Leslie Jo Chase Archives - Page 21 of 22

April 1, 2014

You Must be Joking

`I know. It’s April Fool’s Day so you’re probably sick of jokes, pranks, and being on the receiving end of a donkey while holding a shovel.

Before I share A Few Good Jokes (how different would that movie have been if that were the title?) I thought I’d share one of my most embarrassing moments, and there are many.

Richard was an Assistant Director at Camp Kawaga for Boys, where he had previously been a camper, CIT, counselor, and later a founding member of the Alumni Association. All four of us went to camp for most of the summer once or twice until it became obvious that Richard’s plan to be an assistant director did not involve being there with an assistant family.

But, I did get to hang out with his camp buddies, who I love, when they’d come up to camp for a weekend here or there. And, yes, I still love you, Woogie, even after I totally believed you when you told me, “They took the word ‘gullible’ out of the dictionary because it was too hard for people to spell.”

That’s enough humiliation at my expense for one day. Let the blogging commence:

I unloaded paper towels, toilet paper, granola, and two three-pound bags of Gummy Bears from my cart onto the conveyor belt at Target one night. Then I handed the checkout woman, Loretta, a Mountain Dew, and a chocolate chip Clif Bar and told her, “I’ll just take these with me to go. Ya know, it’s the Dinner of Champions.”

Loretta laughed and said, “You’re funny!”

I hadn’t had a particularly fun day, nor was I in a particularly funny mood, but Loretta made my day not because she said I was funny, but because she could tell I needed to hear a few jokes.

She told me she had just heard these jokes from her daughter. After she told me the first joke I asked how old her daughter was, thinking she was probably six. She said that she was 21, which caused us each to expel a few chortles.

As if on cue, her daughter who also worked at Target, walked up to the cash register and said, “Mom, you’re not telling those jokes, are you?” Loretta and I burst out laughing.

After her daughter left and Loretta was bagging up my purchases she told me the other two jokes, but could barely get them out because she was laughing so hard she was having trouble talking.

Loretta and I laughed out loud after each joke, and I had to wipe tears from my eyes by the time she was finished. I thanked her for brightening my day and told her if I couldn’t remember the jokes I’d be back so she could repeat them so I could write them down.

I left the store in a much better mood than when I got there but as I loaded up my car I realized I could only remember one of the jokes. I really wanted to know all three jokes so I decided to go right back in the store instead of coming back another day hoping to find Loretta.

I locked the car and pushed the “notes” icon on my trusty iPhone as I walked back into the store. Whenever someone says something I want to remember, which happens at least three times a day, I write it down and keep it saved for just the right moment.

When my friend Liz used the phrase “she had a bitchy resting face” to describe a saleswoman at a shoe store, I said, “Wait! Wait! Don’t say another word until I write that down!”

See? Aren’t you glad to know that phrase?

Anyway, I walked back into the store and saw a long line of people waiting to checkout in Loretta’s aisle. I just kind of slid in and waited at the end of the checkout lane next-door to hers so as not to interrupt her while she was working. But she saw me behind her and immediately laughed so hard she bent over and grabbed some Kleenex to wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I can’t believe you came back,” she said between giggles.

I told her I didn’t want to disturb her while she was working. The last thing I wanted was for Loretta to get in trouble either with customers or her supervisor. I was very aware that it was nine o’clock on a Wednesday night and the people in line probably just wanted to buy their paper towels, toilet paper, granola, Gummy Bears, and go home.

Like two spies speaking in code, she bagged up the items people had purchased and I kept an eye out for anyone who seemed to be getting impatient. When the coast seemed clear she quickly and quietly repeated the jokes and I tapped them into my iPhone. No one seemed to notice or was bothered by our covert operation. I got the goods, thanked her, and left. I heard her laughing as I exited the store.

So, without further ado, or not telling you at all and playing a really crummy April Fool’s joke on you, here are the jokes:

1. How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh?

10 tickles.

2. What does a nosy pepper do?

It gets jalapeño business.

3. What do you call a fake noodle?

An impasta.

Maybe those aren’t the funniest jokes ever, but they sure got me laughing and kept me laughing for days as I repeated them. Of course I had to check my iPhone notes because I couldn’t remember them, but that’s nothing new. I forget things all the time.

But, I’ll never forget that the word “gullible” is still in the dictionary because I looked it up back then at camp…and again tonight, just to be sure.

Have a great day, and don’t believe everything you hear!

March 25, 2014

Oh, Great! Now Bath Fitter Thinks I’m Crazy, Too

The first time we called Bath Fitter to replace a shower stall was after “The Spew of 2002.” The sewer line in front of our house had become clogged with tree roots and waste from neighbors whose faces we’d never seen, but whose feces was now gushing like geysers from the shower stall, toilet, and sink in the bathroom/laundry room just off the family room.

Because he’s the only person in our family who has stricter disinfecting standards than most surgical suites, Richard donned one of his Hazmat suits, goggles, latex gloves, and a mask, and bleached the crap out of the bathroom. After that, he only entered that bathroom to do his laundry. He conducted all other “business” in one of the bathrooms upstairs.

He didn’t want to have to be the one to remove the still-soggy wood molding or stained wallpaper, and I couldn’t blame him. After all, he had just survived the river rapids of every neighbor’s waste who lived up-stream.

So, I volunteered to do it — but only if I could decorate it Leslie-style.

First we called the plumber to rod the pipes. Then we called Bath Fitter to replace the shower that needed a face-lift anyway. It was 30 years old, and not in a good way.

Bath Fitter did a fabulous job, so we were good to go.

Inspiration for the redecoration came to me in the form of a ukulele I had recently seen at Ron Jon Surf Shop in Fort Myers, Florida while visiting Kelly, Scott, and Dylan. I had wanted to take it home, along with every other way-cool surfer-dudette-type accouterment they sold, but I knew I’d never be able to fit it in my suitcase. And, even if I did, where would I put it once I got home?

ukelele

I had Richard sign a waiver stating he had granted me permission to redecorate the bathroom, and then had it notarized. I typed www.ronjonsurfshop.com into my computer and bought that ukulele with the adorable flowers on it, along with a matching throw rug, wooden wind chimes (for the backyard,) and various other beachy things.

I hit the paint store for palm-leaf-green, and middle-of-the-ocean blue, and Home Depot where I bought the one thing I’ve always thought our house had been lacking: Astro Turf.

I borrowed one of Richard’s Hazmat suits, covered my face with a mask and goggles, and put on latex gloves. I used a crowbar to shimmy the wood molding off the walls. Then I pried off the wallpaper.

When my mother got wind of what I was doing she said, “You do know you’re Jewish, right? You were not born with the skills it takes to do what you’re doing.”

“Maybe not, Mom,” I said “but it’s just a bathroom so if it stinks, who cares?”

I used huge sweeping strokes with giant sponges to apply the blue and green paint to achieve a jungle-like look on the walls. Then I attempted to cut the Astro Turf evenly, and glued it to the bottom of the walls to replace the wood molding. It looked fabulous.

The next day I found matching, delicate, hanging shells at World Market that I cut to use as vertical blinds above the loo. I fastened the chains of shells to the existing track for the old blinds using tiny paper clips that I hid beneath the valance I had covered with (what else?) Astro Turf.

I have created lots of art, most of it crappy, except for my prized Menurkey for Thanksgivukkah last November. But this bathroom was a masterpiece.

Bath Fitter and I had created the “hang-ten” bathroom of my dreams. Mahalo, my friends at Bath Fitter, Mahalo.

About a year ago, Richard thought he saw a wet spot in the family room ceiling. When his finger went through the ceiling, we were pretty sure he was right. Because no one could tell where the leak originated, our handyman Hunter created an opening the size of Rhode Island in the popcorn ceiling. Just as I was beginning to get used to the exposed pipes, Hunter, determined that the leak was coming from the shower door in our bathroom. He patched thceiling, and Bath Fitter installed another beautiful shower stall.

But over the past few months, Richard and I noticed that a pool of water would appear on the floor right by the shower door about ten minutes after either one of us had taken a shower. Preferring not to repeat having our family room ceiling cut into the shape of another state, I called Bath Fitter.

I told Richard that we shouldn’t use our shower the morning Ignacio from Bath Fitter was scheduled to come in case he needed a dry surface to apply some kind of epoxy.

Well, that was stupid because there was nothing to show Ignacio when he got here. I had just taken a shower in one of the other bathrooms right before he arrived and my hair was still dripping wet when I let him in.

I explained the problem and we tried and tried to recreate it, but no matter how hard we tried to make the shower leak by running the water up, down and sideways, it wouldn’t. It had happened every single day for the past few months. Where was it when I needed it?

Then I had an idea. I said, “Ignacio, you would be here anyway if there was something to fix, right?” He nodded. “Okay,” I said, “This is going to sound weird, but would you mind waiting in your truck for ten minutes while I take another shower, this time in this bathroom, and then I’ll get dressed and let you know when you can come back in.”

Ignacio looked perplexed. He told me he believed me and that this type of thing happened all the time. He said he’d come back when it did. He also told me no one else had ever asked him to wait in his truck so she could take a shower before. Shocking.

I convinced him it was the only way to prove there was a leak. He complied. I prayed he wouldn’t drive off.

I took another shower (I was incredibly squeaky clean that day!), and got dressed. I waited for the pool of water to begin to appear. Not a drop. I put schmutz in my hair and wasted a few more minutes, thinking the shower needed a moment to gather its extra water to drip onto the floor.

Nothing,

So, I went out to the truck and asked Ignacio to come back in, telling him that nothing had appeared but maybe by the time we got back up to the bathroom we’d be in luck.

Nope.

The shower hasn’t leaked since. But it will. Oh, I know it will. And when it does, I will take a few pictures of it and call Ignacio to come back. Most likely he’ll ask a different installer to come to our house because I’m sure he’ll never want to go back to the house where the crazy lady asked him to wait in his truck so she could take a shower after having just taken a shower to prove her point. I don’t think I’d want to come back here, either.

March 18, 2014

Dude, Where’s my Phone?

Richard, Veronica, Lucas, and I were on our way to visit my parents who live ten minutes away when I realized I couldn’t find my phone. Again.

I had just texted my brother, which meant I had just had it in my hand. There was no logical explanation for its disappearance, yet it was nowhere to be found.

After foraging through my purse and inside my bra* I asked if anyone in the car had seen it. They all burst out laughing because yes, once again, I had misplaced my phone.

We were a block from our house and Richard offered to go back so I could look for it, but I told him not to since everyone I needed to talk to was already in the car with me. I wasn’t worried someone wouldn’t be able to reach me.

But I was worried. I was worried I was losing my mind. This “losing stuff all the time” thing was becoming really annoying. Was my life that out of control that I couldn’t remember where I put something I had just had in my hand? Apparently, yes.

Suddenly I heard my phone ring. Richard had stealthily speed-dialed my cell phone from his.

(To be whispered: The ring was coming from inside my purse.

Imagine creepy music playing. Ok, back to the story.)

I shoved my hand into the depths of my purse to find it but couldn’t. I tried every pocket. I checked every little zippered compartment. We all heard it ring, but it wasn’t there.

So, I did the only rational thing I could: I dumped the contents of my purse –which is, for those of you who don’t know me — three shades of lipstick even though I usually just wear Burt’s Bee’s lip balm, my wallet, my keys, one pound of rocks, two pounds of pebbles, and everything else I own just in case I need it – onto my lap.

(To be whispered: The phone rang again from inside the purse, but it wasn’t there. More creepy music, and back to the story.) Richard had called my phone again, this time leaving me a voicemail for all to hear in an annoying damsel-in-distress voice saying, “Help me! I’m stuck in Leslie’s purse!”

The kids thought that was hilarious. I shot him a look that, had I possessed the super power, could carve my initials into his forehead with my laser-beam-cutting eyes.

Once we reached my parents’ house I politely asked my family to go ahead inside without me because I needed a little “alone” time to:

a) Throw a proper tantrum without having any witnesses,

b) Figure out why I could hear but not find my phone, (especially since I’m hearing impaired, not blind!)

c) Violently shake my empty purse expecting it to produce my phone, or, at the very least, a rainbow, some glitter, and several unicorns.

And then I felt it. It had fallen through a cell-phone-sized slit in the lining of the purse. It was being held hostage in a black hole between the lining and the bottom of the purse with one of my Burt’s Bees lip balms, three pens (no wonder I could never find one when I needed one!), and 14 bobby pins.

Secure in the fact that I wasn’t going crazy, I ripped the lining of the purse open using just my nails and teeth. Finally, I was able to hold my phone in my hand.

I looked down at the carnage in my lap and on the floor of the car, quickly scooped all evidence of the shredding frenzy back into my purse, and went in to see my parents.

I had purchased the purse in Florida at a dollar store last spring after arriving at our hotel and realizing I hadn’t packed one.

All I had brought was my super-cute briefcase with a retractable handle (on wheels!) that fits nicely under the seat in front of me, and can easily accommodate all the things I would normally put in my purse.

But I decided I needed a real purse because I thought it would look a bit tacky if I rolled my briefcase around the Sony Open Tennis match venue in Key Biscayne, on a fishing expedition on Kelly and Scott’s boat in Ft. Meyers, and through the country club for my father-in-law’s 80^th birthday party in Weston.

After returning from my parents’ house that day I looked for another purse in which to keep all my belongings when I remembered I had recently donated all of my old purses to the local thrift shop.

I couldn’t sew the lining back together because it looked like over-cooked spaghetti squash. I came to the horrible realization that I had no choice but to do the unimaginable. I had to buy a new one; I had to go shopping.

If I absolutely, positively, must go shopping several criteria need to be met beforehand:

1. I must be in a great mood and feel particularly thin that day, even if I am only buying a purse.

2. There shall be no humidity in the air causing me the least bit of discomfort due to frizzy hair and/or the tiniest bit of sweatiness.

3. The barometric pressure must not be too high or too low, and the temperature should be below 75 degrees, but above 30 degrees.

4. The sun shall be shining, but if it is 75 degrees or higher and sunny I’d rather be outside playing with my dogs.

5. My make-up shall be applied to the best of my ability and I must not be the least bit tired.

6. Other than that I’m easy.

So I ventured out on a beautiful day, looking particularly presentable, and found the perfect Kipling bag…on sale! That kind of shopping I can do, although it does require a nap afterward.

I still lose my phone all the time, but at least I know that if I put it in the new purse I’ll most likely be able to find it. If it’s not there and Lucas, my 20-year-old son, happens to be home, he asks me, “Did you check your bra?”

*A trick my friend Rosa taught me.

A word of warning: do not put a cell phone in the bra part of your bathing suit and jump into the pool. Yes, I’ve done that, too.

March 12, 2014

Holding in Your Gas-ana in Your Asana

${347DDFA1-A054-4277-A2F9-DC69AD509FFD}-IMG_0011$ “Dear God, please don’t let tonight be the night I break wind in yoga for the first time,” has been my mantra since I began taking yoga classes six months ago. Most other people’s mantra is “om.”

I know people do it. It’s even supposed to be healthy, and from what my nostrils have gathered over the past few months, these people are definitely eating their cruciferous vegetables.

I guess I’ve finally gotten that Yoga “high.” Waking up on Tuesdays and Saturdays, knowing I’ll be sitting on my mat in a darkened room in a few hours aligns my chakras like nobody’s business.

Our instructor, Werner, speaks in a soothing voice and doesn’t just announce poses, like other yoga instructors I’ve had before. It’s just flowy and fun and I find myself able to do things I never thought I could without having to be airlifted to the nearest trauma center.

And, I do it without obsessing about my backfat, or my muffin-top, or how my hair looks, and… I EVEN GO SLEEVELESS in class.

This class is full of amazingly friendly people who hand each other props like straps and blocks, to those who forgot to get them at the beginning of class. There’s a woman there who I feel is my guardian angel of Yoga. During my first few classes, if she saw me struggling in a pose, she’d take me over to the wall and show me how she does it with the support of the wall.

This ain’t like the ballet classes of yore where one was required to only wear pink tights, a black leotard (no t-shirt covering up the flab allowed), and a tight bun. Try a tight bun with curly, frizzy hair. No amount of Aqua Net and bobby pins was going to hold that Tasmanian devil in place for an hour. And, oh how I loved always being the “this is how not to do it” example, while Rena Solomon stood in the perfect ballerina stance in front of me at the ballet barre and was always applauded by Madame as the epitome of correctness.

A few weeks ago in yoga class I found myself in a one-legged handstand against the wall. I loved it! It felt great! I was just hanging around upside down, without crunched-up shoulders, with just one foot on the wall, being supported by my hands on the floor, and my once-dormant abs.

And then my brain kicked in.

I’m doing a what? Now we’re going to do the other side? I don’t even know how I just did that side! And then, of course, I couldn’t do it on the other side because I was so amazed I had done it on the first side!

Note to self and other yogis: Never, ever think during yoga!

Richard and I used to go to yoga classes together. One Tuesday night I couldn’t go to class for some reason, so he went without me.

When he came home he described a new pose he had learned that night that he referred to as “changing baby diaper pose.” He then got down on the floor and demonstrated the pose by lying on his back, bringing his knees into his chest, and then holding his toes up near his ears which looked like an efficient way to air out one’s bum if one’s bum needed to be aired out.

He then told me that during that pose that night, someone in class “let one rip” with loud abandon. After that I had to place my mat on the floor in such a way that I couldn’t see Richard at all, or I’d start laughing just thinking about that story.

During the next class we took together, even though we couldn’t see each other, I was very aware of his presence as we did the “happy baby” pose. I tried so hard not to think about Richard’s story about the person who “let one rip” during what he referred to as “changing baby diaper pose” that I lost it and started laughing. I tried to mask it with a hacking cough, but Richard told me later after class that it sounded as if I were expelling a hairball.

Eventually, I composed myself, but it was hard. Anytime I’m supposed to act my age it’s a challenge. Now that I saw an entire class of people airing out their bums, I thought to myself, “Please, God, don’t let anyone let fly a fart, or I will surely have to feign a coughing fit, excuse myself from the class, and probably pee my yoga pants on the way to the bathroom.

I loved when Richard and I took yoga classes together because it was something I never thought I’d see him do, and because it was a built-in date twice a week. He eventually eschewed yoga for “displacing heavy objects,” the phrase he uses for lifting weights.

Richard also said that he found yoga to be painful. I am not attached to his nervous system so I just have to take his word for it. I used to have a Pandora’s Box of pain and now, thanks to yoga, I can’t even find it.

Another reason I like the classes is because I think Werner says the most hilarious things. Of course, I’m usually the only one laughing, but I don’t care. He’s playful and says whatever comes to mind. Every single time for the past six months that he’s referred to the two sides of our derrieres as “cupcakes”– even if I’m in the tallest, fiercest, strongest, most elongated, Warrior II pose, and the rest of the class stays focused on his or her asana — I just collapse onto my mat in hysterics, focusing on my ass.

But, thanks to yoga and Reiki, I’m in touch with my chakras on a daily basis and check in with my breathing so I remember to take in deep breaths of oxygen and release deep breaths of carbon dioxide throughout the day.

Which brings me back to releasing other forms of gas. I was brought up in a home where women didn’t pass gas. Men did, but not in the company of women.

Noticing my frequent stomach aches, Lucas, who was around six years old at the time said, “Mommy, you probably have stomach aches because you don’t fart.” He was probably right, but we’ll never know.

So, tonight as I don my way-cool yoga ensem I bought at Target, I will repeat my mantra over and over. I don’t want to be, you know, “that person; the one who farted during ‘changing baby diaper pose.’”