Dear God,
Why do I have to live one third of my life in the Twilight Zone? I keep having bizarre experiences no one else seems to have. Or, so they don't say.
Love,
krs
P.S. Is it scary in Heaven? It looks like it might be. I know it's not supposed to be. I'm just sayin'.
There I was at work, minding my own business, working against a deadline that involved El Presidente. I am not speaking of the hotel in Cancun, nor the tequila or much maligned Mr. Obama. I'm talking about someone at work, an amazing man with an air about him that exudes charisma and energy. Not only would you follow him up the hill, you'd shovel dirt to build the hill for him. Meeting at 4p.
I was sitting in the conference room at 3:40p getting ready when I noticed something. Sniff. Something not quiiiite right. Sniff sniff. Wha? That almost smells like… oh my Sweet Dear Lord. Apparently, today I have an air about me too.
I quickly pushed "rewind" on the dusty old BetaMax VCR in my head -- remember Beta? Uh huh, well that is what my brain is like -- and finally backed up the tape to my morning ritual. Shower, yes (oh man I have to get back to the gym), then mid-shower the phone rang, talking to my boss about the 4p meeting, yes and now I'm getting dressed… AND HOUSTON, we have a problem. In my mad rush of the morning in tornado mode, it seems Mr. Mitchum the Unscented Deodorant and I neglected to chat.
I wonder when the last time I forgot was. Seventh grade?
Now I was in a seriously dill pickle, with no time to get to the corner Walgreens. There was only one option, so I dashed down to the men's room, which as luck would have it, was completely empty. Goody, this is no time for explanations and wisecracks from the Peanut Gallery. I extracted 3 large paper towels from the dispenser, 1 for soaping, 1 for rinsing, and 1 for drying. Of course, we use only the finest, cheapest, least expensive, most disgusting, and foamiest hand soap on the planet at work. I squirted mounds of foam onto my "soaping" towel, and sprinted back to the Large Stall, carefully removing my shirt while not spilling superfoam on anything. Seconds later, I was scrubbing away, scrubbing, scrubbing, and that was wh
en I dropped both Mr. Rinse Towel and Mr. Drying Towel on the filthy floor.If you know anything about me, you know I am a germaphobe of vast proportions. The chances of me picking up and using paper towels off a bathroom stall floor are Slim and None, and Slim's on vacation. It was 3:50p, El Presidente minus ten, and as I heard an entire slew of guys enter the men's room, I realized I was trapped in a handicapped stall with the foamiest pits east of the Pecos. You have no idea how much foam we're talking about.
I laughed. I cried. I cussed. I prayed. I watched foam falling from pits to floor. Some oaf shuffled loudly into the stall next to me, rustling around with his pants. Oh no. I have got to get the hell outta here. But how?
Seconds later, like a trapped animal, I was clawing at the toilet paper dispenser, rolling it like a rabid hamster on a turbo wheel. I was a TP-to-pit wiping machine, bionic-like, and within a mere 2 minutes, I had wiped off at least ten percent of the foam.
The Betamax tape goes blank at this point, but somehow somewhere, I suppose with the help of my Guardian Angel and possibly all his Angel buddies, at precisely 4p I was sitting back in the conference room to greet El Presidente, and there was only the faintest scent of handsoapy antiseptic in the air. Fully de-foamed through angelic intervention, I smelled cleaner than a whistle. The meeting went swimmingly, and halfway through it, El Presidente actually uttered these exact words, which gave me the inspiration for this blog.
"krs, you make a lot of sense."
Scents? Oh Mister El Presidente, you have no idea.
Dear God… P.S. Do Guardian Angels wear deodorant?
