Excuse me...you forgot to rinse

We just returned from a European vacation. The trip provided many potential blog topics including:
• European bathrooms... or 'toilets' as they are called and my adventures in figuring out how to flush the endless of varieties of toilets. (The only version missing was the stick shift.)
• Driving a U.K. car, with the steering wheel on the right (aka wrong) side of the car and all the associated challenges of driving in England and France. In England they drive on left (aka wrong) side of the road, while in France they drive on the right side. But aside from the numerous F-bombs flung from my husband - the driver- and the many near death experiences, the driving experience was as you would have expected... horrific.

What WAS totally unexpected was the man on the train to Paris. I've ridden subways and trains in many cities and have seen a lot of strange people doing very unusual things: bums talking to themselves...bad singers crooning loudly to their I-Pods...drug dealing...children eating spaghetti... men reading porn. You name it. I've seen it. Mass transit mayhem had ceased to shock me.

Until that train ride.

I was sitting on the train to Paris on Christmas Day. A 20-something man stepped into my car and sat two seats up, across the aisle from me. He was typical looking in nearly every way... blue jeans, denim jacket, back-pack on the seat next to him. Typical in nearly every way.
Except for his head.
For, you see, he had shampoo in his hair. On the train.

Now reader, I don't mean that he hadn't rinsed completely and had shampoo flakes on his shoulder. He had shampoo lather throughout his hair. It reminded me somewhat of Lumiere's wig in Beauty and the Beast (except, of course, Lumiere's wig was dry).

I could not take my eye off this sight. Suddenly the man (let's call him "Pierre") glanced over his shoulder and caught me staring at him. I quickly looked away, but was pleased to notice that I could watch his reflection in the window without getting caught. I sat up straighter and watched in wonder.
I had so many questions. Did he know that he had shampoo in his hair? Had he forgotten to rinse? That question was soon answered, as Pierre purposefully moved his hands up to his head and began to massage his head and lather up the shampoo.

Was he running so late that he didn't have time to rinse?

Maybe he just got caught up in the endless "lather, rinse, repeat" loop.

After several stops, when Pierre was looking more like Harpo Marx than Lumiere, he pulled off a wad of lather from his head and applied it to his mustache. He then began to lather his lip.

At this point I shifted from being shocked to being completely entertained. "Hey Dave... pass the popcorn", I said to my husband (who was sitting across from me and missing the entire show.) I mean, what is next? The eyebrows? Could he be heading south? Is this G rated or R rated?

And then it all ended. The train stopped. The man stood, picked up his backpack, and took his lathery head and lip off the train. I felt cheated. My questions were left unanswered.

The only thing I knew for sure is that Pierre's hair would be very clean if he ever got to the rinse step.

The Early Dismissal

My family is going to Europe next week. Our flight leaves from Charlotte late Friday afternoon, requiring us to take our daughter out of school 2 hours early. No big deal, right? 2 hours early on the last day before Christmas vacation? I mean, when I was a kid, we'd be having Christmas parties during the last 2 hours of the day Christmas vacation began. We'd be hanging from the ceilings. Half the teachers would be working on their Christmas cards; the other half would be drinking spiked egg nog from the Teachers' Lounge.

Well, apparently it is a big deal. The same school that cancels school THE NIGHT BEFORE a dusting of snow is forecast, has scheduled midterm exams on the last day of school before Christmas vacation.

Of all exams, Linda has her Science midterm at 1:00 that day. And Mrs. Tyrannosaurus, the science teacher, takes the exam schedule quite seriously. It is apparently quite uncommon for her to release her prey from an exam.

I decided to send Mrs.Tyrannosaurus an e-mail, explaining our predicament and asking permission for Linda to take the exam at another time, AT HER CONVENIENCE. I was as polite as I could possibly be.

And here is the response I got back:

Dear Mr. Clyde,
You must have approval from Miss Illaneous, our Instructional Principal, in order to be excused from taking an exam at the designated time. You may call her at 555-5555. Once you have spoken with her, she will inform me of the outcome and arrangements will be made accordingly.

Mr. Clyde? Mr. Clyde was my father!! And Miss Illaneous will inform Mrs. Tyrannosaurus and arrangements will be made accordingly? Am I applying for an FHA loan? I called Miss Illaneous and left her a voice mail message with the request, mentioning the fact that Linda has not missed one day of school so far this year. Low and behold if I didn't get the following e-mail from her:

Good Morning.
I have copied Mr. Imincharge, since the principal makes the decision about a student taking an exam at a different time.

The principal? What next, the superintendent? Perhaps the school board? Governor Sanford has been in a bad mood lately, with Jenny appearing on that Barbara Walters show, so I hope he's not the one who decides.

As it turns out, I got a call back from Miss Illaneous, saying that Mr. Imincharge made the determination that Linda could take the exam when she returns to school in January.

I decided to suck it up and sent her this e-mail:

Thank you for getting back to me so quickly. You mentioned in your voice mail that Linda could take the exam after the holidays. She's able to take the test early, as well, if that would be more convenient for Mrs. Tyrannosaurus.

It makes sense to stay on the good side of these administrators, right?

Wrong.

Here's the response I got back:

You are welcome. Mr. Imincharge made the decision for her to take the exam after the holidays. If you would like to appeal to him you may do so.

I decided to cut my losses and stop there. Besides, Mr. Imincharge has more important issues to deal with. There may be snow in the forecast next week.

Mall Hair Girl

I survived my first Improv class. I (barely) maintained my dignity. We played some Improv games that pushed me well out of my comfort zone. At the end of the class, our teacher Vicky gave us a homework assignment. We were to keep our eyes open for interesting characters and observe them.

I found my interesting character. Mall Hair Girl Receptionist. She works (and I use that term loosely) at my doctor's office. I love my doctor. He's the nicest, most down-to-earth doctor I've ever met. In fact, everyone in his office is very nice...even the phelbotomist. Everyone, that is, except Mall Hair Girl.

I had to pick up a prescription today. I walked into the doctor's office and there she was.

I approached the counter with a smile, determined that I would not let her spoil my mood. Mall Hair Girl was staring at a computer screen, type-type-typing away. I said hi and gave her a friendly smile - a wasted friendly smile, since she didn't even glance my way.

"Yes, maaaaaaaaaaaaam", she sneered, as she continued to look at the computer screen (type-type-typing away).

"I'm here to pick up a prescription", I said.

"When did you call it in?" she grumbled, as she continued to look at the computer screen (type-type-typing away).

"My husband just called me and told me it was ready", I responded.

"When did you call it in?" she repeated, clearly annoyed that I hadn't answered her question the first time, as she continued to look at the computer screen (type-type-typing away).

"This morning."

She looked at me, snarled and huffed, as she got to her feet, probably for the first time that day.

I couldn't take my eyes off her bangs. They went straight up, defying gravity. In fact, she was three inches taller with those bangs than without them. I wondered how long it took her to get ready for "work" (again, I use that term loosely).

Then I remembered my Improv homework assignment and my entire attitude change. I'd found my subject! And it was like I was watching an amoeba under a microscope...well, make that a hairy rat in a maze. My imagination took over. I visualized her spraying the lacquer in her hair that morning.

I imagined Mall Hair Girl stopping at Food Lion to pick up some donuts, hair spray, and chewing tobacco, which made her late for "work". She made the first patient of the day, an 87-year old woman, wait for five minutes while she finished up her game of solitaire (which she lost). She was looking forward to her big date with her boyfriend Woody. She's hoping he invites her to go hunting with him in the morning.

"Maaaaaam!" What? Mall Hair Girl was talking to me.

Back to reality.

Mall Hair Girl handed me the prescription and said, "There. Get lost, now."

I gave her my sweetest smile and a sincere "Thank you very much!".

I can't wait for my next Improv class!

Improv Anxiety

What was I thinking? I can't blame this on anyone. It was my idea.

An Imrpov class?

Me????

I'm the one who is ready DAYS in advance of a presentation. I run through the slides until I lose my voice. By the time I have an audience it's like I'm performing in a play.

The closest I've gotten to Improv was when my projector froze in a presentation and I had to tap dance while someone fixed it. I told my one and only joke. It's a good one. It's a nerdy one.

Q. What did the zero say to the eight?
A. Nice belt!

Ba-dum-dum.

Most of the audience stared blankly at me. Of course, the nerds in the crowd chuckled admiringly.

I'm not good at spontaneous public speaking. In fact I would be the world's worst public relations spokesman.

I can see it now:

Reporter: "Miss Company Spokesperson, can you tell me why your company is raising fees?"
Me: "Um...what was the question again?"
Reporter: "Your fees are going up by 15% this month. Can you tell me how senior citizens will be able to pay their bills?"
Me: "Um...well...I think the school district is looking for bus drivers."
Reporter: "Are you suggesting that senior citizens should drive school buses in order to afford your service?!!!!"
Me: "Oh, NO! That would not be safe!"
Reporter: "Can you tell my readers how senior citizens will be able to pay your inflated fees?"
Me: "Um...well...Walmart is always looking for greeters"....downward spiral continues....

Anyhow, I have MAJOR IMPROV ANXIETY about my class that STARTS TOMORROW NIGHT. Will the teacher toss me an object, such as a squash racquet, and expect me to say something funny about it?

I can just imagine it:

Me: "Um... look at this...um...over grown ping pong paddle...um...with strings...um...and a long handle....what did the zero say to the eight?"

I need a dose of Improv Viagra. Or at least a detailed syllabus and study guide.

Farmville Anonymous

"Hello. My name is Lou and I'm a Farmville addict".
"Hello, Lou"

It's time to face my addiction. Look in the mirror and recognize my psychological dependence.

On farming.

Farming? Come on! In my real life I can hardly keep a plant alive, let alone plant, fertilize and harvest everything from roses to red peppers. If fact, last week I accidentally watered a cactus with Sprite.

I can't tell you how many times I've admired somebody's garden and unsuccessfully tried to plant similar flowers in my yard. My neighbors just shake their heads with pity when I arrive home from Lowes with flowers, soil, mulch, and all the optimism one could muster.

"Oh, dear," one neighbor says. "When will she learn?" "You have to give her credit for trying," another observes. " I hope she doesn't bring down our property values," remarks a third.

Farmville is different. The soil has no clay or rocks in Farmville. I don't get sweaty when I garden in Farmville. And everything I plant grows in Farmville.

I can enter the magical world of Farmville with a couple clicks of the mouse. It's a wonderful place for brown-thumbers like me. There's only one way to kill a plant.

Neglect.

Which fully explains my addiction.

In Farmville you can plant a variety of seeds, with germination times ranging from 4 hours (for Strawberries) to 4 days (for artichokes). Coffee is ready to be harvested 16 hours after planting, while aloe vera is ready in 6 hours. My farm has anywhere from 6 to 12 different fruits, vegetables or flowers growing at one time, all ripening at various times around the clock. And if you don't harvest them within 30 minutes or so of their ripening they wither away.

And it's not just the plants that get harvested. Oh, no! I have 2 barns with 20 cows each (93% ready at this time). I also have to worry about harvesting the truffles from my pigs, the horsehair from my horses, the wool from my sheep, the down feathers from my ducks, the eggs from my chickens and the milk from my goats. (I also have an elephant, but his peanuts are collected only about once a week.)

Which, again, fully explains my addiction.

Unlike my real neighbors, my Farmville neighbors do not laugh at me when I plant roses. In fact neighbors in Farmville help each other with their farms (and get rewarded for it with Farmville money and experience). I send my FV neighbors gifts, and receive gifts from them in return. Just today I received a chicken, a purple fence and a goat topiary!

Farmville also has a very nice market (where you can buy seeds, animals, barns, and other useful things like bicycles and butter churns ). I have my eye on a pink outhouse, that is selling for 8 Farmville bucks.

But what I really need to buy is that wagon.

So I can get on it.

And get on with my life.

Salem's Lot Flashback

I'm a book on CD junkie and just finished listening to Salem's Lot, a Steven King book about vampires settling in a small Maine town. I read the book years ago, when it was first published in 1975. It scared the crap out of me then. Thirty-four years have passed and guess what? It scared the crap out of me again.

Actually, it may have been worse this time around, since I wasn't the one reading the book. An actor with a very convincing voice was reading it to me...in my car...when I was alone....driving in the dark...in the little town of Irmo's Lot, S.C.

Aside from the fright factor, it was interesting to note how much society has changed in 34 years.

First of all, there were no cell phones in 1975. If fact Salem's lot had a 'party line' system, which sounds much more exciting than it really is. A party line is where neighbors share a telephone line and can basically listen in to each others' conversations. We had one for a few years when I was a kid growing up in Western New York. But sadly, we didn't live on Wysteria Lane (the setting for Desperate Housewives) and the available conversations were about as entertaining as a reruns of test-patterns on television. (e.g. "What time does Bingo start in Bergholz tonight?")

With that said, cell phones would have really come in handy in Salem's Lot. Seriously, can you think of an example of when a cell phone would be more helpful? (Your phone lines are cut...vampires are chasing you around your home....)

Another societal change that I noted is that they did not have 911 service back in the 70s..at least not in Salem's Lot. When the teacher had a heart attack after facing a vampire, he gave Susan his doctor's phone number to call (before passing out).

And, of course, doctors made house calls in 1975 (in Salem's Lot.) When the people in town started dropping like flies (thanks to the vampires), the doctor was running from house to house like a marble in a pinball machine. I don't know what is more unlikely in 2009: vampires or doctors making house calls.

Cigarette smoking was also prevalent in the book. After every vampire attack, Ben and his friends would pull out cigarettes to calm their nerves. But then again, I don't think any of the characters lived long enough in Salem's Lot (thanks to afore-mentioned vampires) to suffer the effects of cancer.

I know that the Twilight series has been a phenomenal success. I've read a couple of the books and enjoyed them. But if you want to read the ORIGINAL vampire book (not counting Dracula), check out Salem's Lot. It should scare the crap out of you.

If nothing else you'll learn about life in the olden days of the '70s.

Toni Home Perms

Every now and them my children ask me to help them curl their hair.

Flash back to my childhood.

I would NEVER ask my mom for help curling my hair. I was the victim of way too many home permanents. In fact, I would run away as fast as I could when she came near me with a Toni Home Permanent box containing toxic chemicals and 52 pink torture devices in varying sizes.

In my Mom's defense, she had the very best intentions in mind. She wanted to make me pretty. The problem was that I was a tomboy with very unruly hair. And Home Perms did not make me pretty. Home Perms made me look like a poodle.

The 'Home Perm Season' in my house was typically the week before Easter. My Mom would stealthily approach, box in her hand and say, "Girls! Look what I brought home for you! A Toni Home Permanent!"

The first year my sister and I were willing guinea pigs, sitting nervously throughout the treatment, which involved rolling hair onto scores of rollers, overlapping each other onto our heads, being doused with noxious chemicals and remaining still as the chemicals seeped into our hair, heads, and clothing. After what seemed like hours, my Mom would take out the rods and rinse the chemicals from our hair.

It wasn't until my hair dried that reality sunk in. My hair had expanded exponentially, in every possible direction. To say my hair was frizzy is like saying a root canal might sting a little.

And there was one fact about home permanents. They were permanent. Nothing but time - or scissors - could get those curls to relax.

My house would smell like Toni home permanents for days. As if my new poodle-do wasn't obvious enough, you could smell me coming a block away. I can recall my 4th grade teacher looking at me the Monday after my Mom had her way with me saying:

"Mary Lou, did you get a Toni home permanent? You look very..um....you look very.... (still searching for words)... you look very....curly!"

"No, she stuck her finger into a light socket", Alan Clark replied helpfully.

"That was no finger in a light socket mishap," said Miss Forth. "Can't you smell her Toni Home Permanent?"

By this time I was sunk so deep into my chair that only the tip of my afro was showing.

Thankfully, those days are over. When my daughters ask me to help them curl their hair I pull out the electric rollers, or curling irons, and voile!

And if they don't like how it looks, they can wash it out.