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Last weekend Hubby and I enjoyed our annual anniversary getaway to Santa Barbara . . and which goes without saying, has left me with gobs and gobs of foolishness to write about. It could be a ten part'er, but we'll start slow.
Hubby does not like to go to his restaurants uninformed. Any beach juvie or upper-crust wine aficionado host is not going to push Hubby around to take a seat, place his order, or pay the bill, --until he's good and ready. This leaves in its wake many a humiliating scenario through the years - some of which have even sent Bliss to tears - but let's go over the lighthearted parts instead.
We eat at a lot of the same restaurants each year, but also enjoy trying a new one. This time we looked into a place called Lucky's.
Oprah has a house in Montecito (next to Santa Barbara), and Lucky's is a steakhouse there (just to give you an idea of the neighborhood).
'Steakhouses' in Montecito don't charge the same, or act the same as, say, Burger Kings in North Hollywood.
It was clear to Hubby he would have to place a phone call ahead of time, and even before the usual hour spent circling the joint repeatedly to avoid valet parking, or picking apart a menu at the entrance until I want to scream.
When I think about it, I guess I do prefer his harassment be performed over the phone than in person, --but at the same time, the phone calls usually leave us starving before any real headway is even made . . and still a half hour away from the place.
This interrogation, I tried to disappear into the hotel bed sheets, while the echos of Hubby's tenth-degree, micro-restaurant-managing, bounced around the room like on megaphone, and shamed me into even further isolation. (Well, not complete isolation. I was crowded in bed with the four crescents and six jelly packets Hubby contraband'd from the hotel's continental breakfast bar.)
I can only hear his side of the conversation, - but it can't be good what's being said on the other half of the line -
"Hi - What time is your Early Bird Special?"
"Oh. Then what about a Senior Citizens discount - if we aren't quite seniors yet? I do look very old for my age---"
"But we're just visiting for the weekend, --so it shouldn't be that big of a deal--""I see -"
"Any coupons then?"
"I don't know why - the Montecito household income per-capita may be in the seven figures, but I'm sure they still like a good bargain . ."
"Alright, tell me this . . --About your children's menu--?"
"Yes, --just the two of us."
"No. Of course my wife's not sixteen years old---"
"But what if we cut it into baby pieces---"
"No?" Hubby mumbles under his breath and rolls his eyes at me ~~~
"Okay. But if we 'decide' to eat at your restaurant - I can tell you this about my wife . . she eats like a bird. ---You do offer those cracker packets at the buffet salad bar?"
"No buffet?--"
"I'll be darned. . . . I guess once we enjoy a couple of your complimentary bread baskets---"
". . . . What? You don't have bread baskets??---"
"Fine. --Then, if we could just bring in our own little bag of tortilla chips to snack on, --and use one of your bowls---"
"Oh. Well, it's not like we wouldn't order dinner . ."
"Alright."
"Nope."
"Okay."
"Now, --the steak salad. If she orders that, with extra steak on the side, --how much would, say, your baked potato be, a la carte, for me?"
"Uh? --"
" . . At your prices? Two dinners??""Yes, I understand. Okay. You gotta make a living too . . . "
"And so we're clear, while I hoof it in from the free parking at Shop'n'Go, --can my wife enjoy one dinner (since she will--theoretically--be dining alone until I get there) . . --and I'll just request a second plate for---""Hello? --Hello?"
"Can you believe that? --They hung up," Hubby calls out. He hasn't even broken a sweat.
" --You got any other picks, Hon?" He dares to ask . . while now I wouldn't want to touch a restaurant he's called with a ten-foot-pole----
Once, we studied a menu in front of a maitre'd' so long - the guy ripped it from Hubby's hands, and whacked him over the head with it. He told Hubby he'd had a fly on his head, but the maitre'd' and I exchanged a knowing look -- so I knew better.
Listen, loves a funny thing.
If this is only one of the thirty-two annoying bits
about my husband, that I have to put up with, -- I can
try and be a good sport. Call me the the patron-saint-of-unromantic-dinners.
As long as I get my veggies steamed, and a chocolate
after dinner mint - I will try and be happy.
It's been over a week and a half since my emergency, emergency-room trip. (Which of course alerted my primary care provider to the immediate and direct putting of me, straight away, first on the list of people who need prompt attention.) (Yeah, right.)
(Hence the recent obligatory days and days and days of referral system and appointment making negotiations.)
Yesterday I finally saw my spinal pain management doctor (a week after the MRI, in turn about four days after the notorious brush-in with Wretched Room Clearer-Outer at my emergency room dismissal).
First, --regarding the MRI, I absolutely have not perfected the art of Valium taking.
The last two times I've gone for a MRI with Valium pills a go-go, but I can't seem to time the taking of them correctly -- somehow only getting loopy, high, and sleepy when trying to eat in public, post-procedure, during what I like to call my 'Whoopee-My-MRI-Is-Done' celebration.
I try shoving restaurant burgers through the pores on my chin, sit next to strange men instead of Hubby, and pour salad dressing in my purse. Being high is not all it's cracked up to be if you can't even time the mental escape of one, thirty minute "slip-into-this-metal-sock-coffin" nightmare.
And you know, maybe I would give up dieting - if by some heavenly blessing it would mean being informed, 'I'm sorry, fatso . . I mean Ma'am! --we can't possibly stuff you into our MRI contraption without the snug fit of the machine ripping the skin from your body, like the scaling of a fish. We'll have to artist sketch what we think your discs are doing instead, by your imaginative description.'
As it is now, I have, oh, I'd say, --an entire 1/8 of an inch full-breathing room space around me during imaging. "Um yes, Ma'am? --Please try to hold still!"
'Oh, ya-think, Einstein?? Are the microscopic hair follicles on my forehead banging too heavily against the metal-hell surrounding me?
~~~~~~
Anyhoooo. Forget that horror.
Spinal pain management Dr. V., I like alright. He's never been able to help me too much, but seems to want to try.
He changed offices since last I saw him, and while I lingered in the waiting room yesterday, I searched for a magazine to keep my mind off the pain.
Apparently spinal injury at the new office is very manly business, because there was not a single sheet of fem-verse'd magazines to be found! Examples forthcoming:
Men and Beer
Men and Caves
Men and Couches
All Men, All the Time
Remote Control Weekly
Spine Pain Is For Wusses
Shopping is For Wusses
Everything But What Men Like is For Wusses
Tools, Machines, and Lakes
Ice Cream for Big Boys
What Happens in Best Buy, Stays in Best Buy
All Pictures, No Words
Rockets, Trucks, Boats, Cars, Lawn Mowers, Doorbells, and Can Openers
I don't know if Dr. V. just went through a bad divorce, --or if the guy's got mommie-issues picking up speed . . but I was called back to his office just in the nick-of-time, before my brain started spilling out of my body faster than my discs were.
Since all x-ray and MRI film looks the same to me--like I'm about to have another baby, or am the proud owner of super big cavities--it was good to have Doc point out the details on the film to me.
The first thing I learned--that I never knew before--was that I have small pedicles.
Those, you may be interested to learn, are a little part of the vertebra. Bone that extends from the vertebral body.
It'd be better if mine weren't so small, because they'd help to keep all that tender disc-mush from wanting to pop out of place so ~~ but there's nothing I can do about that. It's genetic.
(Yeah, thanks Mom and Dad. First hairy knuckles and saddlebags, --and now this?!)
"Small, huh?" I asked.
"Yes," answered Dr. V.
"Would you mind then, if we called them 'petite'? Petite pedicles?" I petitioned. "I've . . it's just. . . . There's never, really, been anything 'petite,' on my body before. So I'm just kind of pleased about that."
"Uh, okay," he agreed. "Petite, then." Which of course made me blush. (No ones ever said that to me before.)
The second thing I learned, is it looks like surgery for me.
Which, surprisingly, wasn't such a bad thing to hear, --the way Doc put it. I mean, I know surgery isn't great . . plus it means of course, I've got that whole upside-down, while unconscious, buck-naked, spread-eagle, and people looking and poking at me kind of thing to not look forward to . . . but whatever. He does think I will be relieved of my pain.
Heck.
Let's talk about something more pleasant.
One good thing I suppose, about this whole hoopla, is that I have for once and for all,
finally learned how to spell 'vertebra' correctly. I've always wanted to spell it v-e-r-t-e-b-r-a, but second guess myself because of the whole 'bra' bit.
Why bra?
And why is it pronounced 'bray' in verte-'bra' - when it clearly spells 'bra'? And than, why not vertebrassiere, if it's no matter, you know?
I tell you, those ancient Indo-European family languages, crack me up. Probably, that's why priests during Mass don't like to read out loud the Latin stuff as much as they used to. It's hard for them to keep from giggling at the silly words.
Ah, forget it.
Forget I brought the priests into this.
Let's just stick with the part that ~~'I have Petite Pedicles,' okay?
Man how I wish they made jeans for pedicles.
Good things come to those that wait.
Sorry about the long pause between blogs. It would appear that when unable to talk about f**d -- I am at a total loss for words. Not true!
I am here. I am back.
. . . And speaking of backs ~~ mine is killing me. I'd rather be in a good old fashioned fetal position, right now, than at the computer. But it's no use because even the ever trusty fetal position has failed my aches and pains. About the only position I've found some relieve in, is standing, butt against the wall, and one foot off the ground. Don't ask me how that helps - but it somehow does, just a little. Could it be, being off-balance keeps me in-balance?
(um. yeah. that sounds about right.)
Anyhoows . . . about a week or so ago I woke in so much pain, I mimed "emergency room - please" to nobody, rolled over to the speaker phone, and called Hubby who was already gone to work. (Well first, I accidentally pressed my speed-dialed QVC, (who by the way are not open 24 hours, like they sooo brag about - or maybe it's just the Suzanne Summers items that are closed certain hours ~ 'cause it crossed my mind, otherwise, I could have ordered a Suzanne Summers Kegel Exerciser while I had them on the line. Then, to go with my dieting, I'd be able to claim workout time, while still in bed recovering from my back pain?) (How many calories burned per Kegel, is it? Anybody know?) . . . ~~Anyways, I got Hubby on my second try.)
Apparently meetings at Anheuser-Busch, trump wife-in-pain emergency-room calls. Who knew? He assured me however, though, that had I had a baby in my canal - it would have been a different story, and he'd'a totally come home. (~and I guess I will choose to believe that. Because the alternative would have to mean he enjoys talking to men about beer, and what temperature makes a beermaking room perfect-o, --more than he does running home to lift me into a car because of a sore back, and pay co-pays at the hospital.)
Thankfully one son was still home. He was sick, and I had planned on bringing him to the doctors later in the morning. Instead I decided we'd do the early morning emergency room buddy-system route. They could call me Hop-a-long, and him Phlegm.
Yup. We know how to have a good time.
I happen to have a girlfriend that is a nurse in the emergency room, and it was nice to see her there. She hustled us through triage, and a different lady brought us back to our separate rooms.
Though my emergency room doctor's accent was so thick you could spread it on a bagel - I was pretty sure he told me there was nothing they could do for me - basically because I could still lift my toes. (note to self - next time in an emergency room for any reason, do not lift toes.) Had I carried my spine in on a clothes hanger, or pulled it in a wagon, or been chewing my dislodged disc like a stick of bubble gum, it would not have mattered to anybody there, -as my toes could still move.
I couldn't feel my calf, my thigh was in a permanent charlie-horse, toes and foot were numb, couldn't stand up straight, yodel, or get mascara on, ~~but none of that slowed anyone down one wit. Or in the international language of 'emergency-room- talk' ~~ 'next, please'.
At least my nurse felt sorry for me. Already hopped-up on other pills from home, she went to find me an Advil. I was waiting for something from the Doc, and also paperwork and my debit card from another worker. So I practiced my least painful contortionist twist, and waited for further directions. (Probably something like, 'Before you go miss, would you like to sign this card? It's for the poor lass down the hall. She can't lift her toes.')
As I lay writhing in pain - an obvious Nurse Nightingale popped her head in (I couldn't see the rest of her body, but she likely had a tail, warts, and a horn) and (honest truth), --barked, "leave, I need this room."
I'm not sure if she learned that at compassion school, or bible study, --but it was pretty lacking. I would have given her a piece of my mind - if I wasn't out of my mind in pain - and she hadn't taken off so fast. Of course I hadn't planned 'lounging' (if that's what you want to call it) there all day. And I was going to go join my son (who could move his toes too, but apparently was still going to get more attention than I did--), as soon as I was officially cleared. Nurse BarksALot made me so upset! Like I was in trouble, -or a bother, or something. Maybe I'll never get my fifteen minutes of fame, but at least give me my fifteen minutes of emergency room gurney!!
While I am so going to tattle on the wretched room clearer-outer, as soon as I find the energy, the moral of this story, or rather, what I'm really trying to say is, that for all that, basically, what did I get? . . . . the gift of paying 50 bucks to tell my girlfriend how much I weigh.
Good times.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'll tell you about my MRI in the next blog. But you better hold on to your seats, --it's going to be a bumpy claustrophobic ride.
Me thinks I am obsessed? Or what the heck is it? Everywhere I turn, ---forces greater than I - have me thinking, touching, asking, or playing with food. Is it bad Karma, that constantly has me placed with food?
Really? --That's all karma can come up with? -- All I've earned is food purgatory?
Mzss. Karma -- if you're out there -- I want you to know I scrubbed all the toilets in our house today. And to a spit shine, at that. ( . . And did I mention, Karma, --that I live in a house of all boys ~ using those toilets?!) If that can't buy me a little karma-relieve, I don't know what can.
Last night at a dinner party we played a game where the prize was candy.
First thing to do when I got up this morning? Eat. A few hours after that? A belated birthday present . . of lunch.
Read about an author today, who's new book sounds good. I check out her blogsite . . . and the blogsite name? Orangette! Blog's topic? Recipes.
Bags of fermenting future loaves of Friendship Bread piling up on my kitchen counter? Four. I don't even like Friendship Bread (but Hubby does) . . . . And I don't like pushing fermenting bags of cake batter on my friends (but Hubby does).
Tonight for date night, we are off to the high school snack bar . . I mean volleyball game.
I have the sniffles . . so I'm checking calorie content in a pouch of Emergen-C and tablet of Airborne.
Someone's dinner plate from last night sits in front of me, waiting for dishes to be done. I go outside and our fruit trees are dripping, heavy with calories.
Remember now, -all I have to do is quit thinking about food.
As room mom, when youngens' were still in elementary school, --a teacher informed me there'd be no more cupcakes and food treats for birthdays or class parties. My first impulse was to pull her hair, put tacks on her chair, and call her UnAmerican. But wisdom prevailed, and I lasted a whole year planning celebrations and holiday activities without introducing hoards of edible treats.
I know I can accomplish the same now if I really put my heart into it.
So, ~~in honor of my attempt at tricking Karma into liking me, I hereby vow the next two blogs will have nothing to do with food. Count'em . . . next two whole blogs! (Be patient with me if all I can come up with for topics is, like, cuticles or putty-colored shades.)
So -
Take that Karma-Warma! . . .
"And look! Karma! What's there behind you??!!!"
(Ha! Food, food, food, food, food.)
(Okay . . . needed that one last release. Now I'm ready.)
Here's to other interests :)
I'm not so sure my new book The Complete Beck Diet for Life is going to work out. Even without finishing it, I've decided it sounds like a bunch of poppycock - best I can tell.
Basically the premise is that I need to get better at telling the voice in my head how to behave, and then practice listening to it, --the voice in my head. Fancy pants Dr. Beck call this Diet Cognitive Therapy.
Now the voices ~~
(yeah, 'voices.' --figures my voice would have to be a schizo')~
are not that easy to control, first let me just say. I mean they've had the run of things for a very long time and I doubt they are going to want to give that up now --even if I do try talking nice to them.
'Please, please little voices in my head. Can't we stop all this talk of food, and eating too much. Can't we all just get along? Me, you, and Dr. Beck?'
No. And if you keep talking to us like we're a little baby, we're leaving.
'You can't leave.'
Oh yeah? - Watch us.
'Okay, okay. --I'm sorry. Please don't go. I need you in my head. If you leave the only voices left will be Oprah's, Hubby's, Dr. Laura's, and Obama's. --Please, I'm sorry, don't leave.'
Okay than. But don't try anything fancy . . .
and we were wondering, -are we going to visit our new friends soon?
Oh, I should know better than to talk to myself - I'm not reasonable.
And b'sides, --I have bigger problems. The Wednesday morning servers at McDonalds have started thinking that they are my buddies. I don't want to be friends with the employees at McDonalds. I don't want them to recognize me, I don't want to hangout with them, and I don't want to share stories. I just want my hotcakes and diet coke!
Basically, those friends are like my pusher and I'm the junkie! There's no reason to be 'friendly' about it. If the drive-through girl really was a 'friend' - she would slap my hand when I reach out for cholesterol and carbs, --and tell me to go away.
But no. She's a total enabler - and with friends like that . . . well, you know . . .
My 'diet' book promises:
"If you've struggled with dieting in the past, it's only because you never acquired these essential cognitive skills . . . and learned to think differently."
I might as well just cut me off-at-the-pass (cognitively speaking) and tell my brain, "don't start with me!" --Because now I'm noticing Dr. Beck's suggestion would never work anyhow. ---'Cause I'm not someone who's 'struggled' with dieting, 'in the past'; there's nothing 'past' about my struggle at all. My struggle is on a continuous loop . . . like a laughtrack that never ends. The voices in my head have no intention of telling the voices in my head to stop acting like they want to eat.
If reincarnation does exist --in my previous life I was a cow ('cause do they look like they give a heck that all they do is eat and sometimes make milk?) ~~and in the life after this one, I bet I'll be a HomeTown Buffet. It's just my luck. I know it. (And then some bratty girls from my old high school will come in, and one of them will say to me "OmG!! Didn't you use to be Bliss, from our high school?!!)
Ick!!
Okay, okay. I'm not saying I've given up already. I can't. I smell summer, --and some dang pool party hostess is going to demand I get in a bathing suit. (My friend at McDonalds would never demand I do such a thing. She'd just, "There, there now," to me. "Have another quarter-pounder, and don't worry that other people can't look away when they see you in a bathing suit. It's all the more to love, you know? Who wouldn't love you? Huh?? Look at those cheeks!" --Yes. She means those cheeks.
Oh, it's all a mess, I tell you.
My life as a dieter.
I need a good dose of Dieter's Zen.
You know - my happy meal . . . I mean Happy Place!!
Happy place. Happy place. Happy place.
Compared to my husband I feel like a potty'ing machine. I'm always goin' - and he's
always waitin'.
Last weekend during date night at the movies, I learned a new word. While using the potty at the theater, a gaggle of girls came in. One went into a stall and I heard her shout to her friend, "Don't you want to go pepe' too? Before the movie starts?"
Well, imagine my delight, first, -at hearing a word come out of a random teen's mouth that I didn't have to cover my ears for, and second, that was spoken instead of text'ed, and third, that was as fantastic a word as pepe' is!
How cute is pepe' ?
Say it after me, "pep-e' " ~ Rhymes with kep - a ~~
I raced back to share with Hubby the happy news -- my New Word. (Granted while it might not have been as exciting to him as me - I still felt sure pepe' was going to make me sound way darlin'er and less bladder-worn than the usual I have to go to the bathroom again, wait here.)
"Guess what word I just learned?" She asks.
"What?" He answers.
"Pepe'." She says-
"Pepe'?" He asks -
"Yup. In the bathroom, a bunch of girls came in, and
they used the word pepe' for going potty." She answers.
"Umm," He grunts.
"What was the name of that french-lover-skunk guy in the old cartoons? --The one that was always trying to get the girl cat to love him?" She asks.
"Pepe' Le Pew," He answers.
"Yes, that's it!" She exclaims.
"Oh yeah," He -
"Pepe' is my new word," She -
"Okay," He -
How does one partake in a conversation about "pepe' " - and not hear it?
I would so remember a conversation with someone that included the word pepe' in the place of going to the bathroom.
I would so remember a conversation with someone about the word pepe'.
I would so remember a conversation with someone.
I would so remember conversation.
I would so.
I would.
I.Pepe'.
After the movie I see the group of girls, my new compatres, leaving the theater.
"There they go," she says.
"Who?" he asks.
"That group of kids from the bathroom," she answers.
"What group of kids?" he asks.
"The ones we talked about," She -
"Who?" He -
"The 'Pep-A' girls," She -
"What??" He -
I don't want you to think I'm a total potty mouth, so here's another example:
"I have got some mammoth splinters in my hand from that plywood!" He -
"Geez, wow . . yeah," She -
"There's no way around it, --I'm going to have to dig them out," He -
"Ouch. Okay. Say, - we have a billion tweezers around here . . . there's one in the kitchen, boy's bath, and our drawer. Just don't use the metal ones in the medicine cabinet, k?" She -
"Mm." He -
(The medicine cabinet ones being the 'special' ones she uses to pull and pluck things from her body. And by 'special' - she means expensive. And by 'things from her body,' she means tiny unladylike hairy grotesque imperfections.)
One hour later she stumbles upon the surgery counter - and the 'special' metal tweezers with zero fine tip left. He must have scraped roof tar with them after splinter-to-the-bone digging.
She - "Hey - remember when I said any tweezers but these?" (Holding up the 'these.')
He - "No?"
~~~~
One time out of the clear blue we got a coupon-flier in the mail, good for One Free Hearing Test.
("Hot dog!" She says. "Whatever," He says.)
She makes him go.
He would fake offense, --except that it was free.
He'd go to a leg-breaking, if it was free.
True Story:"Hello sir," woman at hearing test office says.
"I'm here for my free hearing test," He informs.
"Have you been having problems?"
"No."
"Did your doctor send you?"
"No."
"Why are you here?"
" --My wife made me come."
bored pause - "We get that a lot. --line forms to the left."
and his test results? ~~ " . . . with flying colors!"
I've decided free hearing tests are bogus.
Like swampland in Arizona.
And that there is a conspiracy I will never get to the bottom of.
And even if I did get to the bottom of it, --only girls would listen to me.
So okay fellas, here it is,
--I give up.
(Ah, and if only you had heard me . . .victory would have been sweet . . . )
I am a lesson in complexities. Or contradictions.
Pick your diagnosis.
Surprised? Don't be. Do the math.
I went in a bookstore today to look for a specific book. I left with two.
The Complete Beck Diet For Life
and
I Was Told There'd Be Cake
I avoid bookstores, actually. I don't feel well-read enough on what my top dozen scholarly reads should be - and therefore ill-equipped to choose. At the same time, there is always something I'd like to read, -- but it shouldn't be higher on my to-do list than what's already waiting for me to do at home.
So, my solution is to limit my bookstore visits or book borrows.
Hubby is not a reader, and in life, circles me constantly at a breakneck pace of 'doing.' I (self-inflict) the motto that if I am going to be sitting around - I shan't be just reading - but best be hand-tailoring suits, spinning yarn, or re-soling worn clogs. But who's the wiser? The tortoise or the hare?
After long hours of school work yesterday, I felt free today to get some ordinary this & that done at my desk and around the house. The exact reasoning, in fact, that made me want to go outside.
I don't do staying in, very well. Well at least not for hours on end, and when it is beautiful outdoors. One reason I went out today was to get some of that sunshine. But than, the only reason I needed sunshine, was because I had decided I wanted to stay indoors.
Did you get that?
It used to drive Hubby crazy when I would look out the window and exclaim, "Oh what a be-yooo-tiful day! Let's go to the mall!"
At least I've improved on those particular neurotransmitters . . . so that a beautiful day outside, does not necessarily an indoor mall trip, make.
Now if Shakespeare, Pluto, or Hemingway had written something, say, like, He's Not'th That Into'th You'th it would be a good balance for me, --attractive to the both sides of my brain.
Yes I realize Pluto is just a planet and Disney pup . . and if I were better-read I never would have used 'Pluto' as an example in my previous sentence. But like I said - I'm complex.
Books I'd read:
Pluto Six Degrees of Separation (from Mickey)
Plato Chicken Soup for the Western Philosopher
Aristotle Math for Dummies
Hemingway For Whom the Bell, Toll-house Chocolate Chip Cookies
Yeah.
If I sound like a reading snob, -I'm not. I'm practical.
I rarely clean my house as well as I should, finish on time - projects I should start, make dinners anymore from utter scratch, or stay ahead of instead of behind-on my studies.
Somehow I feel less self-imposed guilt doing nothing - than I do reading a book. Which I can see, --now that I've written it--doesn't make sense. Well if it's a school book, -I don't feel guilty . . . but I do feel sleepy. If it's a pop-book, I do feel guilty, but I don't feel sleepy. If it's an intellects' book, I feel low-IQ'y . . . and sleepy.
So I don't necessarily 'free-choice' read during the day. It seems unproductive to me. I read at night though, right before I go to bed. And at this rate I can usually finish maybe, two books a year?
I'm not good book club material.
I will buy a book before a vacation - and when the fantasy is that I will actually be on vacation, while on vacation. Sometimes the vacation part of a vacation gets a little mucky with all the action, cleaning up, or cooking. I've never vacationed in the lap-of-luxury, as it were.
I bring magazines on vacation - without fail. I pour over everything in a magazine. There are too many pictures and too many words to just skip through it. My camping buddy thinks it's very Dustin Hoffman/Rainman of me, because of my then ability to store and recall much ado (in magazines) about nothing.
I will give you an example.
Do you know what Lee's Art Shop is?
Because of my one day, today, of Rainman'ing -- I came across Lee's several times. I can now tell you in regular conversation (where it would so likely not come up), Lee's Art Shop is located in New York City, actually it's on 57th Street. Angelina Jolie was there recently with two of her litter. They left with white empty Easter baskets. (I bet the clerk just gave them to the girls.) I also know through my random-trivia-cataloging of the day, that the author of I Was Told There'd Be Cake (the book by the way, I ultimately decided not to get, and left behind), went there for stuff to use in her plexiglas dioramas. A diorama (in case you don't remember) (I got to see a picture, so that refreshed my memory) is a three-dimensional model, like what you might see a grade-school'er do for a science project.
Now look at all that I've learned -just by being aware of my environment and sticking my nose into bits and pieces of reading material, here and there. What is the likelihood I would have learned so much about Lee's, if I had been off reading some self-important book somewhere?
Is it all that more valuable than what Shakespeare would have me know? Or my Psych Professor? Maybe - maybe not. Wouldn't I be better off just sucking it up and reading a classic, - so that's what's stuck in my head?
Well than I wouldn't be me.
And we wouldn't want that, now would we.
Besides, there have been some little jewels of books I've read - that I never would have even known about had I not peeked in newspapers or magazines. It's like I'm on a treasure hunt all day, but only strike gold occasionally. So what I'm really doing, is totally living life on the edge (--in case you hadn't given me credit for that).
And I take it back - I am a reading snob. I'm very selective, and I don't need to read a book just for the sake of reading. At the same time, if I learn one more tidbit in news or magazine passing, about the Acai berry, Dr. Phil, Big Love, or U2, I may slit my wrists.
My intellect marches to the beat of its own drum. What can I say. I have been known to yell out 'No Soup For You!' without provocation or even feeling an explanation of context, necessary.
How do you reason with a person like me?
Who knows. But I can tell you this -
Why don't you read up on it -
And get back to me.
