Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Getting Back on the Horse

I wasn't sure I was ready to dust off my Pogo Stick and jump rope.  After all, I had just had Rotator Cuff surgery in December.


But I listed that skill on my audition sheet for the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  If I get cast it will undoubtedly be because of my Pogo Stick prowess.

Certainly not because of my vocals.

On top of that I had to open my big fat mouth to Keela.  Now, apparently, I'm performing at a United Way talent show at work.

I wasn't even sure I could still do it.  My friend George told me that if I 'used to could' jump rope on a Pogo Stick', I probably could still do it.

That's easy for him to say.

I told Dave about my conundrum and he flat out told me that I was getting too old for such nonsense.

"What?"  I was appalled and insulted.  "I used to be really good at it."

George's voice echoed in my head.  I used to could jump rope on a Pogo Stick.  

What if my jump rope Pogo Sticking days were over?

There was only one way to tell.  I grabbed my Pogo Stick from the closet and headed through the kitchen.  

"What if you get hurt?" Dave asked.

"What could possibly happen?" I responded.  I was really starting to get annoyed with him. I opened the back door, Pogo Stick in hand, ready to take the leap.

Seriously.  How could I get hurt jump roping on a Pogo Stick?  I just had to make sure I maintained sufficient height so the jump rope didn't catch on the bottom of the Pogo Stick.

Because, of course, if that happened, the jump rope would pull the Pogo Stick backward, which would launch me forward.  And cause me to land on my face.  On the driveway.  Re-injuring my shoulder.  Or breaking my wrist.   Or my neck.  And I'd have to call to Dave for help.

"Do you have your button?"  Dave hollered to me.

I reopened the door.  "What????"

"Your I've fallen and I can't get up button....do you have it?"

"You are hysterical.  Not."  I slammed the door.

I looked at my Pogo Stick.  It had never let me down.  Not when I was performing at that Gong show in the '80s.  Not when I did my shtick at Kimmy's Kindergarten class in 1993.  And certainly not in front of sold-out audiences at 15 damn performances of Gypsy seven years ago.

I picked up my jump rope and rested it on my shoulders.  I climbed aboard my trusty Pogo Stick and began to hop.  Higher and higher.  I used my knees to hold the Pogo Stick upright, grabbed the jump rope and began to swing it.

One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five.

That's enough.

I dismounted and parked my Pogo Stick, resting the jump rope over the handle. 

I limped into the house screaming, "DAVE!!!!  HELP!  I NEED ICE!  AND BAND AIDS.  LOTS OF THEM."

Dave raised his eyebrow.  

 "And wine."  



I had something to celebrate.


Sunday, June 18, 2017

My Toilet Paper Origami Groove

I honestly don't recall purchasing the Toilet Paper Origami book.  I had probably intended to "delight my guests with fancy folds."  But based on the folded up piece of toilet paper on page 15, I hadn't gotten very far.


But that was then and this is now.  And I am far more talented and crafty than I was when I purchased the book.  

Whenever the hell that was.

And Kimmy is working at a fancy-ass hotel in Maine this summer.  Maybe when I go visit her next month I can offer my services.

I could either create the origami toilet paper art myself or train her Housekeeping staff. Which ever they prefer.

That's how accommodating I am.

I started by making a rose. 


I have to admit, it was a little rough.  

Hey! I could have lied and said I started with a bunny rabbit who lost his bonnet.  But I didn't.

And did I give up?  Hell no!

Since the hotel is in Maine, I decided to create a sail boat.


That was so easy, I made a lovely maiden.


Then I started to get into my Toilet Paper Origami groove. The maiden needed a flower atop her head.  It was almost perfect.


But something was missing.  One more detail.  

I added Josh, one of my drinking buddies to the mix and achieved TOILET PAPER ORIGAMI PERFECTION.


I was so proud.  And happy.   Knowing just how blown away Kimmy and her Housekeeping staff will be when I offer my services next month.

But I was exhausted.  All that folding was way too much for my poor fingers.   

I thought again about about that fancy-ass Maine hotel. 

All those bathrooms. 

I may need to simplify my design if I have any chance of finishing up in time for Happy Hour.


Sunday, June 11, 2017

The Intern

Those jokers at the Japan Trend Shop are so funny!  They come up with the best products.  Like the crazy Mousou Bust Under Boobs T-Shirt: Exposed female chest joke clothing.

I mean, who wouldn't want to wear this to Food Lion on a Sunday morning?


What I wouldn't give to hang out with their Marketing people.  Maybe go for a cup of coffee.  Or a sushi.

Because they're always thinking!  Finding ways to extend their product lines. I mean, check out this Cat Tail Baby Romper!   It's genius!  I only wish it was available in my size.  I would love to wear it to work.


There must be an Intern working in the Japan Trend Shop Marketing department this summer.  I think that the Mousou Exposed Butt T-Shirt has missed the mark.  Am I the only one who thinks it looks more like nipple-less boobs than a butt?


At least it's creative.  

It must be hard to be an intern at the Japan Trend Shop.  Surrounded by all those Marketing geniuses.  

You know, I wouldn't completely abandon the idea.  Maybe if it had a tail....





Monday, May 29, 2017

My Secret Weapon

In my defense, my mouth has more food traps than the average street person.  My nightly dental hygiene routine, which begins at 11 PM, takes me through the weather on the evening news.

Regular toothbrush.  Proxy brush.  Sonic Toothbrush.  Dental Floss. Mouthwash.

It's a battle.  But I emerge victoriously.  Only the most shrewd food particles remain unscathed through the Proxy brush assault, and most of the remaining fugitives are captured during the Sonic Toothbrush skirmish.  The few, the proud, the Marine-like morsels that make it past the Sonic Toothbrush are lassoed by the dental floss.  Any and all survivors get swept away in the mouthwash tsunami.

By the time Ben Tanner gives the 5-day extended forecast, my teeth sparkle like a Disney princess.

Or like this.




I have another weapon in my arsenal that I rely on in certain combat conditions.

Remember Rosa Klebb's Flick Knife Shoes?


My secret weapon is even more impressive.  Except it's no longer secret.

Because, unfortunately, Kimmy and Linda have witnessed me wielding my weapon.

And they are completely disgusted.

I have no idea why the sight of me pulling an earring from my earlobe to dislodge a piece of food cowering between 2 molars would upset them.

And they get so annoyingly passionate about the whole thing.

"Mom!  That is SO NASTY!!!"   
"I am going to barf."

Lighten up, guys.  It works.  And it's at my fingertips.

When I earringed a furtive Jelly Belly particle taking cover in a hidden cranny on the bottom left side of my mouth, both girls started in on me.

As if there was a law regulating dental hygiene tools.

Luke pointed out the box of tooth picks  placed conveniently next to the Jelly Belly jar on the table.

But who knows where those toothpicks have been.  I know where my earrings have been.

Plus think of how many trees were cut down to make those toothpicks.  No trees were sacrificed to make my earrings.

And they're reusable.  I dare say they will never wear out.

Truth be told, I am a bit disappointed in my daughters.  They are myopic in their thinking and clearly have not inherited my marketing genius.

Because, I have a scathingly brilliant idea!




Sunday, May 14, 2017

The Greeting Card

I happened upon the soon to be closed Hallmark store by accident.   I would have walk past had I not noticed the "90% off Entire Store" sign in the window.

As you would imagine, the store was 1) a mad house and 2) completely picked over.

In fact, the remaining inventory was extremely targeted.  Cards like:

  • Congrats on coming out!
  • Get well after your brain surgery!
  • Congrats on the birth of your triplet boys!
And, of course, the congrats on your dance recital card:




Was I discouraged?  Of course not.  I persevered in my search for 90% off cards that would some day be relevant to me.

I snatched up a sympathy card for losing your pet hamster.  My nephew had one.  It, surely, would not outlive me.  I passed on the 'Congrats on buying your new unicycle' card and the inspirational, 'You can beat Lime Disease' cards.

There were a few "normal" cards but they were well hidden.  I found an adorable baby card stuck between two 5,000 piece puzzles boxes and a retirement card in the 'Congrats on your Bris' section.

About 6 months later somebody at work had a baby and I went to my 90% off Hallmark card pile and found that baby card.  


Oops.

Alas, I had to drive to Food Lion and spend $4.00 on a baby card.

Fast forward several years and Kimmy texted a picture of the card to me with this note, "Just found this while looking for a blank card to give to Jenn.  Were you planning on giving it to Linda or me?"

And she added the most annoying emoticon.



I responded, "So, Linda didn't tell you?"

Kimmy, who clearly inherited my brains, and not my gullibility texted me, "So you didn't have your reading glasses with you on that shopping trip?"

Oh, well.  I'll get even with her.  I've got the perfect card:  "Sorry to hear that you've been cut out of the will."

Friday, April 28, 2017

My Man Part

The director's email told me that I would have an additional small role in the play.  I would now be playing "The Man", who had two lines in the show.  Seven words.

Not a problem for me.  The more parts the merrier as far as I'm concerned.  But then I got her email.

Director- Did you get my email about your man part?
Me- What man part?
D- You have a man part.
Me- No, I don't.
D- Yes, you do.  Did you get my email?
Me- I don't have a man part.
D- Yes.  I told you about it in my email.
Me- I have a Va-jay-jay.

By this point I was close to peeing my pants.  From my Va-jay-jay.  Not from my man part.

Me- I got your email about my man part.
D- Great.  So you're good with your man part?
Me- I don't have a man part.  I have a Va-jay-jay.
D- LOU!!!  Are you okay with your man part or not?
Me- You do know that this is going to turn into a blog, don't you?
D- What?

It would be one thing if this director was humorless, but she has a great sense of humor.

Me- Never  mind.  Thanks for giving me my man part.  Should I talk to the costumer about getting my jock strap?

Saturday, April 22, 2017

The Dead Bird Hunt

I had a mission to prepare for.  DHEC needed my help.

My help!


To prevent an outbreak of West Nile Virus.


Amazing!  What a fantastic opportunity.


Truth be told, I've always been envious of my friends and family who work in the Medical profession, whose work is so meaningful.  


They can save people's lives.


I analyze data.  


But now I can save lives, too!  Me!  I can help DHEC prevent the outbreak of West Nile Virus!


All I have to do is submit freshly dead Crows, Blue Jays, House Finches, or House Sparrows.


I can do that.


Let's forget about the fact that I can barely pick up an overripe banana without gagging.  


Yeah.  There's that.


But I'll get over it.  I have to eradicate the West Nile Virus.


I went to the DHEC website for more information about my dead bird hunt.




They don't want birds with missing eyes or maggots.  (Repressing a gag).  I'm good with those rules.

I searched for instructions on how to actually "collect" the specimens.  They suggest you wear gloves.  


But I don't need no stinkin' gloves.  I have my pick-up stick left over from my Rotator Cuff surgery.


I rehearsed with Kevin's toy raccoon and it worked like a charm.  Perfect for my dead bird hunt.  





I, Lou Clyde, will be the Best. Dead. Bird. Collector. EVER.  And I will make the world a better, safer place.


I returned to the web site.  DHEC instructed collectors (like me!) to put the freshly dead bird into a clear plastic bag.




Practice makes perfect.  Worked like a charm.

DHEC said to keep the bagged bird in your refrigerator until you can deliver it to them.


OKAY. (Repressing gag.)


I opened my fridge to pick the freshly dead bird's ultimate resting space.  Maybe the meat drawer?





(No longer able to repress gag.)


Sorry DHEC.  I think I'll just go donate some blood.

Sunday, April 9, 2017

Better Left In the Dark

I don't want to know.

It’s really better that way.  

Even if I did crawl all over him in my Ambien induced state, it’s really his own fault.  After all, his elbow was intruding into my seat.  And one of his impossibly long legs was splayed in my 15-inches of real estate.

I have all the luck.  Asian men are supposed to be small.  Not only was I stuck in the middle seat on a 15-hour flight, but I was sitting next to an Asian Amazon.  A normal sized Asian man sat on my left, but his larger than life Asian elbow was also intruding into my space.  

I was irritated.  And I wanted to sleep.

Before taking my Ambien, I thought back to my previous Ambien experiences.  One week earlier, on the flight over, word has it that my feet started making their way up the side of the plane wall.  I have vague memories of Kimmy scolding me when I hit a fellow passenger in the head.  I’m not sure I believe her,  but apparently one foot ultimately made its way between the seats in front of me and came to rest on the tray table in seat 45B.

Did I trust myself to take an Ambien with this guy’s leg right in front of my lap?

I thought back to the time I took Ambien on my flight to New Zealand.  I swore on my life to Kimmy and Luke that the Air New Zealand flight attendants changed into Disney character costumes and put on huge fun wigs when the lights went down.  I seem to recall telling flight attendant Belle that I had played a whisk broom in the Town Theatre production of Beauty and the Beast.
 
What would I do to leg-man if I took Ambien?

Oh, yeah.  There was also that time when I accidentally took an Ambien instead of my Synthroid while I was in Buffalo and drove my late sister-in-law to her Radiation treatment.  NO!  I did not kill her.  I did drive into a bush, though, before demanding Pop Tarts.

I thought about all of these Ambien experiences as I held the little pill in my hand.  Wine made it worse, of course.  

Then I looked at that leg.  And his elbow.  And the other guy’s elbow.

And I took the Ambien.  With a wine chaser.


When I woke up six hours later, Leg man’s leg was no longer in my space.  He was snuggled up against the window.  Wearing a hood over his face.   

There were no Asian elbows in sight. 

Whatever I had done did the trick.

I'll never know what happened. But it's probably better that way.

Saturday, April 1, 2017

The Thai Beach Massage

When the Thai Beach Massage Lady, let’s call her “Sasithorn”, reached under my prone body to slip the sports bra over my boobs I was confused.  What was she doing?  




Then she tried to jam my elbow into the bra’s armpit.
It appeared she was intent on “slipping it off.”

No, Sasithorn! This sports bra does not slip off.  It has never slipped off.  And you can’t make it slip off.

Trust me.  I’ve tried taking it off over my head. It rolls up like a sausage, mutating into a boa constrictor the farther north it gets.  
It is only exacerbated when my body is sweaty.  Say, like, when I’m on a beach in Thailand.

I started to giggle.  I had no choice.

Sasithorn was not about to give up, either.  The bottom of the sports bra was now resting above the girls and she was pushing my left elbow into my side in a valiant, yet hopeless attempt to remove that sports bra so she could begin my massage.

Since the only Thai word I knew was Chang, which is the brand of beer I had been drinking, I could not tell her that she was headed in the wrong direction.  The only way to get that sports bra off was to pull it down.  Over my hips.

By this point I was shaking with laughter.

But Sasithorn was steadfast.  She tried my right arm.

Unsuccessfully.

I thought about taking the sports bra off for her, but that would have required me to stand up and remove it by stepping out of it.  And considering that the bra was situated above my boobs, I opted to remain face down.    

So I giggled some more.

Sasithorn eventually gave up and began my back and shoulder massage.  And it did not take long for me to realize that a Thai Beach back and shoulder massage on a recently repaired torn Rotator Cuff was a big mistake.  

On a scale of 1 to 10 where 1 was no pain at all and 10 was having your toenails removed by a beaver, this was a 10.
 


Okay, maybe I am exaggerating.  Beavers have big teeth.  It was a 9.

At one point, while I was writing my will in my head, Sasithorn casually reached underneath me and pulled my sports bra back in place.  

Which got me giggling all over again.

After what seemed like three days, my one hour massage was finally done.  Sasithorn tapped me on my injured shoulder and motioned for me to flip over.  I sat up and attempted to adjust my sports bra, but it was pretty much glued to my body after all that action.   

I paid Sasitorn, said since I didn’t know how to say, “Thanks for the blog topic,” I simply said “Chang”.  

Saturday, March 25, 2017

Chinese Line Torture

It was ten minutes before the scheduled boarding when one Asian passenger got to his feet and made his way to the front of the boarding area.

That’s all it took.

Within 30 seconds the gate area was completely void of Asians.  Only a few confused looking Westerners remained.

The line, which was far from single-file, stretched the length of a football field.


“Are we boarding?” I asked.  My question was quickly answered by the gate agent’s announcement.  “We will start boarding China Eastern Airline’s flight to Shanghai with our First Class passengers.  All others may remain seated.”

Right.

Thus began my initiation to Chinese Line Torture.  It didn’t bother me at first.  In fact, I found it kind of Interesting. Because I had no interest in standing in a line to get onto a plane that I would be stuck in the for the next 15 stinkin’ hours.  

But sadly, Chinese Line Torture was unavoidable on my flight home.  

And I became painfully aware of the fact that Asians have no regard for my personal space.

Luke, Kimmy and I were in an insufferably long line to check in for my flight.  There were 15 Asians in front of us, taking up 2 feet.  Behind them stood me, Kimmy and Luke (taking up 10 feet), 3 Asian women jammed into Luke’s back pocket, and the rest of the line.


Clearly the people in the Phuket airport that morning did not embrace the 2007 Beijing campaign to “eradicate undesirable manners.” The Beijing city government had declared the 11th day of every month to be "lining day", part of a campaign to eliminate bad behavior including crowding, line jumping, spitting and littering.



(To be fair, I did not observe littering, but I certainly heard more than my share of snorting.)

Not surprisingly, I was the last person on and off my plane to Shanghai that day.

I didn't have a fighting chance. These guys were pros.

And it was beginning to get on my sleep deprived nerves.

I decided to channel my inner Asian when it was time to board my plane to JFK. I got in line right away when my group was called. I hurried to the end of the line, beating the Asian guy running from the other direction by a nose.

But he didn't get in line behind me. He stood NEXT TO ME.

I gave him my best "step out of my space" look and nudged closer to the Asians in front of me.

And it worked. The guy was no longer standing next to me.

I guess I showed him. You can't take advantage of this American Woman!

I turned around to give the poor guy a smile.

I had been kind of rude with that "step out of my space" look. Wouldn't want to give him the wrong impression. After all, I was representing the United States of America.

But he wasn't there. Where'd he go?

Then I noticed him. Standing 10 people ahead of me.

Damn line jumper.