The Junk Drawer

OK, so tonight I get ready to do a load of laundry. I dribble the last drops, and I mean only drops, of the last jug of liquid detergent in the washer.

Grab a new bottle I just bought and go to unscrew the cap.

It doesn’t budge.

At all.

Why? Because it appears to be sealed to the top of the bottle. I’m pretty sure this has never happened in the history of laundry-doing, but of course it happens to me.

There’s a sliver of a gap between the cap and jug, but not even scissors can unhinge its grip on the bottle.

I quickly decide not to use scissors to get the cap loose because I just don’t want to explain to an ER doctor how it happened that I’m missing a couple fingers over laundry.

So I decide one load of clothes with barely any detergent in it is good enough.

But.

Now I want to return the bottle to the store where I bought it because it’s a giant economy size that cost kind of a bundle and I really want to use it.

You know when I get it to the store, tell the clerk “This won’t open,” that they’ll grab hold of the cap, turn it, and it’ll come right off.

You know it will.

Because me.

A few miles from my house is a little creek where geese hang out. It’s a very natury place to call home if you’re a goose.

Except for one problem.

The area is divided by a busy four lane road that was packed at rush hour tonight.

As I headed down this road, I came upon a stop light at a highway interchange. Right where a party of a dozen or so geese decided now would be a super fine time to cross the road to get to the other side.

I was horror-stricken. They all just walked as a pack right into the busy road without a care in the world.

This ain’t gonna end well, I thought.

Until….

Until….

All of us drivers, every last one of us, laid on our horns, loud and steady, which had two effects:

1. The cacophony of horns alerted all over drivers that something was wrong and they all slowed, now knowing why.

2. It made the geese run faster across the street, right into oncoming traffic.

OMG, please geese, move your little asses or fly, dammit!

I just didn’t want to see anyone get hit in front of me, mere feet away. I couldn’t look, but I couldn’t not look because …. because …. I was willing them to move.

Still honking our horns and marveling at the beauty of cars stopping and nobody rear-ending each other, we drivers waited until all the geese made it across without a scratch.

And still without a care in the world.

Did they even know how close they came to certain ends?

Lucky day, my little goosey friends. Lucky day.

* In case you’re wondering why geese walk across roads, rather than fly, here you go.

So I call the 800 number for my bank and all I’m trying to do is get a listing of my recent ATM transactions. I got far through the menu, after giving my 16-digit account number, social security number, PIN, what I had for dinner and my tax returns for the last five years.

Beep, boop, beep, boop, beep, boop, beep, pound. Geez.

Finally, auto-lady is going to start reading off my transactions.

Then I coughed and that caused the auto-lady to say she would transfer me to a human. The ONE time I don’t actually need a human and I get one.

Story of my life.

I found a weird article today, a photo depiction of actual death row inmates’ last meal requests.

Check it.

When I shared it with my sister, Ann, she responded not with her last meal, but her last meals. Plural.

She wants a week’s worth. I guess because if you’re going to die, you should have more than one entrée. Pig out. You know, enjoy yourself.

Sunday….Chinese
Monday….burger from 1818 Tavern
Tuesday….chicken parmesan
Wednesday….pulled pork platter
Thursday….full-on Thanksgiving dinner
Friday….spiral ham with roasted potatoes
Saturday….dessert cart

I think she should go onto Yelp and review the 1818 Tavern restaurant and say that the burgers are literally to die for.

My last meal?

I would want lobster ravioli from a restaurant in New York City that I cannot for the life of me remember the name of. My brother-in-law knows where it is, so if I’m on death row, my last phone call will be to him and he’s gonna have to drive to NYC to get it.

Sorry, Dan. Tell ‘em it’s my last meal and maybe you’ll get a discount.

So, folks. Pretty sure you’ve never had this question posed to you before, but let’s have it….

What would be your last meal?

Many of you know I’m in Paris at the moment. The city of decadent cuisine, stunning architecture, and of course, impossibly beautiful and fashionable people.

Women are always perfectly put-together from head to toe, and frankly, so are most men. An entire city has its act together.

And then there’s me.

Yesterday my husband and I walked a few square miles of the city and needed to rest.

We grabbed some coffee at a café and sat outdoors to watch Paris do what it does. My feet were killing me, so I pulled up a second chair, turned sideways and stretched my legs across it.

After about 15 minutes of people-watching, and people watching me, I felt a draft in an unusual place.

I looked down to find that while the top button of my pants was secure, my fly was completely unzipped. Say it with me: Compleeeeetely unziiiiiiiped. And because I was seated and bent at the waist, this created a giant peephole for the sideshow that was my underwear.

Keepin’ it classy, Kathy. Keepin’ it classy.

If I had any hopes of taking style tips from the French, I’m pretty sure it would start with fastening things that need to be fastened, especially relative to the région de crotch.

I’m sorry I offended you, Paris. But I know you still love me. You already said so!