I was sitting on my bench at the video service center where I worked, squinting at my oscilloscope and trying to interpret a waveform. I was in a good mood because it was Mother’s Day week and I’d soon be treating my mom and sis to a gluttonous and bibulous long weekend stay in Bodega Bay.
My mood was suddenly shattered when Bobbie the office manager yelled out, “Gil, line three, a crazy woman.”
Gary, a fellow technician snickered, “Only Gil could get a call like that.”
I panicked, and my mind began swirling at the speed of thought, faster than the speed of light. I made a mental list of all the women in my life who might be crazy. It couldn’t be my sister, she was engaged to a police officer who adored and doted on her. It couldn’t be my high-maintenance girlfriend, Lizzie, because I had been with her the night before, and she seemed sated, both romantically and financially.
That left two other women, my mom Champagne Rosie, who was eagerly anticipating Mother’s Day, and Vicente, a hairdresser who maintained my perm, and whose crude and blatant attempts at seduction were ignored. Vicente then began stalking me on the phone, assuming an alter ego of a beautiful mutual acquaintance named Carmen, asking me out on a date and then standing me up.
My problems with Vicente began when she was assigned to treat my hair, in place of the beautiful Carmen, with whom I was totally smitten, but who was off work that day. The profoundly plump Vicente was a very talented hairdresser, but apparently was quite lonely. Our session wasn’t yet five minutes old when she abruptly ended our small talk by asking, “Do you have a girlfriend?”
I answered, “Yes, and I love her, but I wonder if she loves me, or if I’m just a dollar sign with legs.”
Vicente snorted. “I would never treat my man like that,” she said. “I treat my men good, because I believe in intimacy before and after all dates, so we can just relax and be ourselves.”
I laughed and responded, “That reminds me of that old Rodney Dangerfield joke about dating—five seconds of pleasure aren’t worth five hours of BS!”
She laughed, and then a tense but welcome silence ensued. At the end of the session, I complimented her on the fine work, left a big tip, and said goodbye. She glared at me malevolently, then angrily promised, “You’ll be hearing from me!”
The crank call happened a couple of weeks later. At work, Bobbie told me that I had a call from a cute-sounding girl named Carmen. I was stunned. Carmen tantalized me, but she had rebuffed all of my attempts at romance. I eagerly picked up the phone call and said, “Hello Carmen. What a surprise!”
“Carmen” answered, “Hi Gil, I was wondering if you’d meet me for dinner tonight at the Whale’s Tail in Alameda. My boyfriend and I broke up, so I thought of you and the fun we could have. Interested?”
“Interested? I’m overwhelmed!” I yelped. “I’ll meet you there at 7 pm tonight! Thanks, my darling!”
I was on a cloud of joy the rest of the day, and at 7 that evening, I drove to Ballena Bay and the Whales Tail (now Pier 29). I entered the restaurant and headed for the darkened bar. No Carmen. Suddenly, a faux girlish voice behind me bellowed, “Hi Gil!”
I turned, and there sat Vicente, snickering evilly. “How do you like it, a**hole?” she laughed. I left the restaurant and drove home. I was humiliated and angry, but the little voice within whispered, “Touché! You had that coming!”
Back at work, Bobbie abruptly interrupted my stupor by bellowing, “Gil, pick up line three!”
I grabbed the phone receiver and barked “OK, Vicente, no deal, I’m not in the mood!”
A weepy voice muttered, “Gil, it’s mom. I’m in jail!”
“In jail!” I barked “What happened?”
She replied with a long story. “I gave one of the Meals On Wheels cooks a ride to Alameda,” she said. “She barely speaks English and told me she lives on “Gland Street.” We went back and forth with me saying Gland and her getting mad and yelling, ‘Not Gland! Gland!’ Finally I figured she meant Grand. I said, ‘You mean Grand?” And she yells ’Yes, Gland’! When I let her off at her house, she asked if I wanted a ‘Piney-Poo.’ I thought about it and replied, ‘You mean a pineapple?’ And she said, ‘Yeah! Piney- Poo!’ As I drove home, I was laughing, and some old cop pulled me over, said I was doing 40 mph down Encinal Avenue and then arrested me for driving without a license. I haven’t renewed my license in 15 years!”
I chose not to comment on her laxness, and instead bellowed, “I’ll be right over to get you. Is there any bail?”
“No,” she replied. They’ve been very nice, they didn’t even handcuff me.”
The mental image of my sweet blonde, blue-eyed mom in handcuffs got to me. “Handcuff you? I certainly hope not!” I yelled. “I’ll be right there.”
Gary the technician muttered, “Only Gil.”
I raced over to the police station at Oak Street and Lincoln Avenue, and ran to the desk.
“I’m Gil Michaels, here to get my mom, Rose,” I said.
The stocky female clerk answered, “She’s been cited and released. I’ll have her brought in.”
A short time later, an immaculately coiffed Champagne Rosie walked through a security door and into the red brick lobby. True to form, she wiped a tear away and burst out laughing, with me joining in.
I told her, “I’ll get your car later, but for now let’s take you home. I’ll pour you a nice cold glass of Moët and make your favorite dinner, Fettuccine Alfredo.”
Champagne Rosie got into my van to head over to her Bayview Drive townhome. She seemed pensive, then perked up and said, “Ya know, this day has ended so well that I might make going to jail a Mother’s Day tradition!”
From that time on, I dreaded taking calls during Mother’s Day week.
Champagne Rosie’s Easy Fettuccine Alfredo
Ingredients
- 12 ounces tagliatelle pasta
- 1 cup unsalted butter
- 1 cup best quality Parmigiano Reggiano
Directions
- Cook the pasta al dente and keep it warm in a bowl.
- Reserve 1 cup of the pasta water and keep it hot.
- Cut butter into five slices, place in hot pasta water, and allow it to melt.
- When butter is melted, slowly whisk in cheese.
- After cheese is melted, pour mixture over pasta.
- Toss with tongs and serve.
Gil Michaels hasn’t been to jail since that day. You can reach him at [email protected]. His writing is collected at AlamedaPost.com/Gil-Michaels.
