This particular Did this really just happen? moment is one I am sure everyone can relate to. There was a time that the only automated voice you could expect to hear on the other side of a phone call was the time and temperature lady. Now, everything you call is automated. Having suffered the frustration more than once myself, I can say I understand the pain. The particular call I am about to relate was by far the worst/best example (depending on how you look at it) I have ever witnessed.
Recently, I was privy to this call:
Senior Citizen: Three attempts at dialing the correct number and then success! at last.
Disembodied Voice: Welcome! greeting, followed by list of options and a notification to speak your answers clearly.
SC: Three.
DV: Welcome to the information center. First, in order to access your information, I will need to ask you some questions in order to verify your identity. You may speak your answers. May I have your FIRST name.
SC: Senior.
DV: I will- I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Welcome to the information center. First, in order to access your information, I will need to ask you some questions in order to verify your identity. You may speak your answers. May I have your FIRST name. I will-
SC: SENIOR.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Welcome to the information center. First-
SC: Indistinguishable mutters and curses. (As you can see, this is already going rapidly down hill.)
DV: May I have your FIRST name. I will need you to speak your name clearly and then spell it. For example-
SC: Senior. S-e-
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Welcome to the-
SC: Veins are beginning to bulge on the sides of his temples, a sheen of sweat is forming over his brow, and he is searching through his meds for a nerve pill.
DV: I will need you to speak your name clearly and then spell it. For example: if your name is John, you would say, 'John, J-o-h-n.' You may begin now.
SC: Having finally caught on, he is waiting to see if there is anything more before he speaks.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. You must first speak your name clearly and then spell it. For example: if your name is Irene, you would say, 'Irene, I-r-e-n-e.' You may begin now.
(Yes, she gave different examples each time, way to invest the tax payer's money.)
SC: Senior. S-e-n-i-o-r.
DV: I heard, 'Senior, S-e-n-i-o-r.' Is that right?
SC: Yes.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. I heard, 'Senior, S-e-n-i-o-r.' Is that right?
SC: YES!
DV: Okay, Senior. Now I will need you to speak your LAST name and then spell it. For example-
SC: Citizen. C-i-t-i-z-e-n.
DV: If your- I'm sorry. I didn't get that.
SC: More cursing.
DV: Now I will need you to speak your LAST name and then spell it. For example, if your last name is Barrett, you would say, 'Barrett. B-a-r-r-e-t-t.' You may begin now.
(Does anyone REALLY NEED an example of how to spell their own name???)
CS: Citizen. C-i-t-i-z-e-n.
DV: I heard, Cititen, C-i-t-i-t-e-n. Is that right?
CS: No.
DV: I'm sorry. Let's try this again. You must speak your LAST name and then spell it-
(At this point I am starting to feel his aneurism. He is more than ten minutes into the phone call, and thanks to Miss Gabby-pants Auto-speak, he hasn't even gotten his name out yet.)
DV: You may begin now.
CS: Citizen. C-i-t-i-Z-e-n.
(Thank God his name isn't Ptolemy..... we'd be here until the next century.)
DV: I heard, 'Citizen, C-i-t-i-z-e-n.' Is that right?
CS: Yes.
DV: All right. We are halfway there.
(Halfway? You have a NAME and we are HALF way? Really??? You won't be asking much then will you?)
DV: Next, I will need your Social Security number. You may speak or dial the number in. You may begin now.
CS: Smartly chose the second option.
DV: All right. I have found you in our database. I will need to ask you a security question in order to verify your identity. You may speak the answer. What is your mother's maiden name? That means-
CS: Doe.
DV: I'm sorry. I didn't get that. Let me return you to the main menu.
CS: NO, NO, NO!!!
(Apparently, there is a three strike rule. And he was outta there!)
CS: DISTINGUISHABLE cursing.
DV: Welcome, greeting, options list.
CS: Three.
(He's starting to sound a little weaker now. I think she broke him.)
DV: Blah, blah, blah, first name.
CS: (Very cautiously playing by the rules, he's already had his knuckles cracked once by the ruler toting nun of an automated voice.) Senior, S-e-n-i-o-r.
DV: (Sounding happier, bubbly even. I know it's a robot, but I would swear she is thrilled to have him so cowed.) Blah, blah, blah, last name.
CS: (Still not taking any chances.) Citizen. C-i-t-i-z-e-n.
DV: Blah, blah, blah. What is your mother's maiden name? That means the name she had BEFORE she was married.
(REALLY? I did NOT know that. These examples are soooo helpful. I have to send them an e-mail and tell them to keep up the good work!)
DV: For example: if her name was Martin, you would say, 'Martin. M-a-r-t-i-n.' You may begin now.
CS: (Pause. Waiting. Okay, jumping in with both feet.) Doe. D-o-e.
DV: I heard, 'Doe, D-o-e.' Is that right?
CS: Yes. Yes, thank God, YES!
DV: All right, now we have accessed your vital information, let's begin. What can I do for you today?
(Let's begin? BEGIN??)
CS: I've forgotten why I called.
DV: Do you want the main menu?
(I know it's a robot, I KNOW, but I SWEAR, it was a threat akin to, 'Do you want to go to your room without dinner, mister?')
CS: No, no, dear God, for the love of all that is holy and good, NOOOOOOOO!!
DV: All right. What can I do for you today?
CS: Change of address.
DV: All right. First I will need to verify your old address.
(Let me just break in here to point out that at this point Senior had already invested more than twenty minutes into this phone call, the sole purpose of which was to change his address. He was now beginning to realize that it would have been simpler to fly to his old home and get his mail.)
CS: verifies old address, which surprisingly went very well
DV: All right. Now, I will need you to speak your new address. Blah, blah, blah, you may begin now.
(Again I must break in to tell you that in Indiana many addresses are directional. We have the distinct misfortune of having one of these.)
CS: 123 West, 456 South.
DV: I heard, '123 West Union Street Suite B?' Is that right?
CS: No.
DV: Okay. Let's try again. Blah, blah, blah, you may begin now.
CS: 123 West, 456 South.
DV: I heard, '123 West Union Street Suite B.' Is that right?
CS: NO.
DV: Okay. Let's try again. Blah, blah, blah, you may begin now.
CS: 123 W, 456 S. (Which is how it is printed for mailing purposes, a last ditch effort on his part. It didn't work.)
DV: I'm sorry. I don't understand you. Please return to the main menu. Pause. Welcome.
CS: AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!
(Not sure which one of us stroked out there, but after some time we realized there was a dial tone coming from his phone.) Senior popped a few nerve pills, beat his head into the end table repeatedly, then sat babbling in a corner. I joined him.
My husband, my knight in shining armor, rode to the rescue. Within seconds he had hopped online, and with the flourish of the mouse and a couple of clicks, he had changed the address. It took about one and a half minutes. Not even once was he sent back to the main menu.
Here's a BIG (y) Potty-con to you hubby, you earned it!!
Monday, February 20, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
A Tale of Two Kitties
The one thing that is certain, is that if you know me, there is a very great likelihood that you will inevitably be written about in this blog. Having forewarned you, I will continue. One of the things that has been on my mind lately, are those 'Did this really just happen,' moments that make me laugh. Such as this one. What follows is an absolutely true story, in which I will change the names to protect the identity of everyone involved. However, suffice it to say, I am not exaggerating in any way. But this made me laugh when it happened, and I still laugh about it years later.
There was a woman, who I will call Nan. Nan was an older woman, in her seventies at the time. She was asked to 'cat sit' while the owners of some particularly obnoxious cats went on vacation. Now when I say obnoxious, I mean these cats, if they were human, would make the Kardashians, the "real Housewives' and Nancy Grace far more tolerable people in retrospect.
The first cat, the eldest, I shall call Hilton, since she has the same frail, emaciated physique of Paris Hilton and all of her endearing qualities to boot. Come on, who doesn't love Paris Hilton? The cat flounces (arthritically) around the house as if she owns the joint, and if she deigns to look your way it is with such derision that you actually feel guilty for having intruded upon her royal presence.
The second cat, now that's the one you want to watch out for. That cat, who I shall call Falco, (the birth name of David Berkowitz, Son of Sam), has all the same qualities of a serial killer. This particular cat likes to lay in wait of any unsuspecting visitors in the house. At any given opportunity, Falco will attack for no apparent reason, (aside from the sheer joy she derives from disemboweling her victim), and she becomes a feral thing, all teeth and claws and spit and yowls. It's so much fun. Tee fricken hee.
Personally, I believe every person who enters that particular home should be outfitted with a full out hockey goalie uniform. And a can of mace.
Just saying.
So anyway, Nan, who, even at her age was as tough as nails and could take on a band of terrorists single-handedly and come out on top, agreed to take on this perilous appointment, though with some reservations.
Now, just put aside for the time being, that there is a killer cat on the loose, stalking Nan's every move (if you can anyway), and take this in. As if things weren't difficult enough, having to avoid one cat outfitted like Rambo in the jungles of Vietnam who wants you dead, dead, dead, skewered on the ends of her claws and dead, (I can't possibly make this any clearer), (and yes I know this is a run on sentence getting longer by the minute), while at the same time suffering the disdain of the decrepit one who looks like she might keel over any second, (someone give her a burger please!), on top of all of that, these two cats had particular nutritional needs besides. For this reason, the two cats had to be fed separately. Falco received her kitty kibble in the kitchen, while Hilton's elderly kitty mush was delivered to the bathroom for her supreme highness's approval. There she would sit and stare at the bowl as if deciding it's worthiness of her consumption. And often, true fact, her 'mother' would hand feed it to her. (Something Nan refused to do. Right there witcha, Nan!)
Now, as much as Hilton had to be convinced, cajoled, connived and coddled into eating, Falco had no such reservations. Given the opportunity, she would race into the bathroom and bolt the mush down as if it were goose liver pâté and caviar (which it might have been for all I know). If Falco had had her way, Hilton's death by starvation would have been accomplished some time ago.
Okay, now you've got the set up. On with the Tale of Two Kitties.(Ha ha- couldn't resist!)
The first morning, Nan let herself into the home with her key and set about feeding Falco first. Smart move on her part, distracting Falco with food whilst she made her escape. She should have put a little Ambian in it. She would have had all the time in the world to get away while Falco was snoozing, dreaming little kitty dreams of gutting Nan like a fish.
But alas, kitty was no where to be found. All the 'here kitty kitty's' in the world weren't bringing her to ground. So Nan set about feeding kitty number two. She headed for the bathroom to prepare Hilton's mush, and there she found Falco laying in wait. Literally.
You see, there was a shelf in that bathroom where Hilton ate. And Falco was sitting on it.
Falco eyed Nan. Nan eyed Falco. They were measuring each other up. Falco found Nan wanting. Nan was pretty sure she could take Falco.
Hilton was sitting in the hallway taking it all in. No doubt wondering if it would be mush on the menu or entrails.
Nan ordered Falco sternly out of the room. Falco squinted her eyes at Nan. Nan ordered her again. Falco hissed. Nan reached a hand out to nudge Falco.
Now I have to say, with any ordinary cat this might work. But we are talking about Falco. She has notches in her gun belt that even she can't remember who she killed to get them. A cat like this, a friendly nudge just ain't gonna cut it. Not unless you're delivering it with a wrecking ball. Even then I have my doubts.
Naturally, Falco took this as a challenge and the fight was on. She reared back and delivered her first blow, complete with an ear-shattering howl. Five claws raked down the side of Nan's arm actually tearing through her shirt and the thermal one underneath. Had she not been thus armored, she would certainly have been visiting the ER for some brandy-spankin' new stitches. Luckily for her, the gods were on her side. And the ball was now in her court.
She grabbed the first thing she saw, a book on the back of the toilet, and whomped Falco a good one, knocking her off the shelf.
Falco, stunned and defeated, flew from the bathroom still hissing and spitting, but determined to live to fight another day.
Shaken, Nan sat on the toilet, and for the first time read the cover of the book.
'Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover's Soul.'
Somehow we don't think her story will make the book. But it made the blog!
There was a woman, who I will call Nan. Nan was an older woman, in her seventies at the time. She was asked to 'cat sit' while the owners of some particularly obnoxious cats went on vacation. Now when I say obnoxious, I mean these cats, if they were human, would make the Kardashians, the "real Housewives' and Nancy Grace far more tolerable people in retrospect.
The first cat, the eldest, I shall call Hilton, since she has the same frail, emaciated physique of Paris Hilton and all of her endearing qualities to boot. Come on, who doesn't love Paris Hilton? The cat flounces (arthritically) around the house as if she owns the joint, and if she deigns to look your way it is with such derision that you actually feel guilty for having intruded upon her royal presence.
The second cat, now that's the one you want to watch out for. That cat, who I shall call Falco, (the birth name of David Berkowitz, Son of Sam), has all the same qualities of a serial killer. This particular cat likes to lay in wait of any unsuspecting visitors in the house. At any given opportunity, Falco will attack for no apparent reason, (aside from the sheer joy she derives from disemboweling her victim), and she becomes a feral thing, all teeth and claws and spit and yowls. It's so much fun. Tee fricken hee.
Personally, I believe every person who enters that particular home should be outfitted with a full out hockey goalie uniform. And a can of mace.
Just saying.
So anyway, Nan, who, even at her age was as tough as nails and could take on a band of terrorists single-handedly and come out on top, agreed to take on this perilous appointment, though with some reservations.
Now, just put aside for the time being, that there is a killer cat on the loose, stalking Nan's every move (if you can anyway), and take this in. As if things weren't difficult enough, having to avoid one cat outfitted like Rambo in the jungles of Vietnam who wants you dead, dead, dead, skewered on the ends of her claws and dead, (I can't possibly make this any clearer), (and yes I know this is a run on sentence getting longer by the minute), while at the same time suffering the disdain of the decrepit one who looks like she might keel over any second, (someone give her a burger please!), on top of all of that, these two cats had particular nutritional needs besides. For this reason, the two cats had to be fed separately. Falco received her kitty kibble in the kitchen, while Hilton's elderly kitty mush was delivered to the bathroom for her supreme highness's approval. There she would sit and stare at the bowl as if deciding it's worthiness of her consumption. And often, true fact, her 'mother' would hand feed it to her. (Something Nan refused to do. Right there witcha, Nan!)
Now, as much as Hilton had to be convinced, cajoled, connived and coddled into eating, Falco had no such reservations. Given the opportunity, she would race into the bathroom and bolt the mush down as if it were goose liver pâté and caviar (which it might have been for all I know). If Falco had had her way, Hilton's death by starvation would have been accomplished some time ago.
Okay, now you've got the set up. On with the Tale of Two Kitties.(Ha ha- couldn't resist!)
The first morning, Nan let herself into the home with her key and set about feeding Falco first. Smart move on her part, distracting Falco with food whilst she made her escape. She should have put a little Ambian in it. She would have had all the time in the world to get away while Falco was snoozing, dreaming little kitty dreams of gutting Nan like a fish.
But alas, kitty was no where to be found. All the 'here kitty kitty's' in the world weren't bringing her to ground. So Nan set about feeding kitty number two. She headed for the bathroom to prepare Hilton's mush, and there she found Falco laying in wait. Literally.
You see, there was a shelf in that bathroom where Hilton ate. And Falco was sitting on it.
Falco eyed Nan. Nan eyed Falco. They were measuring each other up. Falco found Nan wanting. Nan was pretty sure she could take Falco.
Hilton was sitting in the hallway taking it all in. No doubt wondering if it would be mush on the menu or entrails.
Nan ordered Falco sternly out of the room. Falco squinted her eyes at Nan. Nan ordered her again. Falco hissed. Nan reached a hand out to nudge Falco.
Now I have to say, with any ordinary cat this might work. But we are talking about Falco. She has notches in her gun belt that even she can't remember who she killed to get them. A cat like this, a friendly nudge just ain't gonna cut it. Not unless you're delivering it with a wrecking ball. Even then I have my doubts.
Naturally, Falco took this as a challenge and the fight was on. She reared back and delivered her first blow, complete with an ear-shattering howl. Five claws raked down the side of Nan's arm actually tearing through her shirt and the thermal one underneath. Had she not been thus armored, she would certainly have been visiting the ER for some brandy-spankin' new stitches. Luckily for her, the gods were on her side. And the ball was now in her court.
She grabbed the first thing she saw, a book on the back of the toilet, and whomped Falco a good one, knocking her off the shelf.
Falco, stunned and defeated, flew from the bathroom still hissing and spitting, but determined to live to fight another day.
Shaken, Nan sat on the toilet, and for the first time read the cover of the book.
'Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover's Soul.'
Somehow we don't think her story will make the book. But it made the blog!
Saturday, February 4, 2012
STOOP Rant
Dear STOOP, (Shopper Totally Oblivious of Other People),
I know you. I remember you from the parking lot. When I was sitting there for seven solid minutes, with my blinker ticking merrily away, patiently waiting for the little old lady to perform a perfect eighteen point turn in order to extricate her pint-sized vehicle from its better than average parking spot. And then you, Stoop, you came out of nowhere, and before her tailpipe had fully exited the spot, you had swooped in, taking my spot right out from under me.
Then you had the audacity to look surprised as you exited your own car and pretended to see me for the first time. There I was, stunned myself, still sitting there, blinker ticking rhythmically away. Not so merrily now. More like the sound of a time bomb. And you were shocked.
Shocked? Really? Why were you shocked? Were you suddenly struck by some kind of reverse tunnel vision, where you could only see peripherally, while anything that was dead ahead was swallowed in blinding darkness? Or had I accidentally forgotten to take down my Invisibility Shield? What exactly was it that had caused you to miss my OBVIOUS presence?
But, I decided to let bygones be bygones, and as I slogged the two slushy miles from my new, far less convenient parking spot, I was determined not to hold a grudge. I decided you must have needed that spot more than me for reasons I didn't know.
Okay, I will admit that the thought crossed my mind that fate was saving me from some unforeseen doom. Like space junk suddenly falling out of the sky and landing on exactly that spot, crushing your vehicle to smithereens. What? It's not unheard of.
Then, just when I had finally forgiven you, (not forgiven exactly, but at least I was no longer daydreaming about your car squashed and fully engulfed in a fiery inferno), there you were. Ten feet from the check out lane. The twelve items or less check out. And there I was, five feet away and carrying one measly little gallon of milk. No bread. No eggs. Just one little item. While you were pushing a cart loaded down with no less than twenty things, and one small child.
Our eyes met. The gauntlet was thrown. I picked up my pace. You threw on the afterburners. And somehow, SOMEHOW, you got there before me. Though there was some collateral damage. Your eggs were crushed when half a dozen soup cans fell on top of them. The bread too.
You positioned your cart as if nothing untoward had happened and began to unload, carefully avoiding my gaze until the crucial moment when your first item was placed on the belt, thus claiming it as your own. And then you had the nerve, the gall, the chutzpah to shoot me that same look of innocent shock from the parking lot. Your face says, "Oh my, did I just cut you off? I am so terribly sorry!" While your brain says, "Ha! Beat ya to it beyotch!"
Yeah. I got your number. And your number, (since I AM counting), is twenty-one. Twenty-one items in the twelve or less. I don't care if two of them are loaves of bread and six are cans of soup. Like items do not combine to make one, or the sign would read 12 Items or Less, OR 21 Like Items or Less. It doesn't.
Then I waited while someone was sent to retrieve a new, unbroken dozen of eggs.
And if that wasn't enough, instead of cash, or a credit card, or a debit card, (all perfectly reasonable forms of payment in an express lane), you pulled out a check book. A check book?! And started, I can't reiterate this enough, STARTED, to write a check.
Now if it was me, and I was planning on using the express lane to check out, and was planning on writing a check (really???), I would at least have all but the amount filled out. But no. Not you, Stoop. For you these measures are unnecessary.
I won't even further the rant by mentioning how you acted at the gas station. Oh, who am I kidding, yes, I most certainly will. You pulled up to the first pump (instead of pulling through to the second like anyone with an ounce of sense would do), leaving me to wait while you pumped your gas, and then went inside to pay. And use the bathroom. And purchase a cappuccino. And possibly make one or two phone calls. Maybe even restock their shelves for them. Generous spirit that you are. Either way, by the time you returned to your car, the gas price had changed twice and I had forgotten why I was there in the first place.
My point is, I live in a different world. I actually suffer from a guilty conscience when I inconvenience someone. And I go out of my way to try to avoid it. Not just because I hate to feel ashamed. But because it's the right thing to do.
And so, in all fairness, I am writing you this letter. Not to complain, whine, or bemoan the incidents of our past, but because, I feel obliged as a fellow human being, not to inconvenience you in any manner. And so, I'm letting you know, I will be shopping today. I'm not stopping for gas and I don't care where I park. I have only one item on my list. It is Midol. Today is a BAD day to write a check. Just thought you should know.
I know you. I remember you from the parking lot. When I was sitting there for seven solid minutes, with my blinker ticking merrily away, patiently waiting for the little old lady to perform a perfect eighteen point turn in order to extricate her pint-sized vehicle from its better than average parking spot. And then you, Stoop, you came out of nowhere, and before her tailpipe had fully exited the spot, you had swooped in, taking my spot right out from under me.
Then you had the audacity to look surprised as you exited your own car and pretended to see me for the first time. There I was, stunned myself, still sitting there, blinker ticking rhythmically away. Not so merrily now. More like the sound of a time bomb. And you were shocked.
Shocked? Really? Why were you shocked? Were you suddenly struck by some kind of reverse tunnel vision, where you could only see peripherally, while anything that was dead ahead was swallowed in blinding darkness? Or had I accidentally forgotten to take down my Invisibility Shield? What exactly was it that had caused you to miss my OBVIOUS presence?
But, I decided to let bygones be bygones, and as I slogged the two slushy miles from my new, far less convenient parking spot, I was determined not to hold a grudge. I decided you must have needed that spot more than me for reasons I didn't know.
Okay, I will admit that the thought crossed my mind that fate was saving me from some unforeseen doom. Like space junk suddenly falling out of the sky and landing on exactly that spot, crushing your vehicle to smithereens. What? It's not unheard of.
Then, just when I had finally forgiven you, (not forgiven exactly, but at least I was no longer daydreaming about your car squashed and fully engulfed in a fiery inferno), there you were. Ten feet from the check out lane. The twelve items or less check out. And there I was, five feet away and carrying one measly little gallon of milk. No bread. No eggs. Just one little item. While you were pushing a cart loaded down with no less than twenty things, and one small child.
Our eyes met. The gauntlet was thrown. I picked up my pace. You threw on the afterburners. And somehow, SOMEHOW, you got there before me. Though there was some collateral damage. Your eggs were crushed when half a dozen soup cans fell on top of them. The bread too.
You positioned your cart as if nothing untoward had happened and began to unload, carefully avoiding my gaze until the crucial moment when your first item was placed on the belt, thus claiming it as your own. And then you had the nerve, the gall, the chutzpah to shoot me that same look of innocent shock from the parking lot. Your face says, "Oh my, did I just cut you off? I am so terribly sorry!" While your brain says, "Ha! Beat ya to it beyotch!"
Yeah. I got your number. And your number, (since I AM counting), is twenty-one. Twenty-one items in the twelve or less. I don't care if two of them are loaves of bread and six are cans of soup. Like items do not combine to make one, or the sign would read 12 Items or Less, OR 21 Like Items or Less. It doesn't.
Then I waited while someone was sent to retrieve a new, unbroken dozen of eggs.
And if that wasn't enough, instead of cash, or a credit card, or a debit card, (all perfectly reasonable forms of payment in an express lane), you pulled out a check book. A check book?! And started, I can't reiterate this enough, STARTED, to write a check.
Now if it was me, and I was planning on using the express lane to check out, and was planning on writing a check (really???), I would at least have all but the amount filled out. But no. Not you, Stoop. For you these measures are unnecessary.
I won't even further the rant by mentioning how you acted at the gas station. Oh, who am I kidding, yes, I most certainly will. You pulled up to the first pump (instead of pulling through to the second like anyone with an ounce of sense would do), leaving me to wait while you pumped your gas, and then went inside to pay. And use the bathroom. And purchase a cappuccino. And possibly make one or two phone calls. Maybe even restock their shelves for them. Generous spirit that you are. Either way, by the time you returned to your car, the gas price had changed twice and I had forgotten why I was there in the first place.
My point is, I live in a different world. I actually suffer from a guilty conscience when I inconvenience someone. And I go out of my way to try to avoid it. Not just because I hate to feel ashamed. But because it's the right thing to do.
And so, in all fairness, I am writing you this letter. Not to complain, whine, or bemoan the incidents of our past, but because, I feel obliged as a fellow human being, not to inconvenience you in any manner. And so, I'm letting you know, I will be shopping today. I'm not stopping for gas and I don't care where I park. I have only one item on my list. It is Midol. Today is a BAD day to write a check. Just thought you should know.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
The Miserable Bucket aka Miss V Rides Again aka We Are Eggs
Recently, I was given the opportunity to check off one of the many items on my bucket list. Without going into very much detail, this opportunity came via my daughter who invited me to join her choir which was planning to do a production of one of my all-time favorite musicals, Les Miserables. Long story short, I did, and I have been very much enjoying it. Enter Miss V. Yep, Miss V rides again. Miss V is also a member of the choir. Last night, auditions were being held for various solos in the upcoming production. Those of us who were not auditioning (myself and Miss V included among them), were just standing around chatting, waiting for the audition process to be over and choir practice to begin.
I'm not really certain how the conversation began, but at some point, a question was directed at Miss V.
UP (Unknown Person): "Did you already audition?"
Miss V: "No. I'm not auditioning."
UP: "Why not?"
Helpful Mother (aka Me): "But, you have a beautiful voice."
Miss V: "Oh, I can sing. I just don't have a soloist type of voice."
Helpful Mother: "I know what you mean. That's me."
Miss V: "Yeah, I have a choir voice. I'm good at blending. I'm like-"
Suddenly, she seemed to be at a loss for words, as if she weren't quite sure how to describe what she meant.
And I knew. I knew that I completely understood where she was coming from, and being the ever helpful mother that I am, I quickly jumped in to save her, throwing her the life preserver I was so certain she was searching for. Giving her the gift of my wisdom. And my strangely offbeat analogy.
Helpful Mother: "We're eggs."
Dead silence reigned. Followed by a burst of laughter. Thanks Miss V. Appreciate the support.
Miss V: "That sooo has to go on your blog."
Uh huh. So here I am putting it on my blog.
Helpful Mother: "No, what I mean is, we're like eggs. We're good at making puddings, and cakes, and cookies. But, on our own, we're kind of bland. We need ketchup or Tabasco sauce, or something."
Miss V: "A little salt and pepper to give us flavor. 'Cause we are so bland."
Yep. We're bland. Sorry Miss V, didn't mean to call you bland.
But she got even.
Minutes later, she was playing with my hair, which, for once, wasn't all bound up in a pony tail.
Miss V: "Your hair is so soft."
Helpful Mother: "Thank-"
Miss V: "And I love the gray. It's makes you look so distinguished."
Re-enter dead silence, followed by more laughter.
My Daughter: "Oh, that's great, Miss V! That's just like saying, 'I love those wrinkles. They make you look so experienced.' "
Miss V: "No, no! That's not what I meant!"
It's okay Miss V. You are an egg. You are bland. I am an egg. A gray, wrinkled, shriveled up, bland, bland egg. Good thing I'm working on fulfilling that bucket list. That damn bucket's getting closer and closer by the minute. I will now have nightmares of giant buckets chasing me with eggbeaters and screaming with little French accents, "Non! Non! You must be een the omelette!! Een the omelette!!!"
I'm not really certain how the conversation began, but at some point, a question was directed at Miss V.
UP (Unknown Person): "Did you already audition?"
Miss V: "No. I'm not auditioning."
UP: "Why not?"
Helpful Mother (aka Me): "But, you have a beautiful voice."
Miss V: "Oh, I can sing. I just don't have a soloist type of voice."
Helpful Mother: "I know what you mean. That's me."
Miss V: "Yeah, I have a choir voice. I'm good at blending. I'm like-"
Suddenly, she seemed to be at a loss for words, as if she weren't quite sure how to describe what she meant.
And I knew. I knew that I completely understood where she was coming from, and being the ever helpful mother that I am, I quickly jumped in to save her, throwing her the life preserver I was so certain she was searching for. Giving her the gift of my wisdom. And my strangely offbeat analogy.
Helpful Mother: "We're eggs."
Dead silence reigned. Followed by a burst of laughter. Thanks Miss V. Appreciate the support.
Miss V: "That sooo has to go on your blog."
Uh huh. So here I am putting it on my blog.
Helpful Mother: "No, what I mean is, we're like eggs. We're good at making puddings, and cakes, and cookies. But, on our own, we're kind of bland. We need ketchup or Tabasco sauce, or something."
Miss V: "A little salt and pepper to give us flavor. 'Cause we are so bland."
Yep. We're bland. Sorry Miss V, didn't mean to call you bland.
But she got even.
Minutes later, she was playing with my hair, which, for once, wasn't all bound up in a pony tail.
Miss V: "Your hair is so soft."
Helpful Mother: "Thank-"
Miss V: "And I love the gray. It's makes you look so distinguished."
Re-enter dead silence, followed by more laughter.
My Daughter: "Oh, that's great, Miss V! That's just like saying, 'I love those wrinkles. They make you look so experienced.' "
Miss V: "No, no! That's not what I meant!"
It's okay Miss V. You are an egg. You are bland. I am an egg. A gray, wrinkled, shriveled up, bland, bland egg. Good thing I'm working on fulfilling that bucket list. That damn bucket's getting closer and closer by the minute. I will now have nightmares of giant buckets chasing me with eggbeaters and screaming with little French accents, "Non! Non! You must be een the omelette!! Een the omelette!!!"
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
My Daughter Helps Me Find A New Blog Subject A.K.A. Spa Day Gone Bad
I was drawing a blank as to what to write about for my new blog when I went to the spa for a facial. Now I have to preface this by saying, this is a first time experience. Having never been what you could call a "girly-girl," I have never had spa days. I've never had facials, nail appointments, massages, or any of the other spa services. I am lucky to get my hair cut once or twice a year, and only that because eventually the ponytail gets too heavy and starts to pull on my brain. For whatever reason, I am the mother to a girly-girl. She loves spas and all they entail. For that reason she became an esthetician. And I have to say she loves her profession and is exceedingly good at it. I arrived at the spa and had a short wait before being led back into a room that told me rather quickly that I was WAY out of my league here. A tomboy should never enter such a frou-frou space. But, fully intending to enjoy the experience (no matter how much every nerve in me screamed the opposite) and also to support my daughter's chosen profession, I was determined to stick it out. She came into the room and explained to me that I was to disrobe as much as I was comfortable with. I was wearing sweats and a long sleeved T-shirt, feeling pretty comfy already, no need to remove anything- and besides, am I getting an examination here, too??? What the heck did I sign up for??? I mean, I didn't remember checking the box for breast exam or scoliosis testing.... Okay, my heart rate was now double time.
"Take off my clothes?" I squawked. She proceeded to explain that most clients disrobed and wore a robe, but if I was more comfortable I could wear my sweats and maybe remove my shoes and disrobe from the waist up.
I needed further explanation. (I wonder if she's ever had a client so difficult before me?) "I'm getting a facial," I explained. "I thought that took place in kind of the face area. Already undressed. Ready to go. No false beard. No sunglasses. Let's get to it."
She took a deep breath, (I'm fairly certain it's the same one I used when she was a child and I was trying not to lose my temper with her. I wonder where she learned it from?) She explained part of the procedure was a shoulder rub (I'm in!) and something about the décolletage.
She left the room while I prepared myself, climbed into the pre-warmed table/bed, and awaited the fabulousness I was about to receive. She returned, dimmed the lights, and what followed was one of the most gloriously relaxing half hours I have EVER in my life experienced. I can tell you that I NEVER expected it to be so wonderful. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.
I laid there, cocooned in the wonderfully warm blankets while she applied various creams and cleansers (all for sensitive skin and hypo-allergenic since I have very sensitive skin). They felt amazing. We chatted a bit about the subject for my blog, and I told her that I was very much stuck for ideas and that I was leaning on her heavily for some new ones. She mentioned that she had several, and the conversation just sort of died off as I fell into the coma of relaxation she was providing. Before I knew it, it was over. And I was disappointed.
I dressed, somewhat dejectedly. And my daughter had to have noticed that dejection when I exited the room because she said, "So maybe for Mother's Day I could give you a one hour facial as a present." I couldn't say yes fast enough.
I returned home and went to bed early since I wasn't feeling altogether well, fighting off a cold as I was. Somewhere around three in the morning, I remember waking up because I was scratching my jaw and something wet was coming off under my nails. I was tired so I stayed in bed and continued to sleep. Repeatedly, through out the night, I woke up scratching various parts of my face and neck. Finally, morning came and I dragged myself out of bed and headed for the bathroom. The face I met in the mirror was not the one I remembered seeing the night before. It was more like a cross between Quasimoto and the Phantom of the Opera. The right side of my face was swollen and pulling down the corner of my eye and mouth. My entire face was a plethora of pus seeping sores mixed with a red bumpy rash, which led down my neck and into my décolletage. OMG! Did this really just happen??? I went for pampering and got a diaper rash.
My daughter, who had spent the night, was in the kitchen. I hurried to her to show her what had happened, after which I headed to the doctor's office to load up on steroids and anti-histamines.
Needless to say, I will NOT be getting a one hour facial for Mother's Day.
"Take off my clothes?" I squawked. She proceeded to explain that most clients disrobed and wore a robe, but if I was more comfortable I could wear my sweats and maybe remove my shoes and disrobe from the waist up.
I needed further explanation. (I wonder if she's ever had a client so difficult before me?) "I'm getting a facial," I explained. "I thought that took place in kind of the face area. Already undressed. Ready to go. No false beard. No sunglasses. Let's get to it."
She took a deep breath, (I'm fairly certain it's the same one I used when she was a child and I was trying not to lose my temper with her. I wonder where she learned it from?) She explained part of the procedure was a shoulder rub (I'm in!) and something about the décolletage.
She left the room while I prepared myself, climbed into the pre-warmed table/bed, and awaited the fabulousness I was about to receive. She returned, dimmed the lights, and what followed was one of the most gloriously relaxing half hours I have EVER in my life experienced. I can tell you that I NEVER expected it to be so wonderful. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.
I laid there, cocooned in the wonderfully warm blankets while she applied various creams and cleansers (all for sensitive skin and hypo-allergenic since I have very sensitive skin). They felt amazing. We chatted a bit about the subject for my blog, and I told her that I was very much stuck for ideas and that I was leaning on her heavily for some new ones. She mentioned that she had several, and the conversation just sort of died off as I fell into the coma of relaxation she was providing. Before I knew it, it was over. And I was disappointed.
I dressed, somewhat dejectedly. And my daughter had to have noticed that dejection when I exited the room because she said, "So maybe for Mother's Day I could give you a one hour facial as a present." I couldn't say yes fast enough.
I returned home and went to bed early since I wasn't feeling altogether well, fighting off a cold as I was. Somewhere around three in the morning, I remember waking up because I was scratching my jaw and something wet was coming off under my nails. I was tired so I stayed in bed and continued to sleep. Repeatedly, through out the night, I woke up scratching various parts of my face and neck. Finally, morning came and I dragged myself out of bed and headed for the bathroom. The face I met in the mirror was not the one I remembered seeing the night before. It was more like a cross between Quasimoto and the Phantom of the Opera. The right side of my face was swollen and pulling down the corner of my eye and mouth. My entire face was a plethora of pus seeping sores mixed with a red bumpy rash, which led down my neck and into my décolletage. OMG! Did this really just happen??? I went for pampering and got a diaper rash.
My daughter, who had spent the night, was in the kitchen. I hurried to her to show her what had happened, after which I headed to the doctor's office to load up on steroids and anti-histamines.
Needless to say, I will NOT be getting a one hour facial for Mother's Day.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Emoti-Confusion A.K.A. Potty-Con
So this may be a little off topic, but I thought it was necessary to give you a broader idea of just what my family has to tolerate. And I guess, you could say these are some of their Did this really just happen? moments when dealing with me.
Let me start by explaining that I have not been caught up in the world of smart phones. (Surprised by this aren't you? I can tell.) I have no desire to own a phone that is smarter than I am. So, by comparison, my phone is pretty much the same one you see on the soup commercials. Now, I have to say, there are several advantages to such backward technology. Say my car breaks down and I get stranded out in the middle of nowhere and have to wait say three or four hours for a tow. Not only can I use my phone to call for help, but I can always just lick the residual soup gerb out of the inside of the can to sustain myself. "Woman Survives On Pea Soup Gerb, Film at Eleven!" (I would personally like to thank my husband for making my brain think this way.)
Anyway, my point is, in my world, blackberries are delicious on cereal, androids are a kind of robot, and iphone is just a typo in which you meant to say my phone. My Soup Phone has everything I need. I can make calls and receive them. I have five numbers on my speed dial, one of which is my Voicemail and came pre-programmed that way, but I'm counting it anyway. I can even text. But there's no sense in that since I text like someone has taped all my fingers together with duct tape and then stabbed me in the eyes with a sharp stick. For a long time I really wasn't aware how bad my texting was. Whenever I texted my kids, they seemed to take just as long, if not longer, to respond to me. However, I have since discovered, that they are something of savants when it comes to texting. I have personally witnessed them send out full paragraphs, utilizing proper punctuation, spelling, and zero shorthand, in the time it takes me to pull up my text function. So why is it taking so long for them to respond to me? Are they just putting me on the backburner because I am just the mother, and therefore, not nearly as important as, say, their friends?
As it turns out, no. That is not the reason. Apparently, the hold up is entirely my fault, as it takes them several minutes and usually some evaluation from innocent bystanders to decipher what I am saying. Now I get texts like, "Wtf Mom? What the heck is mmmbergorphgrl?"
Naturally, I call them back. It's easier than the ten to fifteen texts it will require to explain what I meant the first time, and then explain all my explaining. It's like the mirror trick. You know, the one where you look at yourself in a mirror with a mirror and it goes on forever? That's me and texting. So a quick phone call (which I should have done in the first place) saying, "I wanted to know if you wanted to come for dinner. Burgers. On the grill," is really the better way to go.
My son's response is usually something like, "Wow." My daughter's is usually less gracious.
But, once again, I am going off on a tangent. My point is, my own texting is so profoundly miserable, that is it any wonder when I start seeing all these strange little additives in my family's texting to me, that I at first mistake them for typos? I wasn't sure whether to think they were making fun of me, or I had finally rubbed off on all of them, but honestly, when you text someone real words, heavily sprinkled with various letter and symbol combinations, what's a girl to think? Text Tourettes?
So I ignored them. For some time. At least until my husband started sending me, what I like to call, the Potty-con. The first two or three times I ignored it, as I had so many other strange text garbles. After awhile though, it became apparent that this particular combination was repeating itself, and therefore, not unlike euphemisms such as lol and wtf, must mean something. (I may have a Soup Phone, but I am not completely ignorant.) Try as I might, to gather the meaning of this little oddity, I always came back to the same thing. A message he couldn't possibly be sending me. Unless he was wanting to know if I was suddenly suffering from incontinence.... I was confused to say the least. But honestly, you tell me what it looks like------ (y) -------- because to me, to put this delicately, it looks like a nude feminine form depicted from waist to knee in the act of crossing one leg over the other- the universal signal for, "Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go, right now!" Tell me someone sees this besides me? Anyone????
So, finally, one day he sends not one, but two of these confusing messages. Does he want to know if I really, REALLY, have to go?? So I call him, and I'm pretty much like, "Okay, buddy. What's up with the pee pee messages??"
Naturally he is confused. And flabbergasted. And slightly amused.
Turns out his phone (and apparently all Smart Phones) have these little things called Emoticons. So, in his non-Soup Phone world, that is a little picture of a thumbs up. It means, Woohoo! Great job! Not, Potty time! as I had been suspecting. Unless of course you are two, in which case the two are synonymous.
So while he was having his Did this really just happen? moment, I was shrugging and thinking, to me it will always mean Potty time. And thus the Potty-con was born. And now I gotta go.
No really. Too much coffee. (y)
Let me start by explaining that I have not been caught up in the world of smart phones. (Surprised by this aren't you? I can tell.) I have no desire to own a phone that is smarter than I am. So, by comparison, my phone is pretty much the same one you see on the soup commercials. Now, I have to say, there are several advantages to such backward technology. Say my car breaks down and I get stranded out in the middle of nowhere and have to wait say three or four hours for a tow. Not only can I use my phone to call for help, but I can always just lick the residual soup gerb out of the inside of the can to sustain myself. "Woman Survives On Pea Soup Gerb, Film at Eleven!" (I would personally like to thank my husband for making my brain think this way.)
Anyway, my point is, in my world, blackberries are delicious on cereal, androids are a kind of robot, and iphone is just a typo in which you meant to say my phone. My Soup Phone has everything I need. I can make calls and receive them. I have five numbers on my speed dial, one of which is my Voicemail and came pre-programmed that way, but I'm counting it anyway. I can even text. But there's no sense in that since I text like someone has taped all my fingers together with duct tape and then stabbed me in the eyes with a sharp stick. For a long time I really wasn't aware how bad my texting was. Whenever I texted my kids, they seemed to take just as long, if not longer, to respond to me. However, I have since discovered, that they are something of savants when it comes to texting. I have personally witnessed them send out full paragraphs, utilizing proper punctuation, spelling, and zero shorthand, in the time it takes me to pull up my text function. So why is it taking so long for them to respond to me? Are they just putting me on the backburner because I am just the mother, and therefore, not nearly as important as, say, their friends?
As it turns out, no. That is not the reason. Apparently, the hold up is entirely my fault, as it takes them several minutes and usually some evaluation from innocent bystanders to decipher what I am saying. Now I get texts like, "Wtf Mom? What the heck is mmmbergorphgrl?"
Naturally, I call them back. It's easier than the ten to fifteen texts it will require to explain what I meant the first time, and then explain all my explaining. It's like the mirror trick. You know, the one where you look at yourself in a mirror with a mirror and it goes on forever? That's me and texting. So a quick phone call (which I should have done in the first place) saying, "I wanted to know if you wanted to come for dinner. Burgers. On the grill," is really the better way to go.
My son's response is usually something like, "Wow." My daughter's is usually less gracious.
But, once again, I am going off on a tangent. My point is, my own texting is so profoundly miserable, that is it any wonder when I start seeing all these strange little additives in my family's texting to me, that I at first mistake them for typos? I wasn't sure whether to think they were making fun of me, or I had finally rubbed off on all of them, but honestly, when you text someone real words, heavily sprinkled with various letter and symbol combinations, what's a girl to think? Text Tourettes?
So I ignored them. For some time. At least until my husband started sending me, what I like to call, the Potty-con. The first two or three times I ignored it, as I had so many other strange text garbles. After awhile though, it became apparent that this particular combination was repeating itself, and therefore, not unlike euphemisms such as lol and wtf, must mean something. (I may have a Soup Phone, but I am not completely ignorant.) Try as I might, to gather the meaning of this little oddity, I always came back to the same thing. A message he couldn't possibly be sending me. Unless he was wanting to know if I was suddenly suffering from incontinence.... I was confused to say the least. But honestly, you tell me what it looks like------ (y) -------- because to me, to put this delicately, it looks like a nude feminine form depicted from waist to knee in the act of crossing one leg over the other- the universal signal for, "Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go, right now!" Tell me someone sees this besides me? Anyone????
So, finally, one day he sends not one, but two of these confusing messages. Does he want to know if I really, REALLY, have to go?? So I call him, and I'm pretty much like, "Okay, buddy. What's up with the pee pee messages??"
Naturally he is confused. And flabbergasted. And slightly amused.
Turns out his phone (and apparently all Smart Phones) have these little things called Emoticons. So, in his non-Soup Phone world, that is a little picture of a thumbs up. It means, Woohoo! Great job! Not, Potty time! as I had been suspecting. Unless of course you are two, in which case the two are synonymous.
So while he was having his Did this really just happen? moment, I was shrugging and thinking, to me it will always mean Potty time. And thus the Potty-con was born. And now I gotta go.
No really. Too much coffee. (y)
Caution: Objects Look Smaller Than They Actually Are
Some of my all time favorite "Did This Really Just Happen?" moments have been while working as a customer service representative. I have been the recipient of countless veiled insults (though to be fair, a good amount of them were never meant to be). Over that time, I have been informed that my head was too large for my neck, (honestly), my feet- most specifically my toes- were too large for my body, and that I had, and I quote, "... a beautiful smile. Are they all yours?" It took me a minute to realize he was talking about my teeth. No joke.
One of my favorites was a repeat customer, who spent fifteen to twenty minutes explaining to me that my body structure was all wrong. My arms, she said, were much too large for my torso. She went on to explain, "You're so thin, but you have the arms of a much bigger girl. Really, if someone just looked at your arms, they would think you were fat."
Really?? REALLY??
She continued on in this vein, explaining her theory in frank and complete thoroughness. I guess she thought I really cared. At one point, she actually encircled her thumb and middle finger (or attempted to anyway) around my bicep while pointing at my waist with her other hand, in order to drive her point home. And the whole time I just stood there thinking, Is this really happening??? I didn't know what to say. My brain was going about a mile a minute. Sentences like, "I'm so sorry I offend you with my Frankensteinian proportions. The old doc was a having a bad day I guess," and "I'll try to keep my gargantuan arms in mind when I dress myself in the future," kept forming and re-forming themselves inside my brain. I was desperately attempting to find just the right scathing retort to shock her into silence. But, then I realized that, being the repeat customer that she was, she had chatted with me on several occasions, (always tackling such deep topics as the weather and sports, but sometimes even bravely delving into the unknown jungles of, gasp, television shows or books). She thought she was my friend. And as such, she had a right to dissect me. Really??
She babbled on long enough that I was beginning to wonder if she was ever going to stop. I was thinking, "Yep, I got it. Arms too big, body too small. No need to go on. Speaka de English here and we are all picking up what you are putting down. Walking freak-show right here folks. Come and take a gander while the show's still free."
For weeks, I wandered around feeling a bit self-conscious. Uncomfortable. Embarrassed. Awkward. Here I was, some kind of mish-mashed freak. My head, arms, and toes were all much too big for the rest of my body! What about my hands? My legs? How did they rate in comparison? And, oh my God! What about my butt? Was I sporting some colossal shelf butt without even realizing it? I had to keep checking the mirror. Was I completely blind to what everyone else was so obviously noticing? I mean, all my life I had taken for granted that my body was just all one size. One package. Large or small, everything sort of went together. Now, it had been (abruptly) brought to my attention that this was simply not the case. I was some kind of walking mix and match. Kind of like that game you find in coloring books, where you have five or six creatures that you color then cut into strips and then add the head of one creature, to the body of another, to the legs of yet another. Yep, that's me. One Great Big Mix And Match! Whoopee!!
So how to go about fixing this funhouse mirror of a body? At first I thought, a hat for my giant head. Then I realized, that would just make it proportionally larger. No go. A scarf! That was the answer. It would make the tottering precipice of my neck look like a much stronger foothold for my massive head. How I was gonna pull this off in the summer was another question, but I wasn't worrying about that right then. The only problem was, with my newly over-sized neck, my shoulders looked too narrow. I was just going to have to wait for the huge shoulder pads so trendy in the eighties to come back in style. Until then, a couple of throw pillows would have to do.
On to the arms. That was a little tougher. They make girdles and Spanx for tummies and thighs, but not so much for the arms. But quickly, I learned that these items are even sold to the tiny people. (Seriously, if you are already a size two, exactly what do you need a girdle for?) However, the extra small just suited my purpose. I cut off the legs, attaching the thigh end to my bra straps. I was in business. At least until it started rolling up my wrists. Once again I turned to my scissors. I snipped a hole in each knee end and anchored it over my thumbs. Voila!
Now my feet. Out go the flip flops. Out go the open-toed sandals. Can't be unleashing these bad boys on the unsuspecting public, no sirree bob. Combat boots. That should hide any errant over-sized toe and/or foot flab.
I whirled around and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a mixture of Madonna meets Cyndi Lauper in the Thunderdome. Way less cool though.
Tearing off all the bad style choices not to be repeated since the eighties, I glared at myself in the mirror, gritting my teeth.
Then I smile. Widely. They're all mine. Thank God, I still have all my own teeth.
I gotta go floss....
One of my favorites was a repeat customer, who spent fifteen to twenty minutes explaining to me that my body structure was all wrong. My arms, she said, were much too large for my torso. She went on to explain, "You're so thin, but you have the arms of a much bigger girl. Really, if someone just looked at your arms, they would think you were fat."
Really?? REALLY??
She continued on in this vein, explaining her theory in frank and complete thoroughness. I guess she thought I really cared. At one point, she actually encircled her thumb and middle finger (or attempted to anyway) around my bicep while pointing at my waist with her other hand, in order to drive her point home. And the whole time I just stood there thinking, Is this really happening??? I didn't know what to say. My brain was going about a mile a minute. Sentences like, "I'm so sorry I offend you with my Frankensteinian proportions. The old doc was a having a bad day I guess," and "I'll try to keep my gargantuan arms in mind when I dress myself in the future," kept forming and re-forming themselves inside my brain. I was desperately attempting to find just the right scathing retort to shock her into silence. But, then I realized that, being the repeat customer that she was, she had chatted with me on several occasions, (always tackling such deep topics as the weather and sports, but sometimes even bravely delving into the unknown jungles of, gasp, television shows or books). She thought she was my friend. And as such, she had a right to dissect me. Really??
She babbled on long enough that I was beginning to wonder if she was ever going to stop. I was thinking, "Yep, I got it. Arms too big, body too small. No need to go on. Speaka de English here and we are all picking up what you are putting down. Walking freak-show right here folks. Come and take a gander while the show's still free."
For weeks, I wandered around feeling a bit self-conscious. Uncomfortable. Embarrassed. Awkward. Here I was, some kind of mish-mashed freak. My head, arms, and toes were all much too big for the rest of my body! What about my hands? My legs? How did they rate in comparison? And, oh my God! What about my butt? Was I sporting some colossal shelf butt without even realizing it? I had to keep checking the mirror. Was I completely blind to what everyone else was so obviously noticing? I mean, all my life I had taken for granted that my body was just all one size. One package. Large or small, everything sort of went together. Now, it had been (abruptly) brought to my attention that this was simply not the case. I was some kind of walking mix and match. Kind of like that game you find in coloring books, where you have five or six creatures that you color then cut into strips and then add the head of one creature, to the body of another, to the legs of yet another. Yep, that's me. One Great Big Mix And Match! Whoopee!!
So how to go about fixing this funhouse mirror of a body? At first I thought, a hat for my giant head. Then I realized, that would just make it proportionally larger. No go. A scarf! That was the answer. It would make the tottering precipice of my neck look like a much stronger foothold for my massive head. How I was gonna pull this off in the summer was another question, but I wasn't worrying about that right then. The only problem was, with my newly over-sized neck, my shoulders looked too narrow. I was just going to have to wait for the huge shoulder pads so trendy in the eighties to come back in style. Until then, a couple of throw pillows would have to do.
On to the arms. That was a little tougher. They make girdles and Spanx for tummies and thighs, but not so much for the arms. But quickly, I learned that these items are even sold to the tiny people. (Seriously, if you are already a size two, exactly what do you need a girdle for?) However, the extra small just suited my purpose. I cut off the legs, attaching the thigh end to my bra straps. I was in business. At least until it started rolling up my wrists. Once again I turned to my scissors. I snipped a hole in each knee end and anchored it over my thumbs. Voila!
Now my feet. Out go the flip flops. Out go the open-toed sandals. Can't be unleashing these bad boys on the unsuspecting public, no sirree bob. Combat boots. That should hide any errant over-sized toe and/or foot flab.
I whirled around and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked like a mixture of Madonna meets Cyndi Lauper in the Thunderdome. Way less cool though.
Tearing off all the bad style choices not to be repeated since the eighties, I glared at myself in the mirror, gritting my teeth.
Then I smile. Widely. They're all mine. Thank God, I still have all my own teeth.
I gotta go floss....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)