Red-faced

My friend, Jill, has a Portuguese Water hound—a very cute, but also expensive, and somewhat rare pooch named Chopper. She recently e-mailed some pictures to me that she had received from Chopper’s breeder, photos of a new litter of Portuguese pups. Each pup photo featured a disembodied hand holding a black-and-white newborn with its eyes still shut. As I opened the individual photos I read the captions: Male—Blue, Female—Red.

“Arrogant breeders,” I muttered to myself. “These dogs are all black and white, yet they try to make fine, invisible distinctions. Who do they think they’re fooling?”

I opened another attached photo that read, “Male—orange.”

“Oh, the pomposity!” I fumed.

Next photo: “Female—Yellow.” Outrageous!

That’s when I noticed the tiny yellow ribbon around the dog’s neck and the matching hue/caption for the ribbons around all the babies’ necks.

“Oh,” I said sheepishly to the empty room. “Color me stupid.”

Driving Me Crazy!

Since Jack pulled his back out we made a ride into the North Georgia Mountains where my brother-in-law is a renowned chiropractor. No kidding, many people testify that he saved them from a life of pain. He even healed a little dachshund that, after being hit by a car, had two tiny wheels hoisting up its hind quarters. Wheels be gone! after only a few sessions and that little wiener dog is as good as new.

So Jack decides to make the drive up with his bad back. Yes, he has to have control of the wheel, even in extreme pain, which would be okay for a human being, but not for a being from a planet far, far away called Velocity. I’ve seen grown, burly men stagger from his vehicle with perspiration stains to their belt loops gasping, “Never again!” I view this as a testimony to my bravery and a defense to my verbal pleas to remain alive.

Picture yourself hurtling around a slim mountainous avenue at three times the safe m.p.h., and as your driver points out the beauty of the sheer drop-off view, he drives straight toward it! This is one of Jack’s driving habits. Granted, he grew up in the Smoky Mountains, driving like a he-devil; he’s worked on the pit crew of professional race car drivers, and he can build any car from the ground up. He also seems to will himself to believe that everyone on the road is going to do the sensible thing—bad idea. Most people trade in their cars when they tire of the model. Jack has someone total his old-hat autos. Jack was actually involved in accidents in which his vintage Porsche was totaled three times. He refurbished it every time, then sold it for a profit, being perfectly honest about its blighted past.

Anyway, as the scenery becomes one of those swirly paintings that kids make at country fairs, I glare straight ahead in the belief that doing so will somehow glue the wheels to the road. Velocity Man points out a scenic farm. “Oh God!” I dart my eyes in the direction that he’s pointing only to realize that we’re driving straight off the road and into it. “Aieee!” That’s close to the kind of dying animal sound I make as he swerves to miss a row of mailboxes, the tire goes off the shoulder, then we skid back onto the pavement. (By the way, he destroyed the right rear view mirror of my car in a similar venture.) “Damn it! Why do you have to do that?” he yells. “Because I want to look at the farm, not buy it,” I say between my permanently gritted teeth. I estimate that if we are strangely fortunate to reach senior status we will have this conversation at least 10,000 more times.

Now we pull off the road to grab something to tide us over at a fast food restaurant—Burger King. People think I’m exaggerating about the way Jack orders food, often resulting in multiple and erroneous items, until they experience the oddity themselves. We once drove through for a cup of coffee and received six cups of coffee and a small milk even though Jack and I were the only people in the car. “Let’s just get a couple of orders of onion rings and a drink since we’re going out later,” Jack says. Fine with me.

He pulls up. “I’ll have an order of chicken tenders and an order of onion rings, a tea and a diet coke. No, make that two orders of onion rings and a tea.”

The speaker: “So you don’t want the chicken tenders?”

“Yes, I do want them.”

“And the one drink?”

I remind him of the Diet Coke. He orders it and adds an ice tea with onion rings.

“So you want three onion rings, two ice teas, a Diet Coke, and chicken tenders?”

“No!” he rolls his eyes at me, like what’s wrong with this idiot.

We land up with one very large order of onion rings, two drinks, and a bag of about four “chicken tenders” shaped like little crowns.

“What the hell are these and where are the fries?” Jack asks incredulously.

“You didn’t order any fries.” At this point I’m laughing so hard that my Precious Pup raspy hissing evil laugh that I can’t control starts.

“I thought I ordered fries!”

“No, but lucky for you, I’ll share some of these onion rings.”

As I reach into my onion ring container, I discover one lone stubby French fry. “Oh, here’s that fry you ordered,” I say as I offer it to him.

He’s not even smiling, but as he tries to grab it, knocks it between the seats. “Now I’ve got a fry under the seats!” barks Mr. Wilson.

After the chiropractor visit, Jack tells me that he can now walk upright. “It’s a miracle!” he proclaims. It certainly is.

True Colors

Last night in a dream, I walked into a vintage record store and started reading the cover of an album. The store clerk walked over and said, "Excuse me, we don't allow our customers to read in this store." I said, "What about the prices? Can I read the prices? And what if I'm deaf and I'm reading your lips?"

Now I'm even a smart ass in my dreams!

Quote of the Day

"Funny how people get so gentle with you once you're dead."
(From "Sunset Boulevard")

Wouldn't it be nice if it were the other way around?

A Serious Discussion: Part II

My sister, Jennifer, read the highly intellectual discussion regarding super powers and the following dialogue occurred via e-mail:

----- Original Message -----
To: Gail
Subject: RE: Something Serious
From: Jennifer

(Name of coworker) said that the part about not being able to become visible to surprise people shouldn't really be a problem because you can still speak. That would freak people out significantly enough I think. The feelability is still problematic.

You make some very good points. I think these would be excellent super powers. If I couldn't get the teleporting, I think flying would be my next choice. Invisibility and flying would be a fun combo.

-----Original Message-----
From: Gail
To: JenniferSubject:
RE: Something Serious

(Coworker) makes a good point, but it relegates one to simply being Casper.
And you would have to fly NAKED for gosh sakes! There's no getting around it! Then you would have even more problems because you would have to return to the same spot where you left your clothes, because you can't teleport! This means you would be limited to very casual flying expeditions within a few miles radius of your clothes.

----- Original Message -----
From: Jennifer
To: Gail
Subject: RE: Something Serious

Well you need one invisible outfit then, plus invisible accessories.

-----Original Message-----
From: Gail
To: JenniferSubject:
RE: Something Serious

Well that's just wacky talk!

----- Original Message -----
From: Jennifer
To: Gail
Subject: RE: Something Serious

Hey, if you can grant the exception of two super powers, why can't we tack on some special allowances? You're going to have to be able to wear your glasses, remember?


-----Original Message-----
From: Gail
To: Jennifer
Subject:
RE: Something Serious

I think that Jack would argue that x-ray vision comes with invisibility :) Besides that, if I had those super powers, I'd go ahead and spring for Lasik. I'll have to contemplate the special allowances concept--could be a slippery slope.

Original Message -----
From: Jennifer
To: Gail
Subject: RE: Something Serious

As if we're not already on a slippery slope!

A Serious Discussion

During dinner last night, Jack and I got into one of those age-old discussions about a subject that all married couples repeatedly have if they’ve been together for any length of time—what super power would you have if given the choice?

I know that in many families, only one super power is usually allowed, but bon vivants and free spirits that we are, we’ve always allowed two super powers per person. Now I must admit that I’ve faced some frustrations with this over the years, because I have remained steadfastly loyal to invisibility and teleportation. What could be wrong with those super powers? you might ask. (Or you might not ask.) Well, I’ll tell you Mr. or Ms. Not-thinking-it-through! The answer is simple: clothing and accessories.

You see, I want to use these powers to better the world, to spy on people who threaten our freedom and our country. I also want to listen to what people are saying about me behind my back and to do some cool party tricks. Also, I could get into many parties to which I wasn’t invited, so that I could actually do the cool party tricks. But here’s the problem. I think that a big part of the fun of being invisible is that one could suddenly become visible and freak people out. “Surprise! I heard what you just said about me!” However, you couldn’t do this with much enjoyment because you’d always have to be naked when you suddenly reappeared. Why? Because clothes and accessories (such as weapons) aren’t invisible. And who isn’t going to react if they see like a dress, a pair of shoes, and a couple of earrings walk into a room? There goes your espionage attempt right there. What if you just get invisible/naked and walk into a spy enclave to off a bunch of terror types? Well an AK-47 floating into the front door is going to tip them off, don’t you think? Industrial espionage for a person with these two powers might be the only fallback plan, but then you would have to have a good memory because you couldn’t record conversations, and there you are back in the boring corporate world again.

Why teleportation? At first glance, the casual observer might believe that as an invisible person, one could get on any subway, train, or airplane for free. But no! People are going to feel you, especially on public transportation. Hello, you’re invisible, not vaporized. I’ve never even heard of a super power called unfeelability. That sounds more like a bad date!

“What’s your super power?”

“Unfeelability!”

“Ewww.”

Sure, if you were a spy, you could ship your clothes to a hotel near your destination, teleport to the James Bond-like casino (invisible and in the nude) to listen to some information, then teleport back to your room to get clothes for say, when you want to see and be seen. But that scenario really cuts out the spontaneity of the whole invisible thing. As is probably transparent to you now, these factors are quite problematic when seriously contemplating a choice of super power.
In fact, our dinner discussion became a bit heated at one point, especially when Jack, who should never be trusted with the Monopoly bank and who hides puzzle pieces so he can put in the finishing piece of the jigsaw, tried to sneak in a third super power for himself. He, too, chose invisibility, but then attempted to claim that time travel came part-and-parcel with teleportation. No way Mistah! You have to watch that sneaky rascal.

(I think he may be a spy.)

The Night Shift

It’s 4:19 a.m. and I have completely given up on that elusive state-of-being once known as sleep. A number of factors are involved, but let me just say up front, never eat a piece of cheesecake right before going to bed. Jack and I have become much like the walking people pods of the night. Complete opposites: I’m the night owl; he’s the early-to-bed, early-to-rise guy, we sometimes wake up in rooms other than the ones in which we first attempted to slumber. A prodigious dreamer—it’s the only thing I’m prodigious at—I can sometimes return to R.E.M. by thinking about the dream I was having and going back in for the next chapter, but not tonight, mainly because of the cheesecake and the havoc it’s wreaking on my esophagus.

Many years ago, we purchased a pug puppy for my son’s ninth birthday gift. As we all rode home with the adorable little guy, Jack (who had never owned a small dog) began a recitation of we-will-nots. (Jack strives to take the edge off of anything resembling glee.) “We will not feed this dog scraps from the table; we will not put this dog in the bed with any human being!” and so on. You think I digress, but there is a point here. As soon as the little wriggly, pudgy pup that we aptly named Moses, made one pitiful peep from his basket, the Rulemeister sprang from the bed, picked him up and threw him out the door . . . just kidding. Jack picked him up, “What’s the matter little guy; yes him is lonely; yes him wants to sleep with his mommy and daddy.” Hence, the pug became the Rulemeister. We are today merely his malleable human sofas. He instructs us whether to sleep on our right sides or our left sides, depending on his preference, several times a night. On some occasions, he allows us to move our legs, but this is rare. In all positions, he snores and he snores loudly. He’s doing so now, in my bed. He is one of the non-sleep factors.

The old yeller lab, Max, is another. No longer able to make the leap onto my bed when Jack is out of town, he sleeps on a mass of cushions and blankets worthy of the Princess and the Pea. However, he tends to bark and run in his sleep, often crashing his feet against the wall or the bed table. At first, I thought we were having an earthquake, but now I just try to wait it out. When I arose tonight, Max hauled himself up for a nature call. As I stood waiting for him to return, I chewed on a few Tums. Then he came back and drank water for about three days. I turned down the air conditioner another notch but it didn’t click on. Back in bed, I realized that damn it Jack had my skinny pillow! I turn to the left to comply with Moses’ instructions. “What’s going on?” Jack asks. “A little bit of everything,” I answer. Most of the time, we try not to speak because it will bring us into another state of awareness called “Now I’m more awake!”

As I relax like a deer in the headlights, Jack gets up and walks toward the door. I know he’s checking the air conditioner. “Are you hot or are you cold?” I ask. “Hot,” he replies. He turns the air down a bit more and gets back in bed. “Do you have my pillow?” I ask. We switch pillows. It doesn’t do the trick. That’s it! I’m outta here. I’m sitting at the kitchen counter typing. Jack comes wandering in? “What are you doing?” he asks. “What are you doing?” I respond wittily. “Moses is driving me crazy,” he says as he pours some milk. I start chatting. Moses runs in from the bedroom. As I am mid-sentence, Jack heads toward the bedroom stating, “Stop talking! You’re making me more awake!” I pick Moses up: “Him is the cutest little puggy in the world. Him is mommy’s little Moses.”

Thoughts and Deeds

Television Commentary:

I have a very difficult time watching almost any regular non-fiction television program (with the exception of good comedy) because the fictional dialogue is so, uh, unbelievable. Therefore, I tend to ruin the program for other viewers, which doesn’t make me very popular. For example, I was walking through as Jack was watching an episode of CSI (Crime Scene Investigators). Two guys are standing over a dead body and one says: “Don’t worry; everything will be fine. All you have to do is get rid of the body.” Now those are two contradictory and highly improbable statements if I ever heard them. If you have to get rid of a body, EVER, nothing will be fine again. Period. And even to suggest such a thing is just plain silly.

As a night owl I’ve discovered some frightening but mesmerizing content in the reality genre, especially quite a few shows about morbidly obese people and people with giant fibroids or bizarre skin conditions. These shows are often accompanied by commercials for sleep number beds—but who needs one? Just listen to Lindsey Wagner, the product's spokesperson, for five seconds and you’ll fall into a deep and thankful coma. Then there’s that Hover-Round motorized wheelchair commercial with grinning geriatrics riding around in a circle to the Beach Boys’ tune “I Get Around.” Oh my eyes . . . and ears! I became depressed and angry all at once when watching this. Who asked those senior citizens to do such a thing and why, why would they comply? How were they coerced into such a disturbing act? It comes with a “free in-home test drive” by the way.

I’m still in disbelief that there is such a thing as a Pope Mobile.


Blank stares:

My son and I were (on a rare occasion) actually going on an errand together—to buy some things for his college apartment. Now for some reason, and I’m not trying to be insensitive, I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of Tourette’s Syndrome. It’s such a strange malady, but I can’t help but think of some renditions that might be advantageous on certain occasions, like Slapping Tourette’s—but you’d have to have the medical verification necklace to get the most out of it and in order to avoid a lot of bail. Anyway, as we rode along I shared this thought. “What if there were such a thing as Woosey Tourette’s where those people afflicted with the disease shouted out words and phrases like Fiddle-dee-dee, or Pardon My French? Would people think that it was as tragic as the regular Tourette's?” David remained silent, then asked if I was having a flashback of some kind.

David’s girlfriend was about to be a bridesmaid at a wedding. She was perplexed that her parents and those of the other bridesmaids had been invited to the rehearsal dinner. “I thought the groom’s family were invited and the bridal party, not just the groom and the bridal party’s families. “Maybe they’re dyslexic,” I suggested. “I wonder if the groom will say ‘Do I’ at the wedding.”

Jack, watching the news, remarked, “Can you believe that Dr. Kevorkian is out of prison already?” “At least we know he’s available,” I answered. No reply.

Jack and I had a big argument over his obvious insensitivity. Soon thereafter he went out and returned with a present for me--a book by Ann Rule, (an admitted guilty pleasure of mine, true crime). He must have known I was really ticked off! Oddly, the title is "Too Late to Say Goodbye." Hmmm.

Le Malade

So it’s been awhile. Life gets in the way of trivial pursuits, or is it the other way around? Jack fell on some steep stone steps, and thought nothing of it until his back went out the next day. In his typical fashion, he refused to seek medical attention until late Sunday afternoon when no convenient help was available, so I was wheeling around town trying to find a Doc-in-the-Box, or some such, for his relief.

After discovering many of those centers shut down for the day, I ran into a somewhat local hospital emergency room—a minimum of a six-hour wait, due to the fact that I’m a U. S. citizen with insurance. They gave me the address of another Doc-in-the-Box.

Geez, I’ve heard that a thrown-out back is excruciating, but I made less noise during forty hours of labor! However, the pain didn’t stop dear hubby from YELLING driving instructions at me. I was doing my best for smooth transitions, but he’s the type of driver who thinks it’s foolish to get in the far left lane for a left turn until you’re one foot from said turn. Then you should seamlessly zip across four lanes of traffic without jerking the wheel. I beg to differ.

“What seems to be the problem?” the receptionist asks.

“What does it look like to you? I can barely stand up!” Jack growls.

“Pulled his back out,” I tell her. She hands me the five million requisite forms and a bad pen. This is obviously global medical protocol, followed by the immediate destruction of your information upon completion, as they ask for the exact same data on every subsequent visit.

“You fill them out. I’m in too much pain,” Jack demands. I get to the yes/no box for mental disorders. I am SO tempted.

Three hours and several x-rays later, the Doc-in-the-Box (probably too frightened to re-enter the room) sends in a nurse to give Jack a shot for pain and some prescriptions. “That’s all you get to see," he says, slightly exposing an upper hip. “That’s all I want to see!” she counters.

The next day the poor man was off to France heavily armed with medication for a business trip that requires extreme technical skill. The airlines promptly lost his luggage.

Three days later he calls to tell me he finally got his luggage on the day before his scheduled return. The next day he calls and says he’s been called back to “the site” and is about to get on the plane. “What plane? Where are you?” I ask as his cell phone goes dead. The following day he calls to tell me that his luggage has been lost again. Just as well, air traffic along the entire Eastern seaboard was delayed for hours when an FCC computer shut down forcing air traffic controllers to go manual. This news was only aired once due to the much more important breaking news of Paris Hilton’s misadventures in and out of the hoosegaw.

Jack’s scheduled return—Thursday afternoon; his actual return—Saturday evening, and not in good condition. I had originally planned to go with him to France, but couldn’t get my passport in time. As he hobbled past me into the house, he said, “All I could think was thank God you weren’t with me.”

I decided to take that in a good way.