Shelby Part II

(If you don't know who Shelby is . . . please read prior story)

The good news is that my haircut was one of the cutest "do's" that I have ever gotten! (Is "gotten" a word?---it looks weird) . . .

The bad news is that my cute haircut was for SHELBY . . . "Oh, well . . . I tell myself, I'll just have to be Shelby everytime I get my haircut by my newly hired beautician. No worries.

I went around that next month showing off my cute haircut. Everyone agreed it was so cute as it perfectly framed my face. Unfortunately, an old high school friend of mine ran into me while I was prancing around with my new haircut and she thought it was so cute that she wanted her hair cut just like it!

She literally ran into me, looked at my hair and exclaimed, "LaRae! Your hair is soooo cute!"

Fluffing the wisps around my face I answered, "I know, huh!" The last time she had seen me, I had long straight straggly hair---which I probably cut myself.

After tons of praise about my darling hair, she asks, "Who cuts your hair?"

I tell her the name of my newly hired beautician.

"Where is her salon?" she prods.

I proudly tell her.

Then she asks, "Do you mind if I go to her and have her cut my hair like yours?"

"Oh, not at all," I say without thinking. Then I remember what happened at my first appointment when I told her my name was Shelby, but my checks were in the name of LaRae---cuz---LaRae was my nickname---and for some reason, I put my nickname on my checks.

I caution, "Nancy, when you go to get your haircut by my newly hired beautician, tell her that you want your hair cut like Shelby's."

"Huh? How come?"

Believing that my newly hired beautician bought the whole story of my real name being Shelby, even though my checks said LaRae, I explain the situation that happened. She laughs---she knew me too well, cuz she didn't even question the story. That was rude.


Seven weeks go by and I realize I need another hair cut . . . so . . . I call my newly hired beautician and make another appointment under the name of Shelby.

I keep my appointment with my newly hired beautician. She washes my hair, combs it out and asks how I want it cut. "Just like last time, " I tell her. Although I'm thinking, "Duh."

While cutting my hair, I notice that she isn't raving on about how cute my name is like she did the last time. I try to bring it up. She plays like she doesn't hear me. I bring it up again---still no reponse. "What's up with her?" I wonder.

Dropping my "let's talk about how cute the name of Shelby is" goal, we just make small talk.

Then, outta the blue she says, "Um . . . I cut your friend Nancy's hair the other day."

"You did? Well, she liked my hair so much that she asked me for your name, so I gave it to her."

"Thanks."

Wanting to continue making small talk, I add, "We went to high school together."

"Yes, that's what she said."

I notice that my newly hired beautician has a real sly look on her face. I'm thinkin', "Hmmm . . . maybe she has gas."

Then she lowers the boom! With that annoying sly expression, she confesses, "I know that your name is NOT Shelby."

"Crud! The jig is up!" I whisper to myself--but I don't say anything to her---too stunned. I just gulp.

She continues, "Nancy told me the whole story when I cut her hair."

Gulp. "That rat!" I mumble.

Seeing that all the color had completely left my already pale face, she tries to pacify me by saying, "I think it's funny." Seeing my face turning blue, she continues, "Really! It's okay! I understand!"

Dead silence.

Thinking that I might be the first client that she ever loses in her chair, she continues to humor me, talk to me, revive me---anything. She sees my glossy eyes and blue face and asks, "Are you okay?"

"Abba-Dee," I mutter.

She quickly finishes up my darling hair cut---I throw her the cash that I remembered to bring and I got the heck outta there---never to return. Too bad, cuz my newly UNHIRED beautician gives a pretty mean haircut---Crud.

I get in my car and let loose. "That dang Nancy! She sang like a canary---what a stool pigeon---what a rat fink!"

LESSON LEARNED: Never trust anyone to back up my lies

Shelby (Part I)

I needed a haircut!

In the world of a Doofus, that means just one thing---grab some scissors and start cutting. Bad move. I went from having hair below my shoulders to chopped hair that had a few stragglers at chin level and a bunch of whacked hair above my ears and some about an inch away from my scalp. It wasn't pretty. The more hair I cut, the uglier it got. I had to step away from the scissors and admit defeat. Crud. I knew I needed a professional to clean up the mess I had made.

I had heard of a beautician that was really good so I called and made an appointment with her. Sadly, on the day of my appointment, I had to work late. I called and rescheduled---"no biggie."
On the day of my rescheduled appointment, again, I couldn't make it, so I called and rescheduled---"a little biggie."

Well, on the day of my rescheduled, rescheduled appointment, I couldn't go. "Kind of a biggie." I didn't want to call and reschedule again---so---I did what any normal Doofus would do---I stood her up. That's right, I stood her up. That was a "huge biggie."

All this time of rescheduling and not showing up, my hair still needed "fixing." "Dare I call this hair stylist one more time?" I asked myself. "Are you crazy?" was my answer.

What to do? I still really needed a haircut, and I heard this gal was really, really good. Because I had called and cancelled and not shown up, I'm afraid she won't take an appointment under my REAL name. "Woe is me!" I cried. All of a sudden a BRILLIANT idea came to mind---call an make an appointment under a pseudo name!

I call the salon and make an appointment for "Shelby." I've always liked the name Shelby. "Shelby's" appointment is the one I keep. "Woo Hoo! I'm finally gonna get decent haircut!"

When I get to the salon on time, I meet the nicest beautician. "Good thing she doesn't know my name is really "LaRae," I smuggly say to myself.

As she cuts my hair, we talk. Guess what we talk about? Shelby! Seems she's intrigued by such a rare name. She states, "You have such a cute name!"

With a smile on my face, I answer, "Thank you."

Still intrigued, she asks, "How did your mother come up with that name?"

Without missing a beat, I reply, "I don't know."

"That's such an unusual name. Have you had a lot of compliments on it?"

"Oh, yes, yes! Everyone loves my name. I love having Shelby as my name." I graciously play along.

"Would you mind if I named my next girl Shelby?" (She's pregger---so she means, like in a couple of months).

"Not at all! I would be honored." I declare proudly. Then it hit me! I only had my checkbook with me---I didn't have any cash! I'm gonna have to write a check and sign it with my REAL name!

"How the heck am I gonna get out of this one?" I panick silently. Beads of sweat are gathering at my forehead. All I want to do is hurry and get my hair cut, and get the heck outta there!

She keeps talking about my name---you know---my pseudo name---SHELBY! I'm thinking, "Give it a rest, lady. Just cut my hair."

She finally whacks her last cut on my hair. It is cute. I don't care. I had to write a check. Gulp.

She walks me up to the counter and tells me how much I owe her. Gulp. I get out my checkbook and hurriedly scribble the amount and sign it---hoping that she won't notice my signature. She did. She said, "I thought your name was Shelby."

Gulp. The beads of sweat are now dripping off my nose. I stutter, "It it is, it it is is."

"Then why did you sign your check LaRae?"

Gulp. I answer, (now, I am not kidding about this answer), "LaRae is my nickname. Shelby is my real name."

"Why would you put your nickname on your checks?" Man, this lady is soooo nosey.

With my face the color of scarlet to the third power, I grabbed my stuff and confidently answered, "I don't know." Then I got the heck outta there!

LESSON LEARNED: Always carry cash

The Artichoke

My first experience with an artichoke was when hubby and I were invited out to dinner at a REAL swanky restaurant by a Big Time Lawyer Turned Circuit Court Judge <--- (real name---BTLTCCJ for future reference).

Feeling a lot of intimidation as I walked up the swanky stairs to the swanky restaurant, I said to hubby, "I'm nervous. I don't know how to act in a REAL swanky restaurant."

Hubby, who NEVER feels intimidated assured, "You'll be fine. What's there to be nervous about?"

Really? Does he remember what an innocent Doofus I am?

He grabbed my hand and led me to the table where BTLTCCJ was waiting. We shook hands. Mine was sweaty---I could tell cuz of the droplets on my palms and cuz I saw BTLTCCJ wipe his now wet palm off with the REAL swanky napkin that was on the table.

We were given a REAL fancy menu. I pretended that I knew what the dishes were that were listed on the REAL fancy menu. When the waiter asked what I wanted to order, I just pointed to the words. I didn't let on that I didn't know how to pronounce whatever it was that I wanted to order.

BTLTCCJ asked, "Would you like to have an artichoke for an appetizer?"

Even though I didn't know what an artichoke was, I didn't want BTLTCCJ to know that . . . so I said, "Ya, sure." (Gulp)

He ordered an artichoke for all of us to share.

"What the heck is an artichoke?" I whispered to hubby. BTLTCCJ heard. "Crud."

When the artichoke accompanied with a huge bowl of melted butter came, he showed me how to eat one. He had me strip one of the leaves (?), dip the meaty end in the butter and eat it.

"YUM!!!!" That was the best stuff I had ever eaten! I went to town on eating the meaty leaves (?) while hubby and BTLTCCJ talked about law and other stuff that was WAY over my head. I didn't care---I was eating ARTICHOKES! WOO HOO!

When hubby and BTLTCCJ finished their conversation that I was not a part of, they looked for the artichoke. It was gone. They looked at me and asked, "Where did the artichoke go?"

With my mouth packed full of artichoke stuff, I mumbled, "Mf mpphf, mffpp." (Translation---"I don't know).

Looking at the now empty artichoke plate, hubby declared, "You ate the whole thing!"

"Mpff mmppt!" (Translation---"Did not!")

"Yes you did!" pointing at the artichoke hairs that were poking out of my mouth. "You even ate the hairs!" You're not supposed to eat the hairs!"

"Mphhph M mphff"t . . . mp . . . mhf . . . m . . . Mphhff mmpphfff mphhff mpphft mphffy!" (Translation---"No I didn't . . . um . . . er . . . a . . . the waiter took the hairs away."

Hard as I tried to plead my case before a lawyer and a Big Time Lawyer Turned Circuit Court Judge <---(real name), the evidence of the artichoke hairs was still poking out of my mouth . . . Kinda like how feathers poke out of the mouth of a cat after he has eaten a bird. The "jig" was definitely up.

LESSON LEARNED: Don't talk when my mouth is full of artichoke hairs.

Eye Have It

My MIL <---(mother-in-law, for those of you who aren't up to puter' lingo like me), is a woman who exudes dignity, respect, and honor. A reverence washes over me every time I'm in her presence. She's a very noble woman, full of integrity and intelligence---which is why I am so baffled at how much she enjoys hearing, "LaRae Stories." I can honestly say that whenever I am in her presence, I try my hardest to control my "doofus" gene.

Case in point: When my MIL <--(mother-in-law, just in case you didn't catch the puter lingo to first time) was in the hospital recovering from gallbladder surgery, hubby and I went to visit her. Two of her daughters, my SIL <--(sister's-in-law---same as MIL, only you put an S where the M is) were there. Awww . . . they are such good children.

Anyway . . .

My MIL's <--(mother's-in-law---notice the additional appostrophe and letter s), stomach was really tender cuz of her stitches. She could hardly breathe without discomfort, let alone laugh---so I was alerted to be on my best "undoofus" behavior.

All was going really well until June (name changed to protect the innocent) brought up what happened when Aunt Maggie (named also changed to protect the innocent) when she was recently in the hospital for an unrelated incident.

"What happened?" I innocently asked, proud of how well I'm controlling my doofus gene.

She answered, "Apparently, when she was eating her lunch (yuck---hospital food), her eye fell out---right on to her food."

Shocked, I replied (with wide eyes, I might add), "That's AWFUL!!!!!" I was aghast! After thinking for a moment I added, "It probably helped the hospital food taste better though."

"Don't make me laugh." MIL struggled with pain.

"Sorry."

I quietly listened to the rest of the story. Everyone commented on how embarrassing it musta been for Aunt Maggie (not real name).

I'm thinking, "Embarrassing? I would be more worried about my eyeball in the food. How come they're not worried about her EYEBALL?" I kept quiet.

After everyone was through discussing poor Aunt Maggie's embarrassment, I wanted to let everyone know that I could indeed participate in a serious conversation . . . so I said, "That reminds me of when a pre-school teacher friend of mine told me about how a little boy's eye fell out---right onto his lap!---but his eye was fake."

I'm lookin' around the room, proud that I could contribute.

Dead silence filled the room.

"What?" I asked.

The siblings <--(I don't know the puter' initials for siblings) looked at each other. They looked at their mother <---(don't know the initials for mother either), then at me and burst out laughing.

"Don't make me laugh." MIL muttered in pain.

"What?" I'm looking around for the answer to what was so funny.

In unison, the SIL's asked, "Did you think Aunt Maggie's eye was her REAL eye?"

"Yes?" I questioned.

Dead silence again.

Another roar of laughter filled MIL's hospital room. "Quit making me laugh!" was MIL's painful plea.

"What? What's so darn funny?" I'm getting a little miffed.

Finally, June (not real name---although, I don't know if she's so innocent now) said, "Aunt Maggie's eye was fake too! REAL eyes don't just fall out of their sockets, you know."

"They don't? After hearing Aunt Maggie's story, I was thinkin' that they could."

"Okay, that does it!" MIL squeaked out inbetween breaths. Looking directly at me she said, "You have to go now. One of my stitches just split open."

Feeling REAL sorry for me, hubby gets my coat and escorts me out of MIL's room.

"You can visit when Mom's stitches are out." Jin (the other SIL whose name has been changed to protect the not so innocent) yelled out as hubby and I walked down hospital hall.

So much for controling my "Doofussy Genetical Defect."

LESSON LEARNED: Check for eyeballs when you eat hospital food.

I can't believe I said, "Yes!"

Guess who the city manager asked to help with my city's emergency plan?

No . . . guess again.

Wrong---try again.

No---it's not my hairdresser.

Um . . . er . . . a . . . You're not very good at this, are you.

Here's a clue---READ THE FIRST SENTENCE!

Okay, okay, I'll tell you----ME! Can you believe that?

Me neither.

So . . . You'd think that I would just pass out flyers and take the easy way out. You'd think that someone of my limited physical abilities would just make phone calls, huh.

You'd think that, huh . . . but . . . noooooooo .. . . not me . . . I'M A DOOFUS, remember? I have to make things as hard as I can.

Yah, instead of passing out flyers or making phone calls, I'm throwing a "Military" party. I'm organizing sections of the neighborhood in platoons, with captains over each platoon. I'm giving "marching" orders to meet at a designated location where all the other platoons can meet.

Instead of sumthun easy like flyers, I'm having cruddy "grub" at a cruddy "mess hall."

I'm having a boot camp where the platoons compete against each other for cruddy prizes.

I'm having each platoon march down the road carrying a huge American Flag.

I'm giving out cruddy prizes and awards and special recognizition to the "real" military families who live in our neighborhood.

I'm thinking of every hard thing I can do.

"Why," you ask?

I'll tell you why, "Cuz I'm a Doofus---that's why!"

I gotta meet with the person I "recruited" to be in charge of the Boot Camp.
I gotta meet with the people preparing the cruddy grub.
I gotta meet with the person I "recruited" to be in charge of the honors ceremony.
I gotta get information to all the captains to give to everyone in their platoons.
I gotta make salt dough star refrigerator magnets.
I gotta make salt dough heart pins.
I gotta prepare the "Draft Paper" invitations.
I gotta assign someone to set up the "mess hall."
I gotta assign someone to clean up the "mess."
I gotta do a lot more stuff . . .

That looks like a lot of stuff to do, doesn't it.

What a "maroon." <---my Bugs Bunny impersonation.

Hmmmm . . . I think that instead of calling in sick, I'm gonna give a big "HurRah" and call in dead.

LESSON LEARNED: When I was approached to do this assignment, I acted dumb,(sadly, I didn't have to act)---it didn't help. Next time I get asked to do something, instead of acting dumb (<----in my case, there was no acting involved), play DEAF and dumb (<---which doesn't require acting).

Why Doesn't This Shake Weight Shake?

It's hard being a Doofus. I don't know if I've ever told anyone that---BUT IT IS!!!!!!

For instance: For Mother's Day, Brad (my son), asked what I would like.

I had seen a "Shake Weight Thingie" (<----Official Technical Term) advertised on tv. It looked GREAT! The Shake Weight models on tv looked like they were just holding the "Shake Weight Thingie" (<---Official Technical Term) while it shook! The tv ad said that this type of exercise is MUCH more effective than using free weights.

My first thought was, "Sign me up!" "I want one of those "Shake Weight Thingies!" (<--- Official Technical Term, although, you really should know that by now).

"Just think of it!" I told myself. "All I have to do is hold the weight while it shakes for me! What could be easier than that?" I'm all for easy, ya know.

So . . . my Brad ordered the "Shake Weight Thingie" (<---Official Technical Term, you ought to be getting the hang of) and I waited with "baited" breath . . . or . . . baited "unbreath," since I don't breathe very well. I couldn't "WAIT" for my "Shake Weight Thingie" (<---- okay, enough is enough) to arrive.

After waiting for "an eternity," it finally came. "Woo Hoo!"

I grabbed that package and tried to rip it open with my arthritic hands. Didn't work. So---Brad grabbed it and ripped it open with his man hands.

I grabbed the opened package from his man hands with my arthritic hands and held the "Shake Weight Thingie" (<--- aw, c'mon) and held it tight. Nuttin'. I looked at the top of it. I looked at the bottom. I looked for an "On" Off" switch. Nuttin'. So . . . I held it tight some more. Still nuttin'.

Brad's watching me this whole time wondering what the heck I'm doing.

Finally I said, "Hey, this "Shake Weight Thingie" (<---OTT . . . Official Technical Term---crud, I can't help myself), doesn't work. It's not shaking!" I was SO disappointed.

Brad took it from me. Read the box and instructions and said, "YOU are supposed to shake it."

"Me?" Looking at him like he is crazy. "But, but . . . those models on tv didn't have to shake theirs."

He read the instructions out loud. Basically it said that there are no batteries cuz the person holding the "Shake Weight Thingie" (<--- you know) has to shake it for it to work.

I responded, "If I had known that I had to shake it myself, I woulda just grabbed my free weights and shook THEM! What a rip off."

LESSON LEARNED: When you see a tv model that has "ripped" shoulders, biceps and triceps, it's NOT BECAUSE OF A "SHAKE WEIGHT THINGIE" (<---- Official Rip-Off Name)

Is South America in South Africa?

It's hard being a Doofus. I lose lots of money and "low talker" (refer to my 1st blog) friends because of it.

Let me explain:

A while ago, a guy from South AFRICA heard that I was an artist---or played one on t.v. He contacted me and asked if I could do some artwork for a project that he was doing. He was hoping to market his project in America and South AFRICA.

"Woo Hoo," I thought. "I can make lots of money if his product sells well in America and South AFRICA!"

"Yes, yes!" I told him. "Why don't you come over to my house and we can discuss what kind of artwork you want."

"Great!" He answered. He sounded almost as excited as I was.

We made an appointment for the next day. When he arrived, I was full of anticipation and couldn't wait to hear what it was that he wanted to do. I also loved his accent.

He told me what he had in mind and said that he needed artwork to go along with it---you know, to depict the country that he was from---South AFRICA.

"Oh, yes!" I enthusiastically agreed. His eyes lit up. I asked, "So you want me to draw "Aztec" artwork around the borders?"

Puzzled, he looked at me and replied, "No . . . I was thinking more along the lines of elephants, tigers, lions . . . "

I interrupted him. "No, you want Aztec'ky' looking stuff . . . you know like Aztec symbols and stuff like that."

He said very slowly, "Nooooo . . . I would like elephants, tigers and lions---South AFRICAN stuff."

I saw his eyes "unlight."

I got impatient and repeated, "Yah, like Aztec'ky' stuff."

"No . . . like animals and stuff."

I could plainly see that we weren't on the same page . . . or to him, the same continent. We were both getting frustrated. I couldn't believe that he didn't want Aztec drawings for South AFRICA and he couldn't believe that I wanted to draw Aztec'ky' looking stuff for South AFRICA.

Obviously he left without signing me up to do his artwork. No "lots of money" for me. Wahhh.

When hubby got home, he asked how my meeting went with the guy from South AFRICA.

I answered, "Can you believe that he didn't want Aztec'ky' artwork to depict his native South AFRICA?"

Hubby shook his head. I heard a couple of screws rattle around. Then he asked, "Was this guy from South America or South Africa?"

I asked, "What's the difference?"

He shook his head again.

"What?" I innocently asked.

He tried to explain that there was indeed a difference.

Trying to defend myself, I quipped, "But, but, it's all so confusing. They BOTH start with the same initials, you know, S & A. I get 'em confused. Besides . . . I thought that South America was in South Africa or the other way around---I get confused."

"Obviously." was hubby's forlorn reply.

"It's an easy mistake." I was still pleading my case.

"Not really," hubby replied.

I still have a hard time remembering that South America and South Africa aren't the same place. If only they didn't share the same first letters---you know, S & A.

LESSON LEARNED: Next time offer to draw Aztec'ky' stuff AND safari animals.