Words Between The Button Pushers

[I am already in the elevator when SHE enters.]

Me: “Where ya goin’?”
Her: “Seventh floor, but I’ll pre-“

[I press the button for the seventh floor.]

Me: “No problem, I got it.”

[She stares at me, seemingly annoyed, then the doors to the elevator close. A few seconds later-]

Her: “I said I was going to press it.”
Me: “Excuse me?”
Her: “The button. For the seventh floor. I said I was going to press it.”
Me: “Ok.”
Her: “But YOU pressed it.”
Me: “I was doing you a favor.”
Her: “Well the next time doing favors for someone involves pressing an elevator button after someone else expresses their desire to press the button themselves, maybe you should leave well enough alone.”
Me: “You’re kidding, right?”
Her: “I don’t kid about someone pushing my buttons.”

Don’t Do The Fondue

Seems that people are buying into “the fondue” these days, almost as much as they’re buying into The Secret.

In the last month, everywhere I go, people are asking me if I “do the ‘due” and they’re not talking about soda. They’re talking about a restaurant where, for $125 per person, you are supposed to be extremely excited to (a) cook your own food over a flame, (b) dip poultry, beef and fish into a vat of melted cheese, (c) dip bread on skewers into another hot vat of cheese, (d) dip marshmallows into a third vat of chocolate, and (e) finish up with some cheese. I refuse to be on such a choleste-role

…and you should, too.

Egg Story, Thursday Edition

…and so I looked into the fridge and was ecstatic to see that we still had eggs.

But would we have enough eggs for an omelette? Personally, I’m not one of those two-egg omelette guys. If you’re going to make an omelette you don’t want the outer skin to be like skin. You want it to be thicker. More stable. It’s got to be able to hold the insides without breaking. But fortunately, there were six eggs in the egg carton.

And then I looked at the date. They had expired two days prior.

I stood there, contemplating the next step. I could make the omelette with the two-day old eggs and see if they smelled old and proceed from there. An old wives tale once told the story of how bad eggs made themselves known by turning green or smelling like the dead carcass of a boar. While I didn’t necessarily believe in such wives tales (or green leprechauns for that matter), I decided to move forward and make the ham, cheese and egg omelette I had so desired.

And then I turned on the stove — and nothing came out but gas.

I stood there, contemplating the next step. I could try to make the omelette using only gas, but there would be no heat. Since I stood there contemplating the next step while the gas filled the kitchen, I wondered about the old wives tale about how lighting a match in a gas-filled kitchen could cause an explosion. While I didn’t necessarily believe in such wives tales (or matches causing gas stations to explode), I decided to continue towards my ultimate goal of having an egg omelette.

And I’m still here.

There was no explosion. No green smelly boarish eggs. Just a nice, thicker-than-skin omelette with four eggs and ham and shredded melted cheese. I threw a party for myself and my omelette by using the other two remaining eggs as one-time only maracas — since, as you very well know, if you use eggs for maracas you only get one glorious CRASH before the maracas are broken and oily.

But that’s when I smelled the oily broken maraca eggs and realized they had gone bad.

I had eaten a bad egg omelette.

Do you ever eat something bad, but don’t know you ate something bad until after you ate something bad, thus making your head wander about whether or not the badness would eventually come back up and make you sick?

Well, that’s today’s egg story.

WFME’s Right Name Wrong E-Mail

We all get junk e-mail.

But periodically, just like one can find joy in a wrong number phone call, one can also find joy in what I like to call the Right Name Wrong E-Mail — an e-mail message that has been mistakenly sent to you because you have the same name as the intended recipient. A missing period between the intended e-mail receiver’s first and last name has now ironically delivered that message to you.

And it’s almost too good to leave alone.

I Have This Urge To Get Into An Industrial Sized Clothes Dryer And Have Someone Turn It On

There’s things to do, and then there’s things to do.

But beyond the unrealistic things to do that you contemplate on a daily basis, but which you never do thanks to something called “common sense” (i.e. crashing your car into oncoming traffic, cursing your boss to his/her face, drinking liquid plumber to see what it tastes like, jumping a ravine in your car Dukes of Hazzard-style, swallowing pennies, etc), there’s one thing that keeps coming up in my head as something that could be a pretty wild experience that doesn’t seem too unrealistic to try.

That thing happens to involve crawling into an industrial-sized clothes dryer and having someone turn it on.