Mallys strikes back

Just a muffled sound was a clue that a mystery package had arrived at my front door. By the time I could put down the laptop, the UPS guy had scrammed.

THIS is what I found.

Mallys had struck back.


What was in said box?
Only the best thing ever!!!
A frickin' SHUT UP candle!!
Did you even know there was such a thing?


It's already burning in my foyer.
There to alert all visitors.

SHUT UP

Thank you, Mallys!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Guest writer today

I actually have to do real work today so am glomming an old e-mail that I couldn't bear to delete from my fabulous friend Mallys. Hope you enjoy her writing style as much as I do.
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Gee, I hope nothing is seriously wrong with my car," I murmur to Susan at the gym this morning. On the way TO the gym, it felt like a wheel was a little wobbly or catching something, maybe much lower on pressure than the others or something.

As soon as I got to the gym, I measured air pressure in the front wheels--both fine.

As I'm leaving the gym, within moments in my car, I realized the car felt so odd that it was smarter to go directly to the mechanic's than to go to work. I map out my revised route and revised day in my head, completely nervous about the car.

I turn to the mechanic (down Calhoun in residential areas) instead of to work (along busy busy Claiborne).

I'm driving down Calhoun, and Mr. Police Officer flags me down. Crap. Jeff just got a ticket in a speed trap not a month ago on Jefferson Highway, and I've been watching my speed ever since, save for today (with the worry over the car, how to get from mechanic to work, how to notify work that I'll be late).

Now, not only will we have to budget in Bend Over and Take It New Orleans homeowner's insurance and skyrocketing post-Katrina prices on everything from toilet paper to fish, now I'm going to have to get a second job to afford increased car insurance premiums, which even PRE-storm were enough to make one consider Dansko clogs as one's primary form of transportation.

Mr. Police Officer: Do you know what the speed limit is?

Mallys: 25 MPH.

Mr. Police Officer: Do you know how fast you were going?

Mallys: Honestly, I don't. I'm nervous that something is wrong with my car or my tire, and I'm trying to get it to the mechanic's on Magazine as quickly as possible and then get to work. So no, I don't.

Mr. Police Officer, clearly writing me a ticket rather than taking pity: Do you have your insurance card?

Mallys, dig, dig dig: This is an old card. It's the same policy, it's been renewed under the same number, but I only have the old card.

Mr. Police Officer: Okay, I'm going to write you a ticket for that, but show up at court and they'll throw the insurance charge out.

Mallys, at the mention of "show up in court," digging more frantically, nay, insanely: No no no, wait wait wait, see see see, look look LOOOOOOOOKKKKKK, here's the new one. Here's the new one [thrusting it with such force that Mr. NOPD might have been afraid for his bodily safety].

Mr. Police Officer: Does your air conditioner work?

Mallys, whose air conditioner DOES work, but who isn't going to run it while Mr. Officer takes time to write her a ticket (add gas prices to the list above of homeowner's insurance, car insurance, and toilet paper prices), wonders if a non-functioning air conditioner is just as illegal as her MISSING TAIL LIGHT COVERS that someone stole in 2005 right after the storm and that Ford doesn't manufacture for an '89 Mustang any more: Yesssss, my air conditioner works???

Mr. Police Officer: Oh, 'cause you're sweating.

Mallys: Oh, yeah, I just came from the gym, and I'm rushing to get my car to the shop and all.

Mr. PO: I didn't think I was making you THAT nervous.

Mallys: Oh, y'all ALWAYS make me nervous. You ARE COPS, after all. But this is from the gym.

Mr. PO: You weren't wearing your seatbelt?

Mallys: No, I was. I always put on my seatbelt, even before I put the key in the ignition, but I took it off when you pulled me over. [Truth. Hell no, I won't drive MY car in THIS CITY without a seat belt. EVER.]

Mr. PO: How old are you?

Mallys, really and truly stumped, really thinking hard--my brain doesn't have room for THAT when I'm trying to get to the garage, get to work, etc.: Twentyyyyy, no no, wait, thirty-nine.

Mr. PO: Here's your ticket. I wrote you for 30 in a 25 MPH zone.

Mallys, thinking that it could be a lot LOT worse, not only because I probably was going faster than 30 MPH, and, what, with the sweating and the frantic insurance card digging/thrusting and the initial misstating of my age by AT LEAST 10 YEARS, and the missing tail light cover and the Illinois plates and driver's license despite a New Orleans address. Hell, he probably could've justified a field sobriety test, which I doubt I would've passed, owing to my complete and utter clumsiness: Thank you. Have a nice day, officer.

I drive two blocks. I'm second in line at a stop sign. #1 pulls off, now it's my turn.

But my car won't move. Won't move. Won't move in drive, not in overdrive, not in park, not in neutral. Won't budge.

I try two or three times to shift to different gears. Won't budge. People are honking.

I get out of my car and go to the attractive, well-coiffed, 50-something in the SUV behind me: Look, ma'am, I'm really sorry, but my car won't move. I don't know what it is, but it won't move. I'm going to try to push it. I'm really really sorry.

Well-coiffed woman gets out of SUV. Wearing adorable floral skirt, sassy t-shirt, chic sandals: "Well, then we're going to have to push it," she says, and walks to the back of my bumper. I can't budge it while trying to push it.

It's a one way street, cars parked on both sides, no room to go around me. People keep honking. Well-coiffed woman takes several steps back to face the traffic, puts her hands on her hips, and YELLLLLLSSS at all the people honking: Well, then, get out of your cars and HELP INSTEAD OF HONKING.

She shames three or four men into getting out of their cars.

Meanwhile, another woman getting into her parked car says, "I think I saw something leaking from behind your right passenger tire." She then goes back to the end of the row of cars and tells them to back up, find another route, etc.

The boys are now being boys: Take your brake off.

Mallys: It's not on.

Boys: Put it in neutral.

Mallys: It's **IN** neutral.

And let's face it, **I** could push that car, by myself (see above re: gym), if it were in neutral. The fact that I can't push it while it's now in neutral is the problem.

Boys: Pop the hood.

Okay, I'm no mechanic. Far from it. I don't even like checking my tire pressure. But I know that this is not a hood-popping issue.

Fine, I pop the hood. They look around underneath, waiting for some magical What's Wrong With This Car teleprompter under my hood to give them the diagnosis. Boy #3 pulls out my oil dipstick: So this is your automatic transmission fluid. . . .

Mallys: No, that's my oil.

The boys are stymied. But they say, "Come on, let's push it again."

It takes FOUR big boys, big big boys in two cases, and multiple multiple tries to push my car 15 feet.

Hmmm, I wonder if something's seriously wrong. . . .

Nice girl (whom I later learn is named Katie and is beginning her doctoral program in my building) says, "Would you like to borrow my cell phone?"

Mallys, the last human being in the Western hemisphere to NOT own a cell phone and still not any closer to WANTING one, accepts gratefully.

I call my boys at Rollins auto repair for a towing number.

Meanwhile, the line of cars has passed, including a police car, and I really hope it was the cop who gave me a ticket so that he could have one tiny moment of guilt (granted, he could've been much meaner to me).

I call Boss to let her know that I'm standing in the street, dripping sweat, trying to get my hoopdie to the garage and may or may not make it to Canal Street today.

I call the tow truck. Come get me at Calhoun and Willow. They'll be there in 30 minutes.

I thank Kind Katie for the use of her phone, tell her I may see her in the building, and she goes on her way.

I wait, flashers on (I'm right next to a fire hydrant, almost into the intersection, so am not even TEMPTED to leave my car, lest I be given the opportunity to make ANOTHER donation to the City of New Orleans).

And believe it or not, MANY nice people stopped to ask me if I was okay, did I need anything, was help on the way. Including one typical undergrad, who I wouldn't have expected to interrupt her cell phone call--as she did--to inquire about my well being.

I'm sitting, waiting, fanning myself, having homicidal thoughts about the particularly aggressive gnat that won't leave me alone. Sweat is dripping dripping dripping. About 45 minutes later, Thor--a boy I know from the gym--pulls up. He gets out of his truck. We chat. He offers the use of his phone. I call the towing company.

Mallys: blah blah Calhoun and Willow.

Tow truck: Oh, you said CARROLLTON and Willow. The guy's been driving all around CARROLLTON and Willow looking for you. We even called Rollins to see if they'd seen you.

Mallys, in no position to get snippy: Gee, gosh, no **Calhoun**. Maybe I wasn't talking clearly, and the background noise and all.

I may not know how old I am, or how to find my current insurance card, or how to replace stolen tail light covers for a 19-year-old car, but if I were at CARROLLTON and Willow, I'd have walked the 6 blocks to my house and to my gin in my freezer where I would've had an early morning cocktail before tackling the recurrent question, "What's wrong with my car THIS time?"

Fine. Tow truck driver gets there in about 10 minutes. Drives me and the poor little '89 Mustang to Magazine street. I talk to my mechanics and instruct them that if it's a relatively cheap fix, they can change my oil, too. And if it's an expensive fix, it may be time to send the '89 Mustang off with Kitty Cat and Georgie Cat and JohnJohn Cat to play with the Girl in the Pink Pinafore in the Great Beyond.

I lug gym bag, tote bag, lunch bag, and purse 5 or 6 blocks in this sweltering, drowning heat (AFTER having stood in the sweltering heat for at least an hour).

Coffee shop #1: no phone [and still, inexplicably, I have no desire for a cell phone]

Bank across the street: let me use their phone, but cab dispatch line is busy and other customers are waiting to attend to their administrative banking needs. I write down the United Cab number and head to Coffee Shop #2, where the nice counter girl lets me use the phone. I get through, order a cab.

I wait, and wait, and wait. Cab arrives.

I kid you freaking not: Cab driver is Mr. freaking Magoo. He can't see. He can't HEAR [I keep yelling at him "2440 Canal Street," to which he responds, "Okay, 400 Canal Street."]. His FINGERNAILS are wayyyyy overgrown. HE WON'T TURN THE AIR CONDITIONER ON. And yes, he is wearing black socks with sandals.

As he's driving, he keeps his foot on the accelerator for 4 seconds, then takes it off, for no identifiable reason--it's not an intersection, there's no traffic in front of us, just keeps hitting the gas, taking his foot off the gas, hitting the gas, taking his foot off the gas, braking for no reason, gas, no gas, gas, brake. This was THE only point in the whole ordeal that I thought I would either cry, or felonious assault someone else. He says as we're turning onto Canal Street, "Okay, 400 Canal Street."

Mallys: No, 2440 Canal Street.

Mr. Magoo: Huh?

Mallys, louder and enunciating: Twenty-four forty Canal Street.

Mr. Magoo: Right. Four hundred Canal Street.

Mallys, contorting her lips into painful exaggerations of the words and screaming at the top of her lungs: FOURTEEN FORTY. FOURTEEN FORTY. TWO BLOCKS FROM **HERE**. FOURTEEN FORTY.

Mr. Magoo: Oh, well let me know where it is. I don't want to pass your building.

Mallys: It's right past the light.

Mr. Magoo: Huh?

Mallys, loudly, enunciating, screaming: RIGHT PAST THE LIGHT.

Mr. Magoo: Oh, I should've turned RIGHT?

Mallys, yanking the car handle frantically: Let me out here. RIGHT HERE. RIGHT HERE IS FINNNNNE.

Why the hell NOT walk another block in the heat, after my morning?

This little escapade began at 8:05.

I was not entering my blessedly frigid office building until 11:10.

And here I sit.

Hmmmm. I hope there's nothing seriously wrong with my car. . . .

Adventurously yours,

Mallys in Dunderland [aka, Sweaty McScofflaw]

$2 fun

Forgot to tell ya 'bout the $2 fun I had with Mallys last year.

In November, I perused our local museum's "attic sale" and found some Audubon-type prints of hoary marmots. That just makes me want to say, in a wise guy voice, "I got your hoary marmot right heeeeeere."

Remembering that Mallys refers to her 2 kitty cats as "marmots" (because I listen to my friend's EVERY WORD), I purchased the limited edition and very large print of said critters for a whopping $2. Not satisfied that the marmot print was funny enough, I embellished the outside of the UPS packing box with an inaccurate content description, just to throw her off, to make sure that she wouldn't guess the box contained a limited edition hoary marmot print.

I knew amusement would ensue when I saw the UPS pick up guy laughing.

But I forgot (underestimated) Mallys. Days later, I received the following e-mail from her:

So I must admit to being just the tiniest bit disappointed when I thought the box contained a super-long, super-thick, multi-colored, pool-safe dildo with safety release. I thought to myself, "Not AGAIN," and envisioned the frustrating replay of trying to explain at The Dildo Store, once more, why I didn't need a third super-long, super-thick, multi-colored, pool safe dildo with safety release.

"Yes, yes," I'll opine to the petite little brunette behind the counter, "I realize that this is the 4th or 5th I've returned this month, but who can blame me for having practical friends who understand the appeal of such a timeless classic? I mean, sure, my The Dildo Store gift registry expired YEARS ago, but this dildo is such a must-have item, that you'd have to be a nimrod **NOT** to select it as your gift of choice in this, our holiday gift-giving season."

And then I'll have to endure the eye rolls, the interminable wait while she goes to get her manager, the disdainful glances my way while I'm overhearing snippets of the conversation, "Yes--the EXACT SAME MODEL: Acme's SL-ST-MC-PS Dildo Plus [unintelligible] TWO in August, ONE in September, THREE . . . ."

The officious manager will bring his register keys on the springy wrist band. He'll ask me why, exactly, I am returning this item. I'll explain that I already have a few of the exact same item, and while--granted--a practical item, I really don't have appropriate storage space in the dildo cabinet, and there's really only so many (do the math) a girl can use at one time, and it's not the sort of thing that one feels comfortable re-gifting, even in an unopened package, I don't even have a pool, so it's basically a wasted feature if I already have two at my disposal, yadda yadda yadda.

He'll angrily type in the key code for returns. He'll twist the key in the register. With each new movement or process, he'll glare my way. I'll fill out the return authorization forms in triplicate. I'll sign here, initial there. And then he'll reluctantly hand me a The Dildo Store gift certificate (no cash refunds: store credit only).

So imagine my delight when out of the dildo box popped a hoary marmot!

Now THAT'S something I could use more of. I was just saying to myself, "Enough with the super-sized pool-safe dildos already. When am I going to get me one of those hoary marmots I've been dreaming about?"

And there--SkitzoLeezra--thanks to your attentive eye for detail and your impeccable timing, a hoary marmot was waiting in my backyard, ready to be taken into my home and displayed for all my friends to see!

I haven't had time to fully inspect the hoary marmot, given my hasty trip home between uptown meeting and downtown late arrival to work--but the hoary marmot is sitting on the end table, waiting for my return from statistics class tonight. I'm sure the cats are giving the hoary marmot a good sniffing while I'm gone. But you know what I always say: "If you can't sniff a hoary marmot, what can you sniff?"

So Leezra, thank you for the delightful giggle--on all fronts. It's been a welcomed little pick-me-up in the crap sandwich of a week that began with an Atlanta wedding and will end with a day at work with the Boss.

A hoary marmot. Who woulda thunk such a thing existed, ready for the framing?

Here's hoping you find your own version of a hoary marmot today!

Mallys

Chicken Noodle Soup . . . . . . .$76.00

Found this e-mail in my file and KNOW you will enjoy the story.

Written by Chrysanthemum:

I must share this tale of daily goings on at the Chrysanthemum ranch.......

As you know, we have 2 house dogs. Lilly and Ozzie are part Pekingese and part poodle. Ozzie has more poodle in him and it shows in his hair. On Friday, his hair had reached its limit. He looked like a sheep that needed shearing. So I took him to the groomer, Touch of New York Grooming by Perry. Perry shaved him down and we all had a good laugh at naked little Ozzie.

When we got home, I decided that I would need to go get Ozzie a sweater or something since it was sooo cold outside and he loves to go outside. Unfortunately, I could not find a sweater or anything in an XS size, so I went to the baby department where I purchased a lovely velour shirt with a little snowman on the front. Size 0-3 months fits just fine on Ozzie :-)

On Saturday, Ozzie didn't move around much and would shake like he was cold. He didn't want to go outside, play or anything he usually does. I was concerned, so I went on-line and read that I could give him Tylenol for fever and aches and pains. So I did just that and carried him to bed with us and put him on a heating pad. He never moved. Sunday same as Saturday.

On Monday, step-daughter Whitney was sick and I stayed home with her. I was going to take Ozzie to the vet, but he seemed better. He ate some Cheerios and walked around a bit. I gave him some more Tylenol and thought he was on his way to recovery from some type of bug or something.

Tuesday morning,Whitney was still sick and stayed home. She called me around noon and said she was worried about Ozzie. He was really shaking even though she had him wrapped in a heating pad. So we called the vet and made an appointment. We couldn't find anyone to take him.....except for Whitney's mother/Ronald's ex-wife. Lovely. But Whitney was convinced we needed to get Ozzie to the vet soon.

At 3:10, Whitney called me to tell me the results of the vet visit. Ozzie is DEPRESSED. Seems that the sheep shearing incident traumatized him, causing him not to eat or drink and to shake uncontrollably. Turns out I should have been giving him Ronald's Prozac instead of Tylenol.

Now for the cure. A doggy IV, a shot and go home and feed him CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP. And of course, positive reinforcement. "Ozzie, your hair looks so cool!" and "Ozzie, you are one sharp looking dog."

And yes, all that for $76.00.

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I told Chrysanthemum that it was her own damn fault for putting the poor dog in a velour snowman sweater. Oh Fuh Gawd!
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Ernest concurred.
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This from Mallys:
Just in case you run out of $76 affirmations, here's some more for you to try, Chrysanthemum:

"Yo, Ozzie, is yo daddy a terrorist, 'cuz you da bomb!"

"A little fresh cracked pepper for your soup, monsieur?"
"Hey, see that little whippet over there? She is, like, TOTALLY checking you out!"

"Ozzie, with that great new hair cut, it's gonna be sooooo easy for all your friends to smell your butt!"

"That new haircut really slims you down, Ozzie. I've got a call in to Calvin Klein: I think you're just the spokesdog they're looking for for their new underwear campaign: 'Peek-a-Boo? Peek-a-Poo!!'"

Love and warm fuzzies to Ozzie,

Mallys
(whose vet has, in fact, recommended that she give Princeton The Cat transdermal Prozac. I'm too afraid I'll be rubbing it inside my **OWN** ears and Princeton will still be gnawing like a fiend at his tail. . . .)

Hurricane Gustav

To all of you who inquired (and Ernest),

Folks from far and wide were evacuating through our area. Stopped by my local convenience store when I saw a caravan of cars pulling into the parking lot. I noticed that their license plates were from out of the area and they all piled out. Thinking they were lost, I lingered and waited for their approach but they didn't. And I kinda felt bad that I took this photo but it touched me.

Along with my sister Rikki Tikki Tavi and her brats, I went to Houston to accept the most gracious hospitality of Kay. The best kind of evacuation house offer? The kind where the owner isn't home! That way, you don't feel like you are in the way and they don't fuss over your every need. PLUS, you can root through their stuff before they get home! Right, people?
Houston received no rain but the brats were bored so we visited what I call the Third Tier of Hell aka The Children's Museum. THAT was the worst part of whole trip. The best part was Walter allowed me to face paint him. A nice curvy mustache and goatee. He drew the line at bushy evil eyebrows. Those stupid ass kids with butterflies and such on their faces - pansies, I tell ya.
Our home area had some wind and localized power outage of an hour or so. Happy to report that no alcoholic beverages were harmed by Gustav.
Mallys asked if I was pro-active and pre-dug my meat hole. Well, she is MUCH smarter than I because I never once considered a pre-dig! A scratch here and there but not a dig.
Someone mentioned this morning that 2 more hurricanes are out there. I don't know anything about them and ask that you not share information with me. La LA la la la.
Happy to be home,
I am,
Skitzo Leezra