So, I am sitting in the doctor’s office waiting to have the doctor tell me why I have suddenly developed these cyst-like bumps on the back of my skull/neck when an older gentleman (maybe mid-80’s??) sits down next to me. He smiles at me over my Better Homes and Gardens. I smile back and return to reading about how some color-ologists somewhere have determined that blue is the new “in” color for summer. (Who are these color-ologists? For that matter, WHAT is a color-ologist? The journalist in me wants source information. I mean, I’m not redecorating on the whim of some never-been. For all I know, I may be a color-ologist, and I’m sort of into green at the moment. I need DATA and HARD FACTS, Better Homes and Gardens!)
I progress to reading about how leeks are a fantastic addition to the common mashed potato when the older gentleman does a throat clearing. You know, one of those “I’m trying to get your attention in a polite way/sorry to bother you, but this is important/your zipper is down and your Jockey for Her’s are giving me the wink” sort of throat clearing. I look up. He leans forward and very sweetly says:
“Honey, you really need a pedicure.” Then, he proceeds to give me the number of a nail salon nearby!
WHO DOES THIS??? Okay, sure, my Sicilian GRANDMOTHER might do this; she completely gave up all vestiges of polite society in her late 70's. But a MAN in his mid-80’s? I know what you are thinking. Gay. Flaming. But I didn’t get that vibe. My brain quickly ran through all of the possibilities for this strange encounter and the only possible answer was…
…I really DID need a pedicure.
Luckily, I was on my way to ASHA, my new favorite salon and spa, for a massage. (Thank you, Cheryl, for the suggestion!) I rush into the lobby and confront the receptionist/reservationist.
Me: Hi. I’m here for a massage, but I need a pedicure, too. Please tell me you have an opening.
Receptionist: Mmm-mmm. Sorry. We’re full.
Me: You don’t understand. I NEED a pedicure.
Receptionist: Sorry. Can’t help you. Would you like an appointment for Monday?
Me: No. I need the appointment now. It’s imperative that I see a nail technician. Worlds are hanging in the balance here. You don’t know how important this is.
Receptionist: Again, I’m sorry, but we cannot accommodate you. I have a spot open Monday mid-afternoon…
Me: Okay, what is your name?
Receptionist: Chloe.
Me: Okay, Chloe, I have to level with you. I was just sitting in the waiting room of my doctor’s office and an 85 year old man—an 85 year old MAN, Chloe—told me I needed a pedicure.
Chloe: Was he gay?
Me: I thought of that, too, but I didn’t get the vibe. He didn’t suggest a color. He would’ve suggested a color if he were gay, right?
Chloe: One would think so.
Me: You see my dilemma?
Chloe: (slowly nodding) Mmmm-hmmm…. A man?
Me: An EIGHTY-FIVE YEAR OLD man! This is an emergency.
Chloe: (pause) Well, I’d have to pull Vilma off the floor. She’s the best….
Me: Thank you, Chloe! Thank you!
And this? Is why my heels feel like BUTTER!
Asha Salon and Spa. Schaumburg, Illinois. Vilma. I heart you all….
Monday, June 16, 2008
The New Stay-at-Home Motherhood Morning
I am wearing a Jones New York fall blouse paired with an Ann Taylor spring pant smeared with sun screen and guacamole. I haven't showered, either. 'Nuff said.
Oh--but I have a KILLER pedicure! Tomato red. And my heels feel like butter. I'll explain the reason behind the pedicure after I drag the four year old off of the bathroom counter....
More later!
Oh--but I have a KILLER pedicure! Tomato red. And my heels feel like butter. I'll explain the reason behind the pedicure after I drag the four year old off of the bathroom counter....
More later!
Friday, June 13, 2008
Semi-Sweet Ain't Just for Chocolate
It's also for those who are new to stay-at-home mommyhood. I know I'll only be home with the boys for a few weeks, but now I am finding that staying home is just as hard as working...maybe even a little harder....
Bitter points to ponder: (Makes you wonder what I ponder when I’m hormonal, doesn’t it?)
#1.) I’ve been a stay-at-home mother of two boys (4 years and 9 months) for four days now and I’ve learned three things:
- a.) The wardrobe for the working mom is MUCH cooler.
- b.) I got to eat lunch at a leisurely pace while I was at work. I don’t get that at home.
- c.) The guilt I had because I was working has now transferred to guilt over letting the kids cry themselves hoarse because I have found that I need to use the bathroom BY MYSELF or I can’t perform the deed. Something about being watched makes using the facilities difficult for me. Ah, clearly a case of performance anxiety. I blame my perfectionist tendencies.
Clearly, the life of a mother is stressful regardless of whether one is mothering part-time or full-time. Brilliant. (She typed in the sarcastic way that meant the situation was anything but brilliant.)
#2.) The speedometer on my 2004 Honda Civic goes up to 145 MPH. Um…WHY?? Hello, Honda makers: I think people who buy Honda Civics are pretty much comfortable with the fact that their transportation is not a high-powered performance vehicle. Just stop the charade, Honda.
#3.) When the park district posts a sign asking for parents to “volunteer” to be T-Ball coaches, it means that EVERY PARENT who drops off his/her T-Ball participant at the first practice will be greeted by a 16 year old who has “never done this before,” handed a t-shirt and baseball cap, and told to guide the kids in a jog around the bases and show them how to field ground balls or the program will die. Oh, and you’ll be paying for the experience, too. Did I mention that you will be required to sign up to bring snacks and drinks for the whole team on one of the practice days, too? You will. (eye roll)
Okay, parents of children older than mine, what else am I in for? Hang on, let me get a glass of wine. I have a feeling I’m going to need it…. Okay, go ahead. I’m only vaguely sober.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
I Found Jesus...in Wal-Mart
Okay, Okay! It’s June 12th! After weeks away, I just checked my recent posts and, clearly, I should have been more specific than just saying I'd return "in June." No, I didn't mean June 2009. My bad. But, hey, when I’ve made a blogging faux pas, I admit it. So, here I am admitting my faux pas to the world: I wasn’t specific, World, and that was an error on my part! I apologize from the depths of my being. Please accept my act of contrition. (But it sure is nice to know I’m loved! I should go on hiatus more often!)
My schedule is ALMOST free. I am coming off of a very, very busy two months, and I have the stress acne and the eczema to prove it. The play (Up the Down Staircase, for you theatre-goers) went very well. All the people I worked with were good people, which makes the process so much more enjoyable. Further, I finished teaching my courses on Friday, and that wraps up the bulk of my work-related responsibilities for a couple of weeks. I have not started taking my own grad school courses, yet, but I am looking forward to them…in as much as a mother of two young children can look forward to taking two courses at a university over an hour away from her home. In the mean time, I am happy to have found a moment where I can blog completely unencumbered, or rather minimally encumbered since the nine-month-old is sitting on my lap and chewing on the power cord. (Yes, I stopped him. No need to call DCFS, thank you.) Thank goodness for this semi-respite, because I simply had to make a quick post about my recent trip to Wal-Mart.
When picking up large items at Wal-Mart, one must go to the back of the store to obtain said item. (In my case, the item was a flat screen television. I lived for years under the delusion that I did not need HDTV. Then, I saw Matthew McConaughey on my friend’s large screen HDTV and realized the error of my ways. Oh, Matthew, you are so rugged. If only you showered more often and deigned to use deodorant, I just know we could be special friends—in the platonic way that married women are friends with hunky movie stars, which is to say that this friendship would be much easier on me if you were gay.) While waiting for my Vizio to be brought out (nice television, by the way, in case you are looking), I couldn’t help but notice a return sitting on the counter: a twelve inch tall Jesus Christ action figure.
This struck me as odd for several reasons. First, the box read “JESUS” in big letters, with the subtitle “Son of God” in small font beneath. (Perhaps this subtitle was necessary in case a consumer mistook this action figure for some OTHER Jesus?) Further, I couldn’t help but notice that Jesus had special kung fu action grip. (Jesus is a big martial arts fan? Who knew?) Jesus also spoke. If you pressed a button on his back, he recited 26 biblical verses. There was also a prayer book included, so Jesus doll owners (Can one own Jesus??) can read along as Jesus speaks. Strangely, Jesus also had ENORMOUS pectoral muscles. E-N-O-R-M-O-U-S. Not large, not well proportioned, not “Wow, Jesus! Have you been lifting weights lately?” I’m talking hugely disproportionate to the rest of the body. In short, Jesus looked as though he were on steroids. (Perhaps the makers of the toy had been hanging out with Barry Bonds lately?) Disconcertingly, the eyes of the action figure looked a little…intense, and the face looked a little…unfriendly. Picture the large G.I. Joe action figures with longer hair, a beard, and a rough toga, and you are picturing the kung fu action grip/fully pose-able Jesus doll. Actually, based on his physique, Jesus would have easily been able to take G.I. Joe. No contest.
Perhaps what surprised me the most was that Jesus was a return. I mean, despite the imposing figure of the doll, I still picture returning Jesus to be a difficult task, regardless of one’s religious beliefs. This made me ponder how exactly does one return Jesus? Does one feel compelled to explain to the cashier why Jesus had to go back to the store? If so, what does one say? For those of us in the uncomfortable spot of returning Jesus to Wal-Mart, I offer the following explanations to ease you through what may be an awkward moment:
“Hi. I’ve already found Jesus. Here’s my receipt.”
“I have a return here. My name is Silverman. I obviously received Jesus in error.”
“Let me get this straight, Jesus rose from the dead after three days and someone shrink wrapped him?? Talk about a bad week! Heh, heh, heh. I’ll take a store credit, please.”
“I thought this was Jesus (pronounced “hey-soos”) the WWF wrestling action figure. I mean, look at those pectorals! It’s an easy mistake to make. And the words “Son of God” are in such a small font on the front of the box. Something should really be done about that. I’ll take cash back, thank you.”
“Someone already gave me Jesus. Do you have a Moses? Maybe a Luke? Are there any John’s in the back? Perhaps we could make an exchange?”
I had to wait awhile for the television to be brought up to the front, so I spent quite a long time hanging with J.C. I got to know his guiding principles fairly well because, interestingly enough, every person who walked into the pick-up/returns/exchanges center felt compelled to play with Jesus. We’re talking about twenty-plus people. Everyone walked in, witnessed Jesus on the counter, looked around to see if anyone was looking (I busied myself with something on the baby’s stroller in order to look inconspicuous.), and then played with Jesus. Over and over again he told us all to love others as we love ourselves. After a while, it started to sink in….
This is why I am treating myself to a spa day on Saturday. The way I see it, Jesus means that all of humanity will benefit if we are super nice to ourselves. I don’t want to love others the way I’ve been loving myself lately because I’ve been way over committed to too many projects and, let’s face it, my skin looks terrible and my feet need a pedicure in the worst way. Humanity deserves better than what I’ve been doing to myself, or we may ALL end up with eczema and bunions! I mean, I can’t walk out in public in sandals for fear that people will recoil in horror at my calloused heels. If I loved others the way I loved myself, all of humanity would have to deal with cracked and dry foot pads and ulcers! No, I can’t do that to the world. Humanity deserves a pumpkin-wrapped pedicure. In fact, humanity may deserve one of those hot stone massages I keep hearing so much about. And what, pray tell, are seaweed herbal wraps and alpha-hydroxy facials ? I want to know. Heck, Jesus wants me to know! You can’t argue with Jesus.
In all seriousness, what I’ve learned in the last two months is that I would never treat humanity the way I’ve been treating myself. I’ve strung myself out. Too many strung out people means a stressed out, unhappy world. I propose that humanity take a vacation. Everyone should do something nice for himself/herself. Think of the long term consequences: Everyone would be in a better mood and more patient with one another. So, go ahead and take a little time for YOU in the next few days. I say it’s okay…and so does Jesus!
My schedule is ALMOST free. I am coming off of a very, very busy two months, and I have the stress acne and the eczema to prove it. The play (Up the Down Staircase, for you theatre-goers) went very well. All the people I worked with were good people, which makes the process so much more enjoyable. Further, I finished teaching my courses on Friday, and that wraps up the bulk of my work-related responsibilities for a couple of weeks. I have not started taking my own grad school courses, yet, but I am looking forward to them…in as much as a mother of two young children can look forward to taking two courses at a university over an hour away from her home. In the mean time, I am happy to have found a moment where I can blog completely unencumbered, or rather minimally encumbered since the nine-month-old is sitting on my lap and chewing on the power cord. (Yes, I stopped him. No need to call DCFS, thank you.) Thank goodness for this semi-respite, because I simply had to make a quick post about my recent trip to Wal-Mart.
When picking up large items at Wal-Mart, one must go to the back of the store to obtain said item. (In my case, the item was a flat screen television. I lived for years under the delusion that I did not need HDTV. Then, I saw Matthew McConaughey on my friend’s large screen HDTV and realized the error of my ways. Oh, Matthew, you are so rugged. If only you showered more often and deigned to use deodorant, I just know we could be special friends—in the platonic way that married women are friends with hunky movie stars, which is to say that this friendship would be much easier on me if you were gay.) While waiting for my Vizio to be brought out (nice television, by the way, in case you are looking), I couldn’t help but notice a return sitting on the counter: a twelve inch tall Jesus Christ action figure.
This struck me as odd for several reasons. First, the box read “JESUS” in big letters, with the subtitle “Son of God” in small font beneath. (Perhaps this subtitle was necessary in case a consumer mistook this action figure for some OTHER Jesus?) Further, I couldn’t help but notice that Jesus had special kung fu action grip. (Jesus is a big martial arts fan? Who knew?) Jesus also spoke. If you pressed a button on his back, he recited 26 biblical verses. There was also a prayer book included, so Jesus doll owners (Can one own Jesus??) can read along as Jesus speaks. Strangely, Jesus also had ENORMOUS pectoral muscles. E-N-O-R-M-O-U-S. Not large, not well proportioned, not “Wow, Jesus! Have you been lifting weights lately?” I’m talking hugely disproportionate to the rest of the body. In short, Jesus looked as though he were on steroids. (Perhaps the makers of the toy had been hanging out with Barry Bonds lately?) Disconcertingly, the eyes of the action figure looked a little…intense, and the face looked a little…unfriendly. Picture the large G.I. Joe action figures with longer hair, a beard, and a rough toga, and you are picturing the kung fu action grip/fully pose-able Jesus doll. Actually, based on his physique, Jesus would have easily been able to take G.I. Joe. No contest.
Perhaps what surprised me the most was that Jesus was a return. I mean, despite the imposing figure of the doll, I still picture returning Jesus to be a difficult task, regardless of one’s religious beliefs. This made me ponder how exactly does one return Jesus? Does one feel compelled to explain to the cashier why Jesus had to go back to the store? If so, what does one say? For those of us in the uncomfortable spot of returning Jesus to Wal-Mart, I offer the following explanations to ease you through what may be an awkward moment:
“Hi. I’ve already found Jesus. Here’s my receipt.”
“I have a return here. My name is Silverman. I obviously received Jesus in error.”
“Let me get this straight, Jesus rose from the dead after three days and someone shrink wrapped him?? Talk about a bad week! Heh, heh, heh. I’ll take a store credit, please.”
“I thought this was Jesus (pronounced “hey-soos”) the WWF wrestling action figure. I mean, look at those pectorals! It’s an easy mistake to make. And the words “Son of God” are in such a small font on the front of the box. Something should really be done about that. I’ll take cash back, thank you.”
“Someone already gave me Jesus. Do you have a Moses? Maybe a Luke? Are there any John’s in the back? Perhaps we could make an exchange?”
I had to wait awhile for the television to be brought up to the front, so I spent quite a long time hanging with J.C. I got to know his guiding principles fairly well because, interestingly enough, every person who walked into the pick-up/returns/exchanges center felt compelled to play with Jesus. We’re talking about twenty-plus people. Everyone walked in, witnessed Jesus on the counter, looked around to see if anyone was looking (I busied myself with something on the baby’s stroller in order to look inconspicuous.), and then played with Jesus. Over and over again he told us all to love others as we love ourselves. After a while, it started to sink in….
This is why I am treating myself to a spa day on Saturday. The way I see it, Jesus means that all of humanity will benefit if we are super nice to ourselves. I don’t want to love others the way I’ve been loving myself lately because I’ve been way over committed to too many projects and, let’s face it, my skin looks terrible and my feet need a pedicure in the worst way. Humanity deserves better than what I’ve been doing to myself, or we may ALL end up with eczema and bunions! I mean, I can’t walk out in public in sandals for fear that people will recoil in horror at my calloused heels. If I loved others the way I loved myself, all of humanity would have to deal with cracked and dry foot pads and ulcers! No, I can’t do that to the world. Humanity deserves a pumpkin-wrapped pedicure. In fact, humanity may deserve one of those hot stone massages I keep hearing so much about. And what, pray tell, are seaweed herbal wraps and alpha-hydroxy facials ? I want to know. Heck, Jesus wants me to know! You can’t argue with Jesus.
In all seriousness, what I’ve learned in the last two months is that I would never treat humanity the way I’ve been treating myself. I’ve strung myself out. Too many strung out people means a stressed out, unhappy world. I propose that humanity take a vacation. Everyone should do something nice for himself/herself. Think of the long term consequences: Everyone would be in a better mood and more patient with one another. So, go ahead and take a little time for YOU in the next few days. I say it’s okay…and so does Jesus!
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Regrets Only
Regret is a wasted emotion, I’ve been told. And I agree. Why waste good energy on regret when revenge is so much more productive, right? (I kid, I kid! …Or do I??) Still, enlightened though I am, there are a few things I do regret:
- I regret that I cannot find reruns of Moonlighting on cable.
- I regret that I haven’t flossed since…um, ever. (I realize some of you are gagging and clawing at your throats right now, but it is true. I never floss. I do gargle and swish with a special medicated rinse, however. I know it’s not the same, but jamming my fingers half way down my throat in order to get those back molars makes me want to hurl. Oh, sure, I’ll tell my dentist, "I’ll start flossing this time, I swear!" But I never do. There are two things in my life that I know I ought to do, but I simply refuse: a. give up coffee and, b. floss. Don’t try to change my mind; it can’t be done. Those are my vices. It is what it is.)
- I regret that I didn’t discover raspberry-chocolate crème brulee until my mid-20’s. (Just think of all those wasted years eating bland flan!)
- I regret over-scheduling myself until June.
This last point demands a little explanation. Despite the fact that I know the next six weeks will be amongst the most hectic at work, and my house and yard are desperate for a really good spring cleaning, and my son’s fourth birthday is rapidly approaching (He wants to have friends at this one. Pray for me.), and Mother’s Day is looming large on the horizon (and my mom demands a good present this year after I've "maligned her" in my blog...but--come on!-- she gave my son orange juice after he'd vomited for four days! Did she think I wasn't going to blog about that??), and the baby is at that dangerous just beginning to be mobile stage, and my husband is busy with his job, and I’ve just signed up for classes to finish a second Masters--despite ALL OF THIS I took on assisting with the directing of a local play.
Before you feel the slightest pang of sympathy for me, let me assure you that I am not being completely altruistic—I do get paid (a couple of cents a minute). Still, this means I have less time for doing something I really, really love: blogging. If you’ve noticed that my posts have dwindled over the last two weeks, this is one of the reasons why. AND I’m not going to find any relief until June. (She typed, as she fell back in her chair and threw an arm over her eyes in consternation and despair.) So, I feel like I’m not being a very good blogger and that I am losing touch with all of my cool blog friends, and I regret that. I regret not being able to return emails and having to rush around all the time and feed my family nothing but fast food (Um, actually this is sort of the norm around here, but I’ll pretend this is due to my recent scheduling snafu in order to not look like a completely lazy mom. After all, Mother’s Day IS on the way, and I don’t want to write myself out of a present... especially since Scott is a little miffed about my “Let. There. Be. LIGHT.” post. He says I exaggerated his electricity hoarding mania. As though it is even possible to exaggerate something like that.) [eye roll] (Ooooh, hang on a second. I'm noticing a theme with people around me becoming annoyed about my posts. Could they possibly have a point about public criticism? Naaaaaaaah!).
So, I send my regrets to you along with a warning that my posts will be less frequent until June. Eh. Life happens, right?
But there is always an upside! A silver lining, so to speak. And here it is: we can take this opportunity to commune over our shared regrets. In fact, it is entirely possible that we can grow closer as we air our dismays. Better, we might even be able to leave go of our laments and move on after our ritual airing of the regrets. Who knows? This thing may catch on! It may become an international holiday: "Regret Wednesday!" I mean, if that Scientology silent birth thing was bought into by Katie Holmes, there is no telling how many people will want to participate in "Regret Wednesday!" All it will take is a little marketing. We'll have to make decorations and start some traditions for our special day. I'm thinking some themed food may be in order, too. And no holiday is complete without a few songs commemorating the meaning of the day. I'm thinking no songs scream regret like "Yesterday" (Beatles), "My Way" (Sinatra), "Me and Bobby McGee" (Janis Joplin), "If I Could Turn Back Tiiiiii-iiiiiiime" (Cher), "Margaritaville" (Jimmy Buffet), and "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" (Bill Withers).
Possibly you, too, regret the loss of an 80’s television show (New Hart, perhaps??)? Maybe your regret is even deeper than that. Bad hair cut? Bad relationship? That high school year book photo you should have gotten up earlier and prepared for? That pint of Ben and Jerry’s? Those TWO pints of Ben and Jerry’s? Your first time? Your second time? That time you made out with your friend’s significant other? Maybe you’ve yet to discover crème brulee (gasp!)? Go ahead and air your dirty laundry. What is it that’s holding you back? Dump it here. Extra points for pairing a song with your regret.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Lost in Translation
Due to the way some meetings were scheduled at work, I was able to take a longer lunch than usual on Wednesday. A friend and I scooted off to Panera Bread (That's Saint Louis Bread Company for you Missouri dwellers) for a light repast and girly gab session. Because of our superfluity of work materials (laptops, etc.), we couldn’t do the usual ladies partner lavatory dance; one of us had to stay and guard our stuff. Nicole, who was born with an abnormally tiny bladder but was compensated with insanely high cheekbones as the universe’s form of apology, went first.
Nicole returned from the bathroom looking a little uncomfortable.
Me: What’s the matter?
Nicole: Well, I…nothing.
M: Don’t “nothing.” Tell me. Was it something in the bathroom?
N: Um…yeah.
M: Damn it! I knew I shouldn’t have let you go alone. You’re just a kid. A bathroom visit like this takes at least two: one to do the job and the other to do recon work. I blame myself!
N: Ha ha. Very funny.
M: I can’t help it. The chocolate croissants here make me giddy. Seriously, what happened? I drank a lot of ice tea, and I’m going to have to go any minute now. I need to know what I’m facing when I go in there.
N: (sigh) Okay. So, I’m in the stall—
M: Whoa! You aren’t going to give me all of the details, are you? I mean, you know how I have that phobia about bodily fluids, right? Does this involve bodily fluids??
N: (pause) Can I finish?
M: Sorry. Go on.
N: So, I’m in the stall, and this woman takes the stall next to me. We’re the only two in there. I’m just minding my own business…when she starts... talking.
M: Talking? What? Like in tongues or something? What’s wrong with talking?
N: She starts talking in Spanish. She says, “Hola!”
M: Do you speak Spanish?
N: No, I took high school French. You?
M: German. So what did you do?
N: I say, “Hola!” I mean, I didn’t want to be rude…even though it does seem kind of weird for her to suddenly start talking to me through the stall wall. Then, she starts rattling off all these other things in Spanish.
M: But you can’t understand her, right?
N: Right. To me it sounds like, “Nacho bell grande, burrito burrito, jalapeño chorizo, fish taco, fish taco, fish taco—“
M: That? Right there? Is one thing I’ve never understood! Who would eat a fish taco?? I mean, just the thought of the fishy texture in a tortilla makes the little fleshy thing at the back of my throat clench in disgust!
N: They’re actually pretty good. The fish is fried.
M: I don’t care if the fish is smoked and covered in melted cheese and pico. It still doesn’t belong in my taco! Chicken, sure. Steak, yes. I’ll even pop for the veggie, but fish? That's a deal breaker.
N: (sigh.) Whatever. Anyway, she’s speaking in Spanish, and I can’t understand a word. So, I say, “Um, excuse me, but I don’t speak Spanish.”
M: And?
N: She just keeps going on and on: “Queso, chili con carne, chimichanga, enchilada!” So, I finally get the idea that she’s trying to tell me that she needs some toilet paper, and I start wadding up toilet paper and throwing it over the top of the stall. I mean, I, too, have found myself in the toilet paperless stall after the countdown has begun, and there’s a desperation in that predicament. Know what I mean?
M: Mmm-hmmm. Been there. So, you performed a random act of kindness. That was nice. Why are you flustered?
N: Well, I throw all this paper over the top of the stall--and then I go to leave. That's when the stall door next to me flies open, and this woman covered in toilet paper sticks her head out, holds up her cell phone, and shouts, "Que?!" Then, she slams the door…and goes back to talking on her cell phone.
M: Her cell phone?? Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! She was talking on her cell phone that whole time??
N: Yes.
M: That’s awesome!
N: Yeah, well, she looked kind of pissed. She slammed the door of the stall and said something into her cell that I am sure means “crazy lady” in Spanish.
M: Oh. My. God! You may have just caused an international incident! --Wait. We may be able to fix this. I’ll go in there right now and start throwing toilet paper over the top of the stall, too! Maybe she’ll think it’s an American custom!! Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! (snort. choke. gasp.)
N: (sigh) Tell me again why I am friends with you?
M: Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! I have NO IDEA! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! --Ooh, I better go to the bathroom before I wet myself. Gee, I better take my cell with me. That way, if I run out of toilet paper, I can call you. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!
N: You aren’t going to put this in your blog, are you?
M: Oh no. No, no, no. Your secret is safe with me. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!!
Nicole returned from the bathroom looking a little uncomfortable.
Me: What’s the matter?
Nicole: Well, I…nothing.
M: Don’t “nothing.” Tell me. Was it something in the bathroom?
N: Um…yeah.
M: Damn it! I knew I shouldn’t have let you go alone. You’re just a kid. A bathroom visit like this takes at least two: one to do the job and the other to do recon work. I blame myself!
N: Ha ha. Very funny.
M: I can’t help it. The chocolate croissants here make me giddy. Seriously, what happened? I drank a lot of ice tea, and I’m going to have to go any minute now. I need to know what I’m facing when I go in there.
N: (sigh) Okay. So, I’m in the stall—
M: Whoa! You aren’t going to give me all of the details, are you? I mean, you know how I have that phobia about bodily fluids, right? Does this involve bodily fluids??
N: (pause) Can I finish?
M: Sorry. Go on.
N: So, I’m in the stall, and this woman takes the stall next to me. We’re the only two in there. I’m just minding my own business…when she starts... talking.
M: Talking? What? Like in tongues or something? What’s wrong with talking?
N: She starts talking in Spanish. She says, “Hola!”
M: Do you speak Spanish?
N: No, I took high school French. You?
M: German. So what did you do?
N: I say, “Hola!” I mean, I didn’t want to be rude…even though it does seem kind of weird for her to suddenly start talking to me through the stall wall. Then, she starts rattling off all these other things in Spanish.
M: But you can’t understand her, right?
N: Right. To me it sounds like, “Nacho bell grande, burrito burrito, jalapeño chorizo, fish taco, fish taco, fish taco—“
M: That? Right there? Is one thing I’ve never understood! Who would eat a fish taco?? I mean, just the thought of the fishy texture in a tortilla makes the little fleshy thing at the back of my throat clench in disgust!
N: They’re actually pretty good. The fish is fried.
M: I don’t care if the fish is smoked and covered in melted cheese and pico. It still doesn’t belong in my taco! Chicken, sure. Steak, yes. I’ll even pop for the veggie, but fish? That's a deal breaker.
N: (sigh.) Whatever. Anyway, she’s speaking in Spanish, and I can’t understand a word. So, I say, “Um, excuse me, but I don’t speak Spanish.”
M: And?
N: She just keeps going on and on: “Queso, chili con carne, chimichanga, enchilada!” So, I finally get the idea that she’s trying to tell me that she needs some toilet paper, and I start wadding up toilet paper and throwing it over the top of the stall. I mean, I, too, have found myself in the toilet paperless stall after the countdown has begun, and there’s a desperation in that predicament. Know what I mean?
M: Mmm-hmmm. Been there. So, you performed a random act of kindness. That was nice. Why are you flustered?
N: Well, I throw all this paper over the top of the stall--and then I go to leave. That's when the stall door next to me flies open, and this woman covered in toilet paper sticks her head out, holds up her cell phone, and shouts, "Que?!" Then, she slams the door…and goes back to talking on her cell phone.
M: Her cell phone?? Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! She was talking on her cell phone that whole time??
N: Yes.
M: That’s awesome!
N: Yeah, well, she looked kind of pissed. She slammed the door of the stall and said something into her cell that I am sure means “crazy lady” in Spanish.
M: Oh. My. God! You may have just caused an international incident! --Wait. We may be able to fix this. I’ll go in there right now and start throwing toilet paper over the top of the stall, too! Maybe she’ll think it’s an American custom!! Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! (snort. choke. gasp.)
N: (sigh) Tell me again why I am friends with you?
M: Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! I have NO IDEA! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! --Ooh, I better go to the bathroom before I wet myself. Gee, I better take my cell with me. That way, if I run out of toilet paper, I can call you. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!
N: You aren’t going to put this in your blog, are you?
M: Oh no. No, no, no. Your secret is safe with me. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!!
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Let.There. Be. LIGHT.
[The irony that today is Earth Day has not been wasted on me. Such is the depths of my frustration, I have gone ahead and posted this missive despite the national recognition of our planet.]
My husband did it again. He messed with our light bulbs.
For the past twelve years, Scott and I have had a recurring marital mêlée concerning our light switches. I like them in the “on” position; he likes them in the “off” position. This usually results in Scott chasing after me every night (not in the good way you might imagine) flipping off switches and grumbling. While I think rooms filled with light look cheery and warm, Scott sees my decorative sconces as equivalent to luminescent-financial-waste-makers. The man doesn’t even use a light to read by. Rather, he uses a handheld digital reading device with an incandescent monitor and downloads texts to it. In fact, now that I think about it, Scott shuns all illumination by drawing blackout blinds over the windows and wearing an eye mask to bed. (In all seriousness, I can envision Scott attempting to persuade the Eloi in The Time Machine that their candles and wood fires are wasteful, and it would be better for them to just huddle in the dark with the cannibalistic Morlocks.) Why a man who routinely wastes food by turning up his nose at leftovers, throws away paper goods rather than recycling, and willingly wastes gas by driving miles out of his way to demo a new computer gadget would criticize my homey lights, I have no idea. But there it is.
The current debacle centers around the bathroom light. The switch is located above a counter, which is why I did not see Scott’s strategic light-switch-chess-move coming. Scott casually mentioned over dinner that the three year old is not tall enough to reach the switch because the counter is in the way. I, like a chump, dumbly nodded as Scott explained that he could install a light switch that reacts to movement. Lord help me, I think I even applauded his resourcefulness.
It is this movement sensoring light switch that is responsible for my sore shoulder and possible tennis elbow.
If there is no movement in the bathroom for more than thirty seconds, the switch cuts the power to the lights. While this may work well for men and boys who pee standing up (and in many cases swing around wildly, spraying the seat, walls, and floor), for a woman who may take longer than thirty seconds to demurely relieve herself while in a seated position, this is a problem. I have to jerk my arm up in the air every twenty-nine seconds in order to see what I’m doing. Otherwise, I will be plunged into darkness part way through doing my business. Compounding this issue is the fact that I am an avid coffee drinker. I mean, there is the very real possibility that I may tear a rotator cuff! And God help me if I want to read while taking a hot bath-- I’ll be twitching and spasming twice a minute as I “relax.”
This isn’t over, Electricity Savings Man. I may be in check, but I’m gunning for your king. I feel a check mate a’ comin’….
My husband did it again. He messed with our light bulbs.
For the past twelve years, Scott and I have had a recurring marital mêlée concerning our light switches. I like them in the “on” position; he likes them in the “off” position. This usually results in Scott chasing after me every night (not in the good way you might imagine) flipping off switches and grumbling. While I think rooms filled with light look cheery and warm, Scott sees my decorative sconces as equivalent to luminescent-financial-waste-makers. The man doesn’t even use a light to read by. Rather, he uses a handheld digital reading device with an incandescent monitor and downloads texts to it. In fact, now that I think about it, Scott shuns all illumination by drawing blackout blinds over the windows and wearing an eye mask to bed. (In all seriousness, I can envision Scott attempting to persuade the Eloi in The Time Machine that their candles and wood fires are wasteful, and it would be better for them to just huddle in the dark with the cannibalistic Morlocks.) Why a man who routinely wastes food by turning up his nose at leftovers, throws away paper goods rather than recycling, and willingly wastes gas by driving miles out of his way to demo a new computer gadget would criticize my homey lights, I have no idea. But there it is.
The current debacle centers around the bathroom light. The switch is located above a counter, which is why I did not see Scott’s strategic light-switch-chess-move coming. Scott casually mentioned over dinner that the three year old is not tall enough to reach the switch because the counter is in the way. I, like a chump, dumbly nodded as Scott explained that he could install a light switch that reacts to movement. Lord help me, I think I even applauded his resourcefulness.
It is this movement sensoring light switch that is responsible for my sore shoulder and possible tennis elbow.
If there is no movement in the bathroom for more than thirty seconds, the switch cuts the power to the lights. While this may work well for men and boys who pee standing up (and in many cases swing around wildly, spraying the seat, walls, and floor), for a woman who may take longer than thirty seconds to demurely relieve herself while in a seated position, this is a problem. I have to jerk my arm up in the air every twenty-nine seconds in order to see what I’m doing. Otherwise, I will be plunged into darkness part way through doing my business. Compounding this issue is the fact that I am an avid coffee drinker. I mean, there is the very real possibility that I may tear a rotator cuff! And God help me if I want to read while taking a hot bath-- I’ll be twitching and spasming twice a minute as I “relax.”
This isn’t over, Electricity Savings Man. I may be in check, but I’m gunning for your king. I feel a check mate a’ comin’….
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