MOVING DAY IN LALA LAND

By Mariane Holbrook 

If you ever decide to build a new house, phone me first. Here's my private number: 555-1212. Call me collect. Any time! Please, let me talk you out of it!

We spent weeks and weeks just picking out faucets for our new house!! I mean, there were hundreds and hundreds of faucets. The displays took up two full aisles at Home Depot and by the time we'd made the nine hundredth visit to the store to pick out faucets, I was so unnerved I stood in the middle of the aisle, blindfolded my eyes with the bottom of my shirt and yelled, "THAT ONE. WE WANT 8 OF THOSE FAUCETS RIGHT THERE!!!" 

They turned out to be the faucet thingies (nozzles) for an outside hose but who cares? Our house is hardly the latest word in design and I could hear Frank Lloyd Wright screaming from his grave, "TEAR DOWN THAT ABOMINATION THAT POSES FOR A HOUSE RIGHT THIS MINUTE!" 

But finally, finally, finally moving day came. As usual (since this was our 29th move in 49 years of marriage), Murphy's Law kicked in big-time. The driveway man hadn't poured the concrete as promised and right in the middle of unloading our Salvation Army reject furniture, the heavens poured enough rain on us to float the First Battalion at Normandy. After tracking fresh mud on our new off-white Berber carpet, the moving men flopped down on porch chairs and thanked God in heaven while they took a nap for the duration of the storm. 

Their clock was still ticking at $95 an hour and they finally woke and shuffled their way back to the van where they managed to bear the heavy load of carrying two small picture frames at a time down the long ramp and into the house. No hernias for these boys. 

After they finished and collected their pay which amounted to more that the cost of the house, I sat down in the middle of the boxes and put tartar sauce in my hair. 

Remember, I'd had a hard and stressful day and besides that my hair was a mess and dried out from the ocean breeze. (Make that a salt solution mixed with sand). I remembered that many years ago I'd globbed a jar of mayonnaise on my son’s dry hair to give it a lube job. He didn't speak to me again until he was old enough to vote and cancel Mother’s Day. 

But I was out of mayonnaise so the only thing in my kitchen was tartar sauce. Hellmann's. 

I left it on for two hours, my wet soppy hair all wrapped in a damp, warm towel. 

After rinsing it off and drying my locks, I dropped dead-tired into bed only to wake the next morning with a scalp that was beet red, burning and itching like hot tar. 

I quickly phoned the Hellmann's Hot Line For Helpless Housewives and explained what I'd done. 

"YOU DID WHAT?" the Hellman's rep yelled into my throbbing ear. 

There was a long pause, ostensibly because she was conferring with her superior. 

Finally, she asked "Are you still there?" (translated: "Are you ALL THERE?") 

I asked if there was an antidote for tartar sauce on my scalp and she replied deadpan, "Yes! Massage it with fish sticks and next time call Miracle Whip!”

You need to send somebody before I really hurt myself.