Sunday, July 25, 2010

Week Twenty-Nine

Event:  Did grocery shopping while riding in a motorized handicap cart

While in the car driving home Friday night after hanging out with friends, I was suddenly hit with a craving for ice cream.  It was after 11pm and no ice cream stores were open, so I tried to convince myself an apple would be just as satisfying.  Unfortunately, my stomach won the battle and before I knew it I was pulling into my neighborhood grocery store, which just so happens to be open 24 hours.  Lucky me.

As I walked in, almost skipping with excitement that a banana split was in my very near future, I noticed how empty a grocery store was at 11:15 at night.  There were a handful of checkers hanging out and they all greeted me as I skipped by.  Making my way down the first aisle, I realized I would need a cart or basket because after all, I was buying ice cream and all the fixin's.  Making my way back towards the front of the store, I was scanning the checkout lanes for baskets and that's when I saw it.  A free-standing, unattended motorized handicap cart.  From this point forward, it needs to be noted that an alien jumped into my body, hijacked the real me and took over for the next 30 minutes.  I cannot be held responsible for my actions.

Upon seeing the motorized cart, I suddenly decided that I had a terribly twisted ankle so I began to limp.  No one was watching (hardly anyone was in the store) but I was convinced there was a hidden camera in the ceiling so I had to get my act together and quick.  My limp became a full on I-can't-put-any-weight-on-my-left-ankle (or is it my right ankle?) so I was literally hopping on one foot as I approached the cart.  I was committed at this point, so I pushed the power button...and...nothing happened.  Shit!  What in the hell am I doing?  My palms started to sweat and at that moment, the nicest little checker guy walked over.  I panicked and quickly said, "How late are you open?"  He replied, "Until Thanksgiving."  That cracked us both up, and the alien in me regained consciousness and said, "I did something to my ankle and just can't make it around the store without some help.  Can I use this cart?"  As the LIES were flying out of my mouth, I couldn't believe what was happening.  Who am I?  What am I saying?  But now I'm knee deep into the lie of the century, so I kept going.  The sweet checker said, "This cart dies all the time.  Let's go get one of these."  About 30 feet away he pointed to a row of handicap carts.  Keeping up with my extravagant lie, I pulled out the fakest limp anyone has ever seen and made my way over to the cart.  As he unplugged my new ride, he said to me, "So what happened?"  And without pause, I launched into a story about how I was walking out my front door this morning on my way to work (which I never do) and I miscalculated the depth of the step and just slid right off, twisting my ankle.  I then went so far as to SHOW HIM my ankle, as if either of us were going to see anything resembling a bruise!  Sweetly, he told me I shouldn't worry - it probably wasn't broken because I wouldn't be able to put any weight on it if it were.  Oh geez.  I'm lying to the All-American Boy Scout of checkers.  This is a train wreck.

I hopped onto my motorized handicap cart and made my way down the first aisle.  Mortified, humiliated and cracking up the entire way, my first stop was the milk aisle.  I pulled up right in front of the display, but had to get out of the cart to reach the milk.  The fake limp was in its finest form and now I'm doing it in front of other shoppers.  I started to feel bad about what I was doing and thought surely people were onto me, so I exaggerated the limp because I wanted to make damn sure people knew I was in serious need of medical attention.  That's when I got back into the cart and discovered it would no longer go in a forward direction.  The only direction I could go was backwards.  Karma.

I backed out of the milk aisle, missing another shopper within an inch of her life, and giving it one more shot, I gently pushed on the forward button and thankfully the cart corrected itself and we were back in business.  I then made my way through the majority of the store loading up the cart with ice cream, cotton balls and a dozen other things that WEREN'T on the list.  I even went down the First Aid aisle (conveniently in front of my new checker friend) to look at ace bandages for my ankle.  Whew.  That really sold it. 

When it came time to check out, I panicked at the thought of maneuvering through the checkout aisle, so I returned the cart to its home, gathered my groceries in my arms and hopped back to the check out aisle.  I cannot believe I did all of this with a straight face. 

As I checked out, my new friend asked if I needed help to my car.  I told him I thought I could handle it, so I took the bags, said goodnight, and hopped out of the store all the way to the parking lot.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Week Twenty-Eight

Event:  Went to a Dermatologist AND got dumped by the Indian Doctor

This week I visited the Dermatologist - something I've never done and given my skin tone and freckle domination, it's something I've always needed to do.  What prompted my appointment was this little white bump on my lip.  It's been there for about 6 months, and I wasn't concerned until my aunt told me about this little white bump she had on her lip that had to be removed because it was pre-cancerous.  Rut Roh Raggy, this could get interesting.

As I sat in the dermatologist's office waiting for the doctor to come in, my heart started to race as I replayed all of the sunburns I've had.  There was no escaping it, I'm a sun worshiper and I have the freckles to prove it.  But now really wasn't the time to try and win an award.  As I sat there in my gown, in walked the whitest man I have ever seen.  He hasn't seen the sun.  EVER.  We said hello and he fired up an overhead lamp the size of a beach ball, flipped down goggles with lenses so thick he could see through my gown and as I tried to explain what I thought the little white bump was he said, "Yep, it's a pimple."  A PIMPLE?  ON MY LIP?  FOR 6 MONTHS?  Oh for the love of all things holy are you kidding me?  I've been sitting here doing Hail Mary's for a PIMPLE?  (I'm not even Catholic, but I figured it couldn't hurt).

He asked me if I'd like him to pop it but I couldn't imagine anything worse.  The great white hope leaning over my lip to pop my pimple?  Thanks but no thanks.  Back to 7th grade I go.  Get out the wash cloth, soak it in warm water, apply gently to the stubborn 6 month pimple and BAM!  Right on the mirror (sorry that's gross but we've all been there).

As I checked out of the Dermatologist's office, I was handed two brochures featuring head to toe clothing Casper suggested I wear to keep the sun off of my arms and legs.  That of course was in addition to the strict guideline that I should be applying SPF 55 (at a minimum) on a daily basis.  I will be sure to make that a part of my new year's the year 2045.

And if having a pimple on your lip at 34 years of age isn't humiliating enough, I received a break-up text message Thursday night from my Bowling/Salsa Dancing/Indian Doctor.  Apparently breaking up in person or over the phone is soooo 5 minutes ago.  The new way to be dumped is via text message.  And I quote, "I gave it a lot of thought.  Don't think it will work fur us.  I really had fun with u.  U R really cool.  :)  Friends?"  He then went on to say, "Honestly, I have never dated a girl who was older.  When you told me how old you were, my not so thought out answer was it didn't bother me, but a well thought out answer is, it probably does.  I didn't have a clear answer at the time so I gave it the benefit of the doubt...sorry."  I couldn't type fast enough to respond and tell him that I couldn't agree more and that he was an IDIOT but I held back, told him I completely agreed we were not a match and I wished him the best of luck.

He then wrote, "Maybe you can introduce me to some girls at your office...ha ha...joking...want to go dancing again?"

And to think, this guy is single?  Huh...

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Week Twenty-six AND Twenty-Seven (A double issue!)

(Week 26) Event:  Salsa Lessons and First Date with Han Solo (from speed dating)

I used to think I was a pretty good dancer.  Well, a pretty funny dancer anyway.  Regardless, I was always fairly certain I had rhythm and a few good moves.  Unfortunately, I have been spending most of my adult life in a comatose state because last Thursday night I learned I posses none of these things.

There's a bar downtown that gives free Salsa lessons every Thursday night (for a $6 cover...go figure) so two of my girlfriends and I decided we would take the plunge.  The plan was to meet for the 8:30 "beginner" lesson and take it from there.  This will be a fun girl's night out where we can pretend to be Latin, dance like idiots and make fun of ourselves later.  That was a fine plan until I got a call from the Indian Doctor (whom I met at the Speed Dating event) asking if I could get together Thursday night!  Despite my attempt to set up something right after work, he had a conflict and couldn't meet until 7:30.  I tried to explain to him I had something else going on and would need to be done by 8:30 (didn't want to reveal what I was doing) but he probed and probed until I gave in and told him.  He then said, "That's cool - I'll join you!"  Oh for the love.

Thursday night I arrived at the bar at 7:30 and was surprised to find the bar was no longer open for business.  Shoot.  Quickly trying to figure out a back-up plan, my date suggested we go around the corner to a bowling alley (which conveniently had a bar).  Perfect!  As I made my way towards the bar, I looked back and he had stopped at the front counter.  He was like, "Where are you going?  We're going to bowl!"  Clearly he hadn't noticed I was wearing a skirt, heels and a silk blouse.  But, we signed up for a lane and when the girl behind the counter asked me what shoe size I needed I was like, "Um, I'm wearing heels, you see?  That means I'm NOT wearing socks which means I'm NOT putting on stinky, fungus infected BOWLING SHOES!"  Ok, I didn't really say that to her, but I did say it in my head.  $3.75 later, I was the proud owner of a new pair of tube socks.  Neat.

Mortified, we make our way to the lane and I begin to sweat through my silk blouse thinking about everything I had to concentrate on:  1) Wearing tube socks with a skirt required me to overcompensate and flex my calf muscles extra hard so he would focus on them and NOT on the socks.  Problem is, I don't really have any calf muscles.  Shit!  2) I can't run down the lane like I usually do because I need to be a dainty lady so I must maintain a lady-like pace.  This will negatively impact my score.  Dang.  3) When I bend over and release the ball, I mustn't bend over too much because my skirt might lift up a little revealing my polka-dotted granny panties (they're the only ones that were clean!) 

For the record, I am generally a good bowler, but I got gutters left and right because I was focusing on everything BUT bowling.  After the second frame, my date turned to me and said, "You know, you look like a school girl in that outfit."  Not sure if that was a good thing or if I should turn in my ball and head home, he then said, "But don't worry, it's a turn on!"  There are no words.

Luckily, 8:30 was here before we knew it (Thank God) so we packed up and headed out - tube socks and all.  We arrived at the bar and were quickly thrown into the beginners Salsa lesson that had already begun.  There were 5 other people in class not including my girlfriends who were late.  Cha Cha.  Let's begin.

For the next hour, we cha-cha'd, merengue'd and tango'd our butts off and for a brief moment, I was dancing with the stars...but flashbacks of tube socks and a mini-skirt threw me back into reality.  My date was a good sport despite stepping on my toes more than I'd like to count.  And while Stella may not have gotten her groove back, good times (and good laughs) were had by all.

(Week 27) Event:  Played a round of golf

I mean how hard can it really be?  Swing the club.  Hit the ball.  Ride in a little cart and drink beer.  I mean, if you can drink BEER while playing this sport, can it really be that difficult? 

Um, apparently so. 

This week I went to visit my parents out of town and my dad took me to play my first round of golf.  Ever.  The problems began even before we hit the course, unfortunately.  Since I hadn't planned on playing any sports while on vacation, the only clothes I brought were flip flops, capri's and t-shirts.  When we decided this would be a fun father-daughter activity, I panicked, realizing I did not have the proper attire.  An hour before our tee-time, I made a mad dash into Wal-Mart hoping Isaac Mizrahi had something cute in the shape of shorts or a skirt and a cute top.  Oh, and tennis shoes.  Luckily, I found the perfect combination and bought an entirely new outfit for $23.00.  Gotta love it. 

Dad and I arrived at the clubhouse, checked in, hopped on a cart and were on our way.  For the record, I have hit golf balls before, just never played a round and have never had any formal training.  This was going to be good.  We stepped up to the tee and I received my first of many lessons:  Keep your eye on the ball.  Keep your head down.  Keep your left arm straight.  Swing the club as far around your body as possible.  Don't drop your shoulder.  Swing all the way through.  Sheesh!  So much to remember!  I took my first swing and somehow managed to hit my own hand.  Not sure how that happened.  But, I got the ball in the hole 6 (ish) strokes later.  Not too shabby for a par 4.  On the second hole, I took a bigger swing and managed to hit the golf cart (which was behind me).  I'm literally going backwards.  My personal best, though, was the 3rd hole.  The course was fairly straight with a slight jog to the left.  It was a par 4 but I managed to get the little white piece of sh%&t ball in the hole in 15 strokes.  Fore! 

About half way through our game, a woman resembling Octomom meandered her way across the course, lollygagging with her boxer/pit-bull dog.  Contemplating whether I should wait for her or not, I decided  if I tried not to hit her, I would probably hit her, but if I did aim for her, I'd probably hit the dog and then I'd feel really bad.  So I waited.  Finally, she was out of site and we kept going.  As we rounded the corner to the putting green, she was sitting on a bench next to her dog and she had made a bed of ice for her dog to lie in!  As we drove by in our cart, she was feeding him ice while he was lounging in it.  Clearly, someone else had hit her in the head....

We continued through the course and surprisingly I got better with each hole (I think it was my lucky Wal-Mart $10 sneakers).  I learned that a wedge club has a "W" on it (not an "M") and a sand wedge has an "S" on it and you use it in the sand traps (did that twice - first time knocked the ball out with only removing about 4 grains of sand.  Second time I whiffed and knocked out about a sandbox worth of sand). 

At the end of 9 holes, my score was 60.  We were losing daylight and I was just losing.  Period.  To think pro golfers sometimes score in the 60's playing 18 holes!  Despite my horrific score, I did learn a thing or two.  These may not be the technical terms, but it's how I interpreted them.

I learned:
-Birdie - An animal.  Also a score you want because it's less than what you're supposed to get (I won't ever need to remember this one).
-Bogey - This is when you score 1 over what you're supposed to get (I had this plus about 5 on most holes)
-Caddie - similar to a pool boy, beer bitch, maid...but for clubs
-Slice - a ball that curves from left to right.  Yeah, I meant to do that when I hit the golf cart.  I was SLICING it.
Handicap - something I clearly have.
-Mulligan - When a golfer is not satisfied with their first shot, they take out a new ball and start again.  I had 74 Mulligans.

I'm no Phil Nicklaus or Jack Mickelson but darnit there's just something about this game when all it takes is one great shot that makes you jump up and down (oops, not supposed to cheer) to make you want to sign up and do it again.  I'm hooked FORE!ever!