Meet the Neighbors
Moving into a new apartment complex is a big step. One has to change her address, car tags, voter’s registration, driver’s license, insurance, utilities, and (of course) her email signature.
I have yet to complete this list, but assuming the government can’t find me to make me pay back my student loans, nyah nyah to them.
I am a slacker. I had been ensconced in my new location for about two weeks without meeting the neighbors until yesterday. Oh, I had seen them (one of the perks at living in a retirement community is being the hottest woman at the pool. I like to think I currently am beating Twin, but the no. 2 position is fine with me).
-The only difference at this pool is that all patrons under 30 lie in the chaise lounges in the sun, while the rest of the community has their chaise lounges in the shade.
Even though we had seen each other, and had planned on meeting at some point in the future, none of us foresaw the event that would bring the community, fire department, and maintenance man together in one lovely meet-and-greet.
Yes, you read that rightly.
It all went down yesterday. I had just finished a DIY dye job, applied Crest Whitestrips to my teeth, and stepped out of the shower and into my glasses and an ugly, fluffy pink robe when my doorbell rang (What? You think I look beautiful ALL the time?! -Well, then. Please come to my address as listed at the bottom of this email).
When I answered the door, it was a tiny, frail old woman with a sweet (if agitated) face. She asked if any of my appliances had been left on, because her house was filling with smoke. At this point I shoved Cat (who, having been sassed at by a squirrel through the window all day, had thought to go find revenge) back into the apartment, and asked if she had dialed 911. She had.
I then ran over to her apartment to find all doors and windows opened, so I closed them. I did not see where the smoke was coming from, but hoped the fire department would come soon (I probably should not have gone in… but her floorplan is identical to mine and I thought the apartment needed to be sealed).
The next arrival was the maintenance man, who went inside and thought perhaps her air conditioner motor had burned out (I thought not- not this spectacular array of smoke. I made him come back out. I pray I do not have any plumbing problems in the near future).
About 12 minutes after the initial call, the Fire Department swept in, with 3 trucks fully blaring and shining their lights. It was quite beautiful…. It was sort of a pity they missed the driveway. As they continued by, the three of us began waving and jumping up and down.
One of the firemen must have been alert, for suddenly that truck did an illegal U-turn as the others sought to turn around in various outlets along the road. That truck raced in, and after stopping, out jumped 3 firemen who ran up to me and asked what was wrong. “Well, sir, her apartment is on fire, sir.” (pointing accusingly at Neighbor, and then her apartment).
Oh, yes, I am glib in the face of danger.
-Actually, despite my appearance, I believe they thought I appeared the most capable. Additionally, apparently the eye-searing pink of the robe is what made them see us waving (um, thanks, Mom).
Once I successfully explained what had happened, they all ran in. About two minutes later, they ran out, with a trash can. They then ran in and out with pots of water that they emptied into the offending trash can, which continued to roll out smoke.
As far as kitchen fires go, it wasn’t the worst that could have happened. However, it had gotten to the point where they were happy that we had dialed 911, because we wouldn’t have been able to stop it. Especially when none of us could find where the fire had originated, it was so smoky inside.
Once this mess had been dealt with, (and a lecture on the dangers of smoking delivered with justifiable gusto by the local Fire Department) the Firemen politely provided an industrial-strength fan to air out Neighbor’s apartment.
Now that the sirens had sounded, the rest of the apartment community was roused. As I walked among concerned neighbors explaining that no one was ill, and that there was a mild trash fire, I introduced myself. (I was unofficially nominated to spread the word, as I walk very quickly and have a rather curt way with words when people start panicking).
That, and the bright pink robe made me a visible beacon.
The best part is that after the evening’s entertainment was over, my other neighbor roped the maintenance man into fixing her leak. He, sadly, does not have the direct way with words that I possess.
Oh, and you should see my hair.
Blood, Steak, and Aging Gracefully
This week I received two calls from my blood donor center. They were in dire need of A-negative blood, and had resorted to calling through their list of known donors twice. As I am a good person (this has nothing to do with my being in demand and loving it), I drove in to donate as soon as my schedule allowed.
I am somewhat notorious at this particular clinic, where I am known as “the whiny chick with the small veins.”
I know them as “the butchers with the 16-gage needles.”
When I walked in during my lunch break, my two usual phlebotomists (say that quickly five times) were working. Of course Hayden and Michael recognized me, for every 56 days they spend our 20 minutes of quality time alternately asking after Cat and cursing my veins. -Mostly cursing my veins. (A rock is more accommodating than my right arm).
Pleasantries aside, this donation was special. I had reached Gallon Status (meaning I have now donated a full gallon of special A-negative goodness. Go me!). This meant I got a coffee mug in addition to my T-shirt (because caffeine is a donor’s best friend, of course). But that is not the point.
As I was bubbling over with giddiness about what an awesome person I was, they did the Iron Test. They pricked my finger, and placed a drop of blood into the special Iron Testing Liquid Vial. Theoretically, the blood sinks, but mine floated there in limbo, prompting Hayden to excuse himself with more of my blood to conduct a more specific test.
This is when the giddiness evaporated.
Now alone in the room, for some inexplicable reason I decided I would give my blood a pep talk. When it still didn’t sink, I started to yell at it. How dare my iron levels not cooperate! I have even donated blood while on my period in the past, and ne’er a problem had ever arisen because of low iron.
When Hayden returned, he found a rather dejected woman slumped in her chair, feeling rather upset that she may not be able to donate blood when the need for her blood type was critical. At least the one-sided entreaty to the vial had been private.
Luckily, I was above the threshold to donate, with an iron level of 12.7 (one needs at least a 12.5). I could donate! I could potentially save three lives! I could keep my coffee mug!!! Yay!!!
Hayden must have noted my concern over my iron levels (I am never as subtle as I think I am), for he immediately assured me that I was not anemic. I do have acceptable iron levels- they just prefer donors to have slightly higher iron levels then average.
So I AM above average…. Haha!
I was back to being happy (and thinking I would splurge for steak tonight, because I am so awesome and obviously need the iron), until Hayden made his next comment: “As you get older, your chemistry changes. Perhaps that is what is happening here.”
Wha-aat? Oh.
Perhaps this is trite, BUT I AM TOO YOUNG TO BE AGING! AUGGHH!
I am not overly concerned at turning 24, because I have plans to turn 24 each year from this year on out. However, being pronounced ‘aged’ while strapped into a chair with a needle sticking out of your left arm is somewhat of a buzzkill.
What the situation does allow for, though, is 15 minutes of reflection over the past 24 years, and some time to ponder the possibilities of the future ones. With that in mind, I would like to thank all my family and friends for loving me. I love you, too.
Now go donate blood.
The Billy Goats Gruff
Once upon a time there were three goats. The goats all lived in Atlanta, and had fun frolicking in the shopping malls (not really, but with weddings galore this summer, mall excursions are to be expected).
The littlest goat had a day off from work, so she took the opportunity to find an outfit to wear to the one wedding she was not standing in. As she was skipping through the cheap mall, she decided, on a whim, to go into a tiny boutiquesque store, Paris.
Inside the store, she selected some items that were not yellow taffetta (and therefore not requiring a tanning package). She went to the dressing room, where, sadly, her selections did not pan out. As she approached the saleslady to put the items on the return rack, the Troll came out from behind the customer service desk.
"Roar!" she cried. "You must put the items back!" the littlest goat looked for a return rack. Not seeing one, she asked its location. "No!" Sneered the Troll. "You must replace them on the hangar, and return them all to their places in the display room!"
In shock (for no quality retail store expects this, and prefers to have the professionally-trained minimum -wage drudges fold the clothes) the littlest goat complied, as the Troll followed her around the store to make certain her directions were carried out. The littlest goat then went home and bleated to her older sister the entire saga of her story across the bridge and escaping the Troll.
Middle goat was intrigued. Middle goat was undecided of the truth of the Littlest goat's story, for Middle goat had worked in retail, and would never, ever treat someone so shabbily (even if she wanted to, which she has desired in the past... many times). Middle goat needed an outfit anyway, and while refusing to purchase from a store so rude, decided she would investigate Littlest goat's claim.
The day after the Troll terrorized Littlest goat, Middle goat bravely marched onto the bridge. Middle goat selected a clubbing halter she didn't really care for, and proceeded to the dressing room with littlest goat looking around for the Troll. Soon Littlest goat jabbed Middle goat in the ribs. "There! There she is! Do you think she will be as rude today?"
As the goats approached the dressing-room doors, the Troll stepped out, brazenly eyed Middle goat, and announced in front of everyone, "That will not fit you." (Not even, "that garment runs small," or "that cut/fabric is all wrong." Oh no she di-int). At this point, another saleslady (who certainly would not have fit the top) quickly inhaled and went white. Troll glared. Littlest goat bleated. Middle goat decided to get mad.
Middle goat announced that, yes, she was certain she could fit in the top. Middle goat explained that she knew her size, knew the fabric of which the top was made, and knew the cut was favorable. She explained that even if there was a discrepancy in that particular design's sizing among the line, that it would still fit. Middle goat added that she had no desire to ruin a top she would have to pay for and not be able to wear, so sweetly asked the Troll if she had a larger size in the storage room. Asking for help really pisses Trolls off. And no goat likes being called fat.
Taken aback, the Troll narrowed her eyes and looked at Middle goat again. As Middle goat began to ask Troll if she knew something about junior sizing versus women's sizing, Troll quickly stepped up to Middle goat and wrapped her hands around Middle goat's ribcage. "I am sizing you," she announced. She had not asked permission, nor had given any warning.
Middle goat was shocked. After shaking off the Troll's hands, she thrust the halter top in them and announced she was no longer interested. She coldly told Troll to return the shirt to the rack (pun not intended), turned on her heel and stomped out. (she did note a mother-daughter team on a Prom Dress hunt followed suit. HA)
Middle goat and Littlest goat regrouped by the arcade. Littlest goat assured Middle goat that she was not fat, and Middle goat (after mentally altering her fitness regime) dialed up Big goat. No one survives Big goat*. Especially when Big goat has to deal with two upset smaller goats.
Big goat answered the phone, and listened in amazement as Littlest goat recited the drama. Littlest goat was soothed by Big goat's agreement that the Troll was evil, and that her Troll heart was three sizes too small (meanwhile, Middle goat was still self-conscious, and began to contemplate the joys of a soymilk lifestyle).
Big goat will soon be visiting Paris.
Middle goat did buy soymilk, which she promptly foisted on Cat (who was also disturbed by it). Littlest goat enrolled in a tanning package and immediately roasted herself.
The Troll went home to polish her horns.
*Big goat one day decided she was sick with poor service. She sent letters to every place of business that had ever irritated her (from Taco Bell to JC Penney) and got several conciliatory responses. The best one (determined by popular vote) is when Taco Bell called and asked about her poor experiences. They asked her if she wanted to 'talk about it.'
A Tale of Two Pork Chops
It has been brought to my attention (yet again) that Twin and I cannot cook.
*sigh*
I try. I do. And the only success I have had is with pork chops. Not to brag (yeah, right) but my pork chops ROCK. Creation of a pork chop is a delicate business. I told Twin so.
So of course to prove me wrong, Twin tried to make a better pork chop.
Twin takes pork chop, carefully places it in hot pan with little butter. Hot pan is set to get hotter. Soon, butter burns, pork chop sticks to pan. Smoke pours forth. Swearing ensues.
In nice counterpoint to swearing, smoke alarm goes off. Profanity reaches crescendo as Cat disappears into closet, and I begin clawing at alarm. Twin decides to open window and switch on oven fan.
Sadly, idiots at apartment complex painted over smoke alarm. Without hammer and pick, I leave Twin and Cat to go in search of aid. Communicated intention with wild gesticulation right before slamming door.
Alas, the only person I could find was my (equally incompetent) Chinese neighbor. My age, she is an international student (I think) and speaks poor English. Soon, what little English she knew was being utilized in a most expressive fashion. "Paint? IS Paint! Fuck!"
"YES!" I cried. "Fuck!" After several more affirmations of the same ilk, she left laughing at us. I like her.
Twin and I sat outside until beeping subsided. Cat hissed at Twin when extracted from closet. Immediately became contrite when fed pork chop.
Women's Intuition
Most women have a sixth sense so uncannily accurate, it is referred to as 'Women's Intuition.'
I do not have it. I am crushed.
The bane of men for years, 'Women's Intuition' spans all aspects of life. Examples of 'Women's Intuition' range from finding a priceless antique at a yard sale, through realizing, yes, he just really isn't as thrilled about your purchase of the Notebook DVD as he says he is.
Women prefer to call 'Women's Intuition' by another phrase, 'Common Sense.' Following this vein of logic, I am REALLY crushed.
The discovery that I lack 'Women's Intuition' came in a fabulously embarrassing office gaffe. To put the circumstances around this revelation into perspective, allow me to start where my stories usually do: the beginning. I promise the inane details are relevant to events ending as they did.
Yesterday morning, I woke up early. This was through no desire of my own. Cat was stalking Chihuahua across the bed, and Chihuahua was emmitting the 'Chihuahua Death Rattle.' To the cacophony of growling, I added my own hisses of protest and threw them both into the hall.
While I am normally spared sleeping with Wild Kingdom, this week my sister and her husband are cruising the Caribbean. While they are drinking free daiquiris and strolling the Tiki deck, I have been left with care of Chihuahua, who insists on sharing my pillow. Cat, meanwhile, has discovered he is insanely jealous of Chihuahua and has been attempting to remove her by the simple expedient of trying to knock her off the bed.
And to think I was ecstatic at having the house to myself.
Anyway, once I finally made it out of bed, the day continued its nosedive. I dealt with:
1. Dog urine (I forgot to let Chihuahua out right away)
2. Missing cat (when I did let out the dog, the cat slinked out as well. I was chasing Cat in business attire, pleading, begging, cajoling, and finally wheedling the little monster back into my clutches)
3. Cat vomit (I cleaned the fridge yesterday. All that remains are the staples: Beer, cheese, etc. The rest, and I am going to go out on a limb here, made it into Cat before I got it into the trash)
By the time I got everything sorted out, I was late. Running down the steep insurance-hazard driveway with one of my sister's Slim Fasts in hand, I prayed that no one would notice. I am the first in the office anyway, so I figured I was in luck.
No. I wasn't. One of my coworkers had the audacity to get engaged, so everyone arrived early to set up for her surprise wedding shower.
Once everyone greeted me and I apologized for being late, I was immediately put on 'guard duty.' This means I do what I normally do, except this time, I was to pounce on Tracy when she arrived and send her to the back door. I was given freedom to choose how to best accomplish this task. A few of my immediate rejected ideas:
1. Somebody burned something in the microwave again, and until maintenance could come air out the kitchen, she had best use the rear entrance so her suit doesn't smell.
2. Giant rats have invaded the office.
3. Kim needs help chasing another parakeet around the loading dock.
4. The carpet is wet from a construction-caused leak on Pepsi's floor.
5. There is an attorney waiting to serve her with papers right inside.
6. Someone insulted President Bush. The medics need a clear path for when they arrive.
After the mental picture of Kim chasing a parakeet faded, I came across a better solution. A solution involving the inability of our automatic mechanical door-lock to actually work. Inspired by my evolution of a believable plan, I fashioned a sign reading "DOOR BROKEN, USE BACK ENTRANCE."
I planted myself by the narrow window, with intent to hold up the sign when I saw Tracy. In addition, I would gesticulate wildly and shout through the door about how the IT guy wasn't available yet to fix it.
Sadly, before I decided on this plan, I had assaulted my Boss, two of our Lawyers, and the Custodian immediately upon their entry of the office. After I similarly frightened FedEx Guy, I realized how much I hated the opaque door, and thus the legitimate plan was born.
Once I successfully sent a confused Tracy to the back door, I pulled a Paul Revere and ran towards the the heart of the office, screaming "The Bride is coming!! The Bride is coming!!" A mass of employees immediately moved to intercept her before she made it to the kitchen.
Not bad on an empty stomach (The Slim Fast was revolting. I disposed of it in a potted plant. I can only hope the plant doesn't die).
Once all was revealed, and all parties appropriately content with their roles in Tracy's shindig, everyone settled into the conference room with celebratory snacks and refreshments. I sat behind my desk and waited for my turn.
As I sat there, thinking about how it would be nice to be able to leave my desk, I thoughtfully deliberated over each snack that I could see from my vantage point. In particular, two large pitchers of orange juice. Juice, that to a woman like me with Slim-Fast aftertaste in my mouth, looked like Ambrosia.
Of course, not having drank OJ for six months may have contributed as well. Who is to say.
It was with a rejoicing heart that I made my way to the pitchers. The juice looked good. Who is to say that juice from a can is bad? I always liked the extra tang that accompanied not adding as much water as directions say one should.
I picked a large glass, and looked to the signs in front of the pitchers. One sign said OJ. The other, 'Mimosa." They looked identical. It was 9:00 AM. I pointed and laughed. "Kim, look at that! That is too funny. Someone has a sense of humor!" She laughed as well, "I agree. That is funny!"
Happy to get something edible, I selected the pitcher that was the fullest, which was the one marked "Mimosa." I poured, drank a bit, and then topped the glass off. About twenty minutes later I was sitting at my desk, thinking about my headache and how I should take an Ibuprofin. I asked Catherine to watch the desk while I got more juice to drink with it.
Once I returned to my desk, I giggled about my morning -complete with cat vomit- to Catherine. I then mentioned how nice Tracy's shower was, and asked what brand the canned juice was. I told her about how I thought the Mimosa joke was hilarious.
At this point, the phone rang. I let it ring. I announced that it would ring again, later.
Needless to say, Catherine was laughing hysterically, doubled over in gut-busting roars of amusement. I didn't see how my zen-like statement of truth was so funny. But I'd take it.
"Jill, that really was a Mimosa!"More laughter.
As my face drained of all blood, I realized that I was probably a bit buzzed. Just a bit. This was my turn for hysterics, and I immediately did the jump up and down bit, complete with denials of what I thought was really in the pitcher, and how I had no intent to drink at work. The thought of employer entrapment crossed my mind, but after how ridiculous I realized it to be, I wisely kept my mouth shut.
Catherine was still laughing. Carol walked by and then she started to laugh once Catherine explained what was going on. While they were laughing, I excused myself to go on break, where I proceeded to devour my lunch in hopes it would make the headache and irreverency to the phone system to go away.
As I munched my ham sandwich in the kitchen, there were three empty bottles of champagne sitting on the counter. They were seemingly there to bear witness to my office naiivette. I glared at them each in turn as I moved on to attacking the carrot sticks.
This afternoon, Tracy made a point of stopping our IT guy and asking if the door was fixed yet. He had no idea what she was talking about.
Perhaps I am lacking 'Women's Intuition,' or, more appropriately, 'Common Sense.' I do not, however, lack for mortification. Or a twisted sense of humor.
Little Five Points
In Atlanta, Saturday nights are spent out. Whether your tastes are into stargazing with your honey at Fernbank Science Museum, getting freaky without your honey in a club, or enjoying dinner and downtown with your peeps, there is always something to do.
One recent Saturday past, I was invited to the Little Five Points Tavern in the city. A far cry from the High Museum of Art and the Fox Theatre outings of weekends past, I was in the mood for juvenile delinquency served on tap.
'THE PLAN' was simple. Meet at appointed bar at nine. Chill out with my friend Maria and her friends, while showing her visiting New Orleans brother a good time. Drive home happy. Observe them hung over on Palm Sunday at church. Laugh.
There is nothing like a simple plan.
Once I made it to the bar* I was welcomed by Maria, her brother (New Orleans Chris), a really nice girl (Nameless Graphic Designer), Katie (Noczema Model), Matts 1 and 2 (Associated Boyfriends), and Another Guy. The evening started off slowly, with introductions and a large platter of assorted fried foods.
After ordering myself a high gravity beer (Beer conveniently instilled with 3 times the alcohol of regular beer, and tasting more like wine), I watched New Orleans Chris slam his 4th Irish Car Bomb (Apparently he is a pro). He was competing with 65 pound Nameless Graphic Designer. Apparently a challenge had been issued before I arrived, with GiGi the overzelous waitress presiding.
I just had to lead an inquiry into his herculean consumption of alcohol. "Well, Chris, aren't you going to puke now?" I am so tactful after high gravity beer. Actually in general, but we can blame the beer. I leaned over to gauge how bloodshot his eyes were.
"Nope. I can handle my alcohol. Hey, why aren't you on your second drink?" Apparently I finished my beer too quickly. Time for my heart-renderingly sad speech. "I have to drive myself home. I'd better not." Helping myself to something else deep fried, and trying to find a tactful way to bring up the Spawn tattoo on his calf, we suddenly zoomed in on the other side of the table where the conversation was making headway.
"...and anyway, Katie, you really do look EXACTLY like that girl from Smallville!! What was her name again?" Matt1 was musing aloud about Lana, I think. I wouldn't know, I have only seen Smallville a few times.
Nameless Graphic Designer jumped in. "I've seen that!! Maria, don't you think it is soft porn?" After the rest of us finished choking (Males) and laughing (Females), she continued, "Seriously! The entire show is that really hot guy and that girl that looks like Katie always acting like they are going to hook up, but always pulling away. That is ALL it is. there is no other plot. What is with that?!" Horns were locking.
"NO!!" Matt2 leaped to the defense of Smallville. "It is quality programming!!! It is the early life of Superman!!!!" I think this particular argument was made impenetrable by virtue of Guiness.
"The last episode was about a dog. A DOG with super powers!!!" screeched Nameless Designer Girl. She had masterful control of her vocal range.
Another Guy quickly interceded for Matt2 before he dumped Nameless Designer Girl over a dog. "That girl is really pretty. Isn't she half Chinese?" Murmurs of awe.
"Yes!" New Orleans Chris affirmed this with a nod and clink of his Crown & Coke. "She is half Chinese and half Swiss."
Matt2 was duly impressed. "That is it! We marry the Swiss and the Chinese and kill off everyone else! We have the perfect race! Take that, Hitler!!" More laughter.
At this point Nameless Graphic Designer (a blonde) began a crusade to order Matt2 the most disgusting drinks he would drink in his defenseless drunk state (IE - the 'I get free drinks!' state). Eager for a conspiracy, we girls huddled over a menu to see what our options were. Overzealous GiGi, I might add, was practically chortling with glee and rubbing her hands together with anticipation.
To make a long story short, we ordered some drinks that were absolutely abominable, and some that merely sounded that way. We watched them consumed with the efficiancy born of drunken euphoria. Nameless Graphic Designer's grin became larger with every drink, and she kept a written list (complete with drink ingredients) for the next day. They really are a cute couple.
To date, the Smallville argument has not been resolved. Matt2 will never again willingly drink anything with yaeger, grenadine, and amaretto combined. Nameless Graphic Designer has begun watching Smallville. New Orleans Chris has returned to New Orleans appreciative of Atlanta nightlife, while Katie and Matt1 are training for a half-marathon. Maria has joined a monthly drinking club, and I simply had to attend an exhibit on frogs from around the world.
Welcome to Atlanta, where the Players Play.
*Everything went accordingly save my being on time. I shall elaborate:
8:15 PM - I leave the house and begin my 7 mile drive to the bar. It should take 20 minutes at most.
8:30 PM - I think I must have missed my turn, but continue on from mere curiosity. If I get lost, at least it will prove educational.
8:40 PM - Look!! Skyscrapers!! And the Fox Theatre.... Golly gee, downtown Atlanta is certainly pretty. Such a pity I am not supposed to be there.
8:45 PM - Call Sister and demand a list of every road name my road is listed as. Turn around and hope to find it.
8:50 PM - Find road, turn. Discover Little Five Points is an 'alternative' area complete with neon crossbones. I realize I am not punked out. And to think I could have spiked my hair.
9:00 PM - Find my bar after driving up and down the strip repeatedly. Move on to finding parking.
9:05 PM - Park about two miles away, in a poorly-lit obscure area. Distribute belongings everywhere save the purse. Clear throat in case I need to shriek, and arrange keys in claw-like distribution for both hands. I may be paranoid, but the last building I had passed had an entrance that was a giant skull.
9:20 PM - Walk into bar. Announce my presence. Introduce myself to the waitress, GiGi.
How to not dry a cat
"Jill, ah, your cat jumped into the toilet."
There are not many statements that can grab your complete attention so quickly. The best part is that it was delivered by my somewhat sheepish older sister, who continued with, "I had him in there with me while I was doing my makeup... I forgot how much he likes water." She paused. "I rinsed him off pretty well, he is drying in the bathroom."
After I stopped laughing, I had a nasty thought which I immediately had to inquire about. "Was it clean water or dirty water?!" Eww. I mean, really.
"Clean." There is a God, and he loves me.
After thinking about it for thirty seconds, I decided that Cat needed a hard-core bath. Even were I confident of the sanitary standards in my toilet, this furry, orange bundle of joy loves batting my face with his paws in the morning, and this month's specialty is attempting to shove them both inside my nostrils.
Once I had confirmed my plan of attack, I commandeered the kitchen sink, Chihuahua's dog shampoo, and warned the houseguests Tim and Danielle that I was washing the cat. If they heard anything scandalous emitting from the kitchen, they were to simply ignore it. Under no circumstances was anyone to give asylum to the cat.
Once I retrieved Jonesie from the bathroom, I held him over the sink and watched his reaction to the swirling water. He reached with both paws towards the suds. Satisfied I wasn't making a stupid decision, I plunked him down in the middle of it. He sat there, looking relatively nonplussed with this less-than-decorous treatment.
All went beautifully, with his full cooperation -until he was clean. With a false sense of victory, I wrapped him in a large towel and told him what a good cat he was. I then hauled him into the bathroom where he could sit and air-dry while I took my shower.
It didn't seem like a bad plan, until I found myself with an armful of the little monster while shampooing my hair. Apparently, he decided he needed attention.... WHILE I WAS SHOWERING. Once I got over the initial shock of realizing I was naked, wet, and holding my equally wet cat in the shower, I realized I had screamed.
I threw Jonesie out of the shower, but my initial bloodcurdling shriek had caused Laura to throw open the bathroom door to see if I was being attacked by Fulton County escapee Brian Nichols. The next thing I knew, Jonesie had bolted past Laura into the living room, where he made a beeline for the back of the sofa.
Alarmed at the idea of my clean, WET cat getting dirty and soaking the living room in the process, I leaped out of the shower a madwoman possessed, wrapped my towel around myself and took off after him. I ended up snatching the little rascal from under Danielle's feet, where he had claimed sanctuary from the giant pursuer intent on his incarceration.
I stood there, wet, dripping, with an orange mop of purring, wet fur dangling from under one arm. Laura was laughing. Danielle and Tim were staring. As they, too, erupted into laughter, I made the most elegant exit I could muster, where I proceeded to thoroughly attend to Jonesie with the blow dryer.
This morning he succeeded in shoving one paw up my nose.
Parrot Finds Love
I was at the Post Office mailing a package when I noticed the sign across the street. It was big. Bold. Inviting.
It was a sign advertising the store, Petland.
Remembering I had a cat, and that my housemate was getting increasingly pissed with him, I thought it would be prudent to zip over and find him a toy that didn't belong to her cat.
This is quite an interesting story. You see, Whiskers (her cat) is a big, neurotic, black cat who likes to meow, hiss, and run around looking traumatized. Jonesie (my cat) is orange, laissez-faire, and never stops purring. His vocal activities include changing the volume, pitch, and tone of his purrs, with the occasional chirp or trill thrown in to indicate pleasure.
In our home, which is increasingly becoming Wild Kingdom, there also lives Jazz (Sister's chihuahua) and Duchess (Brother-in-Law's cat). Jazz is the stereotypical dog who thinks she is a cat. She is the same size and color as Jonesie, loves catnip, and gets along famously with everyone (save Whiskers).
Duchess is the dramatic foil to Whiskers. She is equally large, yet elegant. She has long, white fur, a regal disposition, and even if she does not approve of what the Orange Ones are doing, she doesn't scream about it as though it were an attack on her person.
What makes this even funnier is that we all agree our personalities match our pets' personalities.
There obviously has to be a perception difference in there somewhere. Really.
Regardless, while Whiskers is yowling on top of the refrigerator at Jazz's effrontry of being in the same room as she is, Jonesie is stealing her mouse toy from her room. While the yowling increases, Jonesie and Jazz chase each other for the mouse, and before one can laugh at the hilarity of the situation (or at Whisker's discomfiture) Jonesie has been unceremoniously thrown INTO his room (an ironic twist from me throwing him out of it) and put into time-out by Whisker's owner.
It has to be annoying that another cat steals your cat's toys, so regardless of my personal feelings for Whiskers and her owner's idea that my cat is deliberately out to torment her cat, I shall nip this in the bud and purchase a nearly identical toy for the Orange Ones to share.
With this in mind, I entered Petland, and completely forgot my original errand. This isn't because I was staring at the psychedelic neon fish (there was an eel, too!!), nor because the puppies were adorable. I, my friends, was being wooed by a parrot who simply couldn't get enough of me.
If it weren't so damn funny, it would be disturbing. I have no idea what he found so fascinating.
He kept following me around the store, repeating "I love you!" in a very loud voice. He acknowledged no one else, but fixated on me. For half an hour the entourage of Bird and curious customers followed me as I browsed 99 cent stuffed mice and the eel. During this time Bird proclaimed his love for me twelve times, told me I was pretty about five, and came dangerously close to clinging on my arm. I was half-expecting him to propose marriage.
Either this is a clever bird eager to go home with me, or his trainer specializes in luring in women as the firm basis of his clientele (Given a month with me, I guarantee you Bird would be speaking differently).
As much as I enjoyed toying with the idea of an adoring pet proclaiming "Jill rules," and quite possibly "Laura is a dork," the last thing we need at home is more hot air.
I purchased the mouse and left him with an "Its not you, its me." I hope he finds another.
Taxes
This is the first year I have ever had to do my own taxes, and I cannot say I relished the experience.
I knew I was in for it late January, when my mother cheerfully mailed me one of my Michigan W-2 forms and a Michigan tax booklet. Inside the booklet, emblazoned cheerfully in red ink on a post-it note, was a little snippet of advice from her to me: "Uncle Dave's phone number is *** if you have any questions."
Uncle Dave is a tax attorney. At least I think he is.
After groaning rather loudly to anyone who would listen (which was the chihuahua, who only was there because she thought my grumbling preceded food), I sat down and made a list of what I had to remember for my taxes.
TAX LIST
1. MI MTU W-2
2. GA Retail Hell W-2
3. GA Insurance Company W-2
4. Student Loans form 1098-T
5. Tuition and Fees form 1098-E
6. Something chocolate
7. Uncle Dave's number
8. TaxACT (my brother-in-law's tax program which will help dummies do their taxes)
After painstakingly reading over my list and deciding I had all documents which could theoretically get me a deduction or credit, I decided to begin. My only other options for a rainy Georgia Sunday were to either help 'improve' the shed in the backyard, or to watch Nascar. Taxes it is.
'Tax Blitz' Sunday at a glance:
10:00 am - throw cat on floor.
10:30 am - throw cat in hall
10:45 am - leave for church
12:30 pm - eat
1:00 pm - watch two minutes of Nascar (no accidents)
1:02 pm - sit down at computer with paperwork and decide I need a break
1:05 pm - decide I need alcohol to continue, but remember I don't really like alcohol
1:10 pm - 3:00 pm - Enter information, alternately yelling at the screen and even getting the adoring chihuahua to abhor taxes
3:20 pm - go buy cream-filled donut
4:00 pm - declare initial victory with a sizeable Federal refund
4:01 pm - caught victory-dancing to "Rich Girl' in kitchen by family members
4:05 pm - decide how to spend refund (IE, shove unceremoniously in savings account)
4:10 pm - dance around with the Chihuahua (who is once more adoring)
4:22 pm - decide I will tackle MI and GA state taxes and double-check my calculations at some point before April
4:30 pm - shower
5:00 pm - eat
6:00 pm - 11:00 pm - watch TV (My splurge. Actual TV). I just KNEW Patty on the Simpsons was a Lesbian.
11:10 pm - throw cat on floor
Sadly, while groaning about taxes is something I have become a pro at, I am not the only one. Whining about taxes and pawning them off on others has practically been an art form since there were taxes. In my family alone, let us travel back through time.... Beginning from most recently, my family's tax history may appear something like:
I once made my mommy do mine.
She in turn handed them off to Uncle Dave.
I'm sure, back in the day, my dad made his parents do his.
Some relative in the Civil War probably politely asked somebody to do his- at bayonet point
Pissed about retroactive taxes, someone probably went to a party in Boston.
Back in the old world, some relative probably defaulted on his taxes and was shipped over here (Australia wasn't opened yet, I assume).
In Biblical times, my family were probably slaves, and traded as taxes.
In pre-Biblical times, my ancestors may have been deemed too annoying and chattery by the powers in charge, and punished by being sold into slavery.
-Somehow, I wouldn't doubt it.
Valentine's Day Dilemma
Valentines' Day is upon us, and the office in which I work has succumbed to the cheerful, rosy hues of red and pink. Every woman in the office is wearing a red or pink blouse. Even some of the men are in crisp red or pink dress shirts.
Despite all the attention to detail by my coworkers, I really doubt anyone is more preoccupied with love at the moment than myself. Not love in the sense "I hate Valentine's Day because I will never get flowers," (I am too wonderful to pass up, of course), but the "I wonder what the next romantic drama to unfold will be" type of sense. At best, it can be entertaining, in preferably happy outcomes. At worst, I make lots and lots of cookies and supply cheap vodka.
I like to think that is not as sad as it sounds.
Regardless, Wilson seems determined to unknowingly oblige me. Apparently, Mark, our FedEx man, has brought three packages to us instead of to Pepsi, whose office is down the hall. Whining to Wilson about it (I am still not quite sure what he does, although he is the nicest guy) has led to the most fascinating twist.
Suddenly very interested in my story, Wilson volunteers to walk the packages down the hall to Pepsi. Not one to miss a behavioral change brought about with the same subtlety as being suddenly hit by a tank, I immediately launch into nosy, investigative mode (I like to call this 'concern').
I justify this because if my keen spidey-sense is working (or my dependency on knowing all things in the office to perform my job), another love-lorn member of society is banking hope on a breath mint, a cheerful smile, and optimism the leggy blonde who works for Pepsi will remember they shared an elevator. Her name is Roxy. I believe she has a boyfriend. I also believe Wilson may not be in the know.
I am torn between letting this play to completion (I could be wrong about her romantic status), and between sparing him potential heartache and/or humiliation by forewarning him. Enter more attractive option three: verify hunch with gentle probing and volunteer casual offhand information while appearing ignorant (I have to cover my own ass, I work here after all).
Luckily for me, Mark has seen fit to bring a package into my possession for an office the floor above me. Coincidence.... who cares. My egg has hatched.
"Wilson, since you are delivering Pepsi's packages, could you take this one to the office upstairs for me?" I am ALL sugar and honey here. Probably a mistake. I am never honey, unless I am cornered. His delivering the package would be nice, though (under normal situations, I would just ask, so he is right to be cautious).
"You want me to go upstairs? I would rather not, I am too lazy." He pauses. He knows I am pawning off work on him (I never get to pawn off work on anybody), but is not quite sure why. Great. Just great.
"So, why are you walking to Pepsi, then? Would it be that much more work to continue down the hallway and push the elevator button?" I am starting to get annoyed. Can he not see I am using the honey voice? He has heard me use that to kindly tell callers where they can go. Where does the line between tact and bluntness begin?
"I kind of want to talk to the girl who works at Pepsi." Well, he apparently knows. I am a crappy liar, even indirect half-lies. But nor is he stupid, either. He can read between the lines as well as any. Time for the kill.
"Is she the brunette? She seems nice. I haven't really spoken with her, but Roxy says she is. You met Roxy on the elevator this morning." I pause.
"She is dating someone, isn't she?" Truly not an idiot.
"I believe so... but I could be wrong. It never hurts to be friendly." One day, office politics may even permit a direct personal conversation.
"Very true," he gives an infectious grin and pops a breath mint. "But I'm still lazy, so you can take that last package upstairs."
I will never get to pawn off my work on anyone. Damn.
The King's Cake
Friday at the office dawned beautifully. One of the lawyers brought in breakfast, I was wearing jeans, and I had no faxes, emails, nor voicemails to mar my peaceful morning. As I sat daydreaming about what I would do during Carnival and buffing my nails (not buffing so much as using scissors to eradicate a hangnail), The FedEx guy brought up the packages.
There was one package that caused me to shove the scissors to the side and take notice.
This box was covered in cartoon-like scrawls, with a big print label marked "King's Cake." Intrigued, I asked who sent it. FedEx didn't know. A few more discreet inquiries later, the addressee didn't know, either. Not that it mattered. I was simply happy because we had a cake in the office.
While I was attempting to use my special Receptionist-vision to see through the box and determine the flavor, Christy (a Rep) walked by and stopped, amazed. "That is entirely inappropriate!!" she exclaimed, shaking her head and continuing, "I wonder what flavor it is. They can be really good."
Before I could puzzle out why a cake would be inappropriate, Nancy (Agency) walked by. "Wow! A King's Cake! I wonder who sent it." perplexed at the responses elicited by the cake, I decided to take the prerogative to get to the bottom of it. I WANT TO KNOW (I am relentless in pursuit of knowledge- unless it is an sn1 or sn2 type organic chemistry-type knowledge).
"Nancy, what is a King's Cake?" I asked. She looked at me, somewhat surprised. I doubt anyone in the South has ever asked what a King's Cake is, I guess. "Well, it is as holiday cake, served around Mardi Gras time. It usually has some fruit in it {I deflated a bit at the fruit-instead-of-chocolate part}, and a baby."
"WHAAT?!!" My mind was in the gutter. I don't know why it occurred to me that people would eat a cake made of babies, but that was my first thought. I must have looked horrified, because she quickly continued "A FIGURINE baby. It is a symbolic religious cake that bestows luck on whoever eats the slice with the figurine inside. It represents the baby Jesus, the King."
"OOOhhHh." Hence the name, King's Cake. I totally get it.
My thoughts immediately came in the following order:
1. Religion in the office is a sticky topic regardless of flavor.
2. If that figurine is plastic, I wonder which chemicals are leached into the cake.
3. I don't want that piece.
4. I am a closet nerd, without the closet.
5. Is it, or isn't it chocolate?
Well, it wasn't chocolate, but we ate it anyway. It is more accurately described as a large cream cheese Danish. Not worth the second piece, but well worth watching another lawyer nearly choke on baby Jesus. Happily, both lawyer and plastic infant are fine.
I like this tradition.
My Life as a Fairy Tale
I have a very special relationship with the office accountant, Jane: She makes me do her work.
While not one to usually bitch about the intricacies of office politics that make circumstances such as this acceptable (if observing the proper forms), every now and then something happens which makes me wonder why she hates me. And, which in turn, goads my ire enough to cause me to whine.
Not that I am against venting, I count it among my few unmarketable skills.
Today's Jane-given task was on par with detention in high school. For no intelligible reason, I was singled out to be punished by performing some inane chore. Like being punished in high school, the work is so pathetic, you know you are being punished because it is so useless you can't trick yourself into believing you are being productive. (Come to think of it, there was a college course like this, too. I call it Institutions. Others call it World Cultures, or Physics II)
This leads me back to my task at hand: to sort through a ream of paper, and remove two separate documents the printer happened to interprint (I simply KNOW the IT guy hates me). In addition, I had to separate each document into three categories.
I remember looking at Jane with wide eyes, and before I could stop myself, blurted "Why do you hate me?"
She laughed. Perhaps she thought it was a joke.
Regaining some composure, I continued "Is there any way we can simply reprint them?" (we waste reams of paper daily). She smiled. "No. Paul (the IT guy) says we cannot." She smiled again. "I'll be back for these, later."
Judging from the tone of voice, 15 minutes.
I can't help but compare my trials with the useless documents (destined to be tossed after I sort them) to a fairy tale I once read. Actually, it is Greek Mythology. This would be the tale of Cupid and Psyche.
To make a long story short, Cupid (the god of Love) married Psyche, a mortal (who came to his attention when his mother, Aphrodite, got pissed because the masses were saying Psyche was prettier than she was. This type of conflict always ends badly, go read Arachne and Athena's story if you think otherwise).
Cupid agreed she was hot, so he married her in secret. She had NO idea who he was, because he was invisible, and she was never allowed to see him. All the servants were invisible too, but he was disgustingly rich... yeah. Right. I guess she was fine with it (It is all greek to me).
One day her sisters visited and were jealous. They convinced her Cupid was a demon, and she should kill him. So Psyche was going to... but then she saw he was hot, and accidentally wounded him instead. He, of course, was mad. Not to mention he whined to Mommy, who appears to be the Mother-in-law from Mt. Olympus. I'd say they are in for counseling.
Regardless, Psyche had to do many things to prove her love.... I forgot most of them, but they were on par with my work. I remember because one of them was to sift grains of wheat from barley (about 3 bushels?) in an hour. She got lucky. Apparently her servants never used ant-killer, and the colonies were grateful.
So, unlike this happy tale of a relationship gone sour (but she did end up a full goddess, so she must have been really hot), I will see no rewards for my trouble. Unlike this story, I have 15 minutes instead of an hour, and no ants. (which, if there were ants, would see to another task for me, I am sure)
While on the fairy tales topic... I know many young adult books start with some ordinary girl being whisked into some fairy-tale like setting (as do some cheap romance novels... I got obscenely bored one summer. While completely lacking content, these books were full of heroines too-stupid-to-live. Very disturbing). I can't help but think If I were 'whisked away' what would happen. Here is what I came up with:
Red Riding Hood: I end up with a fur coat. This isn't Isle Royale... so what?
Cinderella: If Charming can't outrun me, and I am in one glass shoe and a party dress, perhaps the Tavern scene is decent.
Sleeping Beauty: Finally!! a heroine I can RELATE to!! Odds are 3:1 I punch the idiot who woke me up. Did he brush his teeth? OH GOD, My breath must be hideous!! The early-relationship gaffe.
Beauty and the Beast: I doubt my personality could bring about such a dramatic change in someone. Not for the better, at any rate. But at least I'd get a rose out of the deal (what can I say, I am a sucker for flowers).
Snow White: My mother is wonderful, therefore I have no idea how to deal with a motherly figure who isn't. However, if someone wants to kill me (I guess I can concede there may be a few) and ACTS on it, then I count that person as an enemy and I will take steps of my own. Including but not limited to asking directions to the next Kingdom from 7 little dwarves, or cultivating some poisoned pears. Who wouldn't trust me with a pear?
Goldilocks & the Three Bears: I'm a brunette. I also don't break and enter, or trash houses other than my own. However, I have also never tasted bear, but have just found the perfect opportunity. (I guess bear meat is riddled with parasites, so it will have to be a well-done opportunity)
The Pied Piper: I would convince him he needs an agent, and then have him simultaneously scheduled for 'Medieval Idol' and pest removal gigs. After fame and fortune grind him down and he becomes bitterly psychotic, I get a reward for informing the town of his plans to kidnap all the children. Not a completely heartless worm, I will use part of his earnings to find him a psychiatrist.
The Gingerbread Man: After that chase, yes, I feel justified in biting his head off. The fox better leave me the top half so I can do just that. If not, I can use a bow and that fox better run.
Bremen Town Musicians: I cannot sing. I fake my dancing. I have found my niche.
The Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe: If, by old, they mean over age 10, then yes. If not, my cake candles burn the shoe down, and my wards and I work to build an actual house (between scheduled classroom lessons and OSHA standards of child labor). When they hit their teens, I call the fully-recovered Pied Piper as soon as I have a mental breakdown of my own.
The three Little Pigs: MMM. Ham AND a fur coat. I am doing well. (Not that I actually would ever wear fur)
Lord of the Rings: I will sit my butt on Tom Bombadill's land and REFUSE TO LEAVE until the ring has been completely and utterly destroyed in Mt. Doom. I refuse to be eaten by an Orc. (Somehow, I just know I would die immediately and in a painful way).
-It is funny how wild my imagination runs, because my next thought was that my friend, Em (applied ecology major) was going to be chilling with the Ents, and that I would be jealous. I can totally see her helping them with a leaf rot problem.
And while my life may not be a fairy tale... for that I am grateful.
"Winter Storm 2005"
What goes around comes around.
I suppose I am getting my just desserts for making numerous calls to Michigan and laughing hysterically into the reciever after asking how the weather is (I need a new gag, really).
My personal favorite had my twin sullenly whining about being plowed into her apartment complex, leaving her with nothing to survive on save string cheese (this is no different from the norm, but I can sympathize wholeheartedly). Like any caring sister, I laughed until she hung up, then I called her back and did it again.
I think she hates me.
To make a long story short, I spent my weekend holed up in the house, watching exclusive coverage (by 4 TV stations) of what is being marketed by the networks as "Winter Storm 2005." There is even a theme song.
Suffice it to say that when anything resembling ice, sleet, or snow hits Georgia, the natives go crazy. The average speed limit in Atlanta is 80+mph, and no one bothers to slow their humvees for something so insignificant as the forces of nature.
Day one, Saturday, started off great. I sat on the sofa eating ice cream (actually, all I ate Saturday was ice cream and Captain Crunch. Rock on), and watching the neighborhood children haul out sleds and slide down the road (I wanted to join them, but I have no sled, cardboard, or anything. I have an armchair Grandma gave me, but that would be too much work, and may rip out my stitches. More on that, later).
Following the happy children, the crazy unicyclist was out and I watched him bite it several times, as did the kids. Even from a distance, their frozen little faces were of shocked bewliderment that an adult would be out trying to ride a unicycle in this weather (Perhaps he is an Olympic unicycle contender, and needs to practice on two inches of solid ice on a hill.....)
There are interesting people down here. Perhaps I will go into more detail about the unicyclist later.
After about an hour of watching live cams of real-time accidents occuring on GA400, I75, and I85, I thought I would be better served watching the carnage inflicted on drywall by some stainless steel cutlery on a random infomercial. Cabin fever set in about ten minutes later.
So, after completely wasting my Saturday (AND there were brown outs all day because of the ice weighting down the lines) I have decided to dedicate part of Sunday to whining about the cold, the ice, and how I ran out of Captain Crunch so I am being forced to live off Oat Bran. At any time feel free to call and laugh.
Part of the reason I am so grumpy about my cabin lockdown is because I couldn't go play outside even if I did have a sled. My surgeon gave me explicit instructions to not rip my stitches from Thursday's surgery, and quite frankly she scares me. (So, instead I have been sitting on my butt, eating like a pig, and charging my cell battery between brown-outs for the next round of 'calling MI and laughing my ass off.')
Perhaps I should talk about my surgery, as it is rather funny.
Thursday, I was happy. Not only was I finally having the lump in my arm removed, I got half a day of work off in which to do it. I was GLEEFUL skipping out of work (I literally did skip). After several months of uncertainty, and medical trial-and-error, I was having my biopsy.
I arrived at the office, and was ushered into this lovely little room with an exotic chair reminiscent of the pyschotic Dental office of Little Shop of Horrors. My surgeon began the niceties of polite conversation, while the surgical assistant prepped me for surgery. They were both very nice, and not once did I have the urge to run screaming.
Once the surgery began, I really couldn't see. I did manage to peak over, and the view was not what I expected. The doctor, who assumed I would probably freak out, immediately said, "you don't want to see this!" It was at this point I made a comment comparing the sterile field to a food product, which immediately had the surgical assistant exclaiming in horror, "oh god, she's right! I can never eat that again!"
The surgeon started to laugh.
"Well, if you think THAT is bad..." I launched into another story concerning college anatomy lab, and a similar situation which soon had both women in stiches. I am glad I was locally numbed, because the next sound I heard was my surgeon, still laughing, exclaiming "oops!"
At this point, I reflected, perhaps I should not be making these people laugh.
Before the operation was over, we hit many topics. these ranged from: Birth control, George Bush, acne, Carrots as a source of nutrition for women over 25, Sea World, Engineers, Atkins, Idiot boyfriends, medical school, IHOP, and cats.
Speaking of cats, I finally named mine. He is Jonesie von Clawed. He responds to Fluffy. I am a bad mother.
I am now sporting a 7 stitch wound, and have been forbidden to shave or use deoderant. I have been threatened with extreme pain should I not care for it properly or if I rip my stitches, and I am still amused with the care my surgeon took about my scar. Between fits of giggling, she mentioned suturing with the curve of my skin, so my scar would not be so noticeable.
I am glad she took such care, but I doubt anyone will look at my underarm in a social environment. Or at all. But, thanks to her, my underarm will not look absolutely Frankenstein-like if I choose to roll up my sleeve and demand that everyone look at my cool scar.
What am I, eight? (It is kinda cool, though)
There is still some of Sunday that is salvageable. I think I shall go recondition Fluffy.
Soap Operas, Wet Willies, Scented Lotion, and Cat
Did you know that while the rest of the world is out working, going to class, or playing Hookie, others are watching or recording Days of Our Lives and Passions? In salute to this segment of society, I have decided that today’s little rant will be in Soap Opera form. (Okay, so I watched one or two episodes while avoiding relatives over Christmas and have sort of been sucked into the warped lives of these people. I will never watch again, I swear!)
In the defense of Passions, I did get to see a woman stabbed in the back with a scalpel by another woman in the hospital while fighting over a baby, all occurring during her doctor’s being poisoned by her fiance’s wife, who, as it happens, messed up and poisoned the Doctor’s sister? The sister is engaged to the Doctor’s ex-husband, with whom she separated after finding that the son she and her current fiancé gave up for adoption years ago was engaged to her other daughter, making their grandchild inbred.
Who knew Daytime TV was grittier than prime time?
May it be noted that my little Soap Spoof is extremely corny and written in the smutty style of Daytime TV. I figure if Daytime TV shows can air for over 20 years, there is something to be said for complete trash. That and I want to try something new.
~TEASER~
Ten days ago our heroine met a guy online.
Six days ago she met him in person.
He is now sleeping in her bed, eating her food, and in short, being a mooch.
Has it been mentioned that he whines when the heroine goes out with friends, yet he feels completely justified in abandoning her and snuggling up to other women?
She told him how she was feeling hurt by his betrayal. He purred that he loved only her. Will she forgive him?...
~END TEASER~
The Chronicles of Cat, Episode One “The Whirlwind Romance”
{It was a chilly, 45 degree Atlanta night as the extremely beautiful, wise, and witty heroine surfed the internet in search of love. As she browsed pages and pages of photographs and profiles, one gentleman finally caught her eye. “Oh, bless my heart! Are you not the SWEETEST little southern gentleman I have ever set my eyes upon!” She cooed as she put her hand to her face ere she faint.
The profile on the screen was short, yet pointed. It read: “Top Cat. Only male in litter of four. Loves to climb, play, and is extremely personable. Even if you hate cats, he is simply nice to look at. Loves to purr.” The photograph next to the ad was of an orange tabby, looking rather grumpy while squeezed in the loving grasp of a shelter employee.
Passion in her heart, and on her high-horse of do-goodness, the heroine went the very next day to the shelter with her supporting cast of ‘I want to play with the puppies’ sister and annoyed ‘I cannot believe I was roped into driving’ brother-in-law.
There, across the loud and bustling room, over the distinct smell of Frontline flea and tick shampoo, did the happy couple meet. In fact, such was Top Cat’s joy at the prospect of being outside his cage, that he gallantly batted at his sisters through the grill before plotting how to open the Iams bag. Yes, it was love.
Their first day together, the pair began to discuss the line of demarcation between proper and improper behavior. To Cat’s distinct displeasure, this meant to not eat Heroine’s hair. It also means not sleeping on her head, nor giving her the mother of all wet willies when she finally fell asleep. In fact, it was with extreme displeasure that Cat found himself flying towards the armchair amid shrieks after (what was in his mind) a little friendly bathing of Heroine’s smelly ear.
In return for letting Heroine sleep unfettered, Cat earned the pleasure of not being tossed around like a feline comet. A further compromise was reached concerning sleeping arrangements, once Heroine realized Cat did indeed have a keen sense of smell. As long as Cat is respectful, Heroine will not wear the smelliest lotion she can find to bed.
This realization came to pass when Cat landed on an Avon catalog after a particularly satisfying gnaw of hair. Watching the slightly dazed Cat (who, it appears, finds the launchings quite fun) Heroine had a flashback to a shady character only known as ‘DHL Guy.’ Harnessing the power of smell in her favor, Heroine immediately grabbed the most potent Bath & Body Works products she could find.}
Next episode…. Will Cat and Heroine live happily for another week? Or will scented lotion spell doom for the couple? Stay tuned!! (In reality, this would be over 3 episodes, and soon the introduction of a jealous Chihuahua would spice everything up quite nicely).
Perhaps I should stick with standard prose.
My Car, Myself
There is plenty to tell about a person from the contents of his car.
I began pondering this the other day, after swearing violently from sitting on a pair of chopsticks. What, I wondered, would a complete stranger think when he looked into my car?
A quick inventory: My car contains several Michigan maps, maps of every state between Michigan and Florida, two bottles of water, a packet of soy sauce, disposable chopsticks, a box of tissues, and several burned CDs. There is also a roll of paper towel, a plastic disposable poncho, a broken umbrella, an air-pressure gage, one sweater, two discs for Track and Field, an etch-a-sketch, a mini-fan, and my athletic bag. Oh, and I could not possibly forget my collection of pens and notepads, or my tin of Altoids nestled behind the sunscreen in my dash. My MTU window sticker is peeling off the back window.
In addition to this exotic menagerie of items, there is a fine layer of dust all over the front panel. The windows have fingerprints, and even an obvious footprint is prominent on the passenger side of the windshield (this is a legacy from Louise, my Aussie friend who had a bit too much to drink before being deposited into my car by the Gwinnett County Police). Also courtesy of Louise is a stick-on Aussie flag adorning my dashboard.
Yeah, I think I can be painted an eccentric slob.
I can justify the lack of care invested in my car (really). The chopsticks and soy sauce are spares in case I forget to pick them up with my daily lunch order of sushi. The bottles of water I took from the blood clinic I volunteer at (I never have time to drink them when I am working). The maps are a testament to undiminished parental support (actually, they came with the AAA card my parents gave me with the extreme-super-plus coverage because I have a tendency to find trouble).
The tissues are because I had a cold a few weeks back. The roll of paper towel is kept because the moisture condenses on the inside of my car, and the air-pressure gage is because I have a slow leak in my back tire. The sweater is a MI-induced safety measure, while the discs are reminders of the years I spent dedicated to sport. The rest of the items are common sense, save the etch-a-sketch, which is just fun.
I promise to shell out the $10 to wash and vacuum my car when I am certain the fingerprint oils are not the only thing holding my windows in place.
Obviously, my examining the car with an objective view proves difficult. But I do hope that a complete stranger could guess at some of the nuances of my interior décor. Some day, I may not be categorized as eccentric. I, my friends, will be viewed as a woman of sentiment and foresight, as a driver who regards her car as an extension of herself instead of as an overflow storage solution.
Then again, maybe not.
House Party
Halloween, of course, is a time for partying. Whether you choose to go to a house party (like I did), a club (like I did), or sit at home hovering protectively over a tub of chocolate (like I did), there are many ways to indulge yourself (I spent several days celebrating Halloween, in case you were wondering).
While clubbing and sequestering sugar under your bed are always entertaining activities worthy of note, nothing can outdo a classic house party. Even if the house party is one where you know absolutely no one.
The particular house party I ended up at was one of these. My sister, confident in her web of social activity, invited us all over to one of her co-worker’s Halloween bashes. Coworker Guy (I have no idea who he is, other than a reporter at her station) reputedly throws a calendar-worthy bash each year.
Unfortunately, due to retail, I showed up about midnight. If Cinderella had my work schedule, her Fairy Godmother would have had to have been a little more relaxed with time constraints. As it was, I was no Cinderella. I was an Evil Sorceress (like there are any other kind). Besides, that was the cheapest costume at Wal-Mart.
When I made it in the door, I found Catwoman, Cleopatra, and a Nurse leading the locomotion. I joined in, and halfway to the kitchen (where I saw my relatives) found our train interfering with a game of ping pong between The Wicked Witch of the West and Woody from Toy Story. I finally made it over to my sister and her husband, who had won the unofficial couple’s costume hands down: L. Bobbitt and her escort, Dr. Cox. Lisa was there as a cowgirl.
Once I had been settled in with a beer, I was introduced to some of the random ghouls. A bloody cardiologist was a rival producer at another station, and the man in tight leather pants owned several martial arts clinics around town. Catwoman was a good friend of Laura’s, and Captain Hook was our host.
Somewhere between re-filling my glass and petting the hell-hound (I think it was a lab), rumor reached me that there was ham in the dining room. There was. I had missed dinner, so it was with much relish I found myself hacking off slabs of pork. It was at this point judo-man (leather pants boy), who was chatting up Lisa and I, slapped my butt.
Now, even if you are a judo master, you do not slap my butt. After laughing it off (IE plotting potential recourse) and watching more of his antics with detached amusement, I decided he was harmless. With his inebriated state in mind, I determined not to frame a setup where he slaps another butt within view of his Nurse. His lack of sobriety was his saving grace (he was drunk silly, but obviously a really nice guy).
You thought I would use the knife, huh?
Once we dragged Dr. Cox away from where he was gleaning contacts in the IT industry, the party really took off. Eighties music was playing, people were goofing off, and we all had a great time. Somewhere along the line I even found time to playfully smack leather pants boy on his behind.
I never thought I would do that, but the expression on his face was priceless. I win.
The Stench of Indecision
When one is told by society to enjoy the simple pleasures in life, I am not sure they had a personality like mine in mind.
In many respects, I am traditional with my appreciation of those small moments; I like to smell flowers, I appreciate sunshine, and evidence of a thoughtful or kind act makes me happy. Witnessing acts of selflessness or uncovering a bit more evidence of human goodness makes me smile.
On the other hand, I am developing a dark side to my simple pleasures. I am not certain when this undercurrent began to show, but I just had a moment of clarity sitting here at my reception desk.
Waiting for the phone to ring between flipping through the latest Avon catalog and browsing Reality TV openings on the web, I discovered a free sample of Avon perfume. A normal person would have either ignored it or opened it to test its appeal. What did I do? I held it in my hot little hand and began to daydream.
The sight of perfume immediately brought to mind DHL Delivery Guy. Now, it is NOT what you think. I am not going to smear this stuff all over myself and attempt to ensnare DHL Delivery Guy. No, my thoughts progressed down a completely different route: I could use it to neutralize DHL Delivery Guy, and free myself from the bonds he places on my daily well-being.
You see, DHL Delivery Guy is two weeks new to his route. Everyone knows this, because we can SMELL him. Given his highly aromatic state, my coworkers and I have developed a moderately complex, scent-based ‘Doppler’ system. We can map his travels through the building and the length of time he spends in a particular location by the level of stink.
The man wears entirely too much cologne.
Actually, I am not certain what it is, or even if it is cologne. Two ventured guesses by my coworkers have been Old Spice, and a particularly potent oil used to mask the smell of marijuana. My best attempt to verbalize it is to describe it as spicy carrion that makes one want to scratch his eyes out, as they are burning from the vapors. I never gagged in anatomy lab, but I do get sick from this stench.
Regardless of his attempts to cover for a) his lack of bathing, b) usage of illicit compounds, or c) a severely depreciated sense of smell, DHL Delivery Guy fails miserably by attracting far more attention to himself than he was trying to avoid.
I regret not addressing this issue earlier. Because I thought he was a temporary delivery man, I initially tolerated the powerful scent. I could have politely mentioned something, or faked an allergic reaction, but two weeks out may be too late for retroactive maneuvering. I lack the tact to now politely mention something which may cause embarrassment, although not mentioning it may cause more.
This leads me back to my current line of thought, as I am still caressing this little sample packet, considering …other options. I derive far too much pleasure from entertaining tactics I would never actually employ.
One of my favorite scenarios is to set my high-powered fan towards the door with the sample attached to it. If the floral headiness does not result in a swift retreat, it may very well cause a clash of stinks where the flowery smell may win –a moderate improvement. However, one cannot subtly tape a paper sample to a fan and inconspicuously aim it towards the door.
Another idea is to hand him the sample and to ask him what he thinks of Avon’s new romantic scent. Holding it for .75 seconds may relieve the stench as some of the fragrance latches to his fingertips. However, if this backfires, which it would, he may think I was coming on to him. Plan number three is to royally immerse myself in sample, and then pray I would not pass out.
Methods aside, the results would end with the same triumph. Ideally, DHL Delivery Guy would deposit his delivery, smell something MUCH better than himself, and be inspired to go douse himself in rubbing alcohol, tomato juice, or formaldehyde to change his erring ways. In gratitude, my coworkers would sing me praises and we would then use petty cash to buy lunch.
Given the joy I find in simple things, including the intangible aspect of private thought, I believe I am appreciative of all life’s possibilities. Even when motive is less than admirable.
But, seriously, if anyone has ideas to help stop the smell, I am listening.
Telephones
Each vocation comes with its own perils and rewards. These range from making a ton of money getting shot at in Iraq (private sector only, sorry troops) down to sneaking free grub while employed in fast food (partially because not earning enough to pay for it). I fall somewhere in the middle.
My job has several perks. The main drawback, though, is that I have now developed a persistent, abnormal, and irrational hatred of telephones.
While never a huge telephone fan to begin with (I prefer to charm my victims in person), I ALWAYS like to talk (no exceptions). Laura tells me I am turning into our mother in this regard. The latest verbal manifestation began El Dia de los Muertos as Lisa and I drove in search of a Mexican restaurant. Suddenly I was found to utter such useful and informative comments as “Look, a Starbucks!” followed by “Check it out! Starbucks!” At this point (bless her heart), Lisa slapped me.
Back to the matter at hand (I have a tendency to digress, but I always re-circle to my main point). Where once I may have smiled at the thought of a ringing telephone (‘people love me! Yay!’), the reality of one ringing now brings about a horrible transformation. The blood drains from my face. My eyes widen, then narrow dangerously. Something resembling a growl emerges from my throat between clenched jaws. After preparing myself thus, I then answer “Thank you for calling *** *** Insurance Company. How may I help you?”
Even when my cellular phone rings, it is comic. It has not rang in so long I didn’t know the annoying ‘brrrinnng’ was mine until I deposited the cat into the kitchen to get her off the sofa (she is a couch whore), destroyed the sofa, and even contemplated slitting cushions to find the source (anything to make it stop. I then immediately changed it to the vibrate setting). At one point in my quest to vanquish the enemy I was crouched in battle-mode in the center of the dining room.
My new attitude of uneasy wariness towards Alexander Bell’s invention is somewhat tempered by common sense. While on my toes with any ringing phone, given the context of the situation, I can ascertain the impact it will have on my day. If at work, I know the ringing symbolizes the six-gun salute used to announce someone is about to hang. If the ringing is anywhere else, I repress the urge to hiss and spit like an angry cat, realizing that I have friends. That is worth smiling about.
I think it all boils down to an ancient truth: Based on our intent, the tools at our disposal can cause good or ill. In view of the grand picture, I like being able to afford food, and I appreciate not being shot at. I like my friends, too.
Halloween Haunts
With Halloween around the corner, one cannot fight the irresistible lure of the ‘Haunted House.’
After all, how can one not enjoy being scared witless (and denying it)?
In this spirit, myself and some fellow peeps rallied around my KIA (ironically, it was the only car that would fit all three of us, and they own Fords) and drove to “The Netherworld.” This haunted house was supposedly very good, along with being the easiest to find according to Mapquest.
I very nearly took several wrong turns anyway, but Lisa, with characteristic preparedness told me exactly which lane I should be in and when.
(For the record, Georgia roads are completely disorganized. Instead of having the turn lanes marked on the lane itself and on signs, the markings are faded hieroglyphs only on the pavement (if any). There was a heated argument debating whether this was because there was no snow to ever cover the roads, or whether it was because Georgia drivers do not heed normal driving regulations anyway.)
By the time we reached the parking lot, we had discussed in detail what we might expect. Lisa, who was in charge of planning the excursion, began with some general information. “This house has three different attractions, the first being the main event. The other two are 3D shows, and a themed maze based on Purgatory.” We thought about this. “How much will it cost to go to all three?” I asked. I am a bit cheap. “No idea. But I hope they accept debit cards.”
This led to another conversation about modern banking, and how since no one carries cash any more, it must be difficult to be a bum.
As we came into view of our destination, we noticed some very obvious indications that it was a house of horror. There was a huge spotlight of a Celtic Knot (I am doubtful of the appropriateness of that), and several hearses driving around the parking lot. In tried-and-true Michigan mentality, while appreciating the procession and the flags with skulls and crossbones on them, I couldn’t help but to joke, “Hey, if those hearses grab the last parking spots I will NOT be happy!” Parking is precious. I nearly ran over an evil-looking clown to get a spot, but I won it fair and square.
The clown later was being very ‘attentive’ to Lisa and Ashley as we waited in line. A demon with batwings also came up to grab Ashley’s arm. I was quick to tease “Hey, it is your ex!!” Not to be outdone, she retorted “yeah, why do I attract all the losers?” We continued to watch the demonic procession as we compared and contrasted haunted houses here from the ones in our native Michigan.
“This is so weird. We are on an access road and there are no corn fields in sight. Does anyone else think this is creepy?” Lisa had a good point. Instead of cornfields, we were going to tour an empty furniture warehouse. There was a nice waterbed in the display window. “Yeah,” confided Ashley. “If this line appears to be too long, we can just go loiter by the abandoned warehouse five blocks down. That could be really creepy.” We reflected on that for a moment.
“I know they have more money down here,” I commented, “but I miss the corn. There is something about knowing you can get lost and trip in a muddy cornfield where nobody will find you until morning that has an appeal.” There was a murmured consensus. At this point a tortured soul with cracked vertebrae was caressing Ashley’s arm. “Eew!! Go harass somebody else!” More exasperated than anything, she added “Why me?” and rolled her eyes.
“Because you are a petite blonde,” I replied. “And blondes have more fun.” We had to laugh at that. “Besides, I am 5’9 and a bit intimidating at times.” Especially if I smile. A wealth of information can be conveyed with one of my smiles. If you are a hot guy, you get treated the dazzling come-hither smile (just let me dream, k?). If you are a friend it is the casual-yet-very warm ‘you rock, great to see you!’ smile. If you piss me off, you will recognize the bared teeth for what they are: Impending Doom.
After giving what is best described as ‘evil Hagrid’ the bared teeth when he approached Lisa, we made it to the entrance. We had poneyed up enough money for the Main Event and a tour of Purgatory (called, appropriately, Oblivion), so we thought we’d be good for the night. For our brief tour of hell we were warned “Do not run, do not push, do not smoke. Do not touch the monsters and they won’t touch you.” The best part of this was that the speech was delivered by a giant ram/human hybrid, with a British accent. Blimey.
Because none of us are cowards, I was volunteered (this is what happens when you are shoved into the front) to lead the way, while Ashley generously offered to bring up the rear. Lisa was going to ‘keep us together’ by being in the middle.
For the record, isn’t it sad when you know somebody is going to jump out at you, you even see them and wave, but then you shriek anyway when they run at you with a chainsaw? There was a lot of running. I hit a few walls (this is where I swore between shrieks), but we made it out. There were HUGE ogres eating humans, torture chambers, ghosts, wigglies, you name it. There was even a spinning tunnel that really screwed up the sense of balance. In the end it was better than a cornfield, and there were even huge bruises to prove it (flesh and pride).
I never knew I could shriek the way I did. Go figure.
Good Advice
There is nothing more flattering than being solicited for advice.
Granted, this can be tricky. When a situation has evolved to the point where the dilemma warrants advice, it won’t be a simple solution. I have had such circumstances brought to my notice (either my friends are desperate, or I actually do have insight. I hope it is the latter).
Anonymous Male Friend approached me at work. He, one of the three male associates at Retail Hell (so much for anonymity, but none of you know him), had a problem. He needed to get his girlfriend a gift. As I am a woman, and seem to be cool (enough), he asked me for advice (my feelings of self-worth and my ego did puff up a bit).
After ascertaining his position (IE, time they have been together, seriousness of relationship, personality of Girlfriend) I decided to conduct market research and get back to him (if anything, I am thorough, and have no desire to give poor advice. I am also worried she may eat him if I miscalculate).
-As a rule of thumb I apply, advice should never be given unless asked for, and then the giver should not interfere with the course of action the decisionee ends up making (I sometimes break this rule, but it is because I get stubborn and just have to chip in my two cents. I am working on that).
With his permission, I immediately spread my information-gathering tentacles on the female end (my very diverse female end, I might add. It is important to cover the spectrum). My survey question was: “What does a 22 year-old man in a 2.5 year long relationship give his girlfriend for her birthday? She is 22 as well and somewhat demanding (although sweet).”
The responses:
1) “Something well-thought out and sentimental. He needs to show her he cares. I think he needs to plan a date where they met, and do the things she likes. It should be a surprise, but she should know in advance he is planning something she likes so she can dress appropriately. That and she won’t kill him thinking he forgot.”
2) “Something homemade. Even if it sucks, if he put effort into it, I would like it. Of course if it sucks, he’d better have some other trick up his sleeve as well.”
3) “Jewelry. If my honey bought me clothing, he would get it wrong. I don’t care as long as I adore it.”
4) “I am all for some thoughtful little gift, a nice dinner out, and maybe a rose. Or a dozen roses, but one can’t be picky. I like the yellow ones with the pink edges.”
5) “If my man doesn’t get me tickets to the Usher concert, he is in deep shit!”
6) “Mine made me dinner!!! We ended up at Taco Bell later, but it was so romantic!”
7) “We just need to be ALONE. Together. Alone… do you get it? Ok. Allooonnee.”
8) “I would be happy with a hug and an ‘I love you.’”
9) “He needs to do something so unexpected, and so sweet that I realize the effort he went to. That shows me he cares. Nothing is sexier than realizing your boy actually was paying attention several weeks ago when you mentioned you love the Care Bears, and he manages to find an out-of-circulation VHS tape and convert it to DVD. That is HOT.”
After conducting this survey, I hit the web. Looking at Dear Abby and Miss Manners (who appears to be rather grumpy, BTW) I have further learned that according to the proper rules of etiquette, giving jewelry or accepting jewelry from a member of the opposite sex (who is not family) is improper. This may be a little archaic by my standards, but I take each situation separately (As most of my jewelry was granted to me by default from relatives and friends whose ex-boyfriends are scum, though, I can see how this logic would make sense. Nobody wants painful reminders).
Heading back to Anonymous Male Friend with survey results and info in tow, I advised that he needs to come up with something smacking of his individuality (which seemed to be the underlying theme in most answers and what I would want in Girlfriend’s case). Odds are Girlfriend likes him because of his intelligence, creativity and sense of humor (most friends I know, both genders, think highly of these characteristics). In his case, anything he comes up with would get an ‘awwww’ anyway.
After staring at the list and wrinkling his forehead in deep thought, he asked if I had made these up (I was a bit indignant, and so I smiled. I have a certain smile that makes it very clear what I think. Come to think of it, it is closer to baring teeth). In the end, feeling somewhat less stressed, he decided to make her a card and a picnic lunch. Awww.
Much cheered, we began discussing WHAT he should make for said lunch, when our Boss’ boyfriend sent her roses. Yellow ones, with pink trim (Can you say VINDICATED?! HA!). After the collective ‘awww’ subsided from the female associates, and Boss left early to go out with awww-inspiring boyfriend, I saw the cogwheels turning as Anonymous Male Friend mentally added flowers to his list (although I think the roses did morph into lilies).
He should be okay.
Taverna Plaka
There are times you simply need to unwind.
I recently took one of these, after a particularly nasty day in retail.
The moment my shift was over, I ran screaming from the mall (almost as quickly as a man dragged in by his girlfriend, intent in her search for the ‘perfect’ poncho). Speeding somewhat conscientiously, I drove straight to Queen of Sheba (an Ethiopian restaurant), and immediately ordered myself a glass of honeyed wine.
“Jillers, what is with the wine?” My brother-in-law was a bit curious I had ordered a drink, as it is somewhat out of character. In case you are wondering how he ended up at Queen of Sheba, our little gang had planned this rendezvous for weeks. “It is my favorite,” I breathed between gulps. “It doesn’t taste like wine at all. Besides, we have to celebrate! Laura is home, and I had my first complaint today!”
I am afraid it is true. I was placed in Zone One (where we greet customers at the door and feign enthusiasm we may have once had). Because of our huge sale, it was extremely crowded, so I was shouting myself hoarse for five hours (in addition to having sore cheeks. Plastering on a smile for that long hurts). To make a long story short, I wasn’t attentive enough to a particular customer. With my luck she was the secret shopper.
“Ouch. Sounds like you had a great day.” Leave it to Lisa to make a statement I, myself, would have uttered. “Oh yeah,” I replied, sarcasm dripping in each word. At this point I was swirling the dregs of my glass, having downed two-thirds of it. “There is nothing like a public reprimand to boost employee morale.” Not that I was thrilled to royally piss off some older, rich woman, but hey. “Angelica understood we cannot please everyone, but she told me to make sure I addressed everyone’s needs. We need to take care of our customers, or we lose them.”
“Why don’t you just quit?” Laura, like Matt, has made it clear in the past what she thinks of my duties as a sales associate. More accurately, she has made it clear what she thinks of the size of my paycheck in comparison to said duties. “I don’t mind it, really, and I like the extra money. Besides, I like my coworkers.” I paused. “Anyway, Laura, how was the drive from Michigan?”
We continued to talk and eat dinner, which consisted of anjara (a type of bread that is used as a utensil), kitfo (ground beef), and yebeg tibs (lamb). It was very distinct, and very tasty. Ethiopian cuisine is always seasoned well, which is why it is a favorite in my family circles.
Post-honeyed wine, we drove to Taverna Plaka. This is what we had planned for, and where things got interesting.
Once valet parking took off with Matt’s car (I noticed the valet was a bit uncoordinated, but whatever), we made a beeline for the bar. Taverna Plaka is known for its martinis, and my relatives for their generosity. Unfortunately, Miles, our usual bartender, was in the front room at the more prestigious section. Cozying up to our favorite perch, we introduced ourselves to Omar, our ‘new’ bartender.
“What can I get you folks this evening?”
While everyone else asked to see the drinks menu, I asked for an espresso martini. I had planned this for weeks, after all. I was halfway finished with my first martini when my fellow barflies finished debating the pros and cons of Chihuly Sunset versus Athena’s Power, so on and so forth.
“Jill! You just downed a martini in under three minutes!” Matt was somewhat surprised because I am not terribly keen on alcohol. “Trust me, I cannot do shots,” I explained. “But this martini is really good.” Of course it was good. It had a LOT of chocolate in it. Most importantly, it had the power to keep me awake.
By martini number two we had moved into the prestigious section. Lisa waited no time before letting her inner wicked woman out. “Hey!!! Everybody is already dancing on the tables!!! Let’s go dance on the bar!!” Laura, eager to watch me make an idiot of myself, pushed for this end. “Jill, I want to see you dance on the ba- Look! Lisa, there is one of the belly dancers!” Yes, there are belly dancers. I have seen them before, but they still impress the hell out of me. Lisa was suitably impressed for her first encounter with them, as well.
Belly dancers aside, not one to corndog out on a perfectly entertaining-sounding proposition, I elbowed my way to the bar and asked if we could dance on it (just to say we danced on the bar, later).
“If you take your shoes off, go for it.”
After giving pause and contemplating what had rested on the surface of the bar, Lisa and I pulled off our shoes and climbed up. Two minutes later, after watching other women pointing and looking extremely (and deliciously, satisfyingly) jealous, another climbed up to join us. Not wanting to be elbowed off the bar by the attention-seeking redhead, Lisa and I climbed down where we validated the experience.
“Lisa, we danced on the bar!!”
“We rock!!”
Because we love to dance, we spent another two hours doing just that. It is nice being able to unwind.
Cravings
There are cravings, and then there are CRAVINGS.
I have seen both in action, and was most recently a victim of the latter.
The seriousness of CRAVINGS can be easily illustrated. Prior to my latest CRAVING, the last time I had a CRAVING was while I was in Australia. At this juncture, I was living in the ghetto (seriously. Karawara is the ghetto). Thankfully no CRAVING is powerful enough to make one consider a course of action potentially leading to bodily harm.
Needless to say, in the ghetto, one doesn’t go out alone in the evenings, especially if you are a woman (while the running joke is that would-be criminals would pay me to let them run away unscathed, I am simply not stupid or brazen enough to flaunt idiocy).
As memory serves, it was a Sunday evening, and for some reason Australia has closed shops on Sundays. This is especially annoying (but not as much as having stores close at six on weekdays). Regardless, I was watching the Simpsons with my flatmates when IT happened. I had a CRAVING.
“Hey, does anyone have any chocolate?”
“Nope.”
The thing about CRAVINGS is that they can affect the people around you. Nine times out of ten, if you are a woman living with other women, any time you have a CRAVING at least 75% of your flatmates will end up with cravings as well. This can average at about 85% contagious if the CRAVING is for chocolate (and while chocolate is pretty much guaranteed to cause cravings, it is the only substance in my knowledge that can cause CRAVINGS by association).
Within five minutes of my piteous cry, there were six women pawing through the cupboards. Rie’s cupboard: Negative. Julie’s: Nope. Louise’s: Nada. Tapuwa’s: Not even any hidden Tim Tams. Abby’s: A box of Milo (powdered chocolate milk mix. Nasty stuff). My cupboard yielded nothing, as we had eaten my M&M’s, Tim Tams, Chocolate chips, and anything chocolate-related several hours before.
BUT, there was a bar of baking chocolate discovered in the wreckage. Now, if any of you have ever been desperate for chocolate, and have actually tried this unsweetened abomination, it is nasty. The only reason I had it was because I actually was baking things at this point. Considering I couldn’t cook, I needed to do something to keep my housemates happy (especially since I am NOT a Domestic Goddess, as you well know).
The level of CRAVING, craving, and desperation boiled down to as follows: We couldn’t travel to a store, as they were closed. Louise’s car was a piece of crap, so it probably would have broken down anyway. This left six highly-educated, beautiful, competent women staring at a box of Milo and a baking bar.
I must have had one hell of a CRAVING. My five housemates actually drank the Milo (nasty Nasty NASTY. Milo is to Nestlé’s Quick what Vegemite is to Peanut Butter). Of course only Americans appreciate buckets of sugar dumped into their food, but I stand by my assertion that Milo is shit. Perhaps this is why in my moment of darkness, I sat down and actually ATE the chocolate baking bar.
Even my housemates were astounded by this ridiculous length I had gone to to get my chocolate fix. “Dear God, she is eating a baking bar!” spoke Julie in quiet shock. “I have never seen this, and I am studying Psychology!”
“Jill, it is all right,” soothed Tapuwa. “Tomorrow we will walk to the gas station and buy some overpriced ice cream!” Abby jumped in. “Jill, do you think you will have a craving for apple pie this weekend?” Rie commented as well. “I could go for some apple pie. Jill, can you make us apple pie? I suddenly have a craving for apple pie.”
Things went downhill from here. By the end of the night, we had eaten ice cream, whipped cream, apple pie, pickles, Milo, a baking bar, and in Louise’s case, a can of condensed milk.
Until last weekend, over half a year later, I have not had another CRAVING.
This brings me back to where I began. My most recent CRAVING attack was remarkably well timed. I had the house to myself, and anyone who dared stand against me was 800 miles away. This was great, because what I really missed were pickled eggs. Not to be deterred by warnings I would stink up the house (IE don’t do it), I went out and purchased $15 worth of eggs, vinegar, and jalapenos.
Well, I DID stink up the house. The cat was pissed. She ran outside and I didn’t see her until three days later. The smell didn’t really bother me; I lost my olfactory sensitivity in Organic Chemistry. I did leave an open box of baking soda out to deodorize the house as much as possible, though (Heloise Helpline from Good Housekeeping. –NO sniggering).
My directions said I had to wait at least three days, but when one has a CRAVING, three hours is the max. My pickled eggs turned out pretty well, actually. I have about $12 worth of eggs to go. And it is nice to have a snack my relatives won’t filch.
Although myself having been guilty of being the filcher one too many times already, I have no right to complain. I could not help but notice, though, that Lisa (my new housemate) has a really nice chocolate bar hidden in the butter drawer of the refrigerator.
Amateur.
