Saxon Bennett's Blog, page 6

THE IMPORTANCE OF TEETH

“I know how important they are,” I told Layce. I slurped coffee through a straw. I couldn’t feel my lips and my tongue felt like it was two sizes larger than normal. I had just spent two hours at the dentist. Being the multi-tasker that I am, I got a crown followed by a teeth cleaning.

I wouldn’t recommend doing this to anyone including people I find annoying.  I realize going to the dentist is a first world problem but it is still torture.  I do want nice teeth but the mental, physical and fiscal toll is a bit much.  Dentists must rank up there with IRS officials. We don’t like them but they are necessary evils. If we didn’t pay taxes we couldn’t flush our toilets or drive to the store on roads.

“How much was it?” Layce asked as she pulled a can of soup out of the cupboard.  Whatever we were going to have for dinner it wasn’t happening now.

“Eight hundred and sixty five dollars,” I replied. “Which included the cleaning.”

“A veritable steal,” she replied. I was pretty sure that was a facetious comment.

“Except I’d rather buy a new winter wardrobe, a flat screen TV for Emma, take a weekend vacation or just about any other fun thing I can think of,” I said. “Why is that? I mean I chew a lot so you’d think that I’d be ecstatic about crowns, fillings, cleanings and a complimentary toothbrush, floss and toothpaste but I’m not. I feel abused.” I slurped more coffee. My lips still had difficulty wrapping around a straw.

I thought back to the fun and games I had at the dentist’s office. Like being asked questions that I can’t answer with my mouth pried open without sounding like a gorilla communicating with the rest of her tribe. Why do they do that? Is it amusing to ask someone what they’re having for Thanksgiving dinner?  The answer sounds like “uh, goo ha herky aaa ah potaaathohs.” Do the techs and the dentist take a linguistic class in patient-with-mouth-full-of-equipment speak?

Next was the “Tell me if this hurts,” or the “How are you doing?” questions. Well, first off how am I going to do that when you’re drilling which sounds like the noise torture in the Clockwork Orange movie? Next question—how am I doing? I am having so much fun I can hardly stand it. Can’t you see my clenched fists and white knuckles?

Then there’s the quandary of whether I should close my eyes or keep them open? Am I being rude for closing them? Does that indicate I don’t want to see the dentist’s pores, moles or nose hairs up close and personal?

And finally the what-do-you-do-with-your tongue conundrum. I evidently have a very curious tongue. It wants to be wherever the action is. I try to tell her this is dangerous but she won’t listen. It’s amazing to me that after a dentist appointment I still have a tongue. Evidently dentists also take a class in how to deal with tongues.

The best part of a dentist appointment is leaving—except that I have to have another dentist appointment. I sigh and resolve myself to future torture. When I get home I know I’ll admire my new crown—not.  The silver lining is that I don’t have to have a root canal because I’m being proactive. Somehow that doesn’t sound like a consolation.

Okay, when I think of it at least I’m not teething, having regular visits from the tooth fairy and looking like a vampire because I’m missing my front teeth.

 

AN APPLE A DAY

Does not keep the doctor away. I eat apples every day. I make Layce eat apples every day and she’s not fond of them. We have one of those special kitchen devices that cut apples into six perfectly formed pieces sans the core. We are apple people. Here’s the story of how apples did not save me.

I went for a blood test. I did this despite the fact I am needle phobic. In the past I have vomited. I have nearly fainted. I have veins that collapse. The upside is I always pass the blood test with flying colors—good white cells, good cholesterol, good liver stats.

The nurse called to tell me I have elevated liver enzymes, high cholesterol and my hypothyroid meds needs to be increased. I wanted to study the lab work—that’s what the internet is for. I went in and got my lab work. I highlighted the areas of concern and then spent two hours on the internet methodically researching possible causes.

Then the nurse called an hour later. “Oh, I forgot to tell you the doctor scheduled you for an ultrasound of your liver.”

Did I mention I ‘d been to the hospital three times in the same week? The check-in woman said to me “Wow, you’ve been here a lot this week. Are you feeling poorly?”

“Not untiI I had a blood test.” My nerves were shot at this point. My liver? I haven’t had a drink in 6 years. That is what you get for cleaning up your life. My liver decided it’s not feeling well.

The liver ultrasound started with the tech asking me if I have a gall bladder. “Last time I checked.” I did get to look at my insides, including my heart. One’s insides are interesting. “Can I get a copy of that?” I figure people get pictures of their baby ultrasounds—I want one of my liver. No go. The doctor gets it.

The nurse called later that afternoon. “You have a tumor on your liver.” Pause. “It’s not cancer. It’s benign. You’ll have to have a CT scan of your liver,” she added.

I got the bag of apples out of the fridge and went out to the back yard. I am no softball player but I pitched them over the fence.  Then I tromped back in the house and began to put my affairs in order.

I can’t eat or drink for twelve hours—this means no coffee. I sniffed Layce’s coffee before I left for the hospital. The x-ray tech was wearing those toe shoes that made him look like a playtupus—his toes were all prominently displayed. He got out the needle to put the dye in so my liver tumor will show up in Technicolor—that’s when the blood bath begins. He felt around for veins. He crinkled his brow and made his decision. The super-sized needle went in for the kill. There was a big poke and a heavy sigh. I made the mistake of looking over. There was this tube thing in my arm and it was leaking blood fast—as in all over the table, his fingers and my arm.

Another tech came in. “You need to cap that,” she said. I thought, uh, yeah before a vampire comes along for a snack. She gave the needle a try. More poking, more sighing. “The vein keeps collapsing.” She tried again. Another big poke another failure. “Let’s go get Sonya.” They both leave and so do I.

I got as far as the waiting room before they caught me. I had bloody fingerprints all over my arm and the vein still had the cap thing in it and I was still leaking. After the people in the waiting room have seen me, I’m thinking there might be a mass exodus. Yeah, Charles Manson is back there my wounds seemed to say.

“We’ll give it another try. It’ll work this time,” they told me. They weren’t exactly preventing me from leaving but Playtupus Man was guarding the door. “We’ve brought in the expert,” he said.

I agreed to go back in. My $120.00 co-pay was part of the incentive. I got back on the table. The expert came in. “Which arm do you want to use?” she asked.

I looked over at the bleeding one that Playtupus Man was wrapping up and Tech 2 was trying to wipe the bloody fingerprints off of. “Okay, let’s try the other one,” Tech 3 said. Another big poke, another sigh. “She needs a blanket. She’s cold and it’s affecting her veins. They keep collapsing,” Tech 3 said to Tech 2. “Go get her a blanket. And I think we need Betty. She’ll be able to do it.”

Tech 4 came in. She studied my whole arm, my hand and finally settled on a vein just above my wrist. “Make a fist.” I did. The vein got bigger. I’m pretty sure it was an over achiever like all the blood in my body was going to this one vein so we can get this whole thing over with. It worked. The dye went in. The CT scan took less time than the blood bath. I left the x-ray department with a few residual bloody fingerprints and three blue gauze Ace bandages on my arms.

When I got home, I walked into the office where Layce was writing about zombies. “How’d it go?” She took one look at my arms and the bloody fingerprints and pulled her T-shirt over her head. I heard her gagging. “Wash your arms and put on a long sleeve shirt. I can’t look at it.”

So much for spousal support. All I could say was, “It’s a good thing you weren’t there.”

“Here, have an apple,” she said, tossing me one.

TO STRAIGHTEN OR NOT TO STRAIGHTEN

I glanced at the pile of books on the end table. They weren’t doing anything other than being books but they were askew. I contemplated my next move. I wanted to straighten them so bad. My hand inched in their direction.

The books taunted me saying, “I bet you want to line us up, corners to corners, all tidy like. Do it, you know you want to.”

Then the coasters started in. They weren’t sitting right next to each other. One was on one side of the end table and the other was diagonal to it. The coasters should either be stacked or lined up even with each other.

“Come on, just straighten the books and the coasters, it’ll make you feel better. You’ll sleep better. You’ll be in a good mood in the morning when you come downstairs and all is as it should be,” my brain said.

“This is your fault,” I told my brain. “You are turning me into an OCD person. Is that what you want?” I said, straightening the books and the coasters.

“There is nothing wrong with being neat,” my brain said.

“This isn’t about being neat—this is an ever increasing obsessive behavior hence the Obsessive in the acronym OCD. I was putting the throw pillows on the couch in order of height and slanted at a 45 degree angle. I stepped back to check my work. Perfect.

“Are you coming to bed?” Layce called out from the bedroom.

“Yes, I’ll be right there,” I told her.

I’d moved onto the kitchen. I couldn’t possibly leave those dishes in the drying rack.

“See, now I can’t go to bed without tidying up the already clean kitchen.” I put the dishes away and got the dish cloth out and wiped the counters down again. “We’re moving into the Compulsive part of OCD. I can’t go to bed without doing this or I’ll lay awake berating myself for not doing it,” I told my brain.

“Who are you talking to?” Layce called down.

“My brain. It’s acting up again,” I said.

“Well, tell it that the Disorder part is now affecting my sleep patterns.”

“Oh, my God, she knows,” I told my brain. “See, it’s become more than apparent. People are noticing it.”

“Just come to bed,” Layce said. “Even OCD deserves some rest.”

“I do not have OCD,” I lied. Then to prove my brain wrong I walked over to the books and messed them up. I flicked one of the coasters so it was uneven. “Hah, take that,” I told my brain.

I climbed into bed and kissed Layce good night. I laid there. For exactly three minutes. I sat up. “I’ll be right back,” I told her.

To straighten or not to straighten, that is the question, and I know the answer.

The Luddite

First time I saw the word Luddite I thought it was a religious order—you know like the Mennonites or the Amish. I looked it up and discovered it was me. This story is not about me–thus I revel. This afternoon Layce came into the room to tell, bemoan, complain, and fret over her computer’s insistence on having two home pages.

“Welcome to my world,” I said. She glared at me. “I mean I totally commiserate with you. I swear computers, especially one’s new to the family, are awful at first—like a baby with colic. And then there’s all those cookies and cake things that a brand new computer has to go out and get.” As you can tell I have no idea what I’m talking about, but I’m trying to be empathetic.

“Ugh,” Layce said.

I couldn’t resist this moment to gloat. I know it’s wrong but it doesn’t happen very often that Layce’s tech skills are thwarted. She can figure out most anything—except her new computer and its new evil operating system Windows 10.

“See, it’s not fun when your computer goes rogue and messes with your head and your patience,” I said.

She got defensive. I think she was embarrassed that Windows 10 was getting the best of her. “Like you have any room to talk. You kicked your computer once,” she said.

“I didn’t kick it exactly. I set it on the floor after an exacerbating session of misbehavior on the part of my computer and gave it a love tap. With my foot.”

“No, you kicked it. It was definitely a kick,” she said. She chuckled. I was glad to see her sense of humor returning. “You know what I did one time? I threw my printer out the window.”

“Yes! I’ve always wanted to throw something electronic out the window in an act of unbridled rage. Actually, I have revenge fantasies about sending my computer or the printer out the second story window and watch it hit the ground, it’s motherboard exploding upon impact, the keyboard and screen splattered all over the ground.”

“Gee, you haven’t thought about it much,” Layce said.

“Well, maybe a little. I have a lot of computer issues as you are well aware of. Now, tell me about the printer.”

“It acted up for the last time. I got up, wound the cords around it so I wouldn’t trip on them, opened the window, removed the  screen and tossed it out.”

“Wow, that was not an act of spontaneous anger. That was pure premeditation. You had time to think that through. You could’ve stopped yourself at any one of those steps beginning with winding up the cords.”

“I know. I went out later to check on it and brought it back inside.”

“Because you wanted to dispose of it properly, not leave it out in the yard so the house looked trashy?”

“No, I needed to print something.” Her face was deadpan.

“Did it work?” I asked incredulously.

“Yep, worked fine after that.”

“Maybe electronic abuse works. Maybe they just need a firm hand to teach them who’s boss. Wanna try it on your new computer?”

“No!”

“Then I wouldn’t let that two home page thing bug you too much.”

THE NECESSITY OF MAPS

Emma is in the ninth grade—high school. Yesterday she came home with a map. This school is large enough to need a MAP. That concerned me. Why a map? Are the classrooms part of treasure hunt like an Indiana Jones kind of the find your way through the jungle for a prize at the end.

“Map?” I said, as Emma laid “the map” on the kitchen bar.

“I have to get from here to there,” she said running her finger from one quadrant to another on the opposite side of the school. “Really fast because the teachers get peeved if you’re late.”

“So the teachers are sticklers for punctuality. I like that. I don’t like when people are late. It annoys me. I’m with the teachers on this one.” I studied the map. The school was big. There were hallways like streets going through, cutting across and some dead-ends. It resembled the arrondissements in Paris.

“Did you time how long it took to get from here to there?” I inquired.

“No,” Emma said.

“You need a stopwatch so you can time it and better that time each day by trying different routes until you find the shortest and fastest way to get to each classroom.”

“I was thinking I’d go this way then turn here…,” Emma said. She traced her finger over her route.

I interrupted her. “We need a highlighter,” I said, and reached for one from the pen jar. “Okay, draw it out for me.”

Her pen was poised.

“Stop. Do you only have this one copy?” I asked.

“Yes. They give out one per student,” Emma said.

“I can’t believe how much of our taxes go to paying for school and you only get one map. What if you lose your map? Then what? You’re going to be late to class. The teacher will be peeved. You’ll get bad grades which affects your ability to go to college, which affects your opportunities for fiscal advancements. So you see have not having a back-up copy of the map can affect your entire future.”

“I’ll go make more copies,” Emma said, heading off to Layce’s office.

“Make 31 copies. We’ll keep the original in case we need to make more copies.”

Layce came out of her office. “Why does Emma need 31 copies of her school map?” she asked, holding one corner of the map with careless abandon.

“Be careful with that, it’s the only one we’ve got.”

“So?”

“You want her to be a success, right? She can’t be late for class or her entire academic life will be jeopardized.”

“That doesn’t explain 31 copies of the same map.”

“We need to get her a stopwatch so she can time her various routes and ascertain which way is fastest. Each day we’ll chart the route and the time. At the end of the month, which is why we need 31 copies, she’ll have figured the best route and she’ll move onto having a charmed life.”

“I’ll just walk really fast,” Emma said, as she retrieved the one and only copy of the map.

“We should get her a pedometer that way we can see how many miles she walks, then we can calculated the numbers of calories she’s burning and adjust her nutritional needs,” I said, to a now empty room.

Geez, these people have no sense of gravitas. I called out, “Don’t lose the map.”

From the depths of her bedroom, Emma said, “I won’t!”

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THE BOX

Every year when I go home I acquire stuff. People give me stuff and it won’t fit in my suitcase so I mail it. Yes, I use snail mail because with a Priority Flat Rate box I will receive it in 2 to 3 days. Usually, I do. But not this time. This box contained Emma’s birthday present and one of my at-home-private-lesson quilting projects of which I was most proud.

I waited 2 days before checking the tracking number 17 times. My mom had sent the box on Monday because I left too early to do it myself. I made her promise to send it that day. She did. I made her pinky swear. She did. I made her promise to call me with the tracking number. She did. She called that afternoon to report she had completed her mission.

Day 3 the package had not arrived. I checked the tracking number 36 times that day. Layce kept eyeballing me. “It’s going to come,” she said.

“How do you know that? Is there another online site I should try?” I said, checking the tracking number for the 37th time.

“No, there isn’t. I’m just saying your box might be on the slow train but it’ll eventually arrive. They call it snail mail for a reason.”

“So what are you saying? I shouldn’t be concerned that my box is lost. It’s full of important things, irreplaceable things, things that I hold dear. It’s out there somewhere in the ether and not on our front porch where it should be. This is serious.”

“I realize that but it’s only been 3 days.”

“I don’t think you do. I mean where is it? The tracking number says it arrived at site and then it never moved again.”

I called my mother. “I sent it. I swear. I pinky swear,” she said.

“It’s not you. It says right here on the tracking number that you mailed it Monday morning at 9:48. It says it was picked up from the post office at 4: 45 and arrived at the plant at 5:10. And then the trail stopped.”

I don’t think my mother knew why I called to tell her this. I called because I needed my mother’s empathy and security to get me through this crisis of the lost box. If I lived in the same town, she’d hug me and I’d cry. Sometimes, a girl just needs her mother.

On day 4, I checked the porch every hour. No box. I hadn’t yet got to the point of harassing the mail carrier. I was once a mail lady so I knew how it felt to be hounded about a missing package. She would say, just like I did, “I’ll keep my eye out for it.” Which is impossible. This line might work on an unsuspecting innocent but not on a retired letter carrier. The mailing plants are enormous. My box could be anywhere. Anywhere except my porch.

On day five, I took to the phone. I called every number I could find—submitting myself to endless phone trees. When it comes to the government these phone trees are like the Black Forest in Germany. Finally, I reached Pakistan. I got the answer I most dreaded. It was lost but now it was found—sort of.

“It got misrouted and now it’s back in Spokane,” the nice phone lady said. “You’ll get it next week, I’m sure.”

This relieved me—sort of. “If it got misrouted where did it go? Was there something wrong with the address that made it get misrouted? Can you check and see what the address is?”

She put me on hold seven times and then I’m pretty sure she misrepresented the facts. She told me they had a camera and took a picture of the box label but they couldn’t read it. It might have had something to do with all the clear strapping tape I’d covered the box in so I bought her story. I rechecked the tracking number for two more hours.

On Saturday the tracking number said it had arrived at the Tahlequah post office. I did a happy dance. Layce, who I think was ready to murder me, sighed with relief. Or I’m pretty sure it was relief. She had told me more than once that she was sick of hearing about THE BOX. So it probably was relief.

At 11:26 on Saturday we were on our way to Tulsa. I spotted the postal vehicle driving through our neighborhood. I fingered the car door handle. Layce wasn’t going over twenty-five MPH. If I leapt out right now how bad would I get hurt?

Layce glanced over at me. “Do you want to stop and check with the mail lady?”

“Yes!”

The mail lady had the box! I got in the car and clutched it to my breast. “I am so relieved. You can’t imagine,” I told Layce.

“Oh, I think I can,” she said.

NOTE FROM LAYCE: Saxon Dearest, If I hear one more thing from you about this box, I’m going to lose it. I have lived with ‘The Box’ for over a month now and it’s time to let it go–capish.

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OPPOSABLE THUMBS

What if dogs and cats had opposable thumbs? I spent one whole day researching opposable thumbs. No one in my family found this odd. God bless them.

I will begin with the cynical side of having of dogs and cats having opposable thumbs. Would we turn them into serfs and house slaves? With thumbs dogs could vacuum, dust, and mop. Would this be their permanent lot in life? Would their only allowable career be as a Merry Maid?

And what about cats? Would they permanently be cleaning bathrooms now that with thumbs they could hold a sponge? Getting down and scrubbing the tub because their height would be perfect for removing the ring of god-knows-what that every bath tub has. Bathroom mirrors and vanities would prove no problem. Pulling the Windex trigger would pose no trouble with a thumb.

How about laundry? Nobody likes doing the laundry. Just because cats have thumbs and they can fold underpants and t-shirts doesn’t mean they should have to. Or how about the cruelest thing of all— cleaning out the microwave? Would we give them protective eyewear? Would OSHA care? I can see an industrial accident in the making. Would they be protected by a union?

Now in a Panglossian world, the lives of dogs and cats with opposable thumbs would be radically improved—beginning with civil rights. This might take a while, as history has shown, but it is possible. What if the human race recognized the beautiful souls of dogs and cats? What if they had souls capable of writing great literature now that they could hold a pen or use the space bar on a computer?

Or creating lithographs of cans of cat food or paintings of gardens filled with squirrels waiting to be chased. Perhaps Martha Stewart line of 1000 thread count dog beds or a Patagonian line of outerwear.

Dogs would come up with time saving inventions now that they could use power tools that would free humans from banal chores and provide more time for long walks on the beach. Would the Patent Office recognize their applications for these inventions?

What if they could hold political office now that they could shake hands? I’m certain they would eradicate homelessness—human and animals. No dog, cat or human would live a lonely life. They would be social workers and care givers and even therapists as they have long been good listeners with a built in sense of empathy.

They could be financial wizards who believed in profit sharing and fiscal ethics now that they could use an Excel program. Or how about Nascar drivers now that their thumbs allowed them to grip a steering wheel? Have we ever considered why dogs sit in the driver’s seats when forced to sit in the car, except on hot days, because the world does not allow cats or dogs in businesses and restaurants. How would we feel?

They would change discriminatory semantics like “It’s just a dog or cat.” Really, would they ever say “It’s just a human?” Would they ever be that inhumane? Or how about being called a “beast?” clumped in with “beastly” behavior? I know they would put a stop to beast-aphobia. What about the sexism of females dogs being called “bitches?” What about that injustice? Have humans ever thought about how powerful derogatory language can be?

And lastly, bad behavior? Really a dog can’t jump or lick your face? It’s called dog love. After all, don’t we show them that we do that? Do as I say not as I do? I mean those slobbery kisses from relatives and teenagers just learning to kiss, isn’t that the same thing? How messed up is that? Separation anxiety? Peeing inside, don’t we do that?

So here’s to the dogs and cats in our lives. Maybe someday they will have thumbs and shouldn’t we embrace that? Let’s find our better nature.

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Saxon’s Spontaneous Day

I am not prone to spontaneity. I am a planner. I am a researcher of planning. I need prior notice of at least 2 days in order to engage in any activity.

Yesterday was a tentative new leaf for me. It started with Emma and me talking about a story I wanted to spontaneously write where three cocky teenagers wake up in the morning to discover they’re 55 and possess an AARP card.

“When they wake up and look in the mirror they scream. One of them is well endowed and discovers what all women discover—gravity,” I said.

“One of them has gone deaf from listening to his iPod so loud. He hears things wrong all the time,” Emma said.

“And one of them goes bald. His buddy tells him when they go back to normal to enjoy his hair while he still has it.”

I spontaneously decided I needed a new wheelbarrow. We went to Tahlequah Lumber to purchase it. Emma and I accompanied the sales clerk out front to get my wheelbarrow. It was red. I recalled a poem about a red wheelbarrow. I told Emma, “A red wheelbarrow reminds me of that poem by William Carlos Williams. Did you know he was also a physician? Just imagine if he’d been a gynecologist. He might have written a poem about…”

Emma clamped her hand over my mouth. “What?” I asked, my voice muffled.

We decided to check out Tahlequatics , the new water park in town. It was here that I reached the zenith of my  truly spontaneous day. “Let’s go get our suits and come back for a swim. My family seemed to ponder this like it was some kind of trick. “I mean it. We’ll just go for a nice dunk. I’m being spontaneous, remember?”

“I don’t know. Do we even know where the beach towels are?” Layce said.

“Of course,” Emma said. “Saxon packed them all up and put them in the beach bag along with the 75  SPF sunscreen at the end of last summer. She put it in the attic next to the Survival Bag.”

“Survival bag?” Layce asked.

“Yeah, the one that contains extra shoes, a first aid kit, bottled water, a map of the United States, a hundred dollars in small bills, thirty dollars in quarters, energy bars, canned goods, a flashlight, a condensed family album that covers the years 2000-2015, our passports and birth certificates, oh, and a whistle,” Emma said.

Good kid, she had perfect recall. I beamed at her proudly.

Layce threw caution to the wind and asked, “Why do we need a Survival Bag?”

“In case of a terrorist attack, a tornado or a dystopian government. We might have to make a run for Canada before they take Emma away and put all us gay people in internment camps,” I said.

“How much does this bag weigh?” Layce asked. She was evidently wondering how we’re going to run with such a heavy bag. Now, I knew she was on board with my running for the border plan.

“It’s heavy, but Saxon said that’s why people have children so they can carry the heavy things when their parents get old,” Emma replied.

We changed into our bathing suits and returned to Tahleaquatics. Layce made the pertinent inquiries—cost, hours of operations and the rules and regulations. The cashier told her someone puked in the pool. It would take approximately an hour to thoroughly clean it. Meanwhile I’d been standing there trying to figure out how come no one was in the pool. Was it some sort of 1960’s sit-in?

“We have to wait an hour until they get the pool cleaned up,” Layce informed us.

“Ask them how long ago the puking thing happened,” I said.

“No, I’ve already asked a bunch of questions,” she replied.

I walked up to the window. “So how long ago did the vomit incident occur?”

“Huh?” the kid at the desk said.

“How long ago did the puke-thing happen?” I rephrased.

The kid looked at the clock. “Thirty minutes ago.”

My spontaneous moment crumbled a bit. If I had planned for this we would have been less spontaneous and took our time changing instead of running around gathering supplies and flying out of the house. We would have arrived never knowing that the vomit incident had occurred. Instead, we’d rushed into it. I sighed. I didn’t have a contingency plan for public vomiting.

“We’ll wait,” Layce said.

We sat and waited. The air fairly crackled with anticipation. We all stared at the pool—waiting for the okay signal. My spontaneous mood was seriously falling apart at this point. If I had planned our outing this never would have happened.

Emma laid down on her towel so she was facing away from the pool. Smart, I thought. No sense staring at what one cannot currently have—it was a spontaneously good plan.

A boy walked by and stopped. “Are those your shoes?” he said, pointed to Emma’s Crocs.

Emma sat up and turned to him. “Yes,” she replied.

“Nice shoes for a pretty girl.”

Emma blushed. It was so cute. What a spontaneously romantic moment, I thought. “That boy is going to get a lot of tail. He already knows about women. He compliments her shoes and then tells her how pretty she is,” I said.

Emma stuck her fingers in her ears. “Stop.”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“Ugh,” she replied.

There was a loud whistle. The pool was declared safe. Everyone leapt in the water. My heart swelled, I was so filled with what can only be called spontaneous joy.

Maybe this spontaneous thing wasn’t so bad after all.

By the way this blog was spontaneously written.

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THE LADY BUG

Layce and I were going on a walk as part of our exercise program. We stepped out on the porch. She saw the stuffed animal—a lady bug—sitting on our porch swing. She looked at me and said, “Why is there a stuffed animal on our porch?”

“I’m jealous of the Eeyore lady.”  There is a house we walk by that has a stuffed Eeyore in the front yard. Eeyore moves around the yard every few days. One day he’s under a tree, two days later he’s on the porch and the next day he’s on a fence post. The moving Eeyore has become a highlight of our walks. I continue my explanation, “I think the Eeyore lady is really falling down on the job. Eeyore doesn’t move around as much as he used to. He’s been sitting on the bench for three days now. I’d call that slacking. I feel it’s my civic duty to take up the slack.”

“And you want to do this because?” Layce asked.

“Because I want to spread a little joy in the world.”

“How is having a large stuffed lady bug sitting on our porch swing going to accomplish that?”

“When we walk by the Eeyore house don’t we always look to see if she’s moved Eeyore? And aren’t we a little disappointed when she hasn’t?”

“Okay.”

“So I want to give the people who drive by our house a little chuckle before they go to work. Not everyone likes their job. We get to follow our joy by having a job we love—writing. See, when they drive by each day they’ll look for “Lady,” that’s her name, and see where we’ve moved her. It might be the highlight of their day.”

At that moment, Emma came out the front door and did a double-take at the lady bug. “Why is there a stuffed lady bug sitting on our porch swing?”

Layce looked at me and then at her. “Just roll with it.”

Emma said, “That doesn’t answer my question.”

I answered, “I’m spreading joy. Do you think we could put her on the porch roof as one of her daily locations?”

Layce sighed heavily and walked away.

“I think we can get her on the roof. We can tie a fish line around her neck and throw her up there then we can still retrieve her later without having to use a ladder, which you view as a safety hazard,” Emma said.

“That’s my girl,” I said proudly.

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MOTHER’S LITTLE HELPER

I never really understood the lyrics to that Rolling Stone song. I knew it wasn’t about a newfangled mop head or a Eureka pull-behind vacuum or the invention of Pledge. It’s about Valium.

This is my experience with Mother’s Little Helper:

I had been scheduled for an epidural. Now for those of you who have healthy backs and not in the know, an epidural is a big, long needle that is stuck through your back and into the nerves of your spine. The inflamed nerves that are causing leg pain and numbness are pumped with steroids to help with the symptoms that pinched nerves create.

Being needle phobic, even though I’m not exactly going to see the very long needle, I was understandably nervous. The doctor gave me a Valium prescription for two 10 mg tablets. He said take one when you leave the house and another when you’re half an hour outside of Tulsa.

By the time I got to the office I was three sheets to the wind. First off, we had a little trouble getting me on the table. I tried to put my feet on the stool so I could get up on the table. The stool seemed to have little stool legs that kept moving around. I had some trouble getting my feet on this moving stool.

The doctor’s assistant was a large guy and he picked me up and plopped me on the table. Then both of them, the doctor and his assistant, pushed me to the neck rest.

The doctor showed me the x-rays as he inserted the needle. It all looked like tinker toys with a pick-up stick going through them. He kept saying “Saxon, are you all right? Saxon, earth calling Saxon, this is Captain Kirk, can you hear me?” I was muttering and drooling by this time. I’d never been this high before.

Then it was over. The doctor and his big buddy managed to get me off the table and hand me over to Layce. They seemed to be smiling a lot—like they had some inside joke. I was released to Layce’s custody.

Layce stopped at Quick Trip to get us coffee and a snack for the ride home. All I remember was standing by the donut case…for a very long time. The sign on the case said they had kiwi-filled donuts. I kept looking, but they were hiding. Then a chocolate creamed-filled donut called my name. Then the kiwi one said, “Psst, I’m over here.” I decided to get them both. They seemed to need a good home.

In the meantime, Layce had gone to the restroom, got coffees and found me where she had left me—standing in front of the donut case. I was trying to get the little plastic bag open for a very, very long time. Layce took charge, opened the bag, deposited both donuts.

Next thing I knew I was in the car, my face covered in donut cream, and listening to songs that began with the letter “H” on my MP-3 player. Layce said I really got head-banging over Pat Benatar’s “Hell is for Children.”

“Did we pay for these donuts?” It suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t remember the cashier or any money passing hands.

“I got it covered.”

“Oh, good.”

I don’t remember much about getting home. I don’t remember reading half a book. I did take a nap in my recliner and about dinner time I was reasonably cognizant.

“Did I do anything stupid while I was a drugged up?”

“I’m not telling.”

I’ve been trying to reconstruct the scenario but it seems just out of reach. Call it a Mother’s Little Helper fog. Oh, I’d advise taking only one Valium at a time.

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