TheMommyBlog

Friday, October 10, 2003

Lemme set the scene: Sleep deprived. Here ‘til 8:00 p.m., reviewing files. Up three times last night with dd. Breakfast meeting this morning with Management Committee at 8:30. Dug up some earrings to wear in feeble effort to look more professional. Pearl came loose, no problem, glued it back in, tucked my hair behind my ears, and hopped in the car.

Fast forward: breakfast was great, sat with my boss the CFO and some HR ladies, hopped in the car to come back to my office. Glanced in the mirror, and AAAAAACCCKKKK! What is that shit hanging from my earlobe?? There is a GLOB of Gorrilla Glue that seeped out from behind the pearl, flowed lavalike over the base of the earring, crept to the tip of my earlobe, and hung there like sap on a treetrunk. It was actually kind of pretty, catching the light in an amberlike glow, but it could also be mistaken for a huge, infectious pus bubble. Why didn’t those “nice” HR ladies say anything??? I looked like Ben Stiller in There’s Something About Mary showing up at Cameron Diaz’s door with a glop of sperm hanging from the side of his head.

And then, as is my wont, I made it worse. I tried to wipe it off when I stopped at an intersection. Now it’s all over my fingertips. And the steering wheel. Just how much glue did I put in there? I was suddenly reminded of a Burt Reynolds movie I saw centuries ago where he is having an affair with Kim Bassinger, and somehow they managed to get glue all over their hands, and she tries to remove his belt but then can’t put it down, and then the husband comes home and Burt hides in the closet, but then the toy Scottish terrier is clawing at the door, so Burt picks it up and holds it in his lap. Kim, meanwhile, is distracting her husband by asking him to look out the window with her hands and the belt behind her back, while jerking her head at Burt to start crawling out of the room, but of course now his hand is stuck to the dog’s fur, so he has to crawl, commando style, across the huge bedroom suite, get into his car (quickly abandoning a futile attempt to fasten the seatbelt) and get out of the gated complex and past the security guard, steering with the dog stuck to his hand. Back in the bedroom, Kim puts her hands at her side, cracks the belt like a whip, and says, “Honey, we’re going to do something different tonight!”

One minute later, I gingerly steered into my parking space, took out the earring (it was exceptionaly easy to keep track of, with the post stuck to my forefinger and the back stuck to my thumb), used my hip and elbow to swipe my security badge and get inside the door, and stood there glaring at my hand.

Finally, having poured half a bottle of Crystal Geyser over my hands and that stupid pearl, I can now type without a sensation akin to stepping stickily across a movie theater floor.