Clash of the Duvet

I was in way over my head.  Literally.

And I thought I was prepared for the challenge. 

I had started training earlier in the day.

By putting towels in pillow cases.  I perfected my process: shove the towel all the way to the back, then grab both ends and shake.  

After hours of practice, my doggie duvet was perfect.

And I was ready for the real thing.

Or so I thought.

I laid Kimmy's duvet cover on the hallway floor and measured the duvet, determining which corners went in first.

"This hallway ain't big enough for the both of us," I said to the duvet.  "You're going IN THERE."

The duvet just laughed.

I took a deep breath, grabbed hold of the far end of the duvet corners, and crawled in, kneeling on the near ends to hold them in place.

  .
As I approached the end, I dropped one of the corners.  CRAP!  Where the flip was it?  I felt around for it.  Nothing.  Maybe over there?  Or there?  

Hours later, Kevin came to my rescue.

And my brave dog led me out of duvet hell.

I was 5 pounds lighter.  And that was before I grabbed both ends of the duvet and "shook."

It was an exhausting experience, both mentally and physically.

I told my sister Jan about my duvet workout.  She could hardly get a word in.

"Holy crap!"  I said.  "Assembling a nuclear plant would be easier."

I chugged some wine.  "Next time I do that I'm going to lay down bread crumbs so I can find my way out."

I was on a roll. 

"And pack a lunch.  I could have starved to death."

Jan accused me of being dramatic.

Who me?

"You could do what I do," she added.

"What's that?"

"I use my duvet cover like a bedspread and lay it on top of the duvet."

OMG!

What fun would that be?

The Race

As I was clipped from behind my car began to spin out of control. 

It was frightening. 

I circled 1,440 degrees.  (That's 4 times, for those of you without calculators.)

To say I was dizzy was an understatement.  My reading glasses only exacerbated the vertigo.

I screamed like a girl and managed, somehow, to straighten the car.  I gently pushed on the gas pedal and accelerated to 35 mph.

As an endless stream of aggressive sports cars passed by me on both sides, I wondered when this stupid NASCAR simulator race would finally end.

Maybe I should clip one of them and SEE HOW THEY LIKE TWIRLING AROUND LIKE A STINKIN' PINWHEEL!

I'm lucky my lunch stayed with me.  Actually, the NASCAR Museum is lucky my lunch stayed with me.

After what seemed like an hour, the race finally came to an end.

I removed my reading glasses and struggled to open the door.  Upon exiting the torture chamber, I stumbled clumsily toward the exit. 

All around me I heard excited voices.  "That was great!!"  "Awesome!"  "Where'd you place?"

I was thinking, "Where's the bathroom?"

The race results were posted on a wall in 260 point font.  

Lovely.  Public humiliation.

There were 15 of us competing as part of our "team building  exercise".  For crying out loud.  Why didn't they do a Sudoku competition?  Or a quilting contest?  At least I'd have a fighting chance.

I was certain to be at the bottom of the NASCAR simulation race.

I looked at the race results.  The letters were moving.  I grabbed hold of the wall and focused, looking for my name on the list.

I was 14th.

WTH?  How could I not have been at the bottom?

Was it a clerical error?  I did not pass one car on the track.  In fact, cars pass by me like I was a kidney stone heading south.

Wait. One. Minute.

I beat somebody!   Hooray for me!

Maybe I should do this again.  I could get good at it.  My virgin NASCAR race and I wasn't even last.

If fact, I think I accelerated all the way to 40 by the last lap. 

Okay, maybe it was 39.  

I felt sorry for number 15.  He or she must really suck at NASCAR driving.  I squinted at the standings and saw that it was Ellen who came in last.

Poor, pathetic Ellen.

I decided to comfort her. (That's how empathetic I am.)

This was a delicate situation.  I did not want to embarrass her.  I mean, coming in dead last in a NASCAR simulator race.  How humiliating.

"Hey," I whispered.  "Don't feel badly about coming in last.  Who wants to win a NASCAR simulator race, anyhow?"

"Oh," she said, casually. "I didn't race.  I couldn't get my car started."

No Use Crying Over Spilled Wine

I swear to God.  I was not drinking when I spilled wine on my laptop.

The wine was to be my reward for finishing the report.

I finished up, attached the document to the email, hit send, and reached for that well-deserved glass of wine.

What happened next was inexplicable.  Somehow the bottom of the wine glass became entangled in the laptop cord.

Did I mention that it was Halloween night and I was staying in a Myrtle Beach hotel?

The police were never able to identify the source of the reported screams.  Witnesses said they were certain a horrendous murder had been committed. 

 
Others suspected it was a werewolf on the prowl for young blood.

I immediately lunged for a paper towel and attempted to lap up the wine.  Unfortunately, the hotel did not have the quicker picker upper.  Instead a roll of three ply toilet paper masqueraded as paper towels.

I used the "knife in the ditch between keys" methodology and was able to completely contain all of the wine.

At least I thought I had.

The next morning I attempted to log into my laptop.  I typed in the password and was told quite rudely by said laptop that I had the incorrect password.  I tried again, unsuccessfully.

Uh-oh.

I looked at the screen and typed in the first letter of my password.  Here's what I saw:

Say what?  Two asterisks?  That's odd.  I only typed one letter.  

I entered the second letter of my password and this is what I saw:

 
Then I had a scathingly brilliant idea.  I started over.  I entered the first letter of the password.  Two asterisks appeared.  And I deleted one.

I was feeling quite proud of myself as I entered the second letter of the password.  When two more asterisks appeared, I deleted the second one.

Smarty Pants Clyde.  That's my name.

I entered the third letter of the password. No letters appeared.

CRAP.

I figured I had two options.  I could get the laptop repaired or I could buy a new one.  Neither option was ideal, and both options were expensive.

Way more expensive than that glass of wine.

Then I had my second scathingly brilliant idea.

Introducing the hottest, most technologically advanced laptop EVER:  the duo-keyboard laptop for those who want more than just 96 keys.

Forget Silicone Valley.  This baby was developed in Irmo, South Carolina.

And if you'd like your very own duo-keyboard laptop, I know where you can get one.  Just in time for the holidays.

And it's very reasonably priced.