MIM Addendum

Grammar’s alert and sharp-memoried sister Punkin has advised me that an addendum is needed to today’s MIM entry. She recalls what was without question my most appalling incidence of inappropriate Mimming. Thank you, Punkin, for resurrecting a memory I thought I had successfully entombed forever.

This event took place perhaps seven or eight years ago. Or five. Or fourteen. I have no idea. I was way old enough to know better, anyway. I was in a Safeway store and was just heading away from the deli area after purchasing some cold cuts. A gentleman approached and asked if I could help him. He was unfamiliar with the practice of buying by the gram and had no idea how much to order. He wondered if he could have a look at the package of ham I had just bought. I had no objection to this, so I handed him the brown-paper-wrapped parcel. He peered at the label, and then gently hefted the package to, I suppose, get a sense of what 250 grams felt like. He then returned it to me with polite thanks for my assistance. And what did I say? No, not “You’re welcome.” Not “Happy to help.” I, in fact, said nothing at all.

But MIM said, “That’s okay. You can fondle my meat anytime you like.”

Yes, indeed. If there’d been a stake handy, I’d have driven it through my own throat. What I did do was look like this:

Then I took off at extremely high speed towards the other side of the store, careening my cart ahead of me, seriously endangering elderly ladies, toddlers, and carefully-constructed stacks of sale merchandise. Then I decided that wasn’t good enough because I might meet that poor man in some other aisle if I continued shopping. So I left, abandoning my cart and the 250 grams of fondled ham.

Then I shopped at Save-On for the next couple of months. I didn’t return to Safeway until I had dyed my hair red, grown a moustache, and perfected a Moldavian accent.

No, that last sentence isn’t true but sadly, everything preceding it is.

It Wasn't Me -- it was MIM!

Hello! Grammar is back to share with her loyal fans (who probably gave up on her months ago) a story of how embarrassing it is to be me.

See, I suffer this problem where sometimes my mouth, aided and abetted by my larynx, acts independently of my brain. It just secedes from the whole integral body thing and does whatever the hell it wants. This is not a new thing that I can blame on menopause, which is what I blame just about anything else on these days. I’ve been battling this anarchist mouth for as long as I can remember.

Some of you will recall the time many years back when my daughter was small and had a friend visiting. I was tired of the racket and felt it was time for the friend to go home, but had a headache so didn’t feel like driving her myself. (She was too young and lived too far away to walk.) So I called the child’s mother to come fetch her. Now, a normal person with an obedient oral region would have simply said something like, “I’m really sorry, but I have a headache. Could you please come pick Stephanie up?” Not me. No, I opened up my lips expecting to say those words, but instead said, “I need you pick Stephanie up. I’d bring her myself, but I’m waiting for word.” Yep. Waiting for word. There was no further explanation; that was it. Surprisingly, Stephanie was allowed to continue being my daughter’s friend.

Anyway, today’s fun experience with Ms. Independent Mouth (MIM) involved making some hotel reservations in LA. Having done my homework and checked the best rates I could find online, I then called the hotel directly to see what they could do, since negotiating with a real person at the actual site is almost always the best route to go.

So we're going along fine making this reservation, everything very grown-up and professional, and the reservations clerk asks me:

"And who is the other party who will be staying in the room with you?"

At this point, MIM effortlessly wrests control from my brain, and responds with charming inappropriateness:

"Well, that depends on if there's any good sailors down at the dock that day."

There is a pause, during which the clerk cannot see, but can possibly hear, me smacking myself in the mouth. Then, luckily, she laughs.

A few more questions are navigated without mishap. Then I make a request for a room close to the elevators. I make this request because I am aware that this particular hotel is huge and some of the rooms are miles from the nearest lifts, which is not good for SRH. Anyway, this would have been all jolly fine, had MIM not added:

"Yeah, because the sailors might be pretty drunk, you know. Can't walk too far, right?"

So there you have it. This is what I have to put up with. I’ve put MIM on a time-out, so don’t bother phoning me right now.