Tuesday, October 17, 2017

X Marks the Spot

I was just about done packing when I heard Dave shouting.

"What the heck is this?" he bellowed from the kitchen.

"What the heck is what?" I responded helpfully.

I was double checking my list in the bedroom.  Toothpaste.  Check.  Toothbrush.  Check.

"This," he repeated, at an even louder decibel.  Which I thought impossible.

"I don't know," I said.  Deodorant.  Check.  Corkscrew.  Check.

"What the hell????" he said.

Which, in my opinion, did not require an answer.  Puzzle book.  Check.

Dave entered the bedroom, holing up his golf shirt.  It had a big white X on it.

I recognized that big white X.

"What is this?" he repeated.

"An X," I said, stating the obvious.  Then, taking an aggressive stance, "Did you put your golf shirt on top of my Bills shirt?"


"I put it on the kitchen counter," he said.

"And apparently, right on top of my Bills shirt!!!!!"  I ran into the kitchen to assess the damage. My Bills shirt was relatively intact.  

Thank God.

I explained to Dave that the X came from white fabric paint.   I had crossed out the "Rex" on my End the Hex Rex Bills shirt with white fabric paint, since Rex Ryan was no longer the Buffalo Bills coach.

It made perfect sense.

But Dave thought it was MY fault that he put his golf shirt atop my Bills shirt.

We had a healthy debate in terms of who was more irresponsible: me for putting my Bills shirt with wet fabric paint on top of the kitchen counter to dry, or him for putting his golf shirt on top of the Bills shirt with the wet fabric paint.

I hadn't planned on taking my Bills shirt to Arizona because the paint was too wet.  Which was no longer the case.  

Bills shirt.  Check.

Saturday, October 7, 2017

Toss, Give Away, or Keep

I took my time packing up my office.  Just like on that Hoarders TV show, I put stuff into 1 of 3 piles: toss, give away, or keep.

I had a lot of stuff.  I'd been working full-time since 1980. 

That's 37 years.

Of stuff.

Of course, most of the stuff was work related.  Books.  Reports.  Project files.  Toss, toss, toss.

But I also uncovered treasure.  Reminding me of my life outside of work.  Like this letter:


How funny that the same little girl who was terrified of the Easter Bunny became a U.S. Marine.


Then there's this, from a visit Kimmy made to my office with her stuffed bear, Amelia.  We may or may not have been playing with the copy machine that day.


Okay.  We were playing.  We did not get got carried away.


I had to shut my door to compose myself when I came upon the drawing 3-year old Kimmy made after I experienced a painful pregnancy loss.  Talk about a stairway to heaven.



 
  Linda had some awesome artwork,too.



I got a chuckle out the the fact that 2 1/2 year old Kimmy was not quite there in terms of looking for a lost shoe instead of crying.


When I uncovered that letter to the Easter Bunny I texted a photo of it to Linda.  Her response was immediate.

"That's not my handwriting."

It made me laugh.  How could she deny it?   But then I took another look at it and realized that it wasn't her handwriting.  I forwarded the photo to Kimmy who admitted that it did, in fact, look like her handwriting. 

Apparently Linda dictated the now infamous Easter Bunny letter to her big sister.

Keep.













Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Wax On. Wax Off.

Dave looked at me like I was nuts when I asked him if my nose hair was heavy or sparse.

"Whaddya mean?"
"Do I have a lot of nose hair?"
"I don't know."
"Look," I instructed, doing my best ballet move so that he could effortlessly look into my nose.

He asked for his reading glasses.

Rather than getting Dave his reading glasses, I sat down at the computer.  Besides, my back hurt from all that bending.

I was trying to decide whether or not to test drive a Nose Hair Waxing product.

But I'm a good consumer, and I never invest in a product, especially something as cutting edge as a nose hair waxing system, without first reading reviews.

Should I go for it?
I was nearly convinced after reviewing the first several reviews on AMAZON.COM:
- These nostrils are clean as a whistle!
- Excellent product that can be used as ear hair removal as well.
- This is simultaneously disgusting and amazing!

But then I happened upon a review written by man who called himself "Lost Out".

Mr. Out, who apparently has massive thickets of hair in his nostrils,  was clearly disappointed with his Yoffee Nose Wax Removal system.





He had previously used spinning trimmers, tiny scissors, as well as very thin disposable razors to trim his pesky nose hair.  But he was looking for a more permanent method for deforestation.  He considered plucking the hairs, but lacked the time, given his humongous hordes of hair.


Mr. Out did his homework before using his nose hair waxing product.  He read the instructions thoroughly and even watched some YouTube videos.  He chose to ignore the guy who cried in one video, labeling him a wuss. 


Mr. Out himself claimed to have a "decent tolerance for pain."


Mr. Out put the waxing compound in his microwave to melt it, and inserted the applicator stick into the melted wax.  He then stuck it into his nostril, clamped down on said nostril, and set the timer for 90 seconds.  When the timer went off, he yanked on the stick.  He whole head bobbed, but when "he gave it a good pull", the stick came out.  


Only a few nostril hairs were attached.  Leaving an entire forest behind.


Mr. Out, feeling more confident and even more determined, reheated the wax, re-inserted the stick, changing the angle, in an attempt to harvest more hair.


According to Mr. Out, his second attempt felt as if he was turning his nostril inside out.


I believe the words he used were "Holy Hell."


Mr. Out was able to remove the stick, and, upon inspection, realized that he had scored.  Big.


He was downright cocky as he moved on to his next, and final nostril.


Mr. Out reheated the wax and inserted the stick.  He decided to use a bigger blog of wax so he could clean out his nostril in one pass.


He inserted the stick into the second nostril and clasped it closed.  After 90 seconds, Mr. Out gave the stick a tug.  When he saw stars, he realized that he must have gotten a lot more hairs than in his previous two attempts.


He tugged again and felt his nose attempt to separate from his face.


And the clock was ticking.  The stick had to be removed within 30 seconds or it would never come out.  Without medical attention. 


Images of the Jaws of Life danced in his head.






I cannot possibly do justice to Mr. Out's description of his harvest from the Yoffee Nose Wax Removal system.  I'll let him tell it:


I finally pulled up my big boy panties and with about 3 or 4 eye-watering-profane-laden-pain-inducing yanks pulled that ball of malevolent compound out of my nose.  I was sure there would be a gush of blood following it out as I had surely removed actual skin and veins and other stuff with it.  But I hadn't and there wasn't.  What there was though was this villainous blob of compound that now looked like it had a full head of hair.  It looked like some bizarre circus sideshow freak or something out of a horror movie.  I could hear the barker now..."Come see the smallest full head of human hair, you won't believe it when you feast your eyes on this miniature coiffure!"


After reading Mr. Out's review I ambled over to the mirror.  I really didn't have any nasty nose hairs to speak of.  


A Nose Wax Removal System would be a complete waste of my time.



Friday, September 1, 2017

The Disease

I am diseased.

I have a fatal disorder that is slowly killing me.  My prognosis is guarded.

The symptoms of this disease are many.  The most serious of which is loss of control of bodily parts.

It started with the skipping.  Down halls.  Into conference rooms.

And then it spread to my mouth.  Word hemorrhaging.  Things I wouldn't have said, say, six months ago.

Like when I said, "Oh, good!  We're finally forced to read a book that I actually like!" In a staff meeting.  In front of my boss.  Who I love.

Who used to like me.  Before I became afflicted with Short Timers' Disease.

I've been especially atrocious to my team.  I say things like, "I'm assigning this project to you because (uncontrolled laughter) I don't want to do it!"

And, "We'll do a follow-up analysis in October.  I mean YOU'LL do a follow-up analysis in October."  Followed by unconstrained giggling.

Short Timers' Disease.

I bring brownies to my staff meeting, put my feet up on the table and share my infamous Multicollinearity Rap on YouTube.  I hadn't intended to share.  It just happened.

Only a Short Timer would be so reckless.

Another symptom of STD is Adrenalin rushes.  They manifest themselves as I carry folders and notes to co-workers who will pick up my work.  I explain the importance of each and cross my fingers that they will find the project as intriguing as I did.

I throw away files.  Reports.  Binders.  Stuff.  And more stuff.

I dance my way to the shredding bin.

I carefully decide who gets the good stuff from my office.

Christine wants my Alien Abduction Lamp.  And the binoculars, so she can watch the Canada Goose nest next spring.  (I will miss that.)



Jeff will get my Official Tom Brady Deflategate Whoopie Cushion.  



I'll give Bettye my red blanket so she can survive the air conditioned induced winters that last 365 1/4 days a year at our campus.



Elle will receive my Barbie Doll pens and Cathy will get my "I'm silently correcting your grammar" placard.



Salem gets my fake hand because I know she will use it to scare small children.

Matthew and Max will each receive a pair of my Meat Locker Mitts.  Since neither of them is ever cold they can use the Mitts as cube artwork.



My last day is September 29, and I fear that my STD may worsen by then.  I'm thinking of bringing my unicycle to work, and finally mastering the damn bike by maneuvering through the maze of cubes with my arms outstretched.  

On my last day, when the only items remaining in my office are my Barbie Roller Blades I will probably begin to dance.  On top of said desk.

Security will likely be called to my office.

"Lou.  Get down.  It's time for you to leave," the guard will say.

I will invite the guard to dance with me.  When he says no, I will reluctantly step down, miraculously maintaining my composure.  I'll throw my purse strap over my shoulder and head out to my car, holding my head high.

Until I scream, "Wait!!!!!"

The Security Guard, who by this point will likely be annoyed with me, will say, "What, now?"

As I run back to my office I will shout over my shoulder, "I'm not going anywhere without my Barbie Roller Blades."





Saturday, August 19, 2017

Piqapoo takes on the PooTrap

Those Engineers at PooTrap have got to be sweating bullets.

For years, PooTrap has been the only player in the 'strap on device that catches dog poop before it hits the ground' market.

Not since Apple introduced the iPhone has there been a more dominant industry leader.

And you can see why:
  


The PooTrap has been the perfect solution for dog owners who are averse to picking up poo and don't mind humiliating their dogs by forcing them to wear a such a contraption.

As you can see, The PooTrap apparatus is an engineering marvel.  It's got straps.  And hoops.  And magnets.

The PooTrap  web site is even more impressive with its videos, sizing instructions and even poetry.



For nearly a decade PooTrap has been the dominant player in the dog poop collector market.

However, while they were sitting on their haunches, underdog Piqapoo was stealthily raising funds to introduce their own, much less complex device that catches dog poo before it hits the ground.

And not since deregulation of the Tel-comm industry as there been such cut-throat competition.

One can imagine the meeting at PooTrap International headquarters where the Market Research Analyst meets with the Product Engineer to delicately deliver the bad news: the PooTrap has competition.

"It's called Piqapoo."
"Peek-a-boo?" the Engineer asks.
"PiqaPOO," says the Analyst, and hands the Engineer a photo of a dog sporting the new product.

He carefully inspects the image and looks up.  "No magnets?"
"No magnets."
"No harnesses?"
"No harnesses.  Or straps."

The Engineer opens a Saki, his hands shaking.

"Then how does it work?"

The Research Analyst hand him the technical specifications and says, "It looks like they attach a plastic bag to a pony tail clip."



The Engineer's face reddens as he reviews the document.  He pounds his fist on the table.  "Why didn't we think of this?"

He places his head in his arms and beings to weep.

After an uncomfortable minute, he looks up hopefully.  "But will it work with any texture of feces?"

The Research Analyst rifles through her report, sighs, and reads aloud, "The collector can take in any texture of dog feces."

"What about colors?," he asks.  "The PooTrap comes in blue AND red."

"Piqapoo comes in three colors."

"How much?" he asks, desperation oozing from every cell in his body.
"$29 for the clip and 60 collection bags."
"NO!"  He sobs uncontrollably.  "The PooTrap costs $44 for 10 bags."

The mood in the room is somber as the Research Analyst turns toward the door.  She stops when she hears the Engineer's scream. 

"Wait!!!"

He has jumped to his feet, a smug look on his face.

"But do they have a poem?" he asks, not needing a reply






Friday, August 4, 2017

The M&M

I noticed the red M&M sitting on a glass table during my weekly Market Research team meeting.  

"What is that?" I asked.
"An M&M," Jeff responded.
"Looks deformed," Christine observed.
And we went on with our meeting.

A week later it was still there, but nobody commented.  It remained the next week.  And the next. Then I went on vacation for a week.

"Is that M&M still here?" I asked in today's meeting.  
"Yep," said Jeff.
"I think I'll blog about it."  

I set up a photo shoot soon after the meeting.   Then I moved it to my office.




A little while later our intern, Rob, noticed it on my desk and asked, "What are you going to do with that M&M?"

"I'm going to dissect it.  Tomorrow.  And then eat it."

Based on his reaction you would have sworn it was road kill.  I mean, seriously.  How many germs can possibly be on a deformed red Peanut M&M?

I was assuming it was a peanut M&M.  It was way too big to be a regular M&M. 

But then I realized that it could have been a deformed Peanut Butter M&M!

I overheard Jeff telling Rob that the 5-second rule must not apply to me.  Rather I lived by the 3-month rule. 

Which is entirely untrue.  If, say, a brussel sprout falls to the ground, I will not put that thing in my mouth.  Period.  And if a grape falls on the ground in my kitchen, the 3-second rule would apply.  However, if a Peanut Butter M&M fell on the ground in the Men's room of a Waffle Hut, the 3-month rule would apply.

I returned to my desk and attempted to concentrate on my research analysis.  But that potential Peanut Butter M&M was in my periphery. 

I had planned on inviting Jeff, Christine and Rob to my dissection the next day.  To kind of make a ceremony out of it.  But I couldn't wait.  

I was starving.  And it might be a Peanut Butter M&M.

I went to the break room to find a scalpel knife Samurai sword.



I dissected it.  And it was a damn deformed Peanut M&M. 

I was so disappointed.

But I was also starving. 

So I ate it.  And it tasted like a nasty-ass deformed Peanut M&M.

But I learned a valuable life lesson today.

If it looks like a deformed Peanut M&M, it probably is a deformed Peanut M&M. And it will most definitely taste like a nasty-ass deformed Peanut M&M.   

And the rule for deformed Peanut M&Ms is 1 second.

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Getting Screwed by the Dentist

I'm breaking up with my Dentist.  Whom I used to love. 

What’s not to love about a dental practice that offers freshly baked cookies for patients?  You can apply sugar to your clean sparkly teeth before you even leave the place!



It is important to know that I was raised on well water.  I’m so old that fluoride wasn’t invented until I already had more cavities than teeth.  
And by the time I was 40 I had more crowns than Medieval England.
I started seeing my dentist, let call him “Dr. T”, 17 years ago when I first moved to Columbia.  Dr. T is not only an outstanding dentist, he’s an aesthetic dentist.  Which means his office is C*O*V*E*R*E*D with posters of beautiful people with even more beautiful smiles.
Which also means that I’ve been encouraged to get braces for 17 years.
“I’m not getting braces,” I tell Dr. T on every visit.  I remind him that if I was going to invest my money in aesthetics I’d get plastic surgery. 
Plus, I’m OK with the fact that my face will not be plastered on a poster in his waiting room.  Next to the cookies. 
During a routine visit 15 months ago, I told Dr. T’s hygienist that I had been experiencing pain in one of my back teeth.  She and Dr. T. carefully inspected the tooth and saw no visible signs of decay.  They concluded that I did not have a cavity. Rather, I had a "bruised tooth".  Dr. T. assured me that it would get better and to call them if it didn’t.  

Or if I changed my mind about braces.    
Eight months later I returned for another routine appointment, where X-Rays were taken.  As the hygienist examined them, she said, “This looks interesting.”  
(I do not want to have interesting dental X-Rays.  I want boring X-Rays.)

Sadly, Dr. T agreed with the hygienist.  You see, my tooth was completely decayed and needed to be extracted.  And, worse yet, I had to get a DENTAL IMPLANT.   

He added that if I ever wanted to get braces, this was the perfect time.
I soon learned that getting an implant is a very expensive and lengthy process which involves inserting a screw into your bone and ultimately placing a crown atop the screw.  
  
Dr. T referred me to a different dentist to whom I paid more than $3,000 to get screwed.   
I returned to Dr. T yesterday to get my mouth molded for the crown to place atop the screw that has been protruding from my gum for a month. 
After sitting through 4 different mouth molds I was sent to the front office to check out.

The Front Office Manager, let’s call her “Esmeralda”, informed me that the total cost for my new crown would be $2,300.  I gulped and asked for a discount.  

On-accounta-the-fact that IT WAS NOT A BRUISED TOOTH AND IF THEY HAD DONE A DAMN X-RAY 15 MONTHS AGO THEY WOULD HAVE SEEN A TEENY TINY CAVITY THAT COULD HAVE BEEN FILLED.
Esmeralda told me she would discuss it with Dr. T and call me back.
She phoned just an hour later to remind me that I had been offered an X-RAY during my exam the previous year and had refused it.  

Say-what?  Why in the hell would I refuse an X-RAY when I had a tooth ache?
Esmeralda also told me that Dr. T. had also adjusted my bite that day and told me to call if I had any problems and they never heard from me. 
Adjusted my bite?  What the flip does that mean?  I googled it and to find that adjusting my bite involves drilling.  

Dr. T did not drill me.
When I told Esmeralda that those stories were fiction she got all bitchy with me and basically said too bad so sad and stop shooting the messenger.   And I'm stuck.
I have one final visit to Dr. T’s office on August 29, when he will again make me royalty by placing a crown atop a screw sticking out of my gum.  I will pay $2,300 for that service.  
But I am taking every last one of those stinkin’ cookies on the way out the door. 

Thursday, July 13, 2017

More from the Drinking Buddies

Becca was momentarily stunned when she noticed Josh hanging onto my kitchen light for dear life.



"What's wrong?" I asked.

"You've got a guy hanging from your light."

"Oh!" I said.  "That's Josh.  Chad's on the other side.  And Mitch and Chad #2 are climbing up my Eiffel Tower wine cork holder."


Becca should not have been surprised.  She knows me well enough.  You see, my Drinking Buddies have kind of taken over where Barbie left off.  Occasionally making an appearance in a blog post.. But between blogs, I let them hang out wherever they choose.  Like on the lamps in my family room.  Or on my Amazon Banana Slicer. 




"They're cute," Becca observed.  "Yeah," I agreed.  "And you really can't have too many Drinking Buddies."


Especially when your daughter is getting married.  I mean, just think how easy it would be to lose track of your drink at wedding!  But no worries for me.  I have my Drinking Buddies.

Not to mention the fact that they'll fit right in at a Thai Beach wedding in their Speedos.

I have 12 Drinking Buddies, which will be enough for 1 table.  Guests at the other tables will just have to be careful with their drinks.

Our table will be all set.  No mixed up drinks to worry about.


Uh-oh.  I just thought of something.

I have two complete sets of six Drinking Buddies.  Which means I have six pair of Drinking Buddy twins.

What if two people with the same Drinking Buddy get their drinks mixed up?

OMG!


That would be a problem for an ordinary Mother of the Bride. But I'm not an ordinary Mother of the Bride.  I'm Lou Clyde. 


And I have a Sharpie.



And, well, it turns out that half of my Drinking Buddies have chest hair!





I can see it now.  Kimmy and I return to the table after dancing to Love Shack on the beach.  "Mom.  Which Mitch Drinking Buddy is yours?"


I smile confidently and say, "The one who waxed."



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....