my bar manager’s home for dinner. The conversation quickly dissolves. My bar manager declares,

“Did you know that people get the same good feeling from petting a dog that women do from breastfeeding?”

Sounds possible but there’s only one person in the room who would really know and it’s not my bar manager, my boyfriend or me. Although we’ve all petted a dog.

My bar manager continues,

“Dogs also have a real bone in their penises.”

“No way.”

“It’s true.”

“I don’t believe you.”

I go home and consult Google. There is a penis bone. Many mammals have one. Not humans. There is also a female equivalent: the clitoris bone.

A raccoon penis bone necklace. If only there were matching clitoris bone earrings.

I head to the bike shop to pick up my bike. They helped me install a new white basket. Yes I already had a basket, but it was pink and I needed a white one too.

I browse the water bottle holders. I tell the guy,

“I’d like to get one of these installed too.”

“Well lets see.” He examines my bike and tells me,

“None of these are going to work.”

I stare at him blankly. I’m at a bike shop with my bike talking to a bike guy who fixes bikes. I see no reason I should not be a getting a water bottle holder screwed on. He continues,

“With a bike like this they assume you’re not going far enough to get thirsty.”

EXCUSE ME! I will be going far enough to get thirsty. Never mind that I get thirsty within a few blocks.

The guy notices my consternation and says,

“There are cup holders that you could attach to your handlebars right here.”

“But that’s where my handlebar flowers go.”

“Well then it should be easy to water them.”

Bad news bears. The state of Massachusetts has decided that I owe them money from 2009. I can’t even remember whether I was in South America, Africa or Worcester. Massachusetts says Worcester.

And if I do owe them money, why is this the first time I’m hearing about it?  They told me that if I don’t pay this bill from four years ago in less than a month there will be more late fees. I do not deserve a four-year late fee because they’re behind on their paperwork.

Two older, well-dressed men are at the bar. One complains to me,

We went bowling last night and my bowling leaves something to be desired. It’s not awful. Growing up on skee-ball at the Dream Machine in the Greendale mall was good for some hand-eye-ball coordination. Worcester people am I right?

I almost broke 100 points one game. We had to create bowling names. I used my rapper name. Yeah I have a rapper name which doubles as my bowling name which should probably be my new email address: “J Money.”

And as I do before any activity, I have carefully planned my wardrobe. Before we leave my boyfriend (Luck B Strikes) asks me,

“Do you have socks?”

“Oh I have socks. They’ve got ruffles.”

“Really?”

I pull them out. Each sock has two layers of ruffles. He asks,

“Are those bowling socks?”

“They’re everything socks.”

After three games, J Money pulls in at a close second. I tell Luck B Strikes,

“That was fun.” He replies,

“I really liked your socks.”

Money

I show up for my boyfriend’s birthday in a tiny tight red cocktail dress and high heels. I’m dragging a suitcase behind me. We stand on the sidewalk as a truck pulls up with a trailer marked: “exotic car rentals.”

People from my boyfriend’s building are giving me the once over. They’re looking at him, looking at the trailer and back at me. The Porsche convertible vrooms to a start. Yes it vrooms. This is a sexy car. My boyfriend gestures at me and the car and declares,

“It looks like I pulled out my credit card and bought the whole weekend.”

That is the nicest way anyone has ever called me a high-end hooker.

It’s my boyfriend’s birthday today! For his birthday I’m going to get my hair and nails done. What a lucky guy.

I tell a manly middle-aged regular about our plans,

“I rented a convertible!”

“Fun. You’re going to need to do something with you hair. Do you have a scarf?”

“I have hair elastics.”

This is the last guy I expected to get hair advice from. He continues,

“If you don’t do something with your hair it’s going to be ruined.”

“Ok.”

“I know because I rented a convertible for prom and my date didn’t talk to me again.”

I am sore in so many places. And it’s hard to say from what. In 48 hours I did a summer’s worth of activities.

I played tennis, went swimming, went on a boat, went water skiing, went in a helicopter, went kayaking, went swimming again and went horseback riding.

That’s not even taking into account indoor activities.

I head to the paper store to pick out a new journal. I find a good one. The cashier tells me,

“If you like this one we sell it online and you can get it personalized.”

“Nice.”

“And with the holidays right around the corner it makes a great gift.”

I serve a guy a beer. He looks at me confused. He asks,

“Are you the bartender?”

“Yes.”

“But you weren’t the bartender who was here last night.”

“No, I’m not.”

“So there are different bartenders.”

I took my bike to the bike shop today so they could help me put on my new basket. I know I have a boyfriend for that, but he also has a job. 

I spent the weekend at my boyfriend’s parent’s home. They liked the store-bought fudge. Blueberry pie attempt #2 will commence this week.

Baking today was a learning experience. I will be buying fudge on my way to work. 

Too late.