We slowly, systematically walked up and down the rows, evaluating each pumpkin for its jack-o-lantern worthiness. “How about this one?” “Lopsided.” “This one?” “Not big enough.” “This one?” “Wrong color.”

After contemplating several, we picked the perfect ones. Mine and his. We gently placed them in the back of his hatchback. We drove out of the dusty lot, happy with our purchases, discussing how we would carve them. As we made a sharp left turn out of the parking area we heard a loud *snap* and *crash* as the pumpkins in the back rolled around. We stopped, wondering how to prevent them from bruising or worse yet, bursting, before arriving home.



Seat belts are a wonderful thing.

I had forgotten about the race until I received an email last week. “ONE OR MORE OF YOUR TEAM MEMBERS HAS NOT SIGNED THE WAIVER. You are responsible to find out which team member(s) have not signed. You’re receiving this email because one or more of your members have not signed.”

One of Emily’s brother’s friends had mentioned the race to us at a barbecue several months ago. We enthusiastically proclaimed it would be fun. We would do it! I must have signed up that evening, then promptly forgot about it.

I had three weeks to get three additional people to commit to being on our team, the Mud Pies. To commit to flying down to San Diego and driving an hour or so to Camp Pendleton. To commit to rising early on Saturday morning to run “a challenging 10K run with hills, tire obstacles, low sand crawl, river crossings, two 5-foot walls with mud on both sides, tunnel crawl, slippery hill climb, and the final 30-foot mud pit.” I think I found a team.

I mentioned to my BART buddy that I was doing the race. He asked me how I was training.

“Hmm. Well. I run a couple of times a week. Maybe a couple of miles.”

“Lori, isn’t the race 10K? That’s more than a couple of miles.”

“Yeah. Well, I swim a couple of times a week.”

“What? So you can breast stroke through the mud?”

“Good point. I lift weights. That will help, won’t it?”

I’ve never really trained for a race before.

“You need to start doing push ups. Not the girly kind. Real push ups. That will build your upper body strength faster than anything.”

I committed to doing push ups, the manly kind, every day until the race. With 10 days left until the race, I’ve reached my personal best. I can now do five push ups. Somehow I don’t think that’s going to get me over the wall.

My feet rubbed against my not-worn-too-often dress shoes. I rushed into Albertson’s before my class began, hoping to quickly purchase a pair of knee highs in order to prevent blisters from gracing my feet by the end of the day. My eyes scanned the selection quickly: control top, sheer, opaque, reinforced toe, sandalfoot, seamed, were all these styles really necessary? Knee highs, knee highs, knee highs, among the six dozen choices surely there had to be knee highs. Aha. Knee highs. Box of 10 pairs. You’ve got to be kidding. What am I going to do with 10 pairs of knee highs?

From this month’s Oprah magazine,

“Which was worst: her taste in men, his taste in other women, or that god-awful banana pudding?”

Something I’ve often wondered…

I return from the “Appointments Only” line with a form. Of course there is a form. Which can’t be downloaded over the internet and pre-completed. I answer the questions, all except “What is your driver’s license number?” I don’t know. It was stolen. If I had my license, I wouldn’t be here. I try to turn in my form; it is given back to me with a ticket stapled to it: F078.

The electronic screen above the Appointments Only/No Appointment windows scrolls:

Fremont Appointment Wait Time: 0 hours, 0 minutes

Fremont Non-Appointment Wait Time: …

We watch as the brightly lit letters scroll one by one across the screen. “Take a guess. What do you think it will be?” “1 hour, 47 minutes,” she replies enthusiastically. We watch.

“o hours, 42 minutes,” the screen reveals.

Oakland Coliseum Appointment Wait Time: 0 hours, 0 minutes

Oakland Coliseum Non-Appointment Wait Time: 0 hours, 0 minutes

“What’s up with the Oakland Coliseum DMV? Why doesn’t anyone want to go there?”

Our attention shifts to another screen, a tv monitor with an unnatural blue screen populated with fuzzy white numbers.

Window 9: F076

“Hey, only two more then I’m up.” Our eyes are glued to the screen as numbers shift positions, new numbers appear. I feel as though I’m in an all night diner in Vegas, waiting for my Keno numbers to materialize.

Window 4: F077

“You’re next! I dare you to scream ‘You sank my battleship!’ when your number shows up. I dare you. How about a simple ‘BINGO!’” she challenges me. We are so easily amused.

Window 16: F078

I don’t scream, but I do jump up. Window 16. Where is Window 16? I walk around the corner and approach an overweight, sedentary DMV worker without a trace of personality. “Hi! I’m here to get a duplicate license. My wallet was stolen. Here’s my form.”

She takes it, stares at it, begins to input the information into her computer.

“Nineteen dollars.”

I count out exact change and hand it to her, still in the Korean habit of offering payment with both hands so as not to appear rude.

She takes it, prints a form, hands it to me and says, “You’ll get your duplicate in the mail in 6 weeks.”

No. No, no, no, no, no.

“Excuse me, where do I go to get my picture taken?”

The silver lining in the dismal cloud of getting my wallet stolen was that I would at least get a new picture to replace the monstrosity that I’ve toted around for years. I had woken up extra early to blow my hair straight. I had applied makeup. I had worn a bright pink sundress. I had come to the Hayward DMV. I was getting my picture taken.

“We use the picture on file.”

“Oh, but I’d really rather have a new picture taken. Should I step right over there?” I suggest, pointing to a blue backdrop.

“We use the picture on file, lady.”

“No, no, no. Do you see how cute I look today? I’d like my picture taken. I don’t want to waste a cute day.”

She didn’t seem to understand my argument for conservation of cute days. “We use the picture on file. You’ll get your duplicate in the mail in 6 weeks.”

No picture, no silver lining. Thank you, DMV.

I had been given the task of editing and updating our current training videos. For one in particular I needed someone from Intimates to help me review “The Perfect Fit,” a video about how to correctly measure a woman to determine her bra size (because 70-95% of all women wear the wrong size bra, apparently).

We watched the 9 minute video, each of us taking notes throughout the process. Afterwards, she turned to me.

“Well, it doesn’t even touch on pregnant women and nursing bras. And that’s an important part of our business. It can be very dangerous to give bad advice to pregnant women.”

I thought to myself. Hmm. Giving bad advice to a pregnant woman. Inconsiderate? Yes. Dangerous? Not seeing it.

She took my silence to be tacit agreement.

“For instance, if a pregnant woman is wearing the wrong size bra, she can get mastitis.”

I continued to look at her in silence, feeling a glaze forming on my eyes.

“Have you ever nursed?”

I felt myself starting to nod, but then vehemently shook my head.

“Well. I’ve nursed three babies and all three times got mastitis. Do you know how painful that is? Do you know what mastitis is? Your milk ducts get completely blocked, then swell up – they’re huge. And so painful. And it can happen even before you’re nursing. You just have to be pregnant and next thing you know – mastitis.” She said all of this while rubbing her breasts, to emphasize how painful this could be.

By now my glazed eyes have turned into a blank stare. This really is so much more than I ever wanted to know about someone I work with.

In case you’re not aware, there’s a very important election on November 2. Register now to vote.

Still not convinced? Here’s what Larry David has to say: “Well, it just so happens that right after I voted for the first time, I landed myself a big fat job in Hollywood, a biopsy came back benign and I met my future wife as soon as I walked out of the voting booth. Coincidence? You decide.”

She: So, do you travel often for work?

He: What do you consider often?

She: I don’t know. Five days a week?

He: Yeah. I travel often.

She: Great! So, do you want children?

He: Yeah. I want children.

She: Of course you do, you bastard. You wouldn’t be around to take care of them.

The sign blazed: