From time to time, I’m gonna have something to say that is completely unrelated to anything. I’m random like that occasionally. This post has nothing to do with diets. Or weddings. Or being an Army spouse. This is just funny.
One of my best friends in the whole world (that I have had for (yikes!) almost 20 years now) and I swear that our lives could be an episode of Seinfeld (a really really long obscure one.) There are things that happen to us that I totally believe are either ONLY revealed to he and I (good things happen to good people?) or that we are merely the only people observant enough to appreciate their brand of absurd. Our favorite saying has always been “you just can’t make this stuff up.”
In this spirit, I offer you three vignettes from the last 72 hours as illustrative points.
* * * * * *
So as indicated in my last post, I did a little stint recently in the Emergency Room. I’m fine talking about it now(at the time, it was very scary and painful, but seeing as all the docs say I’m totally fine, I don’t mind letting you in on the drama at this point.) What I thought to be appendicitis at the time I stumbled into the emergency room, turned out to be a very large burst ovarian cyst. Relax friends. I’m completely fine. This is totally normal, and nothing to worry about (so said the doctors and many dollars worth of tests…and don’t think I haven’t WebMD’ed it to death as well and consulted with my nurse best friend. I’m good. Promise.) It’s just really painful when it happens (like…a kidney stone…or a kangaroo boxing with your baby-maker.)
At any rate, after many tests and some good morphine shots, they determined that I was completely healthy and could go home. Now, because I drove myself to the hospital (yeah yeah yeah…I know. Berate me later for that. The line forms behind J.) and because of aforementioned narcotics, driving myself home whilst on a controlled substance would have equaled a big fat felony for me, and an equally big fat lawsuit for the hospital. So they called me a cab before releasing me.
Now you would think that a cab company that’s contracted with a hospital would be a reputable organization. Nay.
First off, the guy pulls up in a white stranger-danger van. You know, big, unmarked, few windows, all tinted. Yeah, the ones we’re told not to get into as children. (I was waiting for him to offer me candy.) The conversation went a little something like this:
“So, why you gotta leave your car here? Did you get a DUI?”
“No.” (If I got a DUI, why would my car be there?)
“I can call a buddy…he’ll meet us here. Follow us. Drive your car home. I’ll only charge you double the cab fare.”
“No thanks.” (At this point, I’m not totally sure I want even HIM knowing where I live, let alone him and a buddy.) He then launches into a story about how he does this for many many drunk people who can’t drive their cars home and need a lift. He makes sure to include how nice they think this is and how well they consequently tip him. I assure him this is not the case.
“So seriously, what were ya’ in for if not DUI? They only ever call me for DUI’s.” (It’s important, dear readers, you understand that he wasn’t actually pronouncing each letter like D-U-I. He felt compelled to continue calling it a “Dewey” like that we were in a fraternity together. I thought perhaps that HE deserved said “Dewey.”)
“I had a cyst burst. There was a lot of pain. They gave me morphine, and so I can’t drive.”
“Wow! Good for you!”
(Excuse me?)
“That’s like your body saying “Screw you hospital!” Way to stick it to the man!!”
(Am I still high?)
“I mean, if they’d have had to go in there and remove that thing, in a surgery or something, it would have cost you tons of money and made big bucks for those doctors! Your body just did it the natural way. It might have really hurt and been potentially dangerous and all, but YOU said to hell with the system. Right on!”
Right on, indeed.
* * * * * *
After having been couch-ridden for the better part of the weekend, I realized that the laundry I had put off for quite awhile now had finally hit a somewhat critical point (i.e. no workout clothes left, dress slacks for work definitely all worn more than once, nothing to pack for my business trip this upcoming weekend…and yeah, down to the questionable unders.) And so I suited up yesterday and gathered my 5 (yes 5) loads of laundry for my local Laundromat. (Hear me now, believe me later: my next place of residence, I WILL have laundry IN my house.)
Now, I could just stop the story here, because anyone who does laundry at the Laundromat on a regular basis pretty much knows how this story ends. But in I walk, and there is a flurry of activity.Actaully, it was a flurry of one. One crazy looking lady, all kinds of frazzled. There were three other people there, arms crossed, brows furrowed, eyes rolling. This is not the scene you want when you walk into the Laundry.
“It’s no use,” one of the other patrons sighs disgustedly. “She’s using all of them.”
All of them? All 24 washers? Are you kidding me?
“I had a basement flood. I had to rush to save everything. I couldn’t let it ruin my summer patio furniture covers! There’s no sign that says I can’t do this!” she screamed defensively as she rushed to add softener to her loads.
Ok, first off. It’s patio furniture. It’s outside. It’s gonna get wet. Unless the basement flood was of sewage, or paint, or, I don’t know…Kool Aid possibly, I feel like the patio furniture covers are gonna make it. Second. Does there REALLY need to be a sign up somewhere that says “while other people are around, please refrain from using all 24 washers simultaneously for yourself?” I’m gonna go ahead and think that somewhere between manners and common sense, one would consider that an unwritten rule.
And not to be stereotypical, but she was EXACTLY the person you’re imagining in your head right now- the one you *really* don't want to be trapped with in a laundry: Downward slope of middle age, loud, a little stinky, and needing to leave every two minutes for a smoke ( I *really* wanted her name to be Mabel.) Two kids with her. Screaming. Totally running wild. And she just kept yelling at them (because obviously this is the best way to get them to respond.) Between yells, she was praising her 8 year old for helping fold (her name was Michelle. I know this, because she yelled her name about 600 times) and was screaming more at her 4ish year old boy for not helping (his name was Jonathan. And he was FOUR. You're supposed to crawl around on the floor playing under tables when you're four and bored. Right? What did she expect him to do? Help fold the sheets? Ridiculous.) And if I heard the phrase "wait until I tell your father how you've been acting!" once, I heard it a hundred times. It was a circus.
But what really became a circus is what I will heretofore refer to as the “2010 Running of the Dryers.”
When one of her loads came out of the 50 pound drum washer, I combined and threw in a couple of my loads just to get things started (nothing really got clean, by the way.) By the time this was done washing I knew I had to find a dryer before she could get all of her clothes into all of the dryers (there are fewer dryers in this laundry than washers. I’ll let someone else talk about why that math is wrong.) I walked around the Laundromat. I sized up her loads. Mine was going to beat her next load done…but only by about a minute. I had to act fast.
If ever is there is an Olympic sport created for laundry transfer, which includes moving carts, sliding over sorting tables, and leaping small children on the floor, whilst separating your delicates, you want me on your team. I’m gonna leave it at that. Let's just say this. That smug look upon my face? Yeah, I totally earned it.
* * * * * *
Ring ring ring ring. It’s J. I’m shopping at Walmart (don’t judge me.) It is well beyond the time of day he normally calls and, I realize it is the middle of the night where he is. Slightly flustered, not expecting a call at this hour, I dash into the closest, uninhabited aisle I can find so as to not be *that* guy (the annoying one that talks on his cell phone, loudly, in public, at the Walmart. You know who I’m talking about.)
“Hi baybay. Whatcha doing? Isn’t it the middle of the night there?”
“Yeah, I’m working hard. Doing stuff with the thing on the project.” (I’m not being vague, this is how J talks to me while on the international satellite telephone being monitored by half the world.) “What are you doing?”
“I’m in The Mart of Walls.” I pause to look around. “And remarkably, right now, I’m staring at a product called butt paste.”
Silence. Inhale of deep breath. Pregnant pause. And then more silence.
“Think the satellites listening to us right now can pick up on tasteless joke restraint?”
More silence.
“I love you.”
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