Starring Sponge Mom and Square Me

I'm on lunch right now and what I've elected to do with my time is eat a giant sandwich and write about topic #41. Ideal co-stars. It took me approximately 52 minutes to consume said sandwich as it was VERY large, procured from Big Daddy's Pizza just across the street. Big Daddy's Pizza is the only place near (enough) work to get a decent lunch but it comes at a price and I don't mean monetarily. First, whatever you order requires tremendous upper body strength to schlepp overhead across a heavily trafficked Western Ave and into my building. Then, as all BD sandwiches are for some reason twice-wrapped and stuffed with manhands into the narrowest possible tube of a paper bag, it takes several minutes just to get to the sandwich. I realize it took me a couple of minutes just to tell you that so the latter part of my lunch hour into which I've elected to squeeze my blog entry for today has now become severely compromised. I have mere seconds to tell you what I think about "ideal co-stars" so here it is: if you're anything like me you spend the better part of each day wondering why the heck you aren't in a major motion picture of some kind right now. Not because my life is just that fascinating but moreso because whenever I see a movie and watch the actors at work I think, how hard can that be, really? Owen Wilson in Midnight in Paris sealed it for me. I can't imagine doing a worse job of bumbling through a Wood Allen script than he did, and even though I'm a chick and me playing that character would certainly change the story a bit, I feel like I could grow my hair out a little, punch myself in the nose, do two shots of Jameson and basically become Owen Wilson. No one would be the wiser. But my point is, I could easily be in a movie and so could you. If I were in a movie, I would want certain people flanking me to A.) make me look good and B.) whisper my lines to me when I get too drunk to remember and C.) hold anything I buy along the way because I hate carrying stuff. There are several Hollywood types that qualify for these positions - A.) Amy Poehler because she did it for Tina Fey and B.) that sexy black guy from Criminal Minds because it seems like he would be a good whisperer and C.) Sylvester Stallone because he can carry a lot of stuff and I would enjoy hearing him mumble about it in his slack-jawed, subtly bewildered way . Other candidates include: A.) Phyllis Diller (is she still around? If not, Joan Rivers. B.) Gilbert Gottfried C.) Kate Moss. The truth is, though, if I ever did make it in a movie about me starring me revolving around all things me, it would only make sense to co-star my real life peeps. Ideally, my mom for sure. Trouble with that is I'm fairly certain the movie, after a really catchy intro with me laughing and smiling gayly around the credits, would shift immediately to being about her. She is way more interesting due to being a "spongeface." A spongeface is someone who absorbs the sob stories of strangers in line at the grocery store, at a party, at a restaurant, etc. It's especially prevelant in situations that involve service people or frazzled mothers with all their kids (and several others they've magnetically attracted) hanging off them. My mother and my sister Tess are guilty of having kind faces and making way too much eye contact; hence, they invite epic confessions and surprising confidences from the oddest balls on the planet. I, too, inherited the sponge, but with a little more of my dad in me, I understand that with great power comes great responsibility and have learned to discourage small talk up front so the big talk never comes. Consequently, a movie about me might end quicker, but at least you know it's going to end. Put my Dad in it with me and you've got two characters sitting in an airport waiting for a flight saying nothing. Enter my Mom and sister, followed by two Hari Krishnas, a guy on a segue, a toddler pulling her own Barbie rollerboard, a pregnant teenager, an elderly couple each holding a small poodle, four Hispanic fellas and a widower.

Mom (to Dad): "Here's your sandwich."

Dad: "Who are all these people?" (takes a bite, looks around)

Mom: "Oh, they're on our flight."

(Tess accepts a poodle, hugs it and says something that makes the elderly couple laugh.)

Me: "You were only gone for 5 minutes."

Mom: "I'm worried about that pregnant girl. Should she be flying?"

(Walks toward pregnant teen.)

Me (to Dad): "Is that turkey?"

Dad (nods, says nothing)

Me (sits back, closes eyes, folds arms)

Hope you got popcorn. We might have a mini-series on our hands.

Some Assembly Required

I like putting things together. Not just 2 and 2, but actual things. Like furniture from Ikea. It's packed up so nice in the box, complete with instructions and a special tool that will only work for that project. Yet I always save the tool after construction, "just in case..." You never know when a friend will purchase the exact same giant wall unit, somehow misplace the tool and then call you for help. Sometimes the tool can also be used to pry open a paint can or scratch a spot on your back you can't quite reach. It doesn't say that in the instructions, but I tend to think outside the box. Consequently, I have a drawer full of mini metal wrenches, allen keys, glue bottles, leftover dowels and uniquely Swedish screwdrivers that could double as shoehorns. I'm amazed at how Ikea gets all the parts of a complete set of patio furniture into a flat box that easily slips into the back seat of a Corolla. I enjoy looking at the display samples of massive entertainment centers and then criss-crossing my way through the store, past all the tempting signs for the meatball special, to the warehouse bin where the incredibly small box of parts sits, waiting. It's hard to imagine what's in that box will eventually pop up into a shiny new shelving unit that will easily hold all your crap and then some plus a big flat screen TV, but once you put it together, voila! And the leftover box is just right for Maverick's temporary amusement, easily recycled Monday morning. I have assembled a lot of furniture in my time. I've pieced together nightstands, dressers, bookshelves, shoe organizers, wood beds, wrought iron beds, entertainment centers, kitchen tables, benches, desks, decorative carts, armoires and utility cabinets. My grandpa could build all that stuff from scratch with real tools, but it makes me feel a little capable that I can manage building those things on my own with nothing more than a screwdriver, and not always the right one. Why is it when you need a Phillips you can only find the flathead and when you need a flathead you can only find a butter knife? I'll admit I sometimes skip ahead in the instructions, especially if there are more than two steps written out under a diagram. I just look at the next picture. I don't want to read 14 paragraphs of detail. You can usually tell from the drawings where it's all headed. But I will also go back and re-read more closely when my handywork looks nothing like the picture so far. More than a few times, I've had to take something apart after finishing it because the wrong side of the board is facing out. I am also somewhat challenged by hinges and swivels. Anything requiring sensitive adjustment really depends on how much I've had to eat prior to starting the project. I have to be careful because I'm forever torn between finishing what I've started and taking a break. Breaks are dangerous. They involve a good sandwich, maybe some chips, a soda or two, what's on TV, I could use a nap...I don't necessarily want to get back to it. This means powering through to completion even when I'm not at my sharpest. Hence, doors that are a titch off when closed and drawers whose bottoms slip out and bow under the weight of their contents. Acceptable when you're contemplating a BLT. Not so hot when you're proudly touring your place and someone says, oh, is one side of that shelf higher than the other? Well no wonder all those candles are in the corner! Sometimes I'm really in the mood to put something together. Like the time my mom decided to sell our bunk beds. They were in the basement, so I took them apart, carried them upstairs and reassembled them in the garage for the sale. Sometimes I'm called upon in the darkest hour to whip pieces into place. One year my brother got a bike for Christmas. It came in a box, wheels and tubes, frame, seat, handlebars all in disarray, and I was in the basement till after midnight cranking it whole. Sometimes, admittedly, I dread a project in a box. One word: mini-blinds. A 4" x 4" square of instructions in 4 pt. Arial with a lone diagram that looks more like a football play is not enough. I can see why some people resort to newspaper or two pushpins and a towel for window treatments. For the most part, I'm game for anything that works like Legos. I loved them as a kid, but it's a little weird to still ask for them for Christmas. Since no one has taken me up on it in 30 years, I live vicariously through my nephew, Aidan. And I have to say, I was never one for dollhouses, but boy did I miss out. I put one of those babies together for my niece this past Christmas and by the time I snapped the roof into place I was thinking, I'm a girl. It would be all right to have one of these in my house, right? While we were arranging the little furniture (which, sadly, came assembled) on the various floors and making up soap operas, I was thinking, seriously, I could put one up in the loft and my nieces can play with it when they come over! Never mind they're 777 miles away and don't exactly drop by on random evenings looking for toys...but hey, "just in case." Air quotes make it okay to build more than one, right?