Quite a few entries ago I promised to give the world a taste of what my real life was like. After much soul-searching and an entire roll of Nestlè Toll-House refrigerated cookie dough, I’ve decided to come clean, wipe the semi-sweet chocolate smear off my face, and show everyone just what kind of big pimpin’ life I lead:
- Get up at 6:00 am to the sound of soothing wind chimes. Still manage to knock over clock-radio in a blind panic over waking up just before Bill Pullman makes a move towards me in the PR4034 .P7 section in a quaint library of a small liberal arts college.
- 6:10 am: Notice strange spot on my forearm. After staring at it for 15 minutes, I decide it’s not cancer.
- 8:15 am: Hop on bus to work. At the third stop, a guy who that very morning decided it was a good idea to squeeze his 320-pound frame into size-8 overall shorts and a pink baby-doll t-shirt that reads “Princess” sits next to me and compliments me on my handbag. Can’t decide whether to be pleased or mortified. Opt instead to stare intently at the strange, Vaseline-like smear on the bus window.
- 9:00 am: It’s eerily quiet at the reference desk, with the exception of the library assistant with the Hare Krishna forelock and low-slung silver bell-bottoms who keeps circling the desk with his book cart. Can’t figure out if he’s frightened of me or just loves my ratty cardigan–I decide it’s probably both.
- 10:10 am: Husband makes first of call of the day asking about dinner. Since 1988, my husband makes an average of ten calls a day asking about dinner, not counting holidays but including my days off. Decide to scare him by casually mentioning frozen waffles as a possibility.
- Noon: check the outside temperature on Weatherbug; it’s 75°. Too hot to go running.
- 12:25 pm: While eating the fourth 7-layer burrito and Choco Taco of the week (I do love a theme), I do a vanity search on my name. Am horrified to discover that the other Linda Abshers out there are blonde, frumpy, over 50, and work for the post office or mortuaries.
- 1:00 pm: Weatherbug says it’s 73°–too cold to go running.
- 2:25 pm: Husband makes fourth panicky phone call about dinner. Conversation goes like this:
“How about fried rice?”
“Pasta with tomatoes and zucchini?”
“What about a stir-fry?”
(longer pause) “Not really in the mood for stir fry….”
“What do you want then??”
(longest pause) “I don’t care…..”
- 5:30 pm: On the bus home. 320-pound man from this morning is now wearing a cargo mini-skirt and an even skimpier t-shirt that says “Juicy“. Wonder if the guy is working as a plus-size model. Also wonder how there’s yet another Vaseline-like smear on this bus window. Is there a connection? Make a mental note to check during tomorrow’s commute.
- 5:45 pm: Stop at QFC to pick up a roast chicken only to find they’re all out. In a fit of desperation, I buy four cans of Beefaroni on the basis of a vague memory of my husband mentioning how much he liked the stuff as a kid.
- 6:15 pm: Come home to discover that my husband was the one who bought the last roasted chicken. We eat a dinner of chicken and Beefaroni, and settle in to watch 3 Non-Blondes
- 9:00 pm: Brush my teeth. Notice an amoeba-shaped spot on my shin. I wonder what that could be….?