Reflections On A Middle-Aged Fat Woman (4 page)

I didn’t hit the delete button.

Where did it go?

I screamed very loud, slammed my laptop shut, spilled my beer, scared the cat and proceeded to pitch (as we like to say in the south) the biggest fit imaginable.

I called my techno friend and explained the situation. Did I save it, I was asked. It has auto save, why should I have to save the dang thing?

My friend asked around the office and all of her coworkers came up with the same question. Did I save it?

No! It had auto save.

It’s gone, she said. I suggest you use Word first then paste it into your site. Didn’t this happen to you before on a very important term paper a few years back? I thought you would have learned your lesson.

Okay, I admit it, I’m lazy. With all of this technology floating around, why should I have to hit the save button? Why can’t I outsource it, everyone else does.

Activating A Credit Card…Part I — September 1, 2008

As I staggered back down the driveway from getting the mail the other day I looked down in my hand to see if I had gotten anything worth opening. As a former US postal worker I know the tricks of the trade regarding good mail and standard (junk) mail.

It was Thursday and near the first of the month which is when I get a lot of my monthly magazines. As I sorted through the never-ending assortment of advertisements, monthly magazines and the “Have you seen me?” postcards, my hand fell upon two business-size envelopes that felt thick in the center. I looked for the stamp—there wasn’t any; this meant that it wasn’t a personal matter but a business letter.

I looked at the return address—I didn’t recognize it.

Hmm! It might be important.

I tore into the first envelope and was met with this message: Welcome, MA Fat Woman! We would like to welcome you to your new credit card. Your new card will replace your soon-to-expire card ending in account number ****-****-****-0809. Please call 1-800-you-are-getting-on-my-nerves from your home phone to activate this card as soon as you receive it. And thanks once again for charging your life away.

I set the first envelope aside and tore into the second—-same message, different company.

It was then that I remembered it was September. I go through this every two years. I don’t know why the credit card companies can’t issue you a card for life. I hate making that phone call, because 99% of the time—after punching in everything that defines who you are such as your birth date, the last four digits of your social and your mother’s maiden name, you get this: Please hold as we transfer you to a customer service representative. Your call is important to us and may be monitored for quality control purposes.

“Hello, this is Radji Patel. May I have your account number please?”

Click!

Stop, Drop and Roll — March 7, 2011

I've learned I'm really stupid around fire. I don't know if you call what I do "panicking" or not when I get around an unexpected fire. If you count running around in circles looking at the fire, frantically trying to remember where I put the fire extinguisher, yelling, "What should we do? Should we pour water on it? Should I blow on it?" and "Can I hold anything for you?"—then, yes, I guess it is panicking.

It all started a few weeks ago. I had a baked potato explode in the oven and it created a royal mess; spuds everywhere. The exploded potato landed on the heater coils and smoked and smoldered so much that I had to open all of the doors and windows (the stove doesn't have an exhaust) during the latest cold snap. For several hours, one couldn't tell the difference from being inside the house or out.

I wanted to make a banana bread recipe that I found online but either didn't have the right ingredients nor the time to accomplish the task.

Until today.

The recipe called for a loaf pan that measured 9 x 5 x 3. I had a pan that measured 9 x 5 x 2.25, so I figured it was close enough and used that.

The mixture fit nicely into the pan with ample room at the top for expansion—or so I thought.

The bread was going to take at least an hour to bake at 325°, but within a few minutes, the oven began to smoke, and smoke, and smoke. I was occupied elsewhere and hadn't noticed how bad the smoke was getting until Friend asked if something was burning. I opened the oven door and more smoke billowed out; the banana bread had boiled over and was now smoldering on the floor of the oven. (I know, I should have placed a pan under it.)

Since I had been through this recently, I wasn't that worried. After a few more minutes and a lot more smoke—smoke that was now billowing up through one of the burners, I opened the door again and was met with a wall of smoke and a ball of fire. Holy crap! The oven was on fire.

"It's on fire!" I yelled.

Friend jumped up off the couch and rushed into the kitchen. "It's on fire! Get me something. Get me something!"

"What should I get? You want the fire extinguisher? Where the hell is it?”

"I don't know. Don't you know where it is? Can you work it?" she asked as I pulled the extinguisher from the closet. "Get me some water?

"Should I blow on it?"

"No! Don't let the oxygen get to it. Get the racks out!”

I was going in circles trying not to panic. I had found the fire extinguisher but I didn't know how to work it. I wanted to blow on the fire or possibly even find something like a dish towel to try and beat the flames down, and now, Friend, wanted a pan of water. "Are you going to throw that water on it?"

"No, I don't know what kind of fire it is. It could have grease in it. I'm going to take the bits of burning batter with these tongs and drop them in the pan of water. Now, hold the pan!"

Friend, so calm, so cool, so collected, even while I'm running around in circles, thinking the only thing I really remember about fire training is to Stop! Drop! And Roll!

By the way, we got the fire out and nothing was damaged. Except, maybe the bread; it came out well done!

The Longest Yard Sale — August 10, 2008

As a frequent visitor to many yard sales in my area I jumped at the chance to go to the World's Longest Yard Sale that stretches through five states over a four day period every August. The yard sale winds for 654 miles from West Unity, Ohio, to Gadsden, Alabama. And trust me when I say that a lot of people participate in this yearly adventure. If you are looking for a particular item to complete a collection or looking for an unusual gift for someone, then you have found the perfect place.

There is only one problem: Where do you start?

Since I live relatively close to Alabama, my mom decided that we should head over that way. We started out early (about 9:00 a.m.) and were on our way. As we left town, it seemed that every other house was having a yard sale. (Hmm.) Houston, I think we have a problem?

Mom looked over at me and asked, "Do you want to stop at any of those?"

"No! I want to go to Alabama, let's keep going."

We kept going, and in the first twenty miles we probably passed over twenty yard sales. (I noticed Mom glancing over at me and frowning as we passed by each one.) We were over 100 miles from the official longest yard sale; I guess everyone wanted to get on the bandwagon.

After driving for over an hour we reached a town that was "officially" a part of the 654 mile shopper's paradise, Summerville, Georgia. Mom looked over at me and asked the same question once again. "Don't you want to stop at any of these sales?"

Quite unexpectedly, I made a sharp right-hand turn into a church parking lot that was crammed full of would be shoppers. I almost threw mom into the backseat and was rewarded with a look that used to send shivers of fear down my spine when I was a child: The over-the-glasses look. When you saw that look, you knew you were in trouble.

I was out of the car in a flash and was making my way to a local park that was packed with sellers of all kinds. Mom, who was a little out of breath when she caught me wanted to know why I was in such a hurry.

"Trolls," I said.

"Oh dear," she replied. "We're never getting out of here."

To the uneducated and uninformed, troll collecting is a multi-billion dollar industry worldwide. People have been known to spend their life savings on just the perfect troll. Trolls come in many shapes and sizes, colors and styles, and each collector has his or her own particular reason for collecting them. I have a reason but I keep it to myself.

I walked right over to the troll vendor and began to peruse her wares. I looked up one table and down the next. (Nothing.) I moved down to the next table and there it sat. Troll perfection!! It was a 1935 green-haired, orange-eyed beauty manufactured by the Alexander Family of southern Ohio. It stood slightly over twelve inches tall and was made of corn husks. It was a gold medal find in an unlikely place. It was the troll that I needed, longed for, and just had to have to complete my collection. Twenty years of collecting was boiling down to the next few minutes.

The owner of the troll table sidled over to me and looked to be as old as the troll that I now held in my hand. "I see you're interested in old Tallulah?" she asked.

"Not really," I said. (I was getting ready to do some negotiating; I didn't want to give myself away.)

"Who you think you're kidding?" she said. "I've been waiting on someone like you for about ten years since I decided that I was getting too dang old to collect these trolls anymore. I don't have family to pass 'em on to, and I sure as hell don't want the government to get 'em. I know how much the blasted thing is worth, so don't try to wear me down. How much you give me for it?"

"Uh?"

"I'll tell you what, I like the looks of you, you seem like nice folks, being here with your mom and all, I'll sell Tallulah to ya'll for one dollar. That's my final and only offer."

As I looked over at mom and asked to borrow a dollar (I had brought only hundreds to purchase the troll) I tried to keep my composure. By this time the old lady was wrapping up my purchase and cackling to herself. I murmured a thanks and was about to walk away when suddenly I turned around and gave that woman the biggest hug I had ever given anybody. As she pulled away from the embrace she gave me one last look and said, "You take care of Tallulah for me." (Yes, ma'am!)

That's the story of my participation in this year's longest yard sale. We walked around the park and sampled a few food vendors and then were ready to go. I didn't make it to Alabama; in fact, I only made it to one town. And that was fine for me. There's always next year! (I have a collection of kazoos that I'm working on.)

I’m Not Loving It — August 4, 2008

It was 98 degrees today. It was hot. I tried to stay indoors for most of the day, but the cat wanted to sit out on the porch. There is no sense arguing because the cat always wins. While we were sitting out on the porch the mail ran. There might be something important in the mailbox so I made the trip up the hill and back down again.

Of course, there wasn't anything important, just two advertising fliers soliciting pre-paid funeral plots. As I flung myself into my plastic patio chair I hit the seat and slid right off catching myself before I hit the ground.

It was so hot that I had become completely drenched in sweat from walking up the hill to get the mail. I had had enough; I grabbed the cat and went back inside the house. I stuck my head in the freezer to try and cool myself down. In case you're wondering, sticking my head in the freezer is a trick I learned growing up. We didn't have any air conditioning and it could get really hot during the summer. Sticking your head in the freezer cools you off quickly.

While having my head in the freezer, I checked to see if I had any ice cream. (I didn't.) After all, what's better on a hot day than a bowl of ice cream?

My appearance wasn't at its best, so I decided a trip to McDonald's to go through the drive-thru would have to suffice. I love the ice cream cones at this fast food giant. The cone only has 150 calories (not that I’m counting) and only costs a buck. You can't beat that!

I grabbed my keys and the cat and hopped in the car. It's about three miles into town, just enough time to blow out the hot air in the car and for the air conditioning to begin to cool things down.

The anticipation was beginning to build, I looked over at my cat and he licked his lips. When he goes for a ride in the car he usually ends up with a treat of some kind, and doesn't seem to mind going.

It was hot. I was hot. The car was hot. The steering wheel was almost too hot to touch. I got stopped at all of the stop lights going into to town. I had to pull over twice; once for a funeral and the second time for an ambulance.

I finally pulled into McDonald's and the drive-thru lane was backed up around the building. (I guess everyone thought ice cream was a good idea.) Can you say, I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream?

It was finally my turn at the window, "Welcome to McDonald's, may I take your order?"

"It sure is hot, ain't it? I'd like an ice cream cone please," I replied.

"Yes ma'am, it is hot. I'm sorry, but our ice cream machine is broken. Would you like something else?"

I screamed, the cat screamed, the whole drive-thru line was screaming. No ice cream!

Ba dup ba dup baaaa, I'm not loving it.

One Handed Egg Cracking — August 1, 2008

I've been spending time watching the Food Network. I like to see what the other people are eating. I'll admit it, I like meat and potatoes. I am not a big vegetable eater. Some of the recipes look appetizing in the beginning, but then an ingredient has to be added to give it more flavor, to kick it up a notch, so to speak.

No thanks! I'll take mine plain.

I like to watch the chefs do fancy knife work in the kitchen. I like to see a cook flip something up and catch it in the pan. I like to cook so one day I decided to have pancakes for breakfast. It was time to try the flip. It didn't work. I had forgotten to spray the bottom of the skillet and I just threw pancake batter all over the stove. Another time I was going to try and julienne potatoes for homemade hash browns. I sliced the tip off my finger and had to have six stitches to sew it back on. Maybe, I should start with something a little more basic.