Glasses! (in about a week). Rim Job.

I was late for my LadiesWhoLunch earlier this week because I had to stop by and finally pick out the new glasses to fit my (no longer new) bifocal prescription (denial). I had to pick them out and get them fitted (not every frame goes with bifocals -- the ones I have now don't), and then do the same for sunglasses. I was sure, in the amount of time it took us to grab a bite down the street, I could pick up my new frames and re-emerge...from the pages of Vanity Fair Magazine (is what I had in mind).

I was wrong. The bifocals take "about ten days," but there was a slight chance the sunglasses could be banged out in an hour or two.

It was a lengthy, complicated, productive lunch -- which involved five women and juggling the scheduling of everything from book signings and neurosurgery, to a wedding and a sports team -- after which, my new glasses still weren't ready. 

Luckily, the Lexus-Falooty grocery is on the same block -- a great place to shop for $437 bucks worth of organic raw sunflower seeds if you have time to kill. I also found fresh, organic, whole, "air-chilled" chickens, which just painted this unfortunate image I can't get out of my head of these poor, shivering, birds in need of a Fair Isle sweater.

After all that, the glasses still weren't ready, which meant one last detour to the adjacent liquor store with one of my girlfriends, who shocked more than a few of the browsing Swanky McSwankertons by asking loudly, "so, what's a rim job?" It probably sounds a little out of context, but in fairness to her, she'd just found a product called "rimmers," and, naturally, had questions. (They're these sugar/salt cannisters used to "rim" a martini or margarita glass.) She said she just couldn't picture herself buying them, because she knew it sounded "naughty," but she didn't really know why.

Which was the perfect occasion to tell her the story of how it is I came to know the salad-tossing "lingo" so to speak. Even though I am someone who won't even use "pleasure" as a verb for heaven's sake (and I don't care for people who do; it seems to happen a lot on daytime talk shows). I'm sure no one cares, but I feel compelled to point out (especially since this is a scatology-free blog) this knowledge isn't from personal experience (though whatever consenting adults do in the privacy of their home, car, or office elevator is, of course, fine as long as it doesn't frighten the horses).

For the sake of credibility, I must disclose I only know what little I know because one of my college buddies experienced just such an "encounter" a couple decades ago, while he was attending a sporting event in Dallas. I remember it, only because he called me from the hotel room to whisper a few questions about whether or not this kind of thing was "normal." (Of course I told him that as healthy adults we all try to avoid the use of "labels" like "normal" ...but that it certainly was not something that went on in the Phi house, though I could not speak for the Chis. Then I told him when he got back to town he could show me on the doll where the Bad Girl touched him). At our followup SuperBowl chili-cookoff a few weeks later, conversation surrounding this "incident" vastly outpaced talk of the game, prompting another of his fraternity brothers to observe somewhat indignantly (of the referenced practice), "I don't know about you guys, but I just wasn't raised that way," which led me to ask, "well who the heck was raised like that? Are there any parents out there just hoping that's how their kids grow up to spend their spare time?"

I tell this story with love -- not to judge  ("even if I did disapprove, I wouldn't judge"). But I think my liquor store shopping companion had a point, when she asked innocently, "wouldn't that just be the equivalent of eating a bad burger at jack-in-the-box? Because it sounds like a good way to end up in the E.R."

Again: no judgment. Just show me on the doll.