Sunday, February 2, 2014

The Ring Incident



I went to the mall yesterday...with my mother. 

There is nothing about that sentence that is a good idea. 

Why?  Because, if I'm likely to do something ridiculous--which I am--that likelihood is quadrupled when I'm with my mother, who, frankly is nearly just as likely to do something blush worthy herself.

I wanted to get a cheap chunky ring, so we head into a store that carries such things.  I'm there, just minding my own business, looking at rings.  My mom is trying to help and I literally have 5 rings in my hand that she wants me to try.  So, I'm trying them on--and I'm worried about dropping one--at the same time I'm trying to glance regularly at Holden (10 year old extraordinaire) who is looking at batman watches.  My mother hands me a ring and says--put this on!  My long ingrained reflex of doing precisely what she says, when she says to do it, kicks in and I slip it on my finger.

“Cute,” I say.

“Yes!! I really like it,” she says.

I move to remove it from my finger.

I pull.

It doesn't budge.

Umm...I guess I should explain at this point that this is the sort of thing that can put me straight into a full blown panic.  I told Jack once that I could never get arrested, because having cuffs on my wrists that I couldn't get off would put me COMPLETELY over the edge (I think hyperventilation would occur...and tears...and sweat...probably a little blood).

So, immediately red in the face, I begin to tug.

My finger is turning red from the pressure I'm placing on it, but the ring isn't moving.  And, now my finger is swelling.

The ring is attached to a plastic thing (the sort that costume jewelry earrings come on) and I just can't get the right angle with the plastic.  And, to top it off, the damn thing is zip tied to the plastic and therefore impossible to remove from the plastic backing.

Meanwhile, my mom is cooing in my ear:

"Don't panic.  Just relax.  It'll come off.  Don't worry."

I'm reminded of the time I shoved rocks up my nose when I was 3, my mom had to bring me to the ER to have them removed, and was cooing similar soothing phrases.  I'd like to think I'd progressed since the age of 3...and, really, I have.  I mean, there were definitely no rocks up my nose.  So, that’s something. 
Anyway...her reaction gives an indication as to my demeanor .

Me:  “Son of a...”

Mom:  “language!”

So, I guess it’s a good thing I didn't say what I was thinking, which was, "oh my fu**ing fu**idy F**K nut!  F**K!"

Mom:  “You need to wet it.”

Really?  Take it into the bathroom?  I'll look like some sort of deranged shop lifter! 

Mom (when I make no move to find a bathroom):  “Just lick it a little bit.”

Lick my finger.  In the middle the jewelry turn cases, wearing a ring I don't even want to buy, I should LICK my BLEEPING FINGER?!?!   Visions of Miley Cyrus’s “Adore You” video dance in my head (not that I’ve ever seen it…I mean, really…I’m too old and my music tastes far to refined to have ever indulged a glance at a Miley Cyrus video...Psh...Absurd!). 

Anyway, I immediately I dismiss the idea as too horrific.  At this point my hands are sweating so I just use my sweaty palms to try to dampen my finger.

Nothing.

My mom walks away and begins to peruse the jewelry--thinking, I can only assume, that if left to my own devices, I could get it off my finger.

When, has it EVER been a good idea to leave me to my own devices?

I'm seriously contemplating (because I've been left to my own devices) immobilizing my hand between my knees, and then pulling the ring with my other hand as hard as I can.  Skin and flesh be damned (I can't lick my finger, but apparently bleeding all over the jewelry department is not a problem).

Holden approaches takes one look at me and exclaims (in his OUTDOOR voice--ie:  he shouts):  “Oh my GOSH!  Is that stuck on your finger?!?!?”

My mom rushes over:  “shsssshhhhhhh!”

At this point, I'm thinking--I just need a moist towelette--I need a woman with a stroller who perhaps has a baby and some moist towelettes.  Because, I NEED a moist towelette.  Over and over I am silently chanting, "moist towelette," like some sort of answer to an unclean prayer.  I don't even like the phrase "moist towelette".  Honestly, I'm not overly fond of the word, "moist".  And, in my daily life I call them "wipes"...just "wipes"--not even "wet" wipes or god forbid "moist" wipes—simply,  "wipes".  But, for some damn reason, panic ALWAYS makes me revert to an odd brand of formal speak.  Like the time I was working in a bank, a man collapsed--I called over to my supervisor (who was closer to a phone) and said, "Jill!  Please phone emergency services."

Please "phone" emergency effing services?  Not "call 911" or even "call for an ambulance".  But, "please" (because a man having a heart attack right in front of you is absolutely no excuse not to remember one’s manners, people!) "phone" (I have never told anyone that I would "phone" them...I have never asked someone to "phone" me--truly, I believe this is the first and last time I ever used the word "phone" as a verb) "emergency services" (wtf?!).

Or, the time there was a man running from the police with a gun in his hand.  He was heading directly for the front doors of the bank I was working in (Yes...seriously...this happened!) when I jumped over my desk (it was the most athletic thing I have ever done) and ran to the doors and locked them.  When a customer asked if he could please leave (ie...unlock the doors) I smiled (yes...SMILED) and replied completely calmly (with hands shaking uncontrollably as I was anything but calm), "I'm sorry sir, but there's a gentleman with a firearm right outside the door."

A gentleman?

A firearm?

*shakes head*  Honestly, who says things like that?

So...where was I?   Oh yes...moist towelettes. 

I look over at the counter where a young woman is working and mutter to no one in particular,

"I am in need of a moist towelette."

Holden looks over at the lady at the counter and makes a move to go ask her for one.

"No!," I stop him in a sudden panic at the thought of anyone knowing about my predicament, " I can get it. I don't want...I can get it."

And, somehow, the ring begins to move.  My upper lip is sweating, Holden is saying, "Oh my GOSH!", and my mother says (without even a hint of hyperbole), "Be careful!  You're going to break your finger!"  With one arm shaking, muscle quaking motion the thing finally comes loose.  I immediately bend over with my hands on my knees and attempt to catch my breath (you know...as a marathon runner might...because that’s totally appropriate).

My mom says, “Hey, I think without the plastic part of the zip tie, the ring would fit fine…are you going to get it?” 

(The woman raised me…it takes more than a stuck ring and a jewelry department panic attack to frazzle this woman)

Me:  “No.  Every time I look at it, I’ll blush with embarrassment and…it makes me feel...you know…fat-ish.”

Ring shopping:  you know…safe shopping…the sort of shopping that doesn’t include dressing rooms or any sort of ridiculous breakdowns because a zipper won’t zip or a button won’t button…I have now successfully made unsafe.

You’re welcome.

On the bright side, we still have scarves sitting snugly in the safe zone. 

For now.

Other than the trauma and fat feelings…my finger is bruised, but for the most part ok.  I’m wearing a ring (a DIFFERENT ring) to cover the bruise, which I feel the inexplicable urge to slip on and off my finger several times an hour, which seems to be making the bruise worse.  And, it’s on my right hand, so shaking hands in San Francisco this week will be awesome.
 
All this ridiculousness and I’ve yet to leave town.

Let us all now bow our heads and pray that while in San Francisco, I don’t fall, spill, do that nervous laugh thing I do on occasion, have some sort of uncontrollable gas situation present itself (I’ve never HAD such a situation present itself but let’s pray it anyway), or get tipsy and begin introducing everyone to my cocktail, “Mr. Belvedere…but you may call him sir” (that, I HAVE done), or really do anything else that our good Lord might graciously place under the umbrella of “humiliating circumstances.”

Amen.