Is Soren Short For Something?
Today I went with Kelly to drop her car off at the mechanic and as we walked in, I noticed that one of the mechanic's shirts (which was not on the mechanic but on a hanger) was embroidered with the name “Soren.” When we picked up Kelly’s car later, the shirt was off the hanger and on the mechanic and I don’t know what it is about The Brain that has to say things to people who have to wear nametags (The Brain, for example, once had me ask a grocery clerk, “Is Bob your real name?”), but I had to fight The Brain for control of the mouth to keep from commenting to Soren that how funny is it that he and Kierkegaard have the same name and did he get teased because of it in grade school?
I love the name Soren, don’t you? Soren is a Danish name that means “stern” or “severe.” Who names a baby that? Danes, I guess.
What Does PF Stand For?
Last Friday I joined Dave and Kelly and a handful of their coworkers for lunch at PF Chang’s. Here’s how we ended up at PF Chang’s: They (meaning Dave and his coworkers), in a rush of seemingly altruistic goodwill, allowed their pastry-addicted, kidney-stone-ridden Belorussian coworker to choose the restaurant. This is how pseudo-altruism is rewarded: They (Dave and his coworkers) thought that he (the pastry-addicted, kidney-stone-ridden Belorussian coworker, whose name is Sergei, which I’m only telling you because I’m not going to keep typing out “the pastry-addicted, kidney-stone-ridden Belorussian coworker”) would choose a much-beloved Vietnamese restaurant. They were wrong. Instead, Sergei chose PF Chang’s.
Okay, I’ll admit I have eaten at PF Chang’s before, perhaps twice (once for the novelty factor and once at someone else’s request) and it’s not necessarily someplace I’d choose on my own. The restaurant is too loud and the food is expensive ($24 for my lunch and $20 for Dave’s lunch, either of which would have paid for an entire lunch at the Vietnamese place) and it’s bland and--Holy Cow! I just looked online at the nutritional information for the lunch I had and my heart stopped--or maybe it was that I’m still feeling the effects of the sodium overload from that lunch. Because I swear, I drank about a gallon of water after I got home and it did nothing whatsoever to ward off the dehydration blues that day and the next day my pee looked like maple syrup.
What did I eat? I had the Mongolian Beef (1100+ calories, not including rice, and upwards of 70 grams of fat, including 19 grams of saturated fat). Mmmmm. It tasted like...not much at all, sadly, not even salt. I used up a cup of hot mustard just so that I might taste something.
Anyway, I guess I have to take responsibility for my part in the Take A Sergei to Lunch Day, as I’m constantly nagging Dave to go to lunch with Sergei. I mean, poor guy, he just moved into town and he needs a friend, I think. (Yes, yes: I’m notorious for butting into people’s business and prodding at them until they’re at least paying lip service to my advice.)
But I’ll admit that I am also plying my own pseudo-altruistic gesture, and here’s why: I’m studying Russian and Sergei speaks Russian (and English, of course) and at some point I’m going to need a language partner. Also? I’m trying to talk Dave and Kelly into visiting Russia and who better to take as a tour guide than someone who can speak the language and has experience navigating the infamous post-Soviet bureaucracies? Don’t worry, I’m not looking to take advantage of the poor guy. I’m all about an informed consent agreement if nothing else, so at the very least, I’ll offer that. And what’s more, I’ll go so far as to pay for his coffee and/or lunch in exchange for an hour or so of his speaking Russian to me. (And, trust me, I can be quite witty so in addition to a free lunch, he’ll also get the pleasure of my company. Okay. Stop laughing.) Also, if we do travel to Russia, I’m not only willing to goad my fellow travelers into paying for part of his ticket and accommodations, but I’m also willing to pitch in my share for same. Finally, should his visa woes prove untenable, I told Kelly that we’ll draw straws to see who gets to marry him so that he can, if he wants to, stay in the U.S. And if I draw the short straw, I’ll go through with it. Seriously.
I’d do the same for you.
You don’t believe me?
During lunch, one of the Zmombie (Mommy Zombies) coworkers was talking about a birthing class she took in which she was shown a film that used cartoon elks to illustrate the evils of epidurals. Kelly was so thrilled by the thought of pregnant, drugged-up cartoon elk that she suggested to me that, posing as partners, one of us faking being pregnant, we take this class so that we could see this film. I enthusiastically agreed to this plan because, seriously? How hilarious would it be to fake a pregnancy and then, when we get caught (and you know we’d get caught), have to confess that we did it to see the antelope/evil-epidural film? (It’s like a real, live Lavern & Shirley episode.) Of course, as a couple of recovering Catholics, you know we’d have to confess. In fact, we’d be falling all over ourselves in a rush to confess. We’d probably walk in the door to the first class and confess. Because that’s what it means to be Catholic.
We could probably find that film on youtube, though, huh?
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