Friday, March 11, 2011

Do You Know Where Your Lip Gloss Has Been?

Do You Know Where Your Lip Gloss Has Been?

My mother taught me, with the exception of my sister or best friend, not to use other people’s cosmetics. But who hasn’t stood at the mirror in the lady’s room on a Saturday night and swiped foreign lipstick across their mouth without thinking twice about it? But as a rule I’ve followed her advice pretty closely- until yesterday. Where do you draw the line of association? What if the lip gloss belongs to a co-worker? Harmless, right?

Wrong! In my defense, I have to say right now, that my spidey senses told me not to do it. It was just one of those things that you know intuitively. But I’m also the type of person who takes pains not to offend, and often end up being tactful to the point of abandoning good judgment. Ok, yes, a follower.

From this point on, the names have been changed to protect the innocent- and the bizarre.

Janine is a wonderfully friendly and exuberant woman I’ve worked with for about a month. She has an attractive face, long flowing dark hair, and an hour glass figure leaning a little toward Ruben-esk. She is exuberent, but seemingly innocent at the same time.

On my way to the break room one day, I joined another co-worker, Debra in a tête-à-tête at her desk. Janine was applying lip gloss from a container the size of a one pound Noxema jar. She offered some to each of us. We both declined. Then I got a whiff of a yummy strawberry scent. Hmmm, my lips WERE rather dry.

“Ok, I’ll try some.”

Monday, March 7, 2011

Blame it on the Gods

When the ancient Greeks came upon some unexplainable phenomenon, they found a very convenient solution: Blame it on the Gods

Crop failure, drought, losing a war, failure to produce a male heir, you name it. Helen of Troy even blamed her love for Paris (the young, handsome, playboy Greek, not the city) on the Goddess Aphrodite. Legend has it that her husband even bought that excuse hook, line and sinker. When not fighting amongst themselves, the Greek Gods and Goddesses were known to enjoy causing mischief in the lives of mortals, and then watching how they either coped, or - if the humans were clever enough - got out of the scrapes the Gods kept getting them into.
Talk about no accountability.

Today when life throws us a curve ball, we have a different explanation. Instead of blaming it on the Gods, we call it “S*#@ Happens”.

While I personally subscribe to the “one god” philosophy in my spiritual life, I find that STUFF HAPPENS to me a lot!

My mechanic just called me with the repair estimates. Wouldn’t you know it? What I had hoped (not very realistically) would be a simple brake pad replacement turns out to be a rotor replacement as well. We all know what that means. How could this be, I asked? I brought my car in as soon as I noticed a problem. Shouldn’t there have been some warning sign before that awful set-your-teeth-on-edge grinding that reverberates all the way up your spine every time you even tap the breaks? I asked the expert. He said there should be metal tabs that cause a loud screeching when the break pads are worn down to a certain point, but before there is rotor damage. I guess my car did not get the memo. And since I never heard this very distinctive sound that would have saved me a couple hundred dollars; what we think happened was those metal tabs “somehow” broke off. (I have a theory about this I’ll get to in a minute).

So it appears that the car gods have not been smiling on me all year. Not too long ago I paid over 2,000 dollars to replace all 6 of my engine cylinders plus “motor vacuuming” my fuel system. It was clogged with carbon build-up because of dirty fuel.

Gasp! It sounds so – so dirty! But wait - I take good care of my car. Well, I mean, as good as possible for a person who is generally ignorant of cars and all things mechanical.
Apparently, I was not using “top tier” fuels.

Oh sure, I had seen those commercials with the cute cartoon car with the long flirty eyelashes and sassy bumper. But I guess I just never connected that image with my car. My car in cartoon form would look more like Mrs. Wilson in the Dennis the Menace comic strip. You know, down to earth, mature, patient – okay, okay – old and slow. It screams “Grandma’s car” so loud that if you take a whiff near the back of the car, instead of noxious exhaust fumes, the tail pipe blasts out mouth watering aromas of fresh baked double chocolate chip cookies.

Then, a month later, my other vehicle (a mini-van, even less sexy than the Buick) came up for registration. A mysterious light on the display panel threatened to prevent it from passing emissions, unless I shelled out another 12 to 15 bills. I can just see the car gods rubbing their hands together in glee - thinking up another way to mess with me through my car. After all, I don’t have crops that can fail, and I’ve already birthed enough children (male and female) to populate a small country.

Chalk up one for the mortals, though. I found a way to temporarily make the mysterious light go away just long enough for the car to pass emissions. If not escaping this disaster, I at least postponed it. Take that you pesky car gods! (Fist pumping in the air)

But, like any good tragedy, the hero does not triumph for long. Here I am with rotor damage and there’s no escaping this time. I think the metal tab thingies broke off when a driver with either very poor timing or very delayed motor skills – pulled out in front of me suddenly and I had to slam on the breaks. I don’t claim to be a mechanic, or even play one on TV, but that was the day the grinding started.

The war’s not over yet, I realize, as I write the check. As long as I refuse to pay new car prices for a more reliable vehicle, I’m sure the car gods and I will continue to do battle.