Big Ideas
The locker room at the gym is always awkward.
First, you don’t know where to look when someone talks to you.
My stuff always seems to be on the bench right in front of the locker someone wants to use so I’m grabbing my dozens of loose articles and shuffling them around and dropping them while I am damp and naked.
I inevitably end up dropping my panties on the floor and having to contemplate which is worse: going home underwearless or wearing panties that have been befouled by the grotty germ-laden tile surface.
All bad.
I always bring a plastic bag, usually a nice big sturdy one, to put my wet swimsuit and towel into. You wouldn’t think this would be such a revolutionary idea, but a few weeks ago, the lady across from me commented.
“A plastic bag!” she exclaimed. “That is such a great idea! Why didn’t I ever think of that! I am gonna get me one and put my wet things in it.”
“Mmm hmmm,” I said. “It certainly does come in handy.”
“Yes,” she said. “I have been wrapping my swimsuit in my towel, but sometimes it still leaks in my car!”
This was all coveyed with a scary sort of enthusiastic airheadedness usually only seen on QVC, and one might hope that would be the end of the exchange. But, of course, no.
Now the woman and I have apparently become members of the Plastic Bag Appreciation Society, bonded in our clever knowledge that a barrier of plastic may keep dampness off of other articles.
“Hey, there you are with your plastic bag!” the woman will say. “You are so smart to do that.”
And one might think that the woman would have obtained her very own plastic bag by now, but you would be incorrect there, too.
“I got a plastic bag,” she tells me ever time she sees me. “But I just never seem to remember it.”
“Ah,” I answer. “Small steps.”
“But it’s a really great idea,” she says. “I think that every time I see you. I think “I gotta remember that bag.” But then I don’t.”
“Maybe next time,” I say.
But it has been three weeks. I’m wondering how long this plastic bag-based relationship can go on. It has already lasted longer than the last dating relationship I had. So there’s that.
I’m sneaking around
It’s like I’m having an affair or something. Except I’m not married. Or having sex for that matter.
BUT DO NOT TELL. This is a SECRET.
Every morning I get up, get dressed, and take Goldie to spend they day with my Mom while I go to the office.
I don’t go to the office.
I go home and put on my sweats and make coffee and sit in my comfy chair and work at home.
Then at 5 pm, I put my work clothes back on, trying like mad to remember what I had on that morning, including tracking down all the jewelry I have taken off during the day. I get in the car and drive to my mom’s house and tell her I had a nice day at the office.
The day I forgot and dyed my hair on my lunch hour was a little sketchy, but Mom didn’t seem to notice. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything.
I’m doing it because my mom needs the dog. She has visitors sometimes, of course, but Goldie really helps her make it through the days when she is all alone.
And I can’t tell her I am working at home because she’d insist I not bring the dog over because she would want ME to be able to spend time with my dog.
It’s insanity, but it’s a good kind of insanity.
Ok ok ok
Quit fooling around with the template. Just start blogging. You know how.
(Looks up).
Oh, hey, hi! Thanks for coming over. This is my new place. Red Stapler grew up and got its own apartment! Welcome. Make yourself at home. Sure you can put your feet up on the furniture. You don’t mind that it is covered in fur, do you? That’s why they CALL it “fur”niture. Haha, old joke, I know.
No, that wasn’t me. That was Goldie. I don’t know what she eats that makes her do that.
Can you crack that window open? A little more. Ok. Thanks.
My Happy Place at Creative Alliance 10 in Ojai, which inspired me to do a couple things, including finally getting my own URL
