It Could Happen To You!

Recently, at a cocktail party, Emily and I were discussing the benefits of LASIK eye surgery with a couple of guys we had just met. The conversation eventually focused on why we decided to have it done.

Emily: Well, I’m nearly blind, so in the event that I was kidnapped by Columbian rebels and forced to march through the jungle for days on end before finally managing to escape, I would want to have at least a fighting chance for survival. Because, if I had my contacts in, they would eventually dry out, they would pop out of my eyes, and then I wouldn’t be able to see, much less escape.

Me: Well, I’m nearly blind as well, so in the event of (insert favorite natural disaster here), I would want to be able to at least have a fighting chance for survival. Or, what if my plane was hijacked? Or, what if I was suddenly sold into white slavery? If I had better vision I’d at least have a chance of survival. Before the surgery – no chance. I couldn’t walk two inches without colliding into a wall.

Both men scoffed at us. They laughed, saying our reasons were ridiculous, that those life events never happen.

But they do.

Today, Emily forwarded me the following article. Thank goodness this fellow wasn’t concerned about contact lens solution.

Things To Do With Glue…

A co-worker forwarded me one of those “Interesting Stuff To Know…” emails today. A comprehensive list of unorthodox uses for everyday products. My favorite from the list:

Elmer’s Glue-paint on your face, allow it to dry, peel off and see the dead skin and blackheads.

Why would anyone ever even think to spread Elmer’s Glue all over their face? I mean, really. When I pick up a bottle of glue, my first thought isn’t, “Hmm. I wonder what would happen if I decided to spread this all over my face (my face!) and then peel it off?”

A close second however, was this:

Body paint – Crisco mixed with food coloring. Heat the Crisco in the microwave, pour into an empty film container and mix with the food color of your choice!

I can only imagine some Midwestern housewife, with a little bit of Crisco left over from making biscuits, wondering what to do with it. “Hmm. I think I’ll put it in the microwave, add some food coloring, or maybe KoolAid, and have a body painting party.” Nebraskans gone wild. Watch out.

The Fan

When I was fastidiously trying to complete my kitchen remodel, my landlady acted as a broker, obtaining a fan from one of my apartment neighbors to relieve me from the fumes that occurred as I stripped paint from my kitchen cabinets. It was a small fan, but quite powerful. I placed it in my kitchen window and it removed all fumes, sucking them out the window before they had a chance to asphyxiate me.

Stripping the cabinets took much longer than I expected. Originally I thought the project would take a day, maybe a weekend. Six weeks later….

In appreciation, and out of embarrassment, I cleaned the fan, put it in a nice bag, purchased a beautiful orchid in a blue ceramic pot, and wrote a quick thank you.

“Hi, guys! Thanks so much for letting me borrow the fan. Sorry it took me so long to return it. Please accept the orchid as a token of my appreciation. Hope you’re doing well, Lori (305)”

That was two weeks ago. Didn’t think twice about it. Until yesterday.

I came home to a message on my answering machine. “Lori, this is your landlady. Josh from 502 called me to ask about the fan he lent you. Because it’s kind of a heat wave now and they’d like their fan. Could you either call him or preferably, just return the fan?”

My stomach felt as though someone had punched it. He hadn’t received the fan? Or the orchid? He thought I was an ingratiate who didn’t return things borrowed?

I went up to 502 and immediately realized my mistake. I had left the fan and orchid in front of 501. Egads!

I rang 501. No answer.

I rang 502. Josh answered the door. “Hi. I’m Lori. You lent your fan to me, through our landlady. A funny thing happened. At least, I hope you’ll think it’s funny. Thinking I was being considerate, about two weeks ago, I left the fan and an orchid in front of your door. Except that it wasn’t. Your door, that is. I left it in front of 501. I feel horrible. Please tell me again what kind of fan it was (you would think I would know since I had it for six weeks) and I’ll get you another.”

By that time his fiancee had come to the door as well. She tittered and laughed. “Don’t worry about the fan – this is worth it just for the story!”

I again apologized and reiterated that I would get them a new fan. Josh offered, “Don’t worry about it. Someone gave me that fan when I was a ski bum in Utah years ago.” “Oh,” I said, “so it has sentimental value…” We all laughed.

Just then Mr. 501 came to his door. I immediately began, “Hi, you don’t know me, but a couple of weeks ago, I left a fan and an orchid outside of your door….”

He looked at me, somewhat perplexed, “Yeah. We got those. We were kind of surprised, because we didn’t think we owned a fan. We couldn’t remember owning a fan, much less lending it to someone.”

“Well,” I said, “That’s because you didn’t. See, I mistakenly put the fan and orchid in front of your door. It actually belongs to Josh and Amber here. Do you think you could return the fan to them? Feel free to keep the orchid for your troubles, but I’m sure they, as well as I, would appreciate it if you returned the fan.”

He glanced at his feet. “Well, you see, I would like to return the fan, but…”

We all looked at him expectedly.

“Well, my girlfriend and I used to live together. But then, we broke up. And she moved out. And took the fan.”

This so can’t be happening.

“But I can call her, and try to see if she’ll return it.”

Josh and Amber were incredibly gracious. Much laughter as they said, “Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.”

Mr. 501 assured us he would call his ex-girlfriend and do all that he could to procure the return of the fan before he disappeared inside of his apartment.

Josh and Amber again laughed about the situation, saying this was much better than getting their fan back.

I don’t know which would be a better ending:

a – Mr. 501 calling his girlfriend, explaining the situation, she bringing back the fan, realizing her feelings for him, and they living happily ever after (with the fan returned to 502)

or

b – Mr. 501 calling his girlfriend, she can’t return the fan because she’s placed it for sale on Craigslist, I’ve seen the ad, purchased the fan, and returned it to Josh and Amber as if nothing ever happened.

We Really Do Have Too Much Free Time

Emily forwarded me the following article today:

Cheeseburger and Fries, Wrapped Into One

Okay. As she stated, “This is the grand prize winner of a product extension gone

horribly wrong.” So wrong, so wrong.

A cheeseburger and fries, as a meal, fine. Why mess with a good thing? Why try to combine them? Why not leave well enough alone?

The testimonials in the article really don’t lend credence to the new product:

“And while the taste is not distinctly beef, biting into one does impart the lingering flavoring of processed cheese.” Lingering flavor? Of processed cheese? If there’s going to be a lingering flavor, it should be of something desirable. Not processed. Ugh. Perhaps most distressing, though, is the last sentence of the article, “We want beef in dessert if we can get it there.” So yuck.

The World Is My Porkchop (Express)

I slowly sauntered towards the bar, enjoying my state of being, enjoying the buttery air stroking my cheeks. Not cold, not hot, simply being. No one else shared the streets with me, street lamps slowly beginning to glow. I almost turned away from the bar, content to enjoy the rare solitary night in the city. As I drew closer, I heard faint notes. As I continued, the notes became louder, clearer, more recognizable. I realized I was smiling, unintentionally, my step quickening. I bopped up the stairs and entered the dimly lit, low ceilinged room. There at the end of the long narrow room were the boys of Porkchop Express. I gently elbowed my way through the Jack Daniels’ infused crowd. I sat down, inches away from the music.

I’ve known them for a while, maybe 3, maybe 4 years. But they’re different people when they’re playing their music. Concentrated bliss. Joy, radiating. And funny. Not that they’re not funny otherwise, but moreso when on stage.

I can’t really say which is my favorite of their songs. Hippy Girlfriend definitely has the catchiest tune, the chorus won’t budge from my head for days after a show:

Oh, I’m in love with my hippy girlfriend

and I just can’t understand

How she can smell like patchouli, and smoke lots of reefer

but still love a redneck boy like me.

But the music of Pancakes is haunting. The verse is melodic, soft, flowing:

Sunday afternoon and I’m sleepin if off.

Too many beers last night my mind’s in a fog.

Gotta fill my stomach with something solid.

Hollered my girl’s name and she got right on it.

Then, with utmost force and a clash of chords:

Bitch better make me pancakes

Make me pancakes.

And it works. The whole bar always sings along. And likes it. Even the women. Go figure.

But perhaps the best is an ode to the woman who bore us all: our mothers.

Momma never taught me my p’s and q’s

Or to wash my hands in the bathroom sink

I never learned how to tie my shoes

But momma she taught me, she taught me to drink.

I left the show with my head full of twangy, catchy country rock lyrics and a smile on my face. Thanks, guys.

What You Want, Baby I Got It

I attended a dinner party in which I was one of very few women surrounded by very handsome, very gay men. I entered the party with a bang, literally, accidentally dropping the bottle of rum and bunches of mint I had brought for mojitos. The eyes that focused on me were soon followed by multitudes of hands, stroking my soft turquoise sweater, the feathers surrounding my neckline, and my breasts. “Oh, honey!” “Girl, will you look at that!” “You go!”

But my favorite comment of the evening, “You are a gay man’s dream. You have boobs and a boa, what more could you ask for?”

Gone

I tend to forget that people are no longer in my life, until I’m confronted with harsh evidence proving otherwise. I can’t remember what the name of that book was that my grandmother used to read to me when I stayed with her during the summer, and I make a note to ask her the next time I talk to her. Staring at the note I realize she died five years ago. I sigh.

When talking to my parents, catching up on what’s what and who’s who in my hometown, I inquire about Jake. “Lori, he died last year. Remember, honey?” I sigh. Oh. That’s right.

While cleaning today, I found a credit card receipt from a dinner not too long ago, signed by a now ex-boyfriend. I remembered that evening and smiled. Then fingered that tangible reminder that he is no longer a part of my life. I sighed.

Charlie Brown Moment

For the first time in many seasons we were not seeded last going into the playoffs. Anything was possible. We would clinch the season with a mighty victory. Go Slingshots! We took the field, short one player. The captain sent me to 3rd base instead of my comfortable position at catcher. I was ready. We were fired up. Lots of talk was flying around the outfield. “Go Slingshots!” “3 up, 3 down!” “Let’s go, defense!”

The first batter sauntered up to the plate. The pitch was thrown. He swung – CRACK! He easily made it to first base. “That’s okay!” “C’mon Slingshots!” “We can do it!”

However, all of our cheering did not prevent this trend from continuing with the next several hitters.

Finally. Our big break. A pop fly was hit. Up, up, up. It was mine. I did what I was supposed to do. I kept my eye on the ball. I watched. I moved. I called it. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” I was under the ball. It landed with a smack in my worn glove. “Yeah! Woo hoo! I’m a player! I’m a player!” Right before I began my little victory dance, the ball magically jumped out of my glove. One bounce, right to the ground. The cheers that had begun mere seconds ago turned to groans.

Good grief, Charlie Brown.

Hotel California

I had to travel to Riverside, California, for business last night.

I met a friend in Dana Point, California, for dinner, about an hour south of Riverside. Somehow we ended up eating at the bar, not by conscious choice, but by convenience. We were highly entertained by the guy in the dragonfly wife beater who continually tried to convince either one of us to join him later for a menage a trois. We declined.

After dinner I approached my hotel, somewhat warily. As I gathered my suitcase from the rental car trunk, I heard someone attempting to throw up, to heave, over the balcony. All the rooms opened onto the breezeway, in my opinion, not a good sign. I approached the lobby. It was locked. I investigated, then found a window. A bullet-proof window, much like those at all night service stations. I rapped lightly on the glass.

A tall, solid, bottled blonde woman (man?) appeared. She glanced at me. “Checking out?” she inquired.

I thought for a moment.

“No. Actually, I’m checking in. To spend the night. To sleep.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Slower than molasses in December she processed my paperwork. “Room 201.”

I entered room 201. I stopped. Not that anything really stood out, but it wasn’t clean. I didn’t feel comfortable taking my shoes off. Maybe it was the jumbo sized whirlpool tub in the corner of the room. Right next to the king size bed. Surrounded by larger than life mirrors. Maybe it was the wallpaper peeling from the corners of the room. In some places, just barely peeling, in others, sheets offering themselves up. Maybe it was the hole in the bathroom wall. The hole where it appeared someone had kicked viciously. This definitely wasn’t the home away from home I was expecting.

As in most cases where I don’t feel comfortable, I decided to go to sleep. Pretend it wasn’t there. I opened my suitcase to hang my clothes. My shirt needed ironing. I went to the closet. I found an ironing board, but no iron.

With great reluctance, I trekked back down to the front desk. Rap a tat-tat.

“Hello….” She appeared once again, her gnarly bare toes clinging to the nubby carpet.

“Sorry to bother you, but I need an iron.”

“It’s in your closet.”

“Well, maybe it should be, but it’s not.”

“hmmmph. Well, I’ll need to go and find you another one.”

“Great. I’m in room 201.”

I went back to the room, wondering, wagering with myself how long this would take. 10 minutes? 15 minutes? 20 minutes? Half an hour?

A mere 10 minutes later she appeared at my door. I opened the door and she shoved an apparatus into my hand. I meekly thanked her then dead bolted the door. I looked down at the item in my hand. Technically, it was an iron. It looked like the iron used to door arts and crafts projects, with unidentifiable junk stuck to it, but it was an iron nonetheless.

I quickly ironed my blouse then proceeded to get ready for bed. Reluctant to take off my shoes, I laid clean towels out on the floor and jumped from towel to towel, like a frog jumping from lilly pad to lilly pad in an algae filled pond. I did sleep through the night, only a few times awoken by strange noises coming from above, beside, below me.

When I checked out in the morning, I noticed something very curious. At midnight last night the parking lot was full. I circled trying to find a place. At 7:00 am the parking lot had 2 cars in it. I should have checked for the hourly rate.

We had a girls’ weekend in Pacific Grove. Emily was competing in the Pacific Grove triathlon (and had her best time ever – you go, girl!) and we were there to cheer her on. An unexpected perk – the athletes, in addition to their participant number, had their age inked on the back of their right calf. After the race, as everyone was congregating in the exhibition area, we strategically placed ourselves near those male athletes whose age began with the digit “3.” Gatorade, anyone?