So, that's embarrassing....

So here's a bit of levity to lighten your day. Several years ago, when I worked in a major US city that will remain nameless, I went to a meeting at an Alderman's office (I'd like to say Alderperson, because she's a woman) with my supervisor. I had taken a pen earlier off of my supervisor's desk when I was discussing a case with him and had it with me in my purse (a new Coach bag--it's a beautiful thing. =) and used it to write notes during the meeting with the Alderperson. She was discussing an ordinance that she was trying to pass, and suddenly I look down at my hands and notice that there is ink all over them, forming little pools of horror in the cracks of my fingers and around my nails. I have nothing to wipe this crap off with, mind you, because I'd left my sani-wipes at the office before I was required to run downstairs on a minute's notice to attend this meeting. Consequently, I have the brilliant idea of licking my forearm like a kitten and attempting to wipe the ink off without getting it onto my suit. Horrible plan, because I managed to simply spread the ink all over my arms and hands. The guy across from me whispered that it was on my face, too--apparently I had struck a look of concerned attention with my chin resting on my hand (yep, just like the famous sculpture). In the end, I looked like a suited, cross-dressing version of Smurfette, complete with blue arms and goatee to match.

Thankfully, my boss just laughed at me when the meeting was over, which wasn't fun because I felt humiliated all over again, so soon after my prior snafu. Turns out he hadn't even noticed what was going on.

I blame his ill gotten pen.

My House is NOT a Dojo

After my husband and I moved into our new house, it quickly became apparent that our new phone number used to belong to a martial arts studio. It was hilarious at first, as I pondered the notion of adopting a really terrible, fake, un-PC accent while I added "son" to the end of everyone's name as I let them know of our upcoming workshop on board-breaking for the low, low price of $250 per head.

The situation took a turn from hilarious to annoying, however, when I repeatedly heard the same response when I said that my house, is not, in fact, Master Dumbly's Martial Arts Studio and Dojo, regardless of what the circa 1998 website may be espousing. I went as far as to research the place to see if it had a new phone number where I could refer people (and possibly mail them some UFC approved arm pads), but I came up dry. Apparently, Master Dumbly's has vanished before our karate-deprived eyes. Meanwhile, I feel like someone who received the old phone number of a person with bad credit, where the horrible, half automated, half real-life person refuses to believe that I do not owe $375 to JewelryTV.com for charging some cuff links in the shape of dalmatians, and that no, I am not Mary Smith, have no idea who Mary Smith is and do not know where she could be hiding. Next time, I'm telling whoever calls that Mary Smith and Master Dumbly flew off to Ecuador while dodging the mafia to elope and have their human/alien hybrid love child.

Oh, and for the record in case you didn't catch it, my house is NOT a dojo.