To Hell and Back
Now, I know that waiting in line at the DMV is a cliche for a reason, but I still don't think that I've ever spent more than an hour there - and that was back when I was 16 and had to take an actual road test to prove that I deserved a license. I even thought that I had planned my visit for an off-peak hour, and, when I arrived, I was incredibly pleased to look around the waiting area at the DMV and see only a handful of people in line.
Unfortunately, what I didn't realize is that the people working at the DMV operate at about the speed of molasses.
After two hours (two hours!?!?), they called my number, and I took my eye test and paid. Another hour later (one whole hour!?!?), after the computer had crashed not once, but twice, they finally took my photo. All in all, I arrived at the DMV at 1: 25 p.m. (after getting lost because the directions on the web site were wrong), and I walked out at 4:40 p.m.
I was at the DMV for three entire hours. THREE HOURS. I don't know what I did to deserve this punishment (unless, of course, those right wing Christians really are right about the evils of alcohol and voting for Democrats), but hopefully, this will be the closest I ever come to understanding Stockholm Syndrome or how wild animals feel in captivity.
Towards the end of hour one, I still felt pretty OK. In fact, I was even hopeful. I'd found a Sudoku and an old Dilbert cartoon to pass the time. I knew things were bad, but I had faith that my situation would improve.
At the end of hour two, I was torn between outright rage and exhaustion. Half of me was angry at the world and everyone working at the DMV. I did a lot of looking around the room in wide-eyed frustration hoping I could make eye contact with someone willing to listen to me rant about the wait. The other part of me just wanted to give in and curl up in a fetal position right there with my eyes shut tight against anything and everyone.
And, by the end of hour three, I had resigned myself to a life lived entirely within the confines of the DMV. I started looking around the building for potential life mates (and you know that if you're thinking about picking a spouse at the DMV, it's bad). I figured that maybe we could settle down, start a family, build a home from plastic chairs and outdated driver's manuals, and be happy. The guy who looked like he didn't have tattoos so much as a friend he let doodle all over his body in permanent, needle-embedded ink seemed nice enough. After all, if I was never going to be able to leave the building, I might as well make the most of it.
Luckily, just when I had accepted a future that involved washing my hair with hand soap and bartering for Tic Tacs to survive, I got my license.
Then, as if the hours of idle waiting weren't bad enough, I saw my driver's license photo.
Now, you would think that after all those hours of waiting, I would be so happy to have my license in hand (I probably would have walked out with nothing if I hadn't remembered that my license was necessary to purchase red wine) that I wouldn't care at all about the photo. Even I thought that for a few minutes.
But, that was when I was naive and completely ignoring the strength of my own vanity. Even after all that waiting, I would have risked yet another computer crash not to have the license photo that I have now.
I know this picture is blurry, but I think you get the idea. I can't decide if it looks like I'm about to laugh or vomit. (Let's not even start with the fact that my chin and my neck tried to become one right as the flash went off ...)
Oh well, at least I don't have to go through all this again for another seven years - unless that photo really starts to bug me.
The Market
Last night, I stopped by the grocery store for a quick run. (I had cravings for quiche, pigs in a blanket, and a baked potato. Go figure.)
As I was checking out, the guy who worked there looked at the rawhide bone I was buying and said, "Oh, someone has a little doggie." ("Doggie" was his word, not mine.)I just smiled and nodded. (Personally, I really don't like it when strangers comment on your purchases. It only confirms my worst fears about being judged and watched by others. I don't want the Wal-Mart photo tech to tell me "not to worry" because "my photos came out cute," and I certainly don't want the woman at the Western to tell me "that all women go through it" when I'm picking up my monthly Midol and pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food. I feel as if these moments should pass without comment.)
But, I tried to be polite anyway.Then, he corrected himself and said, "Or maybe someone has a big doggie..."
"It's a medium sized dog," I replied, almost cheerfully. "She's right in between."
"I guess she's like her mistress then," he continued, "not too big and not too small."
Well, let's just say that that's not what I needed to hear. Some people might infer that this meant I was "just right," be we don't live in the world of "Goldilocks and the Three Bears," and I don't like it when the word "small" is not applied to me.
Plus, being told you're not "too big" is hardly a compliment.There has never been a time I've gotten dolled up and wanted a date to tell me that I wasn't too big. Sure, maybe if I was trying to squeeze out of a small opening to safety, it'd be great to hear that I wasn't too big, but next to underground shaft trappings and the like, I think it's a poor choice of words.Maybe women haven't made it clear enough, but you never toss out words like "thin," "light," "tiny," or "petite" and then don't apply them to the lady in front of you.It's just rude.
Luckily, I had all those pigs in a blanket to console me when I got home.
Chores
Yesterday, I went to the laundromat for the first time. At first, I was apprehensive. As much as I love doing laundry (which is actually, disturbingly enough, a lot because I really like making things clean, folding and when I'm done, I kind of get half the high I normally get from shopping because I have so many new outfit options), I was worried that I wouldn't enjoy it nearly as much without being able to watch Lifetime while the machines ran.
But, I was at my dirty clothes threshold (which, incidentally enough, occurs when I have no more socks and am on my third string underwear — I'll save the story of my undergarment classification system for another day), and something had to be done.After a failed venture to Harvey Washbanger's Eat, Drink, Do Laundry (it seems that concept didn't work out too well for old Harvey since the building now contains a Mexican restaurant), I found myself at the Squeaky Clean Laundromat.
Sure, I did feel a little awkward because I quickly learned that if you're the woman in the laundromat, every man there will assume you know everything about washing clothes because of your gender, but after shrugging my shoulders over fabric softener inquiries a few times, most of the men realized I was no expert.
Then, after a few more moments, I was in love.
Apart from the warm, humming environment, here's a list of what I adore about the laundromat:1. The Efficiency. I could do all my laundry loads at the same time, and my clothes were dry within thirty minutes.2. The Pac-Man Machine. Does it get better than that?3. The Soft Rock. I got to hear "Manic Monday" for the first time since I bought a Bangles tape for my pocket rocker in 1987.
In fact, I was about to designate the laundromat as my new, secret happy place (the former title holder being the library), when I found a way to mar the experience.I removed a pair of jeans from the washing machine and started shaking them out so I could hang them up to air dry for a moment. Now, I thought that I had carefully checked all the pockets and made sure there were no socks stuck in the legs, but the difference between my thinking and the truth usually gets me into trouble.I was about two shakes in when a pair of my underwear came flying out of the jeans and landed about ten feet away.
Of course, airborne panties are usually enough of an embarrassment, but since this is my life, the underwear also managed to land right next to the one guy in the laundromat who didn't seem to be doing any actual laundry but just seemed to be around to soak up the atmosphere and yell at the television.He was the last person I wanted seeing my unmentionables, and retrieval under his attentive gaze was awkward, to say the least.
It looks like the library is no longer in danger of losing its special designation. I like that the probability of lingerie mishaps is much lower there.
The Home Front
Lately, the weather has been warmer, so my landlord has been leaving her dogs out in the backyard more often than normal. (Keep in mind that this is Tennessee; the weather is often unseasonably warm.) Other than the somewhat long nails on her dogs, they are generally very sweet creatures, so this really shouldn't bother me.
However (because there always is a "but" whenever I say that I'm not upset - just ask some ex-boyfriends), I do wish she would keep her dogs inside more often, and here's why:You see, my own dog, Cassidy, loves to play with other dogs. And, I mean loves to play with other dogs. (No, not in some weird humping way.) She thinks that every dog is just waiting for her to jump on them, run around, or pick up the opposite end of a tug rope.
Sometimes I worry about her survival instincts since she will try to play with dogs who snarl, scratch, and snap too. God forbid she ever encounter an overly bold opossum or raccoon.
In fact, Cassidy will even ignore me to play with other dogs.
And, herein lies the problem.
Instead of having my four-legged buddy to play games with, follow me around the house, and snuggle, she constantly wants to go outside to play with my landlord's dogs. She's insistent on it to the tune of constantly sitting by the back door.And, while I know that she's a dog and would of course want to play outside with other dogs and doesn't have a real thought process or the ability to "reject" per say, it started to hurt my feelings.
So, tonight when I was at the grocery store, I picked up a special treat. I happen to know that Cassidy adores the real bones that come from the butcher at the grocery. She loves them so much, she will devote hours to finishing one without giving in to any distractions. (Often, while sitting right at my feet.)
Tonight, I came home with a bribe to keep my dog inside with me. I bribed my own pet to spend time with me.I have a feeling that the implications of this could be far more devastating than the initial feelings caused by my dog's "choice." (And that I would be a disaster as a divorced parent.) Therefore, I'm just not going to think about it. (Denial is one of my greatest gifts.)
Isn't it great that Cassidy's back inside with me?
My Confession
As much as I realize that this might hurt my image in some people's eyes, there's something I need to get off my chest. (Not that I think there's much to this "image" of mine, but what I'm about to say is not at all "cool" or "hip." This is even less "hip" than my love of "Quantum Leap," and I bet most of us thought that day would never come.)
For the past couple of weeks, when I've been alone and in the privacy of my own car, I've been giving in to temptation and indulging one of my more shameful guilty pleasures — the love of Broadway.
For months, I thought it was enough to just have the "Rent" soundtrack on hand. Because of the 2005 movie, I figured that there was still some license to owning that one. But, as much as I adore "Seasons of Love" and "La Vie Boheme," it was starting to get a bit stale.Then, I happened to pull out an old mixed CD my sister made me years ago titled "Songs From Our Childhood: Volume 1." As is to be expected, "Songs From Our Childhood," features many of the musical favorites my sisters and I grew up with. Between our parents' and the nanny's tastes, you get an interesting mix of Don Henley, Dan Folgerberg, the theme songs from "General Hospital" and "Unsolved Mysteries," and the ever-popular-with-my-mother Broadway Soundtrack.
At first, I just listened to "On My Own" (the stirring ballad of unrequited love from Eponine in "Les Miserables") a few times on repeat.And, that was good. I found my work stress melting away more quickly as I belted out musical theater standards on the drive home. I was kinder to children and animals. I smiled more.
But, unfortunately, after awhile even that wasn't enough, and I recently found myself at Spin Street in the mall purchasing the Highlights from "Les Miserables" as performed by the original Broadway cast.
Yes, I purchased "Les Miserables." I paid good money for it. I listen to it every day. I might or might not find myself car dancing with jazz hands on the way to and from work.
I had hoped that all of this could stay my dirty little secret. I was content to be a closeted Broadway fanatic. However, it seems like I can't help but give myself away. Today, I found myself humming/almost breaking into song with "Master of the House" much to the surprise of and my embarrassment in front of a co-worker.
I guess we can all be pretty sure that no one will be asking me for music recommendations anytime soon.
More Holiday Memories
At my (Episcopalian) elementary school, our biggest production was the annual "Lessons and Carols" Christmas songfest. Every year, on the first weekend of December, we would put on a very long program of everyone’s favorite Christmas carols (if your favorites included the Jesus-friendly "O’ Little Town of Bethlehem" and "I Saw Three Ships" as opposed to the more secular "Jingle Bells") intermixed with readings about the birth of Christ.
(Even as I’m typing this, I want to write that the show amounted to three hours, but I’m sure that someone will correct me or balk. Just let me assure you that "Lessons and Carols" felt four times longer than it actually was. And, that’s not just my childhood attention span talking - my father would agree.)
Each year concluded with rounds of applause and all of our teachers crying as we sang "O’ Holy Night" in the candlelight in French.Despite the fact that "Lessons and Carols" led to massive adoration, praise, and clapping, there were few events I despised as much as it.
We always started practicing about two weeks after school started in August (seriously), and we spent a big part of every week trapped in music class with our obviously-frustrated-with-the-direction-of-his-career teacher as he ranted at us and held out the part of playing the triangle like it was the equivalent of be given a puppy or taken to the chocolate store with an unlimited budget.
Plus, since the program never changed, it’s not like there was a lot of variety to the days ... or years.Also, when we consider the fact that I’m tone deaf, I think you can imagine how much I got yelled at and how many practices ran long because of all the mid-song stops made when "someone was off-key."
Unfortunately still, as much as I dreaded every day of the fall because it involved "Lessons and Carols" practice, nothing was as bad as my third grade year.Third grade was the first year that you had to make it through the entire "Lessons and Carols" program in the church. Students in kindergarten through second grade got to enter the chapel for a few songs and then leave to return to their classrooms when they were done. For third graders, those days of ease and mirth were over.
About two weeks before the big "Lessons and Carols" of ‘88, the entire school was gathered in the church for yet another grueling rehearsal. I was in the row only a few feet away from the organ, so my music teacher’s stare added to the intense pressure I was already feeling. (Plus, from the pews, if our French teacher didn’t tear up before the afternoon was done, we hadn’t done a good job.)
Somewhere in the midst of "Once in Royal David’s City," I could see red lines in front of my face and I felt like I was losing my balance. (I didn’t yet have the stamina that the fifth graders had acquired, and "don't lock your knees" were still just empty words.)A few seconds later, I vomited in front of the entire kindergarten through eighth grade populations.
When you haven’t yet turned 10, few things are more embarrassing than throwing up ... in public ... surrounded by your less-than-mature peers.But, perhaps the worst part was that since I didn’t have a temperature after wards, the school nurse convinced my parents that I didn’t need to be taken out of school for the rest of the day.Instead of getting to hide in my house watching soap operas and eating jell-o with my nanny, I was given a sweatshirt from the "Lost and Found" box (after all, my original outfit had puke on it) and sent off to join my class in the lunchroom where Jenny Knowles was enjoying her 15 minutes of fame by recounting the tale of standing next to me during what she termed "the big splat."
Yes, it was a good day.But, hey, at least it wasn’t my fourth grade Christmas when I learned that there was no Santa Claus.
Black Friday
Now, normally I'm not one to go shopping the day after Thanksgiving. In fact, usually I'm such a wreck about getting ready for the holidays, I've finished my shopping by the end of October and don't even need to get near the mall for the last two months of the year. (Except, of course, for my trips to Forever 21 and The Great American Cookie Company, but that's personal and not really "gift-related.")
But, last year, I couldn't sleep and thought that I might as well see what it's like to be in a department store at 7:00 a.m. Unfortunately, being with the rabid bargain-hunting crowd taught me two things:
1. Something about being in the presence of a "doorbuster" completely destroys my rational sensibilities. I was loaded up with seven $12.00 digital cameras (as if a $12.00 digital camera could be any good) before I realized that just because everyone else was grabbing at the boxes under the "special sale" sign didn't mean I had to, too.
2. I should not be unleashed on the world in a situation that involves both early mornings and slashed prices.After the doorbuster incident, I found myself at Old Navy in search of discounted performance fleece. I had picked up two jackets that I thought were ten dollars a piece and proceeded to the check-out line.
Now, being the day after Thanksgiving, the line at Old Navy lasted for 45 minutes, but I was willing to wait it out because of the cheap jackets. (I'd also like to add that I don't think waiting in the line was nearly as bad as the "waiting entertainment" dreamed up by overly-peppy retail gurus. I think it's fair to say that I never want to play "purse and pocket raffle." I don't care who has tweezers in their purse. And, having to watch the "sudden death" as to who would win the holiday motif stickers when both middle-aged woman A and middle aged woman B had Q-tips in their purses nearly made me impale myself on a coat hanger.)
When I finally got to the register, the salesperson rang up my items and informed me that I owed $27.80.Unfortunately for all involved, this is when I became incensed with rage. After all, I was there at that ridiculous hour for $10 performance fleece and nothing else. So, that's what I told the sales lady.
"Well," she said, "you pulled out different jackets. One is $10. The other is $15."
Staring at what I considered to be two identical jackets, I was baffled. "But," I countered, "I got both of these off the rack over there that has the huge sign saying '$10" above it."
"OK," she said, "but they're different."
"How are they different?"
"This one has a tab on the zipper, and this one doesn't."
Of course, I thought to myself -- I see why a zipper tab costs $5.
"Fine, then," I said, "I'll take that one and not the other." I then pointed to the one that she just told me was the cheaper jacket."
"Your new total is $16.95."
"But, you just told me the jacket with the tab was the more expensive one. That's why I told you to put that one back."
"This one is the more expensive one. That's why it ran up as costing more." (And she said it as if I was too stupid to understand this basic leap of faith.)
"But, you just told me that wasn't the more expensive one."
"The scanner doesn't lie."
So, by now, I was no longer arguing about $5. At this point, I was angry about misplaced tags, misleading signs, false advertising, UPC scanners, incompetent salespeople, consumerism, corporate America, overly-commercialized holidays, the injustices of the purse raffle game, and the fact that life just isn't fair.
The morning ended when I practically threw the fleece back at the check-out woman and informed her that I was having none of this and never wanted to shop at Old Navy again.
At least I can admit that I think I overreacted.Despite the fact that I can be somewhat dramatic at times, I usually save my more grandiose antics for boyfriends and my siblings. Really, I rarely pitch fits in stores or at restaurants. And, actually having a hissy fit over performance fleece taught me that I just shouldn't shop with the masses.There is more peace in the world when I stay home on Black Friday and use the Internet for absolutely necessary last-minute purchases.
Some Things I'd Like to Forget
Now, this probably doesn't need to be said, but I wasn't exactly a "cool" kid.
I went to private school. I tended to either duck or swat my hands frantically in front of me whenever any sort of ball came my way in gym class or on the playground. I spoke nonsense to myself in my room pretending to be French. And, I really liked to wear a tiara whether it was appropriate or not, as was immortalized in my kindergarten class picture.
"Cool" definitely isn't the right word.And, I also had a period when I really enjoyed conspiracy theories, not realizing that most of these ideas were espoused by the "crazies" of the world. (In fairness to me, my nannies always liked to watch a lot of daytime television, and if you live in the world of daytime television -- Phil Donahue, "All My Children," etc. -- you are much more likely to believe the impossible is probable. Twins with two different fathers? No problem. Men who dress as women and work for phone sex hotlines? Of course. Sisters who are also cousins who are also aunt and niece who also happen to be neighbors? Tell me more.)
After a particularly impressive interview on the local news morning show (that's right, local, I wasn't even smart enough to get most of my ideas from the Today show), I became convinced that Elvis was indeed still alive. I mean, supposedly the sideburns fell off of his corpse before the funeral. If that doesn't say wax dummy substituted for a body while Elvis runs off to live a peaceful life of anonymity, I don't know what does.
I also spent periods thinking that Marilyn Monroe had been murdered, George Reeves (the original Superman) didn't commit suicide, and UFOs were very real and hidden in large warehouses by the government. And, I shouldn't even get started on my JFK assassination theories.
Well, today I was watching Unsolved Mysteries on Lifetime (of course), when one of the segments brought up a conspiracy theory I had forgotten about. It seems that two scientists claimed that a photo taken by an orbiting satellite of Mars clearly showed a human face, and this was a sure sign that the government was hiding proof of human life on the far away planet.
Yep, you heard that right. A picture of the surface of Mars supposedly showed an isolated human face embedded in the planet.
Just the face. Not a body. Not a person. Just a face lying on the surface of the planet.Even if we ignore the fact that the "face" didn't even look like a face, but more like the bunch of rocks I'm sure it actually was, why in the world would there be just a face lying on the surface of Mars? Why?!?! When is the last time you saw a human face lying anywhere? (If you work in a morgue, you cannot answer.) Could any rational human being accept this preposterous supposition?
Unfortunately, that's when I remembered that a young me had swallowed that idea hook, line, and sinker. I probably even went to school and told my friends how there were living creatures on Mars because of the 10 minutes I spent watching Unsolved Mysteries the night before.All of the laughing at the lunchroom table makes a lot more sense now.
Mine!
I have a pace for walking down the aisle that is near perfect, and I can remember the names of family members and their relation to the bride and groom with about 85% accuracy. With all of the experience I've been getting lately, I really am that good.
Anyway, this particular wedding was for my friend Sarah who I have known since kindergarten. And, since I do have a blog, I thought I should take this opportunity to address a rumor/possibly embellished story that has been bantered about since Saturday's big event: I might have gotten a bit too "enthusiastic" during the bouquet toss, but I would like the chance to explain further.
First of all, I was the tallest bridesmaid in the wedding. This was quite a shock to me. Other than my summer as a Mother's Day Out teacher for two-year-olds, I have never been the tallest person in the room. In fact, I'm normally the shortest person around. During class pictures in elementary school, I was usually off to the side in a little chair because I was the shortest person in the entire grade. And, today, even though I'm pretty average in height, I'm still on the short side.
I tell people that I'm 5'6", but the truth is that I'm barely 5'4". Fortunately, due to a carefully plotted history of lying and never being seen without heels on, most people, including my own family, have no idea how short I really am.
But getting back on task, the point is that I was the tallest bridesmaid, and since nothing like this has ever happened to me, I think I let it go to my head. Plus, it only got worse when I got my hair done, and the hairstylist added another inch and a half to my height with the volume on the crown of my head. I loved it, but there would have been nothing out of place about me performing the best loved hits of "Diana Ross and the Supremes" at the reception.
Well, unfortunately, during the bouquet toss, I was placed next to the shortest person at the wedding. Which means that I may or my not have used my height advantage to grab the bouquet out of her reach. And, there may or may not have been an incredibly awkward moment afterwards in which we both had our hands on the bouquet and wouldn't let go. And, there may or may not be photographic evidence of said event. (I will say this in my defense - eventually I conceded the bouquet.)
There are several factors, other than the height, that might have contributed to my mild wedding faux-pas.
1. I know how awkward it looks in pictures when no one goes for the bouquet, and it just hits the ground. I couldn't let this happen to one of my best friends. After all, humiliation lasts for a few moments, but wedding albums are forever.
2. Weddings make me feel a bit single. A bouquet might have given my hope. Sometimes we all need a little encouragement from the cosmos.
3. Open bar.
4. I had been wearing my super spanx/girdle since 2:30 that afternoon. I was spandexed from just above the knee to right below the boobs. This probably prevented a lot of blood flow to my brain. It's hard to think straight when half of your body is lycra-ed.
And, while all or some of these factors might play a role, I think the biggest truth lies in the fact that I just have quite a competitive edge. I was never good at sports as a child, but when board games or opportunities to excel are on the table, something happens.
At that moment, it wasn't about the bouquet, it was about beating other people. Just like I think you should have to provide the full, given name in Trivial Pursuit, I think you should accept the fact that if someone can grab the flowers out from above your head, you've lost.
What can I say? I come to play, and I play to win.