CluePhone

 

As I am sometimes won’t to do. Has anyone ever said that their favorite color is puce? Because I just can’t imagine it. You’d probably say your favorite color is reddish-brown instead of puce, and that’s not even a real color name. Like eggshell, or harvest gold. Apparently, puce can even vary into the purplish-brown spectrum, so we have an even larger audience of people who might be ridiculed for their favorite color choice. Does Crayola even have that color? I’m old enough to remember the “flesh” color, along with the “Indian red” that they had to rename. I can’t imagine that they’d let puce remain. I can just see it, some lonely child on a playground, cowering while the class bully yells “That’s the one that likes PUCE!” Grade school can be so tough. The only small thing in favor of puce is that it’s from the French language. On the other hand, it means “flea.”

Years pass, the whole love-of-puce thing has been hidden as best as possible. Until, (DUN Dun dunnn..) the wedding. You KNOW the bride’s maid’s dresses and the groomsmen vests are going to be puce. You just can’t deny something like that. “I must let my love of puce be free!!!”

I said I was just wondering… welcome to my twisted mind.

 

You know how everyone always complains about all the other people on airplanes? We all do it, even if it’s just in our heads. “I don’t want to talk…” “Can’t someone make that child be quiet…” “Do you really have to get up that often?” Just yesterday I returned from a business trip to Houston, and on the return flight, they informed us that it would be a full flight. I had the aisle seat (3 seats to either side of the aisle configuration) and there was a gentleman sitting in the middle seat. Window seat was empty. Anyway, everyone had pretty much boarded and the flight attendant came on and said that they were going to check for empty seats. Middle-seat guy immediately changed to the window seat (which I would have done too.)

They bring this adorable …elderly… lady (she does not like the term “old”) to sit in the middle seat. We didn’t really talk at first. Window-seat-guy ordered two bottles of red wine, I had a beer, and the lady had a Coke Zero, no ice. She was doing her crossword, and then she dropped her pen. I asked if she would like me to get it for her, and she said “Yes” and thanked me. Then, she mentioned my iPad (SEE how long it took me to mention I have an iPad! That is SOME restraint!) I started to explain it to her, and window-seat-guy chimed in, and a nice discussion started. Okay, I’m changing names for their sake, but window-seat-guy is French (for real) and I will call him Pierre. Lovely lady will be named Charlene, and she is flying out to help with her older brother, who has recently had a stroke. (Things look good for him, though.)

In a 3+ hour flight that would usually seem much, much longer, I learned:

Pierre:

From the south of France. Many siblings, a Design Engineer, travels a lot, early 40’s, has a girlfriend (he’s sorta settling down, but doesn’t want to get married. Again.) Had a wife years ago but was too young to get married. Likes red wine, doesn’t care that he still has a French accent, but really doesn’t “know” the French people as he’s been away so long.

Charlene:

Lives in South Carolina, has a son and daughter but lost her husband un-expectantly (obviously) when he was 27, so she raised the kids on her own. Was a teacher for 20 years, then became a flight attendant, along with her daughter, and traveled the world. She’s 80 years old, and she’s been having a bad week. She plays tennis, and takes a dance class once a week (they dance the Shag! Squeee!) and she hurt her knee playing tennis. She has a job – she drives the beer cart on the golf course (it has red & white striped awning) and delights all the people she meets and serves. And, she has a boyfriend. She met him while she was drinking coffee. He plays tennis and likes to dance too.

Finally, a few choice comments that were made:

Charlene: (After Pierre ordered his 4^th bottle of wine) “You’re not driving, are you?” Pierre responded – “Oh no! I have a limo service picking me up.”

Charlene: To Pierre – “My brother-in-law is a Design Engineer, and certain things really bug him. Like, a loose thread on a shirt. What really bothers you?”

Pierre: “When the tag on the back of a woman’s bra is sticking up.”

Charlene: To me “He really IS French, isn’t he?”

Charlene: Pulling out a ziplock bag of cashews…”I’m going to share with you, because you are my friends.” (Pierre kept asking for more pretzels from the flight attendant.) Then she said “I’ll have you know, I don’t normally dine with strangers.”

Charlene had to give us both a hug when we were deplaning. I waited with her to help her get her luggage, which had been checked at the gate, and then walked her to where her son was waiting. That was one of the best 3+ hour flights ever.

Sooo, my parents called because my mom has a new Nook e-reader, and they needed some help getting it up and running. Oh, my dear lord. It started out well, with me guiding my step-dad through the process. Then, it went downhill. Like a bobsled out of control on a freakishly icy day. We’re all trying hard on this process (mom was in the background, giving assistance) and really would like to get this whole thing done, and done correctly, but it is descending into something completely different. After many “Do you see the little icon of the ‘Shop’ function on the bottom screen? No? Okay, then. Let’s try shutting it down completely” it became apparent that this would not be a task swiftly accomplished.

This went on for awhile (and seriously, was totally amusing to me) until we finally ended up Skyping via video so that I could see what they were seeing. Then, the Nook (on their end) would disappear from my view, and I would be left with fielding comments like “The screen just went black….No, wait…now it’s back. What do I click now?”

“Um, I can’t see the screen, really…just a corner of your desktop monitor.” (I think mom was manning the camera, so-to-speak, but I’m not sure.)

“Okay, it’s asking for the username and password.”

“Enter the username and password that you picked.”

“Well, I can’t get to that field. I just have the keyboard thingy here.”

“That first letter is a capital.”

“Oh, crap. I’m just fat-fingering it and these keys are too small.”

We finally got it activated, and I thought I had exited my Skype session, and then I said “Oh My God, that was hilarious.”

Mom: “I can still hear you!”

Me: “Bwah!!! That’s too funny.”

I disconnect the camera, etc. and say “There, that should do it.”

Mom – AGAIN: “I can still hear you!”  She had to say it through her giggles.

Yeah, and I’M helping THEM?

Some time back, I purchased a shower caddy thingy from one of those bathroom/bedroom chain stores. It is attached to the tile wall of the tub, and it has 3 containers with nice big push buttons on each container to dispense the shampoo / conditioner / liquid soap. Each container comes off the mounting for refilling or hurling across the room. See, they don’t really work that great. Sure, it dispenses your liquid(s), but it dispenses the most “liquidy” part first. You end up with a ring of fairly solid conditioner surrounding a sinkhole of nothingness. Which will eventually force you to scoop out some of the more solid parts once it will no longer dispense,  but still has product in it. I haven’t been using them for quite some time. I also was ignoring them using my Tried & True “If I don’t acknowledge it, it doesn’t exist” mentality. Finally, yesterday I thought, “Ya know, you should at least clean them out even if you aren’t using them.”

I rinsed them fairly well (I thought) and then put them in the dishwasher. I can’t see the dishwasher from where I sit on the couch, and I thought it sounded a little more… gurgily?… than usual. Still, I didn’t get up right away. When I DID get up, this is what I discovered.

The good news is that the loft smells like freshly washed and conditioned hair. And clean hands. I think I’ll get a rabies shot. Just in case.

Happy Mother’s Day

 

This is the post where I go on and on about my mom. Because she deserves it. (I figure, “Hey, you don’t have to read this if you don’t want to.)

 

 

I have to say that the best thing about my mom is that we are friends. Really, great friends. Time and time again, I have gone to her with issues and problems that I am facing, and she always has an answer. Not necessarily a solution, but more of a shoulder to lean on. She does what a mom is supposed to do; she supports her children and family, and still manages to maintain some sort of Zen being about the whole thing. I know it can’t be easy. We all have different needs and different relationships with our parents, but mom always knows how to deal with each of us, I find. My four sisters (count them, there are FOUR) also love my mom the same way that I do. It doesn’t matter that two of those sisters are related through marriage. It just is. My mom and my step-dad (I hate that term, by the way) have always done their very best to make us all a family. And they have succeeded.

 

This is a bit of a rewind, because it feels important to share. My mom used to have long, beautiful hair. I loved her hair. I remember being in the backseat of the car when mom announced that she was going to cut her hair. (And, who could blame her, with two young children at the time to take care of.) I started to cry. For some reason, I had associated a lot of my mom with how she looked, and I was afraid of the change. Turns out, she’s beautiful no matter what her hair length is.

 

I just Skyped with her today, and I love the ability to do that. We laughed, and talked, and joked like always. Then, it was time to sign off. The last thing I heard her say? “Doug, I don’t know what to do with this.”

 

I love you, mom.

That is a photo of yours truly, during my first year of college in the early ‘80’s. I had never used hair products beyond shampoo and conditioner, and then I made the unfortunate mistake of getting a “body wave” during my senior year of High School. Yeah, that’s when we all discovered my natural curl. I looked like a deranged poodle. Anyway, I went off to college in the big city of Minneapolis, and soon really, really needed a haircut. My friend took me to this high-end salon that his friend owned, and they asked what I wanted done with my hair. Since I just wanted the perm/”body wave” gone as much as possible, I hadn’t focused more than that on my desired outcome. The salon owner handed me a GQ magazine (I had never seen one before that) and told me “Pick out something you like, and we’ll see if we can do that.”

 

I selected a picture of what I thought was nice looking, and he said “Yep, we can do that.” After much pampered cutting and fussing, I was introduced to hair gel. You have to understand, this was the EARLY ‘80’s. Practically nobody even knew what hair gel was. The best part of all? They did the whole thing for free! Hey, I was a starving art student, in practically the literal sense, and I jumped at the offer.

 

Anyway, hair gel was expensive in those days. At least, for me. It was then that I discovered the cheap alternative. Dippity Do. Slather some of that on, and a brief spritz of Paul Mitchell “Freeze & Shine” (the more expensive stuff) and I was set. So was my hair. I once had an instructor ask me, two hours into class, “Is your hair EVER going to dry?” Heh. The only drawback to Dippity Do is if you use too much, and your hair is bleached/blond, you could end up with slightly tinted pink hair.

 

If you were really broke, and it was wintertime in Minneapolis, you could go outside with damp hair and it would hold for at least a little while. Hours later, it just melted and fell.

 

Looking back, I still think I did the ‘80’s proud. For the most part.

“So, I’m not sure, because I haven’t made it past the catacombs yet. Follow me, there is this switch I have to flip with my Electrical Element power.”
“Which one is me?”
“That’s you, on the right. You’re blue and I’m purple. But it is hard to tell us apart. Okay, zapping the switch now. You do not want to KNOW how long I was trying to flip the switch, using my Freeze Element instead of Electrical. Gah!”

“Okay, now you have to use your Poison Element to get rid of the vines.”
“Which button do I hit to choose my Element?”
“That one. No WAIT… that’s Fear. You need Poison.”
“Okay. How do I trigger the Poison again?”
“That button, there.”
“Cool.”
“No…. leap back up on that platform. You have to be right in front of the vines.”
“Dang it. How do I fly, again?”
“Press the ‘A’ button repeatedly.”

“This enchanted forest sucks.”
“Haven’t we been here before?”
“At least eight times. I know we have passed that moss-covered rock before.”
“Where the hell is the hermit?”
“Well, he’s a hermit. I’m guessing he won’t be easy to find.”
“Wasn’t there something about finding writing on the wall? WAIT…. Is that the letter ‘A’?”

“It says we can swing from the chain while climbing. Have you seen a chain?”
“No. Where the hell is the chain?”
“I don’t know. Hey, what if it’s that thing that is…. chaining us together?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Okay, you climb and I’ll try to swing.”
“Where are you swinging to?”
“As if I know! I was stuck in the catacombs until you showed up.”
“Well, just try to swing then. I’m climbing.”
“COOL!!!! I just did a loop-de-loop! Okay, right. Calm down, it doesn’t appear that there is a time limit on this thing. Swinging to that platform now.”

“Do you remember where the boat is?”
“Wasn’t it near the ramp?”
“Where the hell is the ramp? Oh, crap. I don’t have my orb.”
“You DON’T HAVE YOUR ORB? What did you do with it?”
“I don’t know!!! I know I had it when we flipped that switch for the logs in the river.”
“Okay, we backtrack until we find your orb. Remember, the boat is on THIS side of the river.”
“Near the ramp.”
“Which has proven SO EASY to find.”
“There’s my orb, right by the switch! Told you where it was!”
“Yeah, well, just don’t drop it again. I say we fly back to the boat.”

“Do we repair the catapult first, or try to destroy the Siege Tower?”
“I think we have to protect the catapult, and then destroy the Siege Tower. Then, we repair the catapult and launch it.”
“Which side of the switch are you going for, left or right? Hey, where am I?”
“That’s me, over there. See, I’m leaping about.”
“Okay, let’s repair. RUNNNNNN… we have to launch quickly.”
“They’re still attacking. They’re really vicious.”
“Well, crap. Now we have to escort the Friendly Mole back to his seat on the catapult. Then, repair it. Then, launch it. Then destroy the second Siege Tower.”
“I’m out of green. Again.”
“There are some crystals over here, follow me.”

“My thumbs hurt. Break?”
“Oh, totally.”

I had so much fun with Twisty here, and we got to play Xbox. It just went far too fast.

Jamesy and Twisty, at her birthday party

I’ve been involved in a recent web of trickery and deceit. I can admit it now, since it’s all out in the open. It’s always been difficult for Twisty (my younger sister) to have a special birthday. She’s a New Year’s baby, as is one of my dear friends. Do you know how hard it is to plan something special for someone, when their birthday is the first day of the New Year? So not easy. In our younger days, everyone was either hung over or still trying to find their shoes. Or their way home.

I did manage to throw her a surprise birthday party once, but it was the weekend AFTER her actual birthday. So, I think I’m a bit excused for my recent deceptive behavior. Neither one of us could afford to fly home for Christmas this year, and that was hard for the whole family. Plus, this year was a big birthday for Twisty, and she knew I was coming to visit her for that. What she didn’t know was that our parents were going to be there weeks earlier than their annual trip, a day before her birthday. We had a plan, mom and I had it all mapped out. They would drive down a few weeks before expected, and arrive on December 31st. There was an agreement to tell no one, since that would be just more reason for either one of us to accidentally blow it. Then, The Diller (my older sister) said to me on the phone, “Mom and Doug are going to be there, aren’t they?!” Okay, my ability to lie is like my ability to bowl. It’s either a strike, or a gutter ball. Anyway, I hissed to The Diller, “If mom EVER finds out that I told you, she will have my hide.” The Diller wanted to come and surprise Twisty AND the Parental Units. I agreed that this would be awesome. Unfortunately, The Diller ran into the same high-priced airfare that Twisty and I had, and couldn’t make it. Here’s how it went down with Mom & Doug arriving:

The scene: Twisty and I, in her town home, playing Sega Saturn, which I had brought as a gift to her. (WHAT? I have to play up my part!) Twisty’s phone rings:

Twisty: “Hello?”
Parental Units: “Hey, Happy Birthday! Guess how cold it is in South Dakota! Lie…lie…lie.”
The scene: Doorbell rings…
Twisty: “Jamesy, get that….it’s probably a delivery.”
Jamesy: Answers door, it’s the Parental Units, as expected…mom on the phone to Twisty inside. “Hey, TWISTY… it is a delivery, but they need a signature!”
Twisty: “Okay, here… talk to mom.”

Heh. They were on her front porch with Santa hats on. And then, we had a get together the next day at the Legion, and lots of family and friends turned out. I would like to think that Twisty had a great birthday, and it seems like that’s the case.

My New Year’s resolution is to only lie if it’s for a good cause. Hey, I don’t feel like I broke that one last year!

So, today has been one year since I had to have Gigi put to sleep. I’m finally writing a tribute to her, in a way. Partly because I am no longer in so much danger of bursting into tears thinking about the loss.

Her full name was Genevieve, pronounced in the French manner, from what I understand. Sort of “shawn-vee-evv” as opposed to “jen-a-veeve.” It’s my cousin’s name, and I always thought it was really pretty. I got her because sister Twisty had recently moved to the Bay Area, and couldn’t wait to get a kitten. A coworker of hers had a cat that had a litter, and they were available for adoption. Twisty got Felix, and then called me and said “There’s only one other black cat in the litter, and it’s a female.” I went to check it out, and she came home with me. As if I could have resisted this little ball of fluff. (They said the kittens were 6 weeks old, but we were suspicious because they were so small, and momma kitty was not taking care of them.) In the end, it didn’t matter.

She was potty trained from the day I got her, and I have to say that it was fairly amusing watching her have to do kitty-pull-ups to actually get into the litter box. She’d flip over the edge, a little puff of litter dust would go up, and then all you’d see was this tiny little tail moving around. Her little poo’s were so small, they fell through the strainer at first. She may have been small, but she was a certified spitfire.

Everyone told me that she would calm down after she got fixed. So not true, in her case. She leapt up on top of the door, as she was wont to do, and I actually said “If you tear out your stitches, I am NOT taking you back to the Vet.” She just looked down at me, from on high.

One day, Twisty called and said “You’re never going to believe what Felix is doing. He’s fetching like a dog!” “Really?” I replied, and balled up a piece of paper and threw it. Sure enough, Gigi ran to get it and brought it back. There began a very amusing, and sometimes (often) tiring game, of “Fetch With Gigi.” One of her favorite things to fetch was cigarette butts. And no, I’m not proud of that. I had to start either emptying the ashtrays all the time or covering them up. I have a picture of her, walking across the floor, with a cigarette butt in her mouth. Filter end in the right way too.

Probably her best “feat” was turning on one of the gas burners of the stove while I was at work. I walked into the apartment thinking “Wow, it’s really hot in here!” while she wailed and meowed at me more then usual. Yeah, flames shooting in the air from the burner. Not only did she turn it on, she turned it all the way to High.

Thereafter, my stove looked like I had bought it at a flea market or something, as I had to remove all the knobs.

She slept with me like a person, always on the right-side of me, with her head on a pillow. I so miss that. But, I am not looking to get another pet at this point. As a fellow pet owner at work said, “You just don’t want your heart broken again.” And that really is the truth. I feel fortunate to have been a part of her life, as she was part of mine. I miss you, Gigi. And I’m stronger now. I’m only crying a little bit at this point, but I’ll never, ever forget you and what you meant to me.