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Ginger S Simpson

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The Search for Mr. Right
By Ginger S Simpson
Tuesday, August 27, 2002



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Note to Reader: I was unable to download my word document so I had to do a cut and paste. The thoughts of Claire, which were italicized in the word document do not appear as such in this manner. When you read, I'm sure you will discover the parts that are her "thoughts".


The bell of Claire’s ancient alarm clock clanged loudly announcing the arrival of 5:00 am.; the deafening noise reverberated throughout the room. The obnoxious sound instantly put her in a bad mood. She made another mental note to buy a new alarm clock…something less annoying to the ear and mood. So far, she failed to remember while she was shopping; other things took precedent, like clothes, shoes and makeup. Claire rolled over and slapped her palm against the off button.

She sat on the side of the bed, trying to wake up. She cursed Mindy for convincing her to go out for drinks on a work night. Six Tequila Sunrises and getting up at 5:00 to get ready for work was not a great idea. Her head pounded and she felt unsteady as she stood up and made her way to the bathroom.

She stood before the mirror and gazed through bloodshot eyes at the image that was looking back at her. God, who is that person? The mascara that she had so carefully applied last night was now displayed in dark smudges beneath her eyes, and her hair was smashed against the side of her head in an absurd coiffure. I look like someone who was in a horrendous brawl and lost! She grabbed a clean washcloth from the cabinet and held it beneath the faucet. She wasn’t going to wait for warm water; that took far too long since the water heater was clear on the other side of the house. Shaking her head in dismay, she concluded that only a male architect would have come up with such a design.
He was probably the same idiot who designed all the stupid off-ramps and on-ramps on the freeway. Women are far too logical to make off-ramps that are on-ramps that merge together in an “exit-only” lane.

She pressed the dampened washcloth to her face; the cool water felt invigorating. She reached in and turned on the shower to let it run so the water would warm up. She peered at her reflection again. Great! Now the mascara had smeared further down her cheeks and blended with leftover smudges of make-up and blush. Good thing I wasn’t successful in finding and bringing home the man of my dreams last night; he would see me as more of a nightmare at this point. She scanned the bottles in the medicine cabinet looking for her make-up remover. She usually took care of the removal routine before bed, but she barely even remembered going to bed last night. She found the right bottle and opened it. Pouring the last remaining drops onto a cotton ball, she worked on removing the traces of the previous night before applying a new veneer. Claire, remember to buy a new bottle when you go shopping for a new alarm clock.

Showered, with make-up and hair repaired, Claire wiggled into her panty hose, pulling them gingerly up over hips she thought way to wide. The fact that her legs were still damp from the shower made the task even harder. Her nail snagged the delicate fabric and caused a giant run. I wonder why they can invent a space suit that can withstand the heat of a missile’s reentry into the earth’s atmosphere but can’t manufacture a nylon that can withstand a hangnail. I’ll just save this pair with all the rest I save to wear with slacks.

Thoughts of last night invaded her mind. Good music, good drinks and plenty of good-looking men. Unfortunately, none of the good-looking ones paid any attention to her; fat girls never get noticed in a good way. She felt like she attracted only the dregs of humankind. She laughed to herself remembering the only one who had asked her to dance. She couldn’t imagine why men who were going bald thought they could hide it by moving the part in their hair down to their ear and combining what hair they had left up over their bare scalp. Don’t they realize how stupid they look? Even as ridiculous as he looked, she had accepted his invitation to dance. She needed to work some of the alcohol out of her system. It had been hard not to laugh hysterically when the large “flap” of hair fell off the top of his head and hung down the side of his face leaving his baldness exposed. He was so engrossed in the beat of the song he didn’t even notice. And what the heck was that step he was doing? It looked like the Chicken Dance. His hair had moved to the beat along with him; it seemed to have a mind all its own. Luckily, he was content with only one dance. When he finally felt the cool air on top of his sweaty head, he realized something was amiss and slinked off to the men’s room.

Claire’s smile turned to a frown, realizing he wasn’t any more pathetic than she.

Glancing at her watch she realized she was running behind. She grabbed her travel cup and hastily poured it full of yesterday’s coffee. Normally she prepared the pot the night before and set the timer before she went to bed. When did I become such an unorganized person? Looking for her “soul mate” was wrecking havoc with her daily life.

The sound of the microwave brought her back to reality. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the day old coffee and quickly poured another splash of creamer into the murky mixture. It would have to do. She grabbed her purse and briefcase and dashed out the door. Halfway down the walk she turned back to make sure the door was locked. Evidently, my memory left when my organizational skills departed.

The drive to work was much the same as every other morning…exchanges of middle fingers and curse words. By the time she pulled into the parking garage she was stressed to the max. She searched her purse to find the Tylenol. My head is killing me. Damn you Mindy!

She took a drink of the bitter coffee to wash down the pills. The lid on the cup was loose and coffee splashed down the front of her blouse. Geez! She dabbed at the spots with a Kleenex. Okay…wash it off in the ladies room when you get upstairs. Hurry! You’re late girl.

Claire reached over to grab her briefcase and turned her body to get out of the car. When the briefcase passed over her lap, the corner snagged her nylon. A run spread from her knee to her ankle in an uncomfortable zipping sensation. She sighed. Oh goody…another fashion faux paus! Don’t sweat it. Who would look at these legs anyhow?

The air in her office was just as sticky and stale as the air in the elevator had been. She cursed to herself, amazed that a place as large and financially sound as her company couldn’t afford to set the air conditioning at a comfortable level. This is not going to be my best day. NO more weekend outings, they don’t mix well with work.

She dropped her purse and briefcase on her desk and hurried to the ladies room. She looked into the mirror to assess the damage. Brown spots mottled here white blouse and her right leg had a white seam down the front. So…what’s new Christie Brinkley? Having a bad day are you? She grabbed a paper towel, splashed some soap on it and dabbed at the stains. The spots seemed to fade slightly but were encircled by large wet spots. She mumbled to herself as she returned to her desk.

Mindy looked around the corner. She was her usual perky, chipper and disgustingly cute self. Claire was amazed how Mindy could look so good after being out late last night. She had downed more drinks, danced more dances and probably gotten home even later than Claire. And still she looked radiant. Have I told you how much I hate you?

“Hi girlfriend. How are ya this morning?” Claire glared at her. Why did I pick a petite, pesky, perky pest for a best friend? Mindy was everything Claire always wanted to be. She attracted men like Claire attracted coffee stains and runs. Mndy was lots of fun, but going out with her was depressing. She always got the good-looking men while Claire got the bald-headed, chicken dancing guys.

“So, Mindy, do you have a hangover?”

“Heck no, I feel fine.” Claire’s headache pounded a little harder.

Claire berated Mindy for suggesting recreation on a work night. “I swear Mindy, I’m not going out on a weeknight again. It’s too hectic, and actually, I do feel like crap.”

Mindy smiled. “Okay, I won’t ask anymore. I’ll save Fridays and Saturdays for you. But, don’t blame me if your dream man only comes out on Tuesdays.” She gave her usual little pinky finger wave and ducked back out.

Claire turned to the computer to check her email. Thoughts of the “dream man” Mindy mentioned flashed across the screen. He had dark wavy hair, blue eyes to die for and a butt you could bounce quarters off. She shook her head to clear the image and typed in her password. Yeah…fat chance he’d look at me!

The phone rang. “This is Claire.”

“Hey girlfriend, it’s Mindy. I just heard they’re having a special lady’s night at the pub tonight. Two-for-one drinks and a live band. Starts at 6:00, wanna go?”

Didn’t we just discuss this very thing? Claire’s first instinct was to scream NO but a sudden image flashed in her mind. Wavy hair, blue eyes…and that butt! Whew! Maybe I should pick up a new alarm clock on the way home before we go. “Yeah…sounds great. I’ll be ready at 5:45...and Mindy, let's try and get home a little earlier tonight.









       Web Site: www.gingersimpson.com

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Reviewed by Teresa Henson 7/24/2003
This was so true to life! It was hilarious! I could put myself in Claire's place with no problem! Are you sure you aren't a mind reader? :-) I will carry a smile over this one all day!
Reviewed by Carrie 9/18/2002
Oh my gosh...this was great. I laughed the whole way through it. I'm still laughing:)


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