It is not uncommon for people to leave things behind like a bag in the overhead when they fly, or a pair of glasses at a restaurant or even their phone in a cab. I prefer to leave something a bit more ...personal.
Awhile back, I was fortunate enough to score an aisle seat on a ten hour flight next to a husband and wife from California. Shortly after take-off, both of them nodded off, and I was able to read my book in peace and quiet (Woo-hoo! An on-time flight and no annoying seatmates. How often does that happen?).
While I read, I began worrying the nail on my thumb which hadn't seen a manicure in weeks and had begun to rip despite my best efforts. Read, pick, read, pick, read, flick! The entire top of my fairly long nail went flying off and landed right in the lap of the husband who happened to be sitting next to me.
Glancing at the couple's faces to make sure they were still sleeping, I pondered what to do.
Did I, A: reach over and try to grab the nail before either of them woke up or, B: sit on my hands and cast suspicious looks at the flight attendant? Decisions, decisions.
I dismissed scenario B as being impractical. How could I cut into the dried-out, brick-like piece of cardboard masquerading as a chicken dinner with only one hand? I contemplated the first scenario. I could envision one of both of this nice, middle-aged couple waking up just as my hand made a grab at hubby's nether-regions. What could I say? "Don't mind me, I'll be done here in just a minute" or "Hi there. Just retrieving a bit of DNA from your husband's lap."? Somehow, I didn't think either of these would go over too well, and we had a really long flight left ahead of us.
So I decided to take the only option left to me. I would somehow create enough wind to blow it right off his lap. After all, it was a teeny, tiny little thing. How hard could it be to move it? Grabbing my blanket firmly by the edge, I began to fluff it frantically up and down. The nail didn't budge so much as an inch. Great.
I took the Skymall magazine and fan it back and forth vigorously enough to create a small tornado. The nail stayed right where it was. Jeeze, was it glued to the guy?
By now, I was starting to get some strange looks from the woman across the aisle who was huddled under a blanket, sweater and jacket against the sub-zero temperatures they keep the planes at these days. I had one last idea before I would have to revisit the snatch and run scenario again.
Taking my book, I flapped and flipped and fanned and fluffed. But still the nail didn't budge. Now the woman was looking a little scared and glancing around the plane as though she might seriously be considering trading her aisle seat for a middle as long as it was far, far away from Typhoon Mary.
Fortunately, we were both saved from further action by the arrival of dinner. In the confusion of waking up and trying lower his tray table, the nail disappeared somewhere in the folds of his pants. By the time dinner was over, the nail was long gone, but I'll bet he had an interesting visit to the restroom later.
Not satisfied with that episode, I had another incident a few weeks ago.
Tim and I were at the theater. At one point in the show, the audience rose to its feet to applaud, and when I did so, the tie belt on my pants caught on my bracelet and came undone (and that is why I hate belts!).
Now this would not have been too bad except for the fact that my pants, which were not too close fitting to begin with, slipped a bit when the belt loosened. Add to that the fact that I was also juggling my program, my pashmina and my purse, and, well, let's just say that I looked like I was applying for the contortionist's job with the circus.
Trying to get Tim's attention for a little help was useless since he was exchanging appreciative remarks with the person on the other side of him, and totally oblivious to the fact that I was about to compete with the action on stage with a strip tease in row 7.
As I wiggled and shimmied and grappled with the stupid belt, everyone began to sit back down. Deciding I could use gravity to my advantage, I leaned forward, hitched up my pants and tried to put the seat back down with my bottom as I tied the ribbon.
Just as I was making my bunny ears, and congratulating myself a bit prematurely on my cleverness, the gentleman in front of me sat down...and back... all in one fluid motion. Which put his head right into direct contact with my mouth.
Several problems with that. 1: it hurt, but 2: he was bald and 3: I had recently applied a nice, thick coat of pink, glossy lipstick.
To my horror, as I drew back and began to apologize, I saw the perfect imprint of my lips on the crown of his head. Unable to help myself, I began to giggle as I resumed my seat and could barely keep my eyes on the stage for the rest of the show.
I can only imagine how he had to try and explain to his wife later that evening exactly how he got lipstick on the pillow.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
The Itsy-Bitsy Spider...
When I was a child, my mother had an old, used car that I believe they paid my parents to take off the lot. Mint-green and white and the size of the QEII, I'm sure it was the cat's meow in it's heyday, which I'm guessing was around 1936. By the time we got it, the green was no longer so mint, and it more closely resembled the Titanic--after eighty years at the bottom of the ocean.
I'll never forget the day that we were driving up the street, and a nice, big Daddy Long Legs spider decided to pop up out of the ripped upholstery on top of the front seat "bench" and say hello. Suddenly, the half-acre back seat dwindled to the size of a postage stamp as he began his inexorable march towards me.
My mother's claim that "you're so much bigger that he's more afraid of you than you are of him" did not impress me. I might have been bigger, but he had six more legs and a definite gleam in his eye that said, "Mmm. Lunch!" I can still remember bolting from the car with speed that would make a cheetah sit up and take notice.
Despite my mother's most fervent assurances that she had killed it and he was the last of his kind on the planet, I was constantly on "spider watch" every time we got in the car, sure that he was just biding his time and as soon as my mother turned her back, he was going to resurface and get me. And so began my lifelong hate/hate relationship with bugs.
Yesterday, I was once again terrorized by a multitude of the hateful little creatures.
I picked up my six-year-old nephew from school, then swung by his house to get the extra car seat Tom had left on his porch for when I picked up my niece from school later that day. Plopping it down on the back seat, I noticed a few little ants cavorting merrily on its seat. Brushing them off, I got in the car and started down the street only to hear my nephew say, "Hey Annie, there's more ants."
Thinking it was a mere one or two, I breezily told him to just "Squish 'em."
Two minutes later, he spotted more. And more. And more. It was like the entire ant population of the east coast had taken up residency in this car seat.
Flashing back to my own childhood, I knew I couldn't put my niece into this ant farm disguised as a car seat. She is even more of a drama queen than I am, and I don't want to have to read on her facebook page in a few years about how her aunt had traumatized her and made it impossible for her to ever lead a normal life. She should blame her mother like the rest of us!
My first thought was a gas station with a really strong vacuum to suck the evil little creatures out into oblivion, but since it was in the middle of a thunder and lightening storm, I decided against holding a metal tube in my hands. I opted instead to swing by the house and 409 them to death.
My nephew and I took the offending piece of car furniture up onto the porch and found a whole colony of the nasty little buggers had taken up residence under the seat cover. I sprayed and he squished any escapees that tried to head for my front door, which he informed me was okay to do since these were "wild ants" and therefore untrainable unlike the ones in the household ant farm he hoped to get. Yeah. Whatever kid. Just keep stomping.
After coating my back seat with the spray cleaner, and still sure that the next time I get alone I'll be swarmed, we headed off to get his sister.
I probably should have bribed him with some chocolate to keep his mouth shut about the whole incident, but I didn't think about it (probably because I couldn't get past the little voice in my head that was shrieking, "Ewww. Bugs in the car, bugs in the car!") and so he regaled my niece all the way home with the gory details.
And as if that wasn't enough bugs for one day, one of the critters must have escaped and sent out some kind of signal that I hadn't been sufficiently tortured because later that evening when we were down in the basement doing an arts and crafts project, we found ourselves under attack again. But this time, the bug world called out the big guns.
As I ran water in the utility sink, suddenly, from up out of the drain came the T-rex of spiders. Seriously, this thing had its own zip code.
Trying to play it cool, I managed to trap it under a plastic container (I was not going to squish it and have to clean ten gallons of spider-blood off my walls) so that Tim could deal with it when he got home (he he he). Of course, this drew the curiosity of the kids who eagerly rushed over to see the spider...and then even more eagerly rushed for the nearest exit (although my niece did seem to consider, for the briefest of seconds, throwing a saddle on the behemoth and trying to ride it).
Within minutes of reaching the safety of the TV room upstairs, during which time I had to repeatedly lie to the kids and tell them that the spider couldn't possibly get out from under the container, come up the stairs and murder us all out of revenge, Tim arrived home.
He barely had time to shut the door behind him before he was inundated with pleas to "Kill the spider!" Scoffing at us for being afraid of a little ole' bug, he went off to do his duty, and I followed close behind to make sure he didn't chicken out when he saw the size of his opponent. The other bravehearts stayed abovestairs.
Reaching into the sink, he pulled up the edge of the container, and I believe his exact words were, "Oh my God!" as he jumped back and the monster scuttled back down the drain.
Tim ran the hot water and pronounced him dead, but in my heart of hearts, I know he just probably cracked open a new bottle of shampoo, fluffed himself and is lying in wait for the next time I enter the basement alone and unarmed.
Bugs. I hate 'em.
I'll never forget the day that we were driving up the street, and a nice, big Daddy Long Legs spider decided to pop up out of the ripped upholstery on top of the front seat "bench" and say hello. Suddenly, the half-acre back seat dwindled to the size of a postage stamp as he began his inexorable march towards me.
My mother's claim that "you're so much bigger that he's more afraid of you than you are of him" did not impress me. I might have been bigger, but he had six more legs and a definite gleam in his eye that said, "Mmm. Lunch!" I can still remember bolting from the car with speed that would make a cheetah sit up and take notice.
Despite my mother's most fervent assurances that she had killed it and he was the last of his kind on the planet, I was constantly on "spider watch" every time we got in the car, sure that he was just biding his time and as soon as my mother turned her back, he was going to resurface and get me. And so began my lifelong hate/hate relationship with bugs.
Yesterday, I was once again terrorized by a multitude of the hateful little creatures.
I picked up my six-year-old nephew from school, then swung by his house to get the extra car seat Tom had left on his porch for when I picked up my niece from school later that day. Plopping it down on the back seat, I noticed a few little ants cavorting merrily on its seat. Brushing them off, I got in the car and started down the street only to hear my nephew say, "Hey Annie, there's more ants."
Thinking it was a mere one or two, I breezily told him to just "Squish 'em."
Two minutes later, he spotted more. And more. And more. It was like the entire ant population of the east coast had taken up residency in this car seat.
Flashing back to my own childhood, I knew I couldn't put my niece into this ant farm disguised as a car seat. She is even more of a drama queen than I am, and I don't want to have to read on her facebook page in a few years about how her aunt had traumatized her and made it impossible for her to ever lead a normal life. She should blame her mother like the rest of us!
My first thought was a gas station with a really strong vacuum to suck the evil little creatures out into oblivion, but since it was in the middle of a thunder and lightening storm, I decided against holding a metal tube in my hands. I opted instead to swing by the house and 409 them to death.
My nephew and I took the offending piece of car furniture up onto the porch and found a whole colony of the nasty little buggers had taken up residence under the seat cover. I sprayed and he squished any escapees that tried to head for my front door, which he informed me was okay to do since these were "wild ants" and therefore untrainable unlike the ones in the household ant farm he hoped to get. Yeah. Whatever kid. Just keep stomping.
After coating my back seat with the spray cleaner, and still sure that the next time I get alone I'll be swarmed, we headed off to get his sister.
I probably should have bribed him with some chocolate to keep his mouth shut about the whole incident, but I didn't think about it (probably because I couldn't get past the little voice in my head that was shrieking, "Ewww. Bugs in the car, bugs in the car!") and so he regaled my niece all the way home with the gory details.
And as if that wasn't enough bugs for one day, one of the critters must have escaped and sent out some kind of signal that I hadn't been sufficiently tortured because later that evening when we were down in the basement doing an arts and crafts project, we found ourselves under attack again. But this time, the bug world called out the big guns.
As I ran water in the utility sink, suddenly, from up out of the drain came the T-rex of spiders. Seriously, this thing had its own zip code.
Trying to play it cool, I managed to trap it under a plastic container (I was not going to squish it and have to clean ten gallons of spider-blood off my walls) so that Tim could deal with it when he got home (he he he). Of course, this drew the curiosity of the kids who eagerly rushed over to see the spider...and then even more eagerly rushed for the nearest exit (although my niece did seem to consider, for the briefest of seconds, throwing a saddle on the behemoth and trying to ride it).
Within minutes of reaching the safety of the TV room upstairs, during which time I had to repeatedly lie to the kids and tell them that the spider couldn't possibly get out from under the container, come up the stairs and murder us all out of revenge, Tim arrived home.
He barely had time to shut the door behind him before he was inundated with pleas to "Kill the spider!" Scoffing at us for being afraid of a little ole' bug, he went off to do his duty, and I followed close behind to make sure he didn't chicken out when he saw the size of his opponent. The other bravehearts stayed abovestairs.
Reaching into the sink, he pulled up the edge of the container, and I believe his exact words were, "Oh my God!" as he jumped back and the monster scuttled back down the drain.
Tim ran the hot water and pronounced him dead, but in my heart of hearts, I know he just probably cracked open a new bottle of shampoo, fluffed himself and is lying in wait for the next time I enter the basement alone and unarmed.
Bugs. I hate 'em.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
From Bad to Worse
I begged Tim. I pleaded. I scolded, nagged and even berated him. Nothing worked. He still continued to tromp in through the back door onto my carpet without taking his dirty, wet sneakers off. So I locked the back door.
It was Sunday and there were two guys outside power-washing the house, porches and deck. Tim, myself and our twenty-three year old nephew, George, were trying to facilitate things by moving the porch furniture off and then back on to the porch. The off part was easy. George and I had done most of it earlier that morning. We were just waiting for it to dry out enough to move the stuff back on.
Tim, on the other hand, was mucking about with the grill, the shed, the utility area and God only knows what else. He was in looking for a cleaner. Back out. In for paper towels. Back out. In for a garbage bag. Soda. Phone. Snack. In. Out. In. Out. Not to mention the fact that he kept leaving the back door open. A blatant invitation for every bug in a three mile radius to sashay in and take a stab at me! So I finally, firmly closed, then locked the back door.
Soon enough, the porch was dry and the three of us headed out the front door. Tim. Myself. George...who pulled the front door shut behind him.
Tim whirled around. "You did not just shut that door."
"Uh oh. Yeah."
The three of us looked at each other, knowing it had automatically locked.
"Tell me we can get in the back door," Tim demanded, turning on me.
"We could if you had listened to me just once and taken off your sneakers," I defended myself. George wisely backed away and looked for a nice, cozy hole to crawl into.
Deep breaths.
"Does our next door neighbor still have a key?" Tim asked hopefully.
"She did until recently when she was having work done in her house and gave it back to me so that nobody could get into our house," I answered, daring Tim with a look to point out the irony.
"How about the guy across the street?" (our neighbor and friend)
"Nope. But, hey, wasn't he with some special unit in the military?" I enquired as inspiration struck. "Maybe he knows how to pick a lock like McGyver!"
Tim threw me a withering glance.
Hey! Like this is my fault, Mr. I-can't-be-bothered-to-take-off-my-sneakers?
More deep breaths.
"What time is it?" he tried another tack. George and I both held up bare wrists. "Where are all our cell phones?" he asked, already knowing the answer. We all looked at the closed, locked door.
"We'll use the neighbor's phone and call Rose,"he decided.
"Duh. She's getting her hair done or else she'd be here locked out right alongside us." Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have pushed it.
He actually couldn't breathe any deeper at this point, so he settled for gritting his teeth.
"Fine. Then we'll call a cab, and I'll go to the salon and get the keys from her. Now, who has their wallet with them?"
Was he kidding?? We were moving patio furniture around the yard, had no watches or cell phones, but he thought we had our wallets tucked away in our sweats? Now that was reaching.
"Does Tom have a key?" (last resort since he lives a good thirty minutes away)
"Uh, maybe. He did, but I'm not sure if his key is from before or after we changed the lock."
George was now looking for a major mound of dirt to pull in on himself after he got to the bottom of his hole.
"Do you think you could possibly go next door and try calling either Rose or Tom to see if they can come and let us in?"
I was going to suggest that he do it, but I decided it would be nice if the neighbors didn't witness a murder/suicide. I dutifully trotted next door.
"Of course you can use my phone. You should give me a key in case this happens again," she said. I didn't bother to point out that I had given her a key, but she had given it back!!!"
Since it is one of the few numbers I know by heart, I dialed Rose...and got her voicemail. I tried again...and got her voicemail again. I tried Tom at home...and got his voicemail. I couldn't remember his cell, so I went out and yelled across the fence for Tim...who chose not to hear me. I yelled louder. He was still playing deaf. So I had to go down the steps, over and up the steps to get Tom's number in person.
Miracle of miracles, he actually answered.
"Honey," I began without preamble, "do you have a key to our house?"
"What?"
"Do you have a key to our house?"
"A key? What do you mean?"
I wanted to beat him to death. "This is not a hard question...yes or no. Do...you...have...a...key...to...our...house?!" I enunciated each word with excruciating clarity.
"Uh, I think so," he didn't sound too convincing. "Why do you want to know if I have a key to our house?"
"Our house?" I repeated blankly.
"Yes, our house," he confirmed.
"Not your house. our house," I was getting exasperated again.
"Annie?" finally the light dawned.
"Yes."
"Oh, I'm outside. I thought you were Beth calling to ask me if I had a key!"
"Why would...never mind. Do you or do you not have a key to my house?"
"I guess. Hey, by the way, Rose just called here complaining that you people aren't answering your house phone or cell phones."
Counting to ten, I answered, "Yes. I know. That's because all the phones are LOCKED IN THE HOUSE!!! Now, do have a key or not?"
"Oh yeah. I have a key to your house. I'll be right up (yeah, in half an hour)...How did you get locked out?"
"It's a long story..."
It was Sunday and there were two guys outside power-washing the house, porches and deck. Tim, myself and our twenty-three year old nephew, George, were trying to facilitate things by moving the porch furniture off and then back on to the porch. The off part was easy. George and I had done most of it earlier that morning. We were just waiting for it to dry out enough to move the stuff back on.
Tim, on the other hand, was mucking about with the grill, the shed, the utility area and God only knows what else. He was in looking for a cleaner. Back out. In for paper towels. Back out. In for a garbage bag. Soda. Phone. Snack. In. Out. In. Out. Not to mention the fact that he kept leaving the back door open. A blatant invitation for every bug in a three mile radius to sashay in and take a stab at me! So I finally, firmly closed, then locked the back door.
Soon enough, the porch was dry and the three of us headed out the front door. Tim. Myself. George...who pulled the front door shut behind him.
Tim whirled around. "You did not just shut that door."
"Uh oh. Yeah."
The three of us looked at each other, knowing it had automatically locked.
"Tell me we can get in the back door," Tim demanded, turning on me.
"We could if you had listened to me just once and taken off your sneakers," I defended myself. George wisely backed away and looked for a nice, cozy hole to crawl into.
Deep breaths.
"Does our next door neighbor still have a key?" Tim asked hopefully.
"She did until recently when she was having work done in her house and gave it back to me so that nobody could get into our house," I answered, daring Tim with a look to point out the irony.
"How about the guy across the street?" (our neighbor and friend)
"Nope. But, hey, wasn't he with some special unit in the military?" I enquired as inspiration struck. "Maybe he knows how to pick a lock like McGyver!"
Tim threw me a withering glance.
Hey! Like this is my fault, Mr. I-can't-be-bothered-to-take-off-my-sneakers?
More deep breaths.
"What time is it?" he tried another tack. George and I both held up bare wrists. "Where are all our cell phones?" he asked, already knowing the answer. We all looked at the closed, locked door.
"We'll use the neighbor's phone and call Rose,"he decided.
"Duh. She's getting her hair done or else she'd be here locked out right alongside us." Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have pushed it.
He actually couldn't breathe any deeper at this point, so he settled for gritting his teeth.
"Fine. Then we'll call a cab, and I'll go to the salon and get the keys from her. Now, who has their wallet with them?"
Was he kidding?? We were moving patio furniture around the yard, had no watches or cell phones, but he thought we had our wallets tucked away in our sweats? Now that was reaching.
"Does Tom have a key?" (last resort since he lives a good thirty minutes away)
"Uh, maybe. He did, but I'm not sure if his key is from before or after we changed the lock."
George was now looking for a major mound of dirt to pull in on himself after he got to the bottom of his hole.
"Do you think you could possibly go next door and try calling either Rose or Tom to see if they can come and let us in?"
I was going to suggest that he do it, but I decided it would be nice if the neighbors didn't witness a murder/suicide. I dutifully trotted next door.
"Of course you can use my phone. You should give me a key in case this happens again," she said. I didn't bother to point out that I had given her a key, but she had given it back!!!"
Since it is one of the few numbers I know by heart, I dialed Rose...and got her voicemail. I tried again...and got her voicemail again. I tried Tom at home...and got his voicemail. I couldn't remember his cell, so I went out and yelled across the fence for Tim...who chose not to hear me. I yelled louder. He was still playing deaf. So I had to go down the steps, over and up the steps to get Tom's number in person.
Miracle of miracles, he actually answered.
"Honey," I began without preamble, "do you have a key to our house?"
"What?"
"Do you have a key to our house?"
"A key? What do you mean?"
I wanted to beat him to death. "This is not a hard question...yes or no. Do...you...have...a...key...to...our...house?!" I enunciated each word with excruciating clarity.
"Uh, I think so," he didn't sound too convincing. "Why do you want to know if I have a key to our house?"
"Our house?" I repeated blankly.
"Yes, our house," he confirmed.
"Not your house. our house," I was getting exasperated again.
"Annie?" finally the light dawned.
"Yes."
"Oh, I'm outside. I thought you were Beth calling to ask me if I had a key!"
"Why would...never mind. Do you or do you not have a key to my house?"
"I guess. Hey, by the way, Rose just called here complaining that you people aren't answering your house phone or cell phones."
Counting to ten, I answered, "Yes. I know. That's because all the phones are LOCKED IN THE HOUSE!!! Now, do have a key or not?"
"Oh yeah. I have a key to your house. I'll be right up (yeah, in half an hour)...How did you get locked out?"
"It's a long story..."
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