Today we are excited to publish an excerpt from the debut book from January Ornellas, My Above Average Colon.
Book Description: If 50 is the new 30, then why does January Ornellas need duct tape for a DIY neck lift? Why is she being mistaken for a volunteer at her first triathlon? And why is the gym sending her hate mail? Ornellas shares her unique brand of humor in this debut collection of short stories. Whether she’s being held hostage at a timeshare presentation, eating an excessive amount of cookie batter, or stalking the neighborhood kid who stole her exercise ball, Ornellas’ sharp wit and raw vulnerability will have you laughing out loud as she takes you on a hilarious and relatable ride through her midlife adventures.
Follow January and her work at MidlifeBloomer.com
Food Truck Fiasco
Do you make yourself cringe?
Do you have regrets?
Do you often find yourself in humiliating situations brought on by your own ignorance and lack of self-awareness?
I found myself in one of these situations just last week at a concert. I was waiting in line for my order at a food truck, two brisket sandwiches with sides of coleslaw. My husband had gone to the restroom, so I struck up a conversation with the nice couple standing next to me, Jennifer and Pete. Or was it Kelly and Bob?
Having had limited experience at food trucks, I had some questions.
“How are we going to know when our order’s up?” I asked, shouting over the music.
“They’ll call out your name,” Jennifer/Kelly said.
Jennifer/Kelly seemed to know what she was talking about, and sure enough, a minute later, I heard my name.
“January!”
That’s me.
A woman walked towards me, carrying two plates of brisket sandwiches, with coleslaw on the side.
Dinner has been served.
But as she walked closer, I realized I recognized this woman.
“January, it’s Susan,” she said, smiling. Susan was my dental hygienist.
Hmm, this is weird. I didn’t know Susan was a hygienist AND a waitress? I mean, I guess she could be both. Nobody’s getting their teeth cleaned on a Saturday night. Perhaps she owns the food truck? Good for her!
“Nice to see you,” she said, but then she started walking away.
Slow down there, Suzy, where are you going with MY brisket?
I caught up to her. “This is an awesome venue,” I said.
“Definitely,” she replied.
At this point, we made it to my table. “Well, here I am,” I said.
Susan stopped and stared at me.
Can I have my brisket, please?
But Susan held tightly to the plastic plates.
There was a LONG pause.
“These are my sandwiches,” Susan said.
And then the dim bulb that occupied space in my teeny, tiny brain finally turned on.
Susan was NOT the food truck waitress. Like me, Susan was a fellow concert goer and brisket sandwich connoisseur.
I took a step back.
I’m sorry, Susan, I recognize this is your brisket, not mine. You were merely calling out my name to say hello, which you now, understandably, regret.
After Susan walked away, I thought, this is bad, maybe not gynecologist bad, but still, you don’t want the person scraping and flossing your teeth to harbor any ill will towards you.
Ten minutes later, my name was called, and I walked to the truck. A guy passed me two plates of food through the window, because as any moron knows, food trucks don’t have waitresses.
Almost Taken
Last week, after getting my car detailed, we decided it was time to sell it. And when I say we, I mean Steve. He advertised it on Craigslist, and within minutes, the calls were pouring in. Who knew a banged-up Honda Pilot with 175,000 miles would solicit so many admirers? One such admirer was Lenny from Long Beach, who insisted on seeing it that night.
“Should I have him come here?” Steve asked.
“If you want him to murder us,” I replied.
“He’s not going to murder us. He just wants to buy a car.”
“Don’t you remember in Taken, when the girl’s friend tells the bad guys where they live?”
Steve, not wanting to hear the entire scene, held up his hand.
A few texts later, my husband agreed to meet the murderer at the Target parking lot.
“I’ll follow you there,” I told him.
“Why?”
After Lenny abducts you, I’ll need to describe him to the police.
“If you sell the car, you’ll need a ride home.”
“True,” he said, picking up the car keys. “But don’t park too close.”
“You won’t even know I’m there,” I said. “And remember to observe any distinct features, so when he takes you, you can yell them out. Tattoo on shoulder! Scar on wrist! Unibrow!”
“What are you talking about?” he said.
Steve’s limited knowledge of cinematic abductions is embarrassing.
He arranged to meet the felon at 9:00.
At 9:05, I pulled into the Target parking lot. I spotted my husband next to our car, talking with two men. That made sense. If you’re going to kidnap somebody, best to have back-up.
I pulled into a space two rows over and turned off the car.
The stakeout had begun.
The younger of the two looked to be about 6 feet, bearded, and in his 30s.
The other one was a few inches shorter, bald, and around 60.
Perhaps a father/son team?
It’s a shame their time is spent kidnapping innocent car-selling civilians; still, it’s important to carve out family time.
The son bent down to inspect the tire, running his left hand over the rim.
Left hand? He’s left-handed!
Was it too late for me to join the FBI?
Steve popped the hood and the sinister duo checked out the engine and some other stuff.
Don’t ask me, I’m not a mechanic.
Steve walked away from the car.
Why was he walking away?
He pulled something out of his jacket pocket.
Oh my God, it’s a GUN!
Why is he putting the gun to his ear?
Never mind, it’s a phone.
He’s calling the police. He’s finally recognized these thugs for who they are.
My purse vibrated.
Not now people, I’m on a stakeout.
It continued to vibrate.
Steve lifted his head in my direction.
I pulled out my phone.
“I see you,” I said in my best undercover voice.
“I see you too,” he said. “Your lights are on.”
Oh, crap!
I flipped the switch and the parking lot dimmed. No wonder I could see them so clearly.
The assassins continued to inspect the car, and a few minutes later they got into the front seat. Steve slid into the back, without yelling out one distinct character feature.
It’s like he wanted to be taken.
I called him on the phone. “Where are you going?”
“For a test drive,” he answered. “It’s cool.”
It’s cool?
He never says, “It’s cool.” Is that code for, I AM BEING TAKEN! CALL THE POLICE!
Why didn’t we assign a safe word ahead of time?
What sort of FBI agent am I?
I made a mental note to come up with a really good code word for my next husband.
Lenny started the car and slowly pulled out.
Goodbye honey, I love you.
Not you, Lenny.
I waited until the car was halfway down the row before I turned on my engine.
The Pilot disappeared behind a sea of minivans. It wasn’t clear which way they went.
My keen tracking skills said right, so I edged forward.
I looked right. No Pilot.
I scanned left. No Pilot.
Did they just disappear?
Is there a Platform 9¾ in the Target parking lot that I’m not aware of?
I started driving, realizing that perhaps they didn’t go right or left. Maybe they went to the loading area behind Target, where it’s dark and deserted and more conducive to murderous activity.
I drove slowly, looking for clues.
Nothing.
I returned to the front of the store, meandering through the food court. As I passed In-N-Out, the aroma of burgers and fries beckoned, but who could eat at a time like this?…
To find out how this tale ends, you have to buy the book on Amazon in paperback or kindle formats
I’m really taken with your writing.