Jul 20, 11:29 AM
Misadventures with the Stay-Puft Mooshmallow Man
On my birthday, July 17, there was nothing exciting except a 6.0 earthquake. But on July 12, a roommate whose actual birthday is July 14 and I threw a party for ourselves at the swanky pad of a bunch of other interns.
On that same day, hours before the festivities were to begin, Kristen, another roommate who had stayed home sick, happened upon Johanne, the house watchman, in the house with his fingers literally dipping into the peanut butter tub. Gross.
Over lunch I had to go to Mr. Muschi’s (the landlord’s) hardware store to pay the utility bill and the beer bill, so I volunteered to investigate a bit. I was wondering whether Johanne (pronounced Yo-Hanni) was really hungry because we weren’t feeding him, so I wanted to confirm that we weren’t supposed to provide food.
“Ehh?!,” said Mr. Muschi (using that special, high-pitched East African word/sound that translates, roughly, as “are you f*ckin’ kidding me?!”), “He’s supposed to be independent.” I didn’t go on to actually tell Muschi about the PB incident because I don’t want Johanne to get fired.
Then I asked Mix Master Moosh (as I’ve begun calling him) whether he could help me get some beer for the party that night, and two minutes later we’re driving all over town in his truck and then delivering the beer to the house where the party would be. I really like Moosh Potatoes (as I also call him) because he has so much gusto. I guess I have a soft-spot for the enterprising, go-get-‘em, small business owners of the world.
Mooshterpiece Theatre (I call him that, too) also said he would find the roomies and I a taxi driver who would charge one consistent low rate for driving from town to the house. That’s an important thing because the taxis don’t have meters, so one is always bartering and, after doing so unsuccessfully, getting overcharged. He (Mooshtery Science Theater 3000, that is) also said that we should just ask Lilly, the maid, to cook food for us once in awhile and she would do so. It’s her job, the University of Mooshigan assured me.
The party ended up being really fun, despite – or perhaps because of, I can’t decide which – my successful procurement of stout beer (with the help of the Intercontinental Ballistic Mooshile, of course), that we used in a stomach-churning concoction of stout, whisky, and cream liqueur known as the Irish Car Bomb.
I think I am now, officially, too old for that kind of thing. (But check out this picture of me chugging one!)
Eh! The University of Mooshigan, eh? Too much! I loved the picture of you, even though I have to admit feeling a bit sad that I couldn’t be there with you. It was nice to (sort of) see you, though.
— Jerri Jul 20, 12:33 PM #
While mooshigating through your blog I found that picture of you with your irish car bomb drink and laughed when the note appeared underneath it…report innapropriate content…well, I think the content of the drink might have been inappropriate. It is always fun to see how much fun you make for yourself while in the midst of the most serious of assignments. lovyamark,
motherinlaw K
— kathlen millson Jul 30, 10:04 PM #
Imagine my relief at finding that the grand nicknaming tradition is alive and well! Absolutely hysterical. I love it. I consider myself to be a pretty fair nicknamer, but I have much to learn from you, the Master! Make that the Mooshter.
— Amalie Hofbauer Aug 1, 06:04 PM #
OK, Wags… I can understand paying a utility bill, but paying a beer bill?
You’ll have to explain that one.
— Murf Aug 6, 07:15 PM #
Murf:
As I have already explained the Sweet Mooshtery of Life brings us beer at wholesale prices and we pay him for it.
Try to pay attention.
— Mark Aug 6, 07:26 PM #