Heaven, briefly

It will not shock you learn that I never played Spin the Bottle. This is just as well, because had I been obliged to kiss anyone publicly at any point within the years that one would typically be playing Spin the Bottle, I would have died instantly. You scoff, but I'm convinced that in certain quantities there is a lethal combination of inexperience and mortification; I suspect it manifests in spontaneous combustion on an impressive scale. For the record, I could probably play it now, but it hasn't come up. Most people I know are married, so I guess it would make for an awkward dinner-party entertainment.

Ahem. Anyway.

Apparently there is a thing in Spin the Bottle called "Seven Minutes in Heaven" which requires two bottle-selected people to retire to another room or a closet or something for seven minutes, presumably to get it on in a grope-ier/tongue-ier way than they would on a regular turn. I'm shaky on the details.

This morning, the phrase popped into my mind as I reached, eyes still closed, for the familiar button on the clock. This is exactly what the snooze alarm grants every time: seven minutes in heaven. No bottle required.

Harbinger

Of late there is a bird just outside my window who hails the dawning of each new day with:

CHEEP! cheep!
CHEEP! cheep!
CHEEP! cheep!

A song every bit as bewitching and melodious as a malfunctioning Casio watch alarm.


Ah, springtime.

There will be blood

The nail salon that I, well, I was going to say "frequent" but I think that's inaccurate. It suggests a greater commitment to nail care than I seem to have. Largely this is because, though I enjoy the result of pedicures, I do not enjoy pedicures themselves. My strategy is: have a pedicure, wait for nails to become dangerously long such that my socks are in peril, then have another. I might slightly alter this routine if there were any danger of accidentally sleep-slicing someone else's leg open, but that, alas, is not a current concern.

What were we talking about? Right. The nail salon that I patronize is small and inexpensive (perhaps, in part, because they have not bought a new nail color in at least the past three years, helping keep their overhead low). There are four ladies who work there: the owner who mostly does waxing and is kind of lousy at nails, though don't tell her I said so; the older, very gentle lady who I always pray will be there, but who does not work every day; the quite gentle lady; and the woman who embraces a tough-love approach to foot care, the thoroughness and vigor of which might be better practiced upon cadavers. (Do morticians do any nail work? I think she'd be ideal.)

The last four times I've been, I've gotten the tough-love woman. The whole experience is agonizing (perhaps I have freakishly sensitive feet? I don't know. They're the only ones I've ever had, so I have nothing to compare them to), but she does not alter her style based on the flinching and writhing and embarrassing kicky reflexes it engenders. I hate everything about it, yet I am too much of a wimp to refuse service from her and wait for the very gentle lady or the reasonably gentle lady.

Yesterday, I thought I was a shoo-in for the reasonably gentle lady (the very gentle lady wasn't there) who greeted me with smiles of genuine recognition, filled the basin with water for me, and draped the "you're wearing a skirt" modesty towel over my knees. We were at last reunited! My relief was palpable. Meanwhile the tough-love lady was busy with someone else's manicure. Ha! But then, having gotten me settled, [cue ominous organ music] the reasonably gentle lady called another patron into the waxing room. It was a race against the clock. For ten tense minutes my eyes darted between the closed waxing room door and the manicure station. Please let it just be eyebrows, please let it just be eyebrows.... But no. The manicure was finished while the waxing door long remained firmly shut. (I assume the only hair left on that woman is on top of her head. Also, I hate her.) With her usual sturdy resignation, the tough-love lady rolled her little stool of misery over to my station and pulled my right foot firmly toward her as my hands tightened on the armrests and my knuckles whitened.

Fade to black.

Lights up on tidy toes, no longer posing a danger to myself or others, but polished in what proves to be a disappointing, rather banal shade of red. A color that, naturally, I was too cowardly to ask her to change.

Let there be light

Halogen bulbs last for years and years so, when the bulb in my reading light burns out, I experience shock and denial. That light always works! How can it not be working? WHAT IS HAPPENING? I then forget to go to the hardware store to replace it. I forget for many days in a row. This perhaps wouldn't matter at your house, but my living room walls are punctuated by little sconce lights on a dimmer switch. They are charming, in the same way that candles are charming. And, also like candles, they will make you go blind if you use them for reading. (I'm pretty sure all of our ancestors went blind from reading by candlelight. Right? Didn't I hear that on NPR?)

Before you get all concerned about whether John Irving's latest novel + sconce lights = blindness, let me reassure you that I finally remembered to replace the necessary bulb and last night's reading was eyestrain-free.

I asked the hardware man to direct me.

Me: Can you tell me where to find a halogen bulb?
Him: A what?
Me: A halogen light bulb.
He steps in front of me and leads me to the appropriate aisle.

Him (a bit dubiously): There are a lot of kinds of halogen bulbs. (He begins listing various shapes and sizes of halogen bulbs)
Me (interrupting): Of course. I just needed to get to the right neighborhood.
Him: Oh. Well, all the lightbulbs are here.
Me: Yes. Thanks. I need one of these tiny two-prong ones.
Him: Ah. [more dubiousness] Those come in different watts and volts.
Me: Yes. I need a 20 watt, 12 volt. Ah. Here. This is the one.
Him: Yippie Skippy!

I think he meant it from the heart.

Dastardly scheming

I have a friend who has only recently moved here (seemingly on a whim) and is living in one temporary set-up after another while he looks for a job. Meanwhile, most of his belongings are in storage on the other side of the country. He has expressed to me particular dismay at the pitifully equipped kitchens that have been made available to him during his California experiment. He misses his knives and pots and steamers. He misses cooking.

My kitchen is quite well-stocked. I have excellent stainless steel cookware, a variety of ceramic baking dishes, a pastry brush, a meat-tenderizing mallet. I even have a cherry pitter. Last night for dinner I had a peanut butter and honey sandwich. And some Kalua. What? It was raining. It seemed appropriate. Plus, I didn't even know I had Kalua.

Are you having a brilliant idea right now? Because I had one last night.

On Saturday, I am doing my friend the great and generous favor of allowing him to cook dinner in my kitchen. After which I'm pretty sure the rules of etiquette dictate that I join him in eating it.

Lest you think that I am nothing but a conniver, I will have you know that, this very morning in honor of this meal, I finally replaced my horrible pepper grinder (which required cranking gusto more appropriate to starting a Model T, only to result in pepper bits only slightly smaller than the original peppercorn) with an excellent pepper grinder. A pepper grinder worthy of someone who misses grinding pepper.

Everybody wins.