BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I know a lot of Wendys…

I realize that’s kind of odd, but throughout my life I have come to know several Wendys. Or, in one case, Wendi. There’s also Wendie, as in Wendie Malick, but I don’t actually know her. I’ve just seen her on TV, so she really doesn’t count.

And, these Wendys are all across the board as to personalities and professions. There’s a blond Wendy who was a Flight Attendant for TWA – remember them? TWA, I mean, not Flight Attendants. Although, I could certainly wax nostalgic about how Flight Attendants used to be Flight Attendants, and not psychopathic hall monitors who seem to think they are Air Marshals. In any event, I have no idea what TWA Wendy is doing these days. I haven’t seen her in years, but I did use to joke with her quite a bit and call her an Airborne Waitress. Fortunately, she had a good sense of humor about it.

Then there’s small Wendy. I have no idea what she is doing, or what she grew up to be. I met her shortly after I graduated high school. My dad and I went on a hiking trip in Colorado, and we had set up camp in a public – but little used – camping area halfway up a pass in the Rockies. Small Wendy and her parents were camping in the same area, albeit several sites over. She developed a crush on me because she thought I looked like John Denver, and would come over to our campsite whenever she saw us out and about. Her parents even sent her over with leftovers from their dinner – they had an RV with a kitchen – because they felt sorry for us having to eat freeze dried rations.

And, there’s “Mistress Wendi”. That’s where the Wendi with an”i” shows up. That’s not her real name… Well… Not when she’s just being her normal self. It’s more of a moniker attached to the alter ego of a friend. Based on the honorific I’m sure you can figure out what she does for fun. We’ve been friends forever, and she was an invaluable source of info when I was researching the Miranda novels.

There are others, but I don’t want to bore you too much. I mean, all I am doing is rambling about women named Wendy. There was, however, a particular Wendy in my life who wasn’t exactly a friend. She also wasn’t exactly an enemy. She was, for lack of a better description, a thorn in my ass. I have no clue what happened to her, but I think of her often, believe it or not. Well, maybe not often as in often. More like whenever I am startled by something and jump out of my skin.

I was all prepared to write the story of why this happens to be when I received notice that one of my recent workshops, which had been videotaped at an event, was now online. I was watching it to see how it came out and lo and behold, there I was, right there on the screen telling the story about this particular Wendy in order to illustrate a point. So, rather than toss a whole ‘nother mess of words out there, here it is, from my lips to your ears.

(Video Courtesy of Spiraling Up Video Productions)

Moral of the story?

Don’t let your guard down around anyone named Wendy. Especially if she has a roll of Scotch Tape in hand…

More to come…

Murv

It really was one of those truly peculiar moments in life.

I mean the kind where you feel that sudden rush of elation because you know that the finely crafted, long-thought-out trap you have set has sprung, and in the process has snared the prey. Of course, what makes it so peculiar is that the bubble of elation pops quickly, and is replaced all at once by the vacuum of realization that you have no clue what you are going to do with said prey now that you have snared it.

Of course, that is also followed by the gut-wrenching fear you feel because of exactly what that prey is. In this case, it was a redhead.

I suppose I should back up a bit…

You see, around here, one of the favored snacks of Her Supreme Royal Redheaded Highness, the O-spring, and, well, Moi, is Triscuits. However, we especially like them after you lay them out on a plate, sprinkle them liberally with shredded cheese, then take them for a spin in the microwave for 15 – 45 seconds. Timing is crucial, but there’s a wide range. It largely depends on the type of cheese, as well as the thickness of the shred layer you lay down.

You don’t want them to go too long, otherwise the cheese goes nuclear and all but evaporates. Too little and the shreds are just a little sweaty, so they fall off. Nope… You have to time it exactly, so that you achieve the proper level of melty clingage and bubbly cheesiness. A second too much, and even if you don’t evaporate the cheese you end up with molten dairy lava that will take the skin right off your lips and the roof of your mouth.

Not good at all…

But, yeah, I’m sorta digressing. You see, the thing here is that whenever E K or the O-spring fixes themselves a plate of Melty Triscuit Treats, they eat them. I know… Sort of a natural progression. Makes all kinds of sense. Except when you add this to the mix: Whenever I make myself a plate of Melty Triscuit Treats, they eat them.

See what I mean? Kinda makes you wonder how it is that I know that I actually like them, eh? I mean, what with me not getting to eat them and all.

Well, that’s where the trap came in. As it happens, I like spicy food. Peppery spicy is my friend. I am a bit of a connoisseur of peppers, as much as a redneck like myself can be a connoisseur. Anyhow, that being the case, I happen to have a bottle of ground Chipotle pepper in the cabinet. If you are unfamiliar with Chipotle, it is a smoked Jalapeño. Good stuff.

See where I’m heading? Well, just in case you are being a little myopic today, allow me to explain: I discovered that I like ground Chipotle sprinkled on my Melty Triscuit Treats. I figured this out when I was home alone and fixed myself a plate of the little snack squares. I wanted to jazz them up a bit, and, well, there you go…

But, back to that whole trap thing…

So, I sprinkled my Melty Triscuit Treats with ground Chipotle, started them rotating in the microwave, then stepped out for the briefest of moments. As I exited the kitchen, a red blur flew past me on it’s way into said kitchen. I’m sure you can guess the identity of the blur. It’s like she had Melty Triscuit Treats radar or something.

Evil Kat being Evil

Anywho, the microwave squealed that it was finished, all the while joined by the excited clack of stiletto heels as The Redhead danced about in anticipation. A split second later I heard the door of the appliance open, and then… wait for it… the scream.

At first it was sort of a pained yelp, and that was followed by a rather loud, “What The…” Then, Her Worship began demanding my presence via her typical, stern,  “Lackey! Come here, NOW!”

I had to explain what I had done to the Melty Triscuit Treats, as they did not meet with her approval. I muttered something about ill gotten gains, and that’s pretty much the last thing I remember before waking up on the floor with crushed up, Chipotle sprinkled, Melty Triscuit Treats and size 7 E K shoe prints all over me.

I guess that’ll teach me to fix myself a snack, now won’t it?

More to come…

Murv