Bada Boom, Bada Bing, Bada Ouch
Posted by Pat Detmer on Feb 29th, 2008
I’m writing this from Palm Springs, California where The Sainted One and I are enjoying our usual sunny respite from the moss and drip of the Pacific Northwest.
It always takes me a while to downshift from my usual Type A behavior to a Type L or M. I inevitably work myself into an unnecessary and unattractive lather before major vacations as I try to complete every task that’s languished on my “To Do” list for the past 24 months. But finally – after a week here – I’m suitably relaxed due to sun, alcohol, an open schedule, and alcohol.
But here’s one thing I can’t get used to no matter how long I visit here: As the unofficial home base of The Rat Pack and multitudes of mid-century celebrities, the Coachella Valley has tipped its hat and dedicated its road system to those days. How can anyone say “Take Gene Autrey to Dinah Shore and go to Bob Hope” with a straight face?
Here’s another thing I have difficulty getting used to: Our rental car automatically locks the doors when you start the car, something that our cars at home are either too lazy or too disinterested to do for us. It’s a great safety feature meant to keep me from falling out of the car as I collapse in laughter while crossing Frank Sinatra – a potentially dangerous act, back in the day – while headed to Fred Waring.
But when I get into the car, I roll down the window and rest my arm on the frame, determined to soak up as much sun as I can. So when the door locks, it pulls and pinches my soft and flabby underarm skin, attempting to suck it into the lock well.
After dozens of painful encounters, you’d think that my brain would recognize my extreme underarm waddle vulnerability, but it happens again and again.
Either I need less alcohol, or more …
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