Patience According to Fluff

Merriam Webster defines patience as the ability to bear pain or trial calmly, without complaint, a sign of forbearance under provocation or strain, a steadfastness despite opposition, difficulty or adversity.

According to Thomas Jefferson, "Nothing gives one person so much advantage over another as to remain always cool and unruffled under all circumstances."

In other words, patience is not just a virtue; it's also a weapon and a very tricky survival technique. That's important information for someone who has a dickweed for a boss, dontcha think?

Speaking of survival techniques, we were watching Hawaii Five-O the other night and a girl was in the witness protection program and she was in a bungalow up the Pali Hwy (where my ex-husband swung from a vine that broke at the apex of his swing) awaiting a Honolulu PD escort that turned out, of course, to be bad guys. She runs into the bathroom and starts madly searching for a weapon, any weapon, and she finds a lighter on the floor ( where I suppose it might be logical to keep a lighter if you are a chain-smoking cockroach), and I shout "Deodorant! Deodorant!" (Let's just say I might get a little more into make-believe than most folks).

And she finds a can of hairspray (same diff) and does the blowtorch thing and burns away a few of the bad guy's acne scars.

Now, first of all, it shouldn't surprise ANY of my readers that I might shout at a tense moment during a TV show. The writers of these shows are basically (by virtue of their chosen professions) asking us (the viewing audience) to set aside the cares of the real world and indulge in a bit of fantasy, if only for a moment...or 60 consecutive moments. I feel I've implicitly agreed to do so by sitting down on the couch and flicking the TV on. We have a handshake agreement, therefore, and I'm obligated to watch as though I am involved.

(And really? Those of you who code for a living, I know what you do. I know how you do it. And I think it makes a helluva lot more sense that I shout, "Deodorant!" to a young woman whose life is in danger than YOU shouting, "You cock-sucking WHORE!" to a build running on your laptop.)

REGARDLESS...I shouted, she sprayed, blah, blah. And then, of course, I sat back and thought, "Hm, I wonder if that would really work, I know in my head it does, but would it? More important, if I was in such a situation here in this condo where the occupants of one of these very units on this very floor has demonstrated his ability to easily open a locked door that is not his own using only a Costco Membership Card, would I know HOW to create my own sweet-smelling blowtorch? No, no I wouldn't. CUZ I'VE NEVER DONE IT.

Well, see, this is a problem, but easily solved. First, monkeyboy smokes and has like a gazillion lighters laying around (although I've never found one on the bathroom floor, either bathroom...) and we still have the can of ladies deodorant Clodagh left behind two Cities ago. All I need is permission.

"No," says he who rules the roost.

"Why," says she who rules the rooster.

"Becauuuuuuuse," he drawls, "It's daaaangerous."

"How do you KNOW it's dangerous?" she questions. "Have you ever tried it yourself?"

"Of course!" Rules the Roost.

"Did anything catch on fire?" Rules the Rooster.

"No, but I was outside." Rules the Roost.

"Why would that matter? Did the flame shoot out twenty feet? Did the fire fall to the floor?" Rules the Rooster.

"Nooooo," Rules the Roost and One Who Loses The Battle of Logic.

So we did it. We created our own mini-blowtorch using a bic lighter and a can of Sure Deodorant and Anti-Perspirant, Powder-Fresh Scent. Well, HE created it. Then he apologized to his dad after, but I'm the looney-tune for talking to an actress on the telly.

Anyway, so we watched the rest of the show. I didn't shout anything else or get otherwise untowardly excited, but we did both learn how to ventilate a collapsed lung using a reed of bamboo and a machete. And having learned two new things, two new survival skills, we collapsed into bed utterly exhausted from our hike out of the Kuliouou Forest Range to testify against a baddie.

I commented, then, that even though I hadn't actually been the one to hold the can of B.O. juice or light the burning fire of desire, I did feel confident that, under extreme pressure, I could stay calm, cool and collected long enough to light the torch and burn an assailant's face with it, but that it would really suck if I couldn't find a lighter cuz, really, WHO keeps a lighter in their bathroom?

Somewhere, a firechief is shaking his ethereal head...