My cousin emailed me recently pondering the question of getting a pet. He’s thinking about a kitten, but wondered if you were supposed to bath them as a recent “joke” collage of cat bathing photos made him rethink cats as a pet. He thought they looked pretty traumatized by the whole bathing routine and wondered if there was a better way to keep them clean...like steam-cleaning or vacuuming. He makes me laugh.
I told him that steam-cleaning or vacuuming was probably adverse to their little kitty brains and they would most likely, in a diabolical kitty way, find amusing (for them) and subversive ways to get back at you.
I started thinking about the right pet for him, as I like to be very helpful to my relatives, and since he lives in a condo, the size and nature of the pet is important.
He needs a small pet of some sort, but nothing in the rat/hamster genus. Those animals are probably too small of a creature and would easily get lost…probably to the neighbors’ dismay when they found his pet inside their clothing bin.
No birds. They tweeter and screech making it impossible to take short or long naps. I can attest to the screeching part as I had a parrot one time. He adjusted the volume of his screeching to the volume of his surroundings. The volume on our stereo equipment could not go high enough to out blast him. He also liked to greet the morning with high-pitched screams and squawks. Apparently in birdie time, 4:30 AM is “rise and blab” time. And they are very…very messy in a stinky sort of way. They also make your husband consider divorcing you unless you rid yourself of the green monster. It's a very bad memory for me.
Snakes are downright slithery and not meant for pets…no matter what snake lovers say. Same goes for any knarly-skinned animals such as an iguana or any other lizard. No good for a pet. You never know what they’re thinking. They always have the same look on their face whether they are debating biting you, or wondering what happened to Mazie…their previous friend in the tank. How can you trust a pet that doesn’t have discernable expressions for various thoughts?
Fish are just boring. Although you can go to sleep watching fish swim around in aimless paths across the tank, which is probably good for your blood pressure. But what are they looking for? Surely they’ve noticed there is never anything new in the tank. Or anywhere else to go. Fish are good for putting you to sleep, but no good for petting. It’s hard to get into a fish and feel any love. They just don’t last that long. Sort of toilet-bound animals.
Pigs, although very smart, are too snout-y. I don’t want my pet rummaging around my house for things. It would make me feel like I wasn’t a very good house keeper as the pig would continually find bits of things to eat on the ground. And they look like farmyard animals. Would your friends talk behind your back about your pig-sty of a house?
Ferrets look like a cross between a rat and a slinky. And they steal your things, which make them the criminal element of the animal world. I don’t want to support that behavior in my house. There are prisons full of people like that.
I guess in the final analysis, a kitty that you don’t have to bath is the right pet for my cousin.
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Monday, July 30, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
War Tales of Buying a Car
When you think about going to a car dealer to buy a new or used car, do you:
a. Smile and get a head rush thinking about the delightful day you will spend in the company of a car salesman, or
b. Go back to bed and figure out how to squeeze another 200,000 miles out of your car that was rear ended and looks pretty disfigured and has a serious oil leak to boot?
My husband has a great aversion to car salesmen. If you’ve ever seen Cesar Millan, “The Dog Whisperer”, on the National Geographic channel, you will know that Cesar has rules for meeting new dogs: no eye contact, no talking, no touching. That pretty much sums up how my husband deals with car salesmen. Oh, and he walks 2 paces behind me, thereby cleverly making me the front man. Me, I have no aversion issues.
Several years ago, I thought I might like a minivan. I expressed a serious interest in one of the cars and asked to test drive it. The salesman happily (noting the serious intent on my face and seeing commission dollars in his head) took my husband’s license so we could take the vehicle out for a spin. It was a nice car, but after some discussion (out of earshot of the salesman), we decided to save our money and give it some thought. After all, buying a car is a very large investment. Not that long ago, I could have bought a house with the same amount of money. And the house wouldn’t develop engine problems within a few years.
At this dealership, once you took a test drive, their belief was that you now committed yourself to buying the car. The salesman looked peeved and said we couldn’t leave until we spoke to the sales manager.
I could feel an ugly situation brewing. Perhaps it was the electrical charge that was emanating off my husband. I wanted to give the unsuspecting salesman a heads up on the whole “you can’t” thing when it comes to my husband.
The sales manager came out, berated the salesman for not doing a good enough job so HE would now take over. Yes, it was getting ugly. And then the fool said the immortal sentence while actually looking at my husband. “You indicated to my salesman that you were interested in this car. You took a test drive in it. You cannot waste his time and not buy the vehicle.”
My husband asked for his license back. He asked in that low voice which I have only heard a few times when he has been really angry. Now lest you think my husband has anger management issues, I assure you he is a very mild mannered, easy going sort of guy. He has to be. He lives with me, and I suck up all the energy in the household. In a fun, inspirational sort of way.
Anyway, I took a quick glance at my husband’s face. Uh oh. In addition to the low, measured tones, he was looking at the sales manager directly in the eye and not really blinking all that much. In the manly world, that would be called “squaring off”.
The sales manager didn’t catch the nuance of how serious a situation this was becoming, as he said “No,” to the request for the driver’s license. Wow, I thought to myself. I’m in the middle of a rumble if this idiot doesn’t back down. Surely he doesn’t think he’s going to intimidate us into buying a car at this point!
I’ve seen a lot of sales tactics, but this one took the prize. I suppose he thinks his rude and scary method was a great way to get a sale. It still boggles my mind. My husband, now with jaw clenched, said in a very firm and “you’re about to go down dude” sort of voice, that he wanted his license NOW, or he would call the police and they would get it for him. That did the trick. The license flew into his hands. We flew out of the car lot.
That’s my worst story. My best story is just a few days ago when we visited Dublin Honda, here in California. I was rear ended by a young girl on a cell phone last September. Love those cell phones. It was time to get our second car. I suggested to my husband that we go take some test drives and just get a feel for what we (I) might want to drive. His face took on the pale glimmer of past memories with car dealers.
We went to the car lot, with my husband walking a few paces behind me, and instead of the typical speed of a salesman who normally is waiting to grab you as you climb out of your car, we actually had time to look in the window of a few cars before the sales guy appeared. I test drove several cars, asked lots of questions, asked about comparisons to models from another manufacturer, and the salesman suggested I go test drive the other cars to see what I thought. I was agog. My husband wasn’t saying anything. I think he was thrown by this atypical sales experience. And he was holding onto his driver’s license….just in case.
Needless to say, we bought a car from them, and because it was such a nice experience, I’ll give them a plug. Go to Dublin Honda on Scarlett Court in Dublin and ask for Berry Pries. He won’t steal your driver’s license and he’s very friendly. My husband actually had a conversation with him…without using that freaky “you’re in deep, deep trouble” voice.
a. Smile and get a head rush thinking about the delightful day you will spend in the company of a car salesman, or
b. Go back to bed and figure out how to squeeze another 200,000 miles out of your car that was rear ended and looks pretty disfigured and has a serious oil leak to boot?
My husband has a great aversion to car salesmen. If you’ve ever seen Cesar Millan, “The Dog Whisperer”, on the National Geographic channel, you will know that Cesar has rules for meeting new dogs: no eye contact, no talking, no touching. That pretty much sums up how my husband deals with car salesmen. Oh, and he walks 2 paces behind me, thereby cleverly making me the front man. Me, I have no aversion issues.
Several years ago, I thought I might like a minivan. I expressed a serious interest in one of the cars and asked to test drive it. The salesman happily (noting the serious intent on my face and seeing commission dollars in his head) took my husband’s license so we could take the vehicle out for a spin. It was a nice car, but after some discussion (out of earshot of the salesman), we decided to save our money and give it some thought. After all, buying a car is a very large investment. Not that long ago, I could have bought a house with the same amount of money. And the house wouldn’t develop engine problems within a few years.
At this dealership, once you took a test drive, their belief was that you now committed yourself to buying the car. The salesman looked peeved and said we couldn’t leave until we spoke to the sales manager.
I could feel an ugly situation brewing. Perhaps it was the electrical charge that was emanating off my husband. I wanted to give the unsuspecting salesman a heads up on the whole “you can’t” thing when it comes to my husband.
The sales manager came out, berated the salesman for not doing a good enough job so HE would now take over. Yes, it was getting ugly. And then the fool said the immortal sentence while actually looking at my husband. “You indicated to my salesman that you were interested in this car. You took a test drive in it. You cannot waste his time and not buy the vehicle.”
My husband asked for his license back. He asked in that low voice which I have only heard a few times when he has been really angry. Now lest you think my husband has anger management issues, I assure you he is a very mild mannered, easy going sort of guy. He has to be. He lives with me, and I suck up all the energy in the household. In a fun, inspirational sort of way.
Anyway, I took a quick glance at my husband’s face. Uh oh. In addition to the low, measured tones, he was looking at the sales manager directly in the eye and not really blinking all that much. In the manly world, that would be called “squaring off”.
The sales manager didn’t catch the nuance of how serious a situation this was becoming, as he said “No,” to the request for the driver’s license. Wow, I thought to myself. I’m in the middle of a rumble if this idiot doesn’t back down. Surely he doesn’t think he’s going to intimidate us into buying a car at this point!
I’ve seen a lot of sales tactics, but this one took the prize. I suppose he thinks his rude and scary method was a great way to get a sale. It still boggles my mind. My husband, now with jaw clenched, said in a very firm and “you’re about to go down dude” sort of voice, that he wanted his license NOW, or he would call the police and they would get it for him. That did the trick. The license flew into his hands. We flew out of the car lot.
That’s my worst story. My best story is just a few days ago when we visited Dublin Honda, here in California. I was rear ended by a young girl on a cell phone last September. Love those cell phones. It was time to get our second car. I suggested to my husband that we go take some test drives and just get a feel for what we (I) might want to drive. His face took on the pale glimmer of past memories with car dealers.
We went to the car lot, with my husband walking a few paces behind me, and instead of the typical speed of a salesman who normally is waiting to grab you as you climb out of your car, we actually had time to look in the window of a few cars before the sales guy appeared. I test drove several cars, asked lots of questions, asked about comparisons to models from another manufacturer, and the salesman suggested I go test drive the other cars to see what I thought. I was agog. My husband wasn’t saying anything. I think he was thrown by this atypical sales experience. And he was holding onto his driver’s license….just in case.
Needless to say, we bought a car from them, and because it was such a nice experience, I’ll give them a plug. Go to Dublin Honda on Scarlett Court in Dublin and ask for Berry Pries. He won’t steal your driver’s license and he’s very friendly. My husband actually had a conversation with him…without using that freaky “you’re in deep, deep trouble” voice.
Friday, July 13, 2007
A Doctor With His Tail On Fire and Crack for Allergy Sufferers
Have you ever seen a doctor move like his “tail was on fire”? I’ve only seen it in the movies or on TV before Monday. To watch it in person is a thing of beauty. When it’s caused by your reaction to his procedure, it’s downright thrilling…in a scary “Oh shit, am I in some medical jeopardy here?”
I went in for allergy tests on Monday, hoping the doctor could find the root cause for my ever-increasing migraine headaches, which he assured me were actually sinus headaches caused by allergies. Well, they sure felt like migraines.
He stressed that should I feel any reaction to the drops of pollen he was putting on my arm, I should immediately (he emphasized that word) tell him. He started on my right arm with drops of tree pollens. Drops mind you. Not injections of anything. He started up my left arm with drops of grasses. Toward the end (we’re talking a minute or two of time here) I started feeling the onset of a fainting spell. Not being shy, and always complying with a doctor’s instructions, I mentioned that fact to the doctor.
Woo-wee. That man ran out of the office like his tail was on fire and I think his shoes burned rubber on the linoleum. I got the feeling that my lightheaded reaction is not good or typical. Should I be worried before I keel over?
He wooshes back into the office and gives me a shot of Epinephrine. I’ve only heard that name on TV shows as the paramedic is yelling to someone to give the unresponsive victim a shot. Oh boy. I can’t wait to tell my family. This should garner me some serious pampering from my husband. By the way, Epinephrine, I have come to find out, is used to treat life-threatening allergic reactions. Life threatening? The doctor plunks an oxygen mask over my face. He looks very concerned. ..in an emergency room sort of way. He hovers. Keeps looking at me. Says I should be okay within 20 minutes.
After 2 more shots, a slug of anti-histamine, some prednisone pills and 2 hours later…I’m feeling lots better! He said, I’m “uber” (my word…I’m into modern stupid words) allergic to some trees and grasses. Ya think? I guess he doesn’t see that sort of reaction very often. It’s pretty fun to scare the doctor…and live to tell about it.
I drive home contemplating the degree of pathetic-ness I should display to get treated with the care and concern I deserve.
My husband hovers around me, thankful to have a breathing wife after my story. I hardly embellished it at all. He made dinner and kept a watchful eye on me for the evening.
On Tuesday, I picked up some pills the doctor suggested I start taking for a decongestant. I didn’t read the handy little paper the pharmacy gives you that lists possible side effects. My Mom, the ex-nurse, would have my hide if she knew that. Mom doesn’t believe in willy-nilly taking pills and is suspicious of anything new a doctor might prescribe. She’s no patsy for the pill-pushing medical field. I bow to her superiority. And she’s 89, so she must be doing something right!
An hour after I take these colorful (orange and green) horse pills, I have the onset of very strange feelings. My heart is skipping beats and then beating a little faster than it normally does and I have some twitchy urge to get up and start walking in circles around the living room. In a speedy sort of way. Oh my. This just can’t be good.
So NOW I read the possible side effects of these lovely pills, which include: “nervousness, dizziness, light headedness, trouble sleeping, nausea, vomiting, fast heartbeat, loss of appetite, or headache. This product may reduce blood flow to your hands and feet, causing them to feel cold. Dress warmly. Chest pain, seizures, mental/mood changes (e.g., anxiety, panic, hallucinations). A very serious allergic reaction may include: rash, itching, swelling, severe dizziness, trouble breathing. If they continue or are bothersome, check with your doctor.”
Yes. These side effects are sure bothersome I have to say, because now I’m considering walking across the State of California. I don’t see any reason why I can’t.
And have you noticed, that as soon as you read the words “rash, itching” … you have to scratch your head or your arms? I quickly look in the mirror and discover that a small part of the left hand side of my face looks swollen to me. I think it looks swollen. Was it always that way? Oh why haven’t I looked at my face more often? I ask my husband if I look swollen. He doesn’t think so. What does he know? But maybe I’m just hallucinating it. My mental/mood changes.
I went to bed. I can’t face my itchy swelling face anymore, even though I’m still contemplating a long walk. Maybe to see my relatives in Illinois.
At 1AM when my husband comes to bed, and I’m still awake. I told him I think I now have restless leg syndrome as my legs are either in a dancing mood with/without the rest of my body or are nervous from all the potential swelling itchy reactions I may/may not have. Either way, the whole event is getting on my nerves. Oh crap. Yet another reaction.
I suggest that I might feel better if I switched sides with him in bed, which I do. My legs are still thumping out a beat all their own…sans music. His side of the bed isn’t any better than mine. Maybe he’d like to discuss it.
Maybe not.
“Wanna go for a walk?” I suggest, knowing he doesn’t realize how far I have in mind. “No,” he says in a sleepy I’m-not-getting-out-of-bed sort of way.
So I get up and find the only one who is always willing to listen and walk with me. The dog. He’s my only friend in the world. He won’t judge my hideous swollen, itchy, twitchy limbs, which fortunately, after checking the mirror again, don’t actually seem swollen or itchy. Just a sad hallucination I guess.
I clicked on the TV. Half the channels are out. Maybe if I walked to the cable company I could complain in person.
I finally went back to bed at 4AM and had to get up at 6AM for work.
And it’s my birthday.
At about 9AM, I have the start of a new and not-so-improved reaction. Apparently when coming “down” from this little pill, your mood swings to new lows. Depression set in. “It’s my birthday and who cares anyway. I didn’t even get flowers this morning from that pig of a husband that I’ve spent the last 20 years with slaving over a hot stove and making his life lovely and filled with happiness. Does he care? No. Not one freaking rose bud for my birthday. And he KNOWS how I like flowers.”
Oh boy. When I’m on a slide going down…I’m going to wipe out my husband first.
This must be what it’s like to be on crack … only for allergy sufferers and then mix it with a big dose of PMS and full blown menopause moodiness. Makes your blood chill just thinking of that combination.
Don’t they put people in jail for using drugs like this? There I’ll be, garbed in an unbecoming orange jumpsuit, eating high-calorie carbohydrate food out of Styrofoam containers and contemplating where I went wrong in life. I’ll befriend a woman named Big Bertha and we’ll both blame my husband for every second I’m behind bars. If he’d just given me one lousy posy, I wouldn’t be behind those cold bars of justice. Oh yeah. I’m taking that man out when I get home.
Long conversations abound in my head as I’m on the way to the dentist that morning. Oh sure. Depression, a birthday, and a visit to the dentist. I wouldn’t have teeth problems if my husband were a nicer guy.
I got back to work and there to my surprised eyes was the most beautiful bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen. My husband was given a short reprieve.
This uber fun mood lasted all day and into the evening when my husband and son took me to dinner. Ah yes, dinner. We were escorted to the one table which all waiters thought belonged to someone other than them. We waited 15 minutes for service at which point I hailed down a waitress and indicated we were STILL waiting (with that cool look of a woman who has just had a lot of allergy-crack medicine in her bloodstream and will not under any circumstances brook excuses from a waiter person). My husband and son were quiet. They know better than to open their mouths when I’m this far over the wall.
She said they were short one waiter. Really? And I care because…
She assured us she would get our waiter. Tick tick tick. My crack head is not happy.
10 minutes go by. I suggest to her she find him immediately. Tick tick tick. I look at my watch and decide that 5 more minutes should do it before I and my family depart the establishment.
I hailed her down again. Note that my husband and son are not hailing anyone. They sat in limp fear at the sight of my eyes shooting sparks in my anger-swollen face. I don’t know. I didn’t have a mirror, but I think that’s probably how I looked. Just don’t cross Momma when she looks like that.
We finally got served. I went home and slept off the last of the effects and woke up Thursday feeling myself once again.
As a recovering crack-allergy person, I’d like to say that it’s good to be back to normal.
I went in for allergy tests on Monday, hoping the doctor could find the root cause for my ever-increasing migraine headaches, which he assured me were actually sinus headaches caused by allergies. Well, they sure felt like migraines.
He stressed that should I feel any reaction to the drops of pollen he was putting on my arm, I should immediately (he emphasized that word) tell him. He started on my right arm with drops of tree pollens. Drops mind you. Not injections of anything. He started up my left arm with drops of grasses. Toward the end (we’re talking a minute or two of time here) I started feeling the onset of a fainting spell. Not being shy, and always complying with a doctor’s instructions, I mentioned that fact to the doctor.
Woo-wee. That man ran out of the office like his tail was on fire and I think his shoes burned rubber on the linoleum. I got the feeling that my lightheaded reaction is not good or typical. Should I be worried before I keel over?
He wooshes back into the office and gives me a shot of Epinephrine. I’ve only heard that name on TV shows as the paramedic is yelling to someone to give the unresponsive victim a shot. Oh boy. I can’t wait to tell my family. This should garner me some serious pampering from my husband. By the way, Epinephrine, I have come to find out, is used to treat life-threatening allergic reactions. Life threatening? The doctor plunks an oxygen mask over my face. He looks very concerned. ..in an emergency room sort of way. He hovers. Keeps looking at me. Says I should be okay within 20 minutes.
After 2 more shots, a slug of anti-histamine, some prednisone pills and 2 hours later…I’m feeling lots better! He said, I’m “uber” (my word…I’m into modern stupid words) allergic to some trees and grasses. Ya think? I guess he doesn’t see that sort of reaction very often. It’s pretty fun to scare the doctor…and live to tell about it.
I drive home contemplating the degree of pathetic-ness I should display to get treated with the care and concern I deserve.
My husband hovers around me, thankful to have a breathing wife after my story. I hardly embellished it at all. He made dinner and kept a watchful eye on me for the evening.
On Tuesday, I picked up some pills the doctor suggested I start taking for a decongestant. I didn’t read the handy little paper the pharmacy gives you that lists possible side effects. My Mom, the ex-nurse, would have my hide if she knew that. Mom doesn’t believe in willy-nilly taking pills and is suspicious of anything new a doctor might prescribe. She’s no patsy for the pill-pushing medical field. I bow to her superiority. And she’s 89, so she must be doing something right!
An hour after I take these colorful (orange and green) horse pills, I have the onset of very strange feelings. My heart is skipping beats and then beating a little faster than it normally does and I have some twitchy urge to get up and start walking in circles around the living room. In a speedy sort of way. Oh my. This just can’t be good.
So NOW I read the possible side effects of these lovely pills, which include: “nervousness, dizziness, light headedness, trouble sleeping, nausea, vomiting, fast heartbeat, loss of appetite, or headache. This product may reduce blood flow to your hands and feet, causing them to feel cold. Dress warmly. Chest pain, seizures, mental/mood changes (e.g., anxiety, panic, hallucinations). A very serious allergic reaction may include: rash, itching, swelling, severe dizziness, trouble breathing. If they continue or are bothersome, check with your doctor.”
Yes. These side effects are sure bothersome I have to say, because now I’m considering walking across the State of California. I don’t see any reason why I can’t.
And have you noticed, that as soon as you read the words “rash, itching” … you have to scratch your head or your arms? I quickly look in the mirror and discover that a small part of the left hand side of my face looks swollen to me. I think it looks swollen. Was it always that way? Oh why haven’t I looked at my face more often? I ask my husband if I look swollen. He doesn’t think so. What does he know? But maybe I’m just hallucinating it. My mental/mood changes.
I went to bed. I can’t face my itchy swelling face anymore, even though I’m still contemplating a long walk. Maybe to see my relatives in Illinois.
At 1AM when my husband comes to bed, and I’m still awake. I told him I think I now have restless leg syndrome as my legs are either in a dancing mood with/without the rest of my body or are nervous from all the potential swelling itchy reactions I may/may not have. Either way, the whole event is getting on my nerves. Oh crap. Yet another reaction.
I suggest that I might feel better if I switched sides with him in bed, which I do. My legs are still thumping out a beat all their own…sans music. His side of the bed isn’t any better than mine. Maybe he’d like to discuss it.
Maybe not.
“Wanna go for a walk?” I suggest, knowing he doesn’t realize how far I have in mind. “No,” he says in a sleepy I’m-not-getting-out-of-bed sort of way.
So I get up and find the only one who is always willing to listen and walk with me. The dog. He’s my only friend in the world. He won’t judge my hideous swollen, itchy, twitchy limbs, which fortunately, after checking the mirror again, don’t actually seem swollen or itchy. Just a sad hallucination I guess.
I clicked on the TV. Half the channels are out. Maybe if I walked to the cable company I could complain in person.
I finally went back to bed at 4AM and had to get up at 6AM for work.
And it’s my birthday.
At about 9AM, I have the start of a new and not-so-improved reaction. Apparently when coming “down” from this little pill, your mood swings to new lows. Depression set in. “It’s my birthday and who cares anyway. I didn’t even get flowers this morning from that pig of a husband that I’ve spent the last 20 years with slaving over a hot stove and making his life lovely and filled with happiness. Does he care? No. Not one freaking rose bud for my birthday. And he KNOWS how I like flowers.”
Oh boy. When I’m on a slide going down…I’m going to wipe out my husband first.
This must be what it’s like to be on crack … only for allergy sufferers and then mix it with a big dose of PMS and full blown menopause moodiness. Makes your blood chill just thinking of that combination.
Don’t they put people in jail for using drugs like this? There I’ll be, garbed in an unbecoming orange jumpsuit, eating high-calorie carbohydrate food out of Styrofoam containers and contemplating where I went wrong in life. I’ll befriend a woman named Big Bertha and we’ll both blame my husband for every second I’m behind bars. If he’d just given me one lousy posy, I wouldn’t be behind those cold bars of justice. Oh yeah. I’m taking that man out when I get home.
Long conversations abound in my head as I’m on the way to the dentist that morning. Oh sure. Depression, a birthday, and a visit to the dentist. I wouldn’t have teeth problems if my husband were a nicer guy.
I got back to work and there to my surprised eyes was the most beautiful bouquet of flowers I’ve ever seen. My husband was given a short reprieve.
This uber fun mood lasted all day and into the evening when my husband and son took me to dinner. Ah yes, dinner. We were escorted to the one table which all waiters thought belonged to someone other than them. We waited 15 minutes for service at which point I hailed down a waitress and indicated we were STILL waiting (with that cool look of a woman who has just had a lot of allergy-crack medicine in her bloodstream and will not under any circumstances brook excuses from a waiter person). My husband and son were quiet. They know better than to open their mouths when I’m this far over the wall.
She said they were short one waiter. Really? And I care because…
She assured us she would get our waiter. Tick tick tick. My crack head is not happy.
10 minutes go by. I suggest to her she find him immediately. Tick tick tick. I look at my watch and decide that 5 more minutes should do it before I and my family depart the establishment.
I hailed her down again. Note that my husband and son are not hailing anyone. They sat in limp fear at the sight of my eyes shooting sparks in my anger-swollen face. I don’t know. I didn’t have a mirror, but I think that’s probably how I looked. Just don’t cross Momma when she looks like that.
We finally got served. I went home and slept off the last of the effects and woke up Thursday feeling myself once again.
As a recovering crack-allergy person, I’d like to say that it’s good to be back to normal.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Dressing for the Occasion or How Gay Men Set Better Standards
I’ve noticed over the past several years that the standards for attire for “straight” people at special occasions, such as weddings, has become suspiciously akin to dressing for work, the dog races or any other day that calls for casual, comfortable, and whatever springs forth first out of the closet.
A friend of mine was married in a late afternoon wedding. Nowhere on the invitation did it say “come as you are”, or “casual work clothing” required. Unfortunately, her circle of friends came from the high tech software industry. It has become very clear to me that the bright and independent minds of high tech are independently stubborn when it comes to dressing “up”. There is no “up”. I heard one fellow remark that he did not own any dress clothes or dress shoes. He said it proudly in a tone of deeply religious clothing beliefs. I glanced down at his Birkenstock sandals and noticed his wife was wearing a matching pair. They were a well-suited couple. I was surprised he didn’t go all out and wear shorts. I’ll bet he thought about it though.
At a wedding for my husband’s nephew, I saw a man (fortunately on the bride’s side of the aisle) in a light green polyester leisure suit, a plaid cowboy shirt, and a stick of beef jerky poking up out of his pocket. You don’t often see such a sight sitting in a church pew. I think the suit spoke to the man’s belief in never giving up on a good garment with a hard-to-find color (not found in nature) and the food was simply good planning in case it was a long ceremony whereupon he could grab a quick bite if he started feeling a might peckish.
I found it difficult to take my eyes off the man. It was just such a fascinating concept to find a person in church with a roll of beef jerky at the ready that…well, I just had to keep looking to make sure that’s what I was actually seeing.
As an aside to this particular wedding, the bride demanded that the minister change the wording in the vows as she did not like saying “obey” or maybe it was “honor”. Probably both. I don’t recall what she had him use as substitute words. Apparently after a short stint in this marriage, any words were not to her liking and they divorced.
A woman I worked with was married at a beautiful little church in San Francisco. It was an early afternoon ceremony with the reception at the yacht club. Off the top of my head, I considered that to be a dressy affair. It should have been don’t you think? Aside from the bride, groom, and wedding party who had to dress up for the wedding, my husband and I and two other men were the only ones who had obviously spent some time analyzing the degree of formality required for a wedding. The other two men were gay. And funny. And one was the most drop-dead-gorgeous-hunk I have ever seen in my life! Just thought I’d throw that in because I’ve never forgotten that man’s face. Woo-wee. I stuck to them like Spanx on fat legs just so I could ogle that man’s well-dressed body. No harm in looking. We all discussed the sad departure from dressing correctly for weddings. I love gay men. They know what style is all about by golly.
It’s no wonder the middle class is sinking. We don’t know how to dress up anymore.
Before leaving the house to go to a wedding in your Birkenstocks, untucked shirt, shorts, or casual work clothes, call a gay man…if not for advice, then just to give him some amusing anecdote for the day.
A friend of mine was married in a late afternoon wedding. Nowhere on the invitation did it say “come as you are”, or “casual work clothing” required. Unfortunately, her circle of friends came from the high tech software industry. It has become very clear to me that the bright and independent minds of high tech are independently stubborn when it comes to dressing “up”. There is no “up”. I heard one fellow remark that he did not own any dress clothes or dress shoes. He said it proudly in a tone of deeply religious clothing beliefs. I glanced down at his Birkenstock sandals and noticed his wife was wearing a matching pair. They were a well-suited couple. I was surprised he didn’t go all out and wear shorts. I’ll bet he thought about it though.
At a wedding for my husband’s nephew, I saw a man (fortunately on the bride’s side of the aisle) in a light green polyester leisure suit, a plaid cowboy shirt, and a stick of beef jerky poking up out of his pocket. You don’t often see such a sight sitting in a church pew. I think the suit spoke to the man’s belief in never giving up on a good garment with a hard-to-find color (not found in nature) and the food was simply good planning in case it was a long ceremony whereupon he could grab a quick bite if he started feeling a might peckish.
I found it difficult to take my eyes off the man. It was just such a fascinating concept to find a person in church with a roll of beef jerky at the ready that…well, I just had to keep looking to make sure that’s what I was actually seeing.
As an aside to this particular wedding, the bride demanded that the minister change the wording in the vows as she did not like saying “obey” or maybe it was “honor”. Probably both. I don’t recall what she had him use as substitute words. Apparently after a short stint in this marriage, any words were not to her liking and they divorced.
A woman I worked with was married at a beautiful little church in San Francisco. It was an early afternoon ceremony with the reception at the yacht club. Off the top of my head, I considered that to be a dressy affair. It should have been don’t you think? Aside from the bride, groom, and wedding party who had to dress up for the wedding, my husband and I and two other men were the only ones who had obviously spent some time analyzing the degree of formality required for a wedding. The other two men were gay. And funny. And one was the most drop-dead-gorgeous-hunk I have ever seen in my life! Just thought I’d throw that in because I’ve never forgotten that man’s face. Woo-wee. I stuck to them like Spanx on fat legs just so I could ogle that man’s well-dressed body. No harm in looking. We all discussed the sad departure from dressing correctly for weddings. I love gay men. They know what style is all about by golly.
It’s no wonder the middle class is sinking. We don’t know how to dress up anymore.
Before leaving the house to go to a wedding in your Birkenstocks, untucked shirt, shorts, or casual work clothes, call a gay man…if not for advice, then just to give him some amusing anecdote for the day.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Confessions of a Massage Junkie
I love a good massage. I love the feeling of complete relaxation as someone else works out the knots and tangles of my stressed muscles. I love it so much that I usually don’t say anything when the masseuse muscles an elbow a little too hard into my back. I have a high tolerance to pain that battles with my love of massage.
I used to go to a hair salon that touted a neck massage as one of their services after the shampoo. Sheer bliss. The man that I saw had those wonderfully strong fingers that slowly rubbed out all the tension. One time as his fingers were working their magic, he inadvertently put me in a strangling headlock with his other arm. I didn’t say a word to make sure he would continue massaging my neck. The preposterous notion of a grown woman sitting there being choked to death just for a 2 minute neck massage finally got the better of me and I started laughing…between sucking breathes of air in as he lightened his hold on my neck.
I came to work today with a “hitch in my giddyup”, as my Mom used to say. My job for the last 100 years (it feels that way) has been sitting at a desk working on the computer. The only thing that moves in this job is my lower half, which is spreading like butter on toast due to the fact that I don’t get up enough so my body parts are conforming to the chair seat. At least that’s how it feels. I think I’ll probably die in an atrophied position at my keyboard. I hope someone notices my sad demise.
I did some yard work Saturday, which as we all know, is a killer to muscles that only know white collar exercise…which would be typing fast. What was I thinking hoisting those bags of dirt and flinging gallon pots of hydrangeas? My Midwest farmer roots came out and took hold I guess. The smell of dirt is spiritual and puts me in some out-of-body (or out of my mind) condition that overrides any doubt about my physical ability to stoop, reach, hoist, and dig for 8 hours.
I also planted lots of seeds in little pots, which I realized after the fact that I had not labeled. My farmer ancestors are shaking their collective planting almanac heads wondering where the fruit of their loins got her brains. I guess I’ll have a “mystery” garden where the carrots will just have to grow along side the delphiniums. Or maybe they’re sweet peas.
There is a grocery store across the street from my work that has a small room with a chair massage service. That’s California for you. If you don’t live in a neighborhood with a grocery store that provides such a service, you are probably rolling your eyes at the very thought of a massage along side the fruits and vegetable department.
Now you know I went there at lunch. The masseuse elbowed and ground his fingers into my tense muscles. “How’s the pressure?” he asked. “Oh, you can ease up on the lower back,” I replied, hoping the dent he was putting into my hip wouldn’t last very long.
Although my back felt moderately better after the massage, I’ve noticed that since I haven’t moved out of my chair for the past 3 hours, my legs do not work as well as they used to. I guess sitting in one position for hours at a time tends to stiffen things up a bit. Maybe I should go back to the grocery store for a good massage and some spinach.
The thing about a kink in your back is that you can limp in the door making sad moaning sounds and your husband will suggest either he cook, or he goes to get take-out food. Score. If you look really pathetic, with a touch of silent suffering (because you’d never want him to know the full extent of your pain because you’re a caring cookie who sure wouldn’t want to be a burden to anyone) you might even get him to rub your achy spots and give you a kiss for good measure. Double Score! Hey…whatever it takes for another massage!
I used to go to a hair salon that touted a neck massage as one of their services after the shampoo. Sheer bliss. The man that I saw had those wonderfully strong fingers that slowly rubbed out all the tension. One time as his fingers were working their magic, he inadvertently put me in a strangling headlock with his other arm. I didn’t say a word to make sure he would continue massaging my neck. The preposterous notion of a grown woman sitting there being choked to death just for a 2 minute neck massage finally got the better of me and I started laughing…between sucking breathes of air in as he lightened his hold on my neck.
I came to work today with a “hitch in my giddyup”, as my Mom used to say. My job for the last 100 years (it feels that way) has been sitting at a desk working on the computer. The only thing that moves in this job is my lower half, which is spreading like butter on toast due to the fact that I don’t get up enough so my body parts are conforming to the chair seat. At least that’s how it feels. I think I’ll probably die in an atrophied position at my keyboard. I hope someone notices my sad demise.
I did some yard work Saturday, which as we all know, is a killer to muscles that only know white collar exercise…which would be typing fast. What was I thinking hoisting those bags of dirt and flinging gallon pots of hydrangeas? My Midwest farmer roots came out and took hold I guess. The smell of dirt is spiritual and puts me in some out-of-body (or out of my mind) condition that overrides any doubt about my physical ability to stoop, reach, hoist, and dig for 8 hours.
I also planted lots of seeds in little pots, which I realized after the fact that I had not labeled. My farmer ancestors are shaking their collective planting almanac heads wondering where the fruit of their loins got her brains. I guess I’ll have a “mystery” garden where the carrots will just have to grow along side the delphiniums. Or maybe they’re sweet peas.
There is a grocery store across the street from my work that has a small room with a chair massage service. That’s California for you. If you don’t live in a neighborhood with a grocery store that provides such a service, you are probably rolling your eyes at the very thought of a massage along side the fruits and vegetable department.
Now you know I went there at lunch. The masseuse elbowed and ground his fingers into my tense muscles. “How’s the pressure?” he asked. “Oh, you can ease up on the lower back,” I replied, hoping the dent he was putting into my hip wouldn’t last very long.
Although my back felt moderately better after the massage, I’ve noticed that since I haven’t moved out of my chair for the past 3 hours, my legs do not work as well as they used to. I guess sitting in one position for hours at a time tends to stiffen things up a bit. Maybe I should go back to the grocery store for a good massage and some spinach.
The thing about a kink in your back is that you can limp in the door making sad moaning sounds and your husband will suggest either he cook, or he goes to get take-out food. Score. If you look really pathetic, with a touch of silent suffering (because you’d never want him to know the full extent of your pain because you’re a caring cookie who sure wouldn’t want to be a burden to anyone) you might even get him to rub your achy spots and give you a kiss for good measure. Double Score! Hey…whatever it takes for another massage!
Friday, June 8, 2007
A Tribute to Agnes Imregh
I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts lately. If you looked at my budget, you’d feel out of sorts as well. I hate the word budget. It’s all good and well if you’re a company and have a cubicle-world of finance people to create, monitor, and refine budgets. But personally, when I typed the name of my Excel file, “Budget 2007”, I knew I was in trouble. Add the word “Limited” before Budget and you’ll find you start to hyperventilate. You mean no Pete’s coffee in the morning and change from the San Francisco hairdresser to a $20 Quick Cut by some woman in the local mall named Doris?
And why is it that the only people who say “money isn’t everything” are the people WITH money? I know it’s not everything…but try being on a Limited Budget! Yeah, yeah, boo hoo.
So there I was thinking about my column under “Clothing” in my budget, which now has $0 allotted budget attached to it, when I got a call from a man I worked with at a couple of previous companies. He gave me a piece of news about Agnes Imregh, the Vice President of Marketing, whom we both had worked for.
To say this woman was “interesting” would be far too mild a word. She had flaming red hair, occasionally painted her fingernails green, and owned a Mooney airplane, a Harley Davidson motorcycle, and a SUV. Lest you think she was a tomboy sort of woman, she also purchased a $10,000 black sequined Armani evening gown, owned leather jackets that you would have licked her stylish leather boots to own, and sunglasses to match each and every outfit. She was outspoken, had definite opinions about most everything, and was the only person I have ever known who ran meetings on time. No one was ever late for her meetings. If you know anything about high tech and meetings, this in and of itself would make you respect her. If you were late once for her meetings, you would never be late again. She held the meeting until you showed up. Tapping her foot. Not a good sign when a woman, especially one in authority, taps her well-shod foot. She sent people to hunt the offender down. All the while that foot was tapping. Her arms were crossed. No one said a word. I saw this happen. Excuses were not tolerated. Promptness was expected. Tap, tap, tap went the foot. But you know, that person was never late to any of her meetings again. Agnes made her point.
Agnes Imregh flew her airplane to New York this past weekend to celebrate her 57th birthday with her family. She flew back to Boston on Monday and something went wrong with the plane. She crashed in the forest and died.
I was thinking about Agnes this morning on my way to work. Traffic was piling up on the street and police cars were lined up with their lights whirling around. Another fender bender, I thought, annoyed with the delay. As I drove by the accident, paramedics were on their knees, their rubber gloved fists rhythmically punching on a man’s chest. I hope they saved him.
Limited Budget. It doesn’t seem such a hardship any more.
And why is it that the only people who say “money isn’t everything” are the people WITH money? I know it’s not everything…but try being on a Limited Budget! Yeah, yeah, boo hoo.
So there I was thinking about my column under “Clothing” in my budget, which now has $0 allotted budget attached to it, when I got a call from a man I worked with at a couple of previous companies. He gave me a piece of news about Agnes Imregh, the Vice President of Marketing, whom we both had worked for.
To say this woman was “interesting” would be far too mild a word. She had flaming red hair, occasionally painted her fingernails green, and owned a Mooney airplane, a Harley Davidson motorcycle, and a SUV. Lest you think she was a tomboy sort of woman, she also purchased a $10,000 black sequined Armani evening gown, owned leather jackets that you would have licked her stylish leather boots to own, and sunglasses to match each and every outfit. She was outspoken, had definite opinions about most everything, and was the only person I have ever known who ran meetings on time. No one was ever late for her meetings. If you know anything about high tech and meetings, this in and of itself would make you respect her. If you were late once for her meetings, you would never be late again. She held the meeting until you showed up. Tapping her foot. Not a good sign when a woman, especially one in authority, taps her well-shod foot. She sent people to hunt the offender down. All the while that foot was tapping. Her arms were crossed. No one said a word. I saw this happen. Excuses were not tolerated. Promptness was expected. Tap, tap, tap went the foot. But you know, that person was never late to any of her meetings again. Agnes made her point.
Agnes Imregh flew her airplane to New York this past weekend to celebrate her 57th birthday with her family. She flew back to Boston on Monday and something went wrong with the plane. She crashed in the forest and died.
I was thinking about Agnes this morning on my way to work. Traffic was piling up on the street and police cars were lined up with their lights whirling around. Another fender bender, I thought, annoyed with the delay. As I drove by the accident, paramedics were on their knees, their rubber gloved fists rhythmically punching on a man’s chest. I hope they saved him.
Limited Budget. It doesn’t seem such a hardship any more.
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