Tag Archives: idiot

Lame Adventure 360: In the Mood for Sap

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 a cupcake, this would be The One.

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.

Advertisements

Lame Adventure 308: Little People Power

I have never been compelled to spawn.  The second Someone I’m Dating declares:

Someone I’m Dating:  I want to have children!

I declare back:

Me:  See ya!

I know that I’m about as maternal as an oil slick, but I instinctively allow children and their parents/nannies/caretakers priority.  Translation: I get the hell out of their way.  It recently occurred to me that I’m not the only one following this unwritten rule.  As I was recently walking down Hudson Street in Tribeca to buy a few bananas at a grocer’s near my place of employ, I noticed a footloose toddler who had just been released from the confines of his stroller take off as if he was running the fifty-yard dash.  His mother, who had been pushing the stroller, watched helplessly as her companion hightailed after the wild hombre.

I had been walking at a healthy clip but the second I caught sight of this potential crisis, I downshifted my pace to tai chi speed.  The other pedestrians around me — a businessman and a chap in his twenties — both did the same.  I crossed the street to lengthen my distance from the sidewalk blockade.  Picking up my pace again I pondered:

Me: Wow, you stand 2 ½ feet tall, you weigh 32 pounds, you have an eight word vocabulary, but your presence practically stops traffic.  That’s power!

A short while later, when I approached the checkout lane at the grocer’s with my two bananas I observed that a mile long line of at least eight shoppers waiting at one register, but no one was standing behind the two nannies with four tots in double-wide strollers filling the aisle at the only other open register.  I assessed the situation and ascertained that between the six of them, all they were purchasing was a single bottle of water.  Again, what power!

The chosen few.

On my way back to the office with my bag of two bananas, I saw a girl about five-years-old speed demoning up the street on a toe scooter.   This child was the second coming of Evel Knievel.  Her mother shouted out at her that the chinstrap on her oversized helmet was loose.  Little Evel Knievel-ette obediantly toe scooted back to her mother who presumably tightened the chinstrap.  This did not impair the flow of my thoughts as I was making a mental note to remember to bring home my eight packages of woven tooth twine that night; something I had failed to do the day before.

Haul of floss.

Suddenly my concentration was shattered when I heard the sound of a fast moving toe scooter that seemed to be heading straight for  my back.  The  little daredevil must have been making up for lost time or she was preparing to practice jumping over me before taking on the Grand Canyon a few years hence.  Immediately  I switched gears and did a steady jog when two words from all the French I failed to learn in the five years of pointless study in my youth came to mind:

Me: Zut alors!

As I hot-footed my pace to a fierce trot, my thoughts reverted to English:

Me:  No way am I going to subject myself to the humiliation of being reduced to road kill by a five-year-old burning plastic at supersonic speed!

I returned to my office winded but alive.  I was also impressed with the wee one’s power.

I’m perfectly fine sitting right here.

Lame Adventure 282: Slight Heart Attack Time

Possibly I’m deluding myself, but I like to think that I’m not too squeamish nor am I a wimp.  I will admit that I don’t do well with the dead.  Residing anywhere for any length of time one will encounter road kill.  That’s a fact of life.  Here in New York, the unpleasant sight of a flattened pigeon or rodent is common.

Splat the pigeon.

Whenever I encounter the downside of nature, I make a mental note of where not to look and what street I will side step for the next few days.  Every time I do stumble upon some creature’s untimely demise, it is always a bit jarring to me.  I am never truly relaxed when I glimpse a mangled form of what was once very likely earlier that same day a living critter.  This does not imply that for the rest of that day that image will haunt me.  It is an isolated shock in the moment, but then I move on, forget about it and resume whatever it is I am doing.  I don’t dwell on the frozen lifeless cat put out with the trash.  Okay, that dead cat I saw nearly twenty years ago was exceptional.  It has remained stored in my memory bank  forever, but usually, I delete these images almost as quickly as I see them, unless, of course I photograph them.  Hey, you never know when you might need a picture of pigeon splat.

On a recent rainy afternoon I had to run an errand near my office in Tribeca.  Sheltered under my umbrella, I was moving at a brisk pace, focused on getting to where I was going when my eye caught that simultaneously familiar and shocking sight of a limp heap lying atop the corner of a tree planter.  I thought the usual:

Me:  Yuck.

Then, I did the usual.  I looked away and walked past.  I assumed it was a dead blackbird, similar to the kind of bird featured in Alfred Hitchcock’s film, The Birds.  As I raced away, I was uncharacteristically still thinking about that bird.  I felt disturbed.  Birds do not normally drop dead atop tree planters.  Some cruel creep had to have harmed that poor defenseless creature.  I felt outrage.  I wondered:

Me: Was it poisoned or shot?

Scene of the crime.

People, their inhumanity and their lack of respect for the living infuriate me.  I write a blog, I have a voice, and on a good day I have seven readers (if my friends and sister check in).  I am obligated to be a spokeswoman about this sort of mindless animal cruelty.  Therefore, I reversed course and marched back to that tree planter, if only to show my compassion for …

A glove with a soggy, furry cuff that a considerate soul in a random act of kindness placed here.

Maybe there is a shred of hope for the human race after all.  It might also behoove me to get my eyes examined.