Mystery Solved, But Will You Act?!

How many times have you (or someone you know) thrown a shoe at a fellow vehicle passenger, lost the shoe out the window, and left it behind on the road?

How often have you run across the street, blown a shoe and continued on your way half shod?

Have you ever, while carrying an extra pair of shoes, dropped one of the said shoes and chosen to simply not pick it up, or perhaps not notice? And if so, why were you carrying an extra pair of shoes? (That might not really be relevant to this particular query, but I would like to know.)

If the above scenario did happen, once the errant shoe was discovered absent, did you then decide not to retrace your steps to retrieve the lost foot covering?

Now, one last question: how many singular shoes have you seen either in or alongside the road throughout your life?

Why am I asking you these pointed questions and hopefully clarifying the improbability of stated scenarios? Because my friends, my family and I have pondered this bizarre mystery on many a road trip, and have come to the tragic conclusion that every such shoe marks the site of an alien abduction. Yes, I said it. Scoff if you will, or provide a better explanation . . . if you can!!

I try to put this horrific realty out of my mind most of the time, but today, there it was—another singular shoe in the middle of a main thoroughfare. "Abduction!" I yelled aloud. A last-ditch effort of the abductee to signal his/her exit, or a cruel calling card of a maniacal Martian? It’ a slap in the face of all Earthlings, yet we continue to turn a blind eye.

The only other explanation is that the aliens have but one foot, are only stealing footwear minus the wearer of same, and then discarding the unnecessary shoe; which would also solve the mystery of all those missing matches to my socks.

Humor's Hidden Side

Melancholy runs in my side of the family, though we express it in different ways. Apparently, I’m the only one that expresses it as melancholy, or in non-Southern terms, depression. You see, depression (at least in these regions) has historically been regarded as a sign of weakness and still is: past, present, and future. One gets more respect as a full-blown multiple personality or Boo Radley misfit than someone with the blues—unless you play an instrument such as the harmonica, which I don’t. Still, I do the best I can. In my late, great life I’ve recently decided to quit writing for fun.

Nevertheless, as I recently shared with Cousin Di, my son’s sociology professor just penned on his paper that she deemed him her most intriguing student. This unusually effusive compliment was regarding his response to several questions, one of which was, “How do you expect the world to end?” His answer: “In a ridiculously avoidable manner.”

These are the types of funny takes tinged with hopelessness that have traversed my tiny brain since I can remember, and when seeing them expressed so humorously by my son, they conjure up torturous thoughts regarding nurture versus nature. To this day, David and I share the same nights of convoluted and sometimes beautiful nightmares/dreams that we share the following morning. Did I somehow curse him with my persona or uncontrollably damn him with my downer genes? It would be great if I could rely on the latter, wouldn’t it? Because after all, who can control a dysfunctional gene pool? That way, I can just keep dog paddling without claiming that I’m swimming.

Just the other day, when David was home for the weekend, I asked him for the time. He said, “It’s time for you to just shut up!” We both laughed. Humor is an odd thing. For me, it’s a means of survival. However, in the most horrible circumstances, I have used it in a macabre way—most of the time (at least now that I’ve learned better) internally. I think it’s a mechanism for those of us who can be hurt to the core by people who don’t understand how easy it is to hurt people to the core.

That’s why for now I've going to keep on blathering about my inconsequential adventures in hopes that others will realize we’re all out there—laughing whenever possible while we just tread water.

Turkeys Cry Too a.k.a. "I'm baaack."

Remember that movie “Broadcast News” where Holly Hunter endures a crying breakdown prior to every newscast, then emerges as a tough, hard-shelled broad? That’s what I do, but on a bi-annual (and at times tri-annual) basis. I had one of my semi-annual meltdowns last night—I cry, rant, and express all of the horrible fears that I squish into my nightmares during a year’s time. Then I feel guilty and remorseful for being human.

For the most part, these episoodies occur in private, although I must admit that Jack bears the brunt of such unexpected manifestations. You see, I pride myself on keeping it together, because as I remember it, outward expressions of negative emotions were strongly discouraged in my family. Oddly enough, humor can always be a safer, passive-aggressive (or even aggressively acceptable outlet) than truly expressed feelings. That’s the option I’ve chosen (often to my detriment) over time. Friend Jill said, “You always think of the perfect zinger right on the spot, but I only think of them later.”

I thanked her for the compliment, but reminded her that thinking of the zinger and then immediately expressing it has been the downfall of my personal and professional career. For example, I once grabbed the necktie of my hyperactively obnoxious boss at the conservative company of Kimberly-Clark, jerked him forward nose-to-nose, and hissed that if he would just shut up, I could correct the multiple mistakes he had made and was attempting to blame on me. Oddly, he staggered down the hall and never mentioned the event again. (Although, I did hear him squeak to a fellow manager, "She tried to kill me.") Yet, I was never promoted. Oddly. Now I focus on trying to keep my clever rejoinders inside of my toady brain. Sometimes I win; sometimes I don't.

In any case, I usually have the meltdown alone, wipe away my tears, buck-up and move on, but it takes a few hours of recovery. However, if someone haplessly wanders into the 24-hour recovery period, strange things might happen. As luck would have it, mom and older sister, Lynn, called amidst the event. My sister was a bit taken aback when I explained that I was in no place to hear about her current dilemmas, but she surprisingly called me back the next day and remarked that I sounded better, before asking my advice about which pies to bring for Thanksgiving. “Well I’ve brushed myself off and I’m starting all over again, as usual,” I said. That seemed to be enough of an explanation. We keep-it-all-inside people don’t get a lotta press or air time.

So I have been to the abyss and have slowly floated back to the top for a short while, before I get tired of treading the murky waters again, ask “why botha?” and instantly sink like a stone. I’m looking on the bright side; I had the meltdown before the Thanksgiving family gathering. Now that’s something to be thankful for!

Memory Medicine

We all have those déjà vu moments that bring back a flood of memories, and I recently had one myself. For the past month or so, every time I talked to son David on the phone, his every few words were interrupted with a dry cough. Of course, whenever I mentioned it, he got defensive. “I’m fine Mom! Geez!” he replied in typical macho guy fashion. Then he’d explain that he felt great, was working out, and running regularly. Still, the next time we talked, that dry cough continued. A veteran of many bouts of bronchial pneumonia since I was two years old, I happen to know that a persistent, dry cough can be a dangerous implication, so when I spoke to him again and still heard the cough, I insisted that he go to the doctor.

I was pleasantly surprised when he showed up at the door this afternoon explaining that he was starting a new job next week that included weekend work, so he thought he’d come home for the weekend as it might be a while before he had the chance again. Then he told me that, thankfully, he’d made an appointment at a nearby medical center. He was gone for a while, and then called me to say that he was on his way to see his girlfriend who had returned with him. That’s when he reluctantly told me that he had a sinus infection and that the doctor had also done a chest x-ray and was admittedly a bit shocked that he had bronchitis as well. Feeling as well as he did was a testament to his good physical shape, but as I told him, he could have been quickly laid out for months (or worse) if he hadn’t attended to the problem.

Anyway, David said that he would pick up his prescriptions on his way home, and, after all, he is a grown man, as much as I hate to admit it. But did he pick up his medications including cough medicine? Nooo. “I’ll get it tomorrow,” he said as he headed for his old bedroom, hacking as he proceeded.

“Wait, I have some over-the-counter stuff,” I persisted (to his exasperation). “At least take one teaspoon so you’ll sleep better.”

I headed down the hall toward him with bottle and spoon in hand when it all came back to me.

When he was little, I’d pour his liquid medicine into a shot glass and in my worst John Wayne impression would say, “I don’t know pahdnah. This is some strong liquid. Why I’ve seen some of the toughest cowboys in the West fall flat over after drinkin’ this stuff.”

He’d always rise to the challenge saying in that little duck voice that kids have, “Give it to me Mistah. I can take it!”

“I’m worried,” I’d reply. “This stuff is stronger than rattlesnake venom or a poisoned arrow.”

At that point, the little guy would grab it, down it, and grin at me triumphantly.

I would respond with some version of “Why, I can’t believe you’re still standin'! You must be the toughest hombre in the whole Wild West.”

He’d smile, laugh with delight, and walk off.

As he stood there in the hall looking at me with frustration, I poured a spoonful and said, “I don’t know cowboy, this stuff is pretty stiff.”

“I can’t believe I used to fall for that Mama propaganda,” he said, downing the spoonful of syrup. Then he gave me a big grin and sauntered into his room to bunk down.

Tidbits from a Failing Mind

(Observation)--I just watched a commercial in which a woman with bladder control problems discusses her embarassment with that little icon of a woman in a dress that they put on bathroom doors. She doesn't want her friends to know that she has to pee so often, but shouldn't she be more worried about the fact that she is obviously hallucinating?


(Conversation)--I asked David for some gift ideas for Christmas. "I'd like a St. Jude medal," he says.

"You mean a St. Christopher's?" I ask.

"No, a St. Jude's. He's the patron saint of lost causes."

"Isn't that somewhat self-defeating?"

"Perhaps." (Later he asked if I remembered to put the medal on his Christmas list. "You mean the loser medal?" I asked. He began to choke me.)

(A story dedicated to Jerry)--My sister who lives in the North Georgia Mountains told me a horrific Halloween tale of a local Baptist church. Their alternative to the satanic goings-on of the sinful holiday in which children play dress-up and eat candy was a walk-through play called (ironically) "The Judgment." If that's not frightening enough, the plot is about a kid who was tortured by bullies at school and ultimately killed them. The ending scene is the kid burning in hell for eternity.

"What happened to the bullies?" I ask.

"I guess they went to heaven," my sister answers. Then she tells me that she was taking her sons and a friend named Calvin to the town Halloween celebration. She asked if they wanted to go to the haunted house there. "I've already been to that and it's not that good," said Calvin. "If you really want to be afraid, go to 'The Judgment.' That scared the pee out of me!"

And we've come full circle.

The New Book Disease--Literally

I just heard about a new malady that none of us would have suspected—popcorn lung. Apparently, a significant number of employees in factories that produce microwave popcorn are suffering from symptoms of being able to inhale, but having difficulty exhaling. Obviously, both functions are necessary for the process of what we technically call “breathing.” Once, on a beach vacation I came down with a sudden case of severe bronchitis. Jack went to a nearby pharmacist who recommended an over-the-counter drug that disabled me from exhaling air properly. Fortunately I wasn’t inhaling the proper amount of air either. According to another pharmacist, consulted after my less than satisfactory reaction, I could have died because the medication was for asthma, not bronchitis. Anyway, the feeling was horrifying, to say the least, and I think worse because I was at the beach on VACATION.

Researchers pinpointed the problem of popcorn lung when a man with manifest symptoms revealed that he had eaten one to two bags of microwave popcorn per day for the past ten years. However, here’s the hitch: when he opened the bag, he allowed himself the innocent pleasure of sticking his nose in the bag, inhaling deeply, and saying, “Wow, that smells great!” Apparently the permanent damage to this man’s (and the factory workers’) bronchial tubes occurred due to intake of a chemical that makes the corn pop evenly. It’s the long-term inhalation that does the trick, but it made me think about how every once in a while I like to slightly burn a bag of the stuff and the stink floats around for a few days. So don’t stick your nose in the bag and don’t have it that often.

Then I started wondering about other seemingly innocuous habits of mine. I mean I have some habits that are blatantly bad for me, but I’ve been smelling books with a full -nose plunge into the bindings since I figured out the difference between cover and pages at approximately the age of four. In fact, I just received a new dictionary from Amazon today and the first thing I did was open it up, stick my face in the pages, and sniff. That scent of new ink and paper (coated or uncoated stock provide different highs) sends a chill through me. Comic books smell wonderful (especially the old ones); the newspaper exudes its own scent, and magazines (with the exception of those obnoxious perfume samples) can be intoxicating. The smell of the old "Reader's Digest, " for example, has retained its homey aroma somehow for decades. If I get a new novel, the first thing I do is breathe deeply the gathering tome. Up to now, I thought it was one pleasure that I shouldn’t worry about, but who knows? Can't anything be okay for God's sake?! "Everything gives you cancer; There's no cure, there's no answer." (That was a song on Atlanta's old Jazz Flavours radio station.)

Possible symptoms for such wordy snortings might include any of the following:

An inability to exhale coherent sentences
A tendency to physically assault others’ reading material with one’s face
A black (or comically colored) nose
Broken and/or abused book backs
Difficulty reading due to too close contact with the page
Ink addiction

I just got a new dictionary, because I realized that my edition was ten-plus years old and that the word "lifestyle" was still listed as two words. This new dictionary has moved on and made it into one word. I’ve already smelled my new dictionary twice. Am I a print-a-holic, a paper addict, or both? Can I sue the forestry foundation or the publications industry? I don’t know where to turn, but I do know that I don’t want to be the first case of Webster’s Lung. I guess I should pursue a healthier "lifestyle."

"Inhale my new dictionary," I said to Jack, pushing it into his nostrils.

"Hmm. Smells like new words," he said.

Junkies love company.