A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing? You Decide.

Here's another odd story for you.

Every once in a while I try to meet up with educators who have made an impact on my life. Last night met an old Spanish* teacher, Mr. Saluti*, for dinner. He was one of my favorite teachers in high school and really inspired me with my college decisions/ etc.

To preface, when you're in high school you sometimes forget that your teachers have lives beyond teaching. Oftentimes you cannot think of them beyond the subjects that they teach. It's hard to imagine them doing anything else, really. You also assume that they live a simple life, not cutthroat enough to be in the business world, not motivated enough to be involved in the political scene, and not creative enough to be involved in the arts/writing/creative scene. It's sad, but true. We, as a society, often downplay the intelligence and passion of the common teacher.

That's sort of how I looked at this man-- he was a great teacher with a quick, dry wit and an interesting look at life (probably a 16 on the humor scale), but certainly not someone that I would have considered to have a super-interesting life beyond high school (although I never doubted his intelligence... he's obviously a very smart man).

Let me describe him to you. To meet him on the street, you would chalk him up as an All-American teacher. He's got the Nautica-type look going on coupled with big glasses. Very much "normal."

But deep down inside, I've always known that there was an element of mystery surrounding him. I just had that gut feeling. Why? He moved to the midstate to teach after living in New York City and working in the business world, for one (who does that)? Secondly, I've known the man for years and I still don't know what exactly he did with this pre-teaching corporate job. He mentions it but never really talks about it in detail.

The reporter within me came out last night and I started to probe (which, as you all know, I am PARTICULARLY good at getting people (including complete strangers) to tell me stuff .) I figured that at most, I'd get some story about him being a successful middle-level salesman who got sick of corporate America and wanted to embrace the simple life. What I got out of him was something totally unexpected. Two words:













The Mob.

Yes, I think my All-American mentor used to be (and possibly still is) highly involved in the New York mafia.

How do I know this? I asked him point blank what company he worked for. He chuckled, looked away, and told me that he really couldn't tell me. I would not be defeated. I laughed, and responded, "Well, can you tell me what industry you were involved in, at least?" He laughed again. "Nope." I laughed again and jokingly added as an afterthought, "Well, you can at least tell me that it was legal, right?" He got completely serious and said, "Well, no." But I really can't talk about this anymore.

WTF?!

But he did. He went on to tell me about some of the people he hung out with in New York (both friends and business associates) and all the perks he got as a result of his association with them - complimentary limo access, unlimited free lodging at 5-star resorts all over the world, free premier tickets at local events, front-of-the-line access to the best restaurants in the city, to name a few - totally solidifying what was going through my mind.

In the interest of my safety and the safety of my teacher, this is all I will write on this topic. But I had to mention it because it was truly one of those life moments that made me step back and look at life with renewed interest and a big, "Holy crap." There are so many people with lives that would blow you away (no pun intended) if you really knew what was going on with them-- I think it might be my mission in life to find these people and write about them. An interesting prospect.


*You know the deal... name/gender/school subject concealed for security purposes.

Weird Moment of the Day

The strangest thing just happened to me... On my lunch break, I decided I wanted to get a Jamocha shake from Arby's (my current guilty obsession). I walked through the door, passing a man who was coming out. As we passed, a seaman's type of bell (loud, like something you'd find on the docks) started clanging, and all the staff started shouting (at the top of their lungs and not in unison), "Thank you for visiting Arby's! Have a super day! Thank you for visiting Arby!"

I tentatively walked up to the counter and ordered my shake. The manager, a trashy bleached blond woman with bad blue eyeshadow, handed it to me with an oh-too-cheerful, "Thank you for choosing Arby's!" I wanted to be like, "Dude. It's a milkshake. You were across the street. It wasn't a conscious decision..."

As I turned, the rest of the staff chimed in, shouting at different intervals, "Thank you for choosing Arby's! Thank you for choosing Arby's! etc." Really weird.

I discovered the source of the bell as I approached the door to leave. There it hung in all of its brass glory above a metal plate reading, "Ring if you were pleased with your service."

'What the Hell," I thought. I rang the bell (deja vu, Belmar... ;-) ) and walked out to the sound of resonant clanging and "Thank you for choosing Arby's... thank you for choosing Arby's... thank you for choosing Arby's!"

Who says chain restaurants can't hold mystique?

What's a month without a hippie party? Pt. 1

I was privileged enough this weekend to have been invited to a hippie "pond" party by a co-worker. My co-worker, Shawn*, is what I consider to be one of those good-looking, rugged "worker" types that doesn't know he's hot (aren't they the best?!). His dad visits our office every few weeks or so because he is retired and friends with the people who work here. He's taken a liking to me (I think he'd like to set me up with his single son), and keeps inviting me to their parties... this was the first time I have been able to attend. I looked at it as both an opportunity to flirt with a potential date and also to conduct a fact-finding session as to what makes hottie Shawn tick.

With moonroof open and Zeppelin blasting from Dezzie's speakers (my car's official name- short for "Desdemona"), I made the hour-long drive south of Harrisburg and into the southern York countryside. The party was being held on a big farm in Glen Rock. As I drove back the long one-car lane towards the designated parking area, a sense of, "Oh shit. What have I got myself into?" crept over me. Here I was, going to a party in York County where I knew no one and was going to have to face a questionable crowd. Now that's what I call bravery.

I parked and walked down a gigantic hill to where the tents were set up. Lots of grills and food were already out and ready to eat with a handful of people mingling around them. I said 'hi' to Shawn's dad and he commended me for coming to the party by myself. Then I met Shawn's sister and his ex-girlfriend. I casually introduced myself, explained my work relationship with Shawn to them, and tried casual probe for dirt. Relatively unsuccessful endeavor as I got snubbed. Again, an "Oh shit... what am I doing here?" crept over me.

Then I thought, "What the Hell.. I'm hot, too, dammit!" and started walking around and randomly talking to people that looked interesting.

The first victim was a terribly cute little boy sitting by the lake and watching the other kids swim (see the picture). Ben, I found out, is a self-proclaimed "germaphobe" who doesn't get into the water because of the algae and microscopic organisms. He didn't even bother wearing swimming trunks because they don't fit him anymore (he was seriously underweight...). He looked to be about 7 years old, but was really 11. What do you talk about with an 11-year-old? What else- "So Ben, do you like Harry Potter?" Wrong question to ask. The kid followed me around the picnic for the next 2 hours, seeking my thoughts on Hagrid, Ron, Harry, etc... He's read half of the book and it's been out for a week.

The funniest thing about my new friend, however, is that he was at the picnic in his HEADGEAR. Headgear! I didn't know kids still wore that getup?! Later in the day, he got hit in the head with a rogue volleyball as he was walking past the volleyball court and his headgear broke. You would've thought the kid's dog died. He sat in one of the tents and cried for 30 minutes because he was so devastated. I'm not kidding.

Besides my 11-year-old boyfriend, I hung out lots of fun older people (Dick Naylor, the owner of Naylor Vineyards and a bunch of older people). I also met some interesting (albeit simple-minded) young people at the picnic- most notably, Rick and Sharon. They are Shawn's friends. It was kind of strange... Rick and Sharon are married, but all Sharon cared to do was sit at the picnic table and get drunk while Rick hang out with me and used the pond toys (which included a trapeze, zip line, and rings). He kept hitting on me with his wife right there... it was very odd. I was partially afraid that I might get invited to be in a threesome for the second time this summer (I'll share that story another time for those of you who haven't heard it yet...) Hell yeah, York.

We ended the night with a big campfire, and I drove home around midnight grooving to Nick Drake's "Pink Moon" and feeling very much like the kids in the VW Commercial.

Overall, the day was very enjoyable and I'll probably go to another party with these people in the future. I ate great grilled food, played in the water, and got to improve my horseshoes prowess for the next R&R Hunting Camp cookout. The funniest thing is that I barely spent any time with Shawn--- lots of time with his friends, family, and father, but barely anything with him. Maybe he doesn't see the hotness that his married friend saw.

I suppose the fact-finding mission was a failure. But at least the future in-laws love me. ;-)



*Again, names concealed to protect the innocent.

Think it' s time to eat a pear....? I don't think so!

Last night was a very interesting night. In the spirit of meeting and hanging out with fun men other than my ex-boyfriend (who I have managed to avoid now for 2 months), I took my new friend Keith up on the offer to play football. He and a group of his guy friends are members of a league called the "Frogs & Toads." This isn't some pansy pick-up game, I might add. This is organized madness.

Let me preface this by saying that I met Keith at a Harrisburg Young Professionals social. We struck up a conversation at the bar about non-profit groups and philanthropy and he bought me a beer. Nice guy. I introduced him to Emily (also at the meeting) and somehow the topic of football came up between the two of them. Emmy got us the invite to the exclusive weekly game. Keith originally said we could be spectators and Emily oh-so-wisely told him that we'd definitely prefer to play.

So Wednesday night rolled around. Emmy and I arrived to see 11 athletic-minded guys stretching and warming up on the sidelines. The field was measured and marked with orange cones. And there were official jerseys. Jerseys! Talk about intimidation.

What a great time. These guys were pretty official about everything, including play-calling, defensive strategy, and penalties. Although it was a two-hand touch game, it was very physical... we had one jammed pinky, one minor head injury and one kneed groin between the group. Apparently a lot of the girlfriend and wives have banned them from playing from time to time because there have been several broken bones, torn tendons, etc.

Once the guys realized that Emily and I were decent athletes, they started to include us in the plays rather than have us there as warm bodies (or should I say, "HOT" bodies... j/k). Em had a clutch reception at the goal line and I had a touchdown. How's that for invading man territory?

We'll have to see if the tribal council offers us a permanent invite to the Frog & Toad brotherhood of man after our stellar performances or if we get booted off the island...

My friends are pretty official with their "Frog and Toad" league. They keep stats and log weekly updates on their website. They actually organize group trips and have an awards banquet at the end of the "season." I figure, anyone who makes a total production about some totally mundane hobby or interest in their life it ok in my book! (think Tiffany Marathon and Pimp-N-Ho Bowling, girls... will reference this later for those of you who don't know what I'm talking about.)

The funniest thing about the evening was running into an old elementary school friend of Doug - *Sam (name changed to protect the innocent). Sam was this punked out little kid the last time I saw him and I would've expected him to be in jail by now. But he's actually turned into a decent human being with a good job and attitude to match (but then again, how can you really figure that out after 3 hours of football and a little chit chat? I just know he wasn't sporting any sort of electronic bracelet, so I assume he's clean).

For those of you who know Doug, this was pretty funny... Sam was in Doug's first band, circa 1991. They wrote one or two songs which included inspiring phrases such as "Ski the mountain... ski, ski the mountain," and "think it's time to eat a pear? I don't think so!" Classics.

Check out the official Frog & Toad website here:
http://frogs_and_toads.tripod.com/

Great Restaurants: The Mastoris Diner/Restaurant

Don't be fooled by the name (I know we all shudder a little when we hear 'diner'). I was on business day trip in New Jersey this week and had the pleasure to eat at this mom and pops-style restaurant. It was one of the most amazing restaurant meals I have ever had. Plus the family atmosphere was infectious-- a truly wonderful place to sit and have a meal.

From the outside, the structure reminds me of an old diner that has been remodeled and added on to about 15 times. It is gigantic. Imagine a 10-diner complex arranged in a haphazard, domino-game style. That's what the Mastoris Restaurant looks like. It was just as twisted and confusing inside, with dining rooms jutting out from dining rooms and providing quite the Willy Wonka maze of a dining experience.

Apparently, the company has been in the family since the mid 1900s when the current owner's father opened a traditional diner focusing on only serving the freshest, highest quality foods. A menu that was once small now includes just about anything you would want to order (seriously-- there must've been at least 250 dishes listed) . I ended up settling on a lunch special.

For $9.50, I got:
-A soda
-A plate of trademark cheesebread & cinnamon bread (gigantic portion)
-A bowl of gaspacho
-Homemade french fries
-A smoked turkey wrap, complete with mozzarella cheese, roasted peppers and onions, tomatoes, lettuce, and basil pesto sauce. Fresh and fantastic!!
-Dessert

My boss, Daryl, also got the lunch combo. He ordered a chicken/shrimp salad, soup, and veggie. Neither of us could finish our meals (gigantic).

Their bakery is renowned, apparently. After finishing my entree (which was delivered, hot-to-order, 10 minutes after being seated), our waitress arrived at the table with a big tray hosting about 20 different pieces of cake, complimentary with our meals. Just when I thought I couldn't eat any more, I had strawberry shortcake (the best I've ever had). Daryl had a chocolate/mocha concoction called "the Roadrunner."

In short, if I ever got married in New Jersey (God help me...), I have no doubt that I would call anyone but these people to cater the event. The food was out of this world.


How to get there: It's just south of Trenton, NJ in Bordentown. Take I-276 across the Delaware River and into New Jersey. Get off the first exit- the exit for Route 100. Go north on Rt. 100 for ~5 miles until the road splits. Take the left sector. Immediately after bearing to the left, the restaurant will be on your right.

21 Humor- What the hell does that mean?

I sat here today, trying to think of what to name this thing. My blog name should reflect my life, I thought. That got me thinking about my life and what makes it unique. My life, I decided, is a series of random, funny adventures. These adventures are what I want to capture here for all of you, my friends.

So I decided to call the Blog "A Splash of 21 Humor."

The story: The name is based on a scale that I call the "21 Humor Scale." This is a personal scale that I developed many years ago to gauge my personal opinion of how funny people are. It is based on a 21-point system (with "0" being "dead", "1" being "Very Very Not Funny" and "21" being "The Funniest Person I know"). This is not a traditional scale. It is my scale- and completely subjective based on my opinion of you.

Why "21"? Why not use a more traditional number like "20" or "25"? Because it's random like the concept and the purpose of the scale itself.

An interesting note on the 21-humor scale is no one can achieve "21" status because I am the only "21" on the scale (it makes sense- I am the funniest person I know because it is based on my sense of humor! I am the benchmark for all others, according to my scale.) A few "20's" have crossed my path since the induction of the scale, but most people I know fall somewhere in the mid-teens.

It's amazing how many people have gotten really upset over their placement on my scale. My ex-boyfriend, for example, was furious to find out that he only ranked at a "14" on the scale (and that was being generous).

"It's just a dumb thing that I made up!" I told him. It didn't help. "Where is Apryle on the scale? Where is Tiffany? I'm funnier than them!" He was downright offended that he scored much lower than many other people on the scale. He actually stooped low enough to discredit and put down the all-knowing humor scale in a fit of anger. Suck it up, buddy... you're not funny.

The 21-Humor Scale led to new terminology in my friends' lingo. Phrases like, "That is absolutely 21- humor!" and "She's an 18" became commonplace.

Another interesting aspect of the 21-Humor Scale is that peoples' ratings can change. My friend Emily is perfect example of this. When I first created the scale, Emily ranked as an "8." She is now a "15-16" - much funnier than she used to be.

Assessment on the scale is instantaneous and can only be completed by me. I can tell you immediately where you fall on the scale (but do you really want to know? Probably not...)

I think you can now see how the name fits this blog quite well based on its intent. It's going to be random- it might even be raunchy- but it will definitely be fun!