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.
