5:03 P.M.
THE DRIVER: I apologize for the long delay, folks. Totally out of my control. Looks like we'll be heading through Chicago in the middle of rush hour, which can't be helped. And if the WiFi doesn't work, there's nothing I can do about it. So now, just sit back, relax and enjoy your ride!
THE FRETTER: Oh my God! Why do you think the bus ran so late? What if it's a mechanical problem? I hope we don't break down on the turnpike! Do you think we'll have to wait until it's fixed? Or do you think they'll send another bus? I hope they remember all our luggage if we have to transfer! My medication is in my bag! I really, really need my medication!
THE TALKER: (nudging me) They always run late. And the WiFi never works. My sister-in-law's mother's friend works for the bus company, and she once posted on Facebook that...
THE EATER: (Rips open bag of Cheetos. Selects one. Chews loudly. Swallows. Crumples bag shut.)
THE MOTHER: Joe-Bob! Put those pants right back on!
THE BABY: *howl*
6:15 P.M.
THE DRIVER: (swerves into other lane)
THE FRETTER: (reaching across aisle to grasp my hand) Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Did you see how the driver just missed that semi? I wonder if she's ever even driven a bus before! Do you think she's new? Someone should ask her if she's new. I'll bet she's new!
THE TALKER: Well, then I told the CVS clerk that if I ever get a tattoo...
THE EATER: (Reopens Cheetos bag. Selects one. Chomps. LOUDLY. Scrunches bag shut.)
THE MOTHER: Jody-Mae! Stop sucking on that lady's elbow this very instant!
THE BABY: *HOWL*
8:36 P.M.
THE DRIVER: (Pulls over to side of highway. Heads to back of bus, where she spend ten minutes talking to passenger in hushed tones but with very animated hand gestures.)
THE FRETTER: What's going on? Can you hear what they're saying? It looks like they're conspiring! Do you think they're terrorists? Do you think we should gather everyone together and come up with a plan?
THE TALKER: But trust me on this, I follow all the Republican candidates on Twitter, and so I can definitely tell you...
THE EATER: (Opens Cheetos bag. Searches thoughtfully. Selects just the right one. Chews. Chews. Chews. Closes bag.)
THE MOTHER: Jizzy-Sue! I said get away from that steering wheel!
THE BABY: *HOWL* *giggle* *HOWL*
9:47 p.m.
THE DRIVER: Well, we're just twenty minutes away from our stop in Toledo, folks, but first we're going to pull over here at this next plaza for a half-hour or so. Could be longer. I can't say for sure.
THE FRETTER: Why do you think we're stopping? Do you think we should get off? Do you think it will be safe to get back on? Should we grab our luggage?
THE TALKER: ... which is totally ludicrous, and I should know, since my mother was Catholic and my father was Jewish, and ...
THE EATER: (Opens Cheetos bag. Chooses one. Chews, as if every bite is amplified throughout bus. Closes bag. Reopens it. Pauses. Closes it again.)
THE MOTHER: Jehovah-George! How many times do I have to tell you, we do not eat chewing gum from the bottom of the bus seat!
THE BABY: *HOWL* *HOWL* *HOWL* *HOWL*
11:06 P.M.
THE DRIVER: Well, here we are in Toledo, folks. Again, sorry for the delays. Hope you enjoyed your ride, and that you'll travel with us again soon!
THE FRETTER: Why do you think the police were at the plaza to meet us? Do you think they went through our luggage? Do you think we should report this to the bus company? If I report it, do you think I'll have to give my name? I'm afraid to give my name.
THE TALKER: So, wait, I never caught your name. Hey, we should exchange phone numbers! And I'll be sure to friend you on Facebook! Do you tweet?
THE EATER: (Opens Cheetos bag. Dumps the rest into his hand and swallows. Crumples empty bag shut. Drops it on the floor.)
THE MOTHER: Are we all here? One, two, three... eighteen, nineteen, still counting...
THE BABY: (sound asleep)
Any roadtrip stories you care to share? Who's up for the next bus ride with me?
Showing posts with label Idiots and Assholes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Idiots and Assholes. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
And Finally, I'd Like to Thank Anyone at All Who Is Still Listening
First, I will pose with the utmost grace--as anyone who knows me can attest is my normal M.O.--for my interview on the Red Carpet.
"And who are you wearing tonight?" the emcee will ask. (That other Red Carpet emcee. I plan to avoid Joan Rivers at all cost because I fear her plasticized face will finally freeze for good, and I will be forced to take over my own interview. Awkward.)
Turning and twirling for the screaming onlookers, I will reply, "Tonight, I'm wearing a gorgeous gown from Tar-Jhay."
The crowd will go wild.
"Well, it's, um, certainly unique," the emcee will say.
"Yes, indeedy. It was the last one of its kind on the store rack, marked down 40 percent!"
She'll reach a tentative hand toward my flowered frock. "Is that flannel?"
"Duh. And my matching bootie slippers are from last year's Dearfoam line."
J. Lo and Angie will look on, in blatant envy. One guess what those wannabees will wish they were wearing, three hours into this far too friggin' long show.
The ushers will quickly lead me to my seat. I'm certain to be situated in the front row, so Billy can pop down easily during his opening number to razz me. With my usual class, I'll smile sweetly and appear to take his kidding in stride. As Billy heads back to the stage, my date will wrap his arm around me, whispering his diabolical plan of revenge. I will titter with laughter. Oh my darling George Clooney and his practical jokes!
I will be asked to present an award, of course. And when I do, I will smile provocatively at the audience, hiking my gown and sticking out my right leg, to show off a little pasty white skin. When the cameraman focuses in, I will promptly cover up with my chenille robe. Such a teasing vamp I am. Besides, it's February. I can't be certain when I last shaved my legs.
Finally, my name will be called as I am chosen, among all the other nearly as deserving nominees, to accept my award.
As the crowd rises in a standing ovation, I will blink away the tears from my eyes. I will pull out my notes and commence my poignant words of thanks.
"I want to thank my fans, my children, my mother, my sixth-grade teacher, the saintly folks who make Diet Coke, my dog Ringo and assorted cats, my two Facebook stalkers..."
This much I know: If that orchestra music suddenly starts playing, in an attempt to drown me out and bully me into hurrying my speech along, I will keep right on talking.
I bought a brand new flannel nightgown for this evening. I'm going to milk this damn moment for every penny of that $6.95 plus tax.
Givenchy or Garage Sale? George or Brad? And who will you thank for your award?
"And who are you wearing tonight?" the emcee will ask. (That other Red Carpet emcee. I plan to avoid Joan Rivers at all cost because I fear her plasticized face will finally freeze for good, and I will be forced to take over my own interview. Awkward.)
Turning and twirling for the screaming onlookers, I will reply, "Tonight, I'm wearing a gorgeous gown from Tar-Jhay."
The crowd will go wild.
"Well, it's, um, certainly unique," the emcee will say.
"Yes, indeedy. It was the last one of its kind on the store rack, marked down 40 percent!"
She'll reach a tentative hand toward my flowered frock. "Is that flannel?"
"Duh. And my matching bootie slippers are from last year's Dearfoam line."
J. Lo and Angie will look on, in blatant envy. One guess what those wannabees will wish they were wearing, three hours into this far too friggin' long show.
The ushers will quickly lead me to my seat. I'm certain to be situated in the front row, so Billy can pop down easily during his opening number to razz me. With my usual class, I'll smile sweetly and appear to take his kidding in stride. As Billy heads back to the stage, my date will wrap his arm around me, whispering his diabolical plan of revenge. I will titter with laughter. Oh my darling George Clooney and his practical jokes!
I will be asked to present an award, of course. And when I do, I will smile provocatively at the audience, hiking my gown and sticking out my right leg, to show off a little pasty white skin. When the cameraman focuses in, I will promptly cover up with my chenille robe. Such a teasing vamp I am. Besides, it's February. I can't be certain when I last shaved my legs.
Finally, my name will be called as I am chosen, among all the other nearly as deserving nominees, to accept my award.
As the crowd rises in a standing ovation, I will blink away the tears from my eyes. I will pull out my notes and commence my poignant words of thanks.
"I want to thank my fans, my children, my mother, my sixth-grade teacher, the saintly folks who make Diet Coke, my dog Ringo and assorted cats, my two Facebook stalkers..."
This much I know: If that orchestra music suddenly starts playing, in an attempt to drown me out and bully me into hurrying my speech along, I will keep right on talking.
I bought a brand new flannel nightgown for this evening. I'm going to milk this damn moment for every penny of that $6.95 plus tax.
Givenchy or Garage Sale? George or Brad? And who will you thank for your award?
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Why I Need to Learn Italian, Presto!
Like many office commuters, I spend my daily trip to work making phone calls, reading the morning headlines, and doing my makeup. I can only imagine what more I might accomplish if I wasn't the one driving.
But in preparation for my upcoming summer trip to Italy, I am now multitasking--much to my car insurance company's relief--with my new "Listen and Learn Italian" CD.
It's terrifico.
Five minutes into my first audio lesson, I called my mother for our usual a.m. conversation.
"Good morning, mia madre!"
Long pause.
"It's Sherry. Your daughter. I'm practicing my Italian. I know, practically fluent already, huh?"
"Oh! Yes, very good. What else have you learned?"
I frowned. Perhaps "mia madre" wasn't enough. After all, how many Italian strangers could I effectively greet by addressing them as my mother?
"That's it, so far," I admitted. "Plus, I know how to say "wine" in Italian." ("Vino!" A crucial piece of terminology which I mastered, I might add, even before my first lesson.)
"Well, don't you worry," she said. "I've been to Europe several times, knowing just the bare language basics of whatever country I was visiting."
I closed my eyes, cringing and nearly sideswiping the car whose driver clearly wasn't practicing good defensive driving.
Yes, this was my fear exactly. That like mia madre, Gloria, I would know just enough of a second language to be dangerous. And that I might possibly find myself, in Italy, recreating The Unfortunate and Forever Embarrassing Elevator Incident.
A few years back, we spent a week vacationing in Arizona. The region has a high Hispanic population, and a certain percentage of our hotel staff reflected this.
My mother, my youngest son and I found ourselves on the elevator one day with a raven-haired housekeeper.
"Hola!" my mother greeted her.
The housekeeper smiled in return and then resumed proper elevator protocol by turning to face the elevator door.
My mother--never one to let a stranger remain a stranger, as much as said stranger might prefer--glanced at her name tag.
"Oh, Gloria!" My mom's eyes widened. "I'm Gloria, too!" Before the woman had a chance to respond, Mother Gloria began executing a series of excited and rudimentary hand gestures.
"You, Gloria," she said, pointing her finger at the woman's name tag, "and me, Gloria," she explained, pointing to herself.
The woman silently studied her.
Mother Gloria glanced over at her grandson and me. She frowned in frustration. The housekeeper was apparently a bit slow on the uptake, unable to comprehend even the universal language of hand gestures.
She turned back to the housekeeper and resumed gesturing. "Me, Gloria," she said while patting her chest emphatically and then repeatedly poking the woman as she chanted, "You, Gloria!"
Finally, she managed to gather every ounce of her Spanish language skills and held up two fingers. "Dos! Dos Glorias!"
Pleased with her ability to lower herself to the woman's sparse communication level, she winked and nodded at her teenage grandson. He stared, wordlessly, at the elevator floor, in the hope that it might suddenly drop and put us both out of our embarrassed misery.
The housekeeper remained stone-faced and silent until the elevator door opened. She stepped off and turned toward the hallway.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced back at my mother. And, with the slightest of smirks and in perfect English, she said, "Have a good day, Gloria."
*sigh*
So, needless to say, I've been frantically listening and learning Italian on CD all week.
I'm afraid I can't rely solely on being able to order vino or pizza. (It is "pizza" in Italian, too, right?) And even though Italians are famous for talking with their hands, I'm reluctant to rely upon communicating through my own combination of questionable language skills and hand gestures.
I have an uncanny ability to offend people, on a regular basis, in my own language. And in my desperation to be understood in another country, Lord only knows the damage I might do--even in conversation with those whom I may come to find out speak perfect English.
When I do, I'm certain I know just the hand gesture to expect in return.
I saw that same gesture, while doing my makeup today on my drive to work, from the driver of a passing car.
Any tips for traveling abroad? Do you multitask when you drive? How do you say "OMG, please just kill me now" in Italian?
But in preparation for my upcoming summer trip to Italy, I am now multitasking--much to my car insurance company's relief--with my new "Listen and Learn Italian" CD.
It's terrifico.
Five minutes into my first audio lesson, I called my mother for our usual a.m. conversation.
"Good morning, mia madre!"
Long pause.
"It's Sherry. Your daughter. I'm practicing my Italian. I know, practically fluent already, huh?"
"Oh! Yes, very good. What else have you learned?"
I frowned. Perhaps "mia madre" wasn't enough. After all, how many Italian strangers could I effectively greet by addressing them as my mother?
"That's it, so far," I admitted. "Plus, I know how to say "wine" in Italian." ("Vino!" A crucial piece of terminology which I mastered, I might add, even before my first lesson.)
"Well, don't you worry," she said. "I've been to Europe several times, knowing just the bare language basics of whatever country I was visiting."
I closed my eyes, cringing and nearly sideswiping the car whose driver clearly wasn't practicing good defensive driving.
Yes, this was my fear exactly. That like mia madre, Gloria, I would know just enough of a second language to be dangerous. And that I might possibly find myself, in Italy, recreating The Unfortunate and Forever Embarrassing Elevator Incident.
A few years back, we spent a week vacationing in Arizona. The region has a high Hispanic population, and a certain percentage of our hotel staff reflected this.
My mother, my youngest son and I found ourselves on the elevator one day with a raven-haired housekeeper.
"Hola!" my mother greeted her.
The housekeeper smiled in return and then resumed proper elevator protocol by turning to face the elevator door.
My mother--never one to let a stranger remain a stranger, as much as said stranger might prefer--glanced at her name tag.
"Oh, Gloria!" My mom's eyes widened. "I'm Gloria, too!" Before the woman had a chance to respond, Mother Gloria began executing a series of excited and rudimentary hand gestures.
"You, Gloria," she said, pointing her finger at the woman's name tag, "and me, Gloria," she explained, pointing to herself.
The woman silently studied her.
Mother Gloria glanced over at her grandson and me. She frowned in frustration. The housekeeper was apparently a bit slow on the uptake, unable to comprehend even the universal language of hand gestures.
She turned back to the housekeeper and resumed gesturing. "Me, Gloria," she said while patting her chest emphatically and then repeatedly poking the woman as she chanted, "You, Gloria!"
Finally, she managed to gather every ounce of her Spanish language skills and held up two fingers. "Dos! Dos Glorias!"
Pleased with her ability to lower herself to the woman's sparse communication level, she winked and nodded at her teenage grandson. He stared, wordlessly, at the elevator floor, in the hope that it might suddenly drop and put us both out of our embarrassed misery.
The housekeeper remained stone-faced and silent until the elevator door opened. She stepped off and turned toward the hallway.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced back at my mother. And, with the slightest of smirks and in perfect English, she said, "Have a good day, Gloria."
*sigh*
So, needless to say, I've been frantically listening and learning Italian on CD all week.
I'm afraid I can't rely solely on being able to order vino or pizza. (It is "pizza" in Italian, too, right?) And even though Italians are famous for talking with their hands, I'm reluctant to rely upon communicating through my own combination of questionable language skills and hand gestures.
I have an uncanny ability to offend people, on a regular basis, in my own language. And in my desperation to be understood in another country, Lord only knows the damage I might do--even in conversation with those whom I may come to find out speak perfect English.
When I do, I'm certain I know just the hand gesture to expect in return.
I saw that same gesture, while doing my makeup today on my drive to work, from the driver of a passing car.
Any tips for traveling abroad? Do you multitask when you drive? How do you say "OMG, please just kill me now" in Italian?
Thursday, December 1, 2011
An Open Letter to the AARP
Dear AARP,
I am overcome with gratitude at your kind offer--thank you! I've not been guaranteed admission into any organization since the Girl Scouts, which ended badly when my sixth grade troop leader revoked my membership.
Just a few things I'd like to clarify:
I understand your formal name is no longer the American Association of Retired Persons. This is good to know since I am not now--nor will I likely ever be--retired. According to my financial calculations, I shall be working until the day someone gleefully pries my cold, stiff fingers from my computer keyboard.
(Which reminds me: Is there any organization for people whose retirement or permanent leave, in any form, is among their coworkers' daily prayers? If not, you should seriously consider establishing something called the AAIP--American Association for Irritating Persons. Membership would be by nomination only, and would likely number in the millions. Trust me on this.)
But if retirement is no longer an AARP prerequisite, is your new admission criteria based solely on age? Or is actual maturity a consideration? If so, would I be precluded by the fact that I recently spent an entire evening giggling at fart jokes?
And pray tell, if not for "retired," what does the "R" in AARP now stand for? Responsible, refined and resplendent? Or more along the lines of ragged, rickety and rambling? I can't say I have ever been labeled "refined," but I am told (especially after leaving voicemails for my children) that I do ramble. On and on and on. Please confirm this requirement before I mail my $16 check.
Finally, your invitation claims an AARP membership will help me "make the most of life over 50." This promise is quite appealing. I can only assume it to mean my benefits will include a weekly housecleaning service, copious amounts of liquor and a hot pool boy. If not, I suggest you hire a new membership director who better understands your target market.
In closing, I thank you once again for your generous offer. I await your prompt response, before you have any chance to reconsider.
Sincerely,
Sherry
Is retirement in your near or far-off future? Are you refined, resplendent, rickety or rambling? Anyone you care to nominate for the AAIP?
I am overcome with gratitude at your kind offer--thank you! I've not been guaranteed admission into any organization since the Girl Scouts, which ended badly when my sixth grade troop leader revoked my membership.
Just a few things I'd like to clarify:
I understand your formal name is no longer the American Association of Retired Persons. This is good to know since I am not now--nor will I likely ever be--retired. According to my financial calculations, I shall be working until the day someone gleefully pries my cold, stiff fingers from my computer keyboard.
(Which reminds me: Is there any organization for people whose retirement or permanent leave, in any form, is among their coworkers' daily prayers? If not, you should seriously consider establishing something called the AAIP--American Association for Irritating Persons. Membership would be by nomination only, and would likely number in the millions. Trust me on this.)
But if retirement is no longer an AARP prerequisite, is your new admission criteria based solely on age? Or is actual maturity a consideration? If so, would I be precluded by the fact that I recently spent an entire evening giggling at fart jokes?
And pray tell, if not for "retired," what does the "R" in AARP now stand for? Responsible, refined and resplendent? Or more along the lines of ragged, rickety and rambling? I can't say I have ever been labeled "refined," but I am told (especially after leaving voicemails for my children) that I do ramble. On and on and on. Please confirm this requirement before I mail my $16 check.
Finally, your invitation claims an AARP membership will help me "make the most of life over 50." This promise is quite appealing. I can only assume it to mean my benefits will include a weekly housecleaning service, copious amounts of liquor and a hot pool boy. If not, I suggest you hire a new membership director who better understands your target market.
In closing, I thank you once again for your generous offer. I await your prompt response, before you have any chance to reconsider.
Sincerely,
Sherry
Is retirement in your near or far-off future? Are you refined, resplendent, rickety or rambling? Anyone you care to nominate for the AAIP?
Thursday, November 17, 2011
One Siri-ously Funny Conversation
We all need someone in our life who makes us convulse with such laughter that we squirt adult beverages out our nose and practically pee our pants. (Yes, I am five going on eighty.)
Lucky for me, my friend Mike has a Ph.D. in adolescent behavior, with a specialty in potty humor.
Before my recent Milwaukee visit with him and his wife Peggy (one of my oldest and dearest friends), Mike bought a new iPhone 4S. Infatuated with his toy--as grown men tend to be--he began to show off the phone's new voice-command feature.
"Text Scott Johnson," Mike instructed Siri, the voice-recognition assistant.
Siri seemed a bit slow on the uptake."I don't know who your father is," she replied. "In fact, I don't know who you are."
"What the hell?" Mike said. "OK, text Sherry Stanfa."
"Sorry," she answered. "I can't find places in the Falkland Islands."
"What an effin moron," Mike said.
Poor Siri. I was willing to give her another chance. So far, she didn't make me feel anywhere near as stabby as GPS Wench, who constantly likes to remind me how my screw-ups have forced her into "recalculating."
But Mike had his fill of serious queries. He was ready to move on. "Siri, why do farts smell?"
I giggled. Fart jokes: Not just for kindergarten anymore.
"I have no answer," said Siri. "How about a Web search for 'Why do farts smell?' "
"No," Mike yelled. "I said, 'My wife farts a lot. Why do they smell so bad?' "
"What's your location?" asked Siri.
We howled. Apparently, Siri wished to steer clear of our particularly unpleasant smelling location.
"Forget that," Mike said to Siri. "Where is my underwear?"
She hesitated just briefly before responding. "You sound disoriented," she told him.
And that's when my drink found its way out of my nostrils. It seemed Siri could give it as good as she could take it.
The saintly tolerant Peggy glared at her husband. "Mike, ENOUGH. You're going to make her mad."
"Peg, it's a computer," he said.
"I don't care. You're going to piss her off and break the phone," said Peggy. "Besides, don't you think there are ten million people asking her these same stupid questions?"
I crossed my legs, still laughing. "He asked where his underwear is," I said. "I sincerely doubt ten million people have asked that."
"OK, but he bought this phone and is paying hundreds of dollars for something he has no idea how to properly use," Peg said. "Mike, do you even know how to send a text message?"
"Sure," said Mike. He squinted at the phone. "You just have to push something."
Peggy rolled her eyes and refilled her drink.
"I'm paying hundreds of dollars for this phone," Mike demanded of Siri. "So I want to know, where is the nearest whorehouse?"
"Jesus," Peggy said, with a palm to her forehead. "You're going to get a phone call any minute from a customer asking, 'Why did you just text me and ask where the nearest whorehouse is?' "
Mike ignored her, still intent on his nonsensical phone conversation. "Siri, can you explain poop soup?"
And so it went for the rest of the night. Mike berated Siri with juvenile and inappropriate questions, and I giggled until the wee hours of the morning.
We had lunch the next day with my youngest son, a Marquette student majoring in techno-geekology. I relayed Mike's encounters with the new iPhone and Siri.
He nodded. "Yeah, Siri, she's a sassy one. Let me see the phone."
"Siri, why are you such a bitch?" he asked.
After the previous night's altercations, Siri apparently had grown weary of such talk. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that," she answered.
"Really?" he countered. "I don't believe you."
And right on cue, Siri said, "You are certainly entitled to your opinion."
"See?" Son #2 said, passing back the phone. "The computer understands almost everything you say, and it's recorded and saved forever."
"Forever?" Peggy's chin dropped. "Oh Mike, you are so screwed."
But it seems to me Mike has found his match in Siri. I'm guessing they'll become fast friends.
I just pray she doesn't short-circuit when she squirts her margarita out her little electronic nose.
Are you hot for the new iPhone? Do you have a friend who makes you squirt margaritas out your nose? What's the stupidest question you've ever been asked? And do you know where your underwear is?
Lucky for me, my friend Mike has a Ph.D. in adolescent behavior, with a specialty in potty humor.
Before my recent Milwaukee visit with him and his wife Peggy (one of my oldest and dearest friends), Mike bought a new iPhone 4S. Infatuated with his toy--as grown men tend to be--he began to show off the phone's new voice-command feature.
"Text Scott Johnson," Mike instructed Siri, the voice-recognition assistant.
Siri seemed a bit slow on the uptake."I don't know who your father is," she replied. "In fact, I don't know who you are."
"What the hell?" Mike said. "OK, text Sherry Stanfa."
"Sorry," she answered. "I can't find places in the Falkland Islands."
"What an effin moron," Mike said.
Poor Siri. I was willing to give her another chance. So far, she didn't make me feel anywhere near as stabby as GPS Wench, who constantly likes to remind me how my screw-ups have forced her into "recalculating."
But Mike had his fill of serious queries. He was ready to move on. "Siri, why do farts smell?"
I giggled. Fart jokes: Not just for kindergarten anymore.
"I have no answer," said Siri. "How about a Web search for 'Why do farts smell?' "
"No," Mike yelled. "I said, 'My wife farts a lot. Why do they smell so bad?' "
"What's your location?" asked Siri.
We howled. Apparently, Siri wished to steer clear of our particularly unpleasant smelling location.
"Forget that," Mike said to Siri. "Where is my underwear?"
She hesitated just briefly before responding. "You sound disoriented," she told him.
And that's when my drink found its way out of my nostrils. It seemed Siri could give it as good as she could take it.
The saintly tolerant Peggy glared at her husband. "Mike, ENOUGH. You're going to make her mad."
"Peg, it's a computer," he said.
"I don't care. You're going to piss her off and break the phone," said Peggy. "Besides, don't you think there are ten million people asking her these same stupid questions?"
I crossed my legs, still laughing. "He asked where his underwear is," I said. "I sincerely doubt ten million people have asked that."
"OK, but he bought this phone and is paying hundreds of dollars for something he has no idea how to properly use," Peg said. "Mike, do you even know how to send a text message?"
"Sure," said Mike. He squinted at the phone. "You just have to push something."
Peggy rolled her eyes and refilled her drink.
"I'm paying hundreds of dollars for this phone," Mike demanded of Siri. "So I want to know, where is the nearest whorehouse?"
"Jesus," Peggy said, with a palm to her forehead. "You're going to get a phone call any minute from a customer asking, 'Why did you just text me and ask where the nearest whorehouse is?' "
Mike ignored her, still intent on his nonsensical phone conversation. "Siri, can you explain poop soup?"
And so it went for the rest of the night. Mike berated Siri with juvenile and inappropriate questions, and I giggled until the wee hours of the morning.
We had lunch the next day with my youngest son, a Marquette student majoring in techno-geekology. I relayed Mike's encounters with the new iPhone and Siri.
He nodded. "Yeah, Siri, she's a sassy one. Let me see the phone."
"Siri, why are you such a bitch?" he asked.
After the previous night's altercations, Siri apparently had grown weary of such talk. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that," she answered.
"Really?" he countered. "I don't believe you."
And right on cue, Siri said, "You are certainly entitled to your opinion."
"See?" Son #2 said, passing back the phone. "The computer understands almost everything you say, and it's recorded and saved forever."
"Forever?" Peggy's chin dropped. "Oh Mike, you are so screwed."
But it seems to me Mike has found his match in Siri. I'm guessing they'll become fast friends.
I just pray she doesn't short-circuit when she squirts her margarita out her little electronic nose.
Are you hot for the new iPhone? Do you have a friend who makes you squirt margaritas out your nose? What's the stupidest question you've ever been asked? And do you know where your underwear is?
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Key Signs of Disease: One Sufferer's Story
For years, I blamed my symptoms on my children. Or my housecleaning service (that long-lost luxury--sigh). I even went so far as faulting some malicious demon that apparently lurked in small places such as pockets and purses.
But now, I realize what's truly responsible is a progressive and debilitating disease.
I have, what's known in layman's terms, as "Chronic Lost Keys Syndrome."
The diagnosis comes as a relief, really. At least I know my own actions, in no way, can be blamed.
My mother--bless her heart--has been plagued by the condition for years. Not comprehending that what we were witnessing signaled a serious hereditary disorder, my sisters and I offered her little compassion. We rolled our eyes, exchanging knowing glances behind her back.
Until we started suffering the same symptoms.
After I began losing my keys two or three times a week, I knew it was more than simple carelessness. I am the Queen of Organization. I make beaucoup lists. I know what's buried in every pile of papers on my desk. And I carry a purse in which each important item has its own special compartment.
Alas, there are no preventive measures one can take, nor any available cure, for sufferers of Chronic Lost Keys Syndrome. The most we can hope is to manage our disease, through wall-mounted key hooks and extra sets of keys hidden in safe places--locations we can only pray to recall in times of key emergencies.
And now this horrific disease has struck our own young adult children. My sisters and I have begun preparing them for what lies ahead. We try to help them cope. We attempt to show compassion.
"Have you seen my keys? I've looked everywhere!" The 22-year-old appears frantic as he searches the house. "I left them right here, I'm sure of it, but now they're gone!"
I pat his hand while fighting back a tear.
"I know, honey," I whisper. "I know."
Oh, the long and frightening road he faces.
I'm already dreading the day I have to explain he's inherited the awful "Chronic Lost Credit Card Syndrome" as well.
Are you or any of your loved ones afflicted with "Chronic Lost Keys Syndrome"? Are you famous for making beaucoup lists, or do you wing it? Are you turning into your mother, too?
But now, I realize what's truly responsible is a progressive and debilitating disease.
I have, what's known in layman's terms, as "Chronic Lost Keys Syndrome."
The diagnosis comes as a relief, really. At least I know my own actions, in no way, can be blamed.
My mother--bless her heart--has been plagued by the condition for years. Not comprehending that what we were witnessing signaled a serious hereditary disorder, my sisters and I offered her little compassion. We rolled our eyes, exchanging knowing glances behind her back.
Until we started suffering the same symptoms.
After I began losing my keys two or three times a week, I knew it was more than simple carelessness. I am the Queen of Organization. I make beaucoup lists. I know what's buried in every pile of papers on my desk. And I carry a purse in which each important item has its own special compartment.
Alas, there are no preventive measures one can take, nor any available cure, for sufferers of Chronic Lost Keys Syndrome. The most we can hope is to manage our disease, through wall-mounted key hooks and extra sets of keys hidden in safe places--locations we can only pray to recall in times of key emergencies.
And now this horrific disease has struck our own young adult children. My sisters and I have begun preparing them for what lies ahead. We try to help them cope. We attempt to show compassion.
"Have you seen my keys? I've looked everywhere!" The 22-year-old appears frantic as he searches the house. "I left them right here, I'm sure of it, but now they're gone!"
I pat his hand while fighting back a tear.
"I know, honey," I whisper. "I know."
Oh, the long and frightening road he faces.
I'm already dreading the day I have to explain he's inherited the awful "Chronic Lost Credit Card Syndrome" as well.
Are you or any of your loved ones afflicted with "Chronic Lost Keys Syndrome"? Are you famous for making beaucoup lists, or do you wing it? Are you turning into your mother, too?
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
A Birthday to Truly Celebrate--Reprise
Battling a bout of The Crud, as well as seeing Son #1 off to his new digs in South Carolina, left me no time or energy for a new blog post this week. With yesterday being my birthday, I'm sharing a a post from last year, updated to reflect my new--and debatably improved--age.
I had a birthday yesterday. Well-meaning friends and family refer to ones like this as "special" or "big." People actually in the midst of hitting such an age call it a "Holy shit, how could this be when just yesterday I still needed a fake ID" kind of birthday.
Although my family offered to throw me a party, I declined. Some birthdays are made to be celebrated and others, simply to be had. I told them I'd rather take a raincheck, one that could be used, say, fifty years from now. Because that, my friends, will be a birthday to truly celebrate.
So, let me take this moment to cordially invite all of you--to my 100th birthday party!
Please save the date: October 25, 2061.
No need to RSVP. It's quite likely I'll have no clue if you're there or not. I may not know where I am either, but I plan to have one bodacious good time.
If you don't recognize me, just look for the four-foot-tall, prune-faced biddy wearing a strapless red dress and eff-me heels. Or else a floral shift and bunny slippers. I'm 100. I'll wear whatever I damn well want, thank you.
No gifts, please. Instead, I ask that all guests purchase Xeroxed copies of one of my unpublished novel manuscripts. These will be personally signed by the author, of course, although I may need some assistance with the inscriptions. ("What was your name again, honey? Oh, you say you're one of my children? Uh-huh. And what is my name?")
I can't spend my entire evening signing autographs though. I will be too busy doing tequila shots. At 100, I figure I can rekindle all those bad behaviors I left long behind in my wayward youth. If someone passes a doobie, I'll probably take a hit or two.
For dinner, I will eat an entire bowl of dill pickle potato chips and three pieces of chocolate cake. No one will blink an eye. If anyone dares, I will growl, "What the hell's wrong with you, sonny? Quit gawking and go get me another tequila shot!"
We will play loads of games and my guests will declare me the winner of every one, even if I nod off in the middle.
I will kiss all the babies and all the good-looking men in the crowd. I may invite the hottest guy there back to my private room, in the nursing home.
Who knew there was so much to look forward to, in our golden years?
If you want in on the festivities, please leave your name in the comments section. My mom is already compiling the invitation list; Glo does like to plan ahead. She promises to bring enough tequila for everyone. But the dill pickle potato chips? Those are mine. I'll be 100, and I shouldn't be expected to share with anyone.
Bring your own damn chips.
Wow, turning 100 is so liberating. I can barely wait.
I'm buying the bunny slippers tomorrow.
Do you want to celebrate or commiserate about your next big birthday? What's on your gift wish list? And I lied--I totally want presents too--so, what will you bring me?
I had a birthday yesterday. Well-meaning friends and family refer to ones like this as "special" or "big." People actually in the midst of hitting such an age call it a "Holy shit, how could this be when just yesterday I still needed a fake ID" kind of birthday.
Although my family offered to throw me a party, I declined. Some birthdays are made to be celebrated and others, simply to be had. I told them I'd rather take a raincheck, one that could be used, say, fifty years from now. Because that, my friends, will be a birthday to truly celebrate.
So, let me take this moment to cordially invite all of you--to my 100th birthday party!
Please save the date: October 25, 2061.
No need to RSVP. It's quite likely I'll have no clue if you're there or not. I may not know where I am either, but I plan to have one bodacious good time.
If you don't recognize me, just look for the four-foot-tall, prune-faced biddy wearing a strapless red dress and eff-me heels. Or else a floral shift and bunny slippers. I'm 100. I'll wear whatever I damn well want, thank you.
No gifts, please. Instead, I ask that all guests purchase Xeroxed copies of one of my unpublished novel manuscripts. These will be personally signed by the author, of course, although I may need some assistance with the inscriptions. ("What was your name again, honey? Oh, you say you're one of my children? Uh-huh. And what is my name?")
I can't spend my entire evening signing autographs though. I will be too busy doing tequila shots. At 100, I figure I can rekindle all those bad behaviors I left long behind in my wayward youth. If someone passes a doobie, I'll probably take a hit or two.
For dinner, I will eat an entire bowl of dill pickle potato chips and three pieces of chocolate cake. No one will blink an eye. If anyone dares, I will growl, "What the hell's wrong with you, sonny? Quit gawking and go get me another tequila shot!"
We will play loads of games and my guests will declare me the winner of every one, even if I nod off in the middle.
I will kiss all the babies and all the good-looking men in the crowd. I may invite the hottest guy there back to my private room, in the nursing home.
Who knew there was so much to look forward to, in our golden years?
If you want in on the festivities, please leave your name in the comments section. My mom is already compiling the invitation list; Glo does like to plan ahead. She promises to bring enough tequila for everyone. But the dill pickle potato chips? Those are mine. I'll be 100, and I shouldn't be expected to share with anyone.
Bring your own damn chips.
Wow, turning 100 is so liberating. I can barely wait.
I'm buying the bunny slippers tomorrow.
Do you want to celebrate or commiserate about your next big birthday? What's on your gift wish list? And I lied--I totally want presents too--so, what will you bring me?
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Of Pawns and Cat Kings
Searching for a new pastime to stimulate your mind and raise your heart rate? Look no further than an exhilarating game I call "Medicating Your Cat."
If you don't own a cat, run out and get one. If you've no time to cat shop, feel free to take one of mine. (Send me your address; I'll be right over.)
Once your cat is procured, choose teams and positions. Simply explained: A cat's role is always king or queen, while you must play pawn. For a more challenging version, include multiple cats, particularly those with anxiety and social disorders. (This encompasses most of the feline population.) Regardless of how many cats you own, all will play for the opposing team.
The rules are as follows: A cat exhibits some inappropriate, unhealthy and likely unhygienic behavior, e.g., peeing in the bathtub or puking wherever your bare foot happens to step. To win, you must discover the cause, treat any underlying conditions and finish the game relatively unscathed.
A typical game transpires much like this, recently played out in my own household:
One of my cats begins by attacking members of his own team (much like politicians in a primary election). This particular player is named "Lennon," in honor of the man who penned "Give Peace a Chance." The irony does not escape the snickering crowd which nicknames him, more suitably, "Demon Cat."
I attempt to stop Demon Cat through a variety of maneuvers, most notably the popular Squirt Bottle Play. But, oh, he's a clever competitor! In one match-winning strategy, he stalks the squirt bottle from across the room and smacks it clean off the table.
As the game progresses, the other players succumb to Demon Cat's bad sportsmanship. When the cat known as NUTS (Neurotic, Unbelievably Timid and Stupid) begins puking blood on the arena's new carpet, I consult the team physician.
Herein lie my most challenging game duties, as pawn.
First, I must capture NUTS and transport him to the doctor. After three days of failed tackles, I finally manage to corner him. As I shove the snarling and lashing creature into the cat carrier, I question my sympathy for this downed player.
Second, after the team physician flips a coin to announce any sort of diagnosis, I must open my wallet and allow it to bleed dry. (Sideline action: As I drive away, the doctor chortles and books a week in the Caribbean.)
Third, I must administer the ordered treatment. NUTS is prescribed twice-daily antibiotics and anti-nausea medicine for ten days. In addition, the physician also recommends a daily pill for Demon Cat--to be administered indefinitely.
This medication is best described as Kitty Prozac.
I spend a week chasing down one neurotic feline and another one clinically diagnosed as "aggressive." Throughout my repeated attempts to capture NUTS and Demon Cat and pry open their jaws, the crowd roars. Ringo, the amiable golden retriever mix, watches my moves from the bleachers with a desperate, salivating hope that I'll drop a pill. If only I were trying to medicate the damn dog--then this game might be as simple as his tiny brain.
By day seven, I manage only three doses in each cat. And in an arena where I once couldn't walk without tripping over three or four lounging players, not one cat can now be found. The entire team has virtually disappeared from the playing field. Well-played, you friggin' felines! Far more impressive than your seven lives is your apparent sixth sense.
Demon Cat gradually begins approaching me again-- preening and purring--but only when I neglect to close the bathroom door. I briefly consider carrying Kitty Prozac with me when I pee. But wrangling a cat while sitting bare-assed on the toilet seems vaguely wrong. (And the crowd mutters a collective "Eww.")
Meanwhile, the team physician calls to say the bloodwork he did on NUTS also indicates a thyroid issue. NUTS will require two more daily pills, FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE.
In addition, the hit-or-miss doses of Kitty Prozac will do Demon Cat no good; his medication is reliant upon a cumulative effect. The by-far-second-best medical tactic, the doctor notes, is something called a "Nurture Collar." This is a contraption infused with maternal hormones which theoretically calm aggressive and anxious cats.
I frown. I am merely a not-so-bright pawn, but I know my own middle-age experience with female hormones is not such a favorable one. Regardless, I hand over my credit card to the team physician. I leave with a vial of likely never-to-be-ingested pills and a plastic purple collar.
As expected, NUTS will have nothing to do with the thyroid pills, even when crushed and hidden in canned catfood or tuna. Beaten, I again consult the doctor, whose final suggestion is a liquid compound. It's chicken-flavored! And it is available, by special order, for only $50 per vial! I hyperventilate just for a moment before agreeing. Because this is sure to be the game-winning play!
Apparently NUTS has grown street-smart with his recent excursion into the outside world. He isn't fooled by my mixing the medicine in dry catfood, in wet catfood or even in canned tuna. But just as I'm ready to forfeit, I finally score! I dribble .5 ml of this Liquid Gold into a pile of fresh roasted turkey--which NUTS promptly devours!
I accept my win with mixed enthusiasm. It seems this cat will be eating better than I do, for the rest of his life. (As will the rest of the menagerie, all of whom circle my feet every night when I prepare NUTS this post-game feast.)
As for the Nurture Collar, Demon Cat wriggles out of it within two days. I head to the doctor's office to buy another. I sigh. I hand over my credit card once again.
I figure it's not really a useless investment.
If I can't keep the damn thing around Demon Cat's neck this time, I'll wear the magic soothing collar myself.
Because I'm clearly the one in need of medication.
Who wins the game between Pawn and King in your house? Is it just my vague recollection, or is attempting to medicate your cat much like coercing your husband to go to the doctor? And all you non-cat owners--call me for a special delivery, please?
If you don't own a cat, run out and get one. If you've no time to cat shop, feel free to take one of mine. (Send me your address; I'll be right over.)
Once your cat is procured, choose teams and positions. Simply explained: A cat's role is always king or queen, while you must play pawn. For a more challenging version, include multiple cats, particularly those with anxiety and social disorders. (This encompasses most of the feline population.) Regardless of how many cats you own, all will play for the opposing team.
The rules are as follows: A cat exhibits some inappropriate, unhealthy and likely unhygienic behavior, e.g., peeing in the bathtub or puking wherever your bare foot happens to step. To win, you must discover the cause, treat any underlying conditions and finish the game relatively unscathed.
A typical game transpires much like this, recently played out in my own household:
One of my cats begins by attacking members of his own team (much like politicians in a primary election). This particular player is named "Lennon," in honor of the man who penned "Give Peace a Chance." The irony does not escape the snickering crowd which nicknames him, more suitably, "Demon Cat."
I attempt to stop Demon Cat through a variety of maneuvers, most notably the popular Squirt Bottle Play. But, oh, he's a clever competitor! In one match-winning strategy, he stalks the squirt bottle from across the room and smacks it clean off the table.
As the game progresses, the other players succumb to Demon Cat's bad sportsmanship. When the cat known as NUTS (Neurotic, Unbelievably Timid and Stupid) begins puking blood on the arena's new carpet, I consult the team physician.
Herein lie my most challenging game duties, as pawn.
First, I must capture NUTS and transport him to the doctor. After three days of failed tackles, I finally manage to corner him. As I shove the snarling and lashing creature into the cat carrier, I question my sympathy for this downed player.
Second, after the team physician flips a coin to announce any sort of diagnosis, I must open my wallet and allow it to bleed dry. (Sideline action: As I drive away, the doctor chortles and books a week in the Caribbean.)
Third, I must administer the ordered treatment. NUTS is prescribed twice-daily antibiotics and anti-nausea medicine for ten days. In addition, the physician also recommends a daily pill for Demon Cat--to be administered indefinitely.
This medication is best described as Kitty Prozac.
I spend a week chasing down one neurotic feline and another one clinically diagnosed as "aggressive." Throughout my repeated attempts to capture NUTS and Demon Cat and pry open their jaws, the crowd roars. Ringo, the amiable golden retriever mix, watches my moves from the bleachers with a desperate, salivating hope that I'll drop a pill. If only I were trying to medicate the damn dog--then this game might be as simple as his tiny brain.
By day seven, I manage only three doses in each cat. And in an arena where I once couldn't walk without tripping over three or four lounging players, not one cat can now be found. The entire team has virtually disappeared from the playing field. Well-played, you friggin' felines! Far more impressive than your seven lives is your apparent sixth sense.
Demon Cat gradually begins approaching me again-- preening and purring--but only when I neglect to close the bathroom door. I briefly consider carrying Kitty Prozac with me when I pee. But wrangling a cat while sitting bare-assed on the toilet seems vaguely wrong. (And the crowd mutters a collective "Eww.")
Meanwhile, the team physician calls to say the bloodwork he did on NUTS also indicates a thyroid issue. NUTS will require two more daily pills, FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE.
In addition, the hit-or-miss doses of Kitty Prozac will do Demon Cat no good; his medication is reliant upon a cumulative effect. The by-far-second-best medical tactic, the doctor notes, is something called a "Nurture Collar." This is a contraption infused with maternal hormones which theoretically calm aggressive and anxious cats.
I frown. I am merely a not-so-bright pawn, but I know my own middle-age experience with female hormones is not such a favorable one. Regardless, I hand over my credit card to the team physician. I leave with a vial of likely never-to-be-ingested pills and a plastic purple collar.
As expected, NUTS will have nothing to do with the thyroid pills, even when crushed and hidden in canned catfood or tuna. Beaten, I again consult the doctor, whose final suggestion is a liquid compound. It's chicken-flavored! And it is available, by special order, for only $50 per vial! I hyperventilate just for a moment before agreeing. Because this is sure to be the game-winning play!
Apparently NUTS has grown street-smart with his recent excursion into the outside world. He isn't fooled by my mixing the medicine in dry catfood, in wet catfood or even in canned tuna. But just as I'm ready to forfeit, I finally score! I dribble .5 ml of this Liquid Gold into a pile of fresh roasted turkey--which NUTS promptly devours!
I accept my win with mixed enthusiasm. It seems this cat will be eating better than I do, for the rest of his life. (As will the rest of the menagerie, all of whom circle my feet every night when I prepare NUTS this post-game feast.)
As for the Nurture Collar, Demon Cat wriggles out of it within two days. I head to the doctor's office to buy another. I sigh. I hand over my credit card once again.
I figure it's not really a useless investment.
If I can't keep the damn thing around Demon Cat's neck this time, I'll wear the magic soothing collar myself.
Because I'm clearly the one in need of medication.
Who wins the game between Pawn and King in your house? Is it just my vague recollection, or is attempting to medicate your cat much like coercing your husband to go to the doctor? And all you non-cat owners--call me for a special delivery, please?
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Hair Today, Goon Tomorrow
"So," she asks, dipping your head under the faucet, "are we just trimming it up tonight?"
You've obsessed over this for weeks: Whenever you've spied a college student with a thick flowing mane, a model with a cute pixie or an actress on a TV legal drama with a fabulous bob. Every time you saw an attractive woman with great hair, you thought, "Wow, if only I had hair like that, I'll bet I'd look just as hot!"
You gaze up at your stylist. "No, I'm thinking something different this time," you finally answer. You attempt to explain what you have in mind, biting your bottom lip as you consider how this monumental decision could potentially ruin the next eight weeks of your life.
But she simply cocks her head, glances at your hair and nods. And you realize this woman with your head--with practically your entire life--in her hands, is a paid professional. She makes her living by making women beautiful. Surely you will live to have no regrets.
Forty-five minutes later, she brushes the clippings off your shoulders and removes your apron. You gather the type of courage generally reserved for a job interview or a root canal, and you peer into the mirror. You look... gorgeous!
Well, not all of you, perhaps, but at least your hair. Yes, that looks amazing.
You beam. "I like it!"
"Yeah? Good," she says, with not an ounce of the desperate relief you are experiencing. Whatever calming and confidence-building drugs that hair stylists must be required to consume, you definitely want in on that shit before your next appointment.
You hesitate as you grab your checkbook. "So, you think I can do it just like this myself, right?"
"Oh, sure," she says over her shoulder, as she motions to her next client. "Just make sure you use plenty of Product."
You contemplate the word "plenty." Hmm. Is that a tablespoon or a quarter-cup? You'd prefer an exact measurement. Using your own judgment in the care of your hair has never proved entirely successful.
"And when you're blow-drying," she continues, "be sure you hold the dryer nozzle underneath the roots of each section of hair as you lift it up, like I did."
"Uh-huh." Your mind races to recall that particular step of tonight's appointment. This memory is fuzzy, since you spent much of the hair-drying segment shouting about the injustices of parenthood. Or the injustices of your job. Or both. Who needs a therapist when you have a hair stylist?
"And then, don't forget," she adds, "to spray it again."
Again? Wait. Were you supposed to spray once already before this step? You bite at the cuticles of your newly painted nails.
"That's it, really," she says as she begins to shampoo her current client's hair. "Except you'll probably need to scrunch it a bit. Just a tiny piece at a time. Then, take a look and decide whether or not you want to use a curling iron on any section. But with the right amount of Product and drying and scrunching, you should be all set. Unless you need to spray it again."
On the drive home, you repeat this set of instructions to yourself, over and over. It is an all-consuming lesson. You nearly run a stop sign, stopping just short of t-boning a minivan as you murmur the mantra, "Product, dry, lift, spray, scrunch, curl, spray again."
After a sleepless night, you rise early. You run methodically through every step of the process. Your fingers begin to ache from scrunching.
You finally step back and survey yourself in the mirror. You squint. Huh. Is this how it looked last night? Perhaps you're simply not objective enough. You scrunch and spray one last time, shrug and continue getting ready for work.
Just as you're headed out the door, your son--who for twenty years has appeared oblivious to a single one of your outfits or hairstyles--stops in the hallway to stare at you.
"Um, hey, Mom, your hair looks a little, well, funny."
You fight a swirling stomach of despair, as you realize even this most lowbrow of opinions is likely on-target. You glare at him and mutter how he'll need to fend for himself for dinner tonight.
But you have no time for further reflection; you are already late for work. You shuffle to your car. You spend your drive-time peeking in the rearview mirror, scrunching some more. For the next eight hours, you hide inside your office, with the door closed.
Before going to bed that night, you shower and wash out the copious quantities of Product and hairspray. You collapse in bed with a wet head.
In the morning, you peek in the mirror. At the sight of your Bed Head, you sigh.
Yet maybe it's not so bad, just like this, you consider after another look. A little flat in one area, but a tousled, carefree kind of look. Sort of like Meg Ryan in whatever-the-hell that one movie was.
She and her son probably both loved her hair like that.
And if they didn't, you can bet neither one of them spoke a word about it that night, over their bowls of SpaghettiO's.
So, did your last haircut turn out just like that photo in the magazine? Are you hair-challenged, too? What kind of gossip do you confide in your hair stylist?
You've obsessed over this for weeks: Whenever you've spied a college student with a thick flowing mane, a model with a cute pixie or an actress on a TV legal drama with a fabulous bob. Every time you saw an attractive woman with great hair, you thought, "Wow, if only I had hair like that, I'll bet I'd look just as hot!"
You gaze up at your stylist. "No, I'm thinking something different this time," you finally answer. You attempt to explain what you have in mind, biting your bottom lip as you consider how this monumental decision could potentially ruin the next eight weeks of your life.
But she simply cocks her head, glances at your hair and nods. And you realize this woman with your head--with practically your entire life--in her hands, is a paid professional. She makes her living by making women beautiful. Surely you will live to have no regrets.
Forty-five minutes later, she brushes the clippings off your shoulders and removes your apron. You gather the type of courage generally reserved for a job interview or a root canal, and you peer into the mirror. You look... gorgeous!
Well, not all of you, perhaps, but at least your hair. Yes, that looks amazing.
You beam. "I like it!"
"Yeah? Good," she says, with not an ounce of the desperate relief you are experiencing. Whatever calming and confidence-building drugs that hair stylists must be required to consume, you definitely want in on that shit before your next appointment.
You hesitate as you grab your checkbook. "So, you think I can do it just like this myself, right?"
"Oh, sure," she says over her shoulder, as she motions to her next client. "Just make sure you use plenty of Product."
You contemplate the word "plenty." Hmm. Is that a tablespoon or a quarter-cup? You'd prefer an exact measurement. Using your own judgment in the care of your hair has never proved entirely successful.
"And when you're blow-drying," she continues, "be sure you hold the dryer nozzle underneath the roots of each section of hair as you lift it up, like I did."
"Uh-huh." Your mind races to recall that particular step of tonight's appointment. This memory is fuzzy, since you spent much of the hair-drying segment shouting about the injustices of parenthood. Or the injustices of your job. Or both. Who needs a therapist when you have a hair stylist?
"And then, don't forget," she adds, "to spray it again."
Again? Wait. Were you supposed to spray once already before this step? You bite at the cuticles of your newly painted nails.
"That's it, really," she says as she begins to shampoo her current client's hair. "Except you'll probably need to scrunch it a bit. Just a tiny piece at a time. Then, take a look and decide whether or not you want to use a curling iron on any section. But with the right amount of Product and drying and scrunching, you should be all set. Unless you need to spray it again."
On the drive home, you repeat this set of instructions to yourself, over and over. It is an all-consuming lesson. You nearly run a stop sign, stopping just short of t-boning a minivan as you murmur the mantra, "Product, dry, lift, spray, scrunch, curl, spray again."
After a sleepless night, you rise early. You run methodically through every step of the process. Your fingers begin to ache from scrunching.
You finally step back and survey yourself in the mirror. You squint. Huh. Is this how it looked last night? Perhaps you're simply not objective enough. You scrunch and spray one last time, shrug and continue getting ready for work.
Just as you're headed out the door, your son--who for twenty years has appeared oblivious to a single one of your outfits or hairstyles--stops in the hallway to stare at you.
"Um, hey, Mom, your hair looks a little, well, funny."
You fight a swirling stomach of despair, as you realize even this most lowbrow of opinions is likely on-target. You glare at him and mutter how he'll need to fend for himself for dinner tonight.
But you have no time for further reflection; you are already late for work. You shuffle to your car. You spend your drive-time peeking in the rearview mirror, scrunching some more. For the next eight hours, you hide inside your office, with the door closed.
Before going to bed that night, you shower and wash out the copious quantities of Product and hairspray. You collapse in bed with a wet head.
In the morning, you peek in the mirror. At the sight of your Bed Head, you sigh.
Yet maybe it's not so bad, just like this, you consider after another look. A little flat in one area, but a tousled, carefree kind of look. Sort of like Meg Ryan in whatever-the-hell that one movie was.
She and her son probably both loved her hair like that.
And if they didn't, you can bet neither one of them spoke a word about it that night, over their bowls of SpaghettiO's.
So, did your last haircut turn out just like that photo in the magazine? Are you hair-challenged, too? What kind of gossip do you confide in your hair stylist?
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
I'm Fixing to Fix That
So you know how you invite someone for dinner and you want everything to be perfect, even though your dinner guest is just a long-time friend or perhaps your mother, who you know would never think of judging you?
Exactly.
After a busy workweek, I'd spent the always-too-short weekend cleaning. On Sunday, I whipped up a batch of meals for the week and to save in the freezer. I so deserved the Suzi Homemaker Award, and I figured I'd win it that night through my Grand Finale of inviting a dinner guest.
It started off well. The Homemaker Trophy was practically in my hands.
Dinner Guest: "Wow, you've been busy! I thought you were just making shish kabobs. Gosh, it looks like every seasoning you own is on the counter!"
Me: "Oh, those. You're right. Those are all the spices I own. The Lazy Susan door is broken, so I've been keeping everything inside it out here on the counter until it's fixed. It's actually kind of convenient, having all of them right here. You never know when you'll need a teaspoon of mustard seed or maybe some saffron, right? Can I get you something to drink?"
Guest (following me to the refrigerator): "Sure. Uh-oh." She points to the hardwood floor in front of the fridge, where a puddle of water has pooled. "Looks like you have a problem with your refrigerator."
Me: "Yeah, I really need to get that fixed." I mop up the floor with a wad of paper towels. I grab our drinks, and we head to the back deck. "Beautiful night, huh? Glad you kept your shoes on when you came in the house though. I tried to powerwash the deck last year and it ended up in splinters instead. They really should warn you about getting that nozzle too close to the wood. I'll bet lots of people have that problem. I need to get it sanded and water-protected again. It's on my list to do. Maybe next year."
Guest (staring at the ripped-up wood deck and then turning toward the yard): "No problem. Boy, that rose bush is really beautiful."
Me: "Thanks! I probably do need to get the lawn mowed though. Pretty soon, I guess."
Guest: "Yeah, I did notice it's a bit, uh, long."
Me: "Well, my mower's still broken. My neighbor thinks the grass is too tall to cut even with her rider mower. I'll probably have to hire a service with some type of tractor. They don't ask you to pick up the dog poop first, do they? Because I tried today, but with the grass this tall I couldn't really find it. Shoot--I better make sure I tell them to use the fence gate on the left. The one on the right broke last year. Or was that two years ago?"
Guest: "Two years ago? Doesn't that drive you crazy?"
Me: "Nah. The other gate still works. As long as you push the bottom pole up with your foot and twist the handle really, really hard."
Guest: "Uh-huh."
Me: "Guess I should start the grill." I turn on the gas and the burners, roll up a piece of newspaper and light the end. The paper flares and then dies out.
Guest: "Is your grill igniter not working?"
Me: "No, it broke right after I bought the grill. And I never could find the warranty. It's really no big deal to light it manually."
Guest: "Wouldn't it be easier to use one of those long fireplace and grill lighters?"
Me: "Yeah, I had one but it stopped working last week." I relight the newspaper and point the flaming coil into the grill. With a boom, the grill burners flare. I blow hard on the burning paper, but instead of extinguishing the flames, it appears to feed them. I run in the house and throw the paper into the sink, just as the edges of my fingernails turn black.
We move on to dinner, which is fabulous. *Of course.* My dinner guest utters words of admiration and appreciation and then offers to help clean up.
Guest: "Can I put these dirty dishes in the dishwasher?"
Me: "Sure--but just the plates and silverware, into the bottom rack. I'll have to get the glasses because the top rack has been way off-kilter. It takes a special touch to pull it out and move it back. It's on my list to get fixed."
Guest (hesitating): "Oh. OK. Why don't I just take care of these cans and bottles then? Can I take them out to your recycling bin in the garage?"
Me: "That would be great, thanks. It's probably pretty full though; I forgot to put it out at the curb last week."
Guest: (nearly inaudible sigh.)
Me (calling after her): "Probably because I haven't been using that door to the garage. Oh, don't let that door close behind you. I'm having a bit of a problem with the handle. The door can only be opened from the inside. I've locked myself out twice already." I laugh. "Funny story, about that. Last month..."
Guest: (Interrupts me by knocking at the closed door.)
The funny thing is, after I played around with the door handle and let her back in the house, my dinner guest seemed to leave in a hurry. She didn't appear to be in the mood to hear any funny stories at all.
That's fine though. I'll just add telling that story to my list of things-to-do.
I have a few of those.
Any annoying little household problems you've been putting off? Any chance you know the difference between a screwdriver and a butter knife? If so, can I borrow you for a few weeks?
Exactly.
After a busy workweek, I'd spent the always-too-short weekend cleaning. On Sunday, I whipped up a batch of meals for the week and to save in the freezer. I so deserved the Suzi Homemaker Award, and I figured I'd win it that night through my Grand Finale of inviting a dinner guest.
It started off well. The Homemaker Trophy was practically in my hands.
Dinner Guest: "Wow, you've been busy! I thought you were just making shish kabobs. Gosh, it looks like every seasoning you own is on the counter!"
Me: "Oh, those. You're right. Those are all the spices I own. The Lazy Susan door is broken, so I've been keeping everything inside it out here on the counter until it's fixed. It's actually kind of convenient, having all of them right here. You never know when you'll need a teaspoon of mustard seed or maybe some saffron, right? Can I get you something to drink?"
Guest (following me to the refrigerator): "Sure. Uh-oh." She points to the hardwood floor in front of the fridge, where a puddle of water has pooled. "Looks like you have a problem with your refrigerator."
Me: "Yeah, I really need to get that fixed." I mop up the floor with a wad of paper towels. I grab our drinks, and we head to the back deck. "Beautiful night, huh? Glad you kept your shoes on when you came in the house though. I tried to powerwash the deck last year and it ended up in splinters instead. They really should warn you about getting that nozzle too close to the wood. I'll bet lots of people have that problem. I need to get it sanded and water-protected again. It's on my list to do. Maybe next year."
Guest (staring at the ripped-up wood deck and then turning toward the yard): "No problem. Boy, that rose bush is really beautiful."
Me: "Thanks! I probably do need to get the lawn mowed though. Pretty soon, I guess."
Guest: "Yeah, I did notice it's a bit, uh, long."
Me: "Well, my mower's still broken. My neighbor thinks the grass is too tall to cut even with her rider mower. I'll probably have to hire a service with some type of tractor. They don't ask you to pick up the dog poop first, do they? Because I tried today, but with the grass this tall I couldn't really find it. Shoot--I better make sure I tell them to use the fence gate on the left. The one on the right broke last year. Or was that two years ago?"
Guest: "Two years ago? Doesn't that drive you crazy?"
Me: "Nah. The other gate still works. As long as you push the bottom pole up with your foot and twist the handle really, really hard."
Guest: "Uh-huh."
Me: "Guess I should start the grill." I turn on the gas and the burners, roll up a piece of newspaper and light the end. The paper flares and then dies out.
Guest: "Is your grill igniter not working?"
Me: "No, it broke right after I bought the grill. And I never could find the warranty. It's really no big deal to light it manually."
Guest: "Wouldn't it be easier to use one of those long fireplace and grill lighters?"
Me: "Yeah, I had one but it stopped working last week." I relight the newspaper and point the flaming coil into the grill. With a boom, the grill burners flare. I blow hard on the burning paper, but instead of extinguishing the flames, it appears to feed them. I run in the house and throw the paper into the sink, just as the edges of my fingernails turn black.
We move on to dinner, which is fabulous. *Of course.* My dinner guest utters words of admiration and appreciation and then offers to help clean up.
Guest: "Can I put these dirty dishes in the dishwasher?"
Me: "Sure--but just the plates and silverware, into the bottom rack. I'll have to get the glasses because the top rack has been way off-kilter. It takes a special touch to pull it out and move it back. It's on my list to get fixed."
Guest (hesitating): "Oh. OK. Why don't I just take care of these cans and bottles then? Can I take them out to your recycling bin in the garage?"
Me: "That would be great, thanks. It's probably pretty full though; I forgot to put it out at the curb last week."
Guest: (nearly inaudible sigh.)
Me (calling after her): "Probably because I haven't been using that door to the garage. Oh, don't let that door close behind you. I'm having a bit of a problem with the handle. The door can only be opened from the inside. I've locked myself out twice already." I laugh. "Funny story, about that. Last month..."
Guest: (Interrupts me by knocking at the closed door.)
The funny thing is, after I played around with the door handle and let her back in the house, my dinner guest seemed to leave in a hurry. She didn't appear to be in the mood to hear any funny stories at all.
That's fine though. I'll just add telling that story to my list of things-to-do.
I have a few of those.
Any annoying little household problems you've been putting off? Any chance you know the difference between a screwdriver and a butter knife? If so, can I borrow you for a few weeks?
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
It's the Real Thing
My friends and family have grown greatly troubled. They see the hold this stuff has on me. They've heard my cries of denial. They've witnessed my half-hearted attempts to quit.
They tell me addiction is its own form of hell. But they don't understand.
Because my Diet Coke--oh, it's such a lovely little taste of heaven.
How bad is my habit? Some questions a lady prefers not to answer. If pressed, I'll admit to a few cans a day. Maybe a six-pack. Possibly more. OK, damn it, I mainline the shit.
I started young. "Tab" was my gateway drug. Through the years I experimented with Diet Pepsi (subtle hints of bug repellent) and Diet Mountain Dew (undertones of bumblebee pee). None offered the not-too-bitter, not-too-sweet taste of my long-standing drug of choice. And DietRite, with zero caffeine? Clearly a marketing practical joke, much like the Snuggie.
I lived blissfully for years within my Diet Coke-cloaked little world. But then, scientific researchers and the always buzz-killing media reared their ugly heads.
My children and co-workers began emailing me horrific stories about the health risks. I sneered at these. Weight gain? As if switching to sugar-infused drinks might reduce me to a size two? Hardly. Headaches? No better over-the-counter headache meds than a couple tall glasses of Diet Coke. Hypertension? I wouldn't have a freaking pulse if it weren't for my daily Diet Coke intake.
Yet the warnings kept rolling in: Alzheimer's, cancer, depression, stroke, bone loss, tooth enamel loss, ulcers and PMS.
I'm awaiting the rest of the research results, which are sure to include random chin hairs. And garden slugs. And writing rejections.
But I jest. (Health risk #4,327: pitiful attempts at humor.) The growing barrage of health hazards finally prompted me to reflect on my addiction. Son #2, who runs and rows and hasn't sipped a soda pop in seven years, capitalized on my recent weak moment of admission. He began pushing me to simply replace my Diet Coke--with water.
Oh, my sweet naive son. Water? Really? How could pure water win over Diet Coke's irresistible formula of aspartame, caramel coloring, citric acid, formeldehyde and cocaine? (What? Cocaine's been omitted from the ingredients? I don't think so.) Beside, water lacks that one essential attribute: caffeine.
I would not make it through my first waking hour without copious quantities of caffeine. My colleagues would find me flat-lined on my office floor by 9 a.m.
Surely you coffee drinkers understand this dilemma. (Most of you need your own intervention. And I'm taking names.)
My concerned offspring's answer to this issue? Caffeinated water. This, just as it sounds, is pure water tainted only by a shot of caffeine. Believing this to be the methadone for my heroin, my son bought me a package. And in the name of family harmony, I gave it a try. The necessary kick? Maybe. But the taste? *Sigh* This stuff tasted like... water.
Yet I promised him I wouldn't give up. I'd beat this addiction somehow. Plus, I'd remind him that as his mother, it's my role to be the nag in the family.
Weeks later, I spied an iced tea maker on a store shelf. Tea? Hmm. A bit of taste--check. A healthy dose of caffeine--check. A (mostly) lack of debilitating and deadly chemicals--check.
I tossed the machine into my shopping cart (on top of the two cases of Diet Coke). The very next day, I carried it into my workplace, nodding to my coworkers as I strutted toward my office. I immediately called my son to proclaim my Diet Coke Cure lay only inches away, on top of my filing cabinet.
And there the contraption sits, and dreams of glory. Unused. Four months later. After the sixteen cases of Diet Coke I've since consumed.
Perhaps I am a hopeless addict. Maybe I need a twelve-step program. Or intensive inpatient treatment.
It's bad, my addiction, and I do plan to beat it. Unless that means truly giving it up.
Because that would be hell. And I do love me a little taste of heaven.
It's well worth an ulcer.
And the occasional chin hair or two.
Coffee, tea or Diet Coke? Do you justify your addictions? Who's been nagging you, and about what?
They tell me addiction is its own form of hell. But they don't understand.
Because my Diet Coke--oh, it's such a lovely little taste of heaven.
How bad is my habit? Some questions a lady prefers not to answer. If pressed, I'll admit to a few cans a day. Maybe a six-pack. Possibly more. OK, damn it, I mainline the shit.
I started young. "Tab" was my gateway drug. Through the years I experimented with Diet Pepsi (subtle hints of bug repellent) and Diet Mountain Dew (undertones of bumblebee pee). None offered the not-too-bitter, not-too-sweet taste of my long-standing drug of choice. And DietRite, with zero caffeine? Clearly a marketing practical joke, much like the Snuggie.
I lived blissfully for years within my Diet Coke-cloaked little world. But then, scientific researchers and the always buzz-killing media reared their ugly heads.
My children and co-workers began emailing me horrific stories about the health risks. I sneered at these. Weight gain? As if switching to sugar-infused drinks might reduce me to a size two? Hardly. Headaches? No better over-the-counter headache meds than a couple tall glasses of Diet Coke. Hypertension? I wouldn't have a freaking pulse if it weren't for my daily Diet Coke intake.
Yet the warnings kept rolling in: Alzheimer's, cancer, depression, stroke, bone loss, tooth enamel loss, ulcers and PMS.
I'm awaiting the rest of the research results, which are sure to include random chin hairs. And garden slugs. And writing rejections.
But I jest. (Health risk #4,327: pitiful attempts at humor.) The growing barrage of health hazards finally prompted me to reflect on my addiction. Son #2, who runs and rows and hasn't sipped a soda pop in seven years, capitalized on my recent weak moment of admission. He began pushing me to simply replace my Diet Coke--with water.
Oh, my sweet naive son. Water? Really? How could pure water win over Diet Coke's irresistible formula of aspartame, caramel coloring, citric acid, formeldehyde and cocaine? (What? Cocaine's been omitted from the ingredients? I don't think so.) Beside, water lacks that one essential attribute: caffeine.
I would not make it through my first waking hour without copious quantities of caffeine. My colleagues would find me flat-lined on my office floor by 9 a.m.
Surely you coffee drinkers understand this dilemma. (Most of you need your own intervention. And I'm taking names.)
My concerned offspring's answer to this issue? Caffeinated water. This, just as it sounds, is pure water tainted only by a shot of caffeine. Believing this to be the methadone for my heroin, my son bought me a package. And in the name of family harmony, I gave it a try. The necessary kick? Maybe. But the taste? *Sigh* This stuff tasted like... water.
Yet I promised him I wouldn't give up. I'd beat this addiction somehow. Plus, I'd remind him that as his mother, it's my role to be the nag in the family.
Weeks later, I spied an iced tea maker on a store shelf. Tea? Hmm. A bit of taste--check. A healthy dose of caffeine--check. A (mostly) lack of debilitating and deadly chemicals--check.
I tossed the machine into my shopping cart (on top of the two cases of Diet Coke). The very next day, I carried it into my workplace, nodding to my coworkers as I strutted toward my office. I immediately called my son to proclaim my Diet Coke Cure lay only inches away, on top of my filing cabinet.
And there the contraption sits, and dreams of glory. Unused. Four months later. After the sixteen cases of Diet Coke I've since consumed.
Perhaps I am a hopeless addict. Maybe I need a twelve-step program. Or intensive inpatient treatment.
It's bad, my addiction, and I do plan to beat it. Unless that means truly giving it up.
Because that would be hell. And I do love me a little taste of heaven.
It's well worth an ulcer.
And the occasional chin hair or two.
Coffee, tea or Diet Coke? Do you justify your addictions? Who's been nagging you, and about what?
Thursday, August 11, 2011
How to Write a Book
Remember me? I hope so, because I missed you all terribly. *sniff*
I learned oodles during the month-long blog hiatus spent concentrating on my book, and I'm pleased to share my newfound wisdom (pro bono even) with each of you. So, here for everyone who ever wondered how to pen a masterpiece, is How to Write a Book 101:
First, announce to everyone you know that you are writing a book, so six years and two unsold manuscripts later they can ask you, "Hey, did you publish your book yet?"
Buy a new wardrobe two sizes up, so you have something to fit your ballooning ass after all the time you spent sitting on it.
Ignore everyday distractions such as scrubbing your toilets or paying your bills. You can hire an accountant and a live-in maid in a few months, after you receive that six-figure advance check. If not, none of it will matter after the foreclosure and bankruptcy.
Alienate your family and friends; how important can they be if they're not editing or selling your book? (If you're writing a memoir, half of them will someday hate you anyway.) Surround yourself instead with a houseful of pets who will purr or lick your hand after you read them an especially brilliant passage.
Don't worry about your writing getting sloppy as your alcohol consumption soars. Stephen King doesn't even remember writing "The Tommyknockers." Surely your drunken scrawl will be just as genius.
Take great pride--after 336 drafts--in finally getting that single paragraph on page 117 perfectly worded, just before everyone in your writing group suggests you delete the entire scene.
Refrain from checking your email every fifteen minutes after you submit a query. Wait--was that an email notification?
Never hate the agents or editors who send you rejection letters. Save your animosity for clearly talented published authors. Like Snooki and Bristol Palin.
Don't quit your day job. Once your boss catches you writing erotica on company time, you're likely to be fired anyway.
And finally, never ever give up.
Unless you have a real hankering to clean those dirty toilets.
What's the best or worst career advice you've ever gotten? Writers: Did I forget any other pearls of wisdom? And hey, did you publish your book yet?
I learned oodles during the month-long blog hiatus spent concentrating on my book, and I'm pleased to share my newfound wisdom (pro bono even) with each of you. So, here for everyone who ever wondered how to pen a masterpiece, is How to Write a Book 101:
First, announce to everyone you know that you are writing a book, so six years and two unsold manuscripts later they can ask you, "Hey, did you publish your book yet?"
Buy a new wardrobe two sizes up, so you have something to fit your ballooning ass after all the time you spent sitting on it.
Ignore everyday distractions such as scrubbing your toilets or paying your bills. You can hire an accountant and a live-in maid in a few months, after you receive that six-figure advance check. If not, none of it will matter after the foreclosure and bankruptcy.
Alienate your family and friends; how important can they be if they're not editing or selling your book? (If you're writing a memoir, half of them will someday hate you anyway.) Surround yourself instead with a houseful of pets who will purr or lick your hand after you read them an especially brilliant passage.
Don't worry about your writing getting sloppy as your alcohol consumption soars. Stephen King doesn't even remember writing "The Tommyknockers." Surely your drunken scrawl will be just as genius.
Take great pride--after 336 drafts--in finally getting that single paragraph on page 117 perfectly worded, just before everyone in your writing group suggests you delete the entire scene.
Refrain from checking your email every fifteen minutes after you submit a query. Wait--was that an email notification?
Never hate the agents or editors who send you rejection letters. Save your animosity for clearly talented published authors. Like Snooki and Bristol Palin.
Don't quit your day job. Once your boss catches you writing erotica on company time, you're likely to be fired anyway.
And finally, never ever give up.
Unless you have a real hankering to clean those dirty toilets.
What's the best or worst career advice you've ever gotten? Writers: Did I forget any other pearls of wisdom? And hey, did you publish your book yet?
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Lalalalala... I Can't Hear You!
Wednesday, 1:45 P.M:
Sensible Sherry: "So, that's that. If this spring's financial fiascos weren't a wake-up call, this week's fiscal emergencies surely were. The broken rider lawnmower (irrepairable), the car air conditioning (estimated fix of $600-$1,200) and the house's central air (replacement totaling $2,500)? You need to make some significant changes in your life."
Stupid Sherry: "Yes, yes, you're right. I will change my lifestyle right now. I will start by playing the lottery every day and by switching to Natural Light beer."
Sensible Sherry (glaring): "What I mean is truly tightening your pursestrings. No more eating out, no more vacations and no more spending a fourth of your weekly grocery bill on adult beverages."
Stupid Sherry: "Wow. You are a tough taskmaster."
Sensible Sherry: "I am. And from now on, you shall be my bitch."
2:15 P.M.
Sensible Sherry: "Um, excuse me? Is that you, clicking around on Orbitz.com?"
Stupid Sherry (glancing around): "Who, me?"
Sensible Sherry: "It's like I don't even know you."
Stupid Sherry: "I know, but remember back in early April, when I found that unbelievable deal for taking the Megabus to New York City? A round-trip ticket from Toledo for $4.50? Four dollars and fifty cents! I booked it right then, just in case I could make it work."
Sensible Sherry: "It won't work. Walk away from the computer."
Stupid Sherry: "But I managed to change my reservation! Instead of spending three nights in Manhattan, I'll only spend one! Look at the money I've saved already!"
Sensible Sherry: "So, you will sit on a bus for twelve hours, stay in New York for a single night and then turn around and spend another twelve hours on a bus?"
Stupid Sherry: "Yes! What an adventure it will be!"
Sensible Sherry (sighing): "That's what the Donner Party said."
2:38 P.M.
Sensible Sherry: "Tell me you didn't."
Stupid Sherry: "Can you believe my good luck? A hotel room for only $100, on Manhattan's lower east side!"
Sensible Sherry: "Did you notice the fine print, about the 'shared bathroom'?"
Stupid Sherry: "I won't shower. And I'll cross my legs."
Sensible Sherry: "What about bed bugs?"
Stupid Sherry: "Bed bugs? The hotel amenities didn't list those."
Sensible Sherry: "Right. And what will you do in New York, with no money?"
Stupid Sherry: "I will engage in several hours of fun and free things! I'll visit the public library and walk through Central Park. I will pass by homeless people and feel really good about myself."
Sensible Sherry: "Mm-hmm. How will you eat?"
Stupid Sherry: "I'm planning to pack a bag of peanuts and six PB and J sandwiches in my duffle bag. And I'll drink from public water fountains."
Sensible Sherry (closing eyes and shaking head): "You are so full of shit."
Stupid Sherry: "OK. I will pack a bottle of cheap vodka and eat $2 hot dogs from street vendors. And I will ask for extra mustard packets and make an entire meal out of them."
Sensible Sherry: "You need professional help. Although you can't afford that either."
Stupid Sherry: "Come on! How could anyone let a practically free trip to New York go unused? That's like telling Ed McMahon to go away when he shows up at your door."
Sensible Sherry (checking Dead-Celeb.com): "Ed McMahon died in 2009. If he happens to show up at your door, promise me you'll tell him to go away."
Stupid Sherry: "OK. But I am definitely going to New York."
Sensible Sherry (rolling her eyes): "Fine. Spend three days of your life with twenty-five hours squeezed into a bus seat and another eight hours sleeping in a frightfully cheap hotel."
Stupid Sherry: "Yes. Yes, I will. Sounds delightful. Jeez, you're such a worrier. I mean, with a great plan like this, what could possibly go wrong?"
To be continued...
So how are you spending your summer vacation? What would you do in New York City on a dime? Do you listen to the angel or the devil on your shoulders?
Sensible Sherry: "So, that's that. If this spring's financial fiascos weren't a wake-up call, this week's fiscal emergencies surely were. The broken rider lawnmower (irrepairable), the car air conditioning (estimated fix of $600-$1,200) and the house's central air (replacement totaling $2,500)? You need to make some significant changes in your life."
Stupid Sherry: "Yes, yes, you're right. I will change my lifestyle right now. I will start by playing the lottery every day and by switching to Natural Light beer."
Sensible Sherry (glaring): "What I mean is truly tightening your pursestrings. No more eating out, no more vacations and no more spending a fourth of your weekly grocery bill on adult beverages."
Stupid Sherry: "Wow. You are a tough taskmaster."
Sensible Sherry: "I am. And from now on, you shall be my bitch."
2:15 P.M.
Sensible Sherry: "Um, excuse me? Is that you, clicking around on Orbitz.com?"
Stupid Sherry (glancing around): "Who, me?"
Sensible Sherry: "It's like I don't even know you."
Stupid Sherry: "I know, but remember back in early April, when I found that unbelievable deal for taking the Megabus to New York City? A round-trip ticket from Toledo for $4.50? Four dollars and fifty cents! I booked it right then, just in case I could make it work."
Sensible Sherry: "It won't work. Walk away from the computer."
Stupid Sherry: "But I managed to change my reservation! Instead of spending three nights in Manhattan, I'll only spend one! Look at the money I've saved already!"
Sensible Sherry: "So, you will sit on a bus for twelve hours, stay in New York for a single night and then turn around and spend another twelve hours on a bus?"
Stupid Sherry: "Yes! What an adventure it will be!"
Sensible Sherry (sighing): "That's what the Donner Party said."
2:38 P.M.
Sensible Sherry: "Tell me you didn't."
Stupid Sherry: "Can you believe my good luck? A hotel room for only $100, on Manhattan's lower east side!"
Sensible Sherry: "Did you notice the fine print, about the 'shared bathroom'?"
Stupid Sherry: "I won't shower. And I'll cross my legs."
Sensible Sherry: "What about bed bugs?"
Stupid Sherry: "Bed bugs? The hotel amenities didn't list those."
Sensible Sherry: "Right. And what will you do in New York, with no money?"
Stupid Sherry: "I will engage in several hours of fun and free things! I'll visit the public library and walk through Central Park. I will pass by homeless people and feel really good about myself."
Sensible Sherry: "Mm-hmm. How will you eat?"
Stupid Sherry: "I'm planning to pack a bag of peanuts and six PB and J sandwiches in my duffle bag. And I'll drink from public water fountains."
Sensible Sherry (closing eyes and shaking head): "You are so full of shit."
Stupid Sherry: "OK. I will pack a bottle of cheap vodka and eat $2 hot dogs from street vendors. And I will ask for extra mustard packets and make an entire meal out of them."
Sensible Sherry: "You need professional help. Although you can't afford that either."
Stupid Sherry: "Come on! How could anyone let a practically free trip to New York go unused? That's like telling Ed McMahon to go away when he shows up at your door."
Sensible Sherry (checking Dead-Celeb.com): "Ed McMahon died in 2009. If he happens to show up at your door, promise me you'll tell him to go away."
Stupid Sherry: "OK. But I am definitely going to New York."
Sensible Sherry (rolling her eyes): "Fine. Spend three days of your life with twenty-five hours squeezed into a bus seat and another eight hours sleeping in a frightfully cheap hotel."
Stupid Sherry: "Yes. Yes, I will. Sounds delightful. Jeez, you're such a worrier. I mean, with a great plan like this, what could possibly go wrong?"
To be continued...
So how are you spending your summer vacation? What would you do in New York City on a dime? Do you listen to the angel or the devil on your shoulders?
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Lambchop, We Hardly Knew Ye
Am taking a cue here from a character in my current novel-in-progress, who contemplates how her obituary might read. Feel free to add your own comments and memories. Special bonus: As of tonight, I'm still here to read the Guestbook!
Sherry Stanfa-Stanley passed away peacefully last night, an ancient bitch who lived far longer than she deserved.
She was born in Toledo, Ohio, a city immortalized by John Denver and a mayor who proposed relocating deaf people to the airport.
Her parents already used up their favorite girls' names. So they entrusted their youngest daughter's lifelong personal identity to her two- and three-year-old sisters. They named her after puppeteer Shari Lewis. She forever regretted not being dubbed "Lambchop."
In her youth, Sherry possessed a great sense of adventure. Tragically, this quality managed to escape the Girl Scouts of America, the St. Patrick's seventh grade basketball team and Junior Achievement, all which booted her before she made her sure-to-be landmark contributions.
An alumna of Toledo's E.L. Bowsher High School, she anticipated the day a statue--presumably entitled The Truant Student--would be erected in her honor. Instead, the school board voted to raze the building.
Redeeming herself at The University of Toledo, she somehow graduated with honors. She later took pride in the fact that she was never technically fired from a job.
Sherry excelled at editing, due to her love of pointing out other people's mistakes. She also wrote several books, masterpieces which would have topped the New York Times Bestsellers List and won the Pulitzer, if only she'd received an effin' publishing contract.
She was indulged by a few and whispered about behind her back by the rest. Those who knew Sherry well said she never met a margarita she didn't like.
She is survived by family members who wish to remain anonymous, as well as 213 dogs and cats.
In lieu of flowers, Sherry requested memorial contributions be made to Hoarders Anonymous or the International Movement to Ban Bad Speling.
Services will be held at her own bedside on Monday at 2 p.m., since Sherry despised getting out of bed, and nothing pissed her off more than being nudged from a dead sleep before noon.
Son #1 tells me I have a sick sense of humor and this post is bad karma. So, what are the odds I'll be hit by a bus tomorrow? Any details or memories you care to add? How do you envision your own obituary?
Sherry Stanfa-Stanley passed away peacefully last night, an ancient bitch who lived far longer than she deserved.
She was born in Toledo, Ohio, a city immortalized by John Denver and a mayor who proposed relocating deaf people to the airport.
Her parents already used up their favorite girls' names. So they entrusted their youngest daughter's lifelong personal identity to her two- and three-year-old sisters. They named her after puppeteer Shari Lewis. She forever regretted not being dubbed "Lambchop."
In her youth, Sherry possessed a great sense of adventure. Tragically, this quality managed to escape the Girl Scouts of America, the St. Patrick's seventh grade basketball team and Junior Achievement, all which booted her before she made her sure-to-be landmark contributions.
An alumna of Toledo's E.L. Bowsher High School, she anticipated the day a statue--presumably entitled The Truant Student--would be erected in her honor. Instead, the school board voted to raze the building.
Redeeming herself at The University of Toledo, she somehow graduated with honors. She later took pride in the fact that she was never technically fired from a job.
Sherry excelled at editing, due to her love of pointing out other people's mistakes. She also wrote several books, masterpieces which would have topped the New York Times Bestsellers List and won the Pulitzer, if only she'd received an effin' publishing contract.
She was indulged by a few and whispered about behind her back by the rest. Those who knew Sherry well said she never met a margarita she didn't like.
She is survived by family members who wish to remain anonymous, as well as 213 dogs and cats.
In lieu of flowers, Sherry requested memorial contributions be made to Hoarders Anonymous or the International Movement to Ban Bad Speling.
Services will be held at her own bedside on Monday at 2 p.m., since Sherry despised getting out of bed, and nothing pissed her off more than being nudged from a dead sleep before noon.
Son #1 tells me I have a sick sense of humor and this post is bad karma. So, what are the odds I'll be hit by a bus tomorrow? Any details or memories you care to add? How do you envision your own obituary?
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Will You Take a Quarter for This Blog Post?
With temperatures in the nineties, accompanied by a heat advisory warning by the National Weather Service, I spent the last few days as any practical and precautious person would: doubled-over and wheezing while producing gallons of sweat within my unairconditioned garage.
Oh sure, there are some folks who probably sought a safe and comfortable refuge from the hazardous heat. They retreated to their home's central air or cooled off in a neighborhood swimming pool. Pfft. I decided nothing could delight me more than spending Every Freaking Day of my one-week summer vacation inside my attached two-car sauna.
Nobody knows how to have a better time than I do. So, for the hottest week of the summer, I scheduled a garage sale. And because I enjoy a seriously good challenge, I did nothing to prepare for it until just days before the event.
For those of you who have held a garage sale, you know that if there's anything even more fun-filled than actually hosting the sale, it's the cleaning, organizing and tagging that comes first. For the average person, this results in a somewhat tiring project. For people like me, who have not touched most of their household belongings for nearly twenty years, it is as wearisome as the Republican Party's search for a decent 2012 presidential candidate.
Some people scrap-book; others play tennis. I like to consider "collecting loads of shit" a bit of a hobby.
Astute readers might recall my kitchen cupboard purging escapade of this past February. Although I had high hopes for offers from TV game show producers, I've been forced, sadly, to move on with my life.
Specifically, I moved on to cleaning my basement. And I'm fairly certain that this time, the producers of Hoarders will not let me down.
I have never understood the adage "Less Is More." Is having $50 to your name truly better than having a million? Is a third-grade education more beneficial than a college degree? Hell no. So why own three kitchen spatulas when you can own twelve? Why pay for food and veterinary bills for one pet when you can have the satisfaction of paying for six? Why drink two margaritas when you can drink... (Wait, is there actually some limit?)
My recent basement purging was not unlike my kitchen cabinet cleansing--except instead of discovering twenty-three beer koozies, I discovered an endless bounty of toy action figures. At best guess, approximately 503 of them lay dropped and discarded across the basement floor.
Among these was every Happy Meal toy made between 1990 and 2000. I'd like to believe this is a sign of a loving and doting mother. In reality, it's the sign of a woman who apparently didn't prepare a homecooked meal for ten years.
I'm told that some of these items are collectibles, garnering big bucks on eBay. I'd like to believe choosing not to do so is the sign of a busy professional person with no spare time. In reality, it's a sign I'm lazy.
On the rare occasion that I've cleaned out closets, cabinets and toy bins, I simply hauled everything off to the Goodwill. This time, I decided I could use the money. (Still paying off bills from my Month of Financial Hell.)
Today was my garage sale premiere. I made a total of $63. At this rate, I should make about $150 over the course of the three-day event. Not a paltry sum. Until you consider the countless hours I spent sorting, washing, organizing and pricing. Given the time invested, I figure I'll net roughly 25 cents an hour.
This garage sale gig is way less lucrative than selling my body on the streets. A middle-age, overweight, unenthusiastic body at that.
I'm thinking of looking for an evening job instead, fit in somewhere between the day job and my extracurricular writing. Maybe McDonald's? After all, Mickey D positions are plentiful and the hours are flexible. In a fully airconditioned environment.
If I'm lucky they also offer an employee discount on Happy Meals. Because by Sunday, after I've finished sweating and wheezing, I expect to develop an ache for some cheap plastic action figures. Damn, those tiny toys are cute. I hear they do well on eBay.
And I'll bet not a single customer will ask, "Are you willing to take a quarter for this cheeseburger?"
Are you a hoarder or a purger? What are you willing to do, legally or illegally, to make a few extra bucks? Any big interest in a twenty-year-old food processor or some plastic Pocahontas toys?
Note to my fellow (and far more talented) bloggers: Between my recent writers workshop and the garage sale hell that followed, I am way behind in my blog reading. I promise to stop by your way this week...)
Oh sure, there are some folks who probably sought a safe and comfortable refuge from the hazardous heat. They retreated to their home's central air or cooled off in a neighborhood swimming pool. Pfft. I decided nothing could delight me more than spending Every Freaking Day of my one-week summer vacation inside my attached two-car sauna.
Nobody knows how to have a better time than I do. So, for the hottest week of the summer, I scheduled a garage sale. And because I enjoy a seriously good challenge, I did nothing to prepare for it until just days before the event.
For those of you who have held a garage sale, you know that if there's anything even more fun-filled than actually hosting the sale, it's the cleaning, organizing and tagging that comes first. For the average person, this results in a somewhat tiring project. For people like me, who have not touched most of their household belongings for nearly twenty years, it is as wearisome as the Republican Party's search for a decent 2012 presidential candidate.
Some people scrap-book; others play tennis. I like to consider "collecting loads of shit" a bit of a hobby.
Astute readers might recall my kitchen cupboard purging escapade of this past February. Although I had high hopes for offers from TV game show producers, I've been forced, sadly, to move on with my life.
Specifically, I moved on to cleaning my basement. And I'm fairly certain that this time, the producers of Hoarders will not let me down.
I have never understood the adage "Less Is More." Is having $50 to your name truly better than having a million? Is a third-grade education more beneficial than a college degree? Hell no. So why own three kitchen spatulas when you can own twelve? Why pay for food and veterinary bills for one pet when you can have the satisfaction of paying for six? Why drink two margaritas when you can drink... (Wait, is there actually some limit?)
My recent basement purging was not unlike my kitchen cabinet cleansing--except instead of discovering twenty-three beer koozies, I discovered an endless bounty of toy action figures. At best guess, approximately 503 of them lay dropped and discarded across the basement floor.
Among these was every Happy Meal toy made between 1990 and 2000. I'd like to believe this is a sign of a loving and doting mother. In reality, it's the sign of a woman who apparently didn't prepare a homecooked meal for ten years.
I'm told that some of these items are collectibles, garnering big bucks on eBay. I'd like to believe choosing not to do so is the sign of a busy professional person with no spare time. In reality, it's a sign I'm lazy.
On the rare occasion that I've cleaned out closets, cabinets and toy bins, I simply hauled everything off to the Goodwill. This time, I decided I could use the money. (Still paying off bills from my Month of Financial Hell.)
Today was my garage sale premiere. I made a total of $63. At this rate, I should make about $150 over the course of the three-day event. Not a paltry sum. Until you consider the countless hours I spent sorting, washing, organizing and pricing. Given the time invested, I figure I'll net roughly 25 cents an hour.
This garage sale gig is way less lucrative than selling my body on the streets. A middle-age, overweight, unenthusiastic body at that.
I'm thinking of looking for an evening job instead, fit in somewhere between the day job and my extracurricular writing. Maybe McDonald's? After all, Mickey D positions are plentiful and the hours are flexible. In a fully airconditioned environment.
If I'm lucky they also offer an employee discount on Happy Meals. Because by Sunday, after I've finished sweating and wheezing, I expect to develop an ache for some cheap plastic action figures. Damn, those tiny toys are cute. I hear they do well on eBay.
And I'll bet not a single customer will ask, "Are you willing to take a quarter for this cheeseburger?"
Are you a hoarder or a purger? What are you willing to do, legally or illegally, to make a few extra bucks? Any big interest in a twenty-year-old food processor or some plastic Pocahontas toys?
Note to my fellow (and far more talented) bloggers: Between my recent writers workshop and the garage sale hell that followed, I am way behind in my blog reading. I promise to stop by your way this week...)
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Oh, What a Night! (Middle-Aged Style)
Join me, if you will, on one middle-aged party animal's night on the town.
You primp and you polish, then you glance in the mirror. On a scale of 1-10, you are a *generous* 2.5 You pile on another layer of concealer and decide it will have to do.
Not a parking space to be found for this new hot bar. You cruise around in your minivan for 20 minutes until a decent spot opens up. ("Decent" meaning no more than 50 yards from the door, so as not to render you prone and hyperventilating on the pavement.)
You frown as you size up the crowd. Clearly these must be middle-school students, keeping the Fake ID Industry alive and well. The girl beside you sports a micro-top that reveals most of her as-yet-unsagging cleavage. Her heels measure approximately one-fourth of your full height. You're fairly certain one of your children used to babysit her.
You glance down at your presumably fashionable smock top and hope no one mistakes you as pregnant. It dawns on you that not one person here might imagine you as still of child-bearing age. In between heavy gasps from your 50-yard walk, you sigh.
You shake this off and squeeze through the crowded dance floor because you need a drink. Or six.
When you've made your way to the bar a half-hour later, you order a Miller 64. It's all the calories and alcohol your body can handle. The bartender finishes pouring tequila shots for other customers and sneers at your order. If you were his mother, you'd ground the little bastard.
Finally, you spot your friends in the mob. You attempt to hold a conversation, but you can't hear a word over the music. You nod and smile when anyone appears to say something in your general direction. You make a note to schedule an appointment with an audiologist, right after your mole-check and colonoscopy.
You spend the next couple hours pretending to enjoy the music. The band is playing Oldies, which apparently now consist of songs from the nineties. You don't recognize one. You were too busy during that decade changing diapers and driving to soccer practices to keep up with the latest from Nine Inch Nails.
A couple friends suggest dancing, but you're not entirely sure what type of dance moves this music requires. Besides, your bad knee isn't likely to handle any moves at all.
When Mother Nature calls, you welcome any reprieve from the thump of the bass. You head to the restroom. Pushing and pausing through the endless crowd, you remind yourself to plan ahead for any future bathroom breaks--well before you are once again stooped over and crossing your legs. This wisdom comes in handy tonight the next four or five times you have to pee.
One glance and whiff in the restroom causes you to recoil. You fight back the bile rising in your throat and ransack the room in search of a toilet brush and can of Scrubbing Bubbles. Your quest is futile, since most of the staff here reside blissfully in the questionable hygiene of a college dorm.
As you rush from the restroom one last time, you glance at the clock: Just after midnight. Well past your bedtime!
You shout an apology to your friends and make your way to your minivan. You squint and swear as you crawl down the highway. You need to talk to your optometrist ASAP about this freaking night blindness! But your failing vision is the least of your worries right now. Because, Holy Mother of God, do you need to pee!
The next time your friends call about getting together, you suggest a Saturday luncheon at the art museum cafeteria.
If you're going to feel outdated and ancient, you're going to do so with a hint of class. At a place where no one is likely to flash a fake ID.
But if they ask for your damn AARP card, you're out of there.
Can you still hang with the Wild Ones? What constitutes your big night on the town? What ever happened to cover bands playing the damn Beatles?
You primp and you polish, then you glance in the mirror. On a scale of 1-10, you are a *generous* 2.5 You pile on another layer of concealer and decide it will have to do.
Not a parking space to be found for this new hot bar. You cruise around in your minivan for 20 minutes until a decent spot opens up. ("Decent" meaning no more than 50 yards from the door, so as not to render you prone and hyperventilating on the pavement.)
You frown as you size up the crowd. Clearly these must be middle-school students, keeping the Fake ID Industry alive and well. The girl beside you sports a micro-top that reveals most of her as-yet-unsagging cleavage. Her heels measure approximately one-fourth of your full height. You're fairly certain one of your children used to babysit her.
You glance down at your presumably fashionable smock top and hope no one mistakes you as pregnant. It dawns on you that not one person here might imagine you as still of child-bearing age. In between heavy gasps from your 50-yard walk, you sigh.
You shake this off and squeeze through the crowded dance floor because you need a drink. Or six.
When you've made your way to the bar a half-hour later, you order a Miller 64. It's all the calories and alcohol your body can handle. The bartender finishes pouring tequila shots for other customers and sneers at your order. If you were his mother, you'd ground the little bastard.
Finally, you spot your friends in the mob. You attempt to hold a conversation, but you can't hear a word over the music. You nod and smile when anyone appears to say something in your general direction. You make a note to schedule an appointment with an audiologist, right after your mole-check and colonoscopy.
You spend the next couple hours pretending to enjoy the music. The band is playing Oldies, which apparently now consist of songs from the nineties. You don't recognize one. You were too busy during that decade changing diapers and driving to soccer practices to keep up with the latest from Nine Inch Nails.
A couple friends suggest dancing, but you're not entirely sure what type of dance moves this music requires. Besides, your bad knee isn't likely to handle any moves at all.
When Mother Nature calls, you welcome any reprieve from the thump of the bass. You head to the restroom. Pushing and pausing through the endless crowd, you remind yourself to plan ahead for any future bathroom breaks--well before you are once again stooped over and crossing your legs. This wisdom comes in handy tonight the next four or five times you have to pee.
One glance and whiff in the restroom causes you to recoil. You fight back the bile rising in your throat and ransack the room in search of a toilet brush and can of Scrubbing Bubbles. Your quest is futile, since most of the staff here reside blissfully in the questionable hygiene of a college dorm.
As you rush from the restroom one last time, you glance at the clock: Just after midnight. Well past your bedtime!
You shout an apology to your friends and make your way to your minivan. You squint and swear as you crawl down the highway. You need to talk to your optometrist ASAP about this freaking night blindness! But your failing vision is the least of your worries right now. Because, Holy Mother of God, do you need to pee!
The next time your friends call about getting together, you suggest a Saturday luncheon at the art museum cafeteria.
If you're going to feel outdated and ancient, you're going to do so with a hint of class. At a place where no one is likely to flash a fake ID.
But if they ask for your damn AARP card, you're out of there.
Can you still hang with the Wild Ones? What constitutes your big night on the town? What ever happened to cover bands playing the damn Beatles?
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Mercury in Retrograde
We interrupt our normally scheduled blog programming to vent and rant and moan and bitch.
These are the events of our last few days:
We pay the $143 traffic ticket for the car accident which was *apparently* our fault.
We also pay the carpet cleaning company (we choose not to read the exact amount on the credit card receipt) for steam-cleaning the one-year-old carpet which they cleaned just two months ago but which has now suffered the wrath of an exploding jar of salsa brought about by an unnamed individual whom we may--or we may not--allow to live.
We venture to the post office to sign for a certified letter from our insurance company that is written in such horrifically standard legalize that we read it three times before finally comprehending the meaning, which is that they may--or they may not--cover the estimated $2,000 damage to the other car in the aforementioned accident, because we may--or we may not--have reinstated our coverage for the winter-stored vehicle we were driving.
We dwell on this possibility from approximately 2 a.m. to 5 a.m., finally concluding that if indeed we are responsible for these damages, we can pay for them by scraping the bottom of our savings account barrel which we had planned to use to replace the huge arched window that somehow managed to simply drop out of its second-story socket and crash to the ground.
We experience a fleeting glimmer of hope that perhaps a portion of one of these costs can be covered by our 2010 tax return, about which we are awaiting word from the accountant who is currently mulling over our likely incomplete paperwork.
We receive a Fed Ex package from our accountant, THIS VERY SAME DAY, indicating that not only will we not be getting a tax return but we actually owe $1,500.
Finally, we discover our happy little goldfish has chosen today to float belly-up.
Is Mercury in retrograde? Did a black cat (which we unwittingly neglected to adopt and add to our residential petting zoo) cross our path? Are we being penalized by some higher power for that incident back in third-grade when we reached under the bathroom stall and stole our classmate's loafer that was dangling from her foot?
Sigh. That is all.
Stay tuned next week for our regularly scheduled program.
And now you expect some sort of inspirational and idea-provoking questions? Nah. I got nothing. You may--or you may not--choose to leave a comment.
These are the events of our last few days:
We pay the $143 traffic ticket for the car accident which was *apparently* our fault.
We also pay the carpet cleaning company (we choose not to read the exact amount on the credit card receipt) for steam-cleaning the one-year-old carpet which they cleaned just two months ago but which has now suffered the wrath of an exploding jar of salsa brought about by an unnamed individual whom we may--or we may not--allow to live.
We venture to the post office to sign for a certified letter from our insurance company that is written in such horrifically standard legalize that we read it three times before finally comprehending the meaning, which is that they may--or they may not--cover the estimated $2,000 damage to the other car in the aforementioned accident, because we may--or we may not--have reinstated our coverage for the winter-stored vehicle we were driving.
We dwell on this possibility from approximately 2 a.m. to 5 a.m., finally concluding that if indeed we are responsible for these damages, we can pay for them by scraping the bottom of our savings account barrel which we had planned to use to replace the huge arched window that somehow managed to simply drop out of its second-story socket and crash to the ground.
We experience a fleeting glimmer of hope that perhaps a portion of one of these costs can be covered by our 2010 tax return, about which we are awaiting word from the accountant who is currently mulling over our likely incomplete paperwork.
We receive a Fed Ex package from our accountant, THIS VERY SAME DAY, indicating that not only will we not be getting a tax return but we actually owe $1,500.
Finally, we discover our happy little goldfish has chosen today to float belly-up.
Is Mercury in retrograde? Did a black cat (which we unwittingly neglected to adopt and add to our residential petting zoo) cross our path? Are we being penalized by some higher power for that incident back in third-grade when we reached under the bathroom stall and stole our classmate's loafer that was dangling from her foot?
Sigh. That is all.
Stay tuned next week for our regularly scheduled program.
And now you expect some sort of inspirational and idea-provoking questions? Nah. I got nothing. You may--or you may not--choose to leave a comment.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Recipe for Disaster
Here's a fun little recipe I recently concocted. Feel free to try it!
Ingredients:
Combine all the humiliating stories, being sure to include such tales as:
Meanwhile, prepare a huge pot of chili. Make a big enough batch to share, because people will fall all over themselves in gratitude for your culinary prowess.
The rest of this process is complicated, so be sure to follow these directions carefully:
Brown a couple pounds of ground beef. Add a few cans of Brooks Hot Chili Beans. Peel and chop a half-dozen tomatoes and dice a couple onions. Pull an assortment of peppers from the freezer: Add a couple bell peppers and a few jalapenos. Remove the seeds from the jalapenos, because not everyone can handle the heat like you can.
Next, ponder the freezer bag of quarter-sized orange peppers which came from an unidentified plant in an assorted nursery pack. Although you never tasted one, they are tiny--and you have a big kettle to fill. Cut up seven or eight and toss them into the pot.
Within a half-hour, you should nearly collapse from the excruciating pain of your burning hands. You will know the pain has fully set when you feel you'd prefer to have a root canal without Novocaine. This signals it is time to Google a cure, as we know is the M.O. of any proper homemaker.
You will find 154,000 hits for "hot peppers burned hands." This will not immediately relieve your physical pain, but it will ease your mental anguish to know that more than a hundred thousand people were as stupid as you.
Be sure to attempt every listed cure: Wash your hands until you are qualified to write a memoir about OCD. Lather them in aloe. Soak them in rubbing alcohol. Pop potentially lethal quantities of Tylenol and antihistamines.
Finally, plunge your hands in bowls of ice water. Be certain to sigh with the ecstasy of immediate relief. Use up every available ice cube in your freezer. Within a few hours, the pain should subside enough for you to face the next step.
Eye your pot of chili. By now it should be bubbling much like a witch's cauldron: one eye of newt, two dragon teeth, and eight devil peppers.
Sample a spoonful. You will immediately forget the pain in your hands--because now your tongue and mouth will be on fire.
Rush back to Dr. Google. Ignore the first noted cure, which is drinking milk. Also disregard Cure #2: sugar water. Proceed promptly to Cure #3: alcohol.
Consume several cold beers.
Next, return to the still brewing pot of Demon Soup. Recall, in your half-plastered stupor, that sugar is supposed to neutralize heat. Pour in a bit of sugar and stir well. Swallow a big spoonful.
Cry, "Holy Mother of God!" Dump in the rest of the bag of sugar. Drink another beer.
The next day, recall that you made soup while you got stewed. Sample your pot of Candied Chili. Cringe. Dump the entire thing in the garbage.
Now, return to your original recipe for a humiliating blog post about your loved ones' pathetic cooking catastrophes.
Toss that too.
Eat crow instead.
Any kitchen disasters you care to share? Has Bad Karma bit you in the ass lately?
Ingredients:
- Several stories of cooking catastrophes suffered by family and friends who probably prefer not to be publicly ridiculed
- A dash of smugness about your own impeccable kitchen record
- A cup of bad karma
Combine all the humiliating stories, being sure to include such tales as:
- The woman who prepared her first bowl of potato salad for a group picnic but lacked the listed finishing touch of paprika, so she covered the salad with a liberal sprinkling of cinnamon.
- The newlywed who excitedly prepared a pan of lasagna but was confused by the terminology and used not just a single clove of garlic but an entire bulb.
- The grandmother who baked her three-year-old grandson his much coveted Elmo birthday cake, and then frosted it with an icing which melted and dripped in such a ghastly fashion that the cake resembled Elmo-On-Acid and prompted the horrified child to scream, "I don't like this kind of cake!"
Meanwhile, prepare a huge pot of chili. Make a big enough batch to share, because people will fall all over themselves in gratitude for your culinary prowess.
The rest of this process is complicated, so be sure to follow these directions carefully:
Brown a couple pounds of ground beef. Add a few cans of Brooks Hot Chili Beans. Peel and chop a half-dozen tomatoes and dice a couple onions. Pull an assortment of peppers from the freezer: Add a couple bell peppers and a few jalapenos. Remove the seeds from the jalapenos, because not everyone can handle the heat like you can.
Next, ponder the freezer bag of quarter-sized orange peppers which came from an unidentified plant in an assorted nursery pack. Although you never tasted one, they are tiny--and you have a big kettle to fill. Cut up seven or eight and toss them into the pot.
Within a half-hour, you should nearly collapse from the excruciating pain of your burning hands. You will know the pain has fully set when you feel you'd prefer to have a root canal without Novocaine. This signals it is time to Google a cure, as we know is the M.O. of any proper homemaker.
You will find 154,000 hits for "hot peppers burned hands." This will not immediately relieve your physical pain, but it will ease your mental anguish to know that more than a hundred thousand people were as stupid as you.
Be sure to attempt every listed cure: Wash your hands until you are qualified to write a memoir about OCD. Lather them in aloe. Soak them in rubbing alcohol. Pop potentially lethal quantities of Tylenol and antihistamines.
Finally, plunge your hands in bowls of ice water. Be certain to sigh with the ecstasy of immediate relief. Use up every available ice cube in your freezer. Within a few hours, the pain should subside enough for you to face the next step.
Eye your pot of chili. By now it should be bubbling much like a witch's cauldron: one eye of newt, two dragon teeth, and eight devil peppers.
Sample a spoonful. You will immediately forget the pain in your hands--because now your tongue and mouth will be on fire.
Rush back to Dr. Google. Ignore the first noted cure, which is drinking milk. Also disregard Cure #2: sugar water. Proceed promptly to Cure #3: alcohol.
Consume several cold beers.
Next, return to the still brewing pot of Demon Soup. Recall, in your half-plastered stupor, that sugar is supposed to neutralize heat. Pour in a bit of sugar and stir well. Swallow a big spoonful.
Cry, "Holy Mother of God!" Dump in the rest of the bag of sugar. Drink another beer.
The next day, recall that you made soup while you got stewed. Sample your pot of Candied Chili. Cringe. Dump the entire thing in the garbage.
Now, return to your original recipe for a humiliating blog post about your loved ones' pathetic cooking catastrophes.
Toss that too.
Eat crow instead.
Any kitchen disasters you care to share? Has Bad Karma bit you in the ass lately?
Monday, February 28, 2011
Tale of the Effin-Painful Finger
It's a gruesome story, not one for the faint of heart. Much like Edgar Allan Poe's The Tell-Tale Heart, I share with you today: The Tale of the Effin-Painful Finger.
The terror begins with a slamming door and a blood-curdling scream. Swearing and shrieking and swearing some more, I stumble to the kitchen. I wrap the finger in ice and huddle in wide-eyed fear, until every cube melts into a faintly pink pool of water. Only then do I peek to assess the damage.
My finger appears roughly the size of a fat Cuban cigar. A purple one. With an ominous black fingernail. If I had a bottle of OPI Black Onyx, I could paint the other nine for a matching Gothic set.
I wiggle the finger and blow out a sigh when nothing appears to be broken. So do I rush to the ER, where I risk a three-hour wait only to be sent home with a bandage and some Neosporin? I do not. I do what any sensible person in the 21st century would do. I Google.
The most common treatment for such an injury appears to be this: the doctor drills a hole through the fingernail.
I fight back the bile building in my throat. I read on. Terrifying, yes, but the blood is consequently released, the pressure relieved, and voila! The demons are defeated, and the horror story has a happy ending!
Sadly, I couldn't operate a Black and Decker tool if I owned one. Yet surely I can improvise. I survey the surgical instruments at hand: a safety pin, a stolen nail from a picture hanging from the wall, or a shish kabob skewer.
I opt for the safety pin. I bite my lip and punch through the fingernail. A few drops of blood ooze out. And then--nothing. I punch again. And again. After ten minutes of self-surgery, I'm left with a blood-tinged Kleenex and a fingernail much resembling a window screen.
I plaster the finger in Neosporin, bandage it and let it incubate for three days.
Despite my adroit medical skills, I wind up at my doctor's office with an infected finger.
The nurse leads me toward the exam room. "Let's just have you step on the scale first."
I freeze and brace myself against the wall. "You're going to weigh me? But I... I'm only here for an infected finger." I thrust my damaged digit in front of her face. I realize, too late, that I have just flipped off the nurse. A justifiable defense, perhaps, for anyone being threatened with a scale.
"But wait," I plead, "I'm wearing my heavy winter boots."
"Yes, I'll be sure to make note of that." I note the wicked glint in her eye.
I collapse on the exam table, and the nurse promptly takes my blood pressure. I frown, confused by the order of events. Surely if physicians' offices tested a patient's blood pressure before making her step on a scale, blood pressure rates across the world would plummet. But clearly, this is part of the evil conspiracy.
The doctor finally enters the room. Fearful she might order me back on the scale, I shout, "I slammed my finger in a door. See?" I am careful to stick out my entire hand, not just my middle finger.
She examines the infected finger, tsk-tsks a bit, and prescribes an antibiotic. She tells me to return in two weeks. "Or," she adds as an afterthought, "we may have you see a plastic surgeon."
I raise my good hand to my face, pondering what, exactly, she thinks needs work.
"A plastic surgeon?"
"The nail bed could be permanently damaged. You may lose the fingernail."
"Oh, that." I nod, smug in my Google-researched medical knowledge. "Yes, I read about that on the internet. Right before I poked all the holes in my fingernail."
"Huh." Oddly, she appears less-than-impressed with my personal doctoring. "So then, you also understand that the nail might die, but not fall completely off on its own?"
I stare at her, still not comprehending.
"And that we may need to pluck out the dead nail?"
This is where the tale gets a bit blurry. It's possible I curl into a ball right here, upon hearing the words "pluck out." (Maybe, amidst their perusal of biology textbooks, medical students should also be required to study a thesaurus for more benign terminology. The words "pluck out," along with the words "I need to probe the wound," once uttered by an ER physician after my Life-Threatening Dishwashing Accident of 1986, are not highly recommended.)
I yank my hand away and cradle it against my chest. "But then, the fingernail will grow back, right?"
The doctor shrugs. "Perhaps. Or you might just be left with scar tissue."
I'm not certain what more pleasant term exists for a finger forever devoid of a nail, but I'm fairly certain I will find a better one than "scar tissue" once I consult my thesaurus.
First, however, I stop at the pharmacy to fill my prescription. While there, I pick up a package of press-on nails. And a strong pair of tweezers.
I figure I can handle any at-home surgery now. After all, I am a Google-certified physician.
But you can bet I won't weigh myself first.
That should eliminate half the pain.
Tell me my fingernail is a survivor. Tell me you Google-treat your own medical issues. Tell me I'm not an idiot. (OK, maybe that's reaching.)
The terror begins with a slamming door and a blood-curdling scream. Swearing and shrieking and swearing some more, I stumble to the kitchen. I wrap the finger in ice and huddle in wide-eyed fear, until every cube melts into a faintly pink pool of water. Only then do I peek to assess the damage.
My finger appears roughly the size of a fat Cuban cigar. A purple one. With an ominous black fingernail. If I had a bottle of OPI Black Onyx, I could paint the other nine for a matching Gothic set.
I wiggle the finger and blow out a sigh when nothing appears to be broken. So do I rush to the ER, where I risk a three-hour wait only to be sent home with a bandage and some Neosporin? I do not. I do what any sensible person in the 21st century would do. I Google.
The most common treatment for such an injury appears to be this: the doctor drills a hole through the fingernail.
I fight back the bile building in my throat. I read on. Terrifying, yes, but the blood is consequently released, the pressure relieved, and voila! The demons are defeated, and the horror story has a happy ending!
Sadly, I couldn't operate a Black and Decker tool if I owned one. Yet surely I can improvise. I survey the surgical instruments at hand: a safety pin, a stolen nail from a picture hanging from the wall, or a shish kabob skewer.
I opt for the safety pin. I bite my lip and punch through the fingernail. A few drops of blood ooze out. And then--nothing. I punch again. And again. After ten minutes of self-surgery, I'm left with a blood-tinged Kleenex and a fingernail much resembling a window screen.
I plaster the finger in Neosporin, bandage it and let it incubate for three days.
Despite my adroit medical skills, I wind up at my doctor's office with an infected finger.
The nurse leads me toward the exam room. "Let's just have you step on the scale first."
I freeze and brace myself against the wall. "You're going to weigh me? But I... I'm only here for an infected finger." I thrust my damaged digit in front of her face. I realize, too late, that I have just flipped off the nurse. A justifiable defense, perhaps, for anyone being threatened with a scale.
"But wait," I plead, "I'm wearing my heavy winter boots."
"Yes, I'll be sure to make note of that." I note the wicked glint in her eye.
I collapse on the exam table, and the nurse promptly takes my blood pressure. I frown, confused by the order of events. Surely if physicians' offices tested a patient's blood pressure before making her step on a scale, blood pressure rates across the world would plummet. But clearly, this is part of the evil conspiracy.
The doctor finally enters the room. Fearful she might order me back on the scale, I shout, "I slammed my finger in a door. See?" I am careful to stick out my entire hand, not just my middle finger.
She examines the infected finger, tsk-tsks a bit, and prescribes an antibiotic. She tells me to return in two weeks. "Or," she adds as an afterthought, "we may have you see a plastic surgeon."
I raise my good hand to my face, pondering what, exactly, she thinks needs work.
"A plastic surgeon?"
"The nail bed could be permanently damaged. You may lose the fingernail."
"Oh, that." I nod, smug in my Google-researched medical knowledge. "Yes, I read about that on the internet. Right before I poked all the holes in my fingernail."
"Huh." Oddly, she appears less-than-impressed with my personal doctoring. "So then, you also understand that the nail might die, but not fall completely off on its own?"
I stare at her, still not comprehending.
"And that we may need to pluck out the dead nail?"
This is where the tale gets a bit blurry. It's possible I curl into a ball right here, upon hearing the words "pluck out." (Maybe, amidst their perusal of biology textbooks, medical students should also be required to study a thesaurus for more benign terminology. The words "pluck out," along with the words "I need to probe the wound," once uttered by an ER physician after my Life-Threatening Dishwashing Accident of 1986, are not highly recommended.)
I yank my hand away and cradle it against my chest. "But then, the fingernail will grow back, right?"
The doctor shrugs. "Perhaps. Or you might just be left with scar tissue."
I'm not certain what more pleasant term exists for a finger forever devoid of a nail, but I'm fairly certain I will find a better one than "scar tissue" once I consult my thesaurus.
First, however, I stop at the pharmacy to fill my prescription. While there, I pick up a package of press-on nails. And a strong pair of tweezers.
I figure I can handle any at-home surgery now. After all, I am a Google-certified physician.
But you can bet I won't weigh myself first.
That should eliminate half the pain.
Tell me my fingernail is a survivor. Tell me you Google-treat your own medical issues. Tell me I'm not an idiot. (OK, maybe that's reaching.)
Monday, February 21, 2011
Cross-Country with the Cursed
Our flight's booked. Our rental car secured. Our pet-sitters lined up. The only item yet remaining before next month's vacation to Florida with my mother is my mental preparation: for Mom's inevitable Vacation Medical Catastrophe.
Glo's general health is not the issue. The woman seldom gets a headache or a cold, and I'd venture to guess she'll someday be the one visiting my sorry ass in the nursing home. She is, as my German maternal grandfather used to say, "Strong like an ox."
Until she decides to fly the friendly skies.
The Gods of Mishaps and Maladies apparently keep close tabs on Glo's travel calendar. Her friends and family have all caught on to this by now. Still, she persists in scheduling vacations and continues to convince some naive sucker among us into tagging along.
First, we witnessed the Grand Canyon Fiasco of 2004. A pleasurable enough summer vacation, what with our visiting one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World and all. And Glo was her usual amicable and entertaining self. Except for her nonstop complaints about the oppressive heat and all the walking. And her 15-minute intervals of coughing spasms. And her 15-minute-spaced runs to the ladies room. The Grand Canyon may be beautiful, but I could expound much further about the views from Arizona's restroom lobbies.
No great surprise, Glo's coughing, breathlessness and weakened control of bodily functions, considering her doctor's diagnosis after we returned home. I'd guess any vacation might be marred by a freaking case of pneumonia.
Oh, but that one trip was a fluke, surely, we thought. A minor blip in the whole scheme of Glorious vacation possibilities.
We're a sadistically optimistic bunch.
Flash ahead a couple years. My mom, my two sisters and I planned a long weekend to New York City to celebrate Glo's 70th birthday. We made it as far as the Detroit Metro airport before the trip's little hiccup. Those moving sidewalks in the terminal do indeed hasten your trip to your departure gate. Unless, of course, you're facing backward while riding, engaged in mindless conversation and paying no attention whatsoever to the sidewalk's end.
Glo mastered a perfect back-flip before crashing to the floor.
Daughters (crying in unison): "Mom! Mom! Are you alright?"
Glo: "Uhh."
Daughters: "Oh my God! Help, help!" We waved wildly for medical assistance, an unnecessary gesture since a lawsuit-leery crew was already enroute, their cart's emergency lights flashing and siren blaring.
Glo: "No, no, just let me lie here." (You've heard those Jewish mother jokes, concluding with "No, I'll just lie here, alone, in the dark." Yeah. Glo would be the German-Catholic version.) She finally agreed to wheelchair transportation to our gate, just minutes before the plane took off.
Once we were in NYC, Glo hobbled and held her hip as we attempted to walk through Central Park and Times Square. In between heavy sighs and eye-rolls, we three daughters did entertain a worry or two. We agreed to take taxis whenever possible, even if it required us to take out second-mortgages on our houses. A week after we returned home, Glo finally visited the Urgent Care Center. An X-ray revealed she fractured her femur bone.
Yes. Of course she did.
This was followed, a year later, by her misstep at a party in Florida. (She insists that I note here that she was totally sober at the time. OK then. I have thus so noted.) The very same night at the VERY same party, her best friend also took a fall. (Her friend's sobriety is still unconfirmed.) The two of them enjoyed a tag-team visit to the ER. Glo was treated for a cracked rib, while her friend received numerous stitches in her forehead.
And so now, the vacation calamities appear to be contagious. Seriously. Why would anyone venture to take another trip with this woman?
Glo didn't manage to even make it to the airport for her most recent scheduled vacation, this past fall. As they neared Detroit, she began hemorrhaging uncontrollably from her nose. With blood spurting all over the car, they pulled into a gas station restroom. She depleted the entire supply of paper towels and a bag of ice while attempting to stop the bleeding, to no avail, before they headed back to a hospital in Toledo. She lost a lot of blood but somehow managed to keep her humor: She said Detroit police are probably still busy searching for a butchered body.
Vacation curses and all, she's a trooper, that mother of mine. She's managed tours of the Grand Canyon and walks through Central Park amidst circumstances which would leave most people bedridden.
Still, I'm not placing any bets on this upcoming trip. I'm paying for travel insurance. I'm tucking a first-aid kit in my luggage. I'm carrying my own medical insurance card.
And I'm packing a big bottle of vodka.
If my mother's managed all these horrors while sober, I think she at least deserves to endure one while half-drunk.
And no one should have to self-medicate alone.
Any travel horror stories to share? Suggestions of survival tactics? Extra vodka?
Glo's general health is not the issue. The woman seldom gets a headache or a cold, and I'd venture to guess she'll someday be the one visiting my sorry ass in the nursing home. She is, as my German maternal grandfather used to say, "Strong like an ox."
Until she decides to fly the friendly skies.
The Gods of Mishaps and Maladies apparently keep close tabs on Glo's travel calendar. Her friends and family have all caught on to this by now. Still, she persists in scheduling vacations and continues to convince some naive sucker among us into tagging along.
First, we witnessed the Grand Canyon Fiasco of 2004. A pleasurable enough summer vacation, what with our visiting one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World and all. And Glo was her usual amicable and entertaining self. Except for her nonstop complaints about the oppressive heat and all the walking. And her 15-minute intervals of coughing spasms. And her 15-minute-spaced runs to the ladies room. The Grand Canyon may be beautiful, but I could expound much further about the views from Arizona's restroom lobbies.
No great surprise, Glo's coughing, breathlessness and weakened control of bodily functions, considering her doctor's diagnosis after we returned home. I'd guess any vacation might be marred by a freaking case of pneumonia.
Oh, but that one trip was a fluke, surely, we thought. A minor blip in the whole scheme of Glorious vacation possibilities.
We're a sadistically optimistic bunch.
Flash ahead a couple years. My mom, my two sisters and I planned a long weekend to New York City to celebrate Glo's 70th birthday. We made it as far as the Detroit Metro airport before the trip's little hiccup. Those moving sidewalks in the terminal do indeed hasten your trip to your departure gate. Unless, of course, you're facing backward while riding, engaged in mindless conversation and paying no attention whatsoever to the sidewalk's end.
Glo mastered a perfect back-flip before crashing to the floor.
Daughters (crying in unison): "Mom! Mom! Are you alright?"
Glo: "Uhh."
Daughters: "Oh my God! Help, help!" We waved wildly for medical assistance, an unnecessary gesture since a lawsuit-leery crew was already enroute, their cart's emergency lights flashing and siren blaring.
Glo: "No, no, just let me lie here." (You've heard those Jewish mother jokes, concluding with "No, I'll just lie here, alone, in the dark." Yeah. Glo would be the German-Catholic version.) She finally agreed to wheelchair transportation to our gate, just minutes before the plane took off.
Once we were in NYC, Glo hobbled and held her hip as we attempted to walk through Central Park and Times Square. In between heavy sighs and eye-rolls, we three daughters did entertain a worry or two. We agreed to take taxis whenever possible, even if it required us to take out second-mortgages on our houses. A week after we returned home, Glo finally visited the Urgent Care Center. An X-ray revealed she fractured her femur bone.
Yes. Of course she did.
This was followed, a year later, by her misstep at a party in Florida. (She insists that I note here that she was totally sober at the time. OK then. I have thus so noted.) The very same night at the VERY same party, her best friend also took a fall. (Her friend's sobriety is still unconfirmed.) The two of them enjoyed a tag-team visit to the ER. Glo was treated for a cracked rib, while her friend received numerous stitches in her forehead.
And so now, the vacation calamities appear to be contagious. Seriously. Why would anyone venture to take another trip with this woman?
Glo didn't manage to even make it to the airport for her most recent scheduled vacation, this past fall. As they neared Detroit, she began hemorrhaging uncontrollably from her nose. With blood spurting all over the car, they pulled into a gas station restroom. She depleted the entire supply of paper towels and a bag of ice while attempting to stop the bleeding, to no avail, before they headed back to a hospital in Toledo. She lost a lot of blood but somehow managed to keep her humor: She said Detroit police are probably still busy searching for a butchered body.
Vacation curses and all, she's a trooper, that mother of mine. She's managed tours of the Grand Canyon and walks through Central Park amidst circumstances which would leave most people bedridden.
Still, I'm not placing any bets on this upcoming trip. I'm paying for travel insurance. I'm tucking a first-aid kit in my luggage. I'm carrying my own medical insurance card.
And I'm packing a big bottle of vodka.
If my mother's managed all these horrors while sober, I think she at least deserves to endure one while half-drunk.
And no one should have to self-medicate alone.
Any travel horror stories to share? Suggestions of survival tactics? Extra vodka?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)