Window Dressing?

This week, I am not fit to mingle with normal people.

Perhaps, in another month, during another week, this would be a false statement. I like people. I enjoy conversation. I accept that any stranger could become a friend—you know, assuming he or she has good hygiene. 

On the whole, I frolic through life with a smile, seemingly competent and at ease with my surroundings.

But this week, I am just off balance enough to be dangerous.

Morning Rituals

Without getting into the weeds, accept my claim that this week has been very busy with work. Early, early (did I mention early?) mornings have met with very late nights; afternoons have been rushed, leaving no time for cooked meals, the gym, or a much-needed oil change. My car and my body continue to make their disapproval known.

It takes an extra 5 seconds to process Sisterita’s question about buying more coffee, and I often find myself approaching the microwave with fresh produce in my hands (which would have ended quite badly). One morning, I put on two different heels...of differing heights. If I was the daring sartorial sort, that could have been forgiven as avant garde. Alas, it was simply sleep deprived delirium. There are several to-do lists floating around in my brain, and they are distracting me.

And, Good Reader, a preoccupied me is a very dangerous me. 

I locked myself, quite consciously, out of my house and car. I actually locked the door and pulled it shut as I was mentally going through the steps, “Grab lunchbox, have my coat, oh yeah, the keys…” Door closes. 

Aftermath: Perspective in the Present

 I stand there—disbelief and astonishment staring back at me from the glass reflection of the door.

Surely to be late to an important data meeting, this requires me to execute a series of humiliating exercises:

1. Alert my boss and her boss (Chair of the board, anyone?) to my folly. “Yes. No. I knew it was locked. No, I don’t have a spare in my mailbox. Yes, I may have to do a B&E.”
2. Curse loudly as I try to wiggle the doorknob open. Futile effort if there ever was one.
3. Walk around aimlessly in the yard in search of an open window.
4. Locate an unlatched window to realize that it is FAR too high to climb into. Use the TRASH CAN to climb high enough to open the window…fail to shimmy into the open space.
5. Visit every neighbor on the block in search of a step ladder.
6.  Finally, wake the next door neighbor, who plays Marvin Gaye at all hours of the day, and request assistance.

The 4 inch heels

Well, Marvin-Gaye-the-Neighbor rescued me. He judged me the entire time. I mean, who wouldn’t? I showed up on his doorstep, with lots of unnecessary hand gestures and apologies—while describing my trash can climbing attempts—in a silk dress and 4 inch heels.

Not only did he come over to assess the situation, but he CLIMBED my trash can when his stool was too short, and climbed into the bathroom window. 

…his shorts may have gotten stuck on the brick. 

He may (or may not) have lost his shorts, revealing his preference for “Commando” dress style in the process. 

I may (or may not) have stood below wondering why the hell my parents gave all the common sense to Sisterita.

After the fastest house-crossing trip in history, Marvin-Gaye-the-Neighbor let me into my own door AND wheeled the trash can around front for me.

I am too embarrassed to take him “thank you” cookies, but I feel it is absolutely required.

Resolution ~ I had a spare key made this week.

Burning Down the House

I have a GREAT one for you today. So many other cute little episodes are in the running for publishing, but this one…well, this one takes Humiliation and Error to new heights in the sister household.

Sunday afternoon started a bit lazy; dinner with Dad and some Viking football in the background. A small turkey taco dinner, followed by a whirlwind cleaning spree and yard mowing frenzy. Very Sunday-esque. Very calm. Almost boring, but exactly what the doctor ordered.

[Insert the increasingly predictable twist].

But as I was contemplating the daring idea of a facial mask, a strange thing happened: my nose started twitching. My knees got a little bit weak, and for some reason an alarm started sounding in my head. If I were the Oracle of Delphi, and you were the pilgrim on a mission, then we would both be feeling the stirrings of some horrible news on the horizon (imagine Oedipus and his family’s misfortunes…). Yes, that serious ladies and gents.

I have not been around fire very often. In fact, my only incident outside of a way word tea light candle was a rather explosive gasoline fueled bonfire—which ended very badly. SOn this particular occasion I smelled something like “electrical fire.” Honestly, I am not even sure how I know what that smells like, but I do. Sisterita and I descended the stairs with growing alarm. Wrapped in a towel, with wet hair, and my companion still covered in grass clippings, things were a little chaotic. We ran from outlet to outlet. Checked the air conditioning unit. Looked for smoke. Unplugged every wire we could find. Turned off the lights and flipped the breakers. Even checked the lawn mower quietly resting outside from his backbreaking work of cutting down an inch of greenery.

No smoke. No fire. No explanations.

But the smell wafted through the hallway like a 90 year old’s over-used Red Door. 

It. Just. Would. Not. Leave.

So, we convinced ourselves it was a fluke. Something wafting through the vents but coming from the neighboring duplex. Life returned to normal. For 20 minutes.

After 20 minutes, I headed to ask the neighbors if something was up. Maybe they were burning microphone cords? I would have settled for the most bizarre of explanations—anything to convince me that our house was not, in fact, burning from inside of the walls. Nothing. Very obvious confusion. So, I did what anyone would do… I begged for advice on Facebook?

Yes, I admit it: not my brightest idea. Especially when the ensuing advice put us more on edge. Finally, through a series of very logical suggestions, we decided to call 911.The municipality that I am currently living in has EXCELLENT response time. Sisterita and I were prepared for a landscape of serious civil servants and no nonsense. But, oh Gentle Reader! We could not have known. One minute we were standing outside talking to a police officer and the next we were surrounded.

Seven emergency vehicles responded.

Sirens BLARED, lights whirled, as we struggled to decide whether the humiliation or the prospect of a serious electrical fire was worse. The EMTs were at the ready with a gurney…because I apparently gave the dispatcher the impression that there were charred limbs to be treated?!

Heavily protected men stomped into the house. Rubberneckers looked on—and we ALL know they were hoping the house went up in flames, as then something would have actually happened in our quaint, sleepy little town.

Five minutes pass. Radio static.

Ten minutes pass. We get a few more questions, i.e. “Basement? Um, no.”

Fifteen minutes pass by. At this point, I have had time to take stock of our appearance. Still with wet hair, Sisterita was channeling some Eddie Vetter jeans-and-comfy-flannel style, and I ended up in gold, sparkle ballet flats looking like a drowned rat. We could not have appeared more clueless if we had tried. When the trio of seasoned firefighters finally emerged, there was a sense of relief (both because soon we might finally solve the riddle and hide behind closed doors).

Wait…he was carrying something! Something was found! We were not crazy! Yes! Justified call to the noble 911 line! ::fist pump::

And then he showed us this:

Ladle.

Apparently, the plastic fell onto the heating coils in the dishwasher. So, we have melting and flame repeatedly put OUT by the water of the dishwasher. We also learned that our stove is a danger to all mankind and we should look into that. Um, ok…Sisterita actually contemplated killing me for calling. I know it.

The kind firemen were incredibly tolerant and understanding: they maintained that residents should always err on the side of caution in situations like these. In fact, entire HOUSES have gone up in flame over a dishwasher! But, the full weight of our folly came raining down with one final, kindly meant inquiry:

"So, are you girls students at the college?"

 Um, no sir. We are grown women. We just cannot operate dishwashers. Thanks. Please take the sirens and go. 

Business in the front, and party in the back… and I’m not talking about a mullet...

 Today's installment is brought to you by guest blogger, the incomparable, incredibly funny—and yes, she is poised to humiliate me—Sisterita! I, B-Verbose, do take credit for the formatting and hyperlinks...but, well that isn't really all that impressive, and seriously, if you don't laugh out loud at her writing style, you are a slimy snivel-y snail.

Formula:

Preface + Easily relatable protagonist + Amazing vindictive antagonist + Climax + 

Pertinent moral and/or life lesson + Conclusion = GREAT story

(all parts mentioned above) +segue for a sequel = AMAZING story

Confession -  formulas make me weak at the knees…

Preface:

B-Verbose has been asking, begging, PLEADING for a guest “blogger”. Although much in tune with verbosity and grammatical excellence, I have been overcome with hesitance. Typically a sound reason rears its welcomed head. Example(s):

I’m too tired.

Tonight, well, I’m just not feeling it.

Nothing I have to say is complimentary.

In all honesty, this enchanted day has been quite surreal. Work was more of an adult-sized playground than socially acceptable. The local antique store advertised a majestic mirror for $39.99 (and needless to say I took full advantage of their blindness and misjudgment). A traffic jam halted traffic  (in an otherwise quiet town). Thus, upon unlocking the red door that marks the entrance to my home, and carrying in the daily “steals” purchased for decorative purchases, I poured a small tasting of wine and prepared for dullness.

Protagonist:

B-Verbose is a goddess among women. This terminology (which is not used often enough) is perfectly applicable to my “big little sister”. As a 5’ 4” bombshell with red lipstick and killer high heels, B-Verbose stops traffic in the best of ways. Married women are envious, single woman stand hopeless, and I… as the loyal little sister… remain her biggest cheer leader and P.R. gal.

Antagonist:

I couldn't find Jim Carey in the Mask...

Every woman NEEDS a little black dress- every woman DESERVES a killer black skirt. There is nothing like a 1940’s silhouette to:

1. Accentuate the backside 
2. Empower the inner dominatrix
3. Make middle aged men stop in their tracks and shout the cartoon-wolf like “AAAH-OOOOOO- GAAAAAAA”

But remember, Gentle Reader, with great power comes great responsibility!

Climax: A personal favorite of mine, for obvious reasons

Confession... unlike B-Verbose (who has the Cadillac of filters albeit no common sense), I am a “say what I think” sort of lady. The big red “Stop” or “Abort” button of life has been broken since ’93. Accordingly, after traffic jams and spontaneous purchases, I unlocked the door of our humble abode with one thing on the mind:

Finish decorating the bathroom quickly as to make way for wine and wisdom by 8:30 pm.

Keep in mind, Gentle Reader, yours truly is the oldest 22 year old (in a figurative sense) to ever grace the planet earth.

SOOOOOOOO…..

As the amazingly priced mirror from 1961 is being prepped for exhibition in the dining room, in walks B-Verbose. The door opens, the clouds part, and the birds chirp as always in moments of “fairy tale” entrances. 

Me: “Blah blah blah, blah blah.”

Her: “Blah blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah.”

Me: “You are going to HATE me. Turn around, shut up, and let me take a picture.”

Her: “What’s wrong? Is there something wrong with my outfit?”

Me: “If by wrong you mean your seam has busted and your ASS is EXPOSED, then yes, maybe there is something wrong…..”

The slit skirt...that WAS in the back!

Dear Lord, as always, thank you for the sh*ts and the giggles!

Very few pictures were captured. Hysterics ensued, tears formulated in green eyes, a full on “pity-party” commenced on the kitchen floor. As a result of the “wardrobe malfunction” texts were sent, calls were made and threats were exclaimed.

If anybody, ANYBODY, noticed but DIDN’T say something, I’ll NEVER forgive them. My ASS was exposed at a non-profit kickoff event. I could die, I WILL die, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

:: insert yours truly pouring wine into  a glass, passing it to the victimized party, and making rap song references to lighten the mood::

Little in the middle, but you got much back.

My Anaconda don’t want none unless you’ve got buns hon.

Big bottom girls you make the rocking world go round.

BEND OVER THAT ASS TOO FAT (personal favorite, dur)!

Lesson:

Ladies should invest, focus on, and fully inspect themselves in full length mirrors before leaving home… and Sir Mix A Lot should make a song about the ritual of it all.

Conclusion:

Some say Delta Burke. Some say Ginnifer Goodwin. The world, however, is dead wrong. B-Verbose is the Elizabeth Taylor of our time. Instead of violet eyes, hers are green. Instead of multiple husbands, she’s holding out for the one worthy of her attentions. Non-profits, married men, and lesbians alike, WATCH OUT. If she can stop traffic in a black skirt, just imagine…..

Lord have mercy, baby’s got her blue jeans on!

Tune in next week for:

You Say Summer Dress, I Say Indecent Exposure!