Ever see that Temper-Pedic mattress commercial that demonstrates how you can have all kinds of action on one side of the bed while on the other side your partner sleeps soundly and unmoved?
There’s a thirty-something couple, both wearing long-sleeved silk pajamas. While the man sits cross-legged on the left side of the bed, his wife is on the right, vigorously jumping up and down like a ten-year-old who just checked into a motel. Between them sits a glass of wine, standing rigid despite the woman’s spirited leaping.
I’ve heard of some kinky peccadilloes before but this one is pretty unusual. What exactly is the climax? She eventually knocks the glass over? Somebody drinks the wine? He too joins in the jumping and they eventually chest-bump? They call the 800 number shown on the screen and ORDER NOW, taking advantage of the 30-day money-back guarantee and 50%-off shipping charges?
That would be really weird.
I was accused recently of being “anti-bag” and it had nothing to do with Helen Thomas.
The occasion was our weekly trip to the organic grocery store. We were running low on some socially conscious foods, and I was particularly interested in a piece of ecologically sustainable chocolate cake I had spied the day before.
In the interest of environmental responsibility, this chain encourages customers to bring their own grocery bags. They’ll sell you a reasonably priced reusable “Envirobag” that looks like it’s made of plastic but can’t be because it has “enviro” in its name. They also keep a stash of boxes near the checkout to put your purchases in. They’ll provide you a paper grocery bag as a last option but you’ll be charged five cents for it, which is collected for a neglected children’s home. All good stuff.
My wife and I have several of the Envirobags. She keeps hers in her car and I somehow always leave mine at home. I was driving this particular afternoon and as we walked across the parking lot, Beth asked the question that deep down inside she already knew the answer to. “Did you bring the bag?”
No, I had to admit, I didn’t bring the bag.
“Why are you so anti-bag?” she asked.
“I’m not anti-bag,” I protested, trying to spin my position into a more positive context. “I’m pro-not-buying-more-than-I-can-carry-in-two-hands.”
When we finished shopping, we stopped at the bloodmobile to make our regular donation of the gift of life.
Beth has been donating blood ever since college, and was recently recognized by the Red Cross for giving enough to fill an oil tanker. She got me in the habit several years ago when I was discovered it was relatively painless, that I got to brag to a stranger about all the overseas destinations I’ve visited, and that there were free cookies involved.
We were first in line this particular day, and were escorted off to separate private cubicles to answer all the embarrassing questions they need to screen out the large population of syphilitic lepers Rock Hill is known for. I haven’t done as much international travel as I did at one time, but it’s still been less than three years since I’ve been to Sri Lanka, so I wrote that down. The nurse came in to review my form.
“You’ve been to St. Lanka?” she asked.
“Sri Lanka,” I corrected. “I didn’t go outside the capital and last time I donated they said that was okay.”
She reached up on a shelf above us and pulled down a large three-ring binder, filled with maps of every nation. The maps apparently show which areas are civilized, and which are disease-ridden hellholes, even worse than South Carolina.
She leafed through the plastic-covered sheets and asked, “Did you say Panama?”
Fortunately, it was another healthcare worker who took my blood, rather than this geography-challenged woman who might’ve attempted to tap God-knows-what for blood.
We were soon done and out of the van, heading back to the car. I know that if I bleed out, get fully transfused and repeat the procedure a dozen times that I’ll never catch Beth in the amount of blood extracted from my veins. So I thought instead I’d engage her in a little friendly competition on the subject of the mini-physical they give you as part of the screening.
She soundly beat me in blood pressure (I was 131/82 compared to her 120/80) and narrowly edged me in pulse, by a score of 75 to 77 (like golf, a low number is better). That left only two categories for me to achieve at least a draw. I won the hemoglobin/hematocrit competition (something to do with iron, I think) with a cool 16.7. This meant the body temperature would decide the championship.
“Let’s see you beat 98.7,” I said confidently.
“I was 97.7,” Beth said. “I always register a little lower than normal.”
“Hah! It’s a tie then!” I crowed.
Except that’s not how she saw it. Rather than counting closest-to-98.6 as the best score, Beth contended that the lower the temperature the better. Something to do with burning off calories more efficiently.
“So the healthiest person in the world, temperature-wise, are those frozen explorers who made a failed expedition to the South Pole?” I asked.
Tired of me and my stupid games, she conceded the argument, giving me one point and an excellent chance to emerge from Group A if I can come up with a respectable effort against Serbia and Algeria.
Despite the 90-degree heat we had last weekend, I still found time for a bit of my favorite yardwork — removing mushrooms.
This is the one opportunity I have during the summer to combine sport with landscape maintenance. I break out the 9-iron, pretend that our city-issued refuse bin is the 18th hole at Pebble Beach, and lob shroom after shroom in a soaring arc, right into the can.
At my age, I take my fun where I can find it.
By the way, it’s not too late to suggest a name for the emu that escaped from a farm near here a few weeks back, and gave the local newspaper feature writer a much-needed topic for a slow news day.
The unidentified emu cavorted on city streets for several hours before being corralled by its owner. Locals got a big kick, as well as a few nasty lacerations, trying to wrassle what they thought was a giant chicken into submission.
Now, a month later, the emu is back at its home awaiting whatever fate this unusual type of farm animal is destined to face. (Do you eat ‘em? Wear ‘em? Melt ‘em down for fuel oil? Hell if I know). And the feature writer has decided he can squeeze another story out of the subject, so he’s staging a “Name that Emu!” competition.
Go to heraldonline.com to place your vote. And no fair choosing Emily — that’s my submission.
Looks like another “staycation” for me this summer. I’m taking a few days off in July to set up a lawn chair in the median strip of I-77 to watch the cars speed by, then in August I’ll be climbing into my dryer with a scented fabric softener to simulate a flight to Europe.
Not that anybody needed confirmation, but you could really tell last night’s Tony’s were a second-rate awards show when they got to the who-died-last-year montage. While faces of press agents and last Ziegfeld girls flashed by to mournful music, the audience was, like, whuh? Finally a vaguely recognizable face like Rue McClanahan would appear and the crowd offered a smattering of applause, figuring that’s about the best it’s going to get.