Bloodletting

I went to the doctor today because I was convinced
I was dying again and I wanted an official diagnosis.

See, last time I went ahead and diagnosed myself
with some fatal malady, after reading all the horror
stories online I could find, and I think this made my
D.O. mad. He had his secretary call me back with
the message, "the doctor will see you in the morning,
in the meantime "STAY OFF THE INTERNET!"

I don't know why it is, but whenever I get ill my mind starts whispering things
in my ear, like "This is it, Dave, you're history." and "Feel that ache, Dave? It's
probably terminal." And, it uses the voice of the evil computer in "2001: A Space
Odyssey;" hence the "Dave" stuff. I think it's some kind of mind game. But, it's
really mean.

Why is that? I don't attack my mind when it does something goofy like forgetting
where it put the car keys, or making itself up and then changing itself. I mean,
I speak my mind, for crying out loud. What more does it want?

So, I go to my appointment having written down all the things that are wrong
with me. I read it to the doctor and he listens and nods his head and types stuff
on his laptop, and his beeper goes off not once but TWICE during my consultation,
which really made me nervous, but I didn't say anything because I was trying to
get him to understand how sick I really was and it was hard to do that while
wondering just who was sending him secret messages on his beeper!

Anyway, it all ended with him telling me that I probably just have a "bug" and
that it'll go away in a few days, and that I need some happy pills and how he's
got free samples and I can try them out and see how it goes (he's my Tambourine
Man, I'm his Judy Garland), oh, and that I need to have a few blood tests.

Now, if there's one thing I know it's that I don't want to have blood drawn
WHEN I'M SICK! My blood really likes being right where it is - slugging it out
in my veins. It doesn't like to come out. Every time they try to get some, it
becomes an event worthy of the Olympics, with special marksmen, contortionists
and highdivers and lots of ooohs and ahhhhs from spectators.

Today, the first Olympian was a nice young girl who started apologizing right
away....and never stopped. She must have said, "I'm sorry" about thirty times...
and that was before she even did anything. I was doomed. She tried twice, each arm,
but could only manage one measly vial. She left the field in defeat and Nurse Diesel
came in to give it her best shot. She wasn't apologetic, but she didn't get any blood
either. So, after strapping, tapping, jabbing and fishing around with the needle,
they decided that the amount of blood in the first vial was enough for all the tests.

I was a good patient. I just put my head in my hand, scrunched my eyes shut
and tried to imagine a field of sunflowers wafting in a warm summer breeze.
I think they thought I'd passed out. They kept asking me if I was okay. I could
only make peep sounds in response.

But the funny thing is that after walking back outside (where The Man patiently
waited, discovering the joys of Conde Nast Traveller and Allure magazines), I
suddenly started feeling better. I felt stronger than I'd felt in days. By the time
we got to the car my nausea was gone and so was my headache.

Which made me think that maybe those medieval guys were on to something.
That a little bloodletting is an excellent physic.

Either that or I was just so happy to be out of there I experienced a spontaneous
healing.

That good ol' doctor of mine. He saved me again.
I think I should send him a beeper thank you message.

Nomenclature

L-Bird. She's my eternally-ten-year-old niece. In the last few years, she's graduated from high
school, gone to university, then on to medical school. She's now an award-winning D.O.ctor and if
I lived in the Denver area I would want only her to treat me, but she says she can't because I'm
family, which makes me really mad and is the reason I don't live in Denver.

However, I think that if L-Bird and I were shipwrecked on some island with like one palm tree
sticking up in the middle of it, and say I happened to find an old soggy piece of Oreo cookie stuck
to the bottom of my flip-flop and ate it without sharing, and then say it got lodged in my throat
and I started choking and turning blue and rolling around in the sand, well, I think L-Bird might
administer the Heimlich Maneuver. Although she'd probably sit on a coconut and think about it
for awhile, NOT about the ethical consequences of treating a family member...but about whether
or not she should save someone who would actually scarf up the last piece of Oreo and not give
her any.

L-Bird got married a couple of years ago and is now expecting her first baby. I don't know if she
and her husband,E-Man, have decided on a name but I spent the better part of my day
yesterday giving the matter serious thought.

I like naming things and I think it would be great fun to be the official "Namer" in my clan.
Family members with newborns would make a pilgrimage to my cave, bearing fruits, animal
skins and Oreos, and say "Oh Great Namer, we beg you to bestow a name on our child." I'd take
the baby, place it on a Quija Board-type thing, use his or her little pointed head as a planchette,
move it around and then say, "O hear me, my people. The child's name is....."YES."

"Oh, come on, Great Namer, that's a lousy name!" the crowd would cry.
"Do it again! Or we're taking back the Oreos!!" they'd threaten.
Geesh, okay, okay. Then I'd put the kid back on the Ouija Board, move it around the letters this
time and come back and announce, "O my people. The child's name is "FLARTMEERK."
"Hooray! Hooray!" the people would yell.

Yesterday I was dallying with the idea of what I would name my children; before I sent them off
to a lifetime of military academies and finishing schools, that is. (Just kidding.) Here are my Top
Four choices in reverse order, girl names first:

• Tabbouleh. I like the sound and it's what I had for lunch. Nickname: Tabby or Boo (and speaking of "Boo," any name from To Kill A Mockingbird, Atticus, Scout, Boo - those are all good names.)
• Diamond. Any of the precious gem stones are good, Opal, Pearl, Lapus Lazuli is especially good, or Topaz, the more precious the better. Nickname: Di or Sparkle.
• Sunday Gay. I had a friend once with this name and I think it's the happiest name in the world. Actually, any of the days of the week are good, with the exception of Thursday. But, it would be fun to say things like, "What day is it Wednesday, Friday?" and "Hey, I gotta date with Tuesday on Thursday!" and stuff like that.
• Buttercup. This is my all-time-most-favorite girl name. It's a name that fits any age, from Baby Buttercup to Gramma Buttercup, it always sounds sweet. (And, for those of you thinking, "Hey, that's the name of Dale Evans' horse!" Well, you must be really old is all I have to say!)

Now for the boy names:

• Firefly. I just like fireflies. They're magical. Plus, I think it'd really be neat to hang out with some guy named Firefly. Nickname: Fly or Glow Worm
  
• Horatio. It's an heroic name, a leader's name. It's strong. The kind of name you'd give a kid who would go out and slay dragons in the backyard, find secret pirate messages in his bowl of Alpha-Bits cereal, and win the Soap Box Derby with a car that fires cannons from the port side. Nickname: Ray or Rat, depending on my mood at the time.
  
• Aldous. I don't know how the Huxley family came up with this, but it's a winner. Nickname: None. You have to say it in it's entirety every time.
• Comet. I mean it, this name makes me want to run out, get pregnant and come home with a baby boy. I want to say things like, "Get your tail in here, Comet!" Nickname: Com, Halley
  

Okay, that's it. The Great Namer is tired and needs rest...a good long rest.

Not Talking

We were driving.
Actually, I was driving.
The Man was riding.

We were talking.
Er, I was talking.
He told me to "stop bitchin'."

I stopped alright.

After a few minutes he asked,
"Are you pouting now?"

At the moment he asked that, my pack mule and I
were about eight miles down the trail in Pout Canyon,
alone except for the turkey buzzards
circling above Relationship Valley

Without glancing in his direction, I calmly told my life's partner
"You know, I'm not going to talk anymore. Forever.
I've been thinking about stopping for several days.
Now seems like a good time.
These are the last words you'll hear come out of my mouth."

He paused while those words oozed into the thick part of his brain
Then he responded with a "Ha!"

So, I stopped talking.
And it wasn't easy.
I had to listen to him say things like, look at the coal in those train cars,
wow, that's a lotta coal, where's it going I wonder, etc. etc., all the while
knowing it WASN'T COAL, IT WAS IRON ORE!!!
But, I didn't say anything.
Let him think it's coal.
What difference does it make.

Meanwhile my compulsion to speak
was banging me on the head with a sledgehammer,
jumping up and down with steam coming out of its ears .
But I bravely ignored it with a sniff.

Then I had to ignore it again...and again...and again.

It was like lassoing and trying to break a wild mustang.
It was rearing, bucking and would have bit me if it could.
I needed a horse whisperer!

I was being beaten down by a relentless desire to utter.

I started thinking how I needed to alter my oath,
especially the "forever" part.
There would be times when I would have to speak.
Greeting people would be difficult, otherwise.
And what about answering the phone?

It turns out that "forever" is a relative thing.
Two hours was forever in this case.

But, I learned a lot.

All things in moderation...
Being non verbal is liberating.
Holding one's counsel is a path to peace.

Alls I'm sayin' is...

I like the sound of that phrase.
It flows.

Does "alls" take an apostrophe?
If you're shaking your head "yes" then I need to ask you why.
It's not possessive.
It's not a contraction.
But, I agree, it looks funny without one.

Back where I come from
they didn't use the "s" in alls.
and maybe in some highbrow places they say,
"All that I am saying is..." in nice, crisp, enunciated, poofy syllables.

It's an interesting phrase.
One that I take note of when I hear it
because I wonder why the person is saying it.

Why would someone need to say that they're saying something?
Isn't it enough to just say it?

Maybe I'm missing something.
Maybe saying "alls I'm sayin' is" is a good thing.
Maybe I need to hear an example.

Let's pretend The Man and I are lost on some dark, country, Dueling Banjos-type back road because The Man ignored my explicit instructions to turn left at an intersection about ten miles back and now we're forty-five minutes late for a dinner given in our honor at a friend's house and I've just looked up and noticed a strange configuration of pulsating lights in the sky hovering just above our car and suddenly the power has gone out and the car has died...
right there...in the dark...on that lonely stretch of Godforsaken road.

Okay, got the picture?

Now, following are two choices of dialog. You pick one in each case, A or B.
Mentally check off the comment you think is the better of the two:

Me:

A) "Alls I'm sayin' is you should'a turned left and we'd be there by now, Darlin'."

B) "WE ARE SO TOTALLY SCREWED!"

The Man:

A) Alls I'm sayin' is you should'a told me about that left turn BEFORE I got to it and not after we'd driven past it, Honey.

B) ARE YOU NUTS! WHY ON EARTH DID YOU ASK ME TO DRIVE? YOU KNOW I CAN'T SEE OR HEAR! IT'S A MIRACLE THEY RENEWED MY DRIVER'S LICENSE AND YOU LET ME GET BEHIND THE WHEEL???!!! AND NOW YOU'RE BLAMING ME?! HA! THAT'S A GOOD ONE!!!

Me:

A) Alls I'm sayin' is maybe one of these nice martian men with the cute little suction-cup fingers, staring in through the window could tell us how to get where we're goin' and we could just be on our way, Sugar.

B) OH MY GOD! WE'RE BEING ABDUCTED!! WE ARE SO DEAD!

Later, The Man sums it up by saying

"Well, Sheriff, alls I'm sayin is they told me they only had room for one more human."

Separated At Birth?

Squirrely

and

Squirrelier






They ate my nuts
then stole my heart,
but I swear to this day
I can't tell them apart.

Pink Shorts and Black Holes

I was walking out of our local grocery store the other day and
in front of me, leading the parade so to speak, was a woman
wearing a baggy, bright pink pair of shorts and matching shirt,
walking all hunched over her shopping cart.

But what really got my attention was the fact that
there must have been three yards of pink fabric
stuck up the crack of this woman's butt.

I mean, it was all just up there, stuck.
Her shorts looked normal in the front
(I looked as I passed her)
but the back, all of that pinkness,
was all sucked into her substantial crack.

It was disturbing to look at.

I started thinking about astronomy.
You know, black holes.
How, once inside, not even light can escape,
a bit of knowledge that has always bothered me.

So then I was consumed by the temptation to walk up behind her,
grab two handfulls of pink and yank!
I wanted to free that fabric from the black hole.

I didn't do it because at the last minute I noticed her husband,
walking next to her, but slightly behind,
which made me kinda mad because I thought,
"What kind of a man would let his wife go around with the
equivalent of a pink parachute stuck up her butt!"

So, I passed them by, looking at them as I went.
And, then suddenly I was gonked on the head
with the realization that this woman was a sister.
I'm talking about the "great" sisterhood,
the planetary sorority of women kind of sister.

This woman with the apparently numb butt
was my sister on the planet
and there I was looking at her
making this realization
and it all made my head spin.

Then I noticed the beautiful blue sky
the big, tumbly white clouds
and I could sense the spinning of the earth
which gave me the sensation that if I didn't
hold on tightly to my shopping cart
I would just float away.

So. How was YOUR day?!

Birdsong

Their song is the first thing I hear in the morning
and the last sound before I sleep at night.

Each day they hunt, guard and fight,
stopping to call to each other
and take respite in the shaded bird bath.

They are focused and relentless.
Their intensity never diminishes.

Human habitat doesn't frighten them,
so we have a nest in a rose that climbs our house.

The female built the nest that she sits upon.
The male feeds her and guards her.

On the day before the eggs hatched
I saw the two adult robins standing
side-by-side, touching, on the edge of the nest.
They looked down within,
then they looked up at each other
and made soft sounds.

The Virgin Mary and the Four Dwarfs

When I'm dead and sneaking through the Pearly Gates, after I ask St. Peter who really killed Jimmy Hoffa, I'm gonna ask him to pleeease explain the appeal of Yard Ornaments, in particular the cement goose with holiday outfits that you can actually purchase in stores and online. "Outfits for a cement goose, St. Peter! I don't understand!"

When I first moved here to O, I had never before seen a cement goose. The Man's aunt had one sitting on her front porch, dressed in a bonnet and apron, which signified I didn't know what, so I never commented on it until one rainy day we went over there for a visit and there was the goose dressed in bright yellow foul-weather gear...or was it "fowl" weather gear. I mean it was really obvious that someone had actually gone outside, looked at the sky, thought "hmmmm, looks like rain," went into the house to retrieve the goose clothing (from the goose closet, I assume), went back out and dressed the thing appropriately.

So, I asked about it. I said something along the lines of "Uh, your cement goose has costumes?" The answer I got revealed that this particular goose had a wardrobe more extensive than anything my Barbie doll ever dreamed of!

I guess the shock of that realization was what distracted me from grabbing Toto and leaving O altogether. Instead, I began to notice other peculiar ornamentation.

- The Kissing Dutch boy and Dutch girl;
- Teams of Clydesdale horses;
- The silhouette of an Amish man smoking a pipe;
- A deer (think Bambi's father) standing tall with full rack of antlers;
- The gazing ball, a huge Christmas ball sitting on a pedestal - which I have to admit I kinda liked until I realized how pointless they were because I never saw anyone actually gazing at one;
- Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs, which is a very popular choice. But, I mean it, when I see Snow White and only two or five dwarfs standing nearby, I get really bothered wondering where the "missing" dwarfs are. Did they get lost? Are they dead? What happened?

This afternoon as we drove home from the pool I noticed a grouping that indicated someone else shared my concern. There on the lawn, amongst some flowers stood The Virgin Mary and the Four Dwarfs.

I WANT TO LIVE NEXT DOOR TO THOSE PEOPLE!

(And, just so you know, we DO have a yard ornament of a sort. We have a blue rock. It's large and egg shaped and it wasn't always blue. It originally washed up on our neighbors shore along the lake and he gave it to The Man who brought it home. We stood it up in the front yard and prior to Halloween I painted it orange with a pumpkin face. All was well until one morning I woke up to discover a half-empty beer can sitting where our rock used to be. It was an absolute mystery until a police investigation revealed that during a party at our across-the-street neighbor's house, one of the drunken participants took our rock and threw the thing through the windshield of our neighbor's car. After the rock was fingerprinted and questioned, we were able to retrieve it and, happily, all charges were dropped. We took the thing, painted it blue and moved. It now sits in our backyard surrounded by a team of Clydesdales, the Virgin Mary and EIGHT dwarfs (two Dopey's!) - all reflected in a giant gazing ball, where, we hope, it has learned it's lesson and will not be tempted to commit any more crimes of passion.)

Lord of the Jungle

Meet my new swimming coach.

He yells and carries a big knife, but when it comes to swimming, he can really
shake 'em down.

Okay. Just kidding. Johnny Weissmuller is not really my coach.

But, if he were still alive, I'd hire him in a minute. He fulfills my requirements for the perfect coach:

1. The swimsuit. I mean, just the thought of having someone urge me on from poolside dressed in a V-shaped loincloth is enough to propel me to "v"ictory.

2. Likes to go after large alligators and wrestle with them underwater. This is a good thing. It's inspirational. When I swim, make my turn, and push off, I sometimes pretend that I am Tarzan going after that 'gator. I swim really fast and really strong. Realistically, I know I don't look like Tarzan, but I feel like him and that's what's important. I get totally carried away and it takes about five laps before it occurs to me there is no alligator in the pool...well, except for The Man.

3. Lives in a tree and travels by vine. This will save on per diem commuting costs.

4. A man of few word.

Tarzan: "UMGAWA! UMGAWA!"
Me: Look Coach, I don't understand what you're saying! You're not making any sense!"
Tarzan: "UMGAWA! It mean 'good,' 'up,' 'down,' 'stop,' 'go.' It also mean, 'you swim like fat rhino!' It all the word Tarzan need."

My Big Brother

This is my big brother, Tommy, the greatest trombone player Lomita ever produced.

I've been thinking about him almost non-stop these last few days because tomorrow's
his birthday.

It's not one of those "milestone" birthdays that people get all excited about. But,
when you think about it, EVERY birthday after fifty is pretty special.

I'm taking some time to think about my brother and honor his birth day.

First of all, selfishly speaking, I'm really happy he was born because if he hadn't been
I don't think my parents would've ever tried for that "second" boy so that they'd
have two girls and two boys, but then, of course, I popped out and...well...the rest is
fandangled history.

So, his birth was a definite benefit to my being me. However, I doubt that he feels
the same enthusiasm because I was the mother of all little sisters.

This photo was taken around the time I whacked him upside the head with the
ivory-handled end of a six-shooter cap gun. I was mad about something and bonking
him just behind the right ear made perfect sense in my four-year old brain. It was
so Wyatt Earpy.

I used to tell on him, too...a lot. I mean he couldn't take a breath without me running
off to "tell Mom!" I'm ashamed that I was ever such a stinking little obnoxious tattler,
Tommy, and I want to publicly apologize for all those years of irritation I caused you.

And, I want to thank you for never drowning me in Lance McNabb's pool. You could
have done it so easily during an intense game of "Marco Polo." No one would have
noticed. You could have committed the perfect crime, but you didn't.

And, thanks for saving my life that time we were in Arizona walking around some old
Indian ruin when a gigantic black snake went flying between the rocks and you
started to run, but Dad said, "get your sister," and you did.

And, thanks for letting me ride your "upside down" bike, the bike you welded together
all by yourself and was just about the coolest thing around.

And, I just want you to know that, in my heart, I'm celebrating your birthday
tomorrow in a huge arena in which the town of Tombstone, Arizona has been
reconstructed around gigantic buffet tables with ice sculptures representing
the Battle of The Alamo complete with a life-sized statue of John Wayne with
both guns a blazin', with thousands of brightly colored balloons falling from big
nets onto the heads of hundreds of party goers, including Sharon Stone, Al Pacino,
William Shatner and George Clooney (my personal escort for the evening), as we
listen to the New York Symphony orchestra accompany the Mormon Tabernacle
Choir, conducted by John Williams performing every song written for all the
western fifties television shows, including Have Gun Will Travel, Bronco,
Wanted: Dead or Alive, Sugar Foot, Lawman, Bat Masterson, and the show
stopper, Cheyenne.

Yee-haw!

Oh, and it's a surprise party. Don't tell anyone I told you, okay. Just show up
whenever you can. We are having a special reviewing stand built just for you,
right next to the corral where they've tied up Roy Roger's stuffed horse, Trigger.

See you there! At which time I will come running to give you the biggest birthday hug.
Don't worry, I'll come unarmed.

Happy Birthday!