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They attack out of nowhere. They are quick. They are aggressive. They are relentless. And they have plenty of backup.
The Taliban?
No.
They are far more clever than the Taliban. They are the I.M.M., more commonly known as the Israeli Mall Militia. Even more commonly known as the annoying hand lotion salespeople in the aisles of American malls.
The IMM use guerilla warfare on unsuspecting shoppers. They start by asking to see a shopper's hands. The next thing you know, the soldier is removing the shopper's nail polish and the interrogation begins.
"Do your nails always look this bad?"
"Don't you want your hands to look better than those of a rhinoceros?"
Before the shopper realizes it, she has handed over money for a tool resembling a miniature eraser that cost about a nickel to make and usually sells for $40. But, because the soldier "likes her:, he sells it to the victim for $29.99. (But he tells her not to tell anyone that he gave you the employee discount.)
It was raining today, so my friend Becca and I decided to walk at Columbiana Mall, a location with two known IMM camps. Having both been victims of this group, we were on orange alert. We knew if we could make it by one of their kiosks without making eye contact, we'd have a decent chance of survival. But that does not guarantee your freedom.
IMM's most recent tactic is to hold their product directly in front of your eyes as you are walking. If you are trying NOT to make eye contact (which we were), you could conceivably run right into the product. That happened twice today. When I noticed a missile heading for my face I ducked away just in time to hear an IMM soldier say, "Can I see your hands?"
We tried to divert them with the old "No hablo Ingles" line. But unfortunately, the IMM guerillas receive a discount from the Rosetta Stone kiosk and were quick to say "Yo habla Espanol!", followed by what must have been "Can I see hands" in Spanish.
I'm happy to say we survived the trip uninjured.
Albeit with dull fingernails on hands with very dry skin.
We have a new arrival in my home- a Pomeranian puppy named Kevin. Cujo would be a more fitting name.
When we first brought him home he was shy, quiet, and affectionate. Fast forward 10 days and he has been transformed into a juvenile delinquent carrying about 14 razor sharp needles in his mouth ready to bite you if he doesn't get his way. He wears his pants down below his hips and I think he's started smoking cigarettes.
He doesn't bite my husband. About a week ago Kevin turned Cujo on my my husband. Dave shouted something like "No" or "BAD Dog" and slapped his mouth (to free his bloody hand). Kevin yelped and ran away. Now when he plays with Dave, the teeth stay in the mouth, and not in the flesh.
We enrolled Kevin in a puppy training class at PetSmart in an attempt to curb this delinquency. There are with 2 other puppies in his class. One is either a t-cup chihuaua or a large rodent, and the other is a boxer. Today was the first class with the other students and Kevin has already emerged as the troublemaker.
Kevin was placed in puppy detention because of his juvenile delinquency. It happened when Marcy, the instructor, began a little socializing exercise which she called 'butt meeting', which is, well, butts meeting.
Let's just say the Kevin did not want his butt to be met by the boxer's nose. Similarly, he did not want his nose met by the boxer's butt.
Kevin began snarling, and exposed those pearly white weapons. As a result of this aggression, Marcy placed him in a cradle hold - holding him tightly in her arms while she massaged his head, his paws and even his teeth.
(Note, when I put Kevin in the cradle hold, I don't put my hands anywhere near those teeth.)
Linda asked Marcy, "What do we do when he's biting us?" Marcy said to either blow on him or squirt him with a water gun. Linda said, "My dad hit Kevin and now Kevin doesn't bite him anymore."
Marcy looked at us in shock, took a deep breath and said, "That's because Kevin is afraid of your Dad."
Linda said, "No, he likes my Dad, He always sits on his lap and licks him."
Marcy lowered her voice and said, "He doesn't like your Dad. He's afraid of him. Battered children want attention from their fathers, too. That doesn't mean they like them."
Then she looked at me with pity, and I was half expecting her to slip me a number for PuppyCare, an emergency shelter for victims of domesticated animal violence.
So my new favorite accessory is a water bottle. It's really quite effective at getting Kevin to let go of my limbs. I have been very tempted to slap him when my wrist is locked in his jaw and the water bottle is across the room.
But I'm afraid if I do, there will be one of those 'wanted' posters hanging in PetSmart with my picture on it. Right next to Dave's.
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.
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.
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!
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.
"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.
