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After talking about my difficulties recognizing people out of context, I had someone I know fail to recognize me.

When I was at the bookstore earlier in the week, I noticed that one of the clerks was someone I worked with about three jobs ago.  We’ve kept lightly in touch, but I hadn’t seen him in a year or so.  I chose his station and stepped up with my purchases.

"Will this be all?" he asked, neutrally.  I looked at him closely, but there was no sign that he knew me.

"Yes," I said, and handed him my credit card, figuring he’d notice my name.

"May I see your driver’s license?" he asked.  Okay, I guess he didn’t look at the name. 

By then, the situation was getting Larry David-esque.  It felt too late to say something, but I figured he’d read my name from my driver’s license and then realize we knew each other.

He handed back the license.  Apparently the whole license comparison thing is pretty darned cursory, because he evidentally had not read my name (which is distinctive enough that it would definitely have triggered recognition).

Now it was really too late to say something because he would be embarrassed.
He handed me my receipt and purchase and thanked me for shopping there.  I took my bag and left.

Now, I’m sure it didn’t help that my hair color is dark brown now and it was blonde the last time he saw me.  Still, you’d think my face would still be recognizable. 

I guess I understand now how Superman gets away with his Clark Kent disguise.

Last night, my husband and I actually managed to go out for the entire evening – on a work night, no less!

I’d gotten premiere passes to Last Holiday, so we figured we might as well start by taking in a free movie.  We got there earlier than necessary, so we ate popcorn and chatted while we waited for it to start.  It turned out to be better than the commercials had led us to expect.  Although any movie that has Queen Latifah, LL Cool J and Gérard Depardieu – really, what’s not to like?

After the movie, we went to one of our favorite restaurants and had a fairly quick dinner.  We got there at 9:30 and it was only open until 10:00, so we didn’t want to overstay.  Yes, Waiter Rant has made me an even more conscientious diner than I was before.

Finally, we went to a club to see a dance/funk band play.  My husband knows most of the band members, so we talked with them as they ended their break, then stayed to watch them play until midnight.  If it had been a Friday, I think we’d have stayed until they finished at 1:00 a.m.

I have a busy weekend planned, but not much of it involves the hubby, so it was nice to get to go out on the town.  We’ll have to do this more often.

In yesterday’s post on Velcrometer, M. Giant shared the story of his weekend bout of food poisoning.  The commenters all jumped in with their own horrible stories of copious puking.  Why?  Because nobody can resist once that topic gets started.  Oh, occasionally someone will come along who claims he or she never throws up, but I find that very difficult to believe.

My most hideously memorable food poisoning experience took place in Las Vegas.  A friend of mine was there getting married and I was one of her bridesmaids.  I made it through the ceremony and the reception, but the rest of the evening was Average Jane’s Puking Tour of the Strip.  I threw up in the bushes at Caesar’s Palace.  I threw up in the wastebasket on one of the buses (my husband said everyone looked at me as though I were a crazed junkie, but I was too sick to care).  I threw up in the bathroom at Planet Hollywood (but the bathroom attendant had mouthwash so, score!).  Eventually I ended up in the emergency room with a saline drip.  The next day I slept all day long while all my friends ran around having fun.

My runner-up story happened in college.  I was sitting in biology class when I started feeling queasy.  (It was NOT a hangover, by the way.  I’d had some suspicious deli meat for lunch earlier that day.)  Because I was sitting near the front of a big lecture hall, I was reluctant to get up in front of everyone.  That was a very bad call.  I ended up puking all over my books, purse and lap and THEN getting up in front of everyone.

Okay, I’m throwing down the gauntlet.  Let’s hear your terrible yakking stories.  You know you can’t resist.

My mother used to say that our family motto was, "Never stand if you can sit; never sit if you can lie down."

Sometimes I try to resist my laziness genes, but I just spent an entire weekend planted on the couch when I wasn’t lying in bed.

It all started when I went to the chiropractor on Friday.  I felt fantastic after I left her office, but I woke up on Saturday morning with my back muscles tensed in ten different directions.  I managed to make breakfast, but I skipped out on the chance to go see a friend at a blues jam, opting instead to sleep most of the afternoon.  At least that made the cats happy.

The whole day was a series of ineffective back pampering attempts:  ice, heat, IcyHot, Extra Strength Tylenol, lying on a tennis ball, Midol (hey, why not?), repeat. 

In the evening, my husband suggested going to a movie, but we opted to stay home and watch our DVD of This Is Spinal Tap instead.  It never gets old.  We watched all the deleted scenes, too.

By Sunday morning, my back spasms had concentrated themselves over my right shoulder blade.  It wasn’t until then that I remembered injuring those same muscles falling on the ice a month or so ago.  I forgot to tell the chiropractor about that when I saw her, and now I wonder if that might have made a difference in my treatment.  Sigh.

I scrapped plans to visit my sister because I couldn’t face two 30-minute drives, so Sunday was another couch potato day.  My husband and I watched Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey while we ate breakfast (that’s the movie we saw on our first date), and it was as non-heinous as we remembered.

Aside from washing the pots and pans and doing a couple of loads of laundry, I accomplished NOTHING this weekend.  Well, I’m caught up on my blog reading, but I don’t think that counts.

The good news is that my back feels marginally better.  Let’s hope it’s okay for a week of sitting in an office chair.  I don’t think they’ll let me lie down at the office.

I used to have trouble recognizing casual acquaintances away from the context in which I usually saw them. 

For example, when I was still in college I went to a restaurant with the band I was in at the time.  A guy came up to me to say "hi," and I knew he was someone I knew.  I wracked my brain for the rest of the meal, wondering who he could be.  The mystery was solved on Monday:  he sat next to me in one of my classes three days a week. 

Then there was the time I was selling t-shirts for a boyfriend’s band when a girl came up and asked, "Are you [Average Jane’s Real Name] and did you go to Alpha Preschool?"

I wanted to say, "Yes, but you’re a complete freak for remembering someone from preschool."

Seriously, who looks at a spandex-clad nineteen-year-old with huge, blonde ’80s hair and recognizes her as the shy, straight-haired preschooler who favored granny dresses?  She actually seemed to expect me to remember her, too.  Uh, no.

My out-of-context recognition was put to the test at the video store the other day.  There was a younger couple in front of us and the wife turned around and said, "Hey, funny running into you guys here!"

"I know!" I said, trying desperately to think of who they were.

My mind raced.  My husband showed no signs of recognition at all, so they couldn’t be his friends, band members or co-workers.  I didn’t think either one of them looked familiar from my new job, even though there are an awful lot of people there.  I seized on the most logical explanation and was ready when they reached the counter and my husband gave me a quizzical look.

"They’re our next door neighbors," I told him, under my breath.

We really need to get more involved in our neighborhood, but that’s another story.

One of my biggest blogging flaws is that I don’t make enough effort to continue the conversation when someone visits or comments.  I try to visit my visitors’ blogs and comment, but I don’t like to butt into a conversation unless I think I have something relevant to add.  I eventually add regular visitors and commenters to my "Other Blogs I Like" list, but it sometimes takes me a while (although I did add some over the holidays).  As much as I admire bloggers who e-mail a response to every comment, I’m afraid I just don’t have the time, even with my extremely modest traffic.

Lately I’ve noticed a lot of new visitors and commenters, including Eulallia, Noell, Marylynn and AWE. Thanks for stopping by and jumping in.

Considering that I’ve been blogging for less than two years and on very mundane topics at that, I’m thrilled to have such a great core of readers. 

If you’re a reader/lurker who hasn’t commented, don’t be shy.  Do you
have any questions?  Is there something you think I should write
about?  Don’t get hung up on my comment relevance thing.  This is your chance
to introduce yourself.  I’m a busy woman – I’ll take all the helpful input I can get! 

My husband and I were afraid we were in for a rough New Year’s Eve when other motorists tried to kill us twice within the first five minutes we were on the road.

The first near-death incident was on the highway.  A giant Suburban lumbered across three lanes of traffic right in front of us before speeding away.  I marked his passage with some colorful language, prompting my husband to say, "You probably curse all the way to work just like that every morning, don’t you?"

At first I said, "Yes," but then I realized that I am much crabbier on my morning commute when I’m tired and I haven’t eaten breakfast or had any caffeine.  There’s just no comparing that to a leisurely New Year’s Eve drive when I’m rested, primed with Red Bull and ready to enjoy a lovely evening of music and fun.  The level of profanity is probably about the same, but the mood behind it may vary is all I’m saying.

Maniac Number 2 joined us after we’d exited the highway and were sitting at a stoplight.  The left turn arrows turned green and MN2, who was directly behind us in a huge pickup truck, leaned on his horn angrily.  I looked leftward at the two empty turn lanes just to make sure I wasn’t mistaken about not being in one of them.  MN2 continued honking and pulling forward ominously until the light changed.  I went on my way and watched in my rearview mirror to see if he would then turn left, but he didn’t.  Dumbass.

In my tiny Honda Insight, I drive very defensively.  One hit from an SUV is all it would take, to paraphrase Tom Lehrer, to cause me and any passenger I have to "drop our agendas and adjourn."  I only wish that the overly aggressive drivers of huge cars were as aware of that risk as I am.

Because my husband is a musician, I’ve spent many a New Year’s Eve watching him play drums all evening, usually with a country and western band.  New Year’s Eve gigs are supposed to be the highest-paying gigs of the year, but a lot of times that isn’t really the case.  There’s nothing more frustrating than spending an excruciating New Year’s Eve watching my husband play at an Elk’s Lodge, only to discover – oops! – they can only pay him $75 after all.  Sorry!

The most memorably bad New Year’s gig my husband ever played took place at some sort of ranch at least an hour’s drive away.  There had recently been a snow and ice storm, so it was very cold and the roads were treacherous.  Shortly after we arrived, we learned that the pipes were frozen, which meant there was effectively no indoor plumbing.  If you needed to use the restroom, you could pick your way through the frozen dark to a port-a-potty.

While the band played their four sets, I nibbled on a few snacks and kept my beverage consumption to a bare minimum.  I couldn’t wait to kiss my husband at midnight, help him load the car and return home to our wonderful, functioning bathrooms.

A close second on the list of bad New Year’s gigs was when my husband played an "opry" gig with a cheesy, old-time country band.  Don’t look for hors d’oeuvres and champagne at the opry, all they have are hot dogs, popcorn and cokes.  I’ve blocked most of that evening from my memory, but I’m sure it was a test of my endurance – and I doubt I managed to get onstage for my kiss at midnight.

Occasionally, we’ve had a regular New Year’s Eve date night.  One year I made reservations at our favorite steak restaurant, only to arrive and discover they had no record of my having called.  We eventually got a table, but I had to stand in the lobby wearing high heels for an hour first.

This year my husband didn’t have a gig, so we decided to start the evening seeing some other bands play.  Our first stop was a "club" that appeared to be in a church basement, where some of my husband’s co-workers would be playing a set.  Everyone standing outside was very, very young.  Everyone we saw in our age group was obviously a parent of a band member.  Unfortunately, the band we planned to see got bumped to a later slot, so we couldn’t stay.

We drove to a real bar across town and ordered drinks and appetizers while we watched one of my husband’s former bands play a set.  After that, we headed to my sister’s house to play games, drink champagne, watch the ball drop, and have Dick Clark remind us of the fragility of life.  (Okay, that last one was unintentional.)

So we still haven’t established a New Year’s Eve tradition.  By next year, I expect my husband’s current band will be playing regularly and he’ll probably be gigging on New Year’s Eve.  If not, who knows?  Maybe we’ll think of something new and fun to do.