And the Beat Goes On . . .

Oh, the new year, full of promises such as the world is going to hell in a hand basket and all of those who have worked for a living and retirement for the past three decades should finally realize that any promises the government ever gave them—which were far and few between for working folk—were total BS.

So let’s move on. I asked for pepper spray for Christmas. Didn’t get it, but did get a night vision scope. When I asked for a coach gun for my birthday, Jack asked, “What is wrong with you?!” Just trying to be a good Boy Scout, I think.

Mom called early on a Monday a. m. and in a panic-stricken voice said, “I’m in big, big trouble!” Did she kill someone, rob a bank, pull up the pansies at her subdivision entrance? No. She had flushed her entire set of keys down the toilet at Publix. And . . . she had a bridge party at her house within the hour. Luckily, after some coordination, Jennifer, who works near the debacle, was soon to the rescue with a set of keys to Mom’s house which also held a set of spare keys to her car. “You can put this in that blog of yours,” said Mom. Here you have it Mama!

The first of the year is always slow for writers. Coupled with the psychotic Georgia weather—just shoot me. Jack is once again out of town which means that Bear, his favorite canine child, is ever vigilant, jumping between barking at everything that moves—today a wild turkey in the driveway—and sitting on top of me whenever I settle. That would be fine if he didn’t weigh 80-plus pounds.

Jack called and told me once again that I couldn't reach him via cell phone the following day because such communication-with-humans devices weren't allowed in the high security area where he worked. "That's so that no pictures can be made, no data recorded, and so on," he explained.

"And also for the most important reason," I added. "Because cell phones cause the aliens' heads to explode when you're all in the pod, and though their heads do regenerate it causes a horrible mess."

"Yes," he replied patiently, and then quickly changed the subject.

Today, a Monday, gloomy and alone, I watched a PBS special by Dr. Amen who wrote a book called “Change Your Brain, Change Your Life.” He had some good tips but I wondered if I could rebuild a brain from the medulla oblongata up, because that’s all I have left. So I called David to give him some of the doc’s hints about focus and concentration. I started with, “I just saw this guy on television who wrote the book ‘Change Your Brain, Change Your Life.”

“Mom, I am NOT getting a brain transplant!” David asserted. Then he went on to tell me about an ROTC field trip next Sunday which includes a trip in a C100 transport plane. Great. “Could you tell me about these things AFTER their completion?” I asked. I actually accept change (such as my only son talking to me in military acronyms) really quickly. For example, just this weekend I peeled the Tasmanian Devil and Yosemite Sam stickers off of our bedroom mirrors that David put there when HE WAS SEVEN YEARS OLD! Yes, I’m flexible that way and always on the forefront of change.

Oh well, out with the old and in with the new. But as I asked at a “FINAL DAYS” sales event with friend Denise, “Does that mean theirs or ours?”

Suffering is Relative

I've been sympathetic with Jack about all the travails of his constant travel. Believe me, just one trip put my entire physical system into a state of hold for months, if you know what I mean. Apparently, I'm not built for world adventure, at least not in this life. Yet, Jack never seems to ask me about my miseries, career wise. "Career" what a lofty word. I don't know if I've ever been able to use that word seriously concerning myself.

The poor guy has decided to drive this Monday (with a coworker) to a military base in Indiana rather than deal with the Atlanta airport on Martin Luther King Day. (I think initial caps are okay for that esteemed day. Should it be in all caps, also in bold, in giant type? Is it ever enough?! I just don't know!)

While he was packing, I asked, "Tell me the truth would you rather drive to Indiana tomorrow or write an article about a contemporary furniture store in Peoria, Illinois?"

He thought for a second and said, "I think I'll pick driving to Indiana."

"So would I," I answered. "Can we trade? I'm beggin' ya!"

Solitary Confinement

Since I’m somewhat of a night owl and also easily bored, I find some odd but rarely constructive ways to amuse myself:

*Jack was out of town so I got a piece of chalk and drew around all of the dog shapes that I could see in our kitchen floor tile.

*I turned out all the lights, went out on our bedroom balcony, and peered into the woods with my night vision scope. Then I creeped myself out by thinking, what if I saw somebody standing still out there in the woods looking up at me with glowing eyes? I ran in the house and locked all the doors.

*Jill and I went out to dinner and when we came back took turns walking like a zombie in the dark outside toward the person with the night scope. Jill said mine was the scariest because the dogs were attacking me as I tried to walk and their eyes were also glowing.

*I never have matching socks so I just wear mismatches—what does it matter with boots? I try to at least match seasonal themes though. I was holding one sock with Christmas trees on it and complaining that I couldn’t find another holiday scene sock when Jack said, “Why don’t you wear that sock with the pilgrim hats?” They were actually witch hats and that festive day had passed. So recently I decided to gather all of my mismatches. Unbelievable! I only found about six matches and threw away about 50 socks. There really is a place where they escape. It’s called Sock World and it’s in Gatlinburg, TN. We drove past it one day and David’s friend Dan said the store’s slogan should be, “For all your puppet needs.” Anyway, how can a person who almost never travels and when she does, never packs socks, lose at least fifty of them?! That effort took about an hour and it wasn’t as gratifying as expected.

*A world championship Tiddley-Wink tournament with myself. I won quite handily, thank you very much.

*Google myself. Pretty disappointing, but one Dr. Mary Gail Snyder must never sleep! She’s everywhere!

*Sometimes when I’m editing a manuscript that is extremely boring and I’m reading it for the umpteenth time, I read it out loud with a different accent—usually British, but sometimes German, or Japanese, even Gone With the Wind Southern.

*Talk to myself. My most common sentences are “What are you doing here?” “Why don’t you just shut up!” and “Okay, I’ve had just about enough of you.”

*Sing to the dogs. They clearly hate it.

*Take pictures of the moon.

*Draw smiley faces on the bottoms of my feet with a temporary (Do you think I'm crazy? Of course, it's temporary) tattoo pen while watching television.

*Look for frogs (a seasonal activity).

I guess I’ll stop there. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m weird or anything.

Dumb & Dumber 2008

Dumbest Question 2008: From the local UPS store, I sent an edited manuscript to a client. Soon afterward the client sent me an oops e-mail that they had forgotten to notify me the company had changed its address. I called the UPS store to ask for a rerouting. The young store clerk seemed quite perturbed. She sighed audibly and asked me, “Well did you know this was the wrong address when you sent it?”

Most bizarre dog story 2008: During the holidays, my 12-year-old pug was sleeping next to me on the bed. In his defense, he’s getting aged, grizzly, and arthritic and has never been anything but a Teddy bear. Jack got up earlier than me and decided to pick the pug up. Suddenly I heard Jack yelling, “That S.O.B. bit me!”

“What?!” I’m groggily asking, as Jack in full temper re-enters the room from the bathroom, bleeding from the lip and grabs the old dog in anger. Old dog then bites Jack another time—once again on the face. At this point, Jack wants to kill the dog. I’m yelling, "Stop! Calm down!" David, home for the “holidays” enters the room asking, “What the hell is going on?!”

Conclusion: Dog still alive. Jack recovering but very angry (and I think justifiably a bit hurt, though he won't admit it, for two days). Sister Jennifer asked me how a man over six feet tall was bitten twice in the face by a pug. “Is it a flying pug?” she quipped.

When men hear this story they consistently state: “I would have killed that dog!”
When women hear this story, they consistently state: “Poor old dog; he’s just old and was startled.” (I’m going with that one.)

Strangest voting conversation 2008: My friend Jill and I went together to an early voting location. The line wasn't very long, but a voter volunteer went down the line handing out forms to be filled out. Jill asked him if we were at the correct location for our voting precinct. He eyed her for a minute and asked, "Do you have any hot chocolate?" After he assured us that we were in the right location, inquisitive Jill asked why the heading on my form differed from hers. He answered, "Because her hair is shorter!" pointing to me. Joining in, I then asked him why my form was printed in German. He looked momentarily stunned then blurted, "I bet you caused trouble in Sunday school" and re-entered the building. Actually he was right. I did cause trouble in Sunday school.

Most bizarre Christmas gift 2008: Night vision scope for me from Jack including instructions to “Invade the night!” Love it, but I see some trouble comin’ in 2009!

Second most bizarre Christmas gift 2008: I gave my neighbor a wooden sign printed with the words “No Peein’ Off the Porch” because I understand that, by his own admission, he does this regularly. He seemed to take it as law, whining, “But I like to pee off the porch!” Then I showed him my night vision scope.

Happy New Year Everybody! Gird thine loins!

"People are Strange, When You're a Stranger" (Jim Morrison)

I do forget names but almost never a face. Many light years ago in my mid-twenties and dating Jack, I saw a couple walking to their car at Jack’s apartment complex. “Excuse me,” I called out. Aren’t you Jim Foxx who came to Knollwood Elementary in the seventh grade?” Totally befuddled, he answered in the affirmative. We had actually never talked back then and he moved away after a few months. Of course, he had no idea who I was. Why would he? I simply remembered his face, and in this case, his name.

While working at Emory University Clinic, I saw another elementary schoolmate. Isn’t your name Craig Pye and didn’t we both go to the Methodist Church retreat when we were about eleven years old? He was amazed. I didn’t tell him that I remembered when we were walking on a hiking trail with the church group. I was eavesdropping and heard him mention to a friend that he wished he were walking with a girl. A particularly mean teenager yelled, “You wouldn’t know what to do with one if you had one!” That was uncalled for especially since Pye was at a somewhat porky stage at the time.

Not long ago, Jack and I were at Sam’s and I got that someone-is-looking-at-me feeling. I turned and saw an Asian woman quite a distance away staring intently at me. She waved. In this case I felt very happy to see her. I walked the distance and we stood facing each other. She seemed reciprocally happy to see me. “How are you?” she asked. “I’m good, how are you?” I said. “Fine, fine,” she answered. We both seemed puzzled, but still glad to meet. When I returned, Jack asked, “Who was that?” “I have no idea,” I answered.

I also have long conversations with strangers. People I’ve interviewed for business or technical articles have told me intimate details of their relationships, cried on the phone about a pet that passed away, and have even sent me presents: homemade jam from a real estate magnate, a stone oil lamp from an international stone supplier, and a cooler full of deli meat from a sausage manufacturer. And just strange interchanges: Once passing my newly wedded boss on an office stairwell, I casually asked, “How are you?” “Oh my God, my wife is such a bitch! I think she’s actually insane,” he answered and proceeded to expand on same. “Wow,” I thought. “I usually just answer that question with ‘I’m fine. How are you?’”

Last night the phone rang and the caller ID simply said Atlanta, Georgia. “Who is it?” Jack asked. “The entire city of Atlanta,” I answered.

Actually it was a solicitor from the Georgia Vietnam Vets. I always try to give to the veterans, so I readily agreed to buy a pepper spray key chain that also sprayed the hapless perpetrator with a dye so that he could be quickly apprehended. “Sounds like fun. I’ll take one!” I told the woman. With the transaction over, we soon discovered that we shared the same first name and that we spelled it the same way. Then we discussed the spelling of her chiropractor’s name and the origins of certain spellings. Next she told me about having her pepper spray confiscated at the airport because she forgot she had it and having ridden MARTA there had nowhere to leave it. We laughed it up about asking a criminal to stand downwind before we sprayed him in the face and she shared the fact that she had used her canister on her ex-husband. “Let me tell you! It took that sucker down!” she exclaimed. After about half an hour we shared Happy New Year wishes with one another. “Who was that?” Jack asked from his chair. “Oh some lady with the Georgia Vietnam Vets,” I replied. “She once sprayed her ex-husband with pepper spray. Said it worked really well.”

At times I wonder when my eyes briefly meet a strangers’ and a sharp pang of recognition seems to hit us both as we silently pass, if we really did know one another in some alternate universe. Or, when we communicate with someone almost intimately and then never speak to them again—how did our paths cross? I’ve heard that everyone has a doppelganger, a ghostly counterpart or alter ego. (Oh, I pity the fool!) Wouldn’t it be strange, though, if we all came face-to-face at once? What if everyone could go to a certain bus stop at a certain time before the world ended and meet their own doppelganger for just a few minutes?

Just recently, while standing in line at the grocery (yes, I’m always at the grocery) the woman in front of me openly stared. “Hi,” I said. “Do you mind if I ask your name?” she queried. “You look so familiar.” I didn’t tell her that I hardly ever forget a face. Her name was Maggie something and ultimately we concluded that we’d never met. “Maybe I knew you in another life,” she pondered. “Good Lord!” I said. “You mean I’ve looked like this for at least two lifetimes! That simply isn’t fair.”

Christmas 2008

Thank God that's over!!

Insomnia: A Christmas Tale

Christmas was coming, and she was getting fatter. Just like Jack Sprat and his portly wife, juxtapositions between herself and her spouse, ironically also named Jack, came to mind. One was his blatant morning up and at ‘em disposition which contrasted starkly to her night owl schedule—a difference now being punctuated by his radio alarm which was at that very moment belting out country music (another conflicting taste) on the nether regions of the darkened world, a.k.a, the night table on the miles-away opposite side of the bed, while he cheerfully showered. It was 5:30 a. m. for damn sakes and he had beat the alarm!

“Let’s see, I forced myself to go to bed at 1 a.m. which means I’ve had 4.5 hours of sleep, if you don’t count the half hour it took me to get into a position that was agreeable to the comfort of the pug,” she thought as she reclined in her middle-aged puffiness. “Boy, speaking of puffiness that Candice Bergen really blew up, but she’s so good on Boston Legal,” she added. “What a great show.”

In his dotage, Moses the pug snored and grunted beside her as she tried to pull the covers over her backside which stuck jauntily over the tiny wedge of bed space which he allowed her. Suddenly she was overcome by gaseous fumes. “I knew I shouldn’t have let him eat that sandwich meat!” she chastised herself as the stench of digested chicken with the promise of more to come added to her discomfort. And now it was over, the incessant thoughts began . . . as she knew they would, so she ceased to embrace her somber musings with quotation marks.

It’s just a shame. All that we women go through and then wham, we get old and turn into Mrs. Claus. I can't believe I joined a gym last week. What was I thinking? Think of something that will make you go back to sleep. What was I dreaming? Some sort of conflict of course, various animals, couldn’t find my shoes, bathroom stalls with open blinds on the doors. No think of the beach, standing on the beach. Wow, I remember when I was young, brown, and lithe. Well I think that now but since I was borderline anorexic, I didn’t enjoy it at the time. But what is thinness except the absence of fatness? Is thinness a word? Of course it is as well it should be, by gosh, by golly. Have a holly jolly Christmas this year!

Wow, only a few more weeks before Christmas. I haven’t decorated the tree much less cleaned the bathrooms. I should just get up now.

By this time the Newfoundland mix giant rescue, Bear, had wedged into the room from his cozy bed (a.k.a. the sofa, even though he has a very comfortable bed of his own) in the living room with his American Eski-beagle-whatever could he be-mo companion and hastily painted a cold nose mucus picture on her foolishly unshielded backside. Spry Jack kindly escorted him from the room. Hmm, now what was I thinking? Life goes by so fast. What will become of us? Death. Tears welled in her eyes. No, stop! Change that thought process sistah! Pretend you’re a character on the Sopranos. I think I’d be an Irish arms dealer.

When I peruse my life, it seems to be one long string of questionably relevant events, dotted with dubious accomplishments, and inundated with unforgettably embarrassing moments.

She remembered her mantra (stolen recently from a dysfunctional woman on Dr. Phil). I can do this; I can do this. Sadly it was focused on the lofty goal of falling back to sleep. It wasn’t working. “Obviously I can’t do this. What if I was dying and these were my last stupid thoughts?” she wondered, once again introducing punctuation to her mediocre meditations.

"E=MC squared!" she whispered, because she was too lazy to search out the superscript on her keyboard. Take that Stephen Hawking! But she knew it wasn’t her original formula, so small solace was attained. Poor Stephen Hawking. Sorry I thought "take that." I really don't know why I did. Well, it’s all over. I might as well rouse the sleeping pug. I suspect he’s damaged my rotator cuff from lifting him.

She removed the rest of her body from the bed and stepped into a pair of flip flops. It’s the middle of December. Why the hell am I still wearing flip flops? As she plodded into the hallway, also known as the gauntlet of canines, she finally spoke aloud, "Today is Tuesday."