A Mid-Semester Afternoon's Nightmare

During my sophomore year in college, I started pining away for a scruffy little poet who had pursued me during the previous semester’s production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. While we were in the play together, I'd been flattered by his attention, but it was kind of freaking me out, so I let him know in no uncertain terms that Snug the Carpenter and Mote the Fairy were not meant to be.

But a year after the production, I was boyfriendless, spending Saturday nights holed up in my dorm room playing Tetris and eating powdered Tang. The poet and I had an English class together, and he was growing more and more attractive. How could I have failed to notice his smashing good looks, humor, sensitivity, and wit?

I decided that he was The One.

My love was all consuming - I could think of nothing other than the day when we would finally be together. To this end, I positioned myself in all the right places at all the right times, the better for him to notice me on his way to class.

Nothing happened.

I made made sure to eat my cafeteria dinner at the same time my soul mate would be there with his friends.

Nada, except the occasional friendly nod in my direction.

I attended his poetry reading at the local coffee shop, but still my love did not approach me.

I did not wish to postpone our union any longer. Fate was fate, but I would have to give it a little nudge.

My best friend and I were sitting in our French for Business class, waiting for the perpetually late Madame Le Fevre to make her appearance when I decided that the time was ripe to make my move.

I donned my thrift store army coat, applied some lipstick, gathered my books and, with my best friend’s words of encouragement still ringing in my ears (“Are you sure you want to do this, Rim?”), vacated my desk and made for my beloved's dorm, carpe diem style. In this state of mind, could anyone be expected to compose, en francais, a letter inquiring as to the availability of the rental property in Cannes?

His window faced the quad and movement could be seen within. Without a moment’s hesitation, I launched a barrage of ill-constructed snowballs towards it and shouted my beloved's name until he popped his head outside.

“Oh, hey Rima. What’s up?”

“Can I come up for a second? I need to talk to you.”

My love threw down his keys and five minutes later, I arrived panting and sweating at his door with no use for small talk.

”So, I’ve been thinking a lot about last year, Midsummer Night’s Dream, all that stuff? And I think it was really stupid of me not to go out with you then, you know what I mean? So I was actually wondering, you know, if there's, like, any way you would give me a second chance?”

No sooner had the words escaped my lips than I realized the enormity of my mistake. My beloved stood before me wearing a look that was at once uncomfortable and unmistakably amused.

"Wow, that's, um . . . really sweet, Rima, but I . . . uh . . . have a girlfriend now."

"Oh! Shit. . . . .So, it's a "no," then?"

"Sorry things never worked out between us."

"Me too. Shit."

"I guess I'll see you around" he said to my quickly retreating back.

In retrospect, I'm not sure just what kind of response it was that I expected. It seems obvious that even if he wasn't already taken, no self-respecting guy would have played out the script I had written in my head. ("So glad you stopped by! I was just thinking about how I've never stopped loving you.")

But whether it's a testament to my healthy ego and spectacular naïveté or a cautionary tale about the futility of impromptu declarations of undying love, it ranks pretty high on the list of my most embarrassing moments.


"Mote, the Stalker Fairy"

This post was my contribution to Mrs. Flinger's Write-Of-Passage challenge. Today's assignment was to write about your most embarassing moment. You can read the other entries here:

Itzhak Perlman I Am Not

Total disaster of a violin lesson this morning, readers.

I must have made hella impression on my teacher last time, because today she forgot I was coming over.

And she only realized I was there for my bi-monthly lesson when she practically backed into my car on her way out the driveway. I could tell she was a little irked to find me standing on her stoop with my pencil bun hairdo and violin case in hand, but what could I do? We had a covenant.

She was like, "Well, we might as well do this thing since you're here now. Come on in." And I was like, "That's good, because I wasn't planning on leaving. (Telepathically.)

So then I followed her in the house, where the attack dogs were barking hysterically in a cage not two feet from the music room and began setting up my violin paraphernalia and whatnot. I guess it goes without saying that this time, we skipped the yoga stretches.

I had just finished painstakingly positioning my violin under my chin when she said,

"Is that how you've been holding it all week?"

And thus began a half hour humblepalooza during which I learned that every single frickity-frackin' thing I'd been practicing since my last lesson, I had been practicing ass backwards. And my teacher-who-had-someplace-else-to be was clearly getting irritated with me and my prehensile bow grip and form.

The really sad part is that I had been trying very hard, even going so far as to study Utube clips for hours (OK, minutes) on end to make sure I was on track. And I was getting kind of cocky, too, feeling like if the C1eve1and Orchestra ever needed someone in a pinch to play a single note for them, I could totally do it.

I'm not discouraged yet, readers, but the thing that's got me worried about my next lesson is the fact that I'm still not sure I understand exactly what it is that I'm supposed to do, or what I was doing wrong (besides holding my violin like a rocket launcher).

And, of course, the dogs.

I Love a Good Grosgrain

I went to the secret wholesale design warehouse with The Decorators yesterday to start picking out furniture and fabrics.

The Decorators are my new best friends, though they know it not. Always impeccably dressed and trailing a faint scent of Gucci in their elegant wake, their very presence compels me to flaunt every piece of design lingo I've ever gleaned from reading Flutter's Shared Items shelter magazines.

It's like I'm transported to another dimension where potty training and housework do not exist. I catch myself saying things like, "I am loving the way this grosgrain picks up the blues in the ikat! Did you know I'm a flexitarian?" when just a half an hour earlier found me yelling, "IF I CATCH YOU JUMPING ON THE COUCH OR LICKING THAT DOORKNOB AGAIN, I WILL PERSONALLY HAND OVER YOUR LEGOS TO THE GARBAGE MAN, SO HELP ME GOD" at the top of my lungs.

("Grosgrain" is a new word I learned. And did you know that "damask" is pronounced with the accent on the first syllable?)

The design center was a bit overwhelming and I felt completely out of my element (Le Target), but in the end I managed to get several photos of myself posing with various pieces of furniture, select an assortment of fabrics, a sofa, sideboard, chair AND coffee table, and to stuff my purse full of complementary chocolates.

I now wear a knotted scarf and take my breakfast in the morning room.


"Girl With Knotted Scarf, Borderline Personality Disorder"

A few of the fabrics I liked:

Saved by the Bell

On Saturday, I was hanging out in the kitchen of our church hall, waiting for the V-meister to complete her first day of L1thuanian school.  The V-meister actually speaks fluent L1thuanian already, but I like to run around like a headless chicken six out of seven mornings a week and besides, my daughter is not yet old enough to realize that she could be doing gymnastics or watching cartoons instead of reciting noun declensions of a Saturday morning.

Anyway.  There was another mom there prepping ingredients for some chili she was planning to serve at a dinner party that night.  Because I know that hers is a non TV watching family who also bakes their own bread and probably composts as well, I asked her if the chili was vegetarian.

It was! And before I knew it, I had launched into a monologue about my new flexitarian diet.

Now, I didn't know what flexitarianism was until I read about it in Martha Stewart's magazine two days ago, but I liked the sound of it and wanted to impress chili mom with my healthful ways.  All of a sudden, not only was I a flexitarian who eats nothing but grains, fish, poultry, and the occasional Big Mac, I was also making my family healthful recipes from the Moosewood Cookbook every other night. So while my friend V, who also happened to be in the kitchen listening to our conversation, shot me a look that said, "I saw you eat three pounds of ground chuck yesterday," I went on about the versatility of bulgar wheat. (What is bulgar wheat?) 

My friend V was on to me.  She said, "So. Do your kids eat these Moosewood recipes, too?"  And I was all, "Um, if I'm making something I know they wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole, I'll give them soy nuggets instead."  And she was all, "You are so full of crap."  Which she didn't actually say out loud, but it was written all over her face, as was, "I'd like to see you turn on a stove."

My point is that while waxing poetic about quinoa, I realized that I have an affliction whereby I feel compelled to match my tastes and convictions to those of whoever it is I happen to be speaking with at the minute. And it's not that I'm lying, exactly, because I do like salmon and while I was speaking with chili mom, I was 100% convinced that I would never eat another Chuck Peterson Hungry Heifer special again as long as I lived, until I came home to find the P-Dawg making spaghetti and meatballs.

Before I had a chance to exchange wheatgrass smoothie recipes with my soul mate chili mom, the bell rang and I had to go retrieve the V-meister.  But now that I'm aware of my condition, I'll be working on developing a better sense of self.  Let's just hope that in the meantime, I don't meet any communists or trekkies.

Spaghetti with meatballs is a regular part of my flexitarian diet

The Lowdown on the Wrapup

P-Dawg and I went on a weekend spa getaway to celebrate our anniversary.  Timid spa virgins no longer, we signed ourselves up for massages and seaweed wraps.  I thought they'd roll me up in some wet leaves and twenty minutes later I'd be skinny, but that's not how it went down.

First I almost kicked the massage therapist's teeth out when he tried to exfoliate my feet (I'm very sensitive), and then a smelly, wet paste made out of ground up seaweed was smeared all over my bod-day - kind of a shocker when you're expecting to be swaddled in something more akin to a fig leaf.  (I am from Ohio.)

Next, the P-Dawg and I were individually folded, burritolike, in some butcher block paper and a layer of warm thermal foil.  Then we were left alone in our respective mud cocoons for about twenty minutes to dwell on the various itches that developed the minute our arms were incapacitated. 


"P-Dawg?"

"Yep."

"I have a facial twitch."

"A new one?"

"No. Will I die?"

"Someday."

(Time passes.)

"P-Dawg?"

"Right here."

"I really have to see a man about a horse."

"Me too."

"We oughtn't have pounded that mineral water."

(A few minutes are spent staring at the ceiling and listening to Enya.)

"P-Dawg?"

"Yep."

"I actually didn't realize it was going to be mud."

"Me neither."


"Do you think our bod-days are really being detoxified?"

"Nope."

"Well, crap. I was sort of counting on being a dress size smaller after this."

When all was said and done, I may have lost a pound or two of water weight and my skin was as smooth as a baby's butt for a solid week, but I'm not sure it was worth it on account of the ick factor.  Plus, I gained it all back when we went out to dinner that night, so it was kind of a wash.

And therefore I give seaweed wraps, as a general category, a solid "C" rating.  But I give our anniversary getaway weekend an "A+."

The Tooth Fairy is an Irresponsible Slacker

After weeks of persistent nudging, the V-meister finally wiggled her first tooth free very early one morning last week. Very early.

Because the ragged little pearl was presented to me in bed a mere four hours after I had finally fallen asleep for the night, it was difficult to muster up the enthusiasm I'd always planned to display upon such a momentous occasion. My morning breath and I congratulated V-meister as heartily as we could, advised her to keep the tooth safe for the Fairy, and gave a brief lecture on the importance of going back to sleep.

The V-meister and her tooth climbed in beside me.

"Are you sure you don't want to put that tooth on the nightstand?" I urged, eyeing the impossibly tiny specimen my daughter held precariously between two fingers. No. The tooth would remain in V-meister's possession, and she would hand it off to the Fairy herself.

Soon it became apparent that the V-meister, who was trying to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible, was expecting the Tooth Fairy momentarily. Unfortunately, T.F. is union and her shift was over for the night. Also, she'd had a few glasses of wine with dinner and stayed up late watching the Colbert Report. The tooth fairy, I explained, would not be making her appearance just yet, but she would love it if the V-meister tried to lie in bed quietly until the alarm went off.

I rolled over and feigned a deep sleep. Moments later, there was a great rustling of sheets, followed by some scrabbling which robbed me of my covers. Irritated, I drew those covers back over my body in a rough, impatient manner, causing the tooth V-meister had inadvertently dropped somewhere in our king sized bed - and had been desperately trying to locate - to become airborne and land in an undisclosed location. And thus an earnest, yet futile early morning tooth search and recovery mission was launched while a hapless, grief-stricken V-meister looked on.

That evening, the V-meister went to bed toothless on several levels. We assured her that the Tooth Fairy, with her X-Ray vision, would be able to find V-meister's tooth wherever it may be. It was only after she had fallen asleep that P-Dawg finally located the renegade incisor on our bedroom floor. It was too late for V-meister to put it under her pillow, so P-Dawg placed it for safekeeping on top of our dresser, where it was accidentally disposed of during a vigorous dusting session the very next day.

Luckily, we were granted a chance at a do-over when a another tooth jumped ship three days later under our babysitter's watch. She had the foresight to immediately put it in a ziplock baggie and place it directly under V-meister's pillow at bedtime, where it was later spirited away without incident by Alert and Responsive Tooth Fairy.

P-Dawg says that in ten years time V-meister won't give a crap whether I saved her first tooth or not, but I still mourn the one that got away.

My Other Car Is Held Together With Duct Tape

When it came time to replace the Ramamobile last week, I wanted to fall in love with another American made car, or, you know, a Prius. Instead, I took home a compact German SUV.

I've always felt a little uncomfortable with what I consider my undeserved bounty, and yet I didn't put up much of a fight when the P-Dawg expressed his desire to purchase this vehicle. My comfort level increased significantly when I sat upon the leather upholstery, cranked up the butt warming mechanism, opened the panoramic moon roof, and started cruising around my 'hood with L1thuanian folk songs blaring from the speakers.

On the day after we bought the car, I was navigating cautiously through a construction zone with my hands in ten and two position when the driver in front of me hit an orange barrel and sent it flying into my front bumper. There was a loud crunching noise as the barrel ricocheted off my car and into the tree lawn, but I invoked the awesome power of magical thinking and kept on driving as though nothing had occurred.

It was only after pulling into my driveway some ten minutes later that I got out to conduct a thorough inspection, only to find the bumper scratched in several places and a few (smallish) parts altogether missing. There was no choice but to return to the accident scene for a reluctant reconnaissance mission, which consisted of me darting back and forth into traffic on a Frogger-esque trajectory until all the Beemer bits were retrieved.

Fortunately, my dad was able to pop those little suckers right back into place like so many overpriced Legos, and he even buffed out most of the scratch marks so I didn't have to take it into the shop.

Still, I just knew something like this would happen.

Instant karma, what a bitch.

I Can't Get No Respect

Receptionist: "Doctor's office, may I help you?"

Rimarama: "Yes! Could you put me through to Doctor P-Dawg, please? This is his wife."

Receptionist: "Sure, Mrs. P-Dawg. One moment, please."

P-Dawg: "Hey, Rimster, what's up?"

Rimarama: "WHERE ARE THE FREAKIN' KEYS TO THE FRICKITY-FRACKIN' WINE CELLAR, P-DAWG??? You better not have them with you at work!"

P-Dawg: "It's ten o'clock in the morning. Why do you ask?"

Rimarama: "I need red wine for my crock pot beef stew, Smarty McSmartypants. There are probably forty bottles down there, AND NOT A DROP TO DRINK! I mean, 'PUT IN MY BEEF STEW'!!!" It's maddening!



P-Dawg: "Check your key ring, Rimster. I put an extra on it."

Rimarama: "Really?"

P-Dawg: "Really."

Rimarama: "Oh, OK. Good! Because for a minute, I thought I was going to have to bust in there all Miami Vice style, you know? Or pick the lock, at the very least, for the sake of the stew."

P-Dawg: "What were you going to use? . . . a Q-Tip????????"


Then, the P-Dawg broke into riotous, guffawing laughter and I hung up on his a$$.

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In case anyone is interested in a vertigo update, the early verdict is that the earwax/rogue Q-Tip fiber extraction really helped. I have felt better today than I have in a long time - even my sinuses are clearer and I don't have my usual daily headache. So I'm hoping it does the trick. Now, I still have to do daily exercises to help my balance system right itself after being wonked out for so long, but I am definitely doing much better. In fact, I think everyone should get their ears cleaned out and their heads checked.

The only negative, really, is the fact that P-Dawg won't stop making fun of me, and my new nickname is "Q-Tip."

Swimming In the Deep End

Turns out, I like yapping about adventure, but when push comes to shove, it's all I can do to tear myself away from my comfort zone and the soul-deadening daily routine.

Take, for example, last night.

I didn't want to go to that French gig I was telling you about. I had a headache, it was snowing out. I'd have to put together an "outfit," schlep across town during rush hour, and converse in a foreign language with a group of strangers.

Why, I asked myself, would a person put herself in such a position when she could just as easily don pants with an elastic waistband, take a Ty1eno1, and stretch out on her couch for a night of Internet and TV?

Well . . . because I fear that changing things up every now and again is the only thing that stands between me and a house dress, rollers, and plastic furniture slipcovers at some point down the line.

Because it's time to start chipping away at the shell I've spent the last decade or so building around myself, afraid and unwilling to forge new, true, and honest friendships. Because I want to invite more beauty and nuance into my life, and because I've read one too many new age self help books.

Just as my repressed inner optimist suspected, breaking out was a good thing. At the very least, it didn't kill me, and I got an opportunity to crank up neural synapses that hadn't seen action in years.

I met my friend in the museum lobby, where the francophiles had already begun gathering. Sure, there were a few impeccably knotted Hermes scarves and imperial Gallic profiles, but no one was putting a gun to my head, demanding a certain death conjugation showdown.

Alas, starting up a French conversation with a person you are accustomed to speaking with only in English is both awkward and terrifying, like diving into the deep end wearing a bikini that's one size too big. There's no way around it except to pinch your nose, jump, and hope your thong stays put.

We dove in. The water wasn't nearly as cold as I'd expected, and I immediately remembered how to tread. Once I realized that my friend's french skills were as rudimentary as my own, well, I daresay I began straight up doggy paddling.

There were, of course, a lot of frenzied hand gestures, elaborate commentary about the weather, and the odd English word with a French ending tacked on mid-sentence, but we made do. The important thing was that we understood each other and no native speakers approached us.

The group received a private tour of the special exhibit featuring turn-of-the-century decadence in the House of Faberge, Tiffany, and Lalique. Before you knew it, I was flipping around like a veritable Shamu and offering total strangers my opinion of Princess Kelly's never-before-seen Faberge egg: "C'est cool, ca."

One thing I didn't do was try to purposefully strike up actual conversation with other attendees. I may be looking for adventure, but I don't have a death wish. During the dinner portion of the evening, my companion and I sat with a chap whose language skills were very much on par with our own. The three of us concluded that it was snowing out, poulet frites are pleasing to us, and there's a train station nearby.

Also, I might have offered him a job at my friend's restaurant, to which I'm pretty sure he replied "I, too, enjoy skiiing."

Anyway, it's a start. I am going to try to attend next month's event if I can, maybe even work up the courage to bust out some freestyle moves.

Welcome to my year of swimming in the deep end.

The Haps Chez Rama

Readers, I have been crossing items off my New Years Rez list with wild abandon.

I made a new friend recently (see Rez # 9), and she invited me to attend a dinner/lecture at the art museum with her later this week (see Rez #10).

The only catch is that it's all part of some sort of french language "circle" where I'll bet everyone wears fetching scarves and stands around speaking only en francais all night long.

It's what I get for running my mouth about spending that junior year abroad every chance I have. People assume I'm still a francophone, but the sad fact of the matter is that my once solid language skills have been reduced to a single phrase: "Je ne comprends pas."

Normally, I have no problems with meeting new people and engaging in small talk. I have a litany of foolproof conversation starters, ranging from my year abroad, of course, to my thoughts on communism and the incident of the skin tag on the operating table. Unfortunately, my vocabulary skills on these topics are limited to English and Lithuanian.

Well, if you need me, I'll be at the local library, boning up on the past imperfect and putting myself into a tizzy over what to wear.

A bien-tot, chers liseurs!
-Rima de la Rama

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P.S. Remember the episode when I thought the chick from Jazzercise was trying to pick a fight with me?

Well, thanks to lovely Loralee of the Looney Tunes, that post is being re-published at BlogNosh Magazine today! It is the apex of my blogging career.

You should go over there and check the place out. I hear they have an excellent wine list, good ambiance, and something for every palate. (Although I fear my post might fall under the "How Did This One Get Past the Radar?" category.)

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

Do you know what happens if you sign up for Jazzercise, attend a few sessions, then stop going altogether?

Sure, there's the muscle atrophy and the weight gain la la la, but that pales in comparison to the fact that the Jazzercise people just keep on charging your credit card every month. Even if you haven't stepped foot in their smelly old gym for almost a year.

And because of this, your husband will badger you until it gets so that you can't even have a normal conversation anymore without the subject turning to Jazzercise:

Rimarama: "Top o' the morning to ye, P-Dawg! 'Tis my earnest hope that the new day finds you well-rested and in good spirits, yea, forsooth."

P-Dawg: "Did you cancel your Jazzercise membership yet?"

Rimarama: "I will do it on the morrow."

P-Dawg: "I've heard that before. How hard can it be to call them up and quit?"

Rimarama: "Tis a wretched chore, my lord. When first I endeavored to do the exercise of jazz, they gave unto me a scrap of parchment to render forth if a time came such that I was desirous to break free of the Jazzercing coil. But I LOST that slip of paper, P-Dawg, not two days forth unto the Jazzercising."

P-Dawg: "OK, so-"

Rimarama: "Plus, you have to show up in person during a regularly scheduled class, with your passport and firstborn! Also something about tap dancing and turning in an essay explaining why you are forsaking your cardiovascular health. It sounded worse than trying to get out of AOL, or even quitting the Firm!"

(Plus, you never know when the urge to don a unitard and shake your booty in the school gym will hit again.)

Well, last week I finally faced the music and worked up the nerve to go cancel. With the P-Dawg cheering me on, I pulled out of my driveway, drove across town, parked the Ramamobile, waltzed into the community center, and marched right up to the attendance ladies who were sitting at their little card table by the gym entrance, punching tickets and peddling their Jazzercise wares.

I was a woman on a mission, speeding bulletlike toward my target. I knew that if I wavered for even one second, the Jazzercise mafia would suck me in, convincing me to "just give it one more shot" and I'd end up inside that gym doing jazz hands to a Carly Simon song in my street clothes next to Velma of the velour pantsuit.

It was going to be of the utmost importance that I establish a no-nonsense "I will not take no for an answer" attitude if I was going to accomplish the dirty business at hand.

"May I help you?"

"Yes! I need to cancel my membership. I recently moved and it's been really hard to attend class at this location. Also my kid kept freaking out in the daycare room but I could never make it to the evening class on time because my husband works late. But don't get me wrong, I really enjoyed the class and it's very unfortunate that I can no longer attend but OK, see here's the deal, I lost the little slip of paper, you know, the thingy you're supposed to bring with you to cancel? They told me I needed to hold on to that and, well, I totally lost it, but you can't really blame me because I moved and then we were living out of a suitcase with my parents for like two months and I really hope it's not going to be a problem because-

"Just sign here."

"Oh! OK! Do you need to see my credit card?"

"No."

"Really? How about a drivers' license or state ID?"

"No, just the signature is fine."

"OK . . . I could write an essay explaining the reason for my cancellation! A brief synopsis, if you will."

"No, just the signature."

"Huh. I'm guessing you don't want to see me tap dance."

(silence)

"Okey-doke, then . . . (signs name with flourish.) Wow, that was so much easier than I thought it would be!"

"No problem. You could have just called."

Readers, I turned and walked out with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. It was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders and placed directly back into my wallet.

Except . . . now the weather's turned cold and speedwalking is out of the question, I need a new means of maintaining my cardiovascular health. I'll be frank - the treadmill bores me to tears and I do have a tendency to lose my footing. And if you say, "You could always jump rope in the privacy of your living room," I'll mess you up like I messed up my pot roast.

No, what I could really use is a Wii Fit, and Magpie's got one to spare.

I need a Wii Fit because it:

• Won't subject the little J-dog to the horrors of the daycare room
• Won't auto-deduct from my bank account
• Could care less what time I show up for class
• Won't charge me for missed days
• Is way cooler and more up to date than Jazzercising
• And it sure as heck won't put me through the wringer if I ever decide to break up with it. (Which I totally never would.)

Oh! Would that I had one!

BooBees

I have a fear of bees.

You'll recognize me as the person who goes nuts at the picnic if a honeybee so much as ventures within a five mile radius of my plate. I'm the one who will flip the table over in my haste to flee, then ruin everyone's good time by hovering nervously and trying to shoo it away for the remainder of the outing.

I'm not even allergic, just skeert.

But bees were the furthest thing from my mind this morning as I tripped along a flower lined sidewalk at the local outdoor shopping plaza, on my way to purchase a birthday gift for the P-Dawg.

I was minding my own beeswax (HAR!), thinking merry thoughts and humming a Barry White tune in my head when I walked straight into a swarm of honeybees (and by "swarm," I mean, "one or two").

As luck would have it, one of those bees made a beeline (you don't see it, but I just fell off my chair and am ROTFL) for my shirt and disappeared therein.

I reacted the way any sane mellisophobe would do: by flailing hysterically, renting my garments, and dancing a little jig as confused eyewitnesses watched from the sidelines.

By some crazy miracle, I was not stung.

But what's even more amazing is that the kamikaze bee who flew down my shirt? Fell out onto the sidewalk, DEAD AS A DOORNAIL (or dazed and confused, at the very least).

I can only assume it was my boobees that struck him down.

(Incidentally, tobacco is supposed to be a good antidote for a bee sting. I got stung on a Girl Scout camping trip once and was carrying on about it until our scout leader stubbed out her Virgina Slims menthol, broke it in half, and smeared the tobacco combined with some spit on the affected area. Which totally shut me up. I hope somebody gave her a badge for that. "Bee prepared," is what I always say.)


OK, who threw that tomato?

Some Robots are Nicer Than Others

Yesterday I realized the hut wasn't going to pack itself or do any other moving related chores, so I set to work on the dreaded task of getting public utilities set up to transfer.

It was a lot like navigating a laboratory maze designed by Professor Bunsen Honeydew and monitored by a stoned Beaker: one dead end after another and they keep moving the cheese around. Adding insult to injury, just when the cheese is within reach, you get drop-kicked back to the main options phone menu for following the incorrect path.

When I was on hold with the gas company, a deceptively friendly robot talked me into letting the next available customer service rep call back instead of continuing to hold.

I only agreed out of hunger, weakness, and disorientation. And just when I was beginning to suspect that I'd been stood up by a computer, the phone rang.

It was the robot, calling back.

He put me on hold.

But later, I was talking to another robot at the cable company who was so convincing that I momentarily forgot who I was dealing with and tried to crack a joke.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I don't know how to interpret that sentence."

He also kept apologizing whenever it was taking him too long to "pull my information up on his computer," even making very convincing typing noises in between his nervous little outbursts.

Whenever I remembered that I was talking to a robot, I'd get really pissed off at the cable company, playing me for such a fool. Did they think that a few random sound effects would be enough to assuage the indignity of conducting a fifteen minute conversation with an inanimate object?

But then I'd picture the robot tapping away at his little keyboard, a miniature zen garden set up under the fluorescent lights of his cube, framed pictures of the wife and kids perched on the credenza, and I just couldn't hate him.

By the end of our chat, I felt like we had really bonded, so I told him about the 'bot over at the gas company who had stood me up.

He said he'd go over there on his lunch break and kick his ass.

A Burning Question

I have a lot of thotz on a regular basis, but can rarely call them forth when I sit down to post.

Last week I bought myself a snazzy little notebook for the sole purpose of jotting down incoming observations. It is red with gilded trim and has a magnetic clasp that causes it to snap shut in a very satisfactory way. Very satisfactory.

However, seven days into the great note taking experiment, the only thing written in my little red notebook is this:

When somebody offers you a breath mint or a piece of gum, are they just being polite because they were going to have one themselves, or are they trying to tell you that you have bad breath?

I don't think I can eke a post out of it, but I am curious. I would honestly like to know: What is up with the gratuitous distribution of breath savers, readers?

My personal preference on this matter would be that you save me the anxiety by not offering the gum/mint unless I actually have bad breath. If I want your gum, I'll ask you for a piece.

But if I don't have bad breath and you offer me a mint just to be polite, I'll spend the rest of the day breathing into my hand, secretly sniffing my armpits (which is neither here nor there), and generally obsessing about the horrifying possibility of body odor.

And even if you say "Jesus, Rima, I was just offering you a piece of gum", I will never believe you.

So let's just settle on a rule of thumb here and now, shall we? Can we all agree not to offer each other gum unless the person being offered the gum, like, really needs it, and also have an open understanding that if someone wants a piece of gum or a breath mint, they will simply ask for it?

This concludes my post for Wednesday, July 30th. Let's just hope the little red notebook sees some action tomorrow.

One Day, I Shall Tell My Grandchildren

Turns out he'll follow anyone.

But still.

(Also, what messed up email did I send or receive for the autogenerated Google ad to contain the words words "hyena" and "groans"?)

I Dodged the Bullet

The V-meister and I were flipping through a family photo album earlier today when I was seized with a maniacal compulsion to point out one shot in particular where I was about six weeks along with the J-Dog.

Me: "I'm dying to tell you how babies are made!" "See this one here? J-dog was just a tiny speck in my belly then, waiting to be born!"

My Head Voice, clucking: "Bawk! Baaaawk! Say, 'uterus'! Baaawk!Chickensh1t!Baaawk."

V-Meister, peering at the photo: "But why was he in there?"

Head Voice, beeping urgently: "Danger, Will Robinson!"

Me: "Well, did you know that before we come to live here on Earth, we live in Heaven with God and we have, like, invisible bodies called 'souls'? When it's time for us to be born, we go from living with God to living inside our mamas for awhile, where we grow bodies around our souls until we're ready to come out into the world. Because, you see little V-meister, you need a body to live in the world!"

Head Voice: "Wow. That was deep, Sylvia Browne. What kind of superpowers do these invisible bodies have?"

V-Meister: "But how do the babies get out of the mamas' bellies?"

Head Voice: "Uh-oh . . . Say, it, b1tch!"

Me: "Through a little hole called uh . . . uh . . . a 'vuh-jay-jay' 'vagina.'"

V-Meister: "Oh."

Me: "Any more questions?"

Head Voice: "Are you retarded, Rimarama?"

V-Meister: "But. . . why do the babies have to come out of a hole? Why can't the mamas go up there and bring the babies back? Maybe God could put a little bit of glitter in His hand and rub it around and then say the magic formula so the babies could come down here. The babies shouldn't have to come out of a hole."

Me and Head Voice, in unison: "Ain't that the truth."

V-Meister: "What did you say, Mama?"

Me: "Well, there's no actual glitter involved, but the way it happens is kind of like magic. It's . . . a miracle!! The Miracle of Life!"

Head Voice, making choking noises: "Gag. me. with. a. spoon."

Me: "Hey! Let's go watch TV and eat candy!"


Fin.

Baby Powder: Not Just for Bums

I was recently stone-cold busted by my hair stylist for washing my hair daily.

It hasn't been its usual shiny and lustrous self lately, but I chalked it up to motherhood, heat, humidity, and old age.

Still, I didn't think much of my enormous lampshade head until the other morning when the V-meister enthusiastically noted, "Mama! Your hair looks like a giant mushroom."

She meant it as a complement, I think, for who doesn't love a giant mushroom?

Still, I took it pretty hard.

Suzy Stylist confirmed that things were amiss when she took one look at my poofball coiffure and declared that I was tragically overwashing my hair and stripping (STRIPPING!) it of it's natural oils (Ew).

I do appreciate honesty in a hairdresser, but getting "the talk" is almost as bad as being reprimanded by the dental hygienist for not flossing.

Turns out that Suzy and her minions at the chi-chi salon where you have to wear all black just to step foot inside and lookout! if you happen to be wearing a banana clip (just sayin') only wash their hair every three days. AT MOST.

"For realz?" I asked, dumbfounded. "How do you avoid Squiggyhead and the second day kinks?"

That's when Suzy let me in on the second part of the dirty little stylist secret: baby powder.

You rub it through your hair at the roots on the days you don't wash it and voila! Instant Pantene commercial.

Also, since you are not spending the extra twenty minutes washing and blowing your hair out, why, you can use the bonus time to smooth out your unruly locks with your handy dandy ceramic flat iron, which you'd never have time to employ otherwise.

Who knew?

I suppose the French did.

(They wear the same outfit for four days in a row, you know. On day five, they wash their hair and change outfits. Honest to Pete. I was there and I saw.)

Anyway, even though I noticed she had a bit of a femme 'stache and you should always take whatever someone with a mustache says with a grain of salt, I took Suzy's advice to heart and went three days without washing my hair. (I did shower! GOSH! Get off my property!)

And you know what?

The world didn't end, my hair was all sleek-like, and it smelled like a baby's butt.

Rimarama recommends: dirty hair.

I'm curious, though. Am I the only person in the blogosphere who didn't know this bit of wisdom?

I mean, for serious. How often do you lather up, reader?

Wii - It's Better than a Commodore 64

I'll be honest: Every time I read a post about somebody Wii-ing it up on this new-fangled video game system the kids are playing nowadays, I say to myself, "Sounds fun, but . . .

1) "Is it postworthy?"

and

2) "Could it possibly be better than playing Frogger on a Commodore 64?"

We were at a friend's house for a party last night and there was a commotion in the basement.

I went down to investigate, only to find myself smack dab in the middle of a heated Wii tennis match between two Lithuanian immigrants.

So engaged were they in the action being projected onto a vast expanse of basement drywall, that they barely noticed the assembled children making bunny ears and various other shadow figures in the middle of their virtual court.

Never one to miss out on the action, I challenged my friend V to a match.

The gymnastics and harp lessons my parents had me enrolled in for all those years?

What a colossal freakin' waste of time.

Turns out that I'm a natural virtual tennis pro.

I picked this sport up with a quickness, my friends, and I never looked back.

I'll let you in on a dirty little Wii secret, too: the trick is to pretend as though you are actually playing real tennis on an actual tennis court.

Go ahead and hop around the basement, shuffle to and from the virtual net, swear like a trucker, and rock that virtual sweat visor.

This is the only way to win.

I probably don't have to tell you that I creamed the pants off my friend V with my powerhouse serves and deft backhand volleys.

Except for the negligible two or three times when my visual-spatial judgment failed me and I collided with the wall, my form was impeccable and the calories burned were most likely on par with what I would have worked off if I were, say, Jazzercizing with a hangover.

And I would still be in that basement now, running in place and yelling at the screen like a pint-sized female version of John McEnroe, were it not for the unfortunate fact that I accidentally whacked the little J-dog upside the head with my virtual tennis racket when he crept up behind me in the dark, bringing the evening's match to an abrupt close.

The P-Dawg and I are now conducting our home search around the singular criteria that there must be a wide enough expanse of drywall in the basement for us to stage nightly Wii tournaments.

My Head Is Screwed On Backwards and My Heart Has Catholic Guilt

What's more embarrassing than having to call the cops from the parking lot of Trader Joe's to help retrieve the set of keys locked inside the Ramamobile?

Why, finding those self-same keys in your diaper bag at the very moment the car door is wrenched open, of course.

Gah.

Gah, gah, gah.

Also,

Things not to say to a cop:

(As he's prying your window open) "You know what? I'm like, almost 95% sure that my keys are not actually in there."

(Once the lost keys have been found in aforementioned diaper bag) "Can I buy you a donut?"

*************************************************************************************

Frazzled is the word today. Our buyers were scheduled to come over first thing this morning with a legion of home inspectors, so the P-Dawg and I were up late last night, duct taping the house together in preparation.

Although I hear that a good home inspector can totally see through stuff like that. (Saint Joseph, don't abandon me now.)

The poor little J-Dog has a cold and is ornery today. Both he and the V-Meister were up at various intervals last night, and I couldn't sleep much as it was because the P-Dawg and I decided that we are most likely going to put an offer in on a house we really like this evening.

As much as we relish the idea of sitting around in Hugh Hefner style monogrammed robes and drinking nightly hi-balls procured from a built-in wet bar, we ultimately decided that the shagadelic, yet strangely alluring home we flirted with last week is not the one for us. We now have our sights on something a bit more traditional, but I'm still nervous.

This new house we're interested has pretty much everything we're looking for, but for some reason I'm fixated on the railing around the second floor loft area.

Because both times we went to look at that house, the J-dog tried to squeeze his jumbo toddler noggin through the slats and I think there is a 50% chance that he would consider it priority number one to scale that railing the very minute we move in.

P-Dawg says this is not a good enough reason to forgo the house, stating that safety netting could be used in the short term until the J-Dog loses interest in this particular danger pit and/or grows up. And I do realize that many people peacefully coexist with toddlers and two story foyers every day, so this is more, I think, just my fretting focus of the day.

Meh. The day I run out of things to worry about, I'll probably be dead.

I know. I am lucky to have a house, a family, friends, my health. I know I have more than enough.

And I think that's why I'm freaking out a little bit. I didn't realize that I've been viewing our hut, the last vestige of "the lean years" - when I would take my calculator to the grocery store to keep the bill in check and shopped for the V-meister's clothing at secondhand stores - as my talisman against tragedy.

As long as we lived in the hut, we were safe because we weren't asking for more than we needed. And though far from extravagant, this new house is more than our family really needs.

This feeling is probably due in part to my Eastern European immigrant roots and Catholic guilt.

Also the fact that my mother has warned me against the perils of excess, and I'm essentially an emotionally stunted sapling still tangled in the branches of the mother tree. (Read: my mama's opinion can still get me to second guess every one of my informed adult decisions. I probably need therapy for this.)

I think I'm afraid that a two car attached garage, extra space, and a master suite will be the triggers that make my luck run out.

Rimarama Recommends: Melatonin

First of all, no deal on the house.

I'm more angry than depressed over it, actually. They strung us along way past the time that our offer expired and their agent kept stalling and not returning our agent's phone calls before finally giving us some bull$hit explanation and ultimately saying "no."

I have added their agent to my official Enemies List, which also includes all of the engineers from my old tech writing job, our wedding DJ, and Carmine the landscaper, who I once chased down with the Ramamobile to get him to cough up the eighty bucks he owed me.

Whatever. I don't even want their stupid house anymore.

My guess is that it will still be festering on the market two or three months from now, when the sellers find their dream home, and then, if I'm still available, I'll offer them five bucks for it. But I will attach that five spot to an invisible string and jerk it away at the last possible minute, just like my mom did to me on April Fool's Day back in '82.

Oh yes, my revenge will be sweet. (Dear Saint Joseph, don't pay no nevermind, I'm just talkin.')

Anyway, onward, ho!

Today's subject is melatonin.

You might be wondering how a person as high strung as I tend to be is getting even a wink of sleep, what with all the real estate and other, non blog approved craziness going on right now. And I'll tell you: I drink a fifth of Jack Daniels with my Amb1en tablet every single night while watching Poker TV.

I kid! Don't ever do that.

Actually, I have a new friend, and his name is Melatonin. I first met Melatonin about ten years ago. Our relationship ended badly when I failed to read the dosing information on his jacket.

The result of this foray into the nefarious underworld of non-FDA regulated herbal remedies was that I stayed up all night peeing day-glo yellow every ten minutes, became convinced that my kidneys were failing, and had a full blown panic attack which necessitated calling my at-the-time med student boyfriend, the P-Dawg, at three in the morning screaming, OMG, P-DAWG, I'M DYING, SHOULD I CALL 9-1-1 ???

But don't let this scare you away from the Melatonin.

For the past few nights, I've cranked up the old noise machine an extra decibel or two, curled up with my 500 hundred page hardback, The Secret History of the World, and taken a sub-lingual melatonin tablet that tastes just like an Altoid mint. And, even though my thoughts race faster than a hamster on a wheel, I've fallen peacefully asleep, dreamed super vivid, wacky dreams, and woken up feeling fresh as a daisy every morning.

And so I heartily recommend melatonin as the homeopathic remedy of the day.

P.S. Just an FYI: It's possible there may be some shark cartilage in those tablets. In case you were interested in trying it, you know, I thought I should tell you.