How to Remove Tar from Your Rear End (and Other Bits of Folk Wisdom)

Yesterday I took my daughter to practice with her new singing group. The class was held in a large, old church. While she sang, I sat in a corner and watched. When the rehearsal was over, I started to stand up to leave, only to feel a tugging, sticking feeling as the seat of my pants pulled away from something glue-like on the floor. "Great" I thought. "It's probably an old Jolly Rancher or something disgusting--and these pants are brand new."

As I turned around and surveyed my behind, I realized it was much, much worse. I'd sat in a glop of tar, which had left a quarter size black blot squarely on my left haunch. I ran to the bathroom and tried to sponge it out while it was fresh, but if anything, the water and soap seemed to set the stain.

"Just my luck." I muttered. It was the first time I'd even worn the pants. I'd paid more for them than I normally do, but I liked them so much, I figured it was worth it. And now they were ruined. I figured it must be the universe punishing me for being too extravagant.

And just then, from the murky, swirling memories of my very young childhood, I seemed to remember my Grandma Riley telling me that gasoline removed tar from clothing. I even thought I remembered her keeping a small glass jar of it in the laundry room

With a small spark of hope in my heart, I hurried home to give the remedy a try. I grabbed a plastic cup and poured in a few inches of gas. Laying the pants on my washing machine lid, I dipped an old toothbrush in the gas and, holding my breath (both figuratively and literally), began to scrub the spot.

The results were instantaneously and like magic. The tar dissolved before my eyes. I felt like cheering! And then I looked at the cup and realized that tar isn't the only thing gas can dissolve. My plastic cup had melted like ice on a hot stove and at the exact instant I reached for it, it disintegrated like dust. As I thought back, I remembered that my grandma had always used a glass jar--apparently for a good reason

Gas poured all over my washing machine lid, flowing to the edges and into the tub itself...which was full of towels in the middle of the spin cycle. I lifted the lid to be greeted by fumes so strong, they burned my eyes

I started the laundry over with a double-dose of detergent. When it was done washing, the fumes were still strong enough that you could have ignited them. After the second wash, it still smelled like an oil refinery. By the third wash, the fumes were mostly gone (though the towels still smell like they were used by mechanics). Four washes later, I decided we'll just have to live with it. I'm sure the faint smell of gasoline (mixed with Bounce) will fade in time.

As for me, my pants are saved, thanks to that wily, grand old lady, Ellen Riley. And if it seems like my family is wearing Eau d'Chevron perfume, well that's just the sweet smell of success.

It Hurts Like The Dickens

The other day I was looking at the last pages of an old copy of Les Miserables. It had a list of "The Fifty Most Important Classics" (according to the publisher, anyway). Out of curiosity, I started counting. It turns out I've read 39 of them. Not a bad total, but for someone who would like to be considered well-read, especially in the classics, there is a gaping hole. And that hole is Charles Dickens.

I feel somewhat sheepish when I admit that I've never read a single book by Dickens. It's not that I haven't tried--I've begun A Tale of Two Cities at least a dozen times, but I simply can't get excited about it. I usually have a "50 page rule" where I'll give any book a minimum of 50 pages to capture my interest, but with Dickens I can't even make it past 20. I know the man is considered one of the great masters of English literature, but he's like eggplant to me: I know it's supposed to be good, but once its mushy, bitter flesh hits my mouth, I can't stomach it, no matter how much I should like it.

Thanks to Masterpiece Theatre, I'm actually pretty familiar with many of Dickens' greatest works, at least enough to be able to fake it amongst intellectual friends, but I feel like a fraud. I keep meaning to read his books, but somehow I put it off, like a chore that you detest, even though you know needs to be completed. I guess Dickens is my back closet. I know that needs to be cleaned out--no one knows its there, and there are so many other things to do, so you leave it for another day.

I've recently been re-reading the great classics of the French Revolution: Les Miserables, The Three Musketeers, and The Scarlet Pimpernel and logic dictates that I should read A Tale of Two Cities next (since it IS considered the definitive work about the period). So I dragged out my old copy--battered and used by someone else, mind you--and started it...again.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...." Aargh! This is painful. How does anyone get through this?

As of today I'm at page 22 and still suffering. People love this stuff, so what's wrong with me? I'm worried that some secret literary Gestapo may come confiscate my library card! What am I missing? Is there some secret that makes Dickens more appealing? Anyone have any advice?

Wanted: Blunt Friend Who Can Tell It Like It Is (No Experience Necessary)

A few months ago, we had a family photo taken. It's one of those obligatory things we do every year; we dress up, comb our hair, and try to keep our eyes open as they recreate the Abu Ghraib experience with cheesy poses and blinding flashes of light.

Because I'm somewhat a photography buff myself, I'm pretty picky and it seems I'm never happy with the pictures we get. Either the lighting is off or the pose looks stiff or the picture isn't framed well. It's always something.

Well, this year, the actual photography was okay (not stellar, but acceptable), but the thing I hated was my eyebrows. As I scrutinized the pictures, I realized my eyebrows were horrifying. They were too thin, and had an offensive "tadpole" shape, with a thick beginning and a wispy tail. It's one of those things you don't notice on a day-to-day basis because it happens so gradually, but once presented with photographic evidence, it becomes glaringly obvious. You may know from previous posts that eyebrows are one of my "things," so to see that I'd run amok of my own rules and overtweezed really shocked me.

As I embarked on the lengthy and painful process of "growing in" to fix my mistake, I began to wonder, why didn't someone tell me there was a problem? Now I'm realistic; I don't expect my husband to notice things like the shape of my eyebrows. But what about my family and friends? Somebody should have said something! It's not like the problem was subtle!

And that's when it hit me: my eyebrows weren't the only thing I was lacking. Despite a group of wonderful, caring people in my life, I don't have that friend. You know the one I'm talking about: the friend who is bold (and considerate) enough to tell you when your new curtains really don't match the sofa. That friend is the one who will answer honestly when you ask "does this make me look fat." That friend will pass you their hairdresser's card and tell you to call TODAY when everyone else assures you that your hideous new haircut is not hideous. That friend doesn't just passively offer you gum, but tells you when you really need it. And yes, even that friend will tell you to back away from the tweezers.

Somehow, I'm not friends with anyone like that right now. And I need to be.

Please don't mistake me--I'm not talking about a "frenemy," someone who says snarky things with the secret intent of undermining your self confidence. I'm talking about a person who truly loves you and has your best interests at heart. She is someone who would prefer to be unabashedly honest with you and protect you from yourself rather than assuage your ego and let the world laugh at you. It takes a rare mixture of integrity, love, confidence, and brass to make that kind of friend, but if you find one, hold on! They're a rare and invaluable blessing.

I think the last time I had a friend of that kind was when I worked with a woman named Hilde. She was German (which, if you know any Germans, explains a lot), and not afraid to speak the truth. I remember her telling me when my hair was sticking up funny in the back or pointing out when a button was undone on my shirt. It was usually slightly embarrassing to hear, but I was always grateful! Better to be told out loud by someone who really likes you than secretly mocked by someone who doesn't. When she retired and I moved out of state, I slowly lost contact with her. Now I really only "see" her through Christmas cards, and I miss her. I don't think I ever truly understood what a valuable friend she was.

So I'm now accepting applications for a new, blunt friend. Interested applicants must have experience in extreme honesty, but should be kind in its delivery. Requirements include a willingness to point out spinach in my teeth, tell me when my slip is showing, and stop me if I ever consider wearing "stretchy pants." The position offers no salary, but includes a generous benefit package and my undying devotion.

People who find "tadpole" shaped eyebrows acceptable need not apply.