Single white ankle sock with pink trim seeks mate of the same description.
     Must love tennis.
     AND
     Seeking: Unmatched argyle with character.
     Toe reinforcement a plus.
     OR
     Sexy thigh high seeks slinky mate for evening rendezvous. 
     Rips, runs or tears need not apply.  

     2) All Mexican restaurants should convert to electronic menus equipped with a menu-specific search engine. The customer would type in the items they want on their plate (taco, chile relleno, tostada, rice, beans), and the number of the combination containing these items would appear. This highly efficient system would revolutionize the industry by simplifying customer selection and cutting down on the quantity of special orders. This would also completely eliminate embarassing mispronunciations of foreign foods.

     3) An Emergency Lane at 24-hour stores like Wal-Mart or Kroger. We have all abided by the code of the 15 Items or Less Lane, which I think means that we deserve an Emergency Lane for good behavior. The 24-hour Emergency Lane would provide lightning-speed checkout for people in the midst of crisis, i.e., First Aid Kits, batteries or toilet paper. Obviously, special dispensation would have to be allowed for new mothers, or husbands running errands on national holidays. While the Emergency Lane may go unused for hours at a stretch, customers would appreciate it in their time of need. Let’s face it; no one buys a plunger at two in the morning without having a serious problem on their hands.

Hope! – The Obama Musical Story

     Please, please watch the video clip. You will thank me later.

Me: Hi, I need to buy a car charger for my phone.
Aziz: I have.
Me: Excellent! Thank you so much.
Aziz: There you go. (he hands me a phone battery)
Me: No, not a battery. I would like a charger.
Aziz: This will charge phone.
Me: Yes, but I want something that I can plug in. To my car.
Aziz: This is battery.
Me: I already have a battery.
Aziz: But it no work. 

          You have to agree with his logic. Yes, I could have bought a new battery, but it was the principle of the thing. I’m stubborn and I want what I want. I wanted Aziz to give me a charger.

Me: My battery will work once I charge it. I would like to buy a charger.
Aziz: Ah, okie dokie. (unlocks kiosk display case) There you go. (hands me a wall charger)
Me: I hate to be picky, but I need a car charger.
Aziz: Yes. Is car charger.
Me: This is a wall charger.
Aziz: Yes. Is charger for phone.
Me: Yes, it is a charger, but not the one I need. I need one for my car. 
Aziz: I give you charger. Okie dokie?
Me: (pantomimes driving)
Aziz: Ahhhh…(rummages through kiosk drawer and pulls out a car charger)
Me: Thank you! This is perfect. (smiles encouragingly)
Aziz: Sixteen dollars. Okie dokie?
Me: Okie dokie. Debit, please.
Aziz: No! (gasps and takes a step back) For that, you must go to the Holy Land.

Me: …pardon?

Aziz: For to pay, you must first go to the Holy Land.
Me: Um…here’s my debit card.
Aziz: Please to pay cash.
Me: I don’t have any cash, just my card.
Aziz: Ah, then you must go to the Holy Land. I keep charger safe until you return. Goodbye.  

Me: I’m really lost here. What are we talking about?
Aziz: You go to Holy Land. I would take you myself, but I must stay here. Thieves, you understand…
Me: I wish.
Aziz: You will walk toward the Macy’s and you will find it.
Me: …find what?
Aziz: The Holy Land you seek.
Me: Hmm. Okie dokie.

           So, I walked towards the Macy’s, and lo and behold, I did find the Holy Land which I sought! As it turns out, The Holy Land is more than a place of pilgrimage in the middle east; it is also the name of a kiosk that sells salts from the Dead Sea and oils presumably imported from Israel. They are the only kiosk in the mall currently outfitted to process debit or credit card payments, so in order to purchase something electronically, one must first visit the Holy Land. Ironic? I think not. Hilarious? Absolutely.

Me: I would really appreciate it if you would try harder to keep our house clean.
Him: I do a lot of things, you just don’t notice.
Me: Like what?
Him: I vacuumed today.
Me: That doesn’t count.

     And it doesn’t, because we have one of those robot vacuums that zooms around the house and then returns to a docking station. Vacuuming our house is as labor intensive as turning on the television.
      His consistent and unsatisfactory reply is always the same. “I do a lot of things, you just don’t notice.” This statement is as broad and vague as a press release from the White House, and has a tendency to infuriate me. I repeat this sentence to myself ad nauseum as I clean the house, muttering under my breath like a lunatic.
     “I do a lot of things, you just don’t notice. I do a lot of things, you just don’t notice. I do a lot of things…”
     Recently, I went on strike for four days instead of the usual three. At the end of the four days, when our house looked like a setpiece from the movie Twister, I began my routine interrogation. In his always calm and affable manner, he responded with a variation on his usual theme.

Me: Do you like living in squalor? Do you?!
Him: I do a lot of things. I just don’t brag about them. 

     I don’t brag. Really. I merely take him on a tour of our house every day that I do something, kind of like a docent in a museum or a hall monitor at school. “Notice how brilliantly the mirrors shine! Observe how our floors sparkle! Look at how neatly the towels are folded – each one measuring exactly eight by twelve inches!” Some part of me truly believes that my excitement will be so contagious that he’ll want to know how I did it, and that he will begin his quest to become as awesome as I am by cleaning the toilet. 

Me: Can you please elaborate? What is it that you do?
Him: Have you ever the noticed cobwebs on the shudders outside?
Me: No.
Him: See? I do stuff.

     His list went on to contain such obscure tasks as cleaning the coils of the refrigerator, caulking the shower, planting grass in the front yard, and an exclusive at-home service that he calls ’24-hour tech support.’
     Had I really been so blind? I thought all houses came with grass. I thought that grass happened. I honestly believed that the shower had just stopped leaking and that the buzzing noise from the refrigerator had gone on vacation. It never occurred to me to wonder why.
     All this time I had badgered him about being unappreciative of my housekeeping, and I never even noticed his contributions. In retrospect, it seems silly for me to think that our microwave stayed pristine on its own, or that the faulty printer just magically fixed itself. I should have noticed, applauded, trumpeted trumpets and given foot rubs. But I was too busy painting signs for my upcoming cleaning strike to notice.
     I asked him why he never told me about these things, especially when I was in my full harpy-mode. He just shrugged his shoulders and made a grunting sound that I think meant “because I like screwing with you.”
     Now that I’m on to his little schemes, there’s no stopping my gratitude. Sometimes I thank him for made up things, just in case he had something to do with it. “Thanks for the leaves on the oak tree” I’ll say, wondering if he was responsible for putting them there. In some ways, I think he is a little upset to be getting the extra attention. As a doer of anonymous good deeds, he could listen to me gripe with a smile of self satisfaction. But now that he’s told me and I’ve told you, his cover is blown.
     If it were me, I would feel extra pressure to do more good things that nobody notices, just to keep the game going. As it is, I know that he feels no anxiety about his self-appointed chores. The silent crusader, he is happy in the knowledge that his duties will continue to be fulfilled and appreciated, even if they are not noticed.

you trip over a rock.

body seizing and lurching forward.

You wake up.

Toss. Turn. Sigh. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

ACCIDENTAL DEATH & DISMEMBERMENT COVERAGE

          Huh? Dismemberment?! Is that common? Is it accidental death and accidental dismemberment, or is it dismemberment and accidental death? Precisely how many deaths each year are classified as “intentional?” For that matter, how many dismemberments aren’t?
          So, I looked into it and discovered these fortifying morsels of information regarding the optional AD&D coverage. According to www.insurance.com, “In the event of a fatal accident or an accident that results in you losing your eyesight, speech, hearing, or a limb, AD&D will pay you or your beneficiaries a specified amount.”
          OK. This seems like a good idea. Since I, like the Boy Scouts, am always prepared, I can see the advantages to expecting the unexpected, ie, planning for the possibility of dreadful injury caused in an unexpected accident. Which is to say, injury caused in the event of any accident; accidents being, by their very nature, a surprise. The article continues: “exclusions of AD&D coverage include death during surgery…bacterial infection… risky activities such as skydiving, car racing, and involvement in a war.”
          Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Excludes death during surgery? Excuse me, but who schedules a surgery without the specific intent of prolonging or improving quality of life? That seems to me to be an accidental death. Bacterial infection? Do you know anyone who’s contracted one of those on purpose?
          Skydiving? Okay. Car racing? Eh. Involvement in a war? Excuse me, but aren’t these people at a higher risk of AD&D? Wouldn’t you rather charge them a higher premium, or make available to them a more expensive option in the event of their accidental death or dismemberment? And while we’re at it, why should military personnel be excluded?
          Or are they? 
          Upon closer examination, this clause may have nothing whatsoever to do with persons enlisted in the military, as the phrasing is very vague. “Involvement in a war.” Should this be read to imply that victims of war crimes or wartime events will not be covered under policies that have been opened in preparation for precisely this purpose? Aside from the fact that the whole insurance thing is basically a scam anyway (Hey you schmuck, pay us your hard-earned money just in case something bad happens and if it does, we’ll cover a part of your outrageous medical bills, but if it doesn’t we’ll keep your money anyway!), isn’t that a little – how shall I put this? – screwed up? It’s a lot like property and automobile insurance companies not offering coverage for Acts of God, such as unforeseen weather damage, tidal waves or lightning strikes. Funny how a country that is trying it’s hardest to cut God out of every corner is rife with insurance companies that are allowed to worm their way out of doing their duty by invoking His name. Here’s a question for you: should atheists get coverage for Acts of God?
          I say all of this to explain that I find the idea of accidental insurance to be very…icky. Nobody likes to think about the possibility of tragedy or harm striking their loved ones, nor should we be forced to dwell on the matter. The entire concept of charging people money for their emotional peace of mind is cloudy. I hate knowing that it is someone’s job to determine how many people will pass away this year from accidental dismemberment, and I hope that they have some really super-fun hobbies that take their mind off of their grim occupation. I also hate knowing that it is someone else’s job to find ways of not paying – and thereby, not helping – those who have suffered just such a tragedy. The ideas are right, but the execution of them is all wrong. You either exist to provide help to those in need, or you don’t, plain and simple. No special clauses, addendums, footnotes or fine print. Just help.
          Please understand that my discomfort lies with life insurance policies, not health or automobile insurances. Insurance is a wonderful thing, and it exists in many forms. The technical definition of insurance is “protection against future loss.” Be it having a spare tire, locking your doors at night, going to the bathroom in pairs, writing answers to a quiz on your hand or having unopened chips and salsa in the pantry in case unexpected company comes over, we are all wired to be prepared and to provide insurance for ourselves and our families, protecting each other against future losses. I guess the best that we can hope for is that the guy in the office who reviews our fancy insurance policies is truly on our side and understands what its like when you can’t find that spare key that you could have sworn you left under the doormat, and what a pickle you’re in now because it’s missing.  All we can do is trust that he has chosen this line of work with the intent of helping people through the most difficult times in their lives. We put a lot of faith in those people that we’ll never meet, hoping that they have our best interests at heart and will be there in our time of need.
          But just in case he isn’t as responsible as he should be, I ask for all of you to do yourselves one simple favor. Please, keep your hands and arms inside moving vehicles at all times and wait until they have come to a complete stop.

P.S. My husband would like for me to include the fact that he will be working for a highly respected cellular phone company, thereby risking very little chance of accidental dismemberment.

          “Holy crap, he looks like Fidel Castro,” announced my boss.

          He really did. Mr. Cadbury was a rich tan color – around the shade of coffee ice cream – with black, furry-caterpillar-style markings over each eye and under his little pink nose. The eyebrows gave him a scowling appearance, accented by the fact that his ears, also black, were maybe two inches shorter than they should have been. Throw in a cigar and a missile and I don’t think anyone could have seen the difference.
          My boss assigned the other makeup artist to my first appointment and told me to get on the phones with the bunny-man and demand a more photogenic rabbit. Talking to seasonal animal pimps about a rabbit’s questionable facial hair was not exactly what I had in mind when I set out to get a normal job. Nevertheless, I attacked my task with vigor, merely to find out that Mr. Cadbury was the only bunny in the region who was willing to work for less than $400 a week during peak modeling season. It should have come as no surprise to hear that our little dictator got less work than his monochromatic friends. We were stuck with him.
          The only people interested in having their photo taken with the hairy communist were the security guards. We had a difficult enough time convincing parents that the eyebrows and mustache could be removed in post-editing, but when word got around that Mr. Castro-bury couldn’t see a camera flash without urinating, it became nearly impossible to book Easter portraits. Nobody wants to be pissed on by a fascist rabbit.
          Since we weren’t busy, I spent most of my hours there tending to Mr. Castrobury. I fed and watered him, took him for walks around the studio, made him practice his smile for the camera and cut up newspaper for his carrier – he seemed to prefer articles on foreign affairs, but it was hard to tell. Because taking care of a rabbit is about as time consuming as singing Little Bunny Foo Foo, I had plenty of time to get to know everyone else at the studio.
          Our boss had three phone numbers, each with its specific use. One was to her mobile home where she lived with her husband and six children, another was her boyfriend’s apartment, and the third was her emergency cell phone that we were permitted to call only if her husband or boyfriend tried to contact her at work when she was absent. Once, I accidentally phoned her trailer and got her husband when I should have called her boyfriend. The next day, she docked my commission.
          My co-workers were a SitCom writer’s dream. There was Sylve, the pregnant hair stylist who spent all day, every day, reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting and drinking soy milk. I don’t think I ever saw her do one bit of work, or hear her say anything but “I can’t do that; I’m pregnant.” Then there was the gay man who had a sex change operation during my second week and changed his name from Harvey to Andrea. Andrea fell in love with her female nurse from the clinic, consequently becoming a lesbian and remaining homosexual. I have often wondered if that meant that Andrea’s girlfriend was straight or gay, although I guess it hardly matters.
          Camille was my favorite. She was a stunningly beautiful black woman from Canada who was so afraid of other black people that she would hide behind the counter when they came into the studio. Her explanation was simple; she’d never met any black people in Canada. There was another 17-year-old who worked the part time shift opposite mine, but he was arrested for dealing drugs in the parking lot. To round out the cast, we had two photographers; one looked and sounded just like Joe Pesce, while the other one wore an eye patch and went by the name of ‘Moo.’ I never did figure out how he took such good pictures with just one eye.
          Business was dreadfully slow. I applied makeup for maybe twenty people the entire month of March. After the drug arrest and an incident where Camille refused service to an African-American customer on the grounds that she looked ‘suspicious,’ I began spending most of my time in the front window with Mr. Castrobury, trying to distance myself from the rampant weirdness of the staff. One day I tried dressing him in a pair of black-rimmed glasses with the hopes that I could make him look like Groucho Marx, but it didn’t boost sales the way I thought it would.
          The week after Easter, I overheard my boss telling the lesbian man that she would have to lay off at least one of her part-time employees because of low revenue. That same day, she gave me instructions to pack up Mr. Castrobury’s things and take him back to the security office, where he would be picked up by his owner-slash-agent. I took my time that day with cleaning his carrier, making sure he had interesting reading material for the trip home, filling his water bottle and feeding him lettuce leaves, treasuring our last moments together. I walked him down to the security office, and then walked right out the mall doors and across the street, without so much as a glance back.
          Part of me felt a little tinge of regret, of sadness even. I had this overwhelming sense that I had failed at something so simple, that I was a quitter. Then I realized that if “normal” meant sitting around all day doing nothing but listening to my co-workers gossip and convincing customers that the Easter Bunny had nothing to do with foreign labor camps, then I had had my fill of it. I only worked there for six weeks, but it was one of the most valuable lessons of my life. Trust me; the real world is stranger than fiction.