Pool Party

Yesterday’s pool party was great fun, but the day leading up to it was hectic. First, our ancient swamp cooler began to dump water onto the roof. I hauled out the ladder and trotted up to adjust a cooling panel dislocated by the wind. Twenty minutes later, more water. Apparently when I re-positioned the panel, I knocked the water-regulating float out of alignment. Few things are more hateful than adjusting that damn float. During the lunch hour, our digital cable was installed. At last, will be able to watch real matches on the Tennis Channel instead of observing flickering numbers on an Internet scoreboard. Later in the afternoon, I returned home to discover water festively sprinkling Misty’s digging compound. A hose to the swamp cooler had sprung a multitude of tiny leaks. Good thing I left the ladder up. Anyway, it was delightful to have company. The weather was mercifully cool and pleasant. Baked appetizers worked better than a cookout. Our swamp cooler did not plunge off the roof and squash anyone. Whew. My only regret was that our extemporaneous guest of honor, Mukor, was too ill to attend. We consoled ourselves by sailing Misty around the pool in a Spring Float Recliner In a post-swim discussion about The Nightmare Before Christmas, Ewbliette mentioned that Jack Skellington seemed very spider-like to her. Since we are both arachnophobes, I wondered why this resemblance did not disturb us more. My theory--dark spiders are scary and evil, pastel spiders are benevolent and sweet. Would I hunt down pink widow spiders with the same zeal as their ebon sisters? I wonder. This theory clearly deserves meaningful expansion, alas I am too tired.

Mr. D. and Oxygen Tank Man

As I was frightening the koi with the leaf blower, the phone rang in the distance (I have the phone volume set on "startle" since I blast the stereo when E is not home). It was Ewbliette, who explained that she wasn’t feeling her best and a convenient scheduling change allowed her to get off work early--so I should come over now! We scrapped our movie plans and I stopped by the local gourmet store to purchase goodies. I picked up sushi, chocolate and two bottles of chocolate beer. Yep. Chocolate Beer--or "Stout," to be more accurate.

If you’ve never had Chocolate Stout, I warn you, it’s an acquired taste. Ewbliette took a sip, raised her eyebrows, and said, "Olives. It tastes like black olives." Have you ever realized how much enjoyment comes from the texture of a food? We love black olives. But fizzy, liquid black olives? Not so much.

The sushi was one step above the supermarket variety, very tasty but not delectable. We filled our little bowls with soy sauce and squeezed in generous helpings of vivid green wasabi paste. Yow. The two of us are natives of New Mexico--the "Chile Capitol of the World." We smirk at the hot on hot sauce bottles. We will not smirk at those who consume sushi with murky green soy sauce puddles. It was hot--so hot that the capillaries in my face burst and evaporated the tears streaming from my eyes. Yow.

Our only recourse was to dump massive quantities of Kikkoman into our wasabi bowls. After the third dousing, our bowls were brimming with liquid. Ewbliette laughed, and exclaimed, "Look, Wasabi Kool-Aid!" This cracked me up so completely, I’m still giggling.

We chased the sushi with real chocolate and fed the VCR The Nightmare Before Christmas. Since we’ve both seen it a thousand times, we can sing along with gusto, but I guess the wasabi ordeal exhausted us, so the singing was only half-hearted. After the movie, we parted, agreeing that tomorrow’s swimming party would be the most outrageous, energetic spectacle we’d enjoyed since we absconded overnight to Deming to view the August meteor showers.

Waiting For The Phone To Ring...

Well, he’s off. has left for a five day field trip in Casper, Wyoming. Sigh.

He flew into Denver and drove the  four hours to Casper since the only other air transport is a glorified crop duster that can’t fly on windy days. As I wait for the "I’ve arrived safely" call, I have two morbid fates to neurotically contemplate--the usual airplane crash inferno and the improbable (but deadly) freeway flip-over accident. Needless to say, I avoid watching Fox News when he travels.

****

Yay! He called! His voice is like hearing a beloved, but long forgotten song. Yay! His trip went well except for the urinal-cake-mobile that Hertz rented him. The rental car was apparently infused with an unsavory combination of air freshener and sanitizer. To compensate, fate created an unexpected room shortage at the hotel, thus E received an upgrade to a super-mega-ultra-suite. Yay!

Well, I’m off to ruminate over the expectant horde of rapists, burglars and dog abusers who have been waiting for his departure to perpetrate their foul crimes. Sigh.

An "Axe" to Grind

After watching countless hours of U.S. Open coverage, E craved the much-ballyhooed Axe Body Spray for Men. I’ll give E mad props for wearing cologne like a gentleman--subtle.

I  was raised with the Vanderbilt’s Standing Distance Rule. If someone can smell your fragrance at more than three feet away, you are wearing too much. The optimal amount of fragrance should be perceptible when someone leans toward you, not propelled at your nostrils when you enter a room.

Needless to say, E’s request horrified me. Axe is not a product you dab on delicately like a rare perfume--you blast it on like spray paint. We agreed to compromise and pick up a deodorant stick.

I must have spent forty-five minutes sniffing men’s deodorant sticks. Two were selected. I reached a few conclusions in the process. If you disagree, print this out, take it with you and start smelling. You will be amazed. Please note that:

1. All popular men’s products smell a little bit like Gillette.
2. When they say a man’s fragrance is "fresh," they mean it smells like Windex.
3. If you see a selection of more than three men’s fragrances, the rest smell like the previous three fragrances, but with either fruit, flowers or pine scent added.
4. "Bold" always equals "Cloying."

I decided to review the Axe brand of deodorant sticks. You can find company propaganda here.

**** Essence: The most popular fragrance judging by variety of products represented. I believe its charm lies in its inoffensiveness, a subtle blend of familiar but unnameable scents. I bought this for E.

* Touch: Yow! They should have named this one "Ants." It has the faint odor of squashed ants (and Gillette). This will be at Big Lots for $0.89 in no time.

*** Kilo: Windex, Gillette and insect repellent.

*****Phoenix: Smelled like Dillard’s. Agreeable. I purchased this as well. This was E’s favorite.

** Apollo: Windex, Gillette and flowers.

** Voodoo: Gillette, Old Spice and flowers.

 

I won’t even dignify the women’s fragrances with a review, however I will give them credit for not obfuscating their fragrances with silly names. "Honeysuckle," "Lavender" and "Fresh Rose" are straightforward and accurate descriptions. If you want to wear 1,000 flowers under your armpits, knock yourself out, girl.

The Big Trip

Yours truly, on her first dive.

This weekend my folks are planning to update their website with photographs from their latest expedition. When I was a kid, they took three or four major photographic expeditions every year.  Usually one trip was The Big Trip-- an international journey to Mexico, South America, the West Indies, Australia or the South Pacific.

At twelve, it was my turn for a Big Trip. I joined my folks on the ship The Cayman Diver, chartered for diving around the Caribbean Islands. I had snorkeled since I was a tot, but I had to be twelve for scuba certification. My first ocean dive was beyond belief.

With Mom as my partner, my first dive destination was the shipwreck Balboa. Slipping into the cool, swaying water my breath dragged through the regulator like Darth Vader. Water enclosed me, isolated me. Sounds resonated strangely. Every breath I pulled seemed extraordinary. I was an astronaut, remote and alien from anything I ever imagined. A hundred years ago, could a twelve-year-old girl do this?

We swam to the wreck and explored. Strangely,  many specifics have been obliterated from my memory. Vivid pictures still remain, but unconnected to the chronology of our dive. I do recall returning to the Cayman Diver. I snatched up an odd looking fist-sized greenish glob. I displayed it to Mom. Curious, I gave it a few good squeezes. Mom replied with harsh hand signals. Instantly, I understood that the blob was a living sea creature and that I had thoughtlessly harmed it. I was deeply remorseful.

Other memories from my Big Trip  include being afraid of the well-meaning second mate who told me that nail polish was unbecoming on someone my age. Even at twelve, this seemed unsavory to me, since I wore it in such innocence.

The first mate caught me reading his dirty housewife book, which was endlessly fascinating to me. He wound up taking it from me three times.

I drank coffee for the first time. Dosing it liberally with cream and sugar, I had four generous cups before my alarmed mother rescued me. I recall protesting because it was so delicious and energizing.

When I went shopping for souvenirs, a portion of my money was spent on a small cosmetic kit, resulting in a lecture. I remember the lesson: don’t buy meaningless crap here that you can buy at home.

A small stubborn part of myself still defends my little purchase. I bought it because I felt I was becoming a young woman--it was symbolic. After all, a collection of Mother’s frosty eyeshadows captivated me as a child--I wanted to be just like her. Today, the make-up buyer in me is alive and well with a flourishing collection of plumping lip-glosses. Nevertheless, if I were in the Caribbean today, I’d spend my money on music, not makeup.

BT Returns!

BT returned home today! His haunted wipers were exorcised and the smoking steering column is no more. I found that you can become so accustomed to driving your own car that driving another is an almost hostile experience. Consider my experiences with E’s Taurus. It's cab forward design creates a volcanic interior when left even briefly in the sun, it's like driving on Mercury. The air conditioner mysteriously exhales a maple syrup scent. One turn signal has tachycardia and the all the controls have been fiendishly re-arranged to maximize confusion and inconvenience. It also tried to kill my big toe. Nevertheless, the stereo system is superb.

Insomnia Toe

At two a.m., an excruciating pain in my big toe woke me up. I lay there, half-asleep and thought, "Toe cancer. I’ve got toe cancer." The pain lingered and sleep would not return. My brain began to turn, "…toe pain = what?…toe pain = what?…toe pain = gout. Gout! Yikes!" I was fully awake then.

I immediately recalled a recent conversation with . High protein diets like Atkin’s can cause gout. I waited ten more minutes in bed, hoping the pain would diminish, thinking, "Gout…gout…gout… I have been eating lots of meat. ….Gout, gout, gout. This really hurts. Gout…" I hobbled to the library and consulted the Readers Digest Book of Illustrated Illnesses. After perusing it and the rest of out health library, I decided I was not afflicted with gout (or even pseudo-gout). It had to be toe cancer.

Only incredible self-restraint prevented me from going online to google "toe pain." From past experience, I know that searching the Internet at three a.m. will guarantee me more than a sleepless night, I’ll be awake and tormented by visions of my own impending and agonizing death (Visit Wrongdiagnosis.com!).

Why do I ponder my mortality so morbidly at night, when at noon I feel immortal? Does the sun have rationality rays intermixed with UVA and UVB? Can I buy a reality screen with SPF 15?

Perhaps this is a valid theory. Consider the effects of lengthening nights on our population’s holidays. Halloween celebrates the longer days with an innocent festival that only the sensitive embrace with frenzied abandon. The derangement culminates around the solstice celebrations (Christmas), when it’s clear that people have collectively lost their minds (the traffic, the tension, the potpourri at Dillard’s). New Year’s drunken revelry and unrealistic resolutions echo the relief everyone feels when the days begin to lengthen again.

Whew. I know someone else has certainly made this connection. Is it paranoid to wonder why the government isn’t doing something? I wonder if the government offed them. Will they off me too? Hmm. I think I’ll buy a full-spectrum bulb sometime soon

The Concrete Mall

I stopped by the mall today to purchase jeans for E.  The place looks like a Guatemalan airport.  They chipped up all the tile and swept it away. Bare, uneven concrete spans the entire establishment.  Victoria's Secret, with its pushy sales girls and glitzy panties looked especially unsavory--a place where you could buy cigarettes and bootleg porn with your bustier. Appearance is more important than I realized.

Bean Sprouts

They need to hire a crotchety old man to monitor Walmart's check-out lanes to prevent me from buying bean sprouts. I just threw out my third package this month.

Singin' A Song

I was organizing the multitude or washers, nuts, bolts and screws associated with our Big Fence Project in our garage when I heard the Taurus pull up in the driveway. Being in a jolly mood, I sang an improvised "La Cucaracha," expressing my joy over E’s arrival home and tonight’s dinner menu. Without a thought to his being home over forty-five minutes early, I trotted out to greet him at the front door (still singing loudly).
Instead of a smiling E, I encountered the cringing boyfriend of our neighbor Sioux. Apparently he was re-positioning his motorcycle trailer and needed to temporarily park her Taurus in our driveway. The poor fellow was red-faced with embarrassment for me. I laughed and waved. Sioux is well accustomed to my goofy antics--I swear I’ve heard muffled laughter at my vocalizations of "The Broom Song" and "Diggity-Doggy Diarrhea." I hope her guy recovers from his shock.  I’ll compose something special for him this weekend to mark the occasion.