Part Four of Joan & Amy's Adventures in San Diego: The Chapstick Catastrophe

 "I don't have enough laundry for a whole load," Joan announced mournfully. "First world problem," I snapped at her. My schedule was already packed with a full day of television watching. I did not have time for her inability to do nothing. "Surely you must have some laundry," Joan said wistfully. "For Pete's sake," I yelled, "Fine!" I stomped into my room.

We'd been some years away from a coin-operated washing machine but we managed. Forty-five minutes later, after I'd watched three-quarters of an episode of "Shameless" and Joan had made all the beds in the apartment, done the dishes, and made Rice Krispie treats, we were ready for the transition. It looked like a ticker tape parade had marched through our laundry. My cheeks flamed with embarrassment. "I'm so sorry," I apologized to Joan as we began grooming our wet clothes like baboons at the zoo. "I must have forgotten to check my pockets." A dollar later had our dainties dancing away in the dryer.

Forty-five minutes later, after I'd finished one episode of "Shameless" and began another while Joan adjusted Sydney's screen, assembled an oscillating fan, hammered up a hummingbird feeder, and made her own unique blend of sugar water, "It's an old family recipe," she told me. "Shhh..." I answered, we released our laundry from the dryer.

"What the hell!?!?" Joan screamed. I am rarely this passionate about my laundry so this was fascinating. "What?" I asked, pretending to care. "My clothes are covered with stains," Joan screeched, "My favorite capris are ruined!" This certainly was a mystery. Ordinarily, clothes tend to come out of being washed cleaner than when they've been put in. I peered into the dryer. A-ha! Or is it Eureka? There, in the cavernous chamber, lay our complimentary veterinary clinic chapstick container. It had been both a bane and a blessing in our lives. "Here you go, Amy," the receptionist had said, smiling. "Maybe you could knock a buck off the bill and keep your complimentary chapstick," I suggested. She giggled (because I'm so funny). Then, on the plane, among her long list of other complaints, Joan lamented the loss of her own chapstick. "Here," I'd said, feeling generous, "take mine."

"How is it that YOUR laundry doesn't have any stains?" Joan complained. It was rather miraculous. Think parting of the Red Sea-type of event. "Don't just sit there (watching Shameless)," she screeched, "Google something." Can do. A few keywords later, I began reading helpful suggestions to Joan who was elbow deep in Dawn dish detergent bubbles. "Helpful Suggestion Number One," I read, "Check your pockets before doing laundry."

"Funny, Amy," she snarled. I showed her the screen. "It's a little too late for that," she stated, "What else does it say?"

"Helpful Suggestion Number Two recommends vodka," I told her.

"That is helpful," Joan agreed, "Find me some vodka and a glass. Anything else?"

"How about butane?"

"Also helpful," she agreed, scrubbing her stained clothes vigorously, "as I am going to have to burn my entire wardrobe if these stains don't come out."

The stains didn't come out.

I subtly replaced our fallen comrade with a keylime-flavored chapstick while Joan stomped around San Diego in stained clothes. As she packed to go home, I insisted that she take it as a parting gift. "Planes suck all the moisture out of your skin," I told her, "You don't want to end up with raisin lips." I'd already made sure that she wasn't wearing white socks with her black sneakers. I didn't need the airplane people labeling her with a cruel nickname. Raisin Lips would be hard to shake. "They're going to be too busy staring at all the stains on my clothes to bother noticing my lips," Joan assured me before disappearing into the airport. Meanwhile I was already pursuing Amazon for Joan's upcoming birthday present. Suggestion Number Four was a keychain chapstick cozy.