While I have never desired to own a whoopie cushion, there have been moments in my life where I've found myself plotting a perfect practical joke - and then not performing it.
Case in point: one of these days the part of my brain that feels shame will call in sick, and I will ask the friendly Whole Foods worker where the Twinkies are.
Better case in point: Standing in line at a register, the woman in front of me was purchasing a lot of items, the last of which was a bag from the bakery. The cashier asked her, "What's in the bag?" so she could ring it up accordingly. When the woman said, "Three donuts," I - with a very Dr. Strangeloveian self-restraint - stopped myself from looking the cashier in the eye, licking my fingers, and mumbling as if my mouth was full, "Two donuts." It would have been effing hilarious...at least to me. I had no idea how the lady whose donuts they were would have reacted - probably not well - which is why I didn't go through with it. Alas, it is a moment I will never have back. A moment I will lie to my grandchildren about, telling them it really happened.
Perhaps the woman would have reacted like my friend did on Halloween a couple of years ago: I put on a drab gray dress and my daughter's long black wig, and smudged gray liner under my eyes to look like a J-horror ghost. Then I sat at my friend's desk with my back to the door, awaiting her arrival so I could slowly turn around and give her a short scare, then a laugh. Instead, I got an ambivalent, "What are you doing?" and a polite chuckle. In other words, as the kids say nowadays: a fail.
Aren't I too old for this nonsense anyway? Or does a professional practical joker never really retire? I suppose I'll never know. Now if you'll excuse me, my shoe is untied. ...made you look.
2/24/2010
2/17/2010
Winter Olympic Athlete
Watching the Winter Olympics reminds me of everything I don't like about winter: trying to do anything while I'm cold. I hate being cold, indoors or out, but at least indoor temperatures are predictable. At home, I know I have plenty of blankets available to keep me warm. At work, I've accepted that I have to layer my hoodie over my my sweater over my t-shirt, with my coat lain over my legs like a blanket for my entire shift. By the way, when you see me wandering the building in my scarf and gloves, YES, I AM that cold. Being cold just isn't something that ever goes away for me in normal-people temperatures; say, anything below 80F. Even in summer, it's not too often it gets that warm outside.
When my kids want to play outside this time of year, I think of how cold I would be, and only reluctantly allow it while I watch through the window trying to absorb all the heat from my coffee mug. When it snows, even wearing gloves, my fingers numb as I brush and scrape my car windows. I waddle like I did when I was pregnant while trying to get across my icy driveway. My nose could guide a sleigh on a foggy Christmas Eve. So watching skiers try to out-jump each other, I can only think of how sniffly they must be, and sympathize with the sting they feel as the snow hits their cheeks. These people have to train constantly, too - do they ever feel their toes? Shouldn't those luge sleds have heating pads built in? Can't we give the bobsledders down coats? I'm cold just watching this in my slipper socks huddled under my electric blanket.
A professional Winter Olympian would probably be flabbergasted by the fact that I've lived in Colorado for 15 years and never gone skiing, snowboarding, or rarely even made snowmen. You go ahead; I'll stay in and watch Lost. Call me when you're ready to hit the sauna.
When my kids want to play outside this time of year, I think of how cold I would be, and only reluctantly allow it while I watch through the window trying to absorb all the heat from my coffee mug. When it snows, even wearing gloves, my fingers numb as I brush and scrape my car windows. I waddle like I did when I was pregnant while trying to get across my icy driveway. My nose could guide a sleigh on a foggy Christmas Eve. So watching skiers try to out-jump each other, I can only think of how sniffly they must be, and sympathize with the sting they feel as the snow hits their cheeks. These people have to train constantly, too - do they ever feel their toes? Shouldn't those luge sleds have heating pads built in? Can't we give the bobsledders down coats? I'm cold just watching this in my slipper socks huddled under my electric blanket.
A professional Winter Olympian would probably be flabbergasted by the fact that I've lived in Colorado for 15 years and never gone skiing, snowboarding, or rarely even made snowmen. You go ahead; I'll stay in and watch Lost. Call me when you're ready to hit the sauna.
2/10/2010
Mind Reader
Sometimes, people don't tell me things that I should probably know. Like recently, when I went to say hello to a coworker, and two supervisors were standing next to her. The coworker saw me approaching and said, "Hey, what's up?" To which I replied, "I was just coming to show off my fabulous new shoes," which she then looked at, and began a conversation. This went on for a couple of minutes, with the supervisors also joining in the small talk, when I asked what she was doing. "I'm going to be the temporary supervisor," she said. "Oh, nice," I congratulated, then realized..."Oh, so...these guys are here to train you right now. Why didn't you say so?" I looked at the supervisors, "Why didn't either of you say anything?" They just laughed and said it was no big deal. Now, I didn't have much time to spend chatting anyway, since I was at work, but really...they could easily, and inoffensively, shooed me away because what they were doing was important, and I was awkwardly interrupting. This has happened before.
Once, long ago, when I lived in an apartment, I would have to use a laundromatwhen I needed to do laundry. Laundromats require quarters. One day, I didn't have any quarters, so I called a friend to ask if I could please come over and borrow her washer and dryer, please, please since I was out of quarters. She agreed. I got there, started my laundry, and was ready to hang out with my friend, when it soon became apparent that she and her husband had recently been "discussing" something. Where here, the word "discussing", when presented in quotation marks, being the euphemism for "arguing about." Of course I didn't expect her to tell me that they had been arguing; she could have just said no to my coming over. But I know that she was just trying to help me out. This is a gesture I sincerely appreciate, but I certainly did not want to interrupt them if they needed to talk. Yet there I was...stuck there with wet laundry, entertaining myself while they talked privately in another room. Just being awkward old me.
I think a lot of people do this - they don't want to tell someone no, or seem rude by saying that it's not a good time for them. And, if I were a professional mind reader, they wouldn't have to say these things. Since I'm not, please tell me next time I inadvertently walk in on your team meeting - you don't even have to let me get my coffee and donut first.
Once, long ago, when I lived in an apartment, I would have to use a laundromat
I think a lot of people do this - they don't want to tell someone no, or seem rude by saying that it's not a good time for them. And, if I were a professional mind reader, they wouldn't have to say these things. Since I'm not, please tell me next time I inadvertently walk in on your team meeting - you don't even have to let me get my coffee and donut first.
2/03/2010
Swimsuit Model
Target has swimsuits out already. Did anyone bother to remind them that it's February? This is more ridiculous than Christmas decorations set out for sale before Halloween. Although in all honesty, I may have been grateful for the extra time if I were still searching for a suit myself. Fortunately for me, I found one last year.
Not that it was an easy feat. Swimsuit shopping is not your average woman's favorite pastime. For me, it's a chore greater than any other. Ever. Swimsuit manufacturers don't seem to know that women of my type exist. Petite but not skinny; well-endowed but not by surgical enhancement. One-piece suits usually fit me awkwardly, which limits me to tankinis, and all swimsuit candidates must include bust support, which limits me to none of them. Oh, sure, swimsuit manufacturers pretend to cater to larger-chested women, sizing swimsuits by bra size, advertising underwire and support. I want to believe the tags on these suits, which is why I try on so many before giving up. But what I've discovered is that by "bra size" on these suits, they mean "enough flimsy stretch fabric to prevent your arrest for indecent exposure," "underwire" means "a wire sewn into the flimsy stretch fabric...not that we attached it to anything structural," and "support" means "... - actually, I don't know what the hell they mean, since there is none.
I've never aspired to be a model of any kind in my life, but now part of me would love to become a professional swimsuit model, just to show these designers how out of touch they are with real women's bodies. To show them that their cute bikinis on the racks at Target aren't so cute when they're stretched out like a plastic bag carrying 2 gallon-sized jugs of water.
Not that it was an easy feat. Swimsuit shopping is not your average woman's favorite pastime. For me, it's a chore greater than any other. Ever. Swimsuit manufacturers don't seem to know that women of my type exist. Petite but not skinny; well-endowed but not by surgical enhancement. One-piece suits usually fit me awkwardly, which limits me to tankinis, and all swimsuit candidates must include bust support, which limits me to none of them. Oh, sure, swimsuit manufacturers pretend to cater to larger-chested women, sizing swimsuits by bra size, advertising underwire and support. I want to believe the tags on these suits, which is why I try on so many before giving up. But what I've discovered is that by "bra size" on these suits, they mean "enough flimsy stretch fabric to prevent your arrest for indecent exposure," "underwire" means "a wire sewn into the flimsy stretch fabric...not that we attached it to anything structural," and "support" means "... - actually, I don't know what the hell they mean, since there is none.
I've never aspired to be a model of any kind in my life, but now part of me would love to become a professional swimsuit model, just to show these designers how out of touch they are with real women's bodies. To show them that their cute bikinis on the racks at Target aren't so cute when they're stretched out like a plastic bag carrying 2 gallon-sized jugs of water.
1/27/2010
Oral Surgeon
I had to get my wisdom teeth pulled. I wasn't going to bother, since they never caused me any pain, but apparently they decided that since I wasn't going to pull them, they were going to rot themselves away. Once they started forming cavities to carry out their evil plot, the dentist said they needed to go. What I wasn't aware of until the oral surgeon told me, is that wisdom teeth should be pulled while you're young - "Not that you're old!" - he kept interjecting unnecessarily. But the older you get, the harder they are to remove.
He was correct, not only because of my age, but also because I have a disproportionately teeny tiny head, with a corresponding teeny tiny mouth. It was difficult for him to move the instruments around, and the will of my teeth to stay in my head had him going back and forth between many different instruments. Everyone understands that tooth extraction is not a pleasant process, but for me it wasn't the pressure on my jaw, or the disconcerting loud cracks you hear as the tooth is ripped from your skull, it was the excessive stretching of my lips. I try to be a good patient, really, but it was too much to have my head facing one direction, and have my lips pulled in the opposite direction. I kept turning my head to follow my lips, which wasn't helping. And all the while, the surgeon cursed and muttered about how small my mouth is, then cursed some more. He even ended up using a pediatric tool at one point. Good call - I've been begging my dentist to use pediatric x-ray film for years; no dice.
With my mouth full of gauze and pliers and drills and circular saws and hammer and chisel (well that's what it felt like), I didn't get to complain back at the surgeon that maybe his hands were just too big. So now I'm thinking that the world of oral surgery could use more people like me, with smaller hands, and an understanding of people with small mouths. I wish I'd had this revelation when I was younger - "Not that you're old!" I mentally hear the oral surgeon interject - because at this point, I'm not sure I'm capable of enduring the many years of school and training to become an oral surgeon. I do, however, know I'm capable of cursing like one.
He was correct, not only because of my age, but also because I have a disproportionately teeny tiny head, with a corresponding teeny tiny mouth. It was difficult for him to move the instruments around, and the will of my teeth to stay in my head had him going back and forth between many different instruments. Everyone understands that tooth extraction is not a pleasant process, but for me it wasn't the pressure on my jaw, or the disconcerting loud cracks you hear as the tooth is ripped from your skull, it was the excessive stretching of my lips. I try to be a good patient, really, but it was too much to have my head facing one direction, and have my lips pulled in the opposite direction. I kept turning my head to follow my lips, which wasn't helping. And all the while, the surgeon cursed and muttered about how small my mouth is, then cursed some more. He even ended up using a pediatric tool at one point. Good call - I've been begging my dentist to use pediatric x-ray film for years; no dice.
With my mouth full of gauze and pliers and drills and circular saws and hammer and chisel (well that's what it felt like), I didn't get to complain back at the surgeon that maybe his hands were just too big. So now I'm thinking that the world of oral surgery could use more people like me, with smaller hands, and an understanding of people with small mouths. I wish I'd had this revelation when I was younger - "Not that you're old!" I mentally hear the oral surgeon interject - because at this point, I'm not sure I'm capable of enduring the many years of school and training to become an oral surgeon. I do, however, know I'm capable of cursing like one.
1/20/2010
Veterinarian
It's 12:30 Friday, and I am racing through Wal-Mart on a mission to rescue a fish. Net: check. Food: check. Bottled water: check. Boy who tried to kill fish: check.
The tale: I awoke to find my three year old playing in my room with some of his sister's toys. He reeked of tweenerrific fruit-scented body spray. I immediately went into her room to clean up what I was sure was a puddle of body spray on the floor. Instinctively I looked at Bubbles' tank (funny, since every other day since his purchase, I've forgotten he even existed). It was a cloudy, smelly mess, and at first I couldn't even find Bubbles. I was immediately upset, thinking about the poor, helpless animal that had the misfortune of being brought into this family, and how my daughter would react to the death of her first pet, and only 4 days after she got him. I turned to my toddler, "What did you do to this fish?" I sobbed.
"Nothing!" he insisted. But there was the evidence: the trail of water drops, the murky tank water, the inch-thick layer of fish flakes covering the bottom of the tank. Then I found Bubbles, at the top of the tank - thankfully, alive. I had to get him out of there. I called my husband. "Where is the fish net?"
"We didn't buy one yet," he said. Oh, no. "I'd hurry to the store. That fish is going to die." Oh, nonononono.
Hurry I did. I grabbed the net, new food, and some water with one hand while carrying my son in the other. I took my money out while still waiting in line to eliminate the delay of searching for it after the items were rung up. We rushed back to the car, and as soon as we got home I left my boy to get his own coat and shoes off while I ran upstairs to save the dying fish. I got the water to the perfect temperature, grabbed the net, and transferred the still alive (yay!) fish. Rescue mission: accomplished.
I don't really know much about fish. The whole situation may not have been as urgent as I perceived it, but by goodness, I was not going to just wait around wondering if that fish was suffering. And Bubbles is alive and barely moving in all his lethargic bettaesque* glory. I'm not sure I could've done better if I was a professional vet.
*I enjoy making up words.
The tale: I awoke to find my three year old playing in my room with some of his sister's toys. He reeked of tweenerrific fruit-scented body spray. I immediately went into her room to clean up what I was sure was a puddle of body spray on the floor. Instinctively I looked at Bubbles' tank (funny, since every other day since his purchase, I've forgotten he even existed). It was a cloudy, smelly mess, and at first I couldn't even find Bubbles. I was immediately upset, thinking about the poor, helpless animal that had the misfortune of being brought into this family, and how my daughter would react to the death of her first pet, and only 4 days after she got him. I turned to my toddler, "What did you do to this fish?" I sobbed.
"Nothing!" he insisted. But there was the evidence: the trail of water drops, the murky tank water, the inch-thick layer of fish flakes covering the bottom of the tank. Then I found Bubbles, at the top of the tank - thankfully, alive. I had to get him out of there. I called my husband. "Where is the fish net?"
"We didn't buy one yet," he said. Oh, no. "I'd hurry to the store. That fish is going to die." Oh, nonononono.
Hurry I did. I grabbed the net, new food, and some water with one hand while carrying my son in the other. I took my money out while still waiting in line to eliminate the delay of searching for it after the items were rung up. We rushed back to the car, and as soon as we got home I left my boy to get his own coat and shoes off while I ran upstairs to save the dying fish. I got the water to the perfect temperature, grabbed the net, and transferred the still alive (yay!) fish. Rescue mission: accomplished.
I don't really know much about fish. The whole situation may not have been as urgent as I perceived it, but by goodness, I was not going to just wait around wondering if that fish was suffering. And Bubbles is alive and barely moving in all his lethargic bettaesque* glory. I'm not sure I could've done better if I was a professional vet.
*I enjoy making up words.
1/14/2010
Dietitian
I gained weight over the holidays, of course. It was unavoidable. I tried to be sensible when eating out, but what was I going to do, waste a whole takeout box on the last two bites? So I just ate them. And dessert. There are a lot of restaurants that serve pie. I also made pie for Christmas. And cheesecake. And we had to eat the Christmas dinner leftovers before they went bad - between meals out.
But now, the holidays are over. Egg nog is being liquidated from the stores, and I don't have enough visitors now to justify baking desserts. I have time to exercise again. I'm back at work, where I pack a sensible lunch every day...and where there are sugary treats brought in for every conceivable occasion nearly every day. And if there isn't some form of baked goods lying around, there's always the vending machine.
I want to lose these holiday pounds, really. Professional dietitians tout food diaries as a simple and effective weight loss tool. Keep a journal, pinpoint where your extra calories are coming from. Here's mine: Breakfast - cereal, small piece of cake. Lunch - Grilled cheese sandwich, slice of pie. Snack - Chewy Chips Ahoy, 15 random individual chocolates picked from the open candy jars on my coworkers' desks. Dinner - pasta, Snickers bar. Hmm, or Peanut M&Ms. Or Snickers bar. Peanut M&Ms? Or Snickers?
See, dietitians? At least I'm writing it down.
But now, the holidays are over. Egg nog is being liquidated from the stores, and I don't have enough visitors now to justify baking desserts. I have time to exercise again. I'm back at work, where I pack a sensible lunch every day...and where there are sugary treats brought in for every conceivable occasion nearly every day. And if there isn't some form of baked goods lying around, there's always the vending machine.
I want to lose these holiday pounds, really. Professional dietitians tout food diaries as a simple and effective weight loss tool. Keep a journal, pinpoint where your extra calories are coming from. Here's mine: Breakfast - cereal, small piece of cake. Lunch - Grilled cheese sandwich, slice of pie. Snack - Chewy Chips Ahoy, 15 random individual chocolates picked from the open candy jars on my coworkers' desks. Dinner - pasta, Snickers bar. Hmm, or Peanut M&Ms. Or Snickers bar. Peanut M&Ms? Or Snickers?
See, dietitians? At least I'm writing it down.
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