A humorous look at the little things in life

Club Women don’t live like this. June 24, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — ashleyolsonrosen @ 1:05 pm
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Recommended wine for today’s entry: Creme de Lys Chardonnay. This is a buttery, lightly oaked chardonnay that has substantial flavor. If you like a Murphy Goode or Kendall Jackson chardonnay, you’ll like this. It’s only around $12 — give it a try. Here’s another blogger’s more sophisticated assessment:

Long ago I was a member of a woman’s club. We had monthly luncheons where many of the ladies wore beautiful hats to complement their natural-fiber suits, and had French-manicured nails to highlight their diamond rings which were generally larger than a Smart Car. The luncheons also featured fascinating — albeit often long-winded — speakers. And a serving staff who refilled your iced tea glass after virtually every sip.

I remember one of the last meetings I went to. I was hoping the luncheon would go quickly because there was an NCAA basketball game I wanted to see. But my hopes were dashed when the line for Members With An Important Announcement consisted of everyone except me and the bustling serving staff.

After about the eighth announcement, drawing the eighth mandatory round of applause, I began to see just how poorly I fit in.

When the lady came to fill my tea glass for the tenth time, I almost offered her twenty bucks for a Miller Lite. But I didn’t. I fixed my slumping posture and focused on the chick who was perkily relaying the report from the Happy Committee or something. Finallyyyyyyyyyyyyyy the announcements ended. I was swinging my legs like a four-year-old in church by this time, because I was so incredibly hopped up on caffeine that I had an urge to get up and weave my way, willy-nilly, through the lovely dining tables, swooping the centerpieces to the ground as I did.

But then I realized that I had no time for such juvenile actions because I was seconds away from wetting my pants. I got up from my seat near the podium, determined to sneak to the potty before the speaker started, but as I stood, another polite round of applause began in the audience and I was just guessing it wasn’t for me. The speaker was from a wonderful area drug and alcohol rehab place, which left me now: feeling guilty for wishing my tea was beer; feeling guilty for caring more about the basketball game than helping this good cause; and seconds from wetting my pants in front of every upper-crust female under age 40 in the whole city.

As I recall, I made the bathroom but missed the game. And I quit the club. Because I don’t think those women have days like mine.

A recent sunny summer day:

8:45 a.m. Shower

9:15 a.m. Step solidly on a deceased mouse or mole on brick terrace. Still sleepy brain fails to send signal to foot to move until it has had time to 1) register the feeling of little claws and 2) register the presence of a liquid emanating from said mouse/mole.

9:18 a.m. Dispose of carcass in woods; on way back, discover Japanese Beetles — my nemesis — invading beloved weeping cherry.

9:20-9:40 a.m. Gleefully flick the little bastards into a Beer Pong Cup filled with soapy water. Get a little extra pleasure from nabbing the horny ones who give me a 2-for-1 homicide.

9:45 a.m. Shower again, with extra emphasis on gut-laden foot.

10:00 a.m. Clean the cat litter. Take trash to end of driveway. Get pooped on by a stupid bird with no social skills. Try to determine whether he has recently eaten red berries or is suffering from serious internal hemmoraging. Realize that examining bird poop on my shirt is too gross even for me.

10:10 a.m. Change clothes.

10:15 a.m. Daughter #1 calls, running errand for work, lost and on verge of hyperventilation. Talk her to the highway.

10:30 a.m. Get in car, open sunroof, head to Lowe’s to buy colorful flowers to perk up the mouse/mole morgue.

10:40 a.m. Speak to doddering old lady who is trying to carry a hanging basket while maneuvering her walker through Garden Center. Offer to help, because it’s a nice day, I’ve showered enough to be fully awake and … dang it, I can be nice to this lady.

10:41 a.m. After the sound of my voice apparently startles the living shit out of the woman, she drives her walker into the corner of a pallet of geraniums, knocking over not only about $50 worth the plants and un-planting them, but in her desperation to get away from me, she is somehow able to knock over a giant concrete block, which she then flails herself over, thus rendering a scene which began with a smile and a “Can I help you?” and ended in a pile of dirt, roots, broken stems, a fallen walker with wheels spinning and an angry old lady on the ground whose Depends are showing. I picked up her walker and the plants. She got herself up. My work there was clearly done.

10:50 Back in car, Daughter #1 is still lost, just in different part of town. I help her until Daughter #2 buzzes in, wanting to do something, I can’t remember what, but as I recall it was dangerous and stupid. So I said fine. As you can imagine, I was already flustered. Back on the phone with Daughter #1, I remember we need bottled water and salad. But since I’d been to Kroger like every day for the previous five days, I was too embarrassed to go in there again. So I went to the gross little hick grocery near our house, where the produce has generally been in place long enough to be dusty.

10:55 a.m. Because logistics is my strong suit, I pick up the case of bottled water, which weighs as much as a small pony, and carry it with me across to the far corner of the store, where I select the bag of salad that has expired most recently. I perch the case of water on the edge of the produce stand to load the salad on top, but it slides on something (and dust is the least gross thing I can imagine) and the right side of the case lands solidly on my right foot. I scream the F word but it doesn’t matter because no one has shopped in this store since the mid-1950s.

11:00 a.m. The express lane takes a full six minutes because the chick who works there hasn’t seen another living soul in days, so I get to hear about her foot surgery. I started my day with mole guts between my toes; I just dropped this anvil disguised as water onto the little bitty bones atop my right foot, and you are freaking whining to ME about your feet?

11:10 a.m. NOW I’m grumpy. As I labor to the car with the water, a man who could have offered to help me passes by and quite probably sees the substantial-sized bug maneuver its way into my left nostril. Still carrying the water, I try to rub my nose on my shoulder, which does nothing but scare it up into my sinus cavity, where it will reside, I presume, for the rest of both of our lives.

11:15 a.m. I start the 10-minute drive toward home, but after about 15 seconds, the seat belt light and warning chimes begin a display that can only be compared to the giant slot machines in front of the Vegas casinos alerting the entire strip that some drunk has hit the jackpot. The commotion was caused because, when the bug reached my brain, it told me to put the 50-pound water in the front seat. The chimes continue, and continue, and continue the whole way home. And, because I have the audacity to endanger 15 liters of water by leaving them unsecured in the front seat, BMW has decided that not only am I not allowed to listen to my radio, but the Bluetooth on my phone is also disabled, so when my phone rings — and it does, about 8 times — I can’t answer it. But I can see that it is Daughter #1, who is undoubtedly still lost, probably in full hyperventilation, and determined to share her misery.

I could have pulled over, moved the water, and answered. But I didn’t. Because I was having such a pleasant day, I decided to have a little ME TIME. 

Just me and the bug wedged somewhere near my septum, the incessant chiming and the open road.


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