Monday, September 29, 2014

Doing the Sidewalk Walk

I like to sidewalk walk a lot.  It keeps me fit and sexy.  It keeps me from tripping into the gutter and  chipping a tooth. It keeps from getting hit by speedings cars with drivers too busy texting to pay attention to someone on the street. 

I guess you could say I have a deep love of sidewalks. 

This past weekend I was sidewalk walking in my neighborhood when I stumbled across a side street I was going to have to cross.  As I slowed myself to look left and to look right for any cars I happened to look down. And there right before my feet was the following: 

And yes, those are my feet, size 10 1/2, in their Reebok sneakers with day-glow green laces observing the message that lay below me. 

What was I to do? If this was the end of the sidewalk then what was I going to meet across the street? Was this an omen?  Was something deadly waiting for me? 

Now I’m not one to be scared of messages scrawled across cement. I know all about graffiti. I’ve seen walks and pavements gang tagged. This was different. The penmanship was crisp and clear and easy to read.  The author spelled everything correctly.  There was even a period at the end. 

This was a strong statement that could not be ignored. 

Now I assume you must be thinking I’m insane. Sure I’ve crossed many streets before.  Thousands of streets in thousands of neighborhoods, but never was a message written on the sidewalk warning me the sidewalk has ended.  

Was this what Nostradamus meant, and was it intended specifically for me? 

I could easily have turned around and returned from where I came, but I refused to let a message stop me from going where I needed to go.  And I needed to go ASAP. I was getting the shakes,,, the shivers… and a pounding in my head.  

I took a deep breath and leaped across the street. And once across the street this is what I saw:  

Phew!  Nostradamus be damned. It wasn’t the end of my world. I was where the sidewalk starts.

I wiped the sweat from my brow and quickly ran to my destination… The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.

I am Michael hear me roar and nothing — not even a sidewalk warning — comes between me and my coffee.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

The Shame of Rust

Shame. It does a lot to your self-esteem, and not in a good way.  It drives some people to unthinkable acts of self-destruction.  It’s a jolt of everlasting guilt on the soul. It’s that pimple that just won’t go away. 

You can only imagine the assault on my self-esteem when I woke up one morning and found rust stains in my toilet bowl. 

For days prior the water in the tank was smelling stagnant and appeared rusty. With every flush the water flow marks in the toilet got darker. The embarrassment! The shame! The fear of having guests who needed to pee or poo! 

I tried bleaching and scrubbing and bought every available toilet cleaner on the market. Nothing seemed to work, and with every flush the rust seemed to glow brighter, taunting me, accusing me of being a bad house-cleaner.  

I couldn’t sleep. I would stay awake thinking I didn’t deserve anything better than a rust stained toilet. I was constipated with thoughts of rust. There were no sweet dreams for me. 

The shame became so overwhelming that I seriously contemplated replacing the toilet with a brand new rust-free toilet. But I refused to let the rust stains win. I am Michael hear me roar and I do not accept defeat, especially from a toilet. 

So what did I do? I did what anyone overwhelmed by shame would do. In the dark of night I secretly logged on to the Internet for help. I searched and searched and read horror stories of rust and rusty toilets and the demise of those whose toilets were forever rusty. 

Then I came upon a solution, a rather simple solution, involving cream of tartar and hydrogen peroxide.  Could it be that simple of a solution? 

One-quarter cup cream of tartar mixed with hydrogen peroxide to form a paste. The paste is then rubbed on the dry rust stains and left there for an hour, or two, or overnight depending on the severity of the stain.

I carefully prepared the concoction and rubbed the paste along the rust. After waiting a few hours I approached my toilet, took a deep breath, and flushed… and Yes! Yes! Yes! Hallelujah! The rust stains disappeared. 

The shame is lifted. Friends are invited to use my bathroom again. 

Now I gratefully peer into my toilet bowl and smile a shame-less smile of total rust-free glee.  


Tuesday, September 02, 2014

Burping The Tupperware

Years ago I was invited to a Tupperware party.  I had just moved into a new apartment with more cabinet space than I needed so I figured I’d go and buy a container or two to fill a cabinet. I told myself not to spend more than $30.  

What I didn’t know was the Tupperware party was being hosted by a Drag Queen.  From the moment she made her grand entrance singing and dancing about the joys of Tupperware I was hooked.  I wanted Tupperware. I needed Tupperware.  I had to have Tupperware. I ending up spending $238 on Tupperware.

My new Tupperware filled my new cabinets nicely.  

It wasn’t until I used my new Tupperware for the first time that I experienced the true joy of “burping” the Tupperware.  

After making more pasta with chicken and sundried tomatoes than I could possibly eat in one sitting I reached for the Tupperware to store my leftovers. I carefully spooned the food into my new Tupperware container and as I put on the lid I remembered to “burp” the Tupperware in order to keep the food fresh.  

As that burp exhaled from inside the container a delicious whiff of the pasta with chicken and sundered tomatoes escaped filling my nostrils with an “aaaaah” moment.  The memory of the first bite repeated itself.  

I burped and whiffed a second time… and a third… and each moment felt better than the one before.  I was getting hungry all over again, but I didn’t eat the leftovers. I wanted to burp and whiff again and again.  And I did. 

Ever since that first moment when I discovered the joys of Tupperware burp and whiff I cannot cook any food without cooking extra.  I look forward to storing leftovers and sneaking into the refrigerator late at night for a quick burp and whiff.  Sometimes I can’t control the urge, and after numerous burps and whiffs I whip out a fork and eat everything. 

If I’m at someone’s house and see they have Tupperware containers in their refrigerator I create a diversion so I can sneak into their refrigerator, grab the tupperware, and give it a good  burp and whiff. Most times it’s a delicious burp and whiff followed by a recipe request, but sometimes, on a rare occasion, it’s a burp and whiff then stink and barf. When that happens I am forced to end my friendship with the Tupperware offender. 

Tonight I’m making lots of roasted chicken with roasted potatoes and roasted vegetables with fresh rosemary. 

Can’t wait until after dinner to… well, you know…