Keriosity

Every once in a while, more frequently than I’d like to admit, I have what I refer to as a “Dumb-Ass Hour”. It’s not always an hour exactly, but during that time, I become a total Dumb-Ass. Nothing I do works right, I usually end up getting injured, and if anyone were to film me during the Dumb-Ass Hour, I would certainly win $10,000 from some televised home video show.

Last week’s Dumb-Ass Hour occurred while I was going to Santa Monica to hit the Kiehl’s store before it closed and then to meet friends for dinner nearby. It began as most Dumb-Ass Hours do - with a makeup mishap:

6:15pm: I dropped a mascara wand onto my shirt while doing my makeup and spent 10 precious minutes trying on other tops until I found a suitable replacement.

6:25pm: I started my car and realized I had 15 miles until I would run out of gas. This was enough to get me to Santa Monica and back, but I didn’t want to push it, even though I was running very late and Kiehl’s was closing in 35 minutes.

6:30pm: I stopped at the gas station for a splash-n-go (put in $10 of gas to get me through the night) under the watchful eyes of some people waiting at the bus stop a few feet away. I have no idea why they were watching me. Perhaps they were wishing they owned a car.

6:33pm: I started the car and saw that I now had 11 miles until I’d run out of gas, even though I had just put 4 gallons in. (at least 70 miles worth) ?!

6:34pm: I got out of the car again, opened the gas cap again, used my Amex card again, while getting quizzical looks from everyone waiting at the bus stop. A “Please pay cashier inside” message appeared on the pump. I didn’t have time for this! I put my Visa card in. “Please pay cashier inside.” I let fly several expletives, mostly to offend the bus stop people. I decided to drive to another gas station.

6:37pm: 200 feet from the next gas station, the car next to me honked. “Your gas cap is hanging out!” I never do that! But during Dumb-Ass Hour, anything can happen.

6:45pm: With a full tank of gas, I was on my way and I had 15 minutes until Kiehl’s closed. I would barely make it.

6:58pm: After almost running down two women in a crosswalk (”Outta my way! Moisturizer emergency!”) I ran into Kiehl’s, grabbed the products I needed, paid, and headed for the door, which I almost smashed my face into because they had just locked it for closing time.

7:05pm: I parked at the restaurant and walked across the street to Starbucks, since I was 55 minutes early for dinner. (Moisturizer waits for no woman!) I tripped in the middle of the street and hurt my ankle, while getting honked at for not walking faster. Damn my new boots!

7:10pm: I ordered a gingerbread latte - my newest favorite espresso drink. As I opened my wallet to pay, I sent about 100 coins raining down onto the floor. A nice old man helped me gather them up.

7:14pm: I received my latte and found the only empty seat, which was right near the drafty door. I started to sit down. While doing so, I tugged at the back of my sweater in an attempt to avoid flashing my underwear (low-rise jeans) but instead, the front of my sweater popped down, flashing my bra - and let’s not forget I was near the drafty door. I scanned Starbucks to see if anyone noticed. 5 UPS guys were waiting for their after-work coffees. They noticed.

7:15pm: Dumb-Ass hour concludes with me burning my mouth on scalding hot latte.

As Dumb-Ass Hours go, this one was rather normal, except for the part where I flashed all of Starbucks. Accidental flashing is rare, thank god.

Emil suggests that when I’m having a Dumb-Ass Hour, I need to just stop what I’m doing and take a few minutes to refocus. That is MUCH easier said than done because Dumb-Ass Hour always occurs when I am on a tight schedule. And - Dumb-Ass Hour is equally as much about the universe plotting against me as it is about my own clumsiness, so taking a moment to refocus will only help me so much.

I don’t think Emil has ever had a whole Dumb-Ass Hour. He’ll have a Dumb-Ass Five Minutes, which usually results in some sort of gadget being thrown across the room. Then one of us, usually me, will have a Replacement-Gadget Ordering Hour. This may seem rather costly, but during a recent Dumb-Ass Hour I caused $2000 worth of damage to our car in front of an audience of pedestrians, so replacing a cordless phone or remote control is really no big deal and it’s much less embarrassing.

Although knowing my luck, when the next Replacement Gadget is delivered, the UPS guy will recognize me from Starbucks.

The other day, I was driving down the freeway, stuck in traffic - yet again. (There’s a LOT of traffic in Southern California.) And as if being parked on the 5 freeway wasn’t bad enough, I was stuck behind one of THOSE cars: A Toyota Camry whose driver uses the car’s rear end for her very own political billboard and from whose back window stared no less than about 15 little cutesy faces. Beanie Babies…or something. For someone who thinks abortion should be legal but meat is murder and we must save Alaska from the oil industry but stay out of Iraq and Bush is bad and everything we do is wrong - she sure loves cuddly stuffed animals (which are made from plastics that I’m sure pollute the planet and are personally stuffed by the hands of 4-year old slave children, and who knows what those “beans”are. Apparently, she’s too busy judging others to think about the evils of the beanie baby, I guess. They probably don’t have an anti-beanie baby sticker out there.)

Here’s the deal: If you are old enough to have a driver’ license - and this driver was WAY old enough - you need to let go of the stuffed animals. I think that should be the cut-off age. Having a driver’s license means that you have taken on a huge responsibility. It means that it is now easier than it has ever been before to accidentally and foolishly take a person’s life. It means that you don’t have to rely on mom and dad to take you places or pick you up - so you can get a job that is more than 1 mile from your house now. It means that you are practically an adult and need to start acting like it. No self-respecting grown up person should own, let alone prominently display stuffed animals.

My friend told me about a friend of hers who has a bed full of stuffed animals and more displayed on shelves in her bedroom. An adult woman. A 30-something year old adult woman. What kind of sex life can this woman have? How can you possibly think that it’s OK to invite a man into your home, start getting a little hot & heavy on the couch and then say “Gee Ted, let’s continue this in the bedroom. But first let me clear off all my teddy bears from the bed!” Let me tell you something, lady: teddy bears = creepy. It’s a bit little-girly. It’s NOT sexy. I think they will pretty much kill the mood. Or at least kill any potential relationship. (Let’s face it - he’s still going to sleep with you but you will become a funny story he tells his friend. For years. You’re going to be “that teddy bear chick” from now on.)

Now I collect Barbie dolls so this may seem hypocritical. My barbies are not in my bedroom. Most are in storage and my favorite ones are in display cases, not near the bedroom. And Barbie is sexy - so that doesn’t count. Well the ones I collect are, anyway. Personally, I wouldn’t want the barbies in my bedroom. I don’t want all those pairs of eyes staring at me. Ever. Not to mention during intimate moments. It’ just plain weird.

There is a difference between doll/toy/stuffed animal collecting and psychosis. Being picky about which ones you buy/display, having favorites, being ok with selling off some = collecting. Buying anything and everything and displaying them all over the place - so much so that it overflows into your CAR = psychosis. If that’s you - you have a problem. Grow up and sell the beanie babies.

Then unsticker your car. Then un-cutesy your house (it definitely is cutesy or country or both). And while you’re at it, stop wearing the socks with kittens on them.