No tightly curled and coiffed red hair. No 50s tv actress one-shade-of-red lipstick. No pearls around my neck, or dress and heels for no discernable reason.

Just me. But, I swear to goodness, sometimes I think I channel her. At least twice last week.

1) Nice, sunny weather til I got to the kids’ school for my weekly volunteer gig in Stephen’s classroom. This requires stopping by the school office to pick up what I need, to do what I’m there to do. Picture a covered entrance, wide enough for two lanes of traffic. I pull up, both lanes are blocked. Normally this would be fine, but as I pull into the parking lot, the bottom of the sky falls out (and up until 10 minutes ago, there was no bottom of the sky in sight). I’m not talking sprinkles or drizzle or any “nice” rain derivative, I’m talking cats & dogs along the size of a bengal tiger and mastiff. Big, honking, FULL raindrops of Biblical proportion, sealing me in my car and blinding my sight beyond the windshield. The stuff flash floods are made of.

I don’t believe in umbrellas, not for “running in and out”, just a waste of time and energy as far as I’m concerned (ahem…….I’m not made of sugar, contrary to how much I add to coffee— apparently I don’t melt). So, big deal, I make a run for it, right?

We know what happens when I ask rhetorical questions. I’m screwed.

I pop outta the car, guns blazing. Keep in mind I’ve parked in front of the cars blocking the covered entrance (by cutting through empty parking places in front of the office–this, so I can drive over to the next building where Stephen’s class is without being blocked in). This means the people SITTING IN THE PARKED CARS BLOCKING THE ENTRANCE can see every step I make (I’m not bitter).

Three steps into my run, I realize one of my shoes–a thong–is two steps behind me. I notice this after I’m under the safety of the awning. I’m wet, so I figure, what the heck, and run out to retrieve it…but then, dang it, the other shoe falls off. Totally humilated because I have an audience, I grab both shoes in my right hand, slip in the office barefoot pretending “if I can’t see you, you can’t see me” (head down, make NO eye contact, it works for kids), grab my papers and slink and slosh back to my car.

OF COURSE there are no close parking spots near the door of the next building, so totally giving into the deluge, I hold the stack of papers closely to my body in one hand, my shoes in the other, and splash through the three inches of puddle adjacent to my parking spot. When I walked into Stephen’s class, they were in awe. I must’ve looked like something the cat drug in, after she had chewed on it awhile. I’m not kidding, the kids circled around me and wanted to touch me, like I now possessed some kind of magical powers or something (I possessed something at the moment, alright…). Mrs. L just shook her head, felt my pain, and hoped I hadn’t ruined any of her stuff.

After completing my “job”, in my khaki capris–wet and three shades darker than they should’ve been–I walked outside to read in my car while I waited on the other two to get out of class. It was sunny. I was still wet. With mascara smudged and looking rather goth now, I was very thankful I hadn’t worn dark underwear or a white tee…

2) This one’s shorter, but still very Lucy-esque: I like whipped cream, and although I believe hand-beaten heavy cream with a pinch of sugar is a dessert in and of itself, most of the time we just keep Cool-Whip or Redi-Whip around for when there’s a need for either (for brownies or sundaes or chocolate pound cake or pecan pie….!) (Mmmm…).

It was waaaayyy past time to clean out the fridge on Sunday. Multiple science experiments going on, I took no pictures to post because it didn’t cross my mind I like you. I saw a lone can of Redi-Whip in the back right corner and thought, “I don’t remember when I bought that.” At times like this, a taste test is necessary. There’s no such thing as “bad” whipped cream, right?

Uh, oh, another rhetorical question.

I shook it up, tilted my head back (no one else was around), aimed the nozzle above my mouth (don’t wanna contaminate with my germs, heaven forbid) and squirted.

Contents under pressure. But no longer “fresh”. Freakin’ whip cream oozy goo splurted out, spraying all over my face, but more so, all over my red shirt, a rip roaring mess and evidence of what I had just done. I can assure you, I was more disappointed than disgusted…so I sadly wiped off my face and changed shirts and didn’t tell a soul, very glad, this time I didn’t have an audience.

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