What does this mean?

So, I'd like to start this post out with a happy picture:



This is a notice from the merciful city of Boston, notifying me that they have forgiven me my parking ticket.

Folks, I don't even have a car.

I had rented a zip car to go pick up a dresser, and because it's Boston, there were no parking spaces in front of the house. So I parked across the street. It was a heavy dresser, and when we had carried it down to the street, I ran and got the car from across the street and backed it up onto the curb between two cars.. there was just enough space. And the dresser barely fit in the back. I ran upstairs to get a AC system that the Craigslist user was also giving away, and when I came back down, a cop was driving away with a smirk the size of a heavy dresser on his face.

But I appealed it, and Boston has forgiven me.

And if you are very observant, there's a little prelude of what's to come at the top right of that picture..

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So, do you ever have times in your life when you wish you had a voice recorder on you? I think these times in my life have been becoming more frequent as the result of two experiences I have had here in Boston:

1. Meeting a girl named Coleen in the ward here, who is a sound engineer.. um I'm actually not exactly sure what she does, but somehow, it has something to do with carrying a voice recorder around. I accidentally stalked her on her website (I admitted this to her afterward, so I don't feel so guilty now), and thought it was cool that she carried a voice recorder around.


2. Hearing This American Life's October 9 podcast Right to Remain Silent which told the story of a police officer who at times even had two voice recorders going on at the same time.

But today, I had one of those experiences. I'll try to recreate the experience in writing:


You can hear idling cars and the chirp of a crossing signal as I walk home from school today. The autumn leaves crunch under my feet and scrape along the sidewalk as they are blown around in little mini-tornadoes. You can hear other people walking, though the crackle of leaves from their footsteps is muffled, as are their conversations. You catch bits and pieces of distorted dialog, like words flung randomly through the autumn air by the wind.

A homeless man sighs on a bench, as he realizes he needs 30 more cents to buy a can of cheep beer.

And then the light changes. Car horns blare, and then the rush of full-throttle car engines fade in and out, in and out, as they rush by.

And then I narrate the story for myself.
I pass Rosie's Bakery every day on the way home from school. In Germany, I was a sucker for bakeries. But here, I haven't gotten into it. Perhaps it's because they don't have Bienenstich here. Or because somehow dollars seem more "real" than euros, so I feel guilty exchanging dollars to satisfy my gastronomical passions.

A hinge creaks, and the long string of little shells clank against the glass of the door as a I push it open.

The car noises fade as the door slowly shuts, while two steps on a bare wooden floor are heard.

And then another door opens, with another string of little jingling shells. (Of course there are two doors. It's Boston, and all businesses, shops, and even houses have two doors to keep out the cold.)

The muttering of two menopausal women can be heard.

And then I narrate again.

Inside, the shop smells like a bakery should. Like cookies and coffee and cake. Two menopausal women are waiting for their coffee as I walk up to the counter and look at a meager selection of American pastries. There are cupcakes and donuts and muffins and bagels and scones. But the scones are eastern-style. More like a flat cake than the deep-fried dough that I call a "scone". Of course, here in the west, they call my scones "fried dough".

More muttering, and some footsteps.

The ladies grab their coffee, and head toward the cream and sugar station, leaving me alone and exposed - embarrassed that despite the small selection of pastries I still haven't been able to pick out anything that has my name on it. I haven't even managed to find the "50% off after 5:00" section, which would have helped me narrow down my choices.

A podgy female voice asks, "What can I get you?"

"What's that?.. no, the other one.."

"That's a blueberry tart."

"Mmm. Looks good. I just have a few dollars burning a hole in my pocket. What is your favorite thing?"

"Our most popular item is this brownie, called an orgasm."

A plastic sliding door slides shut on a pastry display case. Footsteps are heard. The smooth gliding of plexiglass against metal signals the opening of another case.

"Wow. That looks good."

"It's really good."

"Can I get one orgasm please."

You can almost hear my inner glee at stumbling upon an orgasm. In edible form. And at having made a very witty request.

And if you listen closer, you can hear the forced smile of the buxom woman, who was hearing this joke for the ninth time today.

Baking paper crinkles as she picks up the brownie and puts it into a plastic container. The container is closed - snap, snap - and placed on the glass counter top with a quiet thud.

"That will be three dollars."

A cash register dings, the drawer slides open, the metal arm that keeps the bills in place snaps up, snaps down, and the drawer slides closed with a clank.

"Thanks."

"Have a good day."

"Thanks. You too."

Footsteps across the wood floor. Two doors open and close, shells tinkling. As the second opens, traffic noise is heard again.

I couldn't put off trying it any longer. I opened it up and tried my first orgasm.

The cold air was starting to harden the whole brownie, especially the frosting.

I bit into it, and savored the sweetness.

It was rich, with little bits of chocolate, and covered by a generous sugar coat.

But, honestly, it wasn't that good. I had eaten brownies like these before.

My orgasm tasted like a BYU Creamery brownie.

What does this mean?