Lonely Leftovers

The container of leftover stuffing had one bite left in it. And it was going to stay that way. That's because whoever ate it last did not want to wash the container. As we all know, there are some unwritten rules of etiquette for interacting with the food in the refrigerator. Among those: He who eats the last bite must clean the Tupperware.

Of course, there's one way to try getting out of this even if you do finish the last of the food. The container needs to soak! Yes! Remnants are glued to the edges and just won't wash out unless it all sits in the sink for, um, long enough for someone else to happen upon it and need to use the sink.

"Who left this Tupperware soaking in the sink?" can be shouted near and far throughout the house, but there will not be an answer. So, the hapless sink-needer will have to decide whether to work around the murky mess or just clean the darned thing.

The minute I have made the last sponge swipe resulting in a sparkling container, the perpetrator will materialize and say: "I was just going to clean that!"

The Art of Driving in Miami

We didn't realize Art Basel in Miami had started already. That was our big miscalculation. It actually hadn't officially started yet, but there were pre-parties and pre-openings for the VIPs. And apparently, the same way everyone in Lake Wobegon is above average, everyone at Art Basel is a VIP.

We were just trying to get to the Heat game, and traffic was backed up everywhere. As an added challenge, every single highway in the Greater Miami area is under construction at the same time, and then when we tried to avoid that by heading into the downtown local traffic, there were people swarming art galleries that had appeared out of nowhere next to dilapidated storefronts. Colorful walls and draperies and twinkly lights adorned the mish-mosh of buildings while white-shirted valets stood next to propped up signs letting the glitterati know where to park.

If you want to drive in Miami, you should be required to have a different level of drivers license. Requirements: at least five years prior driving experience, and perhaps a stress test. The license could be called Premium Level Drivers License or Platinum License, Titanium License, or even Handcrafted License. License Plus!

That's because driving in Miami is a challenge of the highest level and only for the brave. It's very different than even in places like Manhattan or L.A., because in those places the traffic doesn't let you build up any impressive speed. In Miami, however, you hum along on a series of highways at an average of 80 mph, until you get to something called the Golden Glades Interchange. This place, where you will come to a complete stop at pretty much any time of day, is quite the misnomer, because it is neither golden nor in the Everglades nor allowing for any interchanging, especially of lanes.

But say you make it through the Golden Glades and you're going 80 again. You will soon encounter road signs that not only don't help guide you, but that actually create confusion even if you know where you are going. Sometimes a car will just stop in the middle of the highway while the driver tries to figure out which is the magic lane for him. You would think this was mess enough, but then the DOT decided to improve I-95 by adding express lanes. Now, they did not do this by actually adding more road space. No. Instead they took the two left lanes and sectioned them off from the rest of the road by adding...poles. Just imagine bumper cars, and you've got the idea.

Fortunately for me, I had the Human GPS driving, and he was in one of his primary, preprogrammed, comfort territories. But even he was having difficulties! Our first route was backed up, so he recalculated. Then that way was backed up, too! But, after dodging traffic and poles and a guy on a motorcycle with a sidecar (Yes, for real!) and homeless people and hucksters and fancy-assed art people and valets and confused people stopped in the middle of the road, Ricky got us to the Heat game in time.

And then the Heat lost to the Pistons in a really ugly game. But the giveaway was a team poster, so we left Miami with our own piece of art. That was very VIP of us.

Lenny Kravitz and Me

I think we can all agree that Lenny Kravitz is one of the coolest people alive. He was biracial before it was trendy. He's got that styled 'fro, face jewelry, and rock musician cred. Cool, cool, and cool.

That's why I was delighted to find, as I read toward the end of an interview with him, that he is MY AGE. Not only that, he is four months OLDER than I am. There he is in a full-length picture wearing black leather pants, sunglasses and a dark metallic-grey sport coat with a black satin lapel.

Thus, using the associative property in math:
If Lenny Kravitz = my age, and Lenny Kravitz = cool, then I = cool. It's math! You can't argue with math.

Now, I know some of you might be thinking: But, Rhonda, you've never, ever been cool not even for one minute of your life ever. Not even when you were what would be more traditionally considered a cool age, like in your teens or 20s. Not even during the 1980s when big hair was cool and you had big hair. Not even when you were on a show on MTV! Never. Been. Cool.

So, let's say you have a point. Even so, the mere fact that someone my age can be one of the coolest people alive still provides me with a certain validity. And I'm sure all of the extremely cool math teachers out there will agree with me. Rock on, associative property. Rock on.

P.S. If you are a math teacher, and you are opening your mouth about to utter: "But wait, that's not how..." Just stop right now and go find some calculus to do. Or the Sudoku.

Hair Density

I made a horrible tactical mistake. After coming in from a run and cooling off, I hopped into the shower at 7 p.m. I meant to just rinse off my body, but I was distracted, daydreaming, and without realizing it, I submerged my head under the shower and started shampooing! I don't know what I was thinking! I have long known that I should never, ever wet my hair unless I have at least a five hour period for it to dry, and there was no way I was staying up until midnight. There was no possible fix for this now; I was going to have to go to bed with wet hair.

You may think I am exaggerating about how long it takes for my hair to dry, but I will now tell you a TRUE story. I warn you that it involves childbirth, but please stay with it. I promise it's short and worth it and there will be no mention of body fluids.

When I was nine months pregnant with one of my assorted children, I got up in the morning and took my usual shower, washing my hair. (Curly hair must be washed in the morning in order for it to settle into a shape identifiable by mankind.) Right after I got out of the shower and put on my clothes, I went into labor. We rushed to the hospital, checked in at emergency, went up to the delivery floor, labor, labor, labor, yadda, yadda, yadda, child born, wheeled to room. AND MY HAIR WAS  STILL WET FROM MY SHOWER.

True story. Next time you see me, ask me if my hair is damp, because the odds are pretty good that it is.