Mistake in Identity

It’s hard to recognize people out of their normal context. The grocery clerk who checks you out every week looks unfamiliar at the library. The nurse from your allergist’s office is unrecognizable at the gym.

So it’s understandable how I came to assault a former co-worker at the theater.

As most of you know, my former company has had some tough times recently. Declining sales and escalating costs have forced them to lay off a lot of good people. It’s become a ritual, as each quarter ends, to see people carrying their boxes to the door. So when a friend invited me to come see him play Alfred P. Doolittle in My Fair Lady at the Theater Guild, it sounded like a welcome break.

I’ve come to expect certain things from community theater. I expect some mishap on stage – a missed cue, a forgotten line, a misplaced prop. I expect cookies and punch at intermission. And I expect to run into Mr. Scott.

Chuck Scott taught in the Dayton school system his entire career, and he gave many Wilbur Wright students, including me, their first chance to see live theater. Almost every time I go to the Theater Guild or the Dayton Playhouse, I run into him.

So it was no surprise to glimpse him across the “U” that forms the Guild’s stage. He looked different somehow. Thinner, maybe, or a different haircut. At the intermission, he was still sitting there, which was odd, because he’s usually in the lobby, hobnobbing with former students.

I decided to ignore these important clues. “I’m going to go say ‘hi’ to Mr. Scott,” I told my husband. “Be right back.”

I scampered across the empty stage. When he saw me coming he got to his feet, smiling a little. I threw my arms around him and gave him a big hug. He didn’t hug back. Then I looked at the woman beside him. She wasn’t Mrs. Scott.

And she wasn’t happy.

John, my former co-worker, introduced me, looking bemused.

Now the smart thing to do at this point would have been to admit my mistake and march my flaming face back to my seat, but that’s not what I did. Instead, I stood there, babbling. And babbling. And babbling. Finally, John cleared his throat, and I realized that the lights had flashed three times, signaling the audience to return to their seats. And everyone had, except me.

I scuttled across the stage, with the whole place glaring at me, and plopped myself down beside my husband. I whispered what I’d done.

Fortunately, the play was a comedy.

Pre-Christmas Rant

Just a brief, pre-Christmas tirade.

My carpet is not toilet paper!

As the holiday approaches, things are getting hectic here (as with the rest of you), and I’ve been trying to keep the house reasonably clean so that I don’t have a major sanitizing effort on Christmas Eve, along with cooking/wrapping/etc.

But Emmeline and Abigail are not helping.

Every time I push the vacuum back into the closet, satisfied that we’re reasonably presentable, one of them decides it’s time to drag her butt across the living room.

They’ve always been indoor dogs, but if it weren’t -22 here (counting windchill) I would shove their furry behinds outside and leave them there, whining pitifully at the back door, until the holidays are over!

As you view the pictures, perhaps you are thinking, "What kind of woman owns a black dog and a white dog? Does she view dog hair as an accessory, to be sported on her clothing every season of the year? Or, does she think a light coating of fur makes an otherwise drab room?"

No, she's just a sucker for a cute puppy.

Aarrrghh!

Toy Stories - First Installment

I have a friend who, with her 27-year-old daughter, started a business a few years back selling sex toys.

Marketing via the party plan, kind of like Tupperware or Pampered Chef, the company has grown to the point where they now employ five other young women. They do a brisk business in bachelorette parties, but their market differentiator is that they are the sole company in our area that handles co-ed parties. They have a standing rule in place that, if any of the girls get to a booking and feel the least bit uncomfortable with the neighborhood, the client, or just the general vibe, they are to drive on past and cancel the gig. There have never been any problems.

Last summer I flirted with the idea of working for them part-time to gather material for a non-fiction book about a middle-aged woman getting into this field. I even attended a hen party with Ashley, only to realize:
a) It would take a lot of bookings to garner enough anecdotes to fill a book
b) I already had a 45+ hours a week job
c) I’m not a salesman and
d) I can’t even talk about underwear, for heaven’s sake. I could literally die of embarrassment trying to sell this stuff.

So, instead, I’ll pass on some of the stories they’ve shared with me.

Story #1
The daughter rang the bell at a large brick home in one of the nicer areas of town and a gentleman came to the door. In the foyer he proceeded to explain that this party was being held by a club he belonged to. Was that a problem?

She assured him that she often handled parties for clubs.

Well, he said, their club operated according to certain by-laws and they’d like to proceed under their normal rules of operation. Was that okay?

Sure.

Their policy, he said, was to meet in the nude.

Shrugging, she said, "I’m not taking my clothes off, but whatever floats your boat."

And then she followed him into the living room, where 20 people sat, naked as the day they were born.

And not one of them weighed less than 400 pounds.

Underwary - Part 3

(Being the third and final installment in the misadventures of a Baby Boomer in a world without BVD boundaries.)

Recently, I’ve been staggered to discover how many otherwise respectable people will chat about their scanties at the drop of a knicker. There are entire stores dedicated to selling lingerie -- and not just naughty places, either. To make matters worse, these emporiums are co-ed. In them, men and women openly discuss lingerie.

A few years back I visited such an establishment on my annual replenishment mission. Arriving early to avoid the crowds, I found a dozen varieties on display, including something called a thong. Underwear has two functions: to keep things out, and to keep things in. I can’t imagine how that bit of floss serves either purpose.

“They’re more comfortable than you think.” The salesgirl snatched up a lace jockstrap, waving it like a midshipman signaling the Third Fleet. With an effort, I refrained from grabbing her wrist. “When you wear them, you don’t have a panty line. So no one can tell you’re wearing panties.”

Although I prefer not to talk about underwear, it has never been one of my goals to make people think I don’t wear any.

“They’re on sale – six pairs for the price of five.”

I shook my head.

“Maybe something more conservative?” she said. “What do you normally wear? Bikinis? Hipsters? Sportsters? Hi-leg?”

A tide of color surged up my neck. How could such an attractive young woman have such a foul mouth?

Her voice took on a soothing note. “This happens a lot. Do you want me to check your tag?”

Before I could reply, she grabbed my hips, twirled me around, reached inside my drawers and twitched my tag out into the open. My face grew redder than the Valentine’s Day negligee special.

“The print on this tag is faded,” she said, tugging on my waistband.

In the next aisle over, a husband-in-training looked our way, grinned and nudged his girlfriend, and I understood for the first time how a nerdy high school freshman feels when an upper-classman administers a wedgie.

Life has a way of coming full circle, though.

When I was in my forties, I met and married Mr. Right. With his love and support I’ve managed to get baptized, stay away from slumber parties and maintain a reasonable inventory of undergarments. I truly realized he was Mr. Right the day he set off to buy some Fruit of the Looms and came back empty-handed.

“Don’t tell me Sam Walton ran out of undershorts,” I said. (It’s all right to discuss this topic within the sanctity of the marriage vow.)

“Nope,” he said. “I did what I always do. I found what I needed and then I checked to see who was running the cash register. It was a woman, so I put them back for another day.”

Finally, someone else who gets it.

Old Joke #2

A man who lived a very bad life dies and goes to Hell. A demon greets him at the Admissions desk and scans his paperwork.

“Based on your resume,” the demon says, “I can offer you two choices of how you’ll spend eternity.”

Before the man can ask any questions, the demon sets off down a hallway. The man follows. Soon they come to a door with a small glass window.

“Here’s option one,” the demon says and gestures for the man to look in the window.

Inside he sees a freezer full of naked people. Their skin is blue, their teeth are chattering and icicles hang from every part of their bodies.

The man shudders. “Oh, please,” he says. “Not that. I hate being cold.”

The demon nods and proceeds down the hall to a second door.

Inside this window the man sees a roomful of people standing around in brown slime up to their ankles, drinking cups of coffee.

“Ugh,” the man says. “Is that…?”

“Yes,” says the demon, “it’s shit.”

The man thinks about it for a second and then sighs.

“That’s pretty disgusting,” he says, “but I really hate being cold. I think I’ll go with this one.”

The demon nods and, pulling a key from his pocket, unlocks the door.

Just as he opens it, a bell rings and a voice inside the room yells, “Coffee break’s over, back on your heads!”

* * *

So, the purpose of this joke (there’s always a purpose here at the Chronicles, however tangential) is to let you know that I’ve found gainful employment.

On January 5, I will start work as the Office Manager at a clinic. It’s different from the jobs I’ve held for the last 30+ years, being both less technical and much more people-oriented, and I’m looking forward to the change.

The work day doesn't start until 9 a.m., and since I get up at 5, that still gives me time to hit the gym and write in the mornings. (Novel is coming along very nicely, thanks for asking.)

So, I guess my coffee break’s over.

Time to get back on my head!

Feather Phobia

I was just over visiting Dee from Downunder (http://myaussieantics.blogspot.com/). Today’s post is a list of 10 honest things about herself – and very brave and honest they are, too – and one caught my eye.

She doesn’t care for birds.

I immediately felt a sense of rapport with this lady on the other side of the globe, because she’s figured out what so few people have: that birds are really just rats with wings.

Okay, I know all the bird lovers out there will set up a squawk, but I have valid reasons for my antipathy.

When I was six or seven, my Great-Aunt Nini (actually Geneva – they didn’t name her till she was five and allowed her to pick her own name) owned a little green parakeet named Tommy. Tommy was getting on in years, and he had a big pink tumor on his belly, which was disgusting just for starters.

Anyway, every week after church my sister, Rita, and I would stop by to visit Aunt Nini and she would give us cheese on crackers and these little glasses of Coca-Cola. We rarely had soda pop at our house, so this was a huge treat.

But every week when we were there, Aunt Nini would say, “Pet Tommy.”

“I don’t want to pet Tommy,” I’d whine. “He pecks me.”

She’d look shocked. “Tommy would never do that.”

So I’d stick my skinny little finger through the cage wire and Tommy would peck the fire out of it. Every week this would happen, with it coming as news to Aunt Nini every single time.

Fast forward to fifth grade, when Linda Bell brought her parakeet for show and tell. She was walking up and down the rows of desks, allowing the bird to hop from her finger to each classmate’s as I watched in horror, knowing my turn was coming. I couldn’t quite come up with the courage to say, “Keep that vile thing away from me,” but when it was my turn, as soon he got one of his bony little feet on my finger, my terror won out and I jerked my hand away, nearly turning Linda Bell’s beloved pet into a miniature version of the Thanksgiving wishbone.

And there have been other incidents over the years. Like the time when I was cleaning my downstairs neighbor’s apartment (I was a single mom at the time and needed the cash) while he was out of town and his parrot flew out of his cage and landed on my shoulder, causing said neighbor’s apartment to nearly also need a good carpet cleaning. I had to call one of his friends to come get the bird off my shoulder, while I waited, rigid, for him to arrive.

Or the time I was at a picnic and a bird flew by overhead and pooped in my plate and down my leg, earning me the nickname “Bird Woman” among my friends to this day.

There is one thing I like to do with birds, though: dinner.

Every time I stop by the Colonel’s, I figure I’ve evened the score just a little bit.

Guest Post -- Peanut Butter Fudge Recipe

Note: I received the following from Hoodchick, who makes the world's best peanut butter fudge, and since it seemed like a Chronicles kind of recipe, I decided to do a special Tuesday post.

Here's her email:

First, I have to rant about this. I use the recipe on the back of the Fluff jar, with slight modifications. The first thing about that, the recipe calls for 12oz of marshmallow cream. But Fluff comes in a 16oz container. It’s their own stinking recipe and they do that to you? Anyway, just guess - error on the side of too much.

Then, at some point in the last year, Kroger stopped selling Fluff. So I had to deal with the Walmart crowd to get a jar. All the makings sat on my counter for a month and I finally got around to making it Saturday then I realized by the second ingredient – they changed the recipe! Maybe that is why Kroger quit selling it, some buyer was loyal to the recipe for decades and the bastards go and change it. But, being the anal retentive person that I am – I had the original written down.

Lastly, 5 minutes of boiling means 5 minutes of BOILING. Not thinking about boiling, not just about boiling, but boiling. Too little, you will be eating it with a spoon. Too much and it will be dry and crumbly. Now my disclaimer – boiling sugar, evaporated milk, margarine, marshmallow cream and salt is worse than napalm. Wear an oven mitt on your stirring hand, seriously consider wearing long sleeves and for god’s sake don’t get your face near the pot!

Ingredients:

5 C Sugar
1 12oz can Evaporated Milk
¼ lb margarine
12 oz Marshmallow cream
1 tsp salt
1 tsp vanilla
2 pkg Peanut Butter chips (I use Reeses)
Peanut Butter*
1) Combine first 5 ingredients in 4 qt (at least) sauce pan. Stir over low heat until blended.
2) Bring to a boil over medium heat, stirring constantly at a boil for 5 minutes.
3) Remove from heat, stir in chips, vanilla and peanut butter until chips melt**. Pour into 2 buttered 8 ½ x 11 pans

* Adding peanut butter is my modification. I usually take a tablespoon (not the measuring kind) and throw in 3 or 4 huge dollops. I don’t think you can get too much. **PB chips don’t melt as well as chocolate so they aren’t likely to completely melt by the time your arm feels like it’s going to fall off. I totally give in and pour it anyway. Once it sets you can’t tell.

Enjoy!