Can you get me some Pop Tarts?

Just call me Florence!  As in Nightingale!  Flying to Buffalo in the middle of a late March blizzard to help my sweet sister-in-law in her valiant fight against lung cancer.

Better yet, call me Maria!  As in The Sound of Music!  I would sing to Evie as I helped: "Doe a deer, a female deer.."

I was full of enthusiasm and up for the task. Twenty degrees at the end of March?  Who cares?  I was like Alice in The Brady Bunch!  I could handle anything.

I awoke bright and early at 8 AM, ready, willing and able to help. I was a well oiled machine: get dressed, brush teeth, take Synthroid pill, comb hair, take dogs out.  Check! Check! Check! Check!

And Check!

The phone rang.  My brother Jim had locked himself out of his truck.  No problem!  That's what I'm here for.  Check!

It was only 8:45 and I had already saved the day!

Next on my list was to drive Evie to her 9:00 Radiation treatment.  Jim wanted to drive but I told him no.  I would drive my rental car.  It would be easier for Evie to get in and out of, compared to his truck.

I know what you're thinking.  How every thoughtful.  Thank you.

The clinic was about 10 minutes away and I have to say that Jim was a way worse back-seat driver than I remembered him to be.  

Here is a sampling of what I had to endure: "You're in the wrong lane", "Watch our for that bush!" and "You just drove over the curb."

I was beginning to feel unappreciated.

The three of us walked into the clinic, but in all honesty I don't remember much about it.

Apparently, I had begun to stagger.  Like a drunk. Jim, who up until this point had been focusing all of his attention on Evie, began to suspect something was wrong with me.

"Lou, are you okay?" he asked.

"I just need a Diet Coke," I told him.  Jim told me to "stay put" while he looked for a soda machine.

He must have been gone a long time because I had to go looking for him. I stumbled around the clinic through a maze of hundreds of hallways and secret doorways  in quest of my Diet Coke,

When Jim returned with my Diet Coke he found the waiting room empty.  "Where'd she go?" he asked the woman behind the desk.  She pointed in the direction he had come from.

So Jim went in search of me, found me wandering in confusion, and escorted me to the waiting room, where my Diet Coke was also waiting.

I took a swig and said, "Can you get me some Pop Tarts?"

Jim said, "Are you okay, Lou?"

"Or Toaster Schhhttttrudels."

At this point Jim asked a nurse to look me over.  He assured her that I was normally quite normal despite my abnormal behavior.  The nurse took my blood pressure, which was, of course, normal.

Still, Jim suspected that something was seriously wrong with me.  Possibly a stroke.

Evie returned from her treatment and Jim took us each by the hand and walked to the car.

He insisted on driving my rental car, even though he wasn't on the rental agreement.  "You better be careful," I told him as he pushed me into the passenger seat.

Jim asked Evie if he thought they should take me to the Emergency Room.

The poor guy was at a breaking point.  Not only did he have to worry about Evie, now it seemed his sister was in the midst of a stroke.

He said, "Lou, did you take any pills this morning?"

"Just my Synthroid."

"Are you sure it was your Synthroid and not something else?" he asked.

I tried to think.  Yes.  I pulled the pill from my suitcase in the dark.  But the only pills I had in my suitcase were Synthroid and...

Oh no.

My emergency Ambien.  In case I have really bad insomnia.

Florence Nightingale?

Nah.

Just call me Lindsey.

As in Lohan.

To Braid or Not to Braid- That is the Question

When people ask me how I ended up living in Columbia, South Carolina, I tell them I moved here for a great job opportunity, which is only part of the story.

The truth is, I’m here because of a French Braid.   

In fact, the entire course of my life was altered because of that damn braid.

Flash back to June, 1982.  Bowling Green, Ohio.  I was fresh out of grad school, eager to land a job in the real world.  I had an interview with the Leo Burnett Advertising Agency at 10:00 the next morning.

It was my dream job.  Leo Burnett was one of the top advertising agencies in the country, and they were looking for a statistical research analyst. That job had my name written all over it.

And it was at Leo Burnett!  

The creative geniuses behind the Pillsbury Dough Boy and the Keebler Elves!   They were the stinkin’ Super Bowl winners in the Advertising space.  And I was going to work for them!

My new navy blue interview suit hung over my closet door.  My red silk blouse was ironed.  I’d even invested in a new pair of panty hose. 

Remember those?

OMG.  I was so excited.  All I had to do was go to bed, wake up, drive ½ hour to Toledo, hop on a plane, take a cab to Leo Burnett’s downtown office, and impress the interview team with my brilliance.  Simple.

The French Braid was my idea.  I thought I would look more professional if my hair was braided.  My friend Janet O. came over that night to braid it, tucking ever loose hair in place, generously applying hair spray to maximize the hold.  

I looked fantastic.  How could they not hire me?  Amazing brain, killer suit, and rockin’ French Braid.  I went to bed, taking great care not to mess up my rockin’ French Braid.

I’m a side sleeper, but I quickly discovered that sleeping on one’s side is not conducive to keeping a French Braid intact.   I could feel the braid begin to loosen. 

So I rolled to my back, carefully placing the braid flat on the pillow before joining it.

It felt like I was laying atop a beer bottle.   Made of rock.

I attempted some creative pillow origami, placing one pillow on either side of my head, with the beer bottle braid wedged between them.  If I could remain perfectly still, the rockin’ stinkin’ French Braid would survive the night.  

As you might imagine, it was a wee bit difficult to fall asleep in this position, and with every tick of the clock I became more and more anxious.  At about midnight I drove to an all night pharmacy to buy Sominex (AKA Tylenol PM of the olden days).  

The clerk complimented me on my hair.

Sadly, the Sominex did not work. In fact, I never slept a wink until the plane took off for Chicago.  I slept for 43 minutes, the length of the flight.  And in the cab on the way to my interview. 
 

I somehow pulled it together and kicked some ass in the morning interviews, running on pure adrenalin.   It was at lunch when things started going downhill, or more accurately, where the fatal crash and burn occurred.  

The manager of the analytics team asked me a series of technical questions.  I became less and less coherent with each question.  

I was in a fog.  For all I know, she was asking, “What is 2 plus 5?" 

“Could you please repeat the question?”

“What is 2 plus 5?”

“Um, yes I learned that in my Applied Statistics program.  I love that kind of problem.  It has something to do with the normal distribution.  Or a table of random numbers.  Or maybe a French Braid?”

Then I started performing my Multicollinearity Rap.  

OK, I didn’t really sing my Multicollineariy Rap, but I probably would have if I had written it by then. 

It was the worst interview in the history of interviews.  I suppose it could have been worse.  I never threw up.

But my French Braid was lovely.  Not a hair out of place.

About a month later I interviewed at Miller Brewing Company for another amazing job.  I did not braid my hair and, although I didn't look as "professional", I landed the position.  

And I met Dave.  And we had kids.  And I changed jobs. Which led to my job in Florida.  Which led to my job in Columbia, where I got involved in the theatre community.  Which got me writing this blog.

And, at the risk of sounding hokey, I'm glad I wore my hair in a French Braid for that interview.

The more I think about it, those Keebler Elves are kind of creepy.

Give me an "H"!

Okay. I'll admit it. I'm somewhat of a hotel snob. But I prefer my "otels" to start with an "H" rather than an "M".

We stayed at the M-variety on our trip to Wyoming last week.

Since we flew into Denver and were driving about half way to Jackson, Wyoming that night, our options were quite limited.

I must also mention that Dave is hotwire.com fan. Yes, hotwire paid off a couple years ago when we booked a 5-star hotel in downtown Chicago for about $79/night.  I trusted him. 

Fool that I am.

The Rawlins Quality Inn was just what you'd expect for a 2-star motel. The beds came up to my knees. The sheets were somewhere between 50 and 75 thread count. Although it was non-smoking, I felt certain that the Marlboro man had been a previous guest. The room air conditioner sounded like a B-52 turboprop taking off, followed by 3 minutes of placidity before the B-52 took off again, followed by another 3 minutes of placidity. (You get the picture.) 

(I suppose It could have been worse. About 20 years ago I cut open the bottom of my foot on a Dorito hidden in the shag carpet of a Cleveland Motel-6 I was staying at. At least I didn’t require first aid this time.)

I knew I was going to have a hard time falling asleep. Dave snores, and the trick to a good night's sleep is to fall asleep before he does. But I was prepared. I had brought along a special friend for the trip: my good buddy Ambien.

I brushed my teeth, popped the Ambien, and settled in for a deep, drug-induced sleep. 

The last time I'd taken an Ambien I was on a flight to London. I swallowed it at take-off and woke up rested about 8 hours later with a smile on my face and trail of drool down my shirt. So my expectations for a good night’s sleep were very high.  

I lay on my back and waited for the powerful wave of sleep to overcome my body. After about 15 minutes, Dave started snoring. CRAP!!!  The bed springs started poking into my back. I got a sliver from the sheets. And my mouth started tasting like nicotine.

But I was patient. I knew the Ambien would eventually kick in. (And thankfully, the B-52 air conditioner blocked out half of Dave's snores.) 

Midway through the night I fell asleep, but unlike on the flight to London I woke up sore and cranky. 

Then I attempted to take a shower. This is the way the shower was supposed to look. 

This was our shower.

It wouldn't have been so bad if there had been a way to keep the shower curtain open: perhaps a set of magnets or some duct tape. 

Even talented Body Jammers like myself have a difficult time washing our bodies while holding a shower curtain closed with 2 hands. 

Thank goodness for the breakfast at the Hoot'n'Howl, the bar/diner attached to the Quality Inn, and it's remarkable decorating scheme! There was a wall of fascinating oxymoronic concert posters, such as the 1967 Monkees’ concert with Jimi Hendrix as the opening act.  

Then there was the celebrity mug shots section.  

It was a nerdling blogger's wet dream!

It even made up for the waiter who came to our table announcing that they didn’t get a food delivery that week, "so don't even bother looking at the menu. You can have pancakes or pancakes”. We had pancakes.

The next night I was bound and determined to get a good night's sleep. I decided to have a heart to heart discussion with my good buddy.  

"You really let me down last night. You'd better work tonight!" 

My Ambien laughed at me.  "You should put on your reading glasses before taking prescription medicine," she said. 

"And by the way, Einstein, I hope you didn’t mess up your thyroid by taking that extra dose of Synthroid last night." 

With friends like that who needs enemies?