V.I.P. Treatment

It may be hard for you to believe, but Dennis and I were not always little (quit smirking!) ol' grandparents. nce, long ago, we were denizens of the business world, he a rising young executive in the pharmaceutical supplies industry, I, the consummate, sophisticated corporate wife, able to entertain colleagues and customers at the clink of a silver spoon.

Okay, maybe not that far up the corporate ladder, but Dennis WAS the youngest department  head that this very large (you would recognize the name if you ever worked in or around hospitals) company ever had. They had recruited him after they heard him give a presentation at a seminar, moved us from St. Louis to California, doubled his salary and installed him as manager over 129 people. And I knew how to make dinner reservations.

One evening we were called upon to entertain a gentleman and his wife who were moving in from the Midwest. In order to duly impress them I dressed in my newest outfit, a lovely lilac pantsuit consisting of a tunic type blouse worn over flowing palazzo pants, made of crepe, a delicate fabric but just right for the light Pacific breezes. My hair was in curls piled high on my head by a stylist who no doubt did hair for Country and Western singers when they came to town.

We dined at a fine French restaurant in Laguna Beach and then, to further awe them, took them for a tour of the business's facilities. The four-story building, part offices and part research and development, was made of marble blocks, assembled in Italy, numbered, shipped to California and reassembled. The furnishings were exquisite, even the ashtrays were made of marble and had cost hundreds of dollars.  And the bathrooms---ahh, they just had to be seen to be believed.

After touring the offices and conference rooms and peering down the hall toward  the lab where the research was done on microbes and mega-germs, etc, I decided to show Mrs. V.I.P. the bathroom.  It was cool and lovely, all marble, of course, except for the large stainless steel button on the wall just inside the door. It discretely said "Push" and nothing else. Now, I had been here several times before.  I had seen that button every time. No one had ever said "Don't push it."  It kind of called to me.  It was time. I put out my hand and lightly tapped it. WHOOOOOSH!!!!!  The ceiling opened up and fifty gallons of water blasted down onto my head like the Niagara Falls of Costa Mesa, California.  Had there been any microbes on me, they certainly would have drowned.

By the time we reached the lobby my curls were mop-strings on my shoulders and my elegant crepe pantsuit had become a crop-top and Bermuda shorts. I squished out to the car and we took the V.I.P.'s back to their hotel and they thanked us for a lovely, entertaining evening.

And that, dear friends, is why they have installed a plaque in my honor on the wall above that stainless steel button. It says "Shower."