I have been so busy working on the final stages of My Manhattan Project, a project that I will unveil in the not too distant future, that Valentine’s Day almost completely missed my radar … aside from the gourmet cupcake that my boss, Elsbeth, sprang for.
If I were inclined to marry, this would be my soul mate.
Back to the present, here’s a Lame Adventures-style love story for sappy romantics:
That First Kiss
by
Lame Adventures-woman
Even though I bear a striking resemblance to a Chia Pet, I have had a fair amount of success with the lasses that prefer their women fuzzy and awkward. Currently, I am dating Marketa. My father, who is deaf as a post, refers to her as Marketing, a name that has stuck in my head. To avoid any possible slips of the tongue, I have taken to calling my beloved, M. She has a term of endearment for me, too: Yawn.
M and I met two years ago July in the upscale ablutions store she manages. This is one of those stores where the staff wears white lab coats as they ring up a bottle of 8.4 oz oatmeal fortified shampoo to the tune of twenty clams. A word to the wise: if you crave oatmeal on a chilly Saturday, but you’re too hung over to trot up the street to the store, so you nuke a third of a cup of your shampoo instead, suffice to say you’ll find yourself belching soap bubbles well into Tuesday.
Or, so I’ve heard that could happen.
When I met M on a Wednesday, she looked very thought provoking in her white lab coat. Actually, I could barely concentrate on why I was there, ostensibly to replenish my significantly depleted bottle of shampoo, but I was so discombobulated ogling her I mistakenly purchased a similarly sized container of canine flea powder instead. This gaffe proved fortuitous since it allowed me to return for another encounter with this vixen of my dreams. To control my newly acquired white lab coat fetish, I reminded myself to think repeatedly of my similarly attired dentist, Ira Kluckhorn, who is also a dedicated practitioner of halitosis. This helped me exchange the silly grin on my face for an expression akin to the gag reflex.
While exchanging the bottle of flea powder for oatmeal fortified shampoo, M and I shared a delightful dialogue. Holding a pen in preparation for taking notes, M asked, “Is there a specific reason why you’re returning the flea powder?”
I offered, “For starters, I don’t have a dog. In addition, I keep my personal flea and tick problem under control with a sensitive skin unscented beauty bar. Plus, I wanted to see you again.”
M scribbled, “TMI.”
She suggested, “We have an unscented beauty bar for dry, scaly skin like yours that I highly recommend.” Intrigued, she asked, “Do you have any body piercings or tattoos?”
I reflected, “I have a single scar. I once unintentionally crucified my left thumb with a staple gun. I also happen to have a wide array of liver spots. Do they count? One resembles a vuvuzela.” Then, I wondered aloud, “Is your beauty bar available in a multi-pack for $5.99-ish?”
M matter-of-factly replied, “No. Ours is only available by the three-ounce bar for eleven dollars each. I love the vuvuzela. It’s so melodic.”
I pondered her response for the length of a palpitation. “Bargain. I’ll take two. Will you go out with me sometime, maybe to a concert featuring a vuvuzela-ist?”
She scribbled her number on the back of her business card and cooed, “I’m busy, but call me. In November – after Thanksgiving.”
Encouraged, I spent the following four months organizing my humble abode into Venus Flytrap shape. When Black Friday arrived, I called M. The chat was overwhelmingly flirtatious.
“Hi! Last July, you told me to call you after Thanksgiving.”
M asked, “Who is this?”
I reminded her about our flea powder exchange and her affinity for the vuvuzela. Then, I cut to the chase, “Would you like to see a film, concert, play or maybe all three in an evening with me?” I considered adding “naked” but thought that suggestion might be premature.
M said she recalled my liver spot, and added, “Why would I go out with you?” I explained that I was quite sure that she was a believer in love at third sight. Then, I dropped the charm bomb, “I’m not a serial killer. I’ve hardly ever been to Long Island.” We started dating a week later, but M insisted on taking things slow.
I suggested that she don her white lab coat for it might be easier for me to recognize her were she clad in it. M groaned, “You’re not one of those freaks that’s into me for that lab coat, are you?” Quickly, I backtracked, “Wear whatever you like,” and suggested for added measure, “Or don’t wear anything at all!” Maybe she’s a nudist!
For the next four dates, she wore a frock that distinctly resembled a burka.
Eventually, our relationship blossomed and I was confident that I could share a kiss with M without incurring too many of the maneuvers she had recently learned in a self-defense class she’d been taking. Yet, I wanted that kiss to be magical and occur in a place with both privacy and lighting that would shave a few inches off my nose.
I recalled a quaint alley in lower Manhattan and surmised that if we were not mugged, she raped, and I murdered, this could yield a very romantic dividend. Although we were heading to a play in Midtown, I insisted traveling there via this downtown alley would be resplendent. As we neared the alley, I grabbed her hand and quickened our pace. Just when I was about to pull her into a doorway for a Technicolor moment of bliss, we both slammed our brakes. There was an unseemly splash of vomit that could have easily filled an Olympic-sized pool. This prompted me to suggest, “Maybe it would behoove us to take a cab to the theater after all.”
Later that night, M took it upon herself to kiss me under a dogwood tree. It was a kiss that was memorably tender, caring and loving. Such a nice offset to the five minutes of dry hacking I suffered afterward due to it being allergy season.
Lame Adventures 
Sweet. Almost maudlin. But you saved yourself with the vomit. I also like how you worked in the vuvuzela as well as the word behoove. You know that is one of my favorite LA verbs. And that South African horn is sooo under-appreciated. Not.
Glad to hear that all is moving along swimmingly on your Project that is located on the island of Manhattan.
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Behoove is a word that is so under-appreciated, but I do my best to keep it alive on this site. Maudlin? Me? Now, that’s terrifying! Glad I saved myself with the vomit.
I think that I’m seeing the light at the end of the tunnel on My MP, and hoping that it’s not actually a train that’s about to flatten me.
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That’s always a possibility — a la Wile E. Coyote.
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Well, he is my mentor.
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Maybe Claritin would be helpful for romantic moments in the spring.
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That, or stay indoors.
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I want that cupcake. While I enjoyed the vuvuzela as well as the word behoove as Mike did; you had me discombobulated ogling . Who knew you could be so romantic and sweet… charmingly funny too
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Audra, when our author is in the midst of “discombobulated ogling,” do you think her tongue is in or out?
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Mom good question Mr. Mike. I’d say given the obvious attraction the subject would have her tongue wagging on the outside in hopes of an immediate lip smacking kiss
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Ignore the finger typo. New phone. Fecking autofill
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Fecking autofill? Now that’s a new one. Your version of an iPhuckup?
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why yes…
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When I write fiction, I can be all those sappy, mushy things, Audra. These days, I’m much happier with cupcakes of the gourmet variety, as opposed to the difficult and demanding flavor. That one The Boss got us was particularly delish.
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I bet you are sappy and mushy in real life too — no fiction
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So funny to see your pop up while you are reading my post I am reading yours!
Hilarious! Love is never perfect and those moments fantasized about never quite happen the way we plan..But those are the awkward moments that we cherish! Another lame adventure to be sure… 🙂
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This story is a Lame Adventure short piece of fiction. Gee, I hope you don’t have the impression that I use flea powder, Susie … Truth be told, I wear a flea collar.
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You are so funny and genuine. This is great.
I have a question, how did you know she was gay? Is there a handshake. I will write tomorrow about my recent not getting situation.
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Since this piece is pure LA fiction and not the usual highly embellished fact, Maggie, everything is easy and the narrator and her muse just know. In real life it can be more complicated, but if you meet in a social situation where everyone is gay, odds are stacked in your favor that you can boldly hit on someone without getting punched.
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I can’t write fiction. 😦 You had me going completely. You. are. good.
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Maggie. I. Am. Flattered.
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Anxiously awaiting the unveiling of The Manhatten Project. We have a lab two doors up the street. Perhaps I’ll go borrow a lab coat for the reading-just to set the mood.
The pursuit of romance was a not-so-lame adventure, but a keep-them-on-the-edge-of-their-seat love story culminating in a kiss to remember. I’m very happy for you. Now, I’m off to find a vuvuzela.
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Glad you enjoyed the tale, Russell. I’ve been to busy working on TMP to write a new LA, but I have a stash of short fiction, and this one had a New York flavor, so I decided to post. I hope to return to regularly scheduled programming once The Manhattan Project is good to go. Then, I can return to focusing on writing LA.
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You and Marketing sound as though you’ve got off to a flying start there, LA, without rushing into things. Including the vomit… which is always good!
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Tom, glad you liked the tale, but it is just that, not a true life story. Alas, there is no lass named Marketa or Marketing in my life, although I have dated more than a few with exotic names that were, to put it politely, challenging. Let’s say I know my source material rather well.
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Between you and me, LA, I knew it was a tale. Walpole told me. There was something about the oatmeal shampoo that set my spider-sense tingling as well, but only slightly. It was a good tale though… Marketing sounds like a good character!
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Thanks Tom (and you, too, Walpole)!
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That is the sweetest story that I have ever heard involving a lab coat, vuvuzela and a liver spot. And although the dogwood tree may have taken the shine off the moment, it sounds like it was still a good one.
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It was a fun story to write, RG, and although I’ve personally yet to date a maiden with an affinity for the vuvuzela like this tale’s protagonist, I have known more than a few with tree allergies — something I, too, have suffered from time to time in spring.
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Aw, love is sweet. “A Chia Pet?” Ouch! You know, the Raggedy-Ann look can be quite attractive. In college I knew a couple girls who had that crazy corkscrew thing going on, and I thought they were lovely. I think in general that people are more attractive than they believe themselves to be (although the thankfully rarer inverse of this makes for good people-watching).
I’m not a cupcake person, but I will be for that one. Your boss rocks.
Apparently having forgotten the South Africa World Cup, I had to look up vuvuzela (this was before the later sentence from which I might have remembered the word from context). I wasn’t too disappointed to find it wasn’t dirty, because even as I was going to look it up, I figured that would be too good to be true.
Your dentist (whose name is reminiscent of a Borscht-Belt stand-up act–yeah, I have a thing for names) must be one hell of a dentist for you to put up with that rotten reek.
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Smak, this story is just a story, but I will admit that I was rather amused with the Chia Pet imagery, so please do not assume it’s autobiographical! My last dentist was a nice, unscented, Orthodox Jewish boy (a dental student) named Daniel. We were completely on the same page humor-wise and he fed me good dental advice out of the ear-shot of his instructors that were hellbent on fleecing me. His breath was always fresh as a just cut grass, not ti imply that he had any green stuff stuck in his pearly whites.
Sorry that the vuvuzela was not some obscure erotic artifact from a bygone era, but just an ordinary, ear-sore noisemaker. It sounds like your disappointment about that was fleeting.
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Ha! I DID believe that was autobiographical and essentially true, with clever exaggerations here and there.
My God! What about the cupcake? The cupcake was real, right?
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Burp!
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That’s a yes, Smak!
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I’ll chime in on what rollergiraffe said about this being the ‘sweetest story that I have ever heard,’ only I’ll add, also involving vomit. No but seriously, thanks for sharing this ‘Valentine’s Day’ tale, I enjoyed reading it!
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Thanks Sandee, that’s nice to know that you also consider the vomit a deft touch. I do try!
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I’m jealous. None of my liver spots resemble a vuvuzela. However, I did let the grandkids play “connect the dots” with the ones on my thigh. Unfortunately I had to put a stop to that when it resulted in a detailed portrait of Donald Rumsfeld.
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I hope they weren’t playing that game on you with a permanent marker TTPT for that’s a tattoo you’ll never live down!
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It could have been worse, V. It might have been Dick Cheney.
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That would rate a skin graft.
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Or an amputation.
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I think you’ve won this round, pal, for I’m not going to suggest committing suicide.
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My liver spots thank you.
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My cellulite tells them they’re welcome.
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And my seborrheic keratoses say de nada.
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You know that I’m quite a sucker for romance language flirtation.
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Nice Valentine story V. 🙂
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Thanks Wendy!
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Ha! This was awesome. I loved the first kiss story … your “technicolor moment” in an alley. But my favorite line was “love at third sight” Ha! That one cracked me up. So glad that it worked out for you. And that cupcake…dude I think it’s my soul mate.
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It worked out for the protagonist Guat. This story was just one from my archive over here that I decided to share amongst my readership of seven. I’ve been too swamped trying to finish My Manhattan Project to go Lame Adventuring. Glad you liked the story and yes, you definitely would have loved that cupcake, too. It was perfect to me.
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Dude you need to bring back many from your archive, like a flashback Friday 🙂 or I need to go hunting through your past because this was awesome. So awesome I’ve given you another award 🙂 You know you deserve it.
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Guat, Mr. Guat and the Little Guats lived out here, I’d award your loyalty with a visit to this chocolate bar where you’d surely find your bliss, buddy:
http://www.ayzanyc.com/west-village/index.html
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“for starters i don’t have a dog…” bwwwaaahhhhhhaaaa. loved.
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Glad you enjoyed the tale SM!
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This was pretty adorable. And I’m itchy at just the mention of flea powder.
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I feel honored that my story made you feel the need to scratch, possibly behind an ear.
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As opposed to Pete Rose in the area of his groinage.
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Thank you for that image as I’m sitting at my desk here at The Grind trying to down a crummy sandwich.
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Just like in real estate where the mantra is “location, location, location,” in the area of sophomoric humor, it’s all about the timing.
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Touché (not gonna egg you on since I’m still eating).
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It was an ear, but it wasn’t my own. I was standing next to a woman at the grocery store and scratched her. I’m meeting her in court next week.
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I’m not a lawyer and I haven’t even played one on TV (although a friend of mine has, but as usual I digress) but my advice to you is to claim you have a special version of Tourette Syndrome. If they need proof in court tell them to call 1-800-328-7447. Aka 1-800-EAT-SHIT.
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Thanks, Mike. That advice is sure to keep me from swinging from the gallows. And when I do, I’m gonna scratch that judge’s ear, too. I can’t help myself!
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You’ll find me sitting on your side of the courtroom holding the flea powder.
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That was a lovely story, Lame. The flea powder line obviously worked a treat, which I must admit I wouldn’t have laid odds on happening.
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Kate, if you ever did lay odds on that happening, the oddsmaker in you probably would have chosen that to happen over here.
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Who wouldn’t date a woman whose claim to fame was flea powder and her status as “not-a-serial-killer?” Seriously, I’m a sucker for dry wit.
Sorry to be so damn late getting here. I can’t keep up with this whole “moving to Ecuador” thing. Swear to God, it may kill me–and it’s not even the end of Feb!
Hugs,
Kathy
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My ex in real life (Marketa and the protagonist are fictional characters) was a sucker for dry wit until mine apparently shriveled and disintegrated to her. Oh, now do these things happen Kathy?
That would sure suck for Sara, Lucy and Ralph if you screwed up this momentous move with your untimely demise, so don’t do that! Do leave your collection of cat food cans behind. Thanks for taking the time off from The Big Event in your life to even make it over here, pal!
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I must admit, you may be the Queen of Descriptions … which very good for a Chia Pet! Love the cupcake, but it didn’t make me laugh as much as you did. .. yet, the ending matched the cupcake’s sweetness.
Plus, I had to stop by to say hello.
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Hello back Frank! That cupcake made it almost worthwhile to work The Grind that day. Glad you liked the story, pal!
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I just couldn’t resist this spoof.
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Thanks Frank. If that was real and had existed forty years ago, I probably would have bought one just to irk my mother.
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This is almost romantic. You had me at the phrase, “dedicated practitioner of halitosis.” I wish there were not so many practitioners of this Dark Art.
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With this in mind Weebs, if we ever rendezvous, I’ll make sure to drink a supertanker of red wine the night before and I’ll purposely refrain from brushing the next day. I should be able to part seas like Moses with that breath.
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That cupcake looks awesome. My dentist used to have a hairy hygienist with halitosis. Seems to be an issue with people in the dental field, perhaps they should partake in some of their conveniently located mouthwash instead of saving it all for the patients.
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That hygienist sounds gruesome! That cupcake was a 10. Thanks for stopping by!
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You do have a great style in writing fiction. Clearly your awareness of stuff happening around you is superb.Some of the phrases used jump out! Loved the post.
Shakti
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Thanks Shakti. I’m a sucker for start of the work-week flattery.
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