A Man Harrassed While Making Rice

I was sitting around today, just letting my mind pick its own way around when I remembered something that made me snicker:

Rob was cooking dinner for us a few visits ago. He was making lemon pepper tilapia over brown rice and I was thrilled about it because I love fish. He'd gotten out a small sauce pan and was filling it with water for the rice.

Jim: Are you sure that pan's big enough?

Rob: Yeah.

Jim: I don't know, it looks small.

Rob: I've made rice in this pan before, dude. It's fine.

Jim: You used a lot of rice; I think it's gonna boil over.

Rob: It's brown rice, it doesn't cook the same!

Jim: Yeah, but-

Rob shot him an exasperated look. I smelled an oncoming testosterone-fueled culinary argument, and spoke up to derail it before it could boil over like the rice in question.

Me: Honey, I'm sure he's perfectly capable of making rice in his own kitchen. He looks like he might have done this before.

Jim looked dubiously at the pan size, but elected not to say anything else. I could see his control-freakism urging him upward to avert what was surely to be a boiling-over pot of rice, and I silently applauded him for not giving in. Then Angie walked in.

Angie: What doin?

Rob: Making rice.

Angie: Why don't you just use the rice cooker?

Jim and I nearly peed ourselves! Rob gave her a long-suffering, Et Tu, Brute? look as we laughed our asses off. Against mounting opposition, Rob studiously ignored us all, using his small pan to make the rice.

It's a good thing it never boiled over- I don't think he could've ever lived that one down.

Holy Nutsack, Batman!

It's hard to pick a "most" embarrassing moment out of all the many embarrassing moments that happen over a lifetime. I had it narrowed down to two in particular: the one where I got saran wrapped to the flagpole when I was a wee freshman in high school, and this one. This one won out because I was embarrassed for the both of us.

~*~

I was married in Lake Tahoe. I don't live anywhere near Lake Tahoe, but it had a few things going for it that made the trip beyond worthwhile: it was absolutely one of the most beautiful places I've ever had the pleasure of visiting, I didn't have to deal with houseguests, and the resort people planned my entire wedding for me- all I had to do was pick out the flavour of the cake, the colour of my bouquet, and then show up at the appointed time. The last perk was the most important one to me; I'd decided to get married after all, but I damn sure wasn't going to go through the stress and hassle of planning the wedding.

The downside to elopement wasn't obvious to me at first. I'd never been married and I had NO idea what to do, and there was to be no rehearsal. You'd think simply walking down a narrow aisle would be easy enough, right? No cause for anxiety? What if I came in before I was supposed to? What if I came in late? What if I stood on the wrong side?? A lot can go wrong in twenty nine steps.

But we did have the next best thing: an appointment with the minister, and he was going to give us the play book. So we went downstairs to the lobby of our resort to meet with Reverend McIntyre the day before the wedding. I liked him immediately! He was friendly, he had that ministerly look about him (without being stuffy) and he was willing to try to make our wedding whatever we wanted it to be.

We took our seats opposite him to tell him what we did and didn't want in our ceremony. I was in the middle of trying to explain to him (without offending him) that we weren't religious people and we wanted as un-religious a ceremony as we could possibly get away with, when something on his pants caught my eye. Before I could stop myself, I glanced down to see what it was, and immediately wished I hadn't. There, right at his crotch, was a split seam maybe an inch in length, and some pink was showing through.

I felt my cheeks flame bright red with sudden blush. I was thinking it was kind of funny for a minister to be wearing pinkish underwear, when the truth of the whole business hit me like a wrecking ball: it wasn't pinkish underwear at all. I was being peeked at by Holy Scrotum. I remember blinking a couple of times, thinking I must be mistaken. I was not mistaken.

"How can he not FEEL that?!" I demanded silently, "It's COLD in here!"

My husband noticed I wasn't paying attention and knew something was wrong, because I'd just been fretting about not knowing what to do when the time came to do it. I could hear him making decisions, but I just couldn't make myself pay attention. He elbowed me in the ribs a few times, and I tried to marshal my errant focus and raise my eye back up to Rev. McIntyre's face, feeling all the while that this must be how a guy feels when he's assaulted by perfect cleavage.

The next thing I knew, we were on our feet and Reverend was shaking our hands to take his leave. He wished us luck for the morrow and left, and I stood there gaping like a complete retard, unable to utter anything coherent at all. As soon as he'd gone, Jim turned to me and demanded to know what THAT was all about. I told him. I couldn't believe he missed it!

"Well, *I* don't go around checking out ministers' packages, babe," he retorted.


~*~

This was my entry for Mrs. C's blogging challenge, topic 2: Most Embarrassing Moment

Jake

Old age weren't easy on Jake. He walked unsteady and uncoordinated, like each leg wanted t' go its own way, not mindin' where he wanted t' go. My Daddy said it was cause he'd been chained up a lot, and bein' yanked back by the chain damaged his spine and his nerves. Or somethin' 'long those lines. My uncle called 'im his Crippled-Up-Old-War-Veteran. Anyway, he couldn't hardly walk, and toward the end he needed help standin' up, too. He looked vicious as hell, but he was a big ole softy with bad gas. I shit you not. When he farted, you could see his whole butt hole open up t' let out the cloud, and i swear you could see it before it hitcha. I never knew anyone or anything that could clear a room as fast as Jake, Lord rest his soul.

Fish in particular tickled 'im. My uncle would bring 'im over, and instead of playin' with our dogs (which was real hard on his joints), he'd park that big smelly ass in front of our fish tank and look at it for hours. Sometimes he'd sit there quiet-like, and other times he'd get riled up watching them fish swim round. He'd fidget and whine at em. He'd bump the tank with his nose and yip. He'd breathe heavy, his tongue lollin' out the side of his mouth. When he wasn't lickin' at the glass. He reminded me of my uncle and my daddy (hollerin' at) watchin' the game with all that carryin'-on, only my uncle and dad never licked at the TV. I sure miss that old boy.

Montserrat Rocks Bristle Ridge's Face Off

Rob, Jim, Angie and I gathered up our hangover collection and stumbled out the door Saturday morning on our planned trip to the Montserrat Winery outside Knob Noster, Missouri (yeah, yeah, go ahead and snicker at the Nosters of Knobs- i sure as hell did). It wasn't a long trip, maybe thirtyish minutes. The brochure we'd read promised tours and tastings and unique gifts, and i was very excited about it, having never actually been to a winery before.

Our exit held a wonderful surprise for us: right next door to our destination was Bristle Ridge Winery! We hadn't noticed it at first on the brochure, but sure enough, they, too boasted tours, tastings, and unique gifts. Two wineries in one trip. . .fucking score! Bristle Ridge was actually before Montserrat, so we stopped there first.

We parked on the hill and climbed up to a large, surprisingly elegant covered patio nestled among absolutely stunning landscaping. The patio sported high, round tables and chairs, each with a little brazier in the center to keep the winers warm as the weather cooled. Inside, we were greeted by a weird odor and more elegance: the chandelier, the light fixtures, the hardwood floors, the fire place, and the bar were all beautifully ornate and candle-lit. The bar was tended by an old lady polishing a wine glass with a towel and an air of superiority. She smiled perfunctorily at us as we entered, and asked if she could help us. She really looked as though she'd rather not. Help us, that is.

Rob approached her and asked if we could take the tour. She coolly informed him that there were no tours at this winery, and not-quite-demanded to know who told us we could take a tour. Angie produced the brochure, which the Bar Crone barely even glanced at before crisply telling us that there were no tours. She stared at Rob with Will That Be All? Face, but to her ill-concealed dismay, he asked if we could get a tasting. She said of course we could, and produced a wine/price list before returning to the vigorous glass-polishing we'd so rudely interrupted.

The wine list looked about how we'd expect a wine list to look except for the price: tastes were two bucks each, for a two ounce sample. Somehow i didn't think this winery produced dollar-per-ounce quality wine, but i was eager to get on with trying to salvage my souring first-winery experience. We talked about which wines we wanted to try, and then looked back at the Bar Crone, who studiously ignored us.

I decided to go and have a look at the Unique Gifts, since they were the only thing left on the brochure that hadn't disappointed me yet. They were varied and wine-related, and expensive, but i found a few things i liked and i was trying to decide what i wanted to buy when Jim went to step out for a smoke. Now, we all had obviously arrived together: we all piled out of the same car, walked up and entered together, and spoke familiarly with one another; in short, we were clearly at the winery as a group. But when Jim went to the door, cigarette in mouth, the Bar Crone looked up and dismissively thanked him for coming as though he was going to leave without the rest of us.

I probably don't need to mention that her Thanks For Coming sounded more like a Get The Hell Out Of My Tasting Room. We all looked at each other, and Rob shrugged.

"Well, if you want us to leave, we will," he said, and the rest of us headed for the door. She didn't thank the rest of us for coming. I later learned that the Bar Crone was the owner.

That's right. The. Owner. (Well, she and her husband). I wouldn't have believed how rude she was if i hadn't just experienced it myself.

By contrast, the atmosphere at Montserrat was warm and inviting. The tasting room smelled terrific, and the guy working the bar greeted us like he might have actually been glad to see us. The decor lacked the elegance of Bristle Ridge, there were fewer gifts to browse, and no tours were offered here either, but we were offered a wine list as soon as we walked in, the samples were FREE, the bar guy was friendly, and he actually gave us samples once we'd made up our minds!

We tasted several wines, including a chocolate wine (that's right- Chocolate!). The wines were tasty, and Bar Guy told us about the local wine industry while we sampled. Never at any point did we feel rushed or unwelcome, and my disappointment evaporated as though Bristle Ridge never happened. After some great wine and conversation, we bought a few bottles and left with good memories and a mental note to return next time we came through Knob Noster. Oh, and the Bar Guy? Not an owner, just an employee. It's a sad, sad day when an employee treats the clientele better than the owner of an establishment.

A Long, Rambling Story of the Midget Who Accosted Me At The Mall

Click Here to Read The Longer-Than-Necessary Prelude to the Story of the Midget Who Accosted Me At the Mall

(Unless you've already read it, then nevermind.)

I stood there, my hand still holding the door open, knowing that no good could come of this. The Useless Hallway was empty, as usual, and i stepped inside, bracing myself for another round of fake smiles and enthusiasm in hopes of landing employment.

Once i felt sufficiently braced, and i made the decision to walk into the Den of Corporate Evil, i was momentarily distracted by the opening of a door i hadn't noticed before. It was a normal, innocuous looking white door that blended very well with the rest of the white wall; it was no wonder i hadn't noticed it.

The person who opened the door, on the other hand, was not normal or innocuous at all. It was a midget with the worst duck's ass hair do i'd ever seen in my life! In case you don't know what duck's ass hair looks like, let me provide you with a visual:

This guy's hair was greasier, and had an obnoxious little tail dangling from the bottom in a spiral. The whole thing was really just a particularly clever, but completely ineffective comb-over. Or maybe it was effective. After all, i was completely absorbed by the hideousness of the remaining hair, which distracted me from the bald spot it was designed to hide.

He turned to look at me, and his face lit up like the Marshall Fields Christmas tree. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt that was opened up down to his hairy navel, displaying some gold chains that were busy tangling themselves up in a very fine chest-lawn. He smiled a wide smile at me. . . and it was the icing on the cupcake that was this little man. His mouth was full of yellowish brown teeth that jutted out at the most unimaginable angles, with one single, solitary straight tooth encased in gold.

He was generously ignoring what i can only imagine was a cross between a horrified and fascinated look on my face.

"Hello, my friend!" he greeted me, "Would you be interested in taking a market survey?"

I took a minute to marshal my expression and smile back at him. I mean, i know staring is impolite and all, but this guy HAD to be used to it. He was dealing with my unintentional rudeness like a pro. I took another minute to realize he'd asked me a question, and was patiently waiting for an answer. Yup, this guy was definitely used to it.

I told him i didn't have time, as i had to be at work in a few hours, and was here to apply for jobs. He assured me it'd only take about ten minutes of my time, and that i'd get twenty bucks for completing the survey. I had to think about it. I really needed the money, but i really needed a job, too. But what's ten minutes out of my day? And, more importantly, how do you say 'no' to a midget with a duck's ass comb over?!

When you get down to it, the answer is simple: You don't. I followed him through the innocuous door in the Useless Hallway.

We emerged unscathed into a brightly-lit, windowless office. We walked through the office and through another doorway that led into what appeared to be a conference room. There were two other people seated at the long, rectangular table, pencils and forms spread out before them. There was an empty place in front of another pencil and set of forms, and the midget gestured toward the seat. I sat.

At the head of the table was one of those TV-VCR combos, and the midget informed us that he would play a series of commercials for us, and then stop the tape so that we could answer one section of questions. The line of questioning was one of those Which Commercial Was Most Memorable sort of things, and as it turns out, the market survey was being given by Olive Garden.

The midget then put in another tape, and told us to watch a series of Olive Garden commercials and fill out the rest of the questions. From the other office, we heard a door slam, and a high, screeching voice.

"JEROME!! GET YER ASS IN HERE RIGHT NOW!"

A look of irritation crossed Jerome's features and he hit play on the VCR before excusing himself into the next room. One of the guys i was left in the room looked at me with barely suppressed mirth.

"Jerome??" he said, incredulity and snickers escaping his clenched teeth.

"Yeah, i had him pegged for a Leeroy or something," the other guy chortled. It made me wonder if there was even an appropriate name available for a duck's ass combover-wearing midget.

From the next room, angry murmurs escalated into muffled shouting. The muffled shouting rapidly evolved into full-fledged shouting; the midget and the unseen woman were having it out in the next room. I felt a pang of sympathy for Jerome, being harangued almost-publicly by this harpy-voiced woman. I wouldn't even want to be harangued privately by a voice like that.

The tape ended, and i supplied answers to questions i couldn't even focus on, not that it would have mattered since i didn't hear a word of the commercials anyway. It's hard enough to resist the urge to flip away from a commercial on a normal day; when there's a shouting-death-match happening between Jerome the Midget and Harpy Voice next door. . . well. You understand.

As the battle raged on, the three of us sat there looking uncomfortably at one another.

"Should we interrupt them?" the Snickering Man asked. The Chortling Man coughed one of those fake attention-getting coughs as Jerome re-entered the room, smiling as though nothing at all were wrong. He collected our questionnaires, collected our names, and then handed out twenty dollar bills to us. We began to shuffle out of the office.

I felt something tug on the sleeve of my shirt, and i turned around to see Jerome standing there, watching the other two guys leave. As soon as they were out of sight, he slipped an envelope into my hand, winked at me, and turned me loose. I strode out of the office, glancing over at Harpy Voice, who looked exactly like she sounded. I smiled wanly at her and she scowled at me in return. I tried to bolt for the door without looking like i was trying to bolt for the door.

Once i was safely back out in the real world, i decided not to go applying for jobs in that mall after all. I exited the mall through the door i entered, suppressing an irrational fear that i wouldn't be able to find my car. Remembering the envelope, i opened it up and found $75 worth of Olive Garden gift cards inside. I recalled my earlier feeling that no good could come of my visit here today, and was happy, for a change, to be wrong.

A Longer-Than-Necessary Prelude To The Story Of The Midget Who Accosted Me At The Mall

First, i feel the need to disclaim- I do NOT frequent malls. In fact, when i find myself faced with the undeniable necessity of going to one, i need days of mental preparation. The over-aggressive middle-aisle-kiosk salesfolk; the snotty teenagers with the shrill, ear-rupturing laughs; the oblivious Me People who walk against the flow of traffic; dodging the power walkers who will NOT stop or slow down on account of my unhappy ass. . . they all make me want to torch the building once i've concluded my sordid business.

But there was a point in time when i needed a second job, and i was desperate enough to seek employment in the vast Temples of Capitalism. After weeks of railing against the dire financial straits that required such an unthinkable act, i put on some khakis and a polo shirt (two of my least favourite things to wear in the world- polo shirt material is SO itchy!) and made my circuit of the three area malls.

After spending most of the day looking like a complete tool in my khaki-and-polo attire, requesting applications in two malls, i realized that i did not belong to the demographic desired by any mall retailer. I wasn't goth enough to work at Hot Topic, i didn't have enough tattoos or piercings to work at Spencers or any of the eclectic shoe stores or the music stores, i wasn't old or conservative-looking enough to work at any of the knick-knack shops, i wasn't thin or pretty enough to work at the lingerie stores or the thin-people clothing stores, i wasn't fat enough to work at the plus size stores, and my desire for medical benefits pretty much ruled out every restaurant in the food court. Needless, to say, i was feeling more than a little dejected when i entered the third and final shopping Hell.

I should have known something was going to happen to me when i was driving around the parking lot, looking for the Sears. For some reason, i have an OCD need to park near and enter a mall through Sears, but this mall did not have one. Instead, i parked near the Dillards, and entered through one of those doors at the end of one of those hallways with nothing but benches, vending machines, and lighted free-standing advertisement obelisks. Those hallways always made me feel kind of uneasy- they're always abandoned, no matter how packed the place is, and they don't really serve any purpose. Teenagers don't even hide down them to make out on the benches; it's like they sense the wrongness of the meaningless hallways, too.

But what was i going to do? THERE WAS NO SEARS! It was an unnatural, disfigured mall i was steeling myself to enter, against my better judgment.

Self-Inflicted Childhood Tortures, Revisited

Our vacation spot of choice this year was Blackburn's Resort on Lake Norfolk in Mountain Home, Arkansas. The "resort" part is a bit of a stretch; it was more like a campground with cabins instead of places for tents. It did have some nice amenities though: a clean swimming pool with adjoining hottub, playground for the kids, boat rentals, and sports/games like volleyball, shuffleboard, horseshoes and tetherball.

I stared at the tetherball court at the resort, waxing nostalgic. Ahhh, tetherball. I was the queen of this sport in middle school. I played it in as much of my spare time as possible and took first place in intramural tournaments, beating out such fearsome rivals as my best friend Bridgette and the Botello twins. This was no small feat, as i was pretty short back then (not that i'm a towering giant today) and these girls were at least a head taller than me.

My husband also claims to have ruled at tetherball when he was young, so naturally it was an unspoken pre-determination that we would clash on this court at some point during our stay. That day did come.

It was Tuesday, the day before the fish fry. He was messing around with the ball and i approached him. I didn't need to say a word; he served the ball. It was an epic struggle, with most of the rules completely disregarded. He sought to use his superior height to his advantage, but the pole was a bit shorter than tetherball poles usually are, and the advantage was lost. The ball was predictably half-inflated, which any tetherball veteran knows is a recipe for nasty bruises and knuckle-cuts. Three times my husband nearly bested me, and three times i untethered his ball, fighting for dominion and past reputation alike. As the battle wore on, my wounds weakened me quickly and soon i was no longer able to hit the ball without pain, and i was beaten. Wounded as i was, i could not challenge for a rematch.

As i walked away from the court, all the memories of the sliced, swollen and bruised knuckles and forearms came rushing back to me. Even back then, my pinky knuckles were permanently swollen up and purple; i used to be thankful that i didn't write with my left hand. How could i have forgotten that part?! Over the next few days, i would look at my battered arms and wonder what the hell i was thinking.

I Hate Housework, or, How I Met George Carlin

It was sometime during our last stay in Germany on one of those summer days that my dad's long list of house chores was staring me down. We were glowering at each other resentfully, this list and i, and i was mentally trying to figure out how much of my share i could foist off on my sister without risking my hide or having to suck up too much. Mentally cursing my dad (whom i was secretly accusing of only having children for the singular purpose of having his house cleaned for the next 20 years), I trudged into the living room and began idling flipping through his record collection, probably trying to decide between Kansas and ELO. Gabby would probably show up and tell us her little brother is sleeping (i used to frequently wonder if that kid was in some kind of easily-disturbed coma as often as his bossy sister enjoyed showing up on our doorstep to hissp, "Ssssh! Dennis schlaft!" at us in hushed tones as though that sentence alone was enough to shatter his delicate slumber), but i didn't much care that day. The list was long, and the music would make it more bearable. Flipping casually through the records again, i knew i was procrastinating, and that i was definitely going to pick ELO even though it meant i'd have to listen to Mr. Blue, because then i'd get to listen to The Jungle an equal number of ti. . . Hey, what's this?

I couldn't remember ever having listened to this one before. It was just a guy sitting on a stool with two fingers up his nose. That looked promising! I perused the song titles, trying to figure out what kind of music it was. Sometimes you got hold of a record with an awesome cover, and then the music sucked. Like that Steely Dan record. Sweet cover art, and crappy music to my elevenish eyes and ears. Figuring even if i hated it, it was another few minutes i could put off cleaning, i put the record on.


And in that moment, a life-long fan was born. I'm gonna miss you, George.

All Packed And Ready To Go

We’re leaving today to go see my grandparents (all three of them live in the same town, about fifteen minutes away from each other) in Lawton, Oklahoma. I got off work this morning and came home to pack for our trip. I had to dig through the garage for the big suitcase and various duffle bags, as a lot of them were used in the move from our old apartment to the new house and, sadly, we are STILL not done unpacking all our stuff. I found the dufflebags first, and when i finally located the suitcase (which happened to be in my bedroom closet, not in the garage), i put it on the bed and looked at it.

Though it looks nothing like it, the suitcase reminds me of the old brown suitcase my family used to take on vacation when my sister and i were kids. As i was digging through my dresser drawers, i reminisced a bit about the vacations we used to take and how much fun we always had (except for that time San puked in the back of the red Dodge Colt). Two details remained constant no matter where we went: we always drove, and the old brown suitcase. My dad was CRAZY anal about how much we could pack to take with us places. Our whole family of four put our clothes into the one suitcase. We had to pick our clothes carefully, because we had to all fit our stuff in it. No extras. I remember submitting my clothing selection for my dad’s approval before cramming them into the suitcase. He usually made me put several items back before i received the O.K.

Snapping back to the present, i realized that the more i’d thought about the claustrophobic conditions of the old brown suitcase, the more clothing i’d packed into my current black and red one. I’m only going to be gone for fourish days, but i’d packed enough clothes for a week for each of us. Feeling a little silly, i started pulling clothing out of the suitcase to return to the drawers. As i removed each shirt, i reconsidered and put it back in the suitcase, thinking i might be in the mood to wear it that day. That’s when it hit me: I’ve got space for 7 days worth of clothing for two, then damn it, i’m taking 7 days worth of clothing for two! I laughed at myself and started tossing clothes in, with reckless abandon. I even packed a few things i’m POSITIVE i won’t feel like wearing, but i didn’t care. This is my suitcase, and i am going to over-pack. Just because i can.