A few weeks ago, I was in a blissful relationship—so delightful that I scheduled a romantic weekend away at a beautiful resort for myself and my adoring paramour. What fun! What romance! What love!
So, of course, the week before we were to leave for the glorious mini-vacation, he remembered a boys’ trip to a depravity-riddled, hard-partying, beach town. Apparently, this was a trip he preferred to my sun-soaked, love-filled, spa/beach/pool romantic getaway. And, that was the end of that.
Embracing the storyline of so many chick-lit books and romantic comedies, I gathered a couple really great girlfriends, who came with vital reinforcements like chocolate and champagne cocktails (which is, of course, part of what makes them so great!), and headed out for a delectable girls' weekend. Men be damned!
I should naturally have stumbled unwittingly onto the absolute love of my life, right? I mean, I’ve watched all the movies. That’s how it works. Of course, at first we probably wouldn’t get along; I’d be annoyed he stole the best pool chair as he taunted me from it, try to trip him as he cut in front of me at the bar or “accidently” knock him out of his flowering lotus pose as he tormented me from his strategically-placed-behind-mine yoga mat.
Alas, let me regale you with the types of guys I met instead. Please, if you see some romantic comedy-happy ending potential in any of them that I may have missed, feel free point it out! I’m certainly one to learn from missed opportunities!
• The guy who whispered in my ear what kind of talent he predicted I had in bed and received a swift knee to the groin (ok, the knee in the groin may have only happened in my head and was, in reality, actually a biting remark as I walked away)
• The guy who brought his own drinks to the bar in travel mugs and insisted he wanted to take me back to his friend’s boat—where his 14 year-old son was waiting—and who then moved on from me to hit on the girl not much older than his son who passed too nearby (like 20 feet) to have not caught his attention (he didn’t get far with her before her dad swooped in for the rescue. Good move, Dad.)
• The very talented keyboard player in the musical duo performing at the bar who was so stoned he almost missed the second set, wandering around the resort property
• The guy who got “knifed” outside of a respectable pizza place, who seemed to be leaving out several details of the incident and couldn’t keep the story straight in relaying it to us
• A few guys with two kids each, two of whom adored their wives (sweet, but not helpful to finding my romantic comedy costar) and one who indicated he did not adore his wife as much through his advances on us (skeezy, and no thank you)
It looks like my only hope is to cause a huge scene at a family function (my family’s or someone else’s; let’s not be picky!) a la Bridget Jones, 27 Dresses, My Best Friend’s Wedding (although that didn’t really work out romantically for her either), Sweet Home Alabama, Love Actually… The list goes on and on, and who am I to ignore such divine inspiration?!
Surely it’s only a matter of time before Paramount Pictures comes a-calling! I think I’d like Reese Witherspoon to play me.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Carbon monoxide poisoning is NOT the way I’m going to go
I have seen enough of those videos of gas stations blowing up to know that cell phones and gas do not mix. Before you point out that those videos are likely not real, let me in turn remind you that rational deduction has rarely made an appearance on this blog.
So, of course, one night when I was pretty sure my apartment was quickly filling up with carbon monoxide I was desperately torn between a need to use my cell to call emergency rescue personnel and visions of blowing up my apartment like all those gas stations.
It was 4:00 in the morning and my gas-powered water heater snapped into action. When I say “snapped into action,” it doesn’t fully convey what the water heater powering on sounded like. It actually sounded like a 350 pound linebacker (I think? Is that the position?) lowering his shoulder and running full speed into the thing. You can imagine my alarm when I was awoken out of a deep sleep by such an explosion!
After the explosion, as I will forever continue to call it, I began to smell gas. We all know they infuse that smell into gas so that people can be alerted to its presence. Gas is DEADLY!! Panic set in as I imagined my death by asphyxiation. So, I called the emergency maintenance number. The person who answered said they would call the maintenance guy on call, who would call me to let me know he was on his way. No!! Don’t call me back! That could be disastrous!
Of course fearing the aforementioned fireball my apartment would certainly turn into when the static electricity spark of my cell phone ringing ignited the gas in the air, I had a shining moment of brilliance! If I continuously rubbed myself, my phone and my bed down with dryer sheets, it would eliminate the static!
I. Am. A. Genius!
So that you can truly visualize the scene the maintenance guy—the hero come to rescue me from probable incineration or fatal carbon monoxide poisoning—walked into, I should probably admit that I was wearing red flannel pajamas that had crabs wearing Santa hats all over them with the phrase “Sandy Claws” repeated over and over (and it was nowhere near Christmas). So, there I was sitting in bed, wearing crazy-ridiculous pajamas, dryer sheets in both hands furiously running them all over myself.
The guy looked at me, stifled a laugh, checked the water heater, turned around, looked at me like an idiot and explained that the water heater works much like a gas stove.
“You can smell gas when you turn on a gas stove, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Even if there isn’t a gas leak?”
A more sheepish, “Yes.”
“So… I’m going to go.”
“O… K...”
I went out the next day and bought a carbon monoxide detector and slept with the windows open for a month, in the dead of winter, just to be safe.
So, of course, one night when I was pretty sure my apartment was quickly filling up with carbon monoxide I was desperately torn between a need to use my cell to call emergency rescue personnel and visions of blowing up my apartment like all those gas stations.
It was 4:00 in the morning and my gas-powered water heater snapped into action. When I say “snapped into action,” it doesn’t fully convey what the water heater powering on sounded like. It actually sounded like a 350 pound linebacker (I think? Is that the position?) lowering his shoulder and running full speed into the thing. You can imagine my alarm when I was awoken out of a deep sleep by such an explosion!
After the explosion, as I will forever continue to call it, I began to smell gas. We all know they infuse that smell into gas so that people can be alerted to its presence. Gas is DEADLY!! Panic set in as I imagined my death by asphyxiation. So, I called the emergency maintenance number. The person who answered said they would call the maintenance guy on call, who would call me to let me know he was on his way. No!! Don’t call me back! That could be disastrous!
Of course fearing the aforementioned fireball my apartment would certainly turn into when the static electricity spark of my cell phone ringing ignited the gas in the air, I had a shining moment of brilliance! If I continuously rubbed myself, my phone and my bed down with dryer sheets, it would eliminate the static!
I. Am. A. Genius!
So that you can truly visualize the scene the maintenance guy—the hero come to rescue me from probable incineration or fatal carbon monoxide poisoning—walked into, I should probably admit that I was wearing red flannel pajamas that had crabs wearing Santa hats all over them with the phrase “Sandy Claws” repeated over and over (and it was nowhere near Christmas). So, there I was sitting in bed, wearing crazy-ridiculous pajamas, dryer sheets in both hands furiously running them all over myself.
The guy looked at me, stifled a laugh, checked the water heater, turned around, looked at me like an idiot and explained that the water heater works much like a gas stove.
“You can smell gas when you turn on a gas stove, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Even if there isn’t a gas leak?”
A more sheepish, “Yes.”
“So… I’m going to go.”
“O… K...”
I went out the next day and bought a carbon monoxide detector and slept with the windows open for a month, in the dead of winter, just to be safe.
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