Flashlight

We've been having some incredibly intense thunderstorms this season and our power has gone from flickerings to brown outs to black outs, which rarely ever used to happen. Since it seems to be our natural state of affairs to always be unprepared, this last power outage found us fumbling around by candlelight looking for the one and only flashlight we own - which was supposed to be in the kitchen on the bookcase next to the fridge. Naturally, it wasn't there. As a joke, I started calling: "Here flashy-flashy-flashy...here flashy-flashy." Imagine my surprise when I heard the following feeble reply:

Over here. I-I'm over here.

The voice had a distinct German accent and I don't know why, but I immediately thought of Albert Einstein. I headed over toward the junk drawer near the sink (as opposed to the junk drawer under the coffee-maker counter) and waved the candle over the contents. I caught a glimmer of its shiny silver aluminum casing and triumphantly pulled it from under a blanket of pens, pencils and half-crayons. "I found it!!" I proclaimed while waving it victoriously in the air.

Ohhh...(he implored in a whisper)...please don't move me about like that. The motion and the velocity are making me queasy.

Oh, I am so sorry. You just have no idea how happy we are to have found you! (I pushed the switch, hoping to flood the room with light, but it seemed to illuminate no better than the candle.) Uh, I think it needs batteries. (I shone the golden glow back into the junk drawer and miraculously discovered two "AA" batteries. The transformation in the flashlight was instantaneous.)

Ah! I feel so...so...so full of energy! ( A window rattling thunder clap caught me off guard and I very nearly dropped the flashlight. By now, my family was gathered together in the den, waiting impatiently for the flashlight and I to join them.)

We'd better go shed some light on the situation.

Yes, yes...to be sure (the flashlight concurred). After all, light from a candle or light from a flashlight...it's all relative!

Fly

I was sitting on a cushioned bench outside of the college testing center waiting for my 11-days-away-from-being-sixteen year old son to complete the final exam for his fifth college course (yes, I am most definitely bragging!) when a noisy fly decided it was her obligation to keep me company. My wild flailing and signs of annoyance indicated no discouragement to her. Finally, I just shouted, "Oh, go a-way!" and was shocked when I heard a whimpering reply.

Gee whizzzzz. I wazzzzz only trying to be pleazzzzzant. (She sniffed indignantly as she landed on the wall between my bench and the empty one closest to me.)

Well, maybe if you just stopped buzzing by my ears I wouldn't mind so much.

But that'zzzzz how I wazzzzz taught to get attention.

Didn't anyone ever tell you that's also a great way to get killed?

You mean people kill fliezzzzz? Why, I simply can't believe it. You mean to say that you actually think I'm annoying?

Look, I don't mean to be mean, but flies are...well...very dirty.

But I clean myzzzzzelf conzzzzztantly! (It was true. She was rubbing her, uh, hands together that very moment.)

What I mean is that you carry germs from one place to another to another. Every time you land somewhere....

But...(Her little body began to shake. I wasn't sure if it was due to her whimpering or because she was, well...leaving germs.) I...I never intend any harm. I just go about my own businezzzzz.

(I generally despise flies, but this one just seemed so different than the average run-of-the-mill fly. I found myself examining her for reassurance that she wasn't like the fly in the movie, "The Fly" -- you know, fly body/human head. She was all fly. By now, though, she was visibly sobbing.)

I eat (sob)...I nap (sob)...I...I...I fly (wail). And people are alwayzzzzz swatting at me. I just want to be friendzzzzz! (I suddenly remembered a verse from the song, "Human Fly" that goes: "I cry 98 tears from 98 eyes." Oh, I felt so sad for that little forlorn fly!)

Uh, if you promise not to land on me or my coffee cup, I'd be happy to be your friend....

(But before another word could be spoken, a guy with a jelly doughnut and a soda sat down on the bench next to mine. The little fly took off like a bullet towards the goodies and as I walked away to join my son, I saw the guy flailing his arms and yelling, "Oh, just go a-way!")

Smoke Alarm

Last night when I went to bed, a Nor'easter was predicted for our area: high winds, flooding rains - perfect weather to snuggle under our cozy comforter. I slept soundly through the night...no rattling windows, howling wind or heavy downpours could rouse me from my sweet slumber. No, that was left to the smoke detector. Exactly one hour before the alarm clock was to sound, the smoke detector in our bedroom decided to announce that it needed a new battery. Beep (pause) beep (longer pause) double beep (pause and repeat). I thought of putting the pillow over my head, but then I was afraid I wouldn't hear the clock - in the highly unlikely event that I would actually fall back asleep, that is. Frustrated, I sat on the edge of the bed and glared at the smoke detector.

You couldn't wait just one more stupid hour, could you?

Oh, no. Naturally not. Certainly not. (The voice was most assuredly that of Alastair Sim--though not as he sounded when he was playing mean, crotchety Ebenezer Scrooge in the only really good film adaptation of Dickens' "A Christmas Carol," but rather as the softer, wiser Scrooge after his spirited evening.) If it had indeed been me, that is.

(I must admit it was I who most closely resembled the nasty, ill-tempered miser at the moment.) One hour! I could have been cozy for one whole hour longer! Why, oh why, couldn't you have just waited?

Oh, dear me, no. (A sudden gust of wind literally shook the rafters.) It would have been inexcusable. Simply inexcusable. If it had indeed been me, that is.

(By now it registered to my sleepy brain that our bedroom smoke detector was denying that it had beeped. But then, there it was again: beep [pause] beep [longer pause] double beep [pause and repeat].) A-ha! It IS you!

No, madam, I'm afraid it is not. Perhaps you're just imagining it. Or it might be part of a nightmare brought on, perhaps, by a bit of undigested beef or an underdone potato....

(Beep [pause] beep [longer pause] double beep [pause and repeat]. I hurriedly slipped my feet into my slippers and shuffled over to stand directly beneath the smoke alarm. I cocked my head to listen more intently to the beeps, and, in actual fact, I was no longer certain that they were coming from our smoke detector. I opened the bedroom door and stood in the hall, waiting for the next round of beeps. No, the sound was definitely coming from our bedroom. My zombie-like daughter, son and husband all confirmed it. After scurrying around to find a battery and making sure my half-asleep husband didn't fall off the ladder replacing it, I crawled back under the covers for a dreamy twenty-five minutes more of sleep. But then it happened. Beep [pause] beep [longer pause] double beep [pause and repeat].) Nooohoho! This can't be happening!

Please, I beg you...do not doubt your senses! Ignore not the beeps!

(Oh, that was just so funny. How do you ignore incessant beeping? After disconnecting the entire apparatus from the ceiling, my husband flung it onto the loveseat at the foot of our bed. It was then that we were apparently transported into an episode of The Twilight Zone, because the phantom beeping started again.) This is insane! It won't die! (We all stood under the hole where the smoke alarm once hung, staring in disbelief at what was happening. Then my son very calmly asked this simple question: Umm, don't you guys have a carbon monoxide detector in your room?) Aagghhhhh! (Hidden behind a chair hidden behind mounds of "stuff" was, indeed, a carbon monoxide detector. We pulled it out of the socket, interpreted the sequence of beeps to indicate a low battery, removed the battery and...stopped the beeping! My husband replaced the smoke detector and he and my children went back to sleep. I promised the carbon monoxide detector on the loveseat that I would get it a new battery, too, and then addressed the smoke detector.)

Oh, I don't know what to do. (Then I laughed a splendid laugh, a most illustrious laugh. The mother of a long, long line of brilliant laughs.) Well, I guess you can tell I'm not a happy riser! Thanks for being so darned polite about the whole thing.

Think nothing of it, my dear. I never intended to alarm you. (And didn't I know it!)


(P.S. - a nod to Mr. Dickens for this one!)

Fake Moustache

One of the presents my daughter gave to my teenage son this past Christmas was a set of fake moustaches. He's always making incredibly funny videos and since he sometimes plays multiple roles, she thought they might come in handy. I don't think they've made it into any videos yet, but my son has surprised his railfanning friends more than once by showing up with a hilariously hairy upper lip. Today he hopped out of the car looking like he was a member of an 1890's barbershop quartet. When his pals were done laughing, he peeled it off and put it in the car to keep me company. I am no longer surprised when inanimate objects speak to me, but when a moustache sounds exactly like C. Aubrey Smith [see TCM.com], I must admit I was slightly taken aback.

(Harumph!) I say, it's a bit tricky still having the sticky part exposed. Be a good girl and reattach the paper, what ho!

(Being the good girl that I am, I carefully aligned the moustache with the backing paper and gently placed it in the cup holder for safe keeping.) Better?

Much, much. Capital job. Yes, yes. Capital (Harumph!) I daresay that fellow looked rather dashing with my assistance. I'm sure you'd agree?

(Considering that I think he's quite good looking to begin with and that I didn't want to hurt the moustache's feelings, I agreed, then changed the subject.) It must be nice to know that you're...well, uh...reusable?

My dear child, as long as there are roles to play, my usefulness will never be in doubt. Why (harumph!) the young lad may yet star me in one of his pictures!

Well, I'm not quite sure you'd be the star, but....

Oh - quite right. Yes, yes - quite right. (He sniffed rather loudly.) Must keep a stiff upper lip, you know. Supporting character (harumph!)...that's my lot. Yes, yes.

(Oh, I had really created a sticky problem.) You know, now that you mention it, he recently told me the plot to one of his upcoming videos. Something about how a moustache saves a wrongly accused man....

Why, I say! That would be perfect for me! Many's the time I've dreamed of rescuing the hero from a hairy situation. Yes, yes! Perfect.

My son was finally done railfanning, so I decided to cheer up the moustache ever further by asking my son to wear it on the way home. I was just about to reach for the moustache when my son - with what seemed to be superhuman speed - slammed his condensation-dripping ice-melting soda cup into the holder. "Noooooo!" I screamed in slow motion. I quickly handed the cup back to my surprised son. I felt the bottom of the wet cup holder and raised the soaked, limp now sticky-free moustache. Despite its utter droopiness, I am certain I still heard a determined "Harumph!"

Hot Air

It's been so chilly at night in our den recently that I began to wonder if heat was actually coming into the room. I pulled my blanket tighter around me as I bent down to check if warm air was indeed making its way up from the heater. After the kind of week I'd had (week? How about couple of weeks? How about even longer than that??), the last thing I needed was a heater on the blink.

Great. Oh, that's just swell. (The slightest whisper of heat was all I could feel. Totally defeated, I sat right down on the floor and pulled the blanket over my head. ) I seriously can't take this.

Don't worry, dear. It's not as bad as you think. (I peeked out from under my blanket and glanced around to see where Spring Byington's voice was coming from. The TV wasn't on, so I knew it couldn't possibly be a movie on TCM.) You just need to change the filter, that's all. A simple little thing, really.

How...how do you know that?

My dear, don't you know it's usually always something that can be easily fixed? (Her voice was so soothing...exactly like the moms she played in "Meet John Doe" or "You Can't Take It With You"  - see TCM.com.) I suddenly found myself musing that I really could use one of those moms about now.)

Oh, I wish life was like that...always something that could be easily fixed.

Why, what's the matter, dear? Is something troubling you? (Gee whiz, she sounded so genuinely concerned that I immediately began to blubber.)

Oh, if you only knew! It's work, it's money, it's practically everything! (Okay. So I was a bit melodramatic. Stress can do that to people.) Every day I go to work where my co-workers are all shallow women whose main concern seems to be when they will get their next pedicure - "pedi" as they call it. They're going on trips to Alaska, Cancun, Florida and I can't even afford a trip to the grocery store. My car was last washed in 2007, and they go every week! They can tell you who won "American Idol" but not who their senators are. Every day I have to hear about their dogs getting better treats than I can give my own children, and it's so depressing for me. I just don't know how to cope...

Yes, dear. I think I see what you mean. You'd like not to envy them, but you'd like their freedom, wouldn't you?

I was in the National Honor Society, for goodness sake, and I end up like this? Scrounging for every penny? Having to listen to women gush about having jewelry that has a name - just like their handbags? It's tough. And I'm not.

I know it's difficult, dear. But you must remember that just because these women can have and do things that you can't, doesn't make them any happier than you. It is quite true, dear, that money can't buy happiness.

Oh, I know you're right. They all have their own problems. But just not having to worry about money...

You have to promise me one thing, dear...that whenever you start to feel this way, you'll think of "You Can't Take It With You." Family is what really, truly matters. Heater filters, trendy co-workers and everything else are just nuisances, but with the kind of family you have, you are probably the luckiest woman in the world.

(I knew for certain that she was right. I lifted myself up off the floor and decided to head for the basement to change the filter.) Thanks so much for letting me vent.

That's what I'm here for, dear.

Liquid Paper

Today was "Payroll Monday" at work. It happens every two weeks. I go nuts making sure everyone's hours (on paper) match up to the scanner program, that their overtime is either marked as money or comp time, that they're paid at a higher title for those four hours last Thursday afternoon. It's always a crazy, hectic day but with my best friend next to me, I always manage to get the thing done just in the nick of time. My best friend on these wacky Mondays is, of course, Liquid Paper. "Oh, you didn't want it marked as vacation - you wanted a personal day?" No problem. I just reach for the Liquid Paper. Today, however, I believe that someone switched my bottle because the Liquid Paper on my desk was in an extremely horrific mood. I knew this because as soon as I reached for it this is what I heard:

Vat do you think you are doing? You don't dare to expose me to the light of day! Release me, I command you! (I swear Bela Lugosi was speaking to me. I was so scared that I actually dropped the bottle. Luckily the cap was still mostly on.)

You...you...you're not my regular bottle, are you?

Mwa-hah-hah-hah. (His evil laugh sent chills up my spine.) That veakling vill trouble us no longer. (An icy stare punctuated his last remark.)

Wh-what have you done with it? (I quickly looked away...that stare was mesmerizing.)

Do not concern yourself any longer vith that! I'm afraid that I must insist that you put me vay in the back of the drawer...at vonce!

But, it's payroll Monday! I simply can't finish in time without white-out! (I could feel myself beginning to get hysterical. The back of my hand suddenly darted to the corner of my trembling mouth. Stifling a sob, I practically begged him to reconsider.)

Oh, it's qvite true that I love the feel of the cool milky vite liquid drinking up those unvanted verds (it almost seemed as if he was drooling at the mere thought), but I insist you put me in the drawer!

But, it's payroll Monday!

That matters not to me! You vill obey my command!

(My right hand reached for the bottle as my left hand began to open the drawer. It was as if I was, well, hypnotized.) Wait! I...I...I just can't do this!

You cannot resist! I have vays of making you obey!

(His threat was ominous, but I continued to plead.) Please...please...you must stop do

Mwa-hah-hah-hah. (My words were being sucked into the mouth of the bottle as I spoke!)

Stop tha

Perhaps now you vill reconsider?

Nev

But it's payroll Monday! It's useless for you to resist me! (I knew he was right, and that I had no choice but to do as he demanded. I quickly grabbed the bottle and threw it in my trash bin. I immediately heard a piercing shriek, and then the strangest thing happened - when I moved my half-eaten slice of garlic pizza to see the bottle, it just wasn't there anymore! I went to the supply cabinet to get another bottle of Liquid Paper and went back to my desk. I knew as soon as I heard Boris Karloff's voice that it was indeed going to be a monstrous Monday. )

Stapler

I work at a sewer plant. Of course, I didn't know it was the sewer plant when I initially applied for the job. It was touted as "Water Pollution Control" and I couldn't help thinking how nice it would be to work for an environmentally-conscious industry. Water Pollution Control = sewer plant. Yuck. George Orwell would be so proud of the community for which I work. We have "Water Pollution Control" and our garbage dump is known as the "Ecological Facility." No sewer plant or garbage dump in our town! It's not really so bad, though (except on those days when the vanilla filter isn't working just right), but sometimes when someone comes in to our office from just having left one of the REALLY stinky buildings, well, let's just say that I've learned to have entire conversations without breathing once through my nose. I also keep a giant bottle of hand sanitizer - watermelon scented - on my desk, right next to my stapler. Recently I've started to wonder whether my stapler might feel slightly neglected, considering how often I employ its neighbor. So I asked it:

Does it bother you at all that I reach past you so often to get to the hand sanitizer?

No, dahling, not one bit. (She was a beautiful stapler - a purple and black Swingline with just a hint of yellow. She sounded very much like Tallulah Bankhead [see TCM.com] - a deep, raspy, world-weary voice with an accent like a Southern belle schooled in England.) Ah absolutely love it when you wash your hands. Really ah do. And watermelon brings back some lovely memories.

But (I hated to admit this), I've actually knocked you over a few times. (She was ergonomically designed - an upright model.) I hope you'll forgive me.

Listen, dahling, ah've been pushed over plenty of times, but that doesn't mean ah'm a pushover. Ah know you never did it deliberately. Ah gladly accept your apology.

Thank you so much. You know, it's a shame you have to work down here. You seem like you should at least be in the Mayor's Office.

(She chuckled.) Ah could say the same of you, don't you think?

Oh no, not at all. Everything's so casual and relaxed down here. And we even have an office cat!

Well, yes, dahling, but you see ah'm not as sophisticated as you may think ah am. Ah simply adore all the nitty gritty, as one might say. Plus ah'm the first to read all the really good gossip, since you are essentially the entire personnel department, beg pardon - human resources - down here.

You read what I staple?

Of course, dahling. What else did you expect me to do with my time?

And you gossip about it? To who?

To WHOM, dahling..to whom! Why simply everyone, of course. As a matter of fact, ah'd be careful what papers ah leave next to that telephone, if ah was you. Between you and me, she just can't keep her mouthpiece quiet.

(I glanced suspiciously at my phone, which startled me something silly when it suddenly rang. I gingerly reached for the receiver, wondering whether my entire upcoming conversation would be fodder for gossip after we all left for the day.)