As a multi-faceted personality, I thought you might enjoy hearing about the occasional scrapes I get into.
My Keys and The Toilet
I like to gussy up old furniture. New furniture doesn’t quite meet my standards. Because of that, my daughter, Blue Eyes, and I went to the thrift store one Saturday. We visited two stores, and we were on our way to a third when we stopped for lunch.
Today, ladies’ jeans have tiny pockets. The pockets are so small that they can only hold a tube of ChapStick securely. While visiting the restroom at the restaurant, I flushed my keys down the toilet. In my defense, the jeans were to blame.
The toilet in the restaurant had amazing and powerful suction. As I watched, my keys were sucked down to the sewer so fast that I couldn’t have caught them if my hand were in the toilet when they hit the water. I screamed, “Nooooooo!”
When I sat down, back at the table, I said to Blue Eyes. “You know, this day has been kinda rough.” I wait. While I’m talking, he’s reading the menu. I start again, “Dear, you need to listen to me. This is important.” He drags his eyes away from the menu, obviously hungry. “So today’s been rough. First, I spilled three-quarters of my coffee on the floor at St. Vincent de Paul. Then, I thought I lost my ring, but really, I’d accidentally put it on the wrong finger. And now, I just flushed my keys down the toilet.” His eyes were partially glazed over, bored, and probably thinking about a burger and fries, but at the last sentence, his eyes snapped open, “You what? Why didn’t you lead with, ‘I flushed my keys down the toilet?’ It could be in the trap. Has anybody else used the toilet since you were in there?” Feeling chastised, I said, “I don’t think so.”
“Go get the manager,” he said. “I’m going to pull the toilet.” I assumed “pull the toilet” was a technical phrase that meant unscrewing it from the floor and lifting it to look underneath. Seeing as the day had already gone south, and knowing better than to tell someone who can be as stubborn as a mule how to do his job, I went to find the manager.
The hostess gave me the “Are you trying to make me work?” look. I said, “Uh, so, I accidentally flushed my keys down the toilet. My husband is a plumber. He wants to know if it’s okay for him to pull the toilet to look for them.” She gives me a look like, “Really? Today?” I smile and wait. She sighs, “Okay, yeah, let me get the manager.” She walks off looking for her.
The manager and I head for the bathroom. Blue Eyes asks, “Can I pull the toilet? I wanna see if her keys are in the trap.” The manager and plumber argue for a minute. The manager looks at me. I shrug. What do I know about pulling toilets? I know about surrendering possessions. That’s it. “I guess so,” she says.
And so, even though I’m positive my keys are in Siberia, I stand guard at the bathroom door while Blue Eyes pulls the toilet off the floor and verifies that yes, my keys are long, long gone.
It turned out fine. We spent a few extra hours driving home in his truck to get a spare key and back to get the car. The good news was that 1) I had a spare key, and 2) I found it. I also tend to misplace things. I never lose them, though. Oops, at that, Blue Eyes almost blew coffee out of his nose.
Kitchen Fire
After Blue Eyes and I got married, I helped him and his son pack to move in with us. My job was to pack the kitchen. I had to pack the usual kitchen items: dishes, mixing bowls, and so on. I wrapped the breakables in newspaper. I had a little assembly line set up. Newspapers on my left. Dishes on my right. Beoxes on the floor.
At one point, Blue Eyes ran into the kitchen yelling, “Lucy! Lucy, something’s burning!” I turn, and the newspapers are in flames. The newspapers were sitting on top of the stove. It’s a gas stove. One of my superpowers is I create accidents when others cannot. I managed to depress the knob with my butt and ignite the gas without hearing the clicking or smelling the smoke.
I have a rare talent for starting potentially catastrophic vents in motion. Yet, to date, I have managed to escape with mere scrapes and bruises.
Bras & Paper Clips
I am, shall we say, well-endowed in the upper region. Because of this endowment, I have trouble finding bras with straps that fit properly. My bra straps are constantly situated between my shoulders and my elbows. If I wear a t-shirt, my straps hang below my sleeves.
“Throw them away,” my friend says. If I threw them away, I wouldn’t have enough bras to last a week. On our honeymoon, I asked Blue Eyes to tie a ribbon around the straps in the back to keep them together, the straps that is.
This method worked so well that the next time I was at work, wearing one of those bras, I decided to use it again. I chose to use paperclips to cinch the straps, as I had no ribbon. I daisy-chained five paper clips together. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
In the bathroom, I broke one of the paperclips. I was fairly certain that four paper clips would not be enough, but since I was already half undressed, I decided to forge ahead. While sitting on the toilet, I fastened the paper clips to my straps. I pulled the bra on over my head. I knew immediately that it would be a tight fit, but I continued. I managed to get the bra over my head, but I could only pull it down halfway. The bra kept riding up. Taking the bra and paperclips off was difficult. The bra got stuck around my elbows and the paperclips got stuck in my hair. Now, I’m sitting on the toilet, at work, my arms stuck up in the air and paper clips pulling my hair out.
At first, I was pissed off and swearing freely. Then I realized another woman could walk into the bathroom and wonder what the heck I was doing sitting on the toilet swearing like a sailor. Then I remembered I was at work, sitting on the toilet, half-naked, in my ill-fitting bra, with paper clips pulling out my hair, and I started to snicker and laugh. I still couldn’t get my hands in the right position to grab my bra and pull it off. But, eventually, I bent the paperclips enough to get them free of the straps and my hair. Yes, I have a gift. It’s a family heirloom.
The Bunk Bed
When my daughter was young, I lay with her until she fell asleep. Many times, I fell asleep with her. It was hard not to in her warm, safe, cozy little bunk bed. On one such night, I woke up at 3:00 a.m. I butt walked to the edge of the bed. Here “butt walk” means to move forward one butt cheek at a time. Her bunk bed was very sturdy. I went down the ladder with my body facing out. I didn’t want to turn around, because I was afraid I would wake her. At the end of the bed, I put my left leg on the ladder. When I started down the ladder, I realized, too late, that my right foot was tangled in the bedding.
I can’t really say how it happened, but I performed a perfect pirouette in mid-air. I spun around, struck my right eye on the shelf attached to the bunk bed, and landed flat on my back, unable to breathe. As I lay on the floor of my daughter’s room, air rushing back into my lungs, I realized that had I been injured, say, lying in a pool of blood, no one would have found me till morning. Not a soul woke up.
Needless to say, despite the volumes written to the contrary, I did not scar my daughter by sleeping with her. She sleeps very soundly.