It sat there like the cold uncaring object that it is. Stiff and plastic. Holding the colorful contents within its big belly like some prize that could not be attained.
I narrowed my eyes, squeezing them closed and tried desperately to shut out the sounds of the screaming candy within the jar. “Jean, Jean,” they cried. “Save us from mold and mildew.” Their tiny voices sounded hurt and scared. They wanted out. They needed my help. They promised not to leave candy residue on my palms. I couldn’t resist that promise.
I walked to the jar and scooped a handful of the tiny Jelly Belly bodies into my loving hand. I popped them slowly by twos into my mouth. They’re so small. Actually like tiny candy vitamins if you really think about it. Not big enough to have harmful sugars and fats. They put those thoughts in my head I think. Perverted little sugary bits.
They forgot to warn me, however, that a handful would stick to my innards and blow up like golf balls causing great stomach grief. Gag. I hate the little monsters. Ugh. My stomach is bloated with bits of candy that seem to be dancing with outright torment at my moment of weakness.
I hate Jelly Belly candies.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
An Adventure in Sonoma
My sister Mary and I decided we deserved a small vacation. Mary hasn’t traveled all that much in her life, so she considers anything beyond 30 miles a first-rate getaway. I decided it would be fun to go to Sonoma for a day of shopping, which then extended into a two day affair as my son lives in Sebastopol and if you can’t use your children and their fine home for a free night of food and lodging, well, I’d say you raised the wrong children.
In my quest for the perfect weekend adventure, I created a binder complete with directions to some possible fun places to visit. I’m very organized when it comes to adventures as I tend to want to pack in as much fun as I can.
I downloaded a Sherlock Holmes mystery and an Agatha Christie Miss Marples mystery to my iPod. I like to make sure we are prepared for any eventuality, one of which would be the need to listen to a good murder mystery in case we were stuck in traffic somewhere.
Let me begin this travel odyssey by saying the weather this past week-end was what you might imagine for California and the wine country. Perfect!
We drove to Yountville as our first stop and found some wonderful clothing stores with very unique and very pricey clothing. We had lunch at Pacific Blues Café and sat at a table on the outside porch overlooking the mountains and complimented ourselves on having such an excellent vacation. It was fit for two chicks on the lam from their daily responsibilities of life! We were almost a Thelma and Louise, except we had no intention of driving off a cliff.
We then drove to Healdsburg where we discovered they were having a big event for their 150 year anniversary. It was fairly warm (read hot) and we only found one shop that had some clothing we found interesting. I found a necklace I liked, but the $250 price tag made it far less appealing than I had originally thought. Everyone had a glass of wine in their hand…naturally since it is the wine country. If you love wine, you will find these art/wine festivals a dream come true. If wine isn’t of interest, you’ll find these festivals something like one big outdoor bar. It’s oddly interesting.
We had paused on a street corner where a sweet shop was handing out chocolate bars. Never one to be shy in taking free candy, I grabbed that chocolate delight but quick. We went back to the car where I started up the air conditioning, unwrapped the chocolate, and took a quick bite…it was slightly on the soft and melting side, so I thought I should eat as much of it as I could before it became chocolate soup, which although wouldn’t be bad, would be horribly difficult to eat and would display bad manners to just lick it off the wrapping. And besides, I didn’t have any handiwipes with me.
We tried finding the local Indian casino, being two women who are fond of putting coins in the slot machines, but only managed to find the corporate offices. Not really the same at all for our purposes. I then found a place, quite by accident, called The Gardner. The sign for the store was located in a slightly difficult place to see when driving by, which made turning in time for the driveway a little on the chance-y side. I managed to turn into “a” driveway, which didn’t lead to the garden center at all, and in fact, I couldn’t actually see any other cars parked at the garden center, so decided it wasn’t worth the work to backtrack and find my way into the correct driveway. Mary and I are prone to quick decisions when it comes to stopping at stores. The store has to be quite appealing before we consider any minor hassle getting to it as a worthwhile endeavor.
We then decided to go to Guerneville, so got on the freeway and took the Guerneville exit and drove. And drove. And drove some more. Lots of countryside and wineries, but no signs for our destination. And we drove. Sheesh. We finally came to a sign which said Sebastopol one way and Guerneville straight ahead. We weren’t sure that we should continue on our quest, since goodness only knows how many more hours it would take us. We were probably right around the bend from the town, but being cautious vacationers, we decided to go directly to my son’s house. He and his partner David had, after all, stayed home in order to take us to dinner.
We went to a nice restaurant called The Bistro, which is owned and run by the chef and his wife. The food was quite good and we were even lucky enough to have the chef come out and talk with us.
Back at the house, we were lucky enough to witness two shooting stars. Jonathan brought out his telescope and gave us a mini-lesson in astronomy. We even saw a satellite zooming across the sky! I hadn’t realized they go so fast. I feel pretty “astro physicist” now…in a very small sort of ignorant way. The night sky was humbling. You don’t get to see such an awe inspiring sight when you live in the city. We obliterate such beauty with our lights. But in the country…oh my. The vastness of the space and the diamond chest of stars make you want to learn more. And buy a telescope!
Now if you think this was the end of the evening’s entertainment, you’d be kidding yourself. My son’s partner, David, is a world-class organist. I mean that both complimentary and factually. He has played all over the world and knows the organists in many of the large churches. I wish I knew people. I live vicariously through Jonathan and David. They know lots of interesting people.
I really do have to get out more.
They have a room in their house that is devoted to a newly rebuilt organ…with a lot of pipes! It reminds me of a mini-chapel. I wonder if it sounds spooky at night when he’s playing…like the Phantom of the Opera. We were treated to a mini-concert, which was quite an honor. Thanks David!
On Sunday we drove to Tiberon where the sailboats were out in full force. Tiburon, like any California area that has a great view and hills, has homes dug into the hillside and squeezed closely together. Land is gold when it comes to those spectacular views! You will find bike riders galore, lots of people with their dogs, and fragrant aromas of good food from the restaurants. Bring your camera and your appetite. Dogs and bikes are optional.
Mary and I have decided that a quarterly vacation is in order. We forget how near we are to so many unique areas. We also forget that taking time out just to look at the beauty of nature around us is imperative to our mental health.
I thought about visiting Jonathan and David every week, which could turn into a demand for a “Mom’s quarters”. He said the gate code that you have to punch to get into his area has changed and he can’t seem to find the new number. I think that sounds very fishy. Won’t he be surprised when the moving van pulls up with a “few” of my personal belongings!
In my quest for the perfect weekend adventure, I created a binder complete with directions to some possible fun places to visit. I’m very organized when it comes to adventures as I tend to want to pack in as much fun as I can.
I downloaded a Sherlock Holmes mystery and an Agatha Christie Miss Marples mystery to my iPod. I like to make sure we are prepared for any eventuality, one of which would be the need to listen to a good murder mystery in case we were stuck in traffic somewhere.
Let me begin this travel odyssey by saying the weather this past week-end was what you might imagine for California and the wine country. Perfect!
We drove to Yountville as our first stop and found some wonderful clothing stores with very unique and very pricey clothing. We had lunch at Pacific Blues Café and sat at a table on the outside porch overlooking the mountains and complimented ourselves on having such an excellent vacation. It was fit for two chicks on the lam from their daily responsibilities of life! We were almost a Thelma and Louise, except we had no intention of driving off a cliff.
We then drove to Healdsburg where we discovered they were having a big event for their 150 year anniversary. It was fairly warm (read hot) and we only found one shop that had some clothing we found interesting. I found a necklace I liked, but the $250 price tag made it far less appealing than I had originally thought. Everyone had a glass of wine in their hand…naturally since it is the wine country. If you love wine, you will find these art/wine festivals a dream come true. If wine isn’t of interest, you’ll find these festivals something like one big outdoor bar. It’s oddly interesting.
We had paused on a street corner where a sweet shop was handing out chocolate bars. Never one to be shy in taking free candy, I grabbed that chocolate delight but quick. We went back to the car where I started up the air conditioning, unwrapped the chocolate, and took a quick bite…it was slightly on the soft and melting side, so I thought I should eat as much of it as I could before it became chocolate soup, which although wouldn’t be bad, would be horribly difficult to eat and would display bad manners to just lick it off the wrapping. And besides, I didn’t have any handiwipes with me.
We tried finding the local Indian casino, being two women who are fond of putting coins in the slot machines, but only managed to find the corporate offices. Not really the same at all for our purposes. I then found a place, quite by accident, called The Gardner. The sign for the store was located in a slightly difficult place to see when driving by, which made turning in time for the driveway a little on the chance-y side. I managed to turn into “a” driveway, which didn’t lead to the garden center at all, and in fact, I couldn’t actually see any other cars parked at the garden center, so decided it wasn’t worth the work to backtrack and find my way into the correct driveway. Mary and I are prone to quick decisions when it comes to stopping at stores. The store has to be quite appealing before we consider any minor hassle getting to it as a worthwhile endeavor.
We then decided to go to Guerneville, so got on the freeway and took the Guerneville exit and drove. And drove. And drove some more. Lots of countryside and wineries, but no signs for our destination. And we drove. Sheesh. We finally came to a sign which said Sebastopol one way and Guerneville straight ahead. We weren’t sure that we should continue on our quest, since goodness only knows how many more hours it would take us. We were probably right around the bend from the town, but being cautious vacationers, we decided to go directly to my son’s house. He and his partner David had, after all, stayed home in order to take us to dinner.
We went to a nice restaurant called The Bistro, which is owned and run by the chef and his wife. The food was quite good and we were even lucky enough to have the chef come out and talk with us.
Back at the house, we were lucky enough to witness two shooting stars. Jonathan brought out his telescope and gave us a mini-lesson in astronomy. We even saw a satellite zooming across the sky! I hadn’t realized they go so fast. I feel pretty “astro physicist” now…in a very small sort of ignorant way. The night sky was humbling. You don’t get to see such an awe inspiring sight when you live in the city. We obliterate such beauty with our lights. But in the country…oh my. The vastness of the space and the diamond chest of stars make you want to learn more. And buy a telescope!
Now if you think this was the end of the evening’s entertainment, you’d be kidding yourself. My son’s partner, David, is a world-class organist. I mean that both complimentary and factually. He has played all over the world and knows the organists in many of the large churches. I wish I knew people. I live vicariously through Jonathan and David. They know lots of interesting people.
I really do have to get out more.
They have a room in their house that is devoted to a newly rebuilt organ…with a lot of pipes! It reminds me of a mini-chapel. I wonder if it sounds spooky at night when he’s playing…like the Phantom of the Opera. We were treated to a mini-concert, which was quite an honor. Thanks David!
On Sunday we drove to Tiberon where the sailboats were out in full force. Tiburon, like any California area that has a great view and hills, has homes dug into the hillside and squeezed closely together. Land is gold when it comes to those spectacular views! You will find bike riders galore, lots of people with their dogs, and fragrant aromas of good food from the restaurants. Bring your camera and your appetite. Dogs and bikes are optional.
Mary and I have decided that a quarterly vacation is in order. We forget how near we are to so many unique areas. We also forget that taking time out just to look at the beauty of nature around us is imperative to our mental health.
I thought about visiting Jonathan and David every week, which could turn into a demand for a “Mom’s quarters”. He said the gate code that you have to punch to get into his area has changed and he can’t seem to find the new number. I think that sounds very fishy. Won’t he be surprised when the moving van pulls up with a “few” of my personal belongings!
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Where’s My Car?
I recently purchased a used Honda Accord. I love the car, but I’m having trouble finding my car in the parking lot.
I call the color gunmetal grey, which has a snazzier ring to it than just commonplace grey or charcoal. The first few days I had the car I kept forgetting what color it was at all when I went to look for it in the parking lot. Unless your car is something memorable, like canary yellow, bubblegum pink or hideous orange, you’ll find that you can’t quite remember exactly what you just bought. Was it silver or dark blue? You know it was something dark. At least you think it was. But you test drove several and the green one seems to stick out in your memory, but did you buy the green one or the other dark color car? And darn, what dark color was it?
I guess I would never make a good eye witness for a crime involving a getaway car. “Well officer, I saw it clearly. It was a darkish color car. Definitely not red. It might have been a dark blue. Or green. Or maybe a burgundy. But definitely a dark color. Or maybe the interior was dark and the exterior was lighter. But for sure it was a sedan. With 2 or 4 doors. It had a distinctive logo on it too. Honda or Toyota. Maybe VW. But distinctive nonetheless.” The poor officer would have so many erasure marks in his little notebook that he would probably write my name down with a big note that said: “Do not ask this woman for details. She saw nothing.”
Now try to discern your car from among the zillions of other Hondas, Toyotas, Volkswagons, and Lexus sitting in row upon row. They all look pretty much alike. And you’ll find there are lots…and lots of dark colors too. Instead of panic buttons, which sound annoying and just shout to the world, “the idiot woman forgot where she parked”, why don’t they make an attractive whirly thing that comes out of the roof that says, “I’m over here”. Quiet and discreet.
I also realized this morning that I have become akin to an airplane pilot in the morning…
Work security badge: check
Sunglasses: check
iPod: check
Insert iPod into radio adapter thing and into cigarette lighter. Turn to correct playlist: check
Cell phone: check
Plug in cell phone: check
Sync earpiece to cell phone: check
Put on earpiece: check
If it’s a grey morning, push back moonroof cover, if not, keep it closed: check
20 minutes later I’m finally backing out of the driveway, just sure I’ve forgotten something. Probably my lunch, or earrings, or makeup. But at least I’ve got all my electronic gadgetry. They’re all black. Or maybe dark silver. Or maybe the case is black, but the gadget is…a dark color.
I call the color gunmetal grey, which has a snazzier ring to it than just commonplace grey or charcoal. The first few days I had the car I kept forgetting what color it was at all when I went to look for it in the parking lot. Unless your car is something memorable, like canary yellow, bubblegum pink or hideous orange, you’ll find that you can’t quite remember exactly what you just bought. Was it silver or dark blue? You know it was something dark. At least you think it was. But you test drove several and the green one seems to stick out in your memory, but did you buy the green one or the other dark color car? And darn, what dark color was it?
I guess I would never make a good eye witness for a crime involving a getaway car. “Well officer, I saw it clearly. It was a darkish color car. Definitely not red. It might have been a dark blue. Or green. Or maybe a burgundy. But definitely a dark color. Or maybe the interior was dark and the exterior was lighter. But for sure it was a sedan. With 2 or 4 doors. It had a distinctive logo on it too. Honda or Toyota. Maybe VW. But distinctive nonetheless.” The poor officer would have so many erasure marks in his little notebook that he would probably write my name down with a big note that said: “Do not ask this woman for details. She saw nothing.”
Now try to discern your car from among the zillions of other Hondas, Toyotas, Volkswagons, and Lexus sitting in row upon row. They all look pretty much alike. And you’ll find there are lots…and lots of dark colors too. Instead of panic buttons, which sound annoying and just shout to the world, “the idiot woman forgot where she parked”, why don’t they make an attractive whirly thing that comes out of the roof that says, “I’m over here”. Quiet and discreet.
I also realized this morning that I have become akin to an airplane pilot in the morning…
Work security badge: check
Sunglasses: check
iPod: check
Insert iPod into radio adapter thing and into cigarette lighter. Turn to correct playlist: check
Cell phone: check
Plug in cell phone: check
Sync earpiece to cell phone: check
Put on earpiece: check
If it’s a grey morning, push back moonroof cover, if not, keep it closed: check
20 minutes later I’m finally backing out of the driveway, just sure I’ve forgotten something. Probably my lunch, or earrings, or makeup. But at least I’ve got all my electronic gadgetry. They’re all black. Or maybe dark silver. Or maybe the case is black, but the gadget is…a dark color.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Executive Assistant without Mercy
I just got a call from a salesman wanting to speak with my boss, the president of the company. I know he was a salesman because I know the pushy, sly, trying-to-intimidate-me voice of a salesman. They are tricky, forceful, and try any number of clever voice approaches on me…such as a deep-voiced, don’t mess with a businessman, I want to talk to the president NOW.
Oh gosh, like that works on a fearless, experienced mature woman such as myself. Not.
Today’s punk-salesman tried the “I’m in a rush, so hurry up and connect me” voice. That doesn’t work either. They all use my boss’s first name, suggesting they actually know the man. That doesn’t work on me either. As the Assistant to the President (note use of very important capital letters in my job title), I know the people who know my boss. And this guy wasn’t one of them. Gosh I’m good.
Salesmen must think I’m stupid or easily intimidated. Salesmen forget how long it took us Executive types to stomp our way to the top of the working heap, and how clever we have become at filtering out riff-raff.
I asked him the name of his company and told him if this was a sales call that the president would not take the call. He said no one does. Got that right. Still…he demanded to be connected. Still…I didn’t do it. I told him the president was in a meeting and I asked again about the sales call angle and the nature of his business. He asked if I needed a hearing aid.
Oh son…you really…really should NOT get pissy with the Executive Assistant. You’ve hit her on a really…really menopausal sort of day. I could take you out without batting an eye and go for some ice cream after you’re laid out on the floor with little x’s over your eyes.
But, as a good professional, I kept my voice calm and unflustered. I asked again if it was a sales call. He asked again if I needed a hearing aid. Gosh…we’re not getting anywhere are we?
I suggested that if he were a customer with an issue, I could forward his call to someone else in the company who could help him (actually, I was thinking I could forward his call to hell). He said it was a “courtesy” call. Translates to sales. I stopped talking. Silence. He probably thought I was too scared to talk. I was filing my nails.
He asked to be connected to the president … NOW. Ooooh…look at me all scared and shivering in my expensive high heels that I could stomp you with. Ooooh I just love a sales guy with a good forceful “NOW” in his repertoire.
Again, I asked if it was a sales call. I just don’t give up. Again, he asked if I needed a hearing aid. I wanted to ask if he valued his piss-ant life and HIS ears, because he would be hard of hearing after I boxed his ears. Guess he read my mind as he hung up before I had a chance to say anything else.
I told the president I would like hazard pay as my job is getting pretty intense. He thinks I’m funny. Or he might be afraid of me. He tells everyone I’m his boss and I keep him in line.
So, if you see a sleazy guy named Josh who works for a company called Mills…tell him I’m looking for him. I’d like to make a courtesy call.
Oh gosh, like that works on a fearless, experienced mature woman such as myself. Not.
Today’s punk-salesman tried the “I’m in a rush, so hurry up and connect me” voice. That doesn’t work either. They all use my boss’s first name, suggesting they actually know the man. That doesn’t work on me either. As the Assistant to the President (note use of very important capital letters in my job title), I know the people who know my boss. And this guy wasn’t one of them. Gosh I’m good.
Salesmen must think I’m stupid or easily intimidated. Salesmen forget how long it took us Executive types to stomp our way to the top of the working heap, and how clever we have become at filtering out riff-raff.
I asked him the name of his company and told him if this was a sales call that the president would not take the call. He said no one does. Got that right. Still…he demanded to be connected. Still…I didn’t do it. I told him the president was in a meeting and I asked again about the sales call angle and the nature of his business. He asked if I needed a hearing aid.
Oh son…you really…really should NOT get pissy with the Executive Assistant. You’ve hit her on a really…really menopausal sort of day. I could take you out without batting an eye and go for some ice cream after you’re laid out on the floor with little x’s over your eyes.
But, as a good professional, I kept my voice calm and unflustered. I asked again if it was a sales call. He asked again if I needed a hearing aid. Gosh…we’re not getting anywhere are we?
I suggested that if he were a customer with an issue, I could forward his call to someone else in the company who could help him (actually, I was thinking I could forward his call to hell). He said it was a “courtesy” call. Translates to sales. I stopped talking. Silence. He probably thought I was too scared to talk. I was filing my nails.
He asked to be connected to the president … NOW. Ooooh…look at me all scared and shivering in my expensive high heels that I could stomp you with. Ooooh I just love a sales guy with a good forceful “NOW” in his repertoire.
Again, I asked if it was a sales call. I just don’t give up. Again, he asked if I needed a hearing aid. I wanted to ask if he valued his piss-ant life and HIS ears, because he would be hard of hearing after I boxed his ears. Guess he read my mind as he hung up before I had a chance to say anything else.
I told the president I would like hazard pay as my job is getting pretty intense. He thinks I’m funny. Or he might be afraid of me. He tells everyone I’m his boss and I keep him in line.
So, if you see a sleazy guy named Josh who works for a company called Mills…tell him I’m looking for him. I’d like to make a courtesy call.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Choosing a Pet
My cousin emailed me recently pondering the question of getting a pet. He’s thinking about a kitten, but wondered if you were supposed to bath them as a recent “joke” collage of cat bathing photos made him rethink cats as a pet. He thought they looked pretty traumatized by the whole bathing routine and wondered if there was a better way to keep them clean...like steam-cleaning or vacuuming. He makes me laugh.
I told him that steam-cleaning or vacuuming was probably adverse to their little kitty brains and they would most likely, in a diabolical kitty way, find amusing (for them) and subversive ways to get back at you.
I started thinking about the right pet for him, as I like to be very helpful to my relatives, and since he lives in a condo, the size and nature of the pet is important.
He needs a small pet of some sort, but nothing in the rat/hamster genus. Those animals are probably too small of a creature and would easily get lost…probably to the neighbors’ dismay when they found his pet inside their clothing bin.
No birds. They tweeter and screech making it impossible to take short or long naps. I can attest to the screeching part as I had a parrot one time. He adjusted the volume of his screeching to the volume of his surroundings. The volume on our stereo equipment could not go high enough to out blast him. He also liked to greet the morning with high-pitched screams and squawks. Apparently in birdie time, 4:30 AM is “rise and blab” time. And they are very…very messy in a stinky sort of way. They also make your husband consider divorcing you unless you rid yourself of the green monster. It's a very bad memory for me.
Snakes are downright slithery and not meant for pets…no matter what snake lovers say. Same goes for any knarly-skinned animals such as an iguana or any other lizard. No good for a pet. You never know what they’re thinking. They always have the same look on their face whether they are debating biting you, or wondering what happened to Mazie…their previous friend in the tank. How can you trust a pet that doesn’t have discernable expressions for various thoughts?
Fish are just boring. Although you can go to sleep watching fish swim around in aimless paths across the tank, which is probably good for your blood pressure. But what are they looking for? Surely they’ve noticed there is never anything new in the tank. Or anywhere else to go. Fish are good for putting you to sleep, but no good for petting. It’s hard to get into a fish and feel any love. They just don’t last that long. Sort of toilet-bound animals.
Pigs, although very smart, are too snout-y. I don’t want my pet rummaging around my house for things. It would make me feel like I wasn’t a very good house keeper as the pig would continually find bits of things to eat on the ground. And they look like farmyard animals. Would your friends talk behind your back about your pig-sty of a house?
Ferrets look like a cross between a rat and a slinky. And they steal your things, which make them the criminal element of the animal world. I don’t want to support that behavior in my house. There are prisons full of people like that.
I guess in the final analysis, a kitty that you don’t have to bath is the right pet for my cousin.
I told him that steam-cleaning or vacuuming was probably adverse to their little kitty brains and they would most likely, in a diabolical kitty way, find amusing (for them) and subversive ways to get back at you.
I started thinking about the right pet for him, as I like to be very helpful to my relatives, and since he lives in a condo, the size and nature of the pet is important.
He needs a small pet of some sort, but nothing in the rat/hamster genus. Those animals are probably too small of a creature and would easily get lost…probably to the neighbors’ dismay when they found his pet inside their clothing bin.
No birds. They tweeter and screech making it impossible to take short or long naps. I can attest to the screeching part as I had a parrot one time. He adjusted the volume of his screeching to the volume of his surroundings. The volume on our stereo equipment could not go high enough to out blast him. He also liked to greet the morning with high-pitched screams and squawks. Apparently in birdie time, 4:30 AM is “rise and blab” time. And they are very…very messy in a stinky sort of way. They also make your husband consider divorcing you unless you rid yourself of the green monster. It's a very bad memory for me.
Snakes are downright slithery and not meant for pets…no matter what snake lovers say. Same goes for any knarly-skinned animals such as an iguana or any other lizard. No good for a pet. You never know what they’re thinking. They always have the same look on their face whether they are debating biting you, or wondering what happened to Mazie…their previous friend in the tank. How can you trust a pet that doesn’t have discernable expressions for various thoughts?
Fish are just boring. Although you can go to sleep watching fish swim around in aimless paths across the tank, which is probably good for your blood pressure. But what are they looking for? Surely they’ve noticed there is never anything new in the tank. Or anywhere else to go. Fish are good for putting you to sleep, but no good for petting. It’s hard to get into a fish and feel any love. They just don’t last that long. Sort of toilet-bound animals.
Pigs, although very smart, are too snout-y. I don’t want my pet rummaging around my house for things. It would make me feel like I wasn’t a very good house keeper as the pig would continually find bits of things to eat on the ground. And they look like farmyard animals. Would your friends talk behind your back about your pig-sty of a house?
Ferrets look like a cross between a rat and a slinky. And they steal your things, which make them the criminal element of the animal world. I don’t want to support that behavior in my house. There are prisons full of people like that.
I guess in the final analysis, a kitty that you don’t have to bath is the right pet for my cousin.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Avert Your Eyes
So there I was getting ready for work Friday morning…slathering my face with beauty creams and curling my chicken-plucked-night-hair, when my husband came to the doorway and said the washing machine must be having problems as my youngest son had unplugged it. And he didn’t leave a note as to the issue before he left for work. But my son did leave all the lights on and his alarm kept going off making annoying beeping noises until I found the correct button to punch to turn it off instead of continually smacking the snooze button.
And why do men ask you to look at household mechanical devices with issues, but not cars or other manly things with issues? They never say, “Oh honey, the fuel injection system seems to be clogged, you'd better come out here and take a look at it”. Are the mechanics of a washing machine somehow in the female domain, thereby making us an expert by default on any failure issues? I’m confused on the logic of it all.
I went out to the garage, which as I said seems silly since I am in no way a mechanic and can only stare blankly at objects which are not functioning in a normal manner. There wasn’t any sign of water spilling out on the floor, so that blew the extent of my “things to check list”. I considered using my Mad Mommy face and demand the agitator, or whatever malfunctioning part was to blame for the malaise of the washing machine, cease and desist any further flagrant non-working rebellious actions. It was only a momentary consideration that I promptly dismissed as a waste of a good mean mommy face.
My husband started it up to see what would happen. Nothing, but what should happen when you start a washing machine. We’re both confused at this point.
I went back in the house, gathered my things up and before I departed for work, my husband said he thought he knew what the problem was…or wasn’t in this case. My son unplugged the washer to use the smoothie maker for his morning protein drink. He makes them in the garage so the sound doesn’t wake us. Obviously he forgot to re-plug the washing machine back in.
Feeling lots better about the future of our home devices, I sailed to work in my new car with a slight feeling that something was amiss…like maybe I forgot something important. You know that feeling when you’re missing earrings or your watch? La la la I arrived at work with my music beating out a happy tune. Got out of the car and started to walk down the stairs. Oh…NOW I remember what I forgot. That would be my eye shadow. Crap.
When I got to my desk to put on the eye shadow, I looked in the mirror and realized I had also forgotten to put on lipstick, base makeup and blush. I was, in short, a pasty-faced women who displayed the “before” look of a makeup ad for women who really…really…need some products troweled on their face.
I’m blaming my son, my husband and the washing machine. The whole affair threw me off my pace so I didn’t put my game face on for the day.
Avert your eyes everyone I’m hideous!
Thank goodness, like every smart working woman, I keep emergency makeup in my desk drawer. Whew. I’m only half-hideous now.
And why do men ask you to look at household mechanical devices with issues, but not cars or other manly things with issues? They never say, “Oh honey, the fuel injection system seems to be clogged, you'd better come out here and take a look at it”. Are the mechanics of a washing machine somehow in the female domain, thereby making us an expert by default on any failure issues? I’m confused on the logic of it all.
I went out to the garage, which as I said seems silly since I am in no way a mechanic and can only stare blankly at objects which are not functioning in a normal manner. There wasn’t any sign of water spilling out on the floor, so that blew the extent of my “things to check list”. I considered using my Mad Mommy face and demand the agitator, or whatever malfunctioning part was to blame for the malaise of the washing machine, cease and desist any further flagrant non-working rebellious actions. It was only a momentary consideration that I promptly dismissed as a waste of a good mean mommy face.
My husband started it up to see what would happen. Nothing, but what should happen when you start a washing machine. We’re both confused at this point.
I went back in the house, gathered my things up and before I departed for work, my husband said he thought he knew what the problem was…or wasn’t in this case. My son unplugged the washer to use the smoothie maker for his morning protein drink. He makes them in the garage so the sound doesn’t wake us. Obviously he forgot to re-plug the washing machine back in.
Feeling lots better about the future of our home devices, I sailed to work in my new car with a slight feeling that something was amiss…like maybe I forgot something important. You know that feeling when you’re missing earrings or your watch? La la la I arrived at work with my music beating out a happy tune. Got out of the car and started to walk down the stairs. Oh…NOW I remember what I forgot. That would be my eye shadow. Crap.
When I got to my desk to put on the eye shadow, I looked in the mirror and realized I had also forgotten to put on lipstick, base makeup and blush. I was, in short, a pasty-faced women who displayed the “before” look of a makeup ad for women who really…really…need some products troweled on their face.
I’m blaming my son, my husband and the washing machine. The whole affair threw me off my pace so I didn’t put my game face on for the day.
Avert your eyes everyone I’m hideous!
Thank goodness, like every smart working woman, I keep emergency makeup in my desk drawer. Whew. I’m only half-hideous now.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
War Tales of Buying a Car
When you think about going to a car dealer to buy a new or used car, do you:
a. Smile and get a head rush thinking about the delightful day you will spend in the company of a car salesman, or
b. Go back to bed and figure out how to squeeze another 200,000 miles out of your car that was rear ended and looks pretty disfigured and has a serious oil leak to boot?
My husband has a great aversion to car salesmen. If you’ve ever seen Cesar Millan, “The Dog Whisperer”, on the National Geographic channel, you will know that Cesar has rules for meeting new dogs: no eye contact, no talking, no touching. That pretty much sums up how my husband deals with car salesmen. Oh, and he walks 2 paces behind me, thereby cleverly making me the front man. Me, I have no aversion issues.
Several years ago, I thought I might like a minivan. I expressed a serious interest in one of the cars and asked to test drive it. The salesman happily (noting the serious intent on my face and seeing commission dollars in his head) took my husband’s license so we could take the vehicle out for a spin. It was a nice car, but after some discussion (out of earshot of the salesman), we decided to save our money and give it some thought. After all, buying a car is a very large investment. Not that long ago, I could have bought a house with the same amount of money. And the house wouldn’t develop engine problems within a few years.
At this dealership, once you took a test drive, their belief was that you now committed yourself to buying the car. The salesman looked peeved and said we couldn’t leave until we spoke to the sales manager.
I could feel an ugly situation brewing. Perhaps it was the electrical charge that was emanating off my husband. I wanted to give the unsuspecting salesman a heads up on the whole “you can’t” thing when it comes to my husband.
The sales manager came out, berated the salesman for not doing a good enough job so HE would now take over. Yes, it was getting ugly. And then the fool said the immortal sentence while actually looking at my husband. “You indicated to my salesman that you were interested in this car. You took a test drive in it. You cannot waste his time and not buy the vehicle.”
My husband asked for his license back. He asked in that low voice which I have only heard a few times when he has been really angry. Now lest you think my husband has anger management issues, I assure you he is a very mild mannered, easy going sort of guy. He has to be. He lives with me, and I suck up all the energy in the household. In a fun, inspirational sort of way.
Anyway, I took a quick glance at my husband’s face. Uh oh. In addition to the low, measured tones, he was looking at the sales manager directly in the eye and not really blinking all that much. In the manly world, that would be called “squaring off”.
The sales manager didn’t catch the nuance of how serious a situation this was becoming, as he said “No,” to the request for the driver’s license. Wow, I thought to myself. I’m in the middle of a rumble if this idiot doesn’t back down. Surely he doesn’t think he’s going to intimidate us into buying a car at this point!
I’ve seen a lot of sales tactics, but this one took the prize. I suppose he thinks his rude and scary method was a great way to get a sale. It still boggles my mind. My husband, now with jaw clenched, said in a very firm and “you’re about to go down dude” sort of voice, that he wanted his license NOW, or he would call the police and they would get it for him. That did the trick. The license flew into his hands. We flew out of the car lot.
That’s my worst story. My best story is just a few days ago when we visited Dublin Honda, here in California. I was rear ended by a young girl on a cell phone last September. Love those cell phones. It was time to get our second car. I suggested to my husband that we go take some test drives and just get a feel for what we (I) might want to drive. His face took on the pale glimmer of past memories with car dealers.
We went to the car lot, with my husband walking a few paces behind me, and instead of the typical speed of a salesman who normally is waiting to grab you as you climb out of your car, we actually had time to look in the window of a few cars before the sales guy appeared. I test drove several cars, asked lots of questions, asked about comparisons to models from another manufacturer, and the salesman suggested I go test drive the other cars to see what I thought. I was agog. My husband wasn’t saying anything. I think he was thrown by this atypical sales experience. And he was holding onto his driver’s license….just in case.
Needless to say, we bought a car from them, and because it was such a nice experience, I’ll give them a plug. Go to Dublin Honda on Scarlett Court in Dublin and ask for Berry Pries. He won’t steal your driver’s license and he’s very friendly. My husband actually had a conversation with him…without using that freaky “you’re in deep, deep trouble” voice.
a. Smile and get a head rush thinking about the delightful day you will spend in the company of a car salesman, or
b. Go back to bed and figure out how to squeeze another 200,000 miles out of your car that was rear ended and looks pretty disfigured and has a serious oil leak to boot?
My husband has a great aversion to car salesmen. If you’ve ever seen Cesar Millan, “The Dog Whisperer”, on the National Geographic channel, you will know that Cesar has rules for meeting new dogs: no eye contact, no talking, no touching. That pretty much sums up how my husband deals with car salesmen. Oh, and he walks 2 paces behind me, thereby cleverly making me the front man. Me, I have no aversion issues.
Several years ago, I thought I might like a minivan. I expressed a serious interest in one of the cars and asked to test drive it. The salesman happily (noting the serious intent on my face and seeing commission dollars in his head) took my husband’s license so we could take the vehicle out for a spin. It was a nice car, but after some discussion (out of earshot of the salesman), we decided to save our money and give it some thought. After all, buying a car is a very large investment. Not that long ago, I could have bought a house with the same amount of money. And the house wouldn’t develop engine problems within a few years.
At this dealership, once you took a test drive, their belief was that you now committed yourself to buying the car. The salesman looked peeved and said we couldn’t leave until we spoke to the sales manager.
I could feel an ugly situation brewing. Perhaps it was the electrical charge that was emanating off my husband. I wanted to give the unsuspecting salesman a heads up on the whole “you can’t” thing when it comes to my husband.
The sales manager came out, berated the salesman for not doing a good enough job so HE would now take over. Yes, it was getting ugly. And then the fool said the immortal sentence while actually looking at my husband. “You indicated to my salesman that you were interested in this car. You took a test drive in it. You cannot waste his time and not buy the vehicle.”
My husband asked for his license back. He asked in that low voice which I have only heard a few times when he has been really angry. Now lest you think my husband has anger management issues, I assure you he is a very mild mannered, easy going sort of guy. He has to be. He lives with me, and I suck up all the energy in the household. In a fun, inspirational sort of way.
Anyway, I took a quick glance at my husband’s face. Uh oh. In addition to the low, measured tones, he was looking at the sales manager directly in the eye and not really blinking all that much. In the manly world, that would be called “squaring off”.
The sales manager didn’t catch the nuance of how serious a situation this was becoming, as he said “No,” to the request for the driver’s license. Wow, I thought to myself. I’m in the middle of a rumble if this idiot doesn’t back down. Surely he doesn’t think he’s going to intimidate us into buying a car at this point!
I’ve seen a lot of sales tactics, but this one took the prize. I suppose he thinks his rude and scary method was a great way to get a sale. It still boggles my mind. My husband, now with jaw clenched, said in a very firm and “you’re about to go down dude” sort of voice, that he wanted his license NOW, or he would call the police and they would get it for him. That did the trick. The license flew into his hands. We flew out of the car lot.
That’s my worst story. My best story is just a few days ago when we visited Dublin Honda, here in California. I was rear ended by a young girl on a cell phone last September. Love those cell phones. It was time to get our second car. I suggested to my husband that we go take some test drives and just get a feel for what we (I) might want to drive. His face took on the pale glimmer of past memories with car dealers.
We went to the car lot, with my husband walking a few paces behind me, and instead of the typical speed of a salesman who normally is waiting to grab you as you climb out of your car, we actually had time to look in the window of a few cars before the sales guy appeared. I test drove several cars, asked lots of questions, asked about comparisons to models from another manufacturer, and the salesman suggested I go test drive the other cars to see what I thought. I was agog. My husband wasn’t saying anything. I think he was thrown by this atypical sales experience. And he was holding onto his driver’s license….just in case.
Needless to say, we bought a car from them, and because it was such a nice experience, I’ll give them a plug. Go to Dublin Honda on Scarlett Court in Dublin and ask for Berry Pries. He won’t steal your driver’s license and he’s very friendly. My husband actually had a conversation with him…without using that freaky “you’re in deep, deep trouble” voice.
Friday, July 13, 2007
A Doctor With His Tail On Fire and Crack for Allergy Sufferers
Have you ever seen a doctor move like his “tail was on fire”? I’ve only seen it in the movies or on TV before Monday. To watch it in person is a thing of beauty. When it’s caused by your reaction to his procedure, it’s downright thrilling…in a scary “Oh shit, am I in some medical jeopardy here?”
I went in for allergy tests on Monday, hoping the doctor could find the root cause for my ever-increasing migraine headaches, which he assured me were actually sinus headaches caused by allergies. Well, they sure felt like migraines.
He stressed that should I feel any reaction to the drops of pollen he was putting on my arm, I should immediately (he emphasized that word) tell him. He started on my right arm with drops of tree pollens. Drops mind you. Not injections of anything. He started up my left arm with drops of grasses. Toward the end (we’re talking a minute or two of time here) I started feeling the onset of a fainting spell. Not being shy, and always complying with a doctor’s instructions, I mentioned that fact to the doctor.
Woo-wee. That man ran out of the office like his tail was on fire and I think his shoes burned rubber on the linoleum. I got the feeling that my lightheaded reaction is not good or typical. Should I be worried before I keel over?
He wooshes back into the office and gives me a shot of Epinephrine. I’ve only heard that name on TV shows as the paramedic is yelling to someone to give the unresponsive victim a shot. Oh boy. I can’t wait to tell my family. This should garner me some serious pampering from my husband. By the way, Epinephrine, I have come to find out, is used to treat life-threatening allergic reactions. Life threatening? The doctor plunks an oxygen mask over my face. He looks very concerned. ..in an emergency room sort of way. He hovers. Keeps looking at me. Says I should be okay within 20 minutes.
After 2 more shots, a slug of anti-histamine, some prednisone pills and 2 hours later…I’m feeling lots better! He said, I’m “uber” (my word…I’m into modern stupid words) allergic to some trees and grasses. Ya think? I guess he doesn’t see that sort of reaction very often. It’s pretty fun to scare the doctor…and live to tell about it.
I drive home contemplating the degree of pathetic-ness I should display to get treated with the care and concern I deserve.
My husband hovers around me, thankful to have a breathing wife after my story. I hardly embellished it at all. He made dinner and kept a watchful eye on me for the evening.
On Tuesday, I picked up some pills the doctor suggested I start taking for a decongestant. I didn’t read the handy little paper the pharmacy gives you that lists possible side effects. My Mom, the ex-nurse, would have my hide if she knew that. Mom doesn’t believe in willy-nilly taking pills and is suspicious of anything new a doctor might prescribe. She’s no patsy for the pill-pushing medical field. I bow to her superiority. And she’s 89, so she must be doing something right!
An hour after I take these colorful (orange and green) horse pills, I have the onset of very strange feelings. My heart is skipping beats and then beating a little faster than it normally does and I have some twitchy urge to get up and start walking in circles around the living room. In a speedy sort of way. Oh my. This just can’t be good.
So NOW I read the possible side effects of these lovely pills, which include: “nervousness, dizziness, light headedness, trouble sleeping, nausea, vomiting, fast heartbeat, loss of appetite, or headache. This product may reduce blood flow to your hands and feet, causing them to feel cold. Dress warmly. Chest pain, seizures, mental/mood changes (e.g., anxiety, panic, hallucinations). A very serious allergic reaction may include: rash, itching, swelling, severe dizziness, trouble breathing. If they continue or are bothersome, check with your doctor.”
Yes. These side effects are sure bothersome I have to say, because now I’m considering walking across the State of California. I don’t see any reason why I can’t.
And have you noticed, that as soon as you read the words “rash, itching” … you have to scratch your head or your arms? I quickly look in the mirror and discover that a small part of the left hand side of my face looks swollen to me. I think it looks swollen. Was it always that way? Oh why haven’t I looked at my face more often? I ask my husband if I look swollen. He doesn’t think so. What does he know? But maybe I’m just hallucinating it. My mental/mood changes.
I went to bed. I can’t face my itchy swelling face anymore, even though I’m still contemplating a long walk. Maybe to see my relatives in Illinois.
At 1AM when my husband comes to bed, and I’m still awake. I told him I think I now have restless leg syndrome as my legs are either in a dancing mood with/without the rest of my body or are nervous from all the potential swelling itchy reactions I may/may not have. Either way, the whole event is getting on my nerves. Oh crap. Yet another reaction.
I suggest that I might feel better if I switched sides with him in bed, which I do. My legs are still thumping out a beat all their own…sans music. His side of the bed isn’t any better than mine. Maybe he’d like to discuss it.
Maybe not.
“Wanna go for a walk?” I suggest, knowing he doesn’t realize how far I have in mind. “No,” he says in a sleepy I’m-not-getting-out-of-bed sort of way.
So I get up and find the only one who is always willing to listen and walk with me. The dog. He’s my only friend in the world. He won’t judge my hideous swollen, itchy, twitchy limbs, which fortunately, after checking the mirror again, don’t actually seem swollen or itchy. Just a sad hallucination I guess.
I clicked on the TV. Half the channels are out. Maybe if I walked to the cable company I could complain in person.
I finally went back to bed at 4AM and had to get up at 6AM for work.
And it’s my birthday.
At about 9AM, I have the start of a new and not-so-improved reaction. Apparently when coming “down” from this little pill, your mood swings to new lows. Depression set in. “It’s my birthday and who cares anyway. I didn’t even get flowers this morning from that pig of a husband that I’ve spent the last 20 years with slaving over a hot stove and making his life lovely and filled with happiness. Does he care? No. Not one freaking rose bud for my birthday. And he KNOWS how I like flowers.”
Oh boy. When I’m on a slide going down…I’m going to wipe out my husband first.
This must be what it’s like to be on crack … only for allergy sufferers and then mix it with a big dose of PMS and full blown menopause moodiness. Makes your blood chill just thinking of that combination.
Don’t they put people in jail for using drugs like this? There I’ll be, garbed in an unbecoming orange jumpsuit, eating high-calorie carbohydrate food out of Styrofoam containers and contemplating where I went wrong in life. I’ll befriend a woman named Big Bertha and we’ll both blame my husband for every second I’m behind bars. If he’d just given me one lousy posy, I wouldn’t be behind those cold bars of justice. Oh yeah. I’m taking that man out when I get home.
Long conversations abound in my head as I’m on the way to the dentist that morning. Oh sure. Depression, a birthday, and a visit to the dentist. I wouldn’t have teeth problems if my husband were a nicer guy.
I got back to work and there to my surprised eyes was the most beautiful bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen. My husband was given a short reprieve.
This uber fun mood lasted all day and into the evening when my husband and son took me to dinner. Ah yes, dinner. We were escorted to the one table which all waiters thought belonged to someone other than them. We waited 15 minutes for service at which point I hailed down a waitress and indicated we were STILL waiting (with that cool look of a woman who has just had a lot of allergy-crack medicine in her bloodstream and will not under any circumstances brook excuses from a waiter person). My husband and son were quiet. They know better than to open their mouths when I’m this far over the wall.
She said they were short one waiter. Really? And I care because…
She assured us she would get our waiter. Tick tick tick. My crack head is not happy.
10 minutes go by. I suggest to her she find him immediately. Tick tick tick. I look at my watch and decide that 5 more minutes should do it before I and my family depart the establishment.
I hailed her down again. Note that my husband and son are not hailing anyone. They sat in limp fear at the sight of my eyes shooting sparks in my anger-swollen face. I don’t know. I didn’t have a mirror, but I think that’s probably how I looked. Just don’t cross Momma when she looks like that.
We finally got served. I went home and slept off the last of the effects and woke up Thursday feeling myself once again.
As a recovering crack-allergy person, I’d like to say that it’s good to be back to normal.
I went in for allergy tests on Monday, hoping the doctor could find the root cause for my ever-increasing migraine headaches, which he assured me were actually sinus headaches caused by allergies. Well, they sure felt like migraines.
He stressed that should I feel any reaction to the drops of pollen he was putting on my arm, I should immediately (he emphasized that word) tell him. He started on my right arm with drops of tree pollens. Drops mind you. Not injections of anything. He started up my left arm with drops of grasses. Toward the end (we’re talking a minute or two of time here) I started feeling the onset of a fainting spell. Not being shy, and always complying with a doctor’s instructions, I mentioned that fact to the doctor.
Woo-wee. That man ran out of the office like his tail was on fire and I think his shoes burned rubber on the linoleum. I got the feeling that my lightheaded reaction is not good or typical. Should I be worried before I keel over?
He wooshes back into the office and gives me a shot of Epinephrine. I’ve only heard that name on TV shows as the paramedic is yelling to someone to give the unresponsive victim a shot. Oh boy. I can’t wait to tell my family. This should garner me some serious pampering from my husband. By the way, Epinephrine, I have come to find out, is used to treat life-threatening allergic reactions. Life threatening? The doctor plunks an oxygen mask over my face. He looks very concerned. ..in an emergency room sort of way. He hovers. Keeps looking at me. Says I should be okay within 20 minutes.
After 2 more shots, a slug of anti-histamine, some prednisone pills and 2 hours later…I’m feeling lots better! He said, I’m “uber” (my word…I’m into modern stupid words) allergic to some trees and grasses. Ya think? I guess he doesn’t see that sort of reaction very often. It’s pretty fun to scare the doctor…and live to tell about it.
I drive home contemplating the degree of pathetic-ness I should display to get treated with the care and concern I deserve.
My husband hovers around me, thankful to have a breathing wife after my story. I hardly embellished it at all. He made dinner and kept a watchful eye on me for the evening.
On Tuesday, I picked up some pills the doctor suggested I start taking for a decongestant. I didn’t read the handy little paper the pharmacy gives you that lists possible side effects. My Mom, the ex-nurse, would have my hide if she knew that. Mom doesn’t believe in willy-nilly taking pills and is suspicious of anything new a doctor might prescribe. She’s no patsy for the pill-pushing medical field. I bow to her superiority. And she’s 89, so she must be doing something right!
An hour after I take these colorful (orange and green) horse pills, I have the onset of very strange feelings. My heart is skipping beats and then beating a little faster than it normally does and I have some twitchy urge to get up and start walking in circles around the living room. In a speedy sort of way. Oh my. This just can’t be good.
So NOW I read the possible side effects of these lovely pills, which include: “nervousness, dizziness, light headedness, trouble sleeping, nausea, vomiting, fast heartbeat, loss of appetite, or headache. This product may reduce blood flow to your hands and feet, causing them to feel cold. Dress warmly. Chest pain, seizures, mental/mood changes (e.g., anxiety, panic, hallucinations). A very serious allergic reaction may include: rash, itching, swelling, severe dizziness, trouble breathing. If they continue or are bothersome, check with your doctor.”
Yes. These side effects are sure bothersome I have to say, because now I’m considering walking across the State of California. I don’t see any reason why I can’t.
And have you noticed, that as soon as you read the words “rash, itching” … you have to scratch your head or your arms? I quickly look in the mirror and discover that a small part of the left hand side of my face looks swollen to me. I think it looks swollen. Was it always that way? Oh why haven’t I looked at my face more often? I ask my husband if I look swollen. He doesn’t think so. What does he know? But maybe I’m just hallucinating it. My mental/mood changes.
I went to bed. I can’t face my itchy swelling face anymore, even though I’m still contemplating a long walk. Maybe to see my relatives in Illinois.
At 1AM when my husband comes to bed, and I’m still awake. I told him I think I now have restless leg syndrome as my legs are either in a dancing mood with/without the rest of my body or are nervous from all the potential swelling itchy reactions I may/may not have. Either way, the whole event is getting on my nerves. Oh crap. Yet another reaction.
I suggest that I might feel better if I switched sides with him in bed, which I do. My legs are still thumping out a beat all their own…sans music. His side of the bed isn’t any better than mine. Maybe he’d like to discuss it.
Maybe not.
“Wanna go for a walk?” I suggest, knowing he doesn’t realize how far I have in mind. “No,” he says in a sleepy I’m-not-getting-out-of-bed sort of way.
So I get up and find the only one who is always willing to listen and walk with me. The dog. He’s my only friend in the world. He won’t judge my hideous swollen, itchy, twitchy limbs, which fortunately, after checking the mirror again, don’t actually seem swollen or itchy. Just a sad hallucination I guess.
I clicked on the TV. Half the channels are out. Maybe if I walked to the cable company I could complain in person.
I finally went back to bed at 4AM and had to get up at 6AM for work.
And it’s my birthday.
At about 9AM, I have the start of a new and not-so-improved reaction. Apparently when coming “down” from this little pill, your mood swings to new lows. Depression set in. “It’s my birthday and who cares anyway. I didn’t even get flowers this morning from that pig of a husband that I’ve spent the last 20 years with slaving over a hot stove and making his life lovely and filled with happiness. Does he care? No. Not one freaking rose bud for my birthday. And he KNOWS how I like flowers.”
Oh boy. When I’m on a slide going down…I’m going to wipe out my husband first.
This must be what it’s like to be on crack … only for allergy sufferers and then mix it with a big dose of PMS and full blown menopause moodiness. Makes your blood chill just thinking of that combination.
Don’t they put people in jail for using drugs like this? There I’ll be, garbed in an unbecoming orange jumpsuit, eating high-calorie carbohydrate food out of Styrofoam containers and contemplating where I went wrong in life. I’ll befriend a woman named Big Bertha and we’ll both blame my husband for every second I’m behind bars. If he’d just given me one lousy posy, I wouldn’t be behind those cold bars of justice. Oh yeah. I’m taking that man out when I get home.
Long conversations abound in my head as I’m on the way to the dentist that morning. Oh sure. Depression, a birthday, and a visit to the dentist. I wouldn’t have teeth problems if my husband were a nicer guy.
I got back to work and there to my surprised eyes was the most beautiful bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen. My husband was given a short reprieve.
This uber fun mood lasted all day and into the evening when my husband and son took me to dinner. Ah yes, dinner. We were escorted to the one table which all waiters thought belonged to someone other than them. We waited 15 minutes for service at which point I hailed down a waitress and indicated we were STILL waiting (with that cool look of a woman who has just had a lot of allergy-crack medicine in her bloodstream and will not under any circumstances brook excuses from a waiter person). My husband and son were quiet. They know better than to open their mouths when I’m this far over the wall.
She said they were short one waiter. Really? And I care because…
She assured us she would get our waiter. Tick tick tick. My crack head is not happy.
10 minutes go by. I suggest to her she find him immediately. Tick tick tick. I look at my watch and decide that 5 more minutes should do it before I and my family depart the establishment.
I hailed her down again. Note that my husband and son are not hailing anyone. They sat in limp fear at the sight of my eyes shooting sparks in my anger-swollen face. I don’t know. I didn’t have a mirror, but I think that’s probably how I looked. Just don’t cross Momma when she looks like that.
We finally got served. I went home and slept off the last of the effects and woke up Thursday feeling myself once again.
As a recovering crack-allergy person, I’d like to say that it’s good to be back to normal.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
The View From My Pedestal
“The practice of putting women on pedestals began to die out when it was discovered that they could give orders better from there.” Betty Grable
Many years ago when I was a divorced mother of two children, I worked for a computer company. Interestingly, I discovered after some years there that I had a reputation as a fun party girl. That seemed odd to me given the fact that in a good year I might go out on an actual date a couple of times. Apparently to the male population, a happy outgoing divorced woman equals a good-time floozy who does things they can only imagine in their techy dreams. The male logic still eludes me.
I did have one fellow in our department who would sing to me at our Friday afternoon beer busts. He also told me one time that he had had a vasectomy. I thought that was a good thing given that he had thinning dirty hair, watery blue eyes, crusty particles on his eyelids, and a belly which protruded nicely to hold up his baggy pants. But it wasn’t a piece of personal information I was particularly interested in knowing. And what do you say when a man tells you something like that? “Oh great. Now I can have unprotected sex with you and not worry about creating lizard-like children.” It isn’t easy being a single woman.
I was at a party one time and discovered I had an amazing talent for tuning out one conversation from an incredibly boring man, to another conversation of a much more interesting man. Floozy traits I guess. I could actually look at Mr. Dull with a pensive considering “I’m really listening to you” face when all the while I was tuning out everything he said so I could tune into someone else's conversation and at the same time consider my options for extricating myself to join the more interesting fellow. It was an out-of-body experience.
The best memory of this party was the conversation I had with yet another boring fellow who declared he was going abroad to “find himself”. Personally, I think if you lost pieces of yourself you’d do well to look for them right at home in a dusty unused corner thereby saving a lot of money and wasted conversations with strangers who don’t care a wit about your losing or finding yourself.
Apparently this fellow saw some very secure, grounded, and admirable traits (I was in a good “space”) in me so he said (and I quote) “I put you on a pedestal”. I thought that was such a novel notion so I tried on my newfound position on top of that pedestal to see what the view was like. I found out something very interesting from up there. The man down below took on aspects of a doormat...sort of a weenie kind of guy who brought out an untapped desire in me to walk all over him in an attempt to kick his fanny into an upright manly position. Sadly, it didn’t work so I climbed down from atop the pedestal and sought out the food tray.
Ah, the life of a good-time, divorced, party girl. You meet people who make you happy to stay home.
Many years ago when I was a divorced mother of two children, I worked for a computer company. Interestingly, I discovered after some years there that I had a reputation as a fun party girl. That seemed odd to me given the fact that in a good year I might go out on an actual date a couple of times. Apparently to the male population, a happy outgoing divorced woman equals a good-time floozy who does things they can only imagine in their techy dreams. The male logic still eludes me.
I did have one fellow in our department who would sing to me at our Friday afternoon beer busts. He also told me one time that he had had a vasectomy. I thought that was a good thing given that he had thinning dirty hair, watery blue eyes, crusty particles on his eyelids, and a belly which protruded nicely to hold up his baggy pants. But it wasn’t a piece of personal information I was particularly interested in knowing. And what do you say when a man tells you something like that? “Oh great. Now I can have unprotected sex with you and not worry about creating lizard-like children.” It isn’t easy being a single woman.
I was at a party one time and discovered I had an amazing talent for tuning out one conversation from an incredibly boring man, to another conversation of a much more interesting man. Floozy traits I guess. I could actually look at Mr. Dull with a pensive considering “I’m really listening to you” face when all the while I was tuning out everything he said so I could tune into someone else's conversation and at the same time consider my options for extricating myself to join the more interesting fellow. It was an out-of-body experience.
The best memory of this party was the conversation I had with yet another boring fellow who declared he was going abroad to “find himself”. Personally, I think if you lost pieces of yourself you’d do well to look for them right at home in a dusty unused corner thereby saving a lot of money and wasted conversations with strangers who don’t care a wit about your losing or finding yourself.
Apparently this fellow saw some very secure, grounded, and admirable traits (I was in a good “space”) in me so he said (and I quote) “I put you on a pedestal”. I thought that was such a novel notion so I tried on my newfound position on top of that pedestal to see what the view was like. I found out something very interesting from up there. The man down below took on aspects of a doormat...sort of a weenie kind of guy who brought out an untapped desire in me to walk all over him in an attempt to kick his fanny into an upright manly position. Sadly, it didn’t work so I climbed down from atop the pedestal and sought out the food tray.
Ah, the life of a good-time, divorced, party girl. You meet people who make you happy to stay home.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Dressing for the Occasion or How Gay Men Set Better Standards
I’ve noticed over the past several years that the standards for attire for “straight” people at special occasions, such as weddings, has become suspiciously akin to dressing for work, the dog races or any other day that calls for casual, comfortable, and whatever springs forth first out of the closet.
A friend of mine was married in a late afternoon wedding. Nowhere on the invitation did it say “come as you are”, or “casual work clothing” required. Unfortunately, her circle of friends came from the high tech software industry. It has become very clear to me that the bright and independent minds of high tech are independently stubborn when it comes to dressing “up”. There is no “up”. I heard one fellow remark that he did not own any dress clothes or dress shoes. He said it proudly in a tone of deeply religious clothing beliefs. I glanced down at his Birkenstock sandals and noticed his wife was wearing a matching pair. They were a well-suited couple. I was surprised he didn’t go all out and wear shorts. I’ll bet he thought about it though.
At a wedding for my husband’s nephew, I saw a man (fortunately on the bride’s side of the aisle) in a light green polyester leisure suit, a plaid cowboy shirt, and a stick of beef jerky poking up out of his pocket. You don’t often see such a sight sitting in a church pew. I think the suit spoke to the man’s belief in never giving up on a good garment with a hard-to-find color (not found in nature) and the food was simply good planning in case it was a long ceremony whereupon he could grab a quick bite if he started feeling a might peckish.
I found it difficult to take my eyes off the man. It was just such a fascinating concept to find a person in church with a roll of beef jerky at the ready that…well, I just had to keep looking to make sure that’s what I was actually seeing.
As an aside to this particular wedding, the bride demanded that the minister change the wording in the vows as she did not like saying “obey” or maybe it was “honor”. Probably both. I don’t recall what she had him use as substitute words. Apparently after a short stint in this marriage, any words were not to her liking and they divorced.
A woman I worked with was married at a beautiful little church in San Francisco. It was an early afternoon ceremony with the reception at the yacht club. Off the top of my head, I considered that to be a dressy affair. It should have been don’t you think? Aside from the bride, groom, and wedding party who had to dress up for the wedding, my husband and I and two other men were the only ones who had obviously spent some time analyzing the degree of formality required for a wedding. The other two men were gay. And funny. And one was the most drop-dead-gorgeous-hunk I have ever seen in my life! Just thought I’d throw that in because I’ve never forgotten that man’s face. Woo-wee. I stuck to them like Spanx on fat legs just so I could ogle that man’s well-dressed body. No harm in looking. We all discussed the sad departure from dressing correctly for weddings. I love gay men. They know what style is all about by golly.
It’s no wonder the middle class is sinking. We don’t know how to dress up anymore.
Before leaving the house to go to a wedding in your Birkenstocks, untucked shirt, shorts, or casual work clothes, call a gay man…if not for advice, then just to give him some amusing anecdote for the day.
A friend of mine was married in a late afternoon wedding. Nowhere on the invitation did it say “come as you are”, or “casual work clothing” required. Unfortunately, her circle of friends came from the high tech software industry. It has become very clear to me that the bright and independent minds of high tech are independently stubborn when it comes to dressing “up”. There is no “up”. I heard one fellow remark that he did not own any dress clothes or dress shoes. He said it proudly in a tone of deeply religious clothing beliefs. I glanced down at his Birkenstock sandals and noticed his wife was wearing a matching pair. They were a well-suited couple. I was surprised he didn’t go all out and wear shorts. I’ll bet he thought about it though.
At a wedding for my husband’s nephew, I saw a man (fortunately on the bride’s side of the aisle) in a light green polyester leisure suit, a plaid cowboy shirt, and a stick of beef jerky poking up out of his pocket. You don’t often see such a sight sitting in a church pew. I think the suit spoke to the man’s belief in never giving up on a good garment with a hard-to-find color (not found in nature) and the food was simply good planning in case it was a long ceremony whereupon he could grab a quick bite if he started feeling a might peckish.
I found it difficult to take my eyes off the man. It was just such a fascinating concept to find a person in church with a roll of beef jerky at the ready that…well, I just had to keep looking to make sure that’s what I was actually seeing.
As an aside to this particular wedding, the bride demanded that the minister change the wording in the vows as she did not like saying “obey” or maybe it was “honor”. Probably both. I don’t recall what she had him use as substitute words. Apparently after a short stint in this marriage, any words were not to her liking and they divorced.
A woman I worked with was married at a beautiful little church in San Francisco. It was an early afternoon ceremony with the reception at the yacht club. Off the top of my head, I considered that to be a dressy affair. It should have been don’t you think? Aside from the bride, groom, and wedding party who had to dress up for the wedding, my husband and I and two other men were the only ones who had obviously spent some time analyzing the degree of formality required for a wedding. The other two men were gay. And funny. And one was the most drop-dead-gorgeous-hunk I have ever seen in my life! Just thought I’d throw that in because I’ve never forgotten that man’s face. Woo-wee. I stuck to them like Spanx on fat legs just so I could ogle that man’s well-dressed body. No harm in looking. We all discussed the sad departure from dressing correctly for weddings. I love gay men. They know what style is all about by golly.
It’s no wonder the middle class is sinking. We don’t know how to dress up anymore.
Before leaving the house to go to a wedding in your Birkenstocks, untucked shirt, shorts, or casual work clothes, call a gay man…if not for advice, then just to give him some amusing anecdote for the day.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Alexina and The Young Man
Alexina is a woman who fits in everywhere and with everyone and always has something interesting to say because she does interesting things. Men love her because she’s beautiful in an exotic mysterious way with long auburn hair, sky blue eyes, and a figure toned by 24-hr Fitness. She also cooks like a Cordon Bleu graduate. The combination is deadly.
She calls herself an ex-serial marry’er. She’s 30 and has been married twice, which she considers more than enough for any woman. She’s taking time out to reassess her criteria for serious relationships.
She had a date last week-end with a 22 year old college student who works part-time in a restaurant she frequents. The young fellow is tall with the wiry muscular build of a long-time surfer. He has sandy hair and a cute lop-sided smile that brings out a dimple in one cheek that makes our feminine fingers itch to reach out and tweek that cheek. And more.
Alexina decided to approach dating in a more scientific manner by developing a working laundry list of good and bad attributes in men so that she can control her impulse to “help” every downtrodden, weak, needy, fool she meets. I told her that the instant she even thinks the “H” word, she should run screaming to the nearest phone and call me. Or suggest he call a professional who can “H”elp him.
She said when the young man showed up at her door, she had second thoughts. He had a beat up van--as in paint missing in several spots with the base metal showing through, and several dents on both sides. He was wearing orange baggy swim trunks and a wrinkled shirt that said “Ride the Wave to Freedom”. She thought his mother should have educated him on the value of an iron.
She asked him into her livingroom so she could get her things, whereupon he apparently mistook the polite gesture for an invitation to grab her for a kiss. She figures that youth disobeys any laws of formality, manners or timing. She also figured it was going to be a very long day.
They spent the afternoon at the beach, which considering the beautiful weather we had over the week-end should have been quite nice. Except the young man spent the whole time surfing. She thinks he planned it so she could admire his expertise in the sport, or surfing is his life and everything else comes second. Not a good sign for a sharing relationship.
Alexina spent the afternoon feigning interest, searching for seashells, and talking with the older couples on the beach. Her laundry list on the negative side had reached the end of the first page. She tried to come up with some emergency illness that would cut his water time short and get her back home, but gave up and took a nap in the shade. The thrill of dating a younger man was waning.
At the end of the day, the dear fellow took her to his apartment so he could change clothes. Which he did. He changed into another set of wrinkled attire. As a matter of fact, Alexina thought his whole apartment looked wrinkled.
He cleared the sofa so they could sit down and watch some TV. He clicked on the set to the sports channel where, to her surprise, was a tractor pulling competition. Did people actually watch this stuff? Apparently people do.
Oh, look at the time. Early appointment tomorrow. But it’s Sunday tomorrow. Right. Early church service.
I asked her if she had anything in the positive column of her new list. She said she’d have to give it some thought and get back to me.
She calls herself an ex-serial marry’er. She’s 30 and has been married twice, which she considers more than enough for any woman. She’s taking time out to reassess her criteria for serious relationships.
She had a date last week-end with a 22 year old college student who works part-time in a restaurant she frequents. The young fellow is tall with the wiry muscular build of a long-time surfer. He has sandy hair and a cute lop-sided smile that brings out a dimple in one cheek that makes our feminine fingers itch to reach out and tweek that cheek. And more.
Alexina decided to approach dating in a more scientific manner by developing a working laundry list of good and bad attributes in men so that she can control her impulse to “help” every downtrodden, weak, needy, fool she meets. I told her that the instant she even thinks the “H” word, she should run screaming to the nearest phone and call me. Or suggest he call a professional who can “H”elp him.
She said when the young man showed up at her door, she had second thoughts. He had a beat up van--as in paint missing in several spots with the base metal showing through, and several dents on both sides. He was wearing orange baggy swim trunks and a wrinkled shirt that said “Ride the Wave to Freedom”. She thought his mother should have educated him on the value of an iron.
She asked him into her livingroom so she could get her things, whereupon he apparently mistook the polite gesture for an invitation to grab her for a kiss. She figures that youth disobeys any laws of formality, manners or timing. She also figured it was going to be a very long day.
They spent the afternoon at the beach, which considering the beautiful weather we had over the week-end should have been quite nice. Except the young man spent the whole time surfing. She thinks he planned it so she could admire his expertise in the sport, or surfing is his life and everything else comes second. Not a good sign for a sharing relationship.
Alexina spent the afternoon feigning interest, searching for seashells, and talking with the older couples on the beach. Her laundry list on the negative side had reached the end of the first page. She tried to come up with some emergency illness that would cut his water time short and get her back home, but gave up and took a nap in the shade. The thrill of dating a younger man was waning.
At the end of the day, the dear fellow took her to his apartment so he could change clothes. Which he did. He changed into another set of wrinkled attire. As a matter of fact, Alexina thought his whole apartment looked wrinkled.
He cleared the sofa so they could sit down and watch some TV. He clicked on the set to the sports channel where, to her surprise, was a tractor pulling competition. Did people actually watch this stuff? Apparently people do.
Oh, look at the time. Early appointment tomorrow. But it’s Sunday tomorrow. Right. Early church service.
I asked her if she had anything in the positive column of her new list. She said she’d have to give it some thought and get back to me.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Children and Business Don’t Mix
I have a serious complaint about allowing teenagers to run a restaurant, or any business that requires some speed and customer service. Like metaphors, you just shouldn’t mix the two. And if a restaurant hires such youthful folk, they should always have an adult ever-present and ever-watchful to actually run the business and supervise the children.
My son and I took my husband to his favorite restaurant for breakfast on Father’s Day. Despite the dusty plastic fern things hanging stiffly from the ceiling, the cracked linoleum, and other dubious cleanly issues--he loves it. The restaurant has been there for several decades (hence the layers of dust on the plastic fern things). I think the place reminds Sid of his younger days when he and his friends met for breakfast before heading out for fishing and other manly pursuits.
The décor and dust aside, when I first went to the restaurant many years ago, the waitresses were superb. There were two older ladies that were the epitome of what a good waitress should be…quick, efficient, and watchful for empty cups that need refilling.
Sadly, they have retired and were replaced by four teenage girls and one teenage boy.
On Sunday, it took two of these girls to work the front reservation area. They stood, they chatted, and did double duty as a waitress. For the lines of us waiting…and waiting…for a table, this did not bode well.
Everyone was told “30 minutes” for the wait. I began to get a bit suspicious of this answer when, after 45 minutes we were still waiting for a table, and the new response was “at least” 30 minutes because “people weren’t leaving as soon as they thought they would be”. The crowd was getting ugly at this point.
I watched the bus boy cleaning and resetting the tables. He reminded me of a bottle of ketsup—tall, long necked, and needed a couple of good thumps to make him work faster. He had that teenage look that we all know…and really hate. The one that says, “I’m so bored doing this stupid job. I should be home playing my video games.”
About an hour after checking in, we were finally seated by one of the reservation girls. She came back with our cups for the coffee, and then went to get the coffee pot. We didn’t get water. The people next to us got water. I guess we didn’t look like water types. She took our order and left. Forgot to bring sugar or cream for the coffee.
15 minutes later, we still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of our order, and we sure didn’t see any refills on our coffee.
I have a motto for waiters. Don’t ever make me get up to find you or the coffee pot. The tip will get smaller and smaller.
Bus boy stood in the back scanning the room. Same bored look on his face. Apparently his job, his only job, was to take dirty dishes off tables, wipe the table, and reset with silverware. As slowly as possible. Because he sure didn’t make any attempt to wander around with a coffee pot in his hand. No sirree. That wasn’t in the list of his job duties when he hired on to this miserable job.
We finally got our breakfast after 30 minutes of tiresome waiting. I should have ordered lunch.
My husband was a little embarrassed that I only left a $2 tip. I thought it was a bit excessive for the level of service.
Children. Only yours and mine are great. The rest need serious guidance.
My son and I took my husband to his favorite restaurant for breakfast on Father’s Day. Despite the dusty plastic fern things hanging stiffly from the ceiling, the cracked linoleum, and other dubious cleanly issues--he loves it. The restaurant has been there for several decades (hence the layers of dust on the plastic fern things). I think the place reminds Sid of his younger days when he and his friends met for breakfast before heading out for fishing and other manly pursuits.
The décor and dust aside, when I first went to the restaurant many years ago, the waitresses were superb. There were two older ladies that were the epitome of what a good waitress should be…quick, efficient, and watchful for empty cups that need refilling.
Sadly, they have retired and were replaced by four teenage girls and one teenage boy.
On Sunday, it took two of these girls to work the front reservation area. They stood, they chatted, and did double duty as a waitress. For the lines of us waiting…and waiting…for a table, this did not bode well.
Everyone was told “30 minutes” for the wait. I began to get a bit suspicious of this answer when, after 45 minutes we were still waiting for a table, and the new response was “at least” 30 minutes because “people weren’t leaving as soon as they thought they would be”. The crowd was getting ugly at this point.
I watched the bus boy cleaning and resetting the tables. He reminded me of a bottle of ketsup—tall, long necked, and needed a couple of good thumps to make him work faster. He had that teenage look that we all know…and really hate. The one that says, “I’m so bored doing this stupid job. I should be home playing my video games.”
About an hour after checking in, we were finally seated by one of the reservation girls. She came back with our cups for the coffee, and then went to get the coffee pot. We didn’t get water. The people next to us got water. I guess we didn’t look like water types. She took our order and left. Forgot to bring sugar or cream for the coffee.
15 minutes later, we still hadn’t seen hide nor hair of our order, and we sure didn’t see any refills on our coffee.
I have a motto for waiters. Don’t ever make me get up to find you or the coffee pot. The tip will get smaller and smaller.
Bus boy stood in the back scanning the room. Same bored look on his face. Apparently his job, his only job, was to take dirty dishes off tables, wipe the table, and reset with silverware. As slowly as possible. Because he sure didn’t make any attempt to wander around with a coffee pot in his hand. No sirree. That wasn’t in the list of his job duties when he hired on to this miserable job.
We finally got our breakfast after 30 minutes of tiresome waiting. I should have ordered lunch.
My husband was a little embarrassed that I only left a $2 tip. I thought it was a bit excessive for the level of service.
Children. Only yours and mine are great. The rest need serious guidance.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
A Night of Romance
Tell me your best romantic story. Here’s mine….
One evening several years ago, my husband and I were sitting around talking about the “good old days”. High school to be exact. I told him I’d never gone to a prom. Junior or Senior. I was never asked. He was astounded as he thinks I’m a pretty cute thing that would charm any boy into asking her to the prom.
I have developed my wily feminine skill set over the years.
In junior high, I was so shy that when we had school dances, I would sit stiffly in the metal folding chair and stare at the wood bleacher floor all the while watching as sneaker-clad boy’s feet walked to the girls on the left and right of me, but never ever stopping in front of me. I was a great watcher of feet and ever hopeful that a set of them would eventually walk my way. Never happened. I have a theory. Boys don’t pick girls who stare at the floor and don’t smile. It’s just plain freaky and shows no signs of being an interesting person who knows how to dance or talk and it’s hard enough for a boy to dance and talk to a girl in junior high.
Same problem in high school. I went to the dances with my girlfriends, but stood in the corner as they were whisked away for a fast twirl. I think I was still into staring at the floor.
It wasn’t until my senior year, and later half of the year, that I gained some insight into attracting boys. French, and a little black cocktail dress borrowed from my older sister did the trick.
I had joined the French Club and we came up with a skit for the whole school during some rally thing. The skit had various French characters. The club members picked me to be the French can-can girl. I was astounded. Either they saw some French floozy-skirt-tossing attributes which eluded me, or no one else wanted the job.
So, there I was swinging my hips and walking out on the football field wearing my sister’s little black cocktail dress and a feather plume in my hair. Whistles and ya-hoos were called out from the boys in the crowd.
Oh, so this is all it takes? Several of the boys in my history class took on a new light in their eye when they discovered I was the can-can girl. Eat your hearts out boys.
I just realized as I’m writing this that the French Incident was the moment I discovered the power of womanhood. A little black cocktail dress, a swing of the hips, and a smile. So that’s the key to popularity with the boys.
As I said, my husband felt badly that I missed out on the fun of a prom. He went to the prom. He was on the football team. Those guys went to everything. Jock.
He left the room, got several of our “oldie” cd’s, put them in the player, and came over to my chair. “Can I have this dance?”
Makes me get tears in my eyes just thinking about that night.
We danced and talked about our teachers and the football game coming up. In short, for a brief time he took me back to being a high school girl with nothing more to worry about than the guy I was dancing with and whether or not he might ask me out again. It was magical and sweet and romantic beyond anything I’ve ever done in my life.
At the end of the evening, he left me for a minute and when he came back he had his high school letter-sweater. He asked me if I would be his girl.
Yes. Now and forever.
One evening several years ago, my husband and I were sitting around talking about the “good old days”. High school to be exact. I told him I’d never gone to a prom. Junior or Senior. I was never asked. He was astounded as he thinks I’m a pretty cute thing that would charm any boy into asking her to the prom.
I have developed my wily feminine skill set over the years.
In junior high, I was so shy that when we had school dances, I would sit stiffly in the metal folding chair and stare at the wood bleacher floor all the while watching as sneaker-clad boy’s feet walked to the girls on the left and right of me, but never ever stopping in front of me. I was a great watcher of feet and ever hopeful that a set of them would eventually walk my way. Never happened. I have a theory. Boys don’t pick girls who stare at the floor and don’t smile. It’s just plain freaky and shows no signs of being an interesting person who knows how to dance or talk and it’s hard enough for a boy to dance and talk to a girl in junior high.
Same problem in high school. I went to the dances with my girlfriends, but stood in the corner as they were whisked away for a fast twirl. I think I was still into staring at the floor.
It wasn’t until my senior year, and later half of the year, that I gained some insight into attracting boys. French, and a little black cocktail dress borrowed from my older sister did the trick.
I had joined the French Club and we came up with a skit for the whole school during some rally thing. The skit had various French characters. The club members picked me to be the French can-can girl. I was astounded. Either they saw some French floozy-skirt-tossing attributes which eluded me, or no one else wanted the job.
So, there I was swinging my hips and walking out on the football field wearing my sister’s little black cocktail dress and a feather plume in my hair. Whistles and ya-hoos were called out from the boys in the crowd.
Oh, so this is all it takes? Several of the boys in my history class took on a new light in their eye when they discovered I was the can-can girl. Eat your hearts out boys.
I just realized as I’m writing this that the French Incident was the moment I discovered the power of womanhood. A little black cocktail dress, a swing of the hips, and a smile. So that’s the key to popularity with the boys.
As I said, my husband felt badly that I missed out on the fun of a prom. He went to the prom. He was on the football team. Those guys went to everything. Jock.
He left the room, got several of our “oldie” cd’s, put them in the player, and came over to my chair. “Can I have this dance?”
Makes me get tears in my eyes just thinking about that night.
We danced and talked about our teachers and the football game coming up. In short, for a brief time he took me back to being a high school girl with nothing more to worry about than the guy I was dancing with and whether or not he might ask me out again. It was magical and sweet and romantic beyond anything I’ve ever done in my life.
At the end of the evening, he left me for a minute and when he came back he had his high school letter-sweater. He asked me if I would be his girl.
Yes. Now and forever.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Confessions of a Massage Junkie
I love a good massage. I love the feeling of complete relaxation as someone else works out the knots and tangles of my stressed muscles. I love it so much that I usually don’t say anything when the masseuse muscles an elbow a little too hard into my back. I have a high tolerance to pain that battles with my love of massage.
I used to go to a hair salon that touted a neck massage as one of their services after the shampoo. Sheer bliss. The man that I saw had those wonderfully strong fingers that slowly rubbed out all the tension. One time as his fingers were working their magic, he inadvertently put me in a strangling headlock with his other arm. I didn’t say a word to make sure he would continue massaging my neck. The preposterous notion of a grown woman sitting there being choked to death just for a 2 minute neck massage finally got the better of me and I started laughing…between sucking breathes of air in as he lightened his hold on my neck.
I came to work today with a “hitch in my giddyup”, as my Mom used to say. My job for the last 100 years (it feels that way) has been sitting at a desk working on the computer. The only thing that moves in this job is my lower half, which is spreading like butter on toast due to the fact that I don’t get up enough so my body parts are conforming to the chair seat. At least that’s how it feels. I think I’ll probably die in an atrophied position at my keyboard. I hope someone notices my sad demise.
I did some yard work Saturday, which as we all know, is a killer to muscles that only know white collar exercise…which would be typing fast. What was I thinking hoisting those bags of dirt and flinging gallon pots of hydrangeas? My Midwest farmer roots came out and took hold I guess. The smell of dirt is spiritual and puts me in some out-of-body (or out of my mind) condition that overrides any doubt about my physical ability to stoop, reach, hoist, and dig for 8 hours.
I also planted lots of seeds in little pots, which I realized after the fact that I had not labeled. My farmer ancestors are shaking their collective planting almanac heads wondering where the fruit of their loins got her brains. I guess I’ll have a “mystery” garden where the carrots will just have to grow along side the delphiniums. Or maybe they’re sweet peas.
There is a grocery store across the street from my work that has a small room with a chair massage service. That’s California for you. If you don’t live in a neighborhood with a grocery store that provides such a service, you are probably rolling your eyes at the very thought of a massage along side the fruits and vegetable department.
Now you know I went there at lunch. The masseuse elbowed and ground his fingers into my tense muscles. “How’s the pressure?” he asked. “Oh, you can ease up on the lower back,” I replied, hoping the dent he was putting into my hip wouldn’t last very long.
Although my back felt moderately better after the massage, I’ve noticed that since I haven’t moved out of my chair for the past 3 hours, my legs do not work as well as they used to. I guess sitting in one position for hours at a time tends to stiffen things up a bit. Maybe I should go back to the grocery store for a good massage and some spinach.
The thing about a kink in your back is that you can limp in the door making sad moaning sounds and your husband will suggest either he cook, or he goes to get take-out food. Score. If you look really pathetic, with a touch of silent suffering (because you’d never want him to know the full extent of your pain because you’re a caring cookie who sure wouldn’t want to be a burden to anyone) you might even get him to rub your achy spots and give you a kiss for good measure. Double Score! Hey…whatever it takes for another massage!
I used to go to a hair salon that touted a neck massage as one of their services after the shampoo. Sheer bliss. The man that I saw had those wonderfully strong fingers that slowly rubbed out all the tension. One time as his fingers were working their magic, he inadvertently put me in a strangling headlock with his other arm. I didn’t say a word to make sure he would continue massaging my neck. The preposterous notion of a grown woman sitting there being choked to death just for a 2 minute neck massage finally got the better of me and I started laughing…between sucking breathes of air in as he lightened his hold on my neck.
I came to work today with a “hitch in my giddyup”, as my Mom used to say. My job for the last 100 years (it feels that way) has been sitting at a desk working on the computer. The only thing that moves in this job is my lower half, which is spreading like butter on toast due to the fact that I don’t get up enough so my body parts are conforming to the chair seat. At least that’s how it feels. I think I’ll probably die in an atrophied position at my keyboard. I hope someone notices my sad demise.
I did some yard work Saturday, which as we all know, is a killer to muscles that only know white collar exercise…which would be typing fast. What was I thinking hoisting those bags of dirt and flinging gallon pots of hydrangeas? My Midwest farmer roots came out and took hold I guess. The smell of dirt is spiritual and puts me in some out-of-body (or out of my mind) condition that overrides any doubt about my physical ability to stoop, reach, hoist, and dig for 8 hours.
I also planted lots of seeds in little pots, which I realized after the fact that I had not labeled. My farmer ancestors are shaking their collective planting almanac heads wondering where the fruit of their loins got her brains. I guess I’ll have a “mystery” garden where the carrots will just have to grow along side the delphiniums. Or maybe they’re sweet peas.
There is a grocery store across the street from my work that has a small room with a chair massage service. That’s California for you. If you don’t live in a neighborhood with a grocery store that provides such a service, you are probably rolling your eyes at the very thought of a massage along side the fruits and vegetable department.
Now you know I went there at lunch. The masseuse elbowed and ground his fingers into my tense muscles. “How’s the pressure?” he asked. “Oh, you can ease up on the lower back,” I replied, hoping the dent he was putting into my hip wouldn’t last very long.
Although my back felt moderately better after the massage, I’ve noticed that since I haven’t moved out of my chair for the past 3 hours, my legs do not work as well as they used to. I guess sitting in one position for hours at a time tends to stiffen things up a bit. Maybe I should go back to the grocery store for a good massage and some spinach.
The thing about a kink in your back is that you can limp in the door making sad moaning sounds and your husband will suggest either he cook, or he goes to get take-out food. Score. If you look really pathetic, with a touch of silent suffering (because you’d never want him to know the full extent of your pain because you’re a caring cookie who sure wouldn’t want to be a burden to anyone) you might even get him to rub your achy spots and give you a kiss for good measure. Double Score! Hey…whatever it takes for another massage!
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Too Happy
This is a cautionary tale, so pay extremely close attention.
Several years ago I worked for a start up company as an Executive Assistant to the CEO. The VP of Engineering was one of the founders of the company and was, in my humble and accurate opinion, an egotistical vengeful jerk that ruined the company out of spite. I kissed my stock options goodbye because of him.
He also seemed to have a soft spot for the receptionist who worked for another company in our building. I found this out after having my sister come in for an interview with him for a job as his admin. He was apprised of the interview. Knew the time she would be there. Saw her come in, and promptly left for lunch without ever shaking her hand or acknowledging that she was sitting there waiting to speak with him. Odd and rude don’t you think? Two very apt words to describe him. Odd and rude.
Unbeknownst to our HR department, Mr. VP had already hired someone to be his admin and chose not to divulge this information to anyone, including the person who set up the interview with my sister. Yes, you guessed it. He had hired the receptionist from the other company.
Apparently, he felt sorry for the woman, primarily because of her single mother status and sad story of limited funds to raise her son. I guess Mr. VP had some white-knight-syndrome going for himself and thought to save her from a life of poverty and boredom as a receptionist. Interestingly enough, she always had enough money to go out to the hot spots at night with one of our single girls.
Disregard the fact that the girl couldn’t type and had never been anyone’s secretary, let alone a VP with a group of engineers. But she could and did clean up after the engineers like a good mommy, and she served them food artfully displayed on a plate during her breakfast rounds in the morning and again in the afternoon. They liked that and the frilly apron she donned to serve the food. Oh, maybe I forgot to tell you that she had been a waitress before her receptionist position. HR asked that she refrain from wearing the apron at her desk. She wasn’t pleased about that. It was a display of her core competence.
The CEO asked me to buy her a typing program, which I did. I don’t think she ever opened the box. Mr. VP had business cards printed for her with the title, Administrative Assistant. It seems that people in the company believed that with that particular title, the ability to type was assumed to be one of the skills. Ahhh…the plot thickens.
One day, the girl ran up to my desk in a panic and all ajitter with nerves over the fact that someone had asked her to complete a job, which crazily enough, included typing some information in an Excel chart and a Powerpoint slide. Oh, well, if you can’t type then you certainly don’t know how to use Microsoft Word and if you can’t use Word you most definitely won’t know anything about Excel or Powerpoint. She was one skill level short of incompetent.
I told her to tell the requestor that she didn’t know how to do the job. She looked at me in horror. “I can’t tell them that. They’d think I don’t know how to do it.” My little brain mulled over this statement. “But,” I said with what I thought was reason and patience, “you DON’T know how to do it.” My husband has a saying: Don’t argue with an idiot. I’ll add another one: Don’t use logic on an idiot. Neither work.
After setting her wet glass of soda down on top of the papers on my desk so that she could use two hands to plead her insane case to me, she realized she had just sat the glass on top of the important papers I was working on. She knew this, smartly enough, because there was a wet ring of moisture soaking its way to the bottom of the stack. She grabbed the glass, which now had papers stuck to it, and spilled brown fizzy liquid over my desk in her haste to rectify her error. Stupid is as stupid does, Forrest Gump said.
“I’ll just leave this work with you and let you finish it for me. You’re SO good, I know you could get this done so much faster than I could,” she proclaimed, ready to make a hasty retreat back to the safety of her apron and the kitchen.
Now you might think that faced with a wet desk, statements that made no sense to a sensible gal such as me, and a request cloaked with juvenile accolades that I might have sat there with brain freeze unable to think of an appropriate response. However, before her behind could make it all the way out of the chair, I requested that she sit down. I gave her the choice of having me show her how to do the work, or telling the requestor she didn’t know how to do the work, but in any case, I wasn’t doing her work for her. Sly stupidity might work on Mr. VP, but it doesn’t cut ice in my world.
Given that this was only one of many…many stories, you can imagine that the admin staff (okay, me and the sales admin) was a tad unhinged with the antics of this fool. She was one of those perky people who blither on in front of you about how great they think you are and how much they want to learn from you and what suggestions do you have for me…and then they go and do the exact opposite of what you just advised them to do, because they actually never intended to do anything you recommended since they had their own agenda and plan in mind all along. Sort of like a delinquent teenager trying to con their way into using your car even though they don’t have a driver’s license or experience driving a stick shift.
So, our CEO thought she would outwit Mr. VP by bringing in a psychologist to give us a psychology test. One of those nouveau work things that show a person’s shortcoming and strengths. We knew how hers would come out, and could take said paper and wave it under the nose of Mr. VP at which time we could suggest moving her to another job. Probably in another company. The test, of course, was completely optional. Take it or not. Naturally I took it. I’m very well grounded and know myself right down to every good and bad trait. I had nothing to fear. So sayeth the ego of a fool who thinks a psychologist is just another average Joe.
I took the test, which turned out had a lot of questions about games. I hate board games as I’m not very patient with the rules and strategy of the play. Candyland is about my limit. I like Candyland. I don’t like Monopoly. It takes too long and I get bored fairly easily and want to move on to something more interesting. Like writing.
And I’m not very good at sports, and have never had a driving need to play sports, but do love to watch a good athlete. I’ve dabbled in jumping horses and NATRC (cross country competitive trail riding), but that was for fun and not serious competition. Don’t get me wrong, I like to win as much as the next person, but board games, volleyball and ping pong don’t get my bloodlust thumping all that much.
I knew I was in trouble…big trouble when I met the psychologist. We were talking a bit before he went over the test with me. I was relaxed and not worried at all about anything. My first mistake. But why should I worry? I’m a sane, normal, average woman. No great revelations were forthcoming. Apparently, that's what all lunatics say on the way to the mental hospital.
As I recall, I was telling him a story about my morning and happened to mention that I think in pictures. I see things as stories. You probably figured that out already. He looked up at me with an intellectual squint of pensive educated concern and said, “You’ll have to tell me about that sometime.” A shiver of worry skittered down my back. I was pretty sure he didn’t see this as a creative or positive trait to have. Maybe something a lab should study while I was locked safely behind bars. That sort of look.
You’ll be interested to know that the test showed that I am the sort of person who likes to be at the top of the triangle with no care or concern for those beneath me and only demands the complete allegiance of the peons down below. I’m paraphrasing here, but that was the gist of it. He found that odd, as he didn’t really see me that way, but oh well, his Test (I'm capitalizing it as he was very fond of his Test) was not wrong. No? I argued. Carefully. You have to be very careful with psychologists who already see you as a strange person with egomaniac traits. He said that I obviously didn’t understand myself, but if I had a good friend or family member (which I think he probably doubted that I had either) to talk with about the test, they could give me a true and accurate picture which would, in fact, coincide with his assessment. Because his Test wasn’t wrong.
There was that look again. I’m the bug and he’s the lab technician and I don’t even know I’m a bug. I started to get a bit creeped out. I know for sure I’m not a bug, and I don’t care what his idiot test (lower case...nee ner nee ner) says. I was in the uncomfortable position of trying to convince the wacho psychologist that I’m sane and his test is totally bogus. Yeah, like that works. You poor bug.
Then he said that I was not a competitive person at all to which I responded that indeed I was given the right circumstances (hence my top sales status when I was in a home sales business), but given that his test dealt only with games, which I disliked and sports which I don’t play, it was incorrectly skewed to chess club members or Olympic dynamos. I’m paraphrasing again. He admitted that his test was overly slanted with questions on sports and games, which at some point he would rectify, but it wasn’t wrong. And he was aghast that I didn’t like board games and wondered what on earth I thought was wrong with them, and in particular Monopoly, as anyone thinking there was something not fun about board games couldn’t be completely normal and human. I’m once again paraphrasing, but I think I captured the essence of his concern and disgust with my ilk of bug.
The kicker to his test was that…I hope you’re sitting down with a good stiff drink in your hand…I’m too happy. Too happy. I’ll bet you’ve never known anyone too happy. Now you do. Too happy...as in completely unrealistic about life and pretending the bad stuff doesn’t exist, or if it does, it doesn’t exist for you…la la la. See me floating on this nice cloud?
I wanted to tell him where to put his Too Happy Test, but thought he might write up a very nasty report on me and give it to the CEO where it would magically duplicate itself and get out to the world somehow preventing me from working in an office ever again. Drat, I could have saved myself years of boredom behind the short walls of cubicle life. I'm such a stupid bug.
I told him that he and his test had no idea where I was or had been in life, what I had been through, and how I had coped with it. He had no idea if I was on the other end of a divorce and happy to be happy once again or any other life-altering circumstance that makes you happy to be you today. He said I really should find someone who knew me and who would tell me the truth about my “real” traits. Poor bug.
See what I mean about arguing with an idiot? It's such a waste of time.
The sales admin, a staunch Morman woman, was told that she had “dishonest” traits. She was mortified and shocked that anyone would consider her to be less than honest or truthful. Ahhh, The Test found another bug. I believe this was due to the fact that some of the questions were about covering for your boss under certain circumstances. She, being a loyal bug, answered that she probably would. Oh, what a fool was she.
Oh, the little lady for whom we cleverly, sneakily, took this test? Her boss told her not to take it as it was a waste of time and something he wasn’t going to look at anyway.
Several years ago I worked for a start up company as an Executive Assistant to the CEO. The VP of Engineering was one of the founders of the company and was, in my humble and accurate opinion, an egotistical vengeful jerk that ruined the company out of spite. I kissed my stock options goodbye because of him.
He also seemed to have a soft spot for the receptionist who worked for another company in our building. I found this out after having my sister come in for an interview with him for a job as his admin. He was apprised of the interview. Knew the time she would be there. Saw her come in, and promptly left for lunch without ever shaking her hand or acknowledging that she was sitting there waiting to speak with him. Odd and rude don’t you think? Two very apt words to describe him. Odd and rude.
Unbeknownst to our HR department, Mr. VP had already hired someone to be his admin and chose not to divulge this information to anyone, including the person who set up the interview with my sister. Yes, you guessed it. He had hired the receptionist from the other company.
Apparently, he felt sorry for the woman, primarily because of her single mother status and sad story of limited funds to raise her son. I guess Mr. VP had some white-knight-syndrome going for himself and thought to save her from a life of poverty and boredom as a receptionist. Interestingly enough, she always had enough money to go out to the hot spots at night with one of our single girls.
Disregard the fact that the girl couldn’t type and had never been anyone’s secretary, let alone a VP with a group of engineers. But she could and did clean up after the engineers like a good mommy, and she served them food artfully displayed on a plate during her breakfast rounds in the morning and again in the afternoon. They liked that and the frilly apron she donned to serve the food. Oh, maybe I forgot to tell you that she had been a waitress before her receptionist position. HR asked that she refrain from wearing the apron at her desk. She wasn’t pleased about that. It was a display of her core competence.
The CEO asked me to buy her a typing program, which I did. I don’t think she ever opened the box. Mr. VP had business cards printed for her with the title, Administrative Assistant. It seems that people in the company believed that with that particular title, the ability to type was assumed to be one of the skills. Ahhh…the plot thickens.
One day, the girl ran up to my desk in a panic and all ajitter with nerves over the fact that someone had asked her to complete a job, which crazily enough, included typing some information in an Excel chart and a Powerpoint slide. Oh, well, if you can’t type then you certainly don’t know how to use Microsoft Word and if you can’t use Word you most definitely won’t know anything about Excel or Powerpoint. She was one skill level short of incompetent.
I told her to tell the requestor that she didn’t know how to do the job. She looked at me in horror. “I can’t tell them that. They’d think I don’t know how to do it.” My little brain mulled over this statement. “But,” I said with what I thought was reason and patience, “you DON’T know how to do it.” My husband has a saying: Don’t argue with an idiot. I’ll add another one: Don’t use logic on an idiot. Neither work.
After setting her wet glass of soda down on top of the papers on my desk so that she could use two hands to plead her insane case to me, she realized she had just sat the glass on top of the important papers I was working on. She knew this, smartly enough, because there was a wet ring of moisture soaking its way to the bottom of the stack. She grabbed the glass, which now had papers stuck to it, and spilled brown fizzy liquid over my desk in her haste to rectify her error. Stupid is as stupid does, Forrest Gump said.
“I’ll just leave this work with you and let you finish it for me. You’re SO good, I know you could get this done so much faster than I could,” she proclaimed, ready to make a hasty retreat back to the safety of her apron and the kitchen.
Now you might think that faced with a wet desk, statements that made no sense to a sensible gal such as me, and a request cloaked with juvenile accolades that I might have sat there with brain freeze unable to think of an appropriate response. However, before her behind could make it all the way out of the chair, I requested that she sit down. I gave her the choice of having me show her how to do the work, or telling the requestor she didn’t know how to do the work, but in any case, I wasn’t doing her work for her. Sly stupidity might work on Mr. VP, but it doesn’t cut ice in my world.
Given that this was only one of many…many stories, you can imagine that the admin staff (okay, me and the sales admin) was a tad unhinged with the antics of this fool. She was one of those perky people who blither on in front of you about how great they think you are and how much they want to learn from you and what suggestions do you have for me…and then they go and do the exact opposite of what you just advised them to do, because they actually never intended to do anything you recommended since they had their own agenda and plan in mind all along. Sort of like a delinquent teenager trying to con their way into using your car even though they don’t have a driver’s license or experience driving a stick shift.
So, our CEO thought she would outwit Mr. VP by bringing in a psychologist to give us a psychology test. One of those nouveau work things that show a person’s shortcoming and strengths. We knew how hers would come out, and could take said paper and wave it under the nose of Mr. VP at which time we could suggest moving her to another job. Probably in another company. The test, of course, was completely optional. Take it or not. Naturally I took it. I’m very well grounded and know myself right down to every good and bad trait. I had nothing to fear. So sayeth the ego of a fool who thinks a psychologist is just another average Joe.
I took the test, which turned out had a lot of questions about games. I hate board games as I’m not very patient with the rules and strategy of the play. Candyland is about my limit. I like Candyland. I don’t like Monopoly. It takes too long and I get bored fairly easily and want to move on to something more interesting. Like writing.
And I’m not very good at sports, and have never had a driving need to play sports, but do love to watch a good athlete. I’ve dabbled in jumping horses and NATRC (cross country competitive trail riding), but that was for fun and not serious competition. Don’t get me wrong, I like to win as much as the next person, but board games, volleyball and ping pong don’t get my bloodlust thumping all that much.
I knew I was in trouble…big trouble when I met the psychologist. We were talking a bit before he went over the test with me. I was relaxed and not worried at all about anything. My first mistake. But why should I worry? I’m a sane, normal, average woman. No great revelations were forthcoming. Apparently, that's what all lunatics say on the way to the mental hospital.
As I recall, I was telling him a story about my morning and happened to mention that I think in pictures. I see things as stories. You probably figured that out already. He looked up at me with an intellectual squint of pensive educated concern and said, “You’ll have to tell me about that sometime.” A shiver of worry skittered down my back. I was pretty sure he didn’t see this as a creative or positive trait to have. Maybe something a lab should study while I was locked safely behind bars. That sort of look.
You’ll be interested to know that the test showed that I am the sort of person who likes to be at the top of the triangle with no care or concern for those beneath me and only demands the complete allegiance of the peons down below. I’m paraphrasing here, but that was the gist of it. He found that odd, as he didn’t really see me that way, but oh well, his Test (I'm capitalizing it as he was very fond of his Test) was not wrong. No? I argued. Carefully. You have to be very careful with psychologists who already see you as a strange person with egomaniac traits. He said that I obviously didn’t understand myself, but if I had a good friend or family member (which I think he probably doubted that I had either) to talk with about the test, they could give me a true and accurate picture which would, in fact, coincide with his assessment. Because his Test wasn’t wrong.
There was that look again. I’m the bug and he’s the lab technician and I don’t even know I’m a bug. I started to get a bit creeped out. I know for sure I’m not a bug, and I don’t care what his idiot test (lower case...nee ner nee ner) says. I was in the uncomfortable position of trying to convince the wacho psychologist that I’m sane and his test is totally bogus. Yeah, like that works. You poor bug.
Then he said that I was not a competitive person at all to which I responded that indeed I was given the right circumstances (hence my top sales status when I was in a home sales business), but given that his test dealt only with games, which I disliked and sports which I don’t play, it was incorrectly skewed to chess club members or Olympic dynamos. I’m paraphrasing again. He admitted that his test was overly slanted with questions on sports and games, which at some point he would rectify, but it wasn’t wrong. And he was aghast that I didn’t like board games and wondered what on earth I thought was wrong with them, and in particular Monopoly, as anyone thinking there was something not fun about board games couldn’t be completely normal and human. I’m once again paraphrasing, but I think I captured the essence of his concern and disgust with my ilk of bug.
The kicker to his test was that…I hope you’re sitting down with a good stiff drink in your hand…I’m too happy. Too happy. I’ll bet you’ve never known anyone too happy. Now you do. Too happy...as in completely unrealistic about life and pretending the bad stuff doesn’t exist, or if it does, it doesn’t exist for you…la la la. See me floating on this nice cloud?
I wanted to tell him where to put his Too Happy Test, but thought he might write up a very nasty report on me and give it to the CEO where it would magically duplicate itself and get out to the world somehow preventing me from working in an office ever again. Drat, I could have saved myself years of boredom behind the short walls of cubicle life. I'm such a stupid bug.
I told him that he and his test had no idea where I was or had been in life, what I had been through, and how I had coped with it. He had no idea if I was on the other end of a divorce and happy to be happy once again or any other life-altering circumstance that makes you happy to be you today. He said I really should find someone who knew me and who would tell me the truth about my “real” traits. Poor bug.
See what I mean about arguing with an idiot? It's such a waste of time.
The sales admin, a staunch Morman woman, was told that she had “dishonest” traits. She was mortified and shocked that anyone would consider her to be less than honest or truthful. Ahhh, The Test found another bug. I believe this was due to the fact that some of the questions were about covering for your boss under certain circumstances. She, being a loyal bug, answered that she probably would. Oh, what a fool was she.
Oh, the little lady for whom we cleverly, sneakily, took this test? Her boss told her not to take it as it was a waste of time and something he wasn’t going to look at anyway.
Friday, June 8, 2007
A Tribute to Agnes Imregh
I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts lately. If you looked at my budget, you’d feel out of sorts as well. I hate the word budget. It’s all good and well if you’re a company and have a cubicle-world of finance people to create, monitor, and refine budgets. But personally, when I typed the name of my Excel file, “Budget 2007”, I knew I was in trouble. Add the word “Limited” before Budget and you’ll find you start to hyperventilate. You mean no Pete’s coffee in the morning and change from the San Francisco hairdresser to a $20 Quick Cut by some woman in the local mall named Doris?
And why is it that the only people who say “money isn’t everything” are the people WITH money? I know it’s not everything…but try being on a Limited Budget! Yeah, yeah, boo hoo.
So there I was thinking about my column under “Clothing” in my budget, which now has $0 allotted budget attached to it, when I got a call from a man I worked with at a couple of previous companies. He gave me a piece of news about Agnes Imregh, the Vice President of Marketing, whom we both had worked for.
To say this woman was “interesting” would be far too mild a word. She had flaming red hair, occasionally painted her fingernails green, and owned a Mooney airplane, a Harley Davidson motorcycle, and a SUV. Lest you think she was a tomboy sort of woman, she also purchased a $10,000 black sequined Armani evening gown, owned leather jackets that you would have licked her stylish leather boots to own, and sunglasses to match each and every outfit. She was outspoken, had definite opinions about most everything, and was the only person I have ever known who ran meetings on time. No one was ever late for her meetings. If you know anything about high tech and meetings, this in and of itself would make you respect her. If you were late once for her meetings, you would never be late again. She held the meeting until you showed up. Tapping her foot. Not a good sign when a woman, especially one in authority, taps her well-shod foot. She sent people to hunt the offender down. All the while that foot was tapping. Her arms were crossed. No one said a word. I saw this happen. Excuses were not tolerated. Promptness was expected. Tap, tap, tap went the foot. But you know, that person was never late to any of her meetings again. Agnes made her point.
Agnes Imregh flew her airplane to New York this past weekend to celebrate her 57th birthday with her family. She flew back to Boston on Monday and something went wrong with the plane. She crashed in the forest and died.
I was thinking about Agnes this morning on my way to work. Traffic was piling up on the street and police cars were lined up with their lights whirling around. Another fender bender, I thought, annoyed with the delay. As I drove by the accident, paramedics were on their knees, their rubber gloved fists rhythmically punching on a man’s chest. I hope they saved him.
Limited Budget. It doesn’t seem such a hardship any more.
And why is it that the only people who say “money isn’t everything” are the people WITH money? I know it’s not everything…but try being on a Limited Budget! Yeah, yeah, boo hoo.
So there I was thinking about my column under “Clothing” in my budget, which now has $0 allotted budget attached to it, when I got a call from a man I worked with at a couple of previous companies. He gave me a piece of news about Agnes Imregh, the Vice President of Marketing, whom we both had worked for.
To say this woman was “interesting” would be far too mild a word. She had flaming red hair, occasionally painted her fingernails green, and owned a Mooney airplane, a Harley Davidson motorcycle, and a SUV. Lest you think she was a tomboy sort of woman, she also purchased a $10,000 black sequined Armani evening gown, owned leather jackets that you would have licked her stylish leather boots to own, and sunglasses to match each and every outfit. She was outspoken, had definite opinions about most everything, and was the only person I have ever known who ran meetings on time. No one was ever late for her meetings. If you know anything about high tech and meetings, this in and of itself would make you respect her. If you were late once for her meetings, you would never be late again. She held the meeting until you showed up. Tapping her foot. Not a good sign when a woman, especially one in authority, taps her well-shod foot. She sent people to hunt the offender down. All the while that foot was tapping. Her arms were crossed. No one said a word. I saw this happen. Excuses were not tolerated. Promptness was expected. Tap, tap, tap went the foot. But you know, that person was never late to any of her meetings again. Agnes made her point.
Agnes Imregh flew her airplane to New York this past weekend to celebrate her 57th birthday with her family. She flew back to Boston on Monday and something went wrong with the plane. She crashed in the forest and died.
I was thinking about Agnes this morning on my way to work. Traffic was piling up on the street and police cars were lined up with their lights whirling around. Another fender bender, I thought, annoyed with the delay. As I drove by the accident, paramedics were on their knees, their rubber gloved fists rhythmically punching on a man’s chest. I hope they saved him.
Limited Budget. It doesn’t seem such a hardship any more.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Love and Revenge
Isabella Murdock gripped the wheel of her Dodge SUV as if it held the last tenuous strings of sanity in her life. Her deep green eyes filled with determination as she scanned the tree-studded land around her expecting to see his car pop out from behind some bush and into her driveway. Jesse Harrison’s car.
Run! Her mind screamed. His betrayal clutched at her heart as she tried to blink away the stream of tears overflowing down her cheeks. She bit down on her lower lip trying hard to hold her colliding emotions in check.
Her palms were slick with sweat and almost slipped off the wheel as she slammed the car in reverse, turning too hard and forcing the SUV away from the driveway in an arc’d path of barely controlled panic. Dirt and rocks spewed in the air as she overshot the side of the pavement and bounced into her carefully planted garden of summer flowers, crushing colorful bobbing heads and stems under the studded tires. Bella jammed the car into drive and momentarily heard her wheels spinning on the loosened soil. She panicked and tromped down on the gas pedal, pushing it to the floor and adding too much power. The SUV jumped back onto the pavement landing so hard her head whacked the ceiling. She didn’t care.
Her only focus was to escape this place, this life, and this man. She didn’t know where Jesse was, maybe just around the corner, or maybe he wasn’t coming at all. She wasn’t waiting around for the bastard. Screw Jesse Harrison and his lies.
Why? She fought back a sob that threatened to push her over the edge and tried to focus on the beauty of the setting sun streaking brilliant ribbons of oranges and reds across the sky; the strength of the colors matching her emotions. How could she have misjudged him so completely? Fool! Her mind yelled back, Damned Fool she added. She might have been a fool once, but no more. Not ever again would she let a man like Jesse into her life.
To hell with Jesse and the rest of them. Was she still a fool for running away like some weak little girl afraid to meet her enemy head on? Who cares, she decided. It was time to take care of herself, and if that meant running away from the cruelty of people around her—well, so be it. Bitter anger surged through her and she held onto it like a sorcerer’s protective shield of magic.
Bella raced down the country road adding miles between her and the small white house with crushed summer flowers and crushed dreams of Jesse. His name brought a new feeling of pain. This was the man she had considered a friend, a man she respected, admired, and then loved. How far can one woman miscalculate the depths of a man’s soul? Pretty darned far she berated herself.
Bella rolled down her window and took a deep calming breath of warm summer air. She flexed one damp hand off the wheel, rubbed it on her Levis, and then felt around inside her purse for her cell phone. Her finger started to punch the button for the number of the airline when the phone trilled an incoming call. Her heart thudded against her chest at the unexpected sound. She looked at the number lit on the display. Jesse.
“Sorry, you son of a bitch,” she yelled out loud into the empty car. “The good times are rolling to another state.” The phone abruptly fell silent. “Good” she said, but she didn’t feel good. She wished she could hear Jesse’s deep voice again, telling her everything would be okay, telling her it was one great big mistake. Maybe it was just a nightmare that would end when she opened her eyes. Bella’s chest squeezed in pain. The real nightmare had begun just a few hours earlier when she opened her eyes for the first time in her life and saw everything with absolute clarity.
She punched in the number to the airline and checked on the next available flight to Colorado. The exit sign for the San Francisco airport came into view. Bella checked her rearview mirror as she swung onto the freeway, expecting, dreading, and hoping to see Jesse’s car following close behind.
Instead, her eyes caught the faint reflection of twin spirals of smoke rising from a distant fire in the parched summer hills. It reminded her of candles on a birthday cake, blown out in a whoosh of wish-filled air. A buried memory of her sixteenth birthday popped into Bella’s mind and carried her back to a childhood house when her life was filled with possibilities.
Oh my...don't you wish I'd finish my book so you could find out if Bella and Jesse make it to a happily ever after?
Run! Her mind screamed. His betrayal clutched at her heart as she tried to blink away the stream of tears overflowing down her cheeks. She bit down on her lower lip trying hard to hold her colliding emotions in check.
Her palms were slick with sweat and almost slipped off the wheel as she slammed the car in reverse, turning too hard and forcing the SUV away from the driveway in an arc’d path of barely controlled panic. Dirt and rocks spewed in the air as she overshot the side of the pavement and bounced into her carefully planted garden of summer flowers, crushing colorful bobbing heads and stems under the studded tires. Bella jammed the car into drive and momentarily heard her wheels spinning on the loosened soil. She panicked and tromped down on the gas pedal, pushing it to the floor and adding too much power. The SUV jumped back onto the pavement landing so hard her head whacked the ceiling. She didn’t care.
Her only focus was to escape this place, this life, and this man. She didn’t know where Jesse was, maybe just around the corner, or maybe he wasn’t coming at all. She wasn’t waiting around for the bastard. Screw Jesse Harrison and his lies.
Why? She fought back a sob that threatened to push her over the edge and tried to focus on the beauty of the setting sun streaking brilliant ribbons of oranges and reds across the sky; the strength of the colors matching her emotions. How could she have misjudged him so completely? Fool! Her mind yelled back, Damned Fool she added. She might have been a fool once, but no more. Not ever again would she let a man like Jesse into her life.
To hell with Jesse and the rest of them. Was she still a fool for running away like some weak little girl afraid to meet her enemy head on? Who cares, she decided. It was time to take care of herself, and if that meant running away from the cruelty of people around her—well, so be it. Bitter anger surged through her and she held onto it like a sorcerer’s protective shield of magic.
Bella raced down the country road adding miles between her and the small white house with crushed summer flowers and crushed dreams of Jesse. His name brought a new feeling of pain. This was the man she had considered a friend, a man she respected, admired, and then loved. How far can one woman miscalculate the depths of a man’s soul? Pretty darned far she berated herself.
Bella rolled down her window and took a deep calming breath of warm summer air. She flexed one damp hand off the wheel, rubbed it on her Levis, and then felt around inside her purse for her cell phone. Her finger started to punch the button for the number of the airline when the phone trilled an incoming call. Her heart thudded against her chest at the unexpected sound. She looked at the number lit on the display. Jesse.
“Sorry, you son of a bitch,” she yelled out loud into the empty car. “The good times are rolling to another state.” The phone abruptly fell silent. “Good” she said, but she didn’t feel good. She wished she could hear Jesse’s deep voice again, telling her everything would be okay, telling her it was one great big mistake. Maybe it was just a nightmare that would end when she opened her eyes. Bella’s chest squeezed in pain. The real nightmare had begun just a few hours earlier when she opened her eyes for the first time in her life and saw everything with absolute clarity.
She punched in the number to the airline and checked on the next available flight to Colorado. The exit sign for the San Francisco airport came into view. Bella checked her rearview mirror as she swung onto the freeway, expecting, dreading, and hoping to see Jesse’s car following close behind.
Instead, her eyes caught the faint reflection of twin spirals of smoke rising from a distant fire in the parched summer hills. It reminded her of candles on a birthday cake, blown out in a whoosh of wish-filled air. A buried memory of her sixteenth birthday popped into Bella’s mind and carried her back to a childhood house when her life was filled with possibilities.
Oh my...don't you wish I'd finish my book so you could find out if Bella and Jesse make it to a happily ever after?
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Life’s Little Sign Posts
Have you ever had one of those days where everything seems to go wrong? Little things just pile one on top of the other. And you think to yourself that if you had only paid attention to the little Sign that precluded the misadventurous day, you would have gone directly back to bed and avoided the whole mess altogether so that you could start fresh the next day.
On Thursday I noticed—midday—that my socks didn’t match. Had I realized that this was the first in a growing line of clothing issues, I would have taken the next day off work and stayed in bed. But of course as a skeptical person, this “posh and drivel” about warning Signs eluded me.
On Friday, my socks seemed to match when I left home, but I noticed after getting to work that they in fact did not. Similar, but not exact. At least they were the same color, if not the same pattern. The right sock kept bunching around my ankle in annoying wrinkles. And although they were both complete socks in the morning, they acquired holes in both toes by lunch time. I know this because I was wearing peep toe shoes. And if you think no one looks at your socks, try wearing peep toe shoes with your toes peeping out of your socks. You’ll find that a lot of people in fact do notice your feet.
I also realized that the trousers I was wearing had two spots on one leg. Oh right. These were the pants I meant to take to the cleaners, but forgot. If you think no one notices small spots on your pants, try wearing pants with spots. You’ll find that a lot of people notice your pants. The same people who notice your holey socks.
It was dark when I got dressed.
And my knee started hurting for no known reason. And my new shoes rubbed a hole in my toe (but not the toe that was poking through the sock).
See what I mean about Signs? I should have taken the cosmic hint on Thursday and stayed home.
My husband had a friend who was given a Sign, but chose to ignore it. The results were far worse than my clothing issues. I hope you use this story as an example of why you should not ignore the small Signs in life.
Hal wanted a camper. He wanted it more than anything else. He finally found an ad for a used camper that fit the bill. He and my husband went to look at said camper, which was located in a run down trailer park.
The camper was in pretty good shape, but looked as if it had not been used for some time. The old guy showed them this and that, passed a lot of gas (with no shame about it), and then told them that his wife had died in it one morning several years ago while cooking him some bacon and eggs at their campsite.
Signs. You can feel the dark cloud of it creeping along your spine, worrying at your brain that this event shouldn’t be taken lightly. On the way home they made jokes about the camper probably being haunted. You shouldn’t joke about the Signs.
The men decided a camping trip was in order to make full use of this wonderful camper.
Do you feel the first trembling of fear? Don’t you want to reach into your computer and drag those two fools back from the brink of disaster? Too late my friend. They did not heed the Sign.
With camper and boat in tow, they left with happy thoughts of a whole week of camping and dreams of catching a zillion trout. Since the primitive camping area was on the west side of the lake opposite the blacktop and dirt boat launching ramp, they immediately proceeded across the dam to see if their favorite spot was available. Since it was a Monday, the place was practically deserted and their spot was indeed available. They pulled off the logging road, shut off the old red Ford’s engine, whipped out the folding chairs, Hal got a beer, my husband Sid got an iced tea, and they sat down to contemplate their next move.
After spending some time congratulating themselves for being fine fellows who are smart enough to go camping in the first place, they decided that it was time to head back across the dam to the boat ramp to launch the boat. So, leaving their two folding chairs to mark their spot, they headed out for the boat launch.
As the boat, trailer, truck, camper, and Hal went whizzing past Sid, he happened to glance at the stern of the boat and realized that the plug was still out. He yelled at Hal and waved his arms. Hal stopped the boat about a foot shy of the water avoiding the probability of the boat sinking to the bottom of the lake.
Once in the water, Sid started the boat motor and commenced to cross the lake. Hal drove the truck and trailer back to their campsite where he could get another beer and climb down the rocks to the water’s edge so that Sid would know where to park the boat.
Unfortunately, when Hal hit the campsite he noticed that oddly enough, there were no camp chairs where camp chairs ought to be. Who would do such a thing? They recalled that as they were heading for the boat ramp they had seen a man and a woman coming in on a motorcycle.
My husband fumed as he sat on a hard firewood stump. Hal sat on the tailgate of his truck fiddling with his camera that would no longer take pictures for some unknown reason.
Oh the Signs. They were mounting like age spots on a sunbather.
Sid’s behind couldn’t take sitting on the hard stump any longer and he jumped up marching off to go in search of his chair with Hal beside him.
They found the chairs in the campsite of the motorcyclists. The woman assured them that they were just looking after them until the owners showed up as they didn’t want anyone to steal the wonderful chairs. What kindly people they were.
Sid and Hal finally got back to camp, stowed the chairs in the camper (which they locked), and took to the high seas for some fishing.
Sid thought they were moving sort of slow, to which Hal noted that they had been dragging the anchor for a quarter of a mile.
Sid cast his line for some serious fishing, but unfortunately cast the front half of his fishing rod into the lake. Hal didn’t laugh, but Sid thought that pretending not to laugh was a lot worse than actually laughing out loud.
The Signs were practically slapping them upside the head to be noticed, which they didn't, so had to incur some further mishaps.
The camper had an electric water pump. A very nice feature unless you are so enamored of your new camper’s feature that you overuse the nice feature. Get my drift?
Now that they were completely out of water, they were forced to go to the picnic facility on the opposite side of the lake. They found a faucet with threads, but Hal’s hose was only four feet long. The only way to get the camper close enough to the building was to drive up over the concrete walkway, which if caught by the ranger, might mean expulsion from this great camping adventure. Fortunately, they were able to fill the water tank without notice.
The booty from this trip was one small fish that happened to run into Hal’s lure.
Now you’d think this would be the end of the story, but you’d be wrong. As I said before, these two men did not pay attention to the Signs. Hal did not unload his camper and let it sit for a month to let the Bad Cosmic Signs dissipate. Oh no. He kept the camper on the truck and drove the truck to town.
He forced the Sign into The Holy Big One.
Sid called Hal a few days after the Great Camping Adventure and asked if he had purchased a longer hose for water shortage situations. Hal said no as he did not have the camper any longer. Now what on earth could Hal have done with his beloved camper?
He had driven downtown one afternoon as he needed to stop at Grand Auto. The parking lot was full, so he drove around to the street in back of the store and was just about to pass a Grand Auto semi truck that was parked at the curb. He caught the right front corner of the camper on the left rear corner of the semi trailer and in his words, “The damn thing jumped out of the back of the truck, landed upright on the street and disintegrated.”
I trust that when small things start happening to you, you will remember this story and keep the vision of holy socks and a shattered camper in the middle of the street in your memory when you call work to tell them you won’t be in.
On Thursday I noticed—midday—that my socks didn’t match. Had I realized that this was the first in a growing line of clothing issues, I would have taken the next day off work and stayed in bed. But of course as a skeptical person, this “posh and drivel” about warning Signs eluded me.
On Friday, my socks seemed to match when I left home, but I noticed after getting to work that they in fact did not. Similar, but not exact. At least they were the same color, if not the same pattern. The right sock kept bunching around my ankle in annoying wrinkles. And although they were both complete socks in the morning, they acquired holes in both toes by lunch time. I know this because I was wearing peep toe shoes. And if you think no one looks at your socks, try wearing peep toe shoes with your toes peeping out of your socks. You’ll find that a lot of people in fact do notice your feet.
I also realized that the trousers I was wearing had two spots on one leg. Oh right. These were the pants I meant to take to the cleaners, but forgot. If you think no one notices small spots on your pants, try wearing pants with spots. You’ll find that a lot of people notice your pants. The same people who notice your holey socks.
It was dark when I got dressed.
And my knee started hurting for no known reason. And my new shoes rubbed a hole in my toe (but not the toe that was poking through the sock).
See what I mean about Signs? I should have taken the cosmic hint on Thursday and stayed home.
My husband had a friend who was given a Sign, but chose to ignore it. The results were far worse than my clothing issues. I hope you use this story as an example of why you should not ignore the small Signs in life.
Hal wanted a camper. He wanted it more than anything else. He finally found an ad for a used camper that fit the bill. He and my husband went to look at said camper, which was located in a run down trailer park.
The camper was in pretty good shape, but looked as if it had not been used for some time. The old guy showed them this and that, passed a lot of gas (with no shame about it), and then told them that his wife had died in it one morning several years ago while cooking him some bacon and eggs at their campsite.
Signs. You can feel the dark cloud of it creeping along your spine, worrying at your brain that this event shouldn’t be taken lightly. On the way home they made jokes about the camper probably being haunted. You shouldn’t joke about the Signs.
The men decided a camping trip was in order to make full use of this wonderful camper.
Do you feel the first trembling of fear? Don’t you want to reach into your computer and drag those two fools back from the brink of disaster? Too late my friend. They did not heed the Sign.
With camper and boat in tow, they left with happy thoughts of a whole week of camping and dreams of catching a zillion trout. Since the primitive camping area was on the west side of the lake opposite the blacktop and dirt boat launching ramp, they immediately proceeded across the dam to see if their favorite spot was available. Since it was a Monday, the place was practically deserted and their spot was indeed available. They pulled off the logging road, shut off the old red Ford’s engine, whipped out the folding chairs, Hal got a beer, my husband Sid got an iced tea, and they sat down to contemplate their next move.
After spending some time congratulating themselves for being fine fellows who are smart enough to go camping in the first place, they decided that it was time to head back across the dam to the boat ramp to launch the boat. So, leaving their two folding chairs to mark their spot, they headed out for the boat launch.
As the boat, trailer, truck, camper, and Hal went whizzing past Sid, he happened to glance at the stern of the boat and realized that the plug was still out. He yelled at Hal and waved his arms. Hal stopped the boat about a foot shy of the water avoiding the probability of the boat sinking to the bottom of the lake.
Once in the water, Sid started the boat motor and commenced to cross the lake. Hal drove the truck and trailer back to their campsite where he could get another beer and climb down the rocks to the water’s edge so that Sid would know where to park the boat.
Unfortunately, when Hal hit the campsite he noticed that oddly enough, there were no camp chairs where camp chairs ought to be. Who would do such a thing? They recalled that as they were heading for the boat ramp they had seen a man and a woman coming in on a motorcycle.
My husband fumed as he sat on a hard firewood stump. Hal sat on the tailgate of his truck fiddling with his camera that would no longer take pictures for some unknown reason.
Oh the Signs. They were mounting like age spots on a sunbather.
Sid’s behind couldn’t take sitting on the hard stump any longer and he jumped up marching off to go in search of his chair with Hal beside him.
They found the chairs in the campsite of the motorcyclists. The woman assured them that they were just looking after them until the owners showed up as they didn’t want anyone to steal the wonderful chairs. What kindly people they were.
Sid and Hal finally got back to camp, stowed the chairs in the camper (which they locked), and took to the high seas for some fishing.
Sid thought they were moving sort of slow, to which Hal noted that they had been dragging the anchor for a quarter of a mile.
Sid cast his line for some serious fishing, but unfortunately cast the front half of his fishing rod into the lake. Hal didn’t laugh, but Sid thought that pretending not to laugh was a lot worse than actually laughing out loud.
The Signs were practically slapping them upside the head to be noticed, which they didn't, so had to incur some further mishaps.
The camper had an electric water pump. A very nice feature unless you are so enamored of your new camper’s feature that you overuse the nice feature. Get my drift?
Now that they were completely out of water, they were forced to go to the picnic facility on the opposite side of the lake. They found a faucet with threads, but Hal’s hose was only four feet long. The only way to get the camper close enough to the building was to drive up over the concrete walkway, which if caught by the ranger, might mean expulsion from this great camping adventure. Fortunately, they were able to fill the water tank without notice.
The booty from this trip was one small fish that happened to run into Hal’s lure.
Now you’d think this would be the end of the story, but you’d be wrong. As I said before, these two men did not pay attention to the Signs. Hal did not unload his camper and let it sit for a month to let the Bad Cosmic Signs dissipate. Oh no. He kept the camper on the truck and drove the truck to town.
He forced the Sign into The Holy Big One.
Sid called Hal a few days after the Great Camping Adventure and asked if he had purchased a longer hose for water shortage situations. Hal said no as he did not have the camper any longer. Now what on earth could Hal have done with his beloved camper?
He had driven downtown one afternoon as he needed to stop at Grand Auto. The parking lot was full, so he drove around to the street in back of the store and was just about to pass a Grand Auto semi truck that was parked at the curb. He caught the right front corner of the camper on the left rear corner of the semi trailer and in his words, “The damn thing jumped out of the back of the truck, landed upright on the street and disintegrated.”
I trust that when small things start happening to you, you will remember this story and keep the vision of holy socks and a shattered camper in the middle of the street in your memory when you call work to tell them you won’t be in.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Complicated Math
I was at the store yesterday and purchased something for $5.37. I gave the young girl a $10 bill. She looked to be high school age. Long enough to have several years of basic math under her belt. She rang up the order before she realized that I had also given her the .37 cents. She looked crestfallen when she realized that the change due on the register was no longer valid. She turned to the other clerk (who also looked to be in his high school years) with desperation in her eyes.
He told her she would have to use the calculator since she had already rung up the purchase.
Use the calculator?? I say again…Use The Calculator (note the use of capital, exclamatory, disbelief letters).
She stared at the open till in what appeared to be a look of complete brain freeze or maybe she was saying a hopeful prayer that the correct change would magically leap into her hands. I stared at the till with her. This I have to see. Tick tock. No change was floating up. That was disappointing.
An older lady…obviously the supervisor…came over and asked what the problem was. The girl told her the dilemma. The lady quickly pulled out a $5 bill and handed it to me. Gosh, she didn’t even bother with the calculator. She must be some kind of financial wizard or something.
I do not consider myself to be a math whiz. I have ten fingers that I use frequently for higher math problems, and use my calculator for really big numbers. But I didn’t think $10.37 minus $5.37 was a college trick math question!
Am I worried that these people will someday be in charge of my social security payments? You bet your cash register I am!
He told her she would have to use the calculator since she had already rung up the purchase.
Use the calculator?? I say again…Use The Calculator (note the use of capital, exclamatory, disbelief letters).
She stared at the open till in what appeared to be a look of complete brain freeze or maybe she was saying a hopeful prayer that the correct change would magically leap into her hands. I stared at the till with her. This I have to see. Tick tock. No change was floating up. That was disappointing.
An older lady…obviously the supervisor…came over and asked what the problem was. The girl told her the dilemma. The lady quickly pulled out a $5 bill and handed it to me. Gosh, she didn’t even bother with the calculator. She must be some kind of financial wizard or something.
I do not consider myself to be a math whiz. I have ten fingers that I use frequently for higher math problems, and use my calculator for really big numbers. But I didn’t think $10.37 minus $5.37 was a college trick math question!
Am I worried that these people will someday be in charge of my social security payments? You bet your cash register I am!
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
The Flying Wambeezee Sisters
If you don’t have a sister or two, you’ve missed something. Having three sisters is even better…in a snippy, tormenting and creative sort of way. And I mean that in the best sense of course.
I have three sisters. One thing I can tell you about family life with sisters is that it is much like the old saying for business: shit rolls downhill. Tormenting started with my oldest sister, who passed it to the next one, who occasionally got me in trouble with my parents then laughed at me behind their back, and it ended with me working the family tradition on my youngest sister Susan. By the time little Susie came along, my bag of tricks was full.
I invented an act which I named the Flying Wambeezees. My little sister was the Flying part of the Wambeezee act. Cool. I would lie on the bed and she would sit on my feet as I elevated them toward the ceiling. I could spin her around and around with the greatest of ease. She was so limber…like a flying Gumby Baby Doll Sister. I could bend her any which way and she gave it her best to stay aloft on my platform feet. Her little face would harden with concentration and determination to keep each pose as she bumped up and down, around and around. Oh sure, she had the occasional tumble now and again, but that didn’t deter her from getting back on the Wambeezee feet for another spin. One thing about Susan, she didn’t let a few knocks hold her back from flying through the air.
We had a lot of fun perfecting our act until the door opened one day and my mother appeared. Mothers ruin a good circus performance. She apparently was shocked that we even had a circus act. I imagine she was worried that we might run off and join a carnival like our Great Uncle Orson did. He rarely came home for a visit and sent postcards to his mother every few years that said “Doing Fine. Hope you are well”. A man of few words. Mom probably saw herself holding a handful of cheap postcards from her wayward carnie daughters and wondering where she had gone wrong. Our budding career came to an end. The Wambeezee Sisters are just a fond family memory now that gets retold in sad tones of what could have been.
My older sisters played house--with the oldest as the mother, her friend as the father and my sister Mary as the dog. You weren’t expecting that were you? We weren’t ready to add more children to our household. Pets are easier to keep than children. Sometimes my sister-dog pulled the sled in winter. If you don’t have a real dog, a sister will do just as well for most everything.
In turn, I played the dog (or horse) and Susan played the dutiful owner. Dogs and horses got the treats. See my ploy? I could always count on Susan to slip into the kitchen and climb up to find the treats. And who did Mom blame when she caught poor Susan pilfering food before dinner? Not me. No one suspects the family dog/horse.
My best games were Betsy Hand Puppet and Raging Bull. Betsy was actually my hand that I made into a flattened fist and then used my thumb and curled forefinger to create a mouth. Betsy had a history. She sadly wept it to poor Susan each time she came to life.
Besty came from a broken home with parents who flung her out into the streets as they could not abide her ugly little hand face. She had little food (hence another way to get good treats), and slept in dirty boxes at night. At other times, Betsy was an orphan who was constantly looking for her parents or someone (like Susan) who could be her parent and love her unconditionally. Pretty sad huh? And Susan, like the little gullible moppet that she was, believed every word. She was putty in my blubbering Betsy hand.
Raging Bull entailed the sudden and unexpected ability to turn myself from a sweet sister into a maniacal child-eating bull that chased Susan in a potentially body stomping snorting rage until she hopped up on the sofa and cowered in the corner. The sofa was the “safe” place. As long as she was there, Raging Bull couldn’t stomp her. Oh, don’t be silly. I’m just your sister. See me? La la la why don’t you come down and we’ll play a game. Or maybe I’ll read you this really good book. Susan loved books. Susan ALWAYS took the bait. What a sucker.
Off the sofa she came. One step, two steps toward me. Me the sister. Poof. Me the Raging Bull. Scared that little Susan more times than I can count. What fun.
I still can’t believe how my sister could suspend belief in all logical reality to envision a hand as a person or me as a killer bull. I must have some incredible acting ability.
I suppose I shouldn’t tell you about convincing Susan that she was adopted or that she would turn from a girl into a boy and we would have to send her to the boy’s military academy down the road.
Sisters. Aren’t they fun?
I have three sisters. One thing I can tell you about family life with sisters is that it is much like the old saying for business: shit rolls downhill. Tormenting started with my oldest sister, who passed it to the next one, who occasionally got me in trouble with my parents then laughed at me behind their back, and it ended with me working the family tradition on my youngest sister Susan. By the time little Susie came along, my bag of tricks was full.
I invented an act which I named the Flying Wambeezees. My little sister was the Flying part of the Wambeezee act. Cool. I would lie on the bed and she would sit on my feet as I elevated them toward the ceiling. I could spin her around and around with the greatest of ease. She was so limber…like a flying Gumby Baby Doll Sister. I could bend her any which way and she gave it her best to stay aloft on my platform feet. Her little face would harden with concentration and determination to keep each pose as she bumped up and down, around and around. Oh sure, she had the occasional tumble now and again, but that didn’t deter her from getting back on the Wambeezee feet for another spin. One thing about Susan, she didn’t let a few knocks hold her back from flying through the air.
We had a lot of fun perfecting our act until the door opened one day and my mother appeared. Mothers ruin a good circus performance. She apparently was shocked that we even had a circus act. I imagine she was worried that we might run off and join a carnival like our Great Uncle Orson did. He rarely came home for a visit and sent postcards to his mother every few years that said “Doing Fine. Hope you are well”. A man of few words. Mom probably saw herself holding a handful of cheap postcards from her wayward carnie daughters and wondering where she had gone wrong. Our budding career came to an end. The Wambeezee Sisters are just a fond family memory now that gets retold in sad tones of what could have been.
My older sisters played house--with the oldest as the mother, her friend as the father and my sister Mary as the dog. You weren’t expecting that were you? We weren’t ready to add more children to our household. Pets are easier to keep than children. Sometimes my sister-dog pulled the sled in winter. If you don’t have a real dog, a sister will do just as well for most everything.
In turn, I played the dog (or horse) and Susan played the dutiful owner. Dogs and horses got the treats. See my ploy? I could always count on Susan to slip into the kitchen and climb up to find the treats. And who did Mom blame when she caught poor Susan pilfering food before dinner? Not me. No one suspects the family dog/horse.
My best games were Betsy Hand Puppet and Raging Bull. Betsy was actually my hand that I made into a flattened fist and then used my thumb and curled forefinger to create a mouth. Betsy had a history. She sadly wept it to poor Susan each time she came to life.
Besty came from a broken home with parents who flung her out into the streets as they could not abide her ugly little hand face. She had little food (hence another way to get good treats), and slept in dirty boxes at night. At other times, Betsy was an orphan who was constantly looking for her parents or someone (like Susan) who could be her parent and love her unconditionally. Pretty sad huh? And Susan, like the little gullible moppet that she was, believed every word. She was putty in my blubbering Betsy hand.
Raging Bull entailed the sudden and unexpected ability to turn myself from a sweet sister into a maniacal child-eating bull that chased Susan in a potentially body stomping snorting rage until she hopped up on the sofa and cowered in the corner. The sofa was the “safe” place. As long as she was there, Raging Bull couldn’t stomp her. Oh, don’t be silly. I’m just your sister. See me? La la la why don’t you come down and we’ll play a game. Or maybe I’ll read you this really good book. Susan loved books. Susan ALWAYS took the bait. What a sucker.
Off the sofa she came. One step, two steps toward me. Me the sister. Poof. Me the Raging Bull. Scared that little Susan more times than I can count. What fun.
I still can’t believe how my sister could suspend belief in all logical reality to envision a hand as a person or me as a killer bull. I must have some incredible acting ability.
I suppose I shouldn’t tell you about convincing Susan that she was adopted or that she would turn from a girl into a boy and we would have to send her to the boy’s military academy down the road.
Sisters. Aren’t they fun?
Monday, May 21, 2007
A Relative Theory of Genealogy
Last year I decided to put together a genealogy book for my sisters for Christmas. In my inexperienced naïve sort of way, I thought that a year ought to be enough to print out all the pictures in my Mom’s albums/boxes/envelopes and research the family lines. Do you know how many people it took to create you? More than a village I can guarantee.
Although I had enough to fill several binders and a large photo album when I gave the gift, I still have a few errant relatives who refuse to be found. I was thinking about one in particular this morning during my work commute trip on BART. Having momentarily closed my eyes, I sunk into a sleepy lethargy brought on my allergy medication and thought about ways to find Fidelia McClelland. And completely missed my stop. I did wake up to watch it go by. How pleasant.
Stupid allergies. Darn missing relatives.
Maybe I need to move to Arizona. Or is that just for your lungs? Well maybe I need to go to the Caribbean or somewhere lovely and beautiful with the relaxing sound of the water and colorful birds flying overhead. Then poverty would set in and I’d have to go out in a leaky boat each day to bring in some fish to sell to the loud and irritating touristas just so I could eat and keep patches on my boat and canvas tent, which I would have to live in as I would have no money for an actual house. I’m getting a headache just thinking about how sad my life would become in the Caribbean.
My family names range from fruit to sea life with names such as Apple, Bacon and Fish. I see why I like food so much. It’s in the very core of my DNA.
I also noticed that several of my family lines changed the spelling of their name. Probably from family tiffs that created ill-will and new spellings. Or, as my husband keeps suggesting, horse thieves who needed a new identity, but weren’t smart enough to change their name completely. Appel became Apple, Fyshe became Fish, and De Scoville became Scovil/Scoville/Scovel (they couldn’t really make up their mind about the best spelling so moved letters now and again to see if it made a difference to their fortune).
I started to wonder about these people from the distant past. What were they like? Would a person named Mehitable be someone who wore sensible shoes and swung an axe with the same verve and power as she kneaded bread? I like that name. Mehitable. It screams strength, courage and no-nonsense attire. The name rolls off your tongue like a sweetmeat. I don’t know what a sweetmeat is, but anything starting with the word sweet must be good.
And why did the De Scoville people continue to change their name…even among brothers and sisters? I thought it prudent to make up my own version of the family stories. Here goes…
It was said that at one time, the name de Scoville wrought fear in the hearts of the peasants. However, after many years of gambling the family fortune, they realized that the “de” in the name simply sounded stupid and illiterate, a mild form of ebonics actually, as most people misprounced it “duh”, most likely in defiance of the snooty rulers. Many of their descendents began dropping letters in the name, probably sold for liqueur, as they were also fond of The Drink. Eventually, only one shabby “l” in the name was left as that was all they could afford. At times, due to the need for attention, some of the family changed the “i” to an “e”, (Scovil became Scovel) thinking this would shroud them in mystery. Unfortunately, most people thought them to be silly and tried to avoid them altogether. It was at this time that many of the Scovel people began to gain weight; the penchant for which was passed down to their offspring. The “e” was changed back to an “i”, but the weight issue proved too strong for any vowel to overcome.
Now that I’m on a roll, I believe I’ll make up a few more stories about my relatives. Although the last names are true, the first names have been changed to protect whatever is left of innocent relatives…
I love Slim Hargis. A snake-like figure of a man with whipcord reactions in a gun fight. Jake Hargis, his brother was a good-time guy who made all the women fall in love with him by an arch of a darkly sardonic eyebrow. If you’ve never seen a sardonic eyebrow, consider yourself cheated in life. Brullee Hargis was from the French side of the family and turned a mean pancake when he had a mind to.
And then there were the Keith people. That name speaks of rusted shells of buggies without wheels on the front lawn and a sagging sofa on the front porch that has stains from food fights and animal incontinence. No, you can have that name. I’ll stick with the sturdy Hargis’s. We are people who like potatoes and after dinner desserts.
The McClelland clan were known for their pies and clever insurance scams. They wore oddly colored plaid socks and wool skirts, and preferred high rocky places with crevices to hide from their enemy. It was rumored that they were a bit “fey”, although no one really knew what the word meant.
Ah yes, the Jackson family. A slippery bunch of people who pegged a varied assortment of nicknames on their kin in an attempt to garner fear from their neighbors. Stonewall Jackson was the leader of this group of relatives who hoped his nickname would instill some sense of an impenetrable character, but instead came to be known as a stubborn man who was contrary on every turn, thereby stonewalling any good efforts of his fellow officers.
There are more stories to be sure, but I think I’d better stop before one of my relatives lifts a sardonic eyebrow and makes me forfeit my membership card in Romance Writers of America.
Although I had enough to fill several binders and a large photo album when I gave the gift, I still have a few errant relatives who refuse to be found. I was thinking about one in particular this morning during my work commute trip on BART. Having momentarily closed my eyes, I sunk into a sleepy lethargy brought on my allergy medication and thought about ways to find Fidelia McClelland. And completely missed my stop. I did wake up to watch it go by. How pleasant.
Stupid allergies. Darn missing relatives.
Maybe I need to move to Arizona. Or is that just for your lungs? Well maybe I need to go to the Caribbean or somewhere lovely and beautiful with the relaxing sound of the water and colorful birds flying overhead. Then poverty would set in and I’d have to go out in a leaky boat each day to bring in some fish to sell to the loud and irritating touristas just so I could eat and keep patches on my boat and canvas tent, which I would have to live in as I would have no money for an actual house. I’m getting a headache just thinking about how sad my life would become in the Caribbean.
My family names range from fruit to sea life with names such as Apple, Bacon and Fish. I see why I like food so much. It’s in the very core of my DNA.
I also noticed that several of my family lines changed the spelling of their name. Probably from family tiffs that created ill-will and new spellings. Or, as my husband keeps suggesting, horse thieves who needed a new identity, but weren’t smart enough to change their name completely. Appel became Apple, Fyshe became Fish, and De Scoville became Scovil/Scoville/Scovel (they couldn’t really make up their mind about the best spelling so moved letters now and again to see if it made a difference to their fortune).
I started to wonder about these people from the distant past. What were they like? Would a person named Mehitable be someone who wore sensible shoes and swung an axe with the same verve and power as she kneaded bread? I like that name. Mehitable. It screams strength, courage and no-nonsense attire. The name rolls off your tongue like a sweetmeat. I don’t know what a sweetmeat is, but anything starting with the word sweet must be good.
And why did the De Scoville people continue to change their name…even among brothers and sisters? I thought it prudent to make up my own version of the family stories. Here goes…
It was said that at one time, the name de Scoville wrought fear in the hearts of the peasants. However, after many years of gambling the family fortune, they realized that the “de” in the name simply sounded stupid and illiterate, a mild form of ebonics actually, as most people misprounced it “duh”, most likely in defiance of the snooty rulers. Many of their descendents began dropping letters in the name, probably sold for liqueur, as they were also fond of The Drink. Eventually, only one shabby “l” in the name was left as that was all they could afford. At times, due to the need for attention, some of the family changed the “i” to an “e”, (Scovil became Scovel) thinking this would shroud them in mystery. Unfortunately, most people thought them to be silly and tried to avoid them altogether. It was at this time that many of the Scovel people began to gain weight; the penchant for which was passed down to their offspring. The “e” was changed back to an “i”, but the weight issue proved too strong for any vowel to overcome.
Now that I’m on a roll, I believe I’ll make up a few more stories about my relatives. Although the last names are true, the first names have been changed to protect whatever is left of innocent relatives…
I love Slim Hargis. A snake-like figure of a man with whipcord reactions in a gun fight. Jake Hargis, his brother was a good-time guy who made all the women fall in love with him by an arch of a darkly sardonic eyebrow. If you’ve never seen a sardonic eyebrow, consider yourself cheated in life. Brullee Hargis was from the French side of the family and turned a mean pancake when he had a mind to.
And then there were the Keith people. That name speaks of rusted shells of buggies without wheels on the front lawn and a sagging sofa on the front porch that has stains from food fights and animal incontinence. No, you can have that name. I’ll stick with the sturdy Hargis’s. We are people who like potatoes and after dinner desserts.
The McClelland clan were known for their pies and clever insurance scams. They wore oddly colored plaid socks and wool skirts, and preferred high rocky places with crevices to hide from their enemy. It was rumored that they were a bit “fey”, although no one really knew what the word meant.
Ah yes, the Jackson family. A slippery bunch of people who pegged a varied assortment of nicknames on their kin in an attempt to garner fear from their neighbors. Stonewall Jackson was the leader of this group of relatives who hoped his nickname would instill some sense of an impenetrable character, but instead came to be known as a stubborn man who was contrary on every turn, thereby stonewalling any good efforts of his fellow officers.
There are more stories to be sure, but I think I’d better stop before one of my relatives lifts a sardonic eyebrow and makes me forfeit my membership card in Romance Writers of America.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
The Pressure of Being a Spa Novice
Just saying the word “spa” conjures up thoughts of leisurely relaxation and high class pampering. You think about rich people going to a spa. Poor people get plug-in shiatsu neck massagers, which despite the advertising claims to be the exact technique of a masseuse, you will notice pretty quickly that the rotating balls in the unit only massage in one place on your neck thereby causing deep friction burns when left too long. It’s not really the same at all is it?
A few years ago, my son gave me a gift certificate to go to a spa that had just opened up. It's an elite place on the second floor above Tommy Bahama's and a hotel. Shopping and pampering. What could be better for any woman?
The spa is an upscale bit of quiet enticement. You walk into a large lobby with a huge rounded counter, wood floors, and shelves with body products. No chairs. This is, after all, just the lobby.
A young girl welcomed me, checked me in, gave me my locker key, the said to wait for my "escort". Another young girl (no old people for spa duty I notice) walked out and took me into the inner sanctum of tranquility. Another huge room...still not to the spa yet mind you...awaits beyond the big doors. On the right are shelves of products, on the left is a sitting area around a fireplace, straight ahead/left is the women's quarters, while right is the men's quarter's.
Walking into the women's quarters you will find the "waiting area". Not an ordinary waiting room I must say. There are recliners. Yes, real recliners with afghans and a light overhead if you should like to read while you're waiting, or turn the light out for a bit of a snooze.
Through the doors I looked up to a very large Jacuzzi (bring your swimsuit!), a steam room, a sauna, showers, any product of your choice to use on your hair and body, shavers, shaving cream, hair dryers and water containers in several places with cucumber, orange, and apple slices, bowls of fruit, special wash clothes soaked in something herbal that smelled good for when you came out of the sauna. I have reached the core of Nervana!
I was given my locker, and as I slipped into the robe, I was struck with the sad fact that the robe...she ain't a goin' around my body. Nope. The "one size fits all" label isn’t even close to my version of "all". I'm never in the "all" category. The label should read: All…except you fatty woman. I hate the person who invented that label.
I pile my clothes back on, and go in search of assistance for a bigger “all” robe. Found the help girl, who gave me a bigger "one size fits all" robe. She probably snuck it from the men's side. But it at least wraps around my body. With a few feet to spare. I hope it makes me look thinner.
Since I had a half an hour to spare, I decided to try all the spa amenities. Drank some fruity water, sniffed some products and inched my way toward the sauna. Spa and sauna. All good things start with an “S”.
Good Lord in Heaven... it's hot in there! Dry heat. Woof.
Just because it's there, I dip a ladle into the water bucket and splash it over the coals just to see what it would do. It gets hotter in the room. Is that possible? I feel very snooty and knowledgeable using the water dipper. I plop myself down on the bench in my ponderous robe. La la la. What does one do when they're all alone and burning up I wonder?
Just relax...let your mind go...think about...I'm thinking about the heat. It's gagging me. Dry heat...no sweat on my body, but my hair feels like it's 150 degrees to the touch. Is that good for hair follicles I wonder?
I notice that there's a lot of worry going on in my head in this place of relaxation. That can't be good.
I walked around in an aimless search for something to occupy me like the other ladies. The steam room (another “S” word). Yes, why not try steam. Much better than the sauna and will make my skin glow like a beacon of rich spa life. But do you wear your robe into the steam room? I'm a rube. I don't know the spa rules. What if I go in there in my robe, and sweat like a pig, then they come get me for the massage and I'm dripping? Won't they suggest I should have used "spa etiquette" and worn something else? And maybe they'll ask that I shower and wash the sweat off, then I'll miss my massage time and they'll tsk tsk and say I should have known better, so now all they'll give me is a quick slap and say my time's up.
Shouldn’t they give you a questionnaire when you come to a spa? Check the correct answer:
Are you a size “all” or would you prefer a bed spread to cover you?
Do you have any idea how to use our spa features, or are you here on a gift certificate and will most likely never return?
I notice a lady about to go into the steam room. She has a towel on under her robe. Aha! I went back to my locker and got my towel, opened my tent-robe, and adjusted the towel around me.
Not even close to covering me up. Oh great. What do I have to ask for? A bath sheet?
Forget the stupid steam room. I hate sweating anyway. I'll keep my lousy toxins.
I ended up in the recliners. What else? Nothing fits, I might as well be the person I really am...a sitter in a room with moderate temperature. Wonder what time it is. Wonder if they'll find me when it's time for my massage. I think I've got another 20 minutes until my appointed time. But there's no clock here. I decide that fretting about whether I'll be found or not is pointless in a place where you're supposed to relax. I flip back in the recliner and look at my plastic shoes. They're slightly too small for my feet. One size fits all. Shouldn't they tell you up front where the bigger clothing items are?
Oh well, I close my eyes and think about ... wonder when they're going to come get me. Oh for heaven's sake.
Finally, a soft little far off voice whispered my name. Wouldn't want to disturb the other resting persons. My masseuse has come! She took me down and around several darkened corridors. It was like going to the harem. Boy, this place is BIG! Ahhhh, we reach the appointed room.
There was soft music and ... something else. Hammering. Now that's disturbing. What sort of treatment would that be? That person must have some SERIOUS knots in their back! I'll have to check the brochure and see what that session would be called...carpenter's revenge? I mention this to the masseuse. She says the darn building owners had some odd bits of work left to do, but were not supposed to be doing it during massage hours. Guess they forgot the massage hours. They don't know the spa rules either. Very distracting.
The massage was pretty good. Except for the table, which didn’t seem as wide as it should be. Now really…I’m not that big! One size fits all table? Don’t they have extensions for REAL women?
The masseuse elbowed the knots out of me....hard. It was called a Swedish massage, and you know how the Swedes are when it comes to knots! As usual, the 90 minutes (which she said was actually an 80 minute massage) went very quickly. Oddly enough, when I got up and shuffled back to my locker, my right ankle hurt. Great. What's that about? The spa broke one of my body parts.
Spa. What a silly sanctuary for svelte-only socialites.
Me…I’ve got a plug-in shiatsu massager.
A few years ago, my son gave me a gift certificate to go to a spa that had just opened up. It's an elite place on the second floor above Tommy Bahama's and a hotel. Shopping and pampering. What could be better for any woman?
The spa is an upscale bit of quiet enticement. You walk into a large lobby with a huge rounded counter, wood floors, and shelves with body products. No chairs. This is, after all, just the lobby.
A young girl welcomed me, checked me in, gave me my locker key, the said to wait for my "escort". Another young girl (no old people for spa duty I notice) walked out and took me into the inner sanctum of tranquility. Another huge room...still not to the spa yet mind you...awaits beyond the big doors. On the right are shelves of products, on the left is a sitting area around a fireplace, straight ahead/left is the women's quarters, while right is the men's quarter's.
Walking into the women's quarters you will find the "waiting area". Not an ordinary waiting room I must say. There are recliners. Yes, real recliners with afghans and a light overhead if you should like to read while you're waiting, or turn the light out for a bit of a snooze.
Through the doors I looked up to a very large Jacuzzi (bring your swimsuit!), a steam room, a sauna, showers, any product of your choice to use on your hair and body, shavers, shaving cream, hair dryers and water containers in several places with cucumber, orange, and apple slices, bowls of fruit, special wash clothes soaked in something herbal that smelled good for when you came out of the sauna. I have reached the core of Nervana!
I was given my locker, and as I slipped into the robe, I was struck with the sad fact that the robe...she ain't a goin' around my body. Nope. The "one size fits all" label isn’t even close to my version of "all". I'm never in the "all" category. The label should read: All…except you fatty woman. I hate the person who invented that label.
I pile my clothes back on, and go in search of assistance for a bigger “all” robe. Found the help girl, who gave me a bigger "one size fits all" robe. She probably snuck it from the men's side. But it at least wraps around my body. With a few feet to spare. I hope it makes me look thinner.
Since I had a half an hour to spare, I decided to try all the spa amenities. Drank some fruity water, sniffed some products and inched my way toward the sauna. Spa and sauna. All good things start with an “S”.
Good Lord in Heaven... it's hot in there! Dry heat. Woof.
Just because it's there, I dip a ladle into the water bucket and splash it over the coals just to see what it would do. It gets hotter in the room. Is that possible? I feel very snooty and knowledgeable using the water dipper. I plop myself down on the bench in my ponderous robe. La la la. What does one do when they're all alone and burning up I wonder?
Just relax...let your mind go...think about...I'm thinking about the heat. It's gagging me. Dry heat...no sweat on my body, but my hair feels like it's 150 degrees to the touch. Is that good for hair follicles I wonder?
I notice that there's a lot of worry going on in my head in this place of relaxation. That can't be good.
I walked around in an aimless search for something to occupy me like the other ladies. The steam room (another “S” word). Yes, why not try steam. Much better than the sauna and will make my skin glow like a beacon of rich spa life. But do you wear your robe into the steam room? I'm a rube. I don't know the spa rules. What if I go in there in my robe, and sweat like a pig, then they come get me for the massage and I'm dripping? Won't they suggest I should have used "spa etiquette" and worn something else? And maybe they'll ask that I shower and wash the sweat off, then I'll miss my massage time and they'll tsk tsk and say I should have known better, so now all they'll give me is a quick slap and say my time's up.
Shouldn’t they give you a questionnaire when you come to a spa? Check the correct answer:
Are you a size “all” or would you prefer a bed spread to cover you?
Do you have any idea how to use our spa features, or are you here on a gift certificate and will most likely never return?
I notice a lady about to go into the steam room. She has a towel on under her robe. Aha! I went back to my locker and got my towel, opened my tent-robe, and adjusted the towel around me.
Not even close to covering me up. Oh great. What do I have to ask for? A bath sheet?
Forget the stupid steam room. I hate sweating anyway. I'll keep my lousy toxins.
I ended up in the recliners. What else? Nothing fits, I might as well be the person I really am...a sitter in a room with moderate temperature. Wonder what time it is. Wonder if they'll find me when it's time for my massage. I think I've got another 20 minutes until my appointed time. But there's no clock here. I decide that fretting about whether I'll be found or not is pointless in a place where you're supposed to relax. I flip back in the recliner and look at my plastic shoes. They're slightly too small for my feet. One size fits all. Shouldn't they tell you up front where the bigger clothing items are?
Oh well, I close my eyes and think about ... wonder when they're going to come get me. Oh for heaven's sake.
Finally, a soft little far off voice whispered my name. Wouldn't want to disturb the other resting persons. My masseuse has come! She took me down and around several darkened corridors. It was like going to the harem. Boy, this place is BIG! Ahhhh, we reach the appointed room.
There was soft music and ... something else. Hammering. Now that's disturbing. What sort of treatment would that be? That person must have some SERIOUS knots in their back! I'll have to check the brochure and see what that session would be called...carpenter's revenge? I mention this to the masseuse. She says the darn building owners had some odd bits of work left to do, but were not supposed to be doing it during massage hours. Guess they forgot the massage hours. They don't know the spa rules either. Very distracting.
The massage was pretty good. Except for the table, which didn’t seem as wide as it should be. Now really…I’m not that big! One size fits all table? Don’t they have extensions for REAL women?
The masseuse elbowed the knots out of me....hard. It was called a Swedish massage, and you know how the Swedes are when it comes to knots! As usual, the 90 minutes (which she said was actually an 80 minute massage) went very quickly. Oddly enough, when I got up and shuffled back to my locker, my right ankle hurt. Great. What's that about? The spa broke one of my body parts.
Spa. What a silly sanctuary for svelte-only socialites.
Me…I’ve got a plug-in shiatsu massager.
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