Sale on Cherokees

This could be a good deal. It all depends, though, upon how many Cherokees fit in a carton.

Riddley Riddley Re

She'd been through this a thousand times before. Dealing with stupid people--people who don't follow the rules--annoyed her. I annoyed her. My neglect of the instructions sent her on the defensive. Glaring over her bifocals, she caught me in the act. "Did you forget to sign in, Ma'am?" she said. "How do we know you're here if you don't sign in?"

I took the pencil she thrust at me and signed my name on the patient register. Through a deluge of tears I realized my signature was illegible, so I erased my scribbles, then carefully printed my name. My hand was trembling as I handed back the pencil. The small glass partition between us slammed shut, and I was alone in the waiting room to think about the error of my ways.

The room was bare except for an old church pew with the varnish warn off the arms. Constructed of cement blocks, the walls were painted white, and the floor was black and white linoleum squares that, by my guess, had not seen soap and water since its ice cream parlor days. Above the pew hung one bare light bulb that soaked the room in a yellow haze. Nearby a tiny spider was busy weaving an elaborate web, stopping long enough to contemplate a fly that was sitting motionless on the wall only inches away.

Eleven forty-seven. I was early. The only sounds were the clickety clack of Ms. Congeniality's typewriter and an occasional buzz as the fly took to flight, always careful to avoid the spider's trap. There were no magazines to distract me, so I watched the fly to pass the time. I wondered what he was thinking. "Oh, here's another poor soul," I imagined him saying. "Look at her. Full of doubt and self pity. If she only knew what I know. I see so much from my view on the wall." I wondered what he knew. "Riddlely Riddlely Re. I see something you don't see and the color is... ."

Suddenly I felt sick. I found a wastebasket with a plastic grocery bag tucked inside to protect it from the unexpected. Kneeling down I wrapped my arms around the basket and gagged. Sweat from my forehead dripped onto the used tissues left by some other poor soul who didn't have the knowledge of a fly.

Twelve thirty and I was still alone in the room. Clickety clack, clack, clack. Every molecule in my body cried out, "Don't do this! Leave now before it's too late." I laid my head back against the wall, closed my eyes and thought about him. God, how I loved that man.

Another hour passed. I didn't care. I had no place to go. No one was waiting for me. No one cared that I was desperate and sitting on a church pew with no varnish on the arms in a stark black and white room hidden in an obscure building in a seedy part of town while Ms. Compassion was busy typing behind a glass partition, and a fly was hovering over me knowing things I didn't know.

The one person I wanted to care wasn't certain he loved me anymore--said he needed time to think. What I didn't understand--and probably the fly could have explained it to me--was why he suddenly questioned his love for me. Just three weeks before, he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. But that was before I told him the news.

The fly buzzed me again, then landed in my hair, pulling me out of my daze. He knew I was safe territory while the spider's web was a hazard to avoid. "HEY!" DO THAT AGAIN," I yelled, "AND I'LL SMASH YOUR GUTS ON THE HARD, COLD, LINOLEUM FLOOR!"  The glass partition inquisitively slid open. "Excuse me?" Clickety Clack said, annoyed at the interruption.

"Nothing," I said. "Just talking to myself...and the fly." The partition closed and he buzzed me again.

I sat motionless on the church pew with no varnish on the arms. Alone in a stark black and white room. There were no magazines to distract me, so I stared at the dead fly on the hard, cold linoleum and wondered what the spider knew. "Riddley Riddley Re. I see something you don't see." 

12/1997

I'm Still Here

I'm still here. In the summer it's difficult to stay inside, spend hours in a dark room typing on a computer, and ramble about this and that and those and them when just outside my door is a panoramic wonderland of rivers and mountains and forests and wild life and blooming things and then there's the sun, the always-shining sun (except for today which is forecast 100% rain, thus this post) and the warmth that comes from the sun (except for today which is forecast to stay in the 60's, thus this faux bear-skin--with the head still attached--rug I'm wearing that you can't see but can only imagine; it's quite warm under this fake bear).

Oh, wait a minute! Is that a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds? I believe it is, so with the promise of a day spent outside enjoying life in the backwoods and foothills of the Nantahala Mountains, I'm saying bye now. Who knows when I'll be back.

When is it Okay to Ask?

When is it okay to ask?

Nope! Not now.

Well, how about now?

Nah! Not now either.

Okay then. Is now a good time?

Nope! Not a good time.

How about now?

Yeah! Now is probably a good time. Now is

probably a good time. Did I mention that

now is a good time? It's my memory;

not so good anymore.

Half a Man

Another story found in the long-lost box of writings from yesteryears. The following story, written in 1986, is a work of fiction, or is it?

His confession came after they tied the knot, took the plunge, bought the farm. She was married to half a man, he informed her with tears in his eyes. She would never have known if he had not told her. She could have sworn all of the parts were there. Maybe she was focussing on only the good parts and didn't notice that 5/10ths were missing.

She had been married for two months to the man of her dreams, a young, handsome farmer who had rambled into her life just when she was about to give up hope on finding her Prince Charming. Tall, rugged, and silent, Mr. Right drove up on his tractor--what? were you expecting a white horse?--and they road off into the sunset, plowing a few cornfields along the way. Her plan was to live happily ever after, but that was before the 50% off confession.

She sat at attention listening to her half-husband's dilemma and wondered what a defective-man recall letter would look like:

Dear Occupant:

We regret to inform you that the man you recently vowed to honor and obey--wait! let's start over. We regret to inform you that the man you recently wed is defective. We do have a Quality Control Department here at Big D, but occasionally defective merchandise does slip though the cracks and escapes our inspections. The bottom half of your husband went with the man in front of him and was shipped without notice. (As a side note, this gentleman's wife sent us a very nice letter thanking us for her husband's generous endowment. We thought you would find that humorous considering your situation.) Unfortunately, we do not have a return policy on half men. If you had received one that was 17/32nds, was less than one-year-old, and had fewer than 12,000 miles, then we would allow you to trade him in on a newer model.

Thank you so much for your inquiry and have a nice day.

Sincerely yours,

Mgr., Quality Control
Testosterone Division
Big D, Inc.

She was lost in her imaginary recall letter when he said it again, "I'm half a man." Since he looked whole, complete, one unit, intact, 10/10ths to her, she needed more proof to substantiate his claim.

"I've done something, and it makes me feel incomplete," he said.  She sat perfectly still, waiting for more.

"Duffy and I...uh...we...uh..."

"Did you say Duffy as in 'Duffy' my best friend?"

"Yes. That Duffy. We...uh...we... uh...we did the nasty-nasty."

There! He said it. With a wave of relief, his shoulders relaxed and he released a long sigh. Once his secret was out, he said, he felt complete, whole, intact, 10/10ths again.

"Feel all better now, Honey Dew Dew?" she said.

"Uh huh," he nodded, as one lone tear ran down his nose, stopped at the bulbous tip to contemplate its fate, and then leaped to its death.

She staggered to that slimly sludge in the back corner of her doubting mind and languished there for, in retrospect, way too long before slowly untying the knot, swimming to the surface, and selling the farm.

Twelve Years Ago Today

Actually, it was twelve years ago yesterday.

It's my memory; not so good anymore.

The Gooey, Tangly, Plaque-filled Labyrinth in my Aging Brain

In the past month I've had dozens of stories for my rambling blog take residence in my brain--usually when I'm taking a shower with no pen and paper handy. While I'm rubbing the bar of soap all over my body (well, not everywhere; I would never, ever put our shared bar of soap there, Tom. No, really I wouldn't), a really good story will appear out of nowhere. Bam! It's all there for me: Title of the story, beginning/middle/end, funny quotes, clever anecdotes and a moral to the story.  All I have to do is remember everything I've been given in the time it takes me to rinse, towel dry, and run through the house naked while I search for paper and pen. Simple, right?

WRONG!

By the time I find a piece of paper and an instrument to write with, I've lost the funny quotes, clever anecdotes, and the moral to the story. When I discover the pen I've chosen is out of ink, I still have the title and beginning sentence but the middle and end have vanished, and after I've gone through three inkless pens before finding one that works, I've lost the title and first sentence. Another great story lost in the gooey, tangly, plaque-filled labyrinth in my aging brain.

I read recently that 50% of people over eighty-five have dementia. That's sixteen plus years away, a life-time really...if you're a dog. But still, sixteen years is a very long time and time goes so slowly, so no need to worry. But then again I suspect that senility doesn't happen overnight.

 At 11:59:59 p.m. the day before your eighty-fifth birthday, you're playing chess (and winning) with your grandson, and one second later--the stroke of midnight--you're eating the pawns, hiding the Queen in your Depends, accusing the King of cheating on you, and begging little Jason to return your black and white 13" television that he stole before he was born. 

No, dementia is not a sudden, overnight occurrence. It stalks you for years. At first, it seems innocent enough: can't remember a word here and there; forget a doctor's appointment; misplace your keys. Then for it's own amusement it increases ever so slightly the intensity of its evil intent: can't remember a friend's name; forget a doctor's appointment that you remembered earlier in the day; throw your keys in the trash can. Still benign, right?

WRONG!

It's coming, honey. Can't remember the name of your favorite coffee that you've been drinking for years? At the doctor's office but can only remember one of the three things that ail you? Find yourself looking for the car keys that are in your hand? No big deal, right?

WRONG!

So why am I telling you this? You, with a goo-less, tangle-less, plaque-free brain. You, who are still young and arrogant and prideful and confident that you'll be in the 50% who won't get dementia. You, who are looking at me right now and wondering why I'm hiding green M & M's in my underwear. Well, because the red ones are carcinogenic, that's why, Smarty Pants.

So, what were we talking about? Oh, it'll come to me later. In the meantime, I'm going to take a shower and hope for another great story that I can share with you...or not.