Category: Friends and Other Strangers

IN ANTICIPATION OF THE VISCOUNTESS’ WEDDING

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Today I begin the countdown to the wedding of the century. Why today? Because I’ve been back from France for over a week and I need something to live for.

Okay, maybe it’s not the wedding of the century, but it is definitely THE wedding for the month of October. My friend, the Viscountess,  a real one, mind you, is marrying a lovely British bloke. They are traveling to the states from their home in England, and the nuptials will take place around Naples, (Florida) basically. The theme? Great Gatsby, of course.

If it were just a tad cooler, I could wear a mink stole along with a long strand of pearls,(knotted), and a headband of rhinestones. Maybe an ostrich feather. Rumor has it that boas will be making an appearance. The feathered ones, not the ones you tend to find in Florida swamps. At least, I hope that’s the case. If not, I’ve read the wrong Great Gatsby.

So how is it that I’ve come to know a Viscountess? Through my late friend, Leah. Leah could always be counted on to introduce me to all sorts of things that could get me into trouble and/or be way too much fun. Or both. The vodka luge, for instance. Cosmo’s Bar. Mid-afternoon movies. Allowing her too many martinis, thus engaging the “grab your face when you’re not paying attention and give you a quick smack on the lips, Leah.” So, it just follows that she would be responsible for the Viscountess and her fiancée.

Well done, my friend.

We are very much looking forward to what promises to be a highly entertaining and moving event. A love story in our midst. An ocean, a house party, and Great Gatsby.

I feel like Walter Weinschel, ready to get the scoop on the fabulous guests.

Will other royalty attend the wedding?

Will there be drama?

Will we get tipsy and go in search of boas?

Only time will tell. And only if I get the okay to “report” from the bride and groom. They SHOULD have some say in this after all. Otherwise, I cannot be the official gossip columnist of the wedding of the month!

Meanwhile, I better book my flight or I’ll miss the whole thing.

GONE FISHING

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Due to the hotels in France being a little pickier than Wales about who gets free wifi access and who gets charged, I have been on a real vacation – with no blog diaries of our adventures. Probably works out for the best as I have no idea what I’m saying half the time here anyway.  My instinct says “translate english to french,” my brain responds, “What? Since when do we speak french. Have we met??”  My mouth opens and “Uuuhhhhhh…” comes out, followed by a spontaneous and somewhat frightening “Bon jour!” After that I’ve forgotten what I wanted to ask anyway.

I am currently waiting on delivery of a bucket of ice, as the hotel doesn’t let you fetch your own. Royalty. It’s a tough life. 

Anyway, I’m keeping notes on my apparently very expensive and data draining cell phone, and will hope to upload photos of the sites and a few traveler’s tales ASAP.

A few teasers:

1. I lose Robert on a boat that is probably 20 feet across and one deck.

2. A pickpocket approaches.

3. My clothing gets a cab ride.

4. Robert does on the grounds at Versailles what many have probably wanted to do.

AU REVOIR SANITY

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Warning: this post is all over the place. The impending departure has obviously produced ADD symptoms. I stop and start more times than…something that stops and starts a lot. <Fail.>

Saturday: We leave soon for Paris! My guest bedroom is covered in clothing, suitcases and shoes. Robert is color coding our itinerary so I know what to select from this hodge-podge of a wardrobe.

Work was challenging Friday, as it always is when you prepare to go on vacation. You try to wrap up all those loose ends, but have short-timers and are completely unable to focus. The fact that well-wishing co-workers stopped by regularly to speak to me in French or advise me how to carry my purse so as to minimize the chance of it being stolen didn’t help matters.

I have received thought-provoking hand written notes on our infamous itinerary from those co-workers who frequent Paris. I appreciate their advice and comments more than I can say – for a variety of reasons. Not the least of which was the comic relief. “Seems a long way to go to smoke a “j,” noted beside one particular destination will keep me laughing for days. I believe we have crossed that off the list. (The cemetery where Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde reside.)

I’ve been told to not bother speaking French, as it will just tick them off, but would like to at least be able to say please, thank you, you’re welcome, good day and such.  I’m having trouble with the “you’re welcome” or “no problem,” but have considered it and concluded no Parisian will be thanking me for anything anyway, most likely. Unless it’s for leaving. Perhaps a curtsy will suffice in a pinch.

Sunday: I stopped writing yesterday and went back to packing. I’m glad I did because I discovered there was NO WAY IN HELL all these clothes were going into one bag. I haven’t even started on the evening wear! Last night I borrowed a second from my in-laws and will be loading that up as well. The fact that I will still, no doubt, stand in the hotel room each morning crying, “I have nothing to wear!” should make Robert’s head explode. What’s a wife for, anyway?

<Time lapse.>

I have just spent an hour online researching cheese course etiquette. I have serious mental problems. Cheese course etiquette is now my greatest concern. Sigh.

I would like to offer a special note of thanks to my adorable marketing team (with whom I work – not who market me) for supplying a collection of scarves, cardigans and belts to take on my trip. I am not really an accessories girl, so they are responsible for pulling my whole “I’m not a tourist, I am actually French” look together. And it is a “look.” Once I open my mouth, it’s all over.

They are also to blame for my two suitcase situation, because now half my suitcase is full of scarves, cardigans and belts.

And finally, in a semi-awkward segue, say hello to the Flat Marketing team. My companions, (in addition to Robert) on this adventure. If I can fit them in the suitcase, that is.

BALLPARK ADVENTURES

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I went to a Texas Rangers game last night – courtesy of a friend who has season tickets and couldn’t attend. I caught a lucky break, as the temperature for the day only reached the mid-90s, therefore, it was actually bearable (although still not what I would call pleasant) in our shaded seats.

 

As it happened, we parked on the opposite side of the ballpark from where those seats were located, so we began our evening with a trek through the throngs of humanity lurching about the stadium in search of sustenance, bathrooms, or a good cell signal. As we waited in line for a beer, I caught a whiff of 5-day old cigarette-sweat, beer, and unfulfilled potential.

Ah, humanity. Thanks for reminding me why I stay home so much.

Once in our seats I was diverted by all the good people-watching around me. The couple in front of me with a little boy who had zero interest in the game at hand, but was totally focused on the game IN his hand – his mother’s iPhone. He was also really good at being belligerent.

Behind me, a woman kept asking her date if there wasn’t some sort of time limit on how long a pitcher could take to throw the ball in the direction of the batter, rather than sending five tosses to first base in an attempt to get the runner out as he took a lead toward second. She refused to believe his answer. 

Then there was the guy in the row in front of us to the far left. Rather than trying to squeeze past the very large individuals on HIS row, he decided I looked easier to get past, so climbed up to our row each time he exited. Didn’t matter if I had a lap full of food and drink myself, while they had nothing in their laps except their laps.

The second time he scooted past me resulted in my wearing a bit of the melted cheese I had been inhaling in a very unladylike manner. He’s lucky I didn’t trip him. One should not get between me and melted cheese. (Or whatever that orange glop is they put on nachos at the ballpark.) The window for eating ballpark nachos is a small one. The cheese has to still be hot enough to not reveal that it is really some sort of petroleum by-product, and the chips should still resemble chips and not wilted disks of cardboard. Once the first 3 minutes have passed, the magic spell is broken and you realize what you’re doing to yourself.  

During the “kiss cam” portion of the night’s entertainment, a proposal took place. The camera angle was terrible – the Rangers’ mascot was holding up a sign we couldn’t read, because we were looking at the back of it. Before the poor guy on bended knee could get a yes or no, the director must have lost interest because he moved on to what I think was a mother and son, whose expressions revealed utter and complete horror; the same look I would be sporting if they found me sucking the cheese off the front of my shirt.

At the end of the evening, the Rangers had won (barely) and I could sense what felt like  cellophane making its way through my veins.

THE OLYMPICS AND OTHER DIVERSIONS

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I am writing this for the moment instead of doing the work I should be doing over the weekend so my work week doesn’t kill me. But what I really want to do is watch the opening ceremony of the Olympics. I caught a glimpse every now and then last night while visiting with the Duchess and Max, and was giggly each time I was able to identify a place I had been while in London. “Look!” I’d squeal and jump up and down (carefully, so as to not spill my chardonnay) waving toward the TV, “I was THERE!” I would turn toward where the Duchess and Max were hunched over a computer screen at the kitchen bar and stare at the backs of their heads while they ignored me completely, or looked up long enough to say “What?” Then went back to what they were doing. I was not feeling the Olympic love.

The Olympics – you either love them, hate them, or feel “meh” about them. Kind of like Angelina Jolie. At my house we have a sort of Olympic war. Robert despises the Olympics. I think he actually used the word “hate.” He hates the sob stories. He hates the announcers. He hates the sports. He clicked past the ping-pong competition today and looked at me disdainfully, “Oh look! We can watch some ping-pong.” I have to admit, I felt embarrassed.

Due to his deep-seated animosity for the event, and my “meh” attitude about many of the areas of competition, I have become accustomed to skipping them. But this year is different. I am really interested in the games because… well, after visiting Wales and London last year, I now feel a sense of ownership. Or companionship. Something like that.

I recorded the ceremony that re-ran at 1:30 AM and am looking forward to popping open a bottle of champagne this evening and saying witty things to amuse myself in my empty room. This morning I went on Facebook and couldn’t believe what I’d missed. Sandy was in her usual rare form, as was her friend (and my Facebook pal because his sense of humor is unmatched), Doug.

Sandy has decided to start her own country so she can march in the parade. Watch for Sandonia in the next opening ceremony. Perhaps Sandy will let me be on the curling team, as that is the only sport I believe I could do while holding a glass of wine.

I have to say the gold medal for FB commentary goes to Doug. I can’t wait to watch and see if I agree with some of these classics: “Ukraine wins the silly hat award,” “Nicaragua is dressed as Sigma Chi fraternity, circa 1987,” and “Estonia looked like they were all dressed as Absolut Vodka.” My favorite: “Liechtenstein looks like they picked up their uniforms at Penney’s on the way to the stadium.”

Ouch. And I thought the best part of the ceremony was supposed to be all the hubbub at the beginning, with the skydiving Queen and such. Silly me. I’ve just never watched the parade portion with the right crowd before.

The right crowd being people I’ve never met in person before, but who crack me up.

I better start practicing my curling now so I’ll be ready for the Winter games.

WHY WE HATE JULY

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I know people are going to get tired of this, but it is that time of year again when Ann goes dark. I don’t mean that I’m getting too much sun. I mean I’m getting introspective and “judgy.”

The second anniversary of my father’s death is the 25th of July, and my friend Leah passed away at a terribly young age from breast cancer on the 26th. It would be great if and when those dates slide right by me and I realize afterward that I missed them completely, but for now, it’s still too new and I still catch myself making a mental note to tell one or the other of them something funny before I recall I can’t.

On July 23rd of 2010, Eric, Leah’s husband, was posting this on Caring Bridge – “Leah is holding on. Her strength is still keeping her going. She is much the same as she was this morning. She has zero pain. She is sleeping well. We still expect her to pass at any moment, but it could be another day or two I guess.

“Teagan,” (side note from me: Leah’s 5-year-old daughter) “stopped by today. I was concerned that this could go horribly wrong. It didn’t. It went well. Teagan gave her a few hugs and kisses. She seemed to be okay with the fact that Leah is not really here anymore, and will not be here at all soon.

Guess what else? You won’t guess it, so I’ll tell you. The room that Leah is in was also Tom Landry’s room. Tom Landry was the first coach of the Cowboys, and stayed the coach for 29 seasons, winning two of the Cowboys 5 super bowls and inventor of the 4-3 defense. Tom Landry is idolized in this part of the country, and a stretch of Interstate 30 between Dallas and Fort Worth is called Tom Landry Highway. Also of note: he was interred at Sparkman-Hillcrest, which is where we will have Leah’s services. So, Tom led the way, and is probably waiting to guide Leah. I told her this. Perhaps that is why she is holding out. She would rather it be a Redskin-affiliated angel.”

It’s amazing that Eric was able to find any opportunity to make light. They are lucky they have pages and pages of notes on Caring Bridge – from 2008 until 2010 – of Leah’s (and Eric’s) experiences and hopes. (Although still having Leah would be far superior.) Those who choose to can go back through the full two years of posts and hear her voice in every line and wisecrack.

Frustratingly opposite of that was my father, who departed so quickly there wasn’t a chance to prepare. What we did wind up with is a mystery that still fascinates and frustrates me. My father always jotted things down or doodled. Apparently, after his stroke, as they were wheeling him into the ER, he was unable to talk but was signaling my stepmother with his hand – moving his thumb like he was holding a pen and clicking it.

My stepmother handed him a pen and notepad. What followed was 11 pages of testimony to his rapid deterioration. I have stared at these pages a hundred times and still can’t decide if he knew what was happening and was frustrated by his inability to communicate it, or if he was – I don’t know – just trying to ask for his eye glasses or medicine out of the tote bag that he mentions. From what I see on these pages, it looks as though he is writing the word “brain” a lot. Several notes repeat “VOF tote bag.” That’s a bag with the Voices of Freedom logo on it. I think he asks for a pencil. Perhaps the pen wasn’t writing well upside down?

At one point he seems to give up writing and starts drawing. I can see a head and an arrow pointing to the back of it. Maybe that’s where he felt the stroke had taken place? There was also some supposition that he was trying to write DNR.

It doesn’t matter how many times I review them; they aren’t going to tell me a story, or explain what he was thinking or feeling. What they amount to is frustration. I’m looking for clues where there are none. What could he possibly have conveyed at that point that needs additional study?

I’m just glad he had a chance to try to communicate. I don’t even carry a functioning pen in my purse, much less paper. If I’d been with him, he’d have been scribbling with a tube of lipstick on a deposit slip – or an old receipt. (Note to self: start carrying pens and note pads.)

Who knows – maybe someday we will find someone who can break apart the layers of writing and they’ll find something that really surprises us. Like the number of a bank account in Switzerland…

Hmmmm. Maybe that’s what is in the VOF tote bag.

In conclusion: Everybody keep it together out there. We’re almost through the month.

PRELUDE TO A REVIEW OF ROCK OF AGES

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My husband entered me in a contest to win tickets to a pre-screening of “Rock of Ages,” which was strange because he had no interest whatsoever in seeing it – which must mean he wanted me out of the house so he could play his new Rush CD over and over again at ear-splitting decibel levels, or “11” as he and Spinal Tap like to say.

I believe when I originally told him I wanted to see the movie he said, “That is every band and every song that I absolutely hate.” Go figure. I however, am quite fond of Night Ranger, Whitesnake, Bon Jovi AND Def Leppard, so when he told me I had actually WON two tickets I was PUMPED. Until I realized I needed to find someone to go with. But then I had a brilliant idea. Since Sandy lives too far away to play on a “school night,” I called… MAX!

So, our guest reviewer on 2fortheshow this week is the adorable, talented, creative, multi-faceted, Max.

On a side note, Max has a little trouble with his filter regarding what you should and shouldn’t say in public. We had been in the theater about 5 minutes when I realized the best part of the show was going to be him. As other contest winners and “regular people,” began strolling into the theater, I was treated to a running commentary on attire, nationality, cleanliness and personal appearance in general. While Max snarkily commented about buses, subtitles and Bosnia (don’t ask), I attempted to hum or cough to block the hearing of the gentleman directly to my right whom I felt wasn’t happy to be there in the first place and just MIGHT be happy to kick somebody’s butt. And I’m pretty sure Max is not a fighter.

And THEN, the movie promotions company did the unthinkable. They decided to host an air guitar contest. I think this was intended to up the energy in the auditorium prior to the movie viewing, which made me immediately suspicious. I typically enjoy movies WITHOUT needing a warm up act. So Max and I huddled in our seats trying to become invisible, which we successfully managed, as neither was chosen as an air guitarist.

Try to contain your disappointment.

They chose people based on whether they looked like 1980s roadies. If I had been selected it would have been the second worst insult of the week. The first being the comparison of myself with Carole the receptionist from the original Bob Newhart Show. But I digress.

For the next 15 minutes (or lifetime), however you prefer to see it, we watched 5 people be publicly humiliated, then rewarded with barely a smattering of applause. We should have just voted on which one we thought really HAD been a roadie. They were eventually given t-shirts with the name of Tom Cruise’s fake “Rock of Ages” band on it – Arsenal. Max predicts they will never see the light of day.

Everyone settled back into their seats, and they dimmed the lights to start the film…

To be continued on 2fortheShow, as soon as Max and I finish writing the review.

Now THAT’s a teaser.

Insert air guitar solo here. And take a look at the preview, if you haven’t seen it yet.

SUPER

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Since superheroes are in the air lately (The Avengers), I started thinking, which is often dangerous, and realized I know enough superheroes to make up my own band of Avengers.

First, there’s The Viscountess – (Not a nickname, but a real Viscountess.) The Viscountess flew thousands of miles back and forth from the UK to Dallas, eventually sitting vigil virtually around the clock at the side of her dearest friend as she lost the battle against breast cancer. The Viscountess acted as protector, keeper of sacred confidences, guard, and eventually as the voice for our Leah when she could no longer speak for herself. This was not a glamorous job, nor was it easy. It took strength, courage and determination. I also believe, had she the power to fly, the Viscountess would have circled the Earth at such a speed as to reverse time.

Next, we have The Duchess – (Which IS a nickname.) The Duchess doesn’t even like to be tagged in Facebook status updates.) If you love animals, The Duchess is the superhero for you. The woman has rescued more dogs than I can count. And I don’t mean by adopting them from a pound. I mean, she is driving down the street in her “alter ego” costume – designer suit and heels, when out of the corner of her eye she sees a four-legged furry critter darting through yards and headed directly toward a traffic-heavy street or highway. At this point, The Duchess slams her SUV into park and with superhuman speed, chases down the dog, (in her heels – through rocky terrain, sometimes across fields, and several times through a cemetery.) After snagging the cavorting canine, she contacts the grateful owner, and with a wave of her manicured hand, drives off into the sunset leaving a relieved owner and happy dog behind. Most recently, the rescuee was a 17-year old basset hound – almost completely deaf and blind – that was trotting steadily down the street at dusk. The Duchess admits her superhuman speed wasn’t needed in this case, as Humphrey wasn’t particularly spry, but still… a rescue is a rescue.

(Not actually Humphrey, but she was too busy rescuing to snap a pic.)

My mother is on this hero list. She drives back and forth – over 30 miles each way, at LEAST once a week and often more, while still not 100% recovered from a broken pelvis, to see to the care of her 95+ year-old mother. My aunt and uncle are similarly engaged in witnessing, managing, and trying to somehow ease the winding down of their mother’s life. And as you know, superheroes don’t always work that smoothly together. Even in the best of times. And this is a process that is, as one would imagine, emotionally exhausting, frustrating, sometimes unbearably sad, and underappreciated. At other times, it appears Grandmother must be a superhero herself, who will outlive us all.

I also have a mother-in-law who volunteers at the homeless shelter when she could simply write a check and not get personally involved. My father-in-law does his part by allowing her to smile upon these downtrodden souls. She also tutors kids who probably don’t have anyone at home who cares whether they complete their studies or not.

The littlest superhero of all has been undergoing chemo since January. He is doing well, and the prognosis is as good as it can be, which is a 90%+ chance the villain will not be seen again. While battling cancer he has managed, at the age of three, to master bike riding (sans training wheels), and to maintain his charmingly happy personality.

There are plenty of other superheros I know. In their alter ego existence that are taking the first tentative steps into the caregiver role for aging parents. Others are squaring off against depression, loneliness, health problems, or loss. Thank goodness they have the super powers of optimism, humor, grace under pressure, and loyalty in their arsenal. (Not to mention STYLE.)

If I could, I would have a cape made for each and every one of you.

REST ASSURED

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I was thinking about death recently -because that’s one of the weird things I do – and I had a strange vision of my funeral. My husband had selected the music for the service, resulting in a medley involving Rush and the Foo Fighters.

That’s when I came up with a genius idea: Rest Assured.

In the “As Seen on TV” ad for Rest Assured, we’d freeze frame as the Geddy Lee vocal goes full throttle into “Fly by Night,” then a trusted celebrity pitchman (maybe someone like Dan Aykroyd in Driving Miss Daisy) would step into frame and say, “Don’t let this happen to you.”

DAN: Do your loved ones know what you want when you’re gone? Do they know what music you’d like at your funeral? What flowers? What type of casket? Can they compose an obituary?

(Dan looks directly into camera doubtfully.)

DAN: Do they even KNOW your birthday? Really? (He shakes his head.) Do they know if you want to be buried, cremated, shot off in a firework, or donated? Do they know what you want to wear? No. They don’t. Trust me, I’m an actor. Your family knows none of this. That’s why we’re offering you, Rest Assured. Rest Assured is the all-in-one kit that assures you a funeral that won’t make you die of shame.

(Dan makes his way over to a small table that holds a decorative box.)

DAN: The Rest Assured kit includes a questionnaire that asks the pertinent questions your family needs answered before you croak. And, best of all, it’s in the form of a game, so you can make your wishes clear while enjoying a little light-hearted competition.

If you purchase now, you’ll also receive this companion mini-kit, Friends to the End. The mini-kit contains a key ring, trash bags and notebook. Give this kit to a trusted friend who will act on your behalf in case you’re taken from this world unprepared. ‘Unprepared’ meaning you didn’t have advanced notice and need your friend, upon notification of your death, to race to your home, use the house key you’ll have attached to the key ring, and follow the instructions, also noted here.

(Dan taps the notebook and smiles.)

DAN: …Important instructions like, open drawer to bedside table and remove anything battery operated, inflatable, or ingestible. Go to spare bedroom closet and remove box of videos, magazines and DVDS. Go to kitchen drawer and remove emergency ‘cigarettes’ and matches. Place empty wine/vodka bottles in neighbor’s recycle bin.

That’s right. Friends to the End enables your friend to protect your reputation after your death. Think about it. Your family members rummaging through your possessions. Think hard. Do you want that? Haven’t they been traumatized enough by your death? Do they need to know about your late night snack stash? Your collection of attractive yet impractical women’s shoes? No.

Do they need to read your journal? ABSOLUTELY not.

That’s why you need Rest Assured, and the companion mini-kit, Friends to the End.

(CUT to Dan looking sympathetic.)

DAN: What would YOU pay for peace of mind?

FADE TO BLACK.

_____________________________

Great idea, right?

I KNOW.

A few sample questions included in the Rest Assured kit include:

Where do you hide the GOOD jewelry?

What is the combination to your lock box? Do you have money hidden in Swiss Banks?

What’s your favorite flower? (List names and colors.)

Who do you want to give the eulogy at your funeral? (What if that so-called friend of yours – the one with no brain-to-mouth filter decides to tell the Vegas story?)

Do you really want to spend eternity in a suit? Wouldn’t jeans be more comfortable?

What kind of casket do you want? Wood? Fiberglass? Eco-friendly? Decorative?

Where do you want to be buried – or scattered? (Do you think it’s wise to trust your kids to keep you safe in an urn on the mantel?)

Bag pipe or non-bag pipe interment?

Music: Rainbow Connection or Highway to Hell?

Amazing Grace?

Gloria?

THESE are questions that, once you’re gone, some funeral director will fire at your bereaved relatives. And they’ll HAVE to answer. Even if they don’t know. THINK ABOUT THAT. If it scares you silly, place your order now. Operators are standing by.

If you don’t get things sorted out now, you could end up the victim of an overly enthusiastic funeral director with an overstock of these:

It could happen.

SHOP ‘TIL YOU DROP

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Each morning of my work week I get up, shower, brush my teeth and step into the abyss that is my closet and think, “Who is this person and why does she dress like this?”

How have I reached this age without having a style that I’m happy with? Seriously. Why is this so hard? I need help. And a personal stylist. And a shopper. And possibly medication.

I approach shopping like most people approach the dentist’s office. It has to be done. It’s going to be uncomfortable and probably even painful. It’s going to cost more than I thought. There will be bad news, and there may be blood. There will definitely be an urge to spit.

There’s something about all the options or the way the stores are laid out that elicits an impending sense of doom in me. All those racks and racks of clothes stare at me, mocking, “You will never sort through us and find the hidden items that are flattering and make you feel good.”

“I know,” I whimper in response, starting up the aisle as though I’m taking the steps to the guillotine.

For this reason I tend to shop maybe once a year, or every two years. You can see why this is not a good solution. If I were shopping regularly, like normal people, I might pick up items here and there – accessories, maybe a blouse to toss into the rotation. But that’s not how I work. That would imply I know what I am shopping FOR, which is the whole problem. I have NO IDEA what I need, or what style I wish to adopt. My standards are low. “Is it clothing? Yes. Is it dry clean only? No. Does it fit? Sort of. SOLD.”

Many years ago, my dear friend, Sandy, attempted an intervention. She shoved me into a dressing room, said, “Stay there and try to keep the whimpers to a minimum. You’re scaring people.” She then did whatever it is people do to make selections from all those rack and racks of clothes and began hurling items over the top of the door for me to try. If I protested, she would say, “JUST TRY IT.” I complied. After all, what else could I do in that little room with all the mirrors and the bad lighting? Karaoke?

After about two hours of this, which included probably more cussing on my part than was absolutely necessary (think Linda Blair in The Exorcist), I emerged with 4-5 outfits for work. Crossing my heart and hoping to die, I swore that I would return for casual clothes at a later date, (never) and off we went to reward me with a nice adult beverage.

If only I could have that service on a monthly basis. Isn’t there someone out there who will drag me out of the house on weekends, force me into a mall, lock me in a dressing room and toss clothing at me? Is that too much to ask? Doesn’t that sound like tons of fun? When was the last time someone called you vile names in public?

Imagine bringing a feral cat into your house to give it a bath. The growling, the hissing, the spitting, the scratching. You could have all that with me. Without the rabies.

So, who’s in?