I’ll Be Back

“Thank you for calling ‘First Impressions P.R. Inc.’ how may I direct your call?”
“I would like to speak to Skip Chatterly please.”
“Who may I say is calling?”
“Dan D. Lion.”
“Ok, Mr. Lion, I’ll see if Skip is available, please hold.”

“Skip here, who’s there?”
“Dan.”
“Hi Dan, what can I do for you today?”
“Well, Mr. Chatterly, I am the President of “Floral Order of the Taraxacum Officinale.”
“The what?”
“Commonly known as the Dandelion…you know the bright yellow flowers that pop up every spring and bring beauty and glee to millions and millions of people.”
“Dandelions…they are weeds in my yard…pesky little buggers, I can’t get rid of them.”
“Precisely the point of my call Mr. Chatterly. Our numbers are legion; our radiant splendor makes even the blandest plot of land glow in gold tones under the springtime sun. We have been much maligned over time and we would like to hire your firm to give us a new image.”
“A new image Dan?”
“Yes, Skip. We believe that with the proper branding and an effective advertising campaign the Dandelion could and should be more popular than the highly over-rated rose. Think about it Skip, you lop of a roses’ head and it takes weeks for it to recuperate, fragile little wimps. Whack our heads off and we are back in your yard within hours in even stronger numbers and more determined to survive than ever. We are not only lovely to look at, but we are also useful. Our leaves are edible, our blossoms are medicinal and we make a delicious potent potable that could leave W. C. Fields speechless. What does a rose have other than hips?”
“I get your point Dan, but my father-in-law owns a flower shop and I believe that taking on your account might be a conflict of interest. I would not want to upset my wife or in-laws. Surely, you can understand that, right?”
“Remember, Skip, I know where you live in that Taupe Ghetto in Suburbatory with the manicured lawn. My friends and I can make life miserable for you and your haughty neighbors. Think about it Skip. Mull over the options and I will call tomorrow for your final answer.”
“I leave you with a quote from the best actor to ever live, Arnold Schwarzenegger,
I’ll be back….and back…..and back….and back…and back….and back….and back….

THE END

Computer crashed,

Nerves are mashed,

Dreams are dashed,

Where do I go from here?

 

Walmart is cruel,

Especially at Yule,

I am back in the primordial ooze.

 

An amoeba am I,

As I earnestly try,

To understand the 12 year-old Sales Clerk.

 

On Gateway, on Acer, on HP and Dell

Just pick one already

And get out of this hell.

 

The Myans were right,

The END is in sight,

Credit  WINDOWS 8  with my destruction !

 

The Minutia in Life

 

“What ya doing?” my older Brother, J.J. asked as he stood in the door of my bedroom.

“Nothing.” I said

“Well you look stupid.”

“Well, you look stupider.” I sassed as he spun around to leave, nearly knocking over my 6- year old Sister, Chibby.

Then Chib took her turn in my doorway, “What ya doing?” Her ability for original thought had not fully developed.

“Nothing, I’m doing NOTHING….OK?” Then I heard my Mother’s voice,

“What’s going on in there? I told you no fighting today. I mean it…No Fighting. Supper is almost ready, get washed up.”

I clearly remember this scene as I look at a picture of my bedroom from 1960. I had just turned 8-years old a week before the photo was taken.  My gifts that year were a blue and white blouse, a new baseball glove, a new bedspread and a feather duster. The feather duster was my Mother’s subtle reminder to keep my room clean.

I was sitting on the floor leaning against the side of my bed, legs straight in front of me. Reggie, our collie was stretched out the full length along my right leg with his chin resting on the feather duster. He thought that was the best toy ever; his own bird on a stick. It was just after Thanksgiving and the aroma of turkey still linger in the air. It was just beginning to snow as a Johnny Mathis record played on the stereo in the living room.

I remember thinking as I sat there looking out my window, “This is the best day of my life. Everybody is home, I have a new blue and green bedspread and a better baseball glove than my brother. Reggie is warm and we are going to have leftover turkey sandwiches for dinner.”

Cherish the true beauty found in the minutia of life.

Taboo Christmas

Most of my fondest Christmas memories are a product of revisionist history. Truth is, the more orchestrated and planned the holiday, the farther it lands from the mark. We dream of a picture perfect, Currier & Ives Christmas, but most likely experience an episode of Family Feud. People only live up to the script in Fairytales. Nonetheless, some of the best surprises happen in the off-script, improvised moments.

My Mother was big into “Theme Christmases.” One year she decorated the tree and garlands with silk red roses and gold beads. I must have been in 4^th or 5^th grade and my older brother, J.J. was in Junior High. He was deeply in love with our neighbor girl, JoAna Massey. Jay saved his allowance for weeks in order to purchase a mega-sized bottle of Taboo Perfume for his love’s Christmas gift. Since the bottle was so large, J.J. thought there was more than enough perfume to share. In an effort to help my mother with the “Rose Theme Christmas,”  J.J. proceeded to soak each silk rose in a bowl of Taboo to make them smell realistic. Our house reeked of a French Whorehouse for months. To this day, I can detect a person wearing Taboo within a three-block range.  I would love to have my Christmas recollections scented with gingerbread and pine needles, but alas, in my nasal memory, TABOO is the Rule of the Yule…..Tide.

CONSTIPATION

 

No alteration concerning constipation.

An abomination of bowel procrastination

 Painful exasperation and considerable consternation

A subject not fit for polite conversation

 A true equalization of the population

 For everyone has experienced the limitations of CONSTIPATION.

No Verbs Allowed

An unusually warm day in Mid-November and a left-over Halloween Hersey’s Kiss on car seat. Broken alarm clock, early Church duty, cream-colored Sunday Best Slacks…Oh My Goodness…. Sweet Cheeks !

The Saving Grace of Words

 

In my early childhood, our family did not regularly attend church. My parents both had “9-5” day jobs but they also had a Dance Band that played for functions throughout the state on Friday and Saturday nights. Usually they would not get home until well after midnight on Saturdays, so Sunday morning sleep time was a necessity.

One of my best friends was Marsha Mack, whose family was deeply religious. Her father would read Scripture selections aloud before each meal. Therefore, when I ate at Marsha’s house, which I did quite often, I heard all about Jesus, and how He died on Calvary.

Being an avid TV Westerns fan, I naturally thought that Jesus, being in the Cavalry, wore a Dress Blue uniform, with shiny black boots, gleaming sword and pearl handled pistol, just like Chuck Connors in “Branded.” I remember asking my Mother if Jesus was killed by the Indians. Shortly after that day, our family became regular churchgoers. I credit Chuck Connors and Marsha Mack with my conversion.

Sleep Study

 

 

 

Hole In The Night.

They erroneously refer to it as a “Sleep Study” test. Why erroneously…because during the test, sleep is last thing achieved. This is the test given to people suffering from sleep disorders such as apnea.

The test is conducted in a controlled environment. In my case, the location was our local hospital.  As instructed, I checked into the facility at 7:00 pm and taken up to the 3^rd floor Sleep Study Lab.  My technician, Jennifer gave me a pile of forms to complete and said she would return in a few minutes to “Get me ready.”

One of the forms contained 30 questions about my normal sleep habits and my frame of mind after a full night of sleep. The problem with these questions is that I rarely, if ever, get a full night of sleep…hence the reason I am taking a Sleep Study Test. The questions were…

Do you feel sleepy while listening to a lack-luster sermon in a hot chapel two hours after you have had a big breakfast?

Do you have trouble staying awake while doing a mind-numbing task at work?

Do you get sleepy riding in the back seat of a chauffeur driven up-scale car, on an Autumn evening, snuggled in your favorite sweater, with your loving puppy sleeping on your lap and classical music playing softly in the background while on a trip across Kansas?

WELL SHOOT…..EVEN HEALTHY SLEEPERS WOULD FALL ASLEEP UNDER THOSE CIRCUMSTANCES!!!

Jennifer, returned as promised and began to glue 32 electrodes all over my head.  She also rigged me up with a 12 lead EKG set of wires and a microphone taped to my right cheek (face cheek that is). She then told me I could watch TV or read until I was ready to go to bed and sleep.

At home, I sleep with my beloved puppy Zoey at my side, the TV on the History Channel or C-Span, five puffy pillows and my favorite fluffy Blue Blanky…non of which was allowed during the study. The possibility of sleep that night was as likely as Donald Trump needing an Assertiveness Training Course.

At 11:00 pm, I informed Jennifer that I might as well try to go to bed.  She came in, held all the wires in place as I slid beneath the sheets and placed a mask over my mouth and nose for the CPAP machine. If you’ve never seen this contraption, it is the human equivalent of an elephant’s trunk. Jenny informed me that she and two other technicians would be monitoring me all night through the wiring, the microphone and three cameras. Then she turned out the lights and wished me a good night.

At that moment, I wished, with all my might, that a hole in the night would appear and  that I could magically fly through it back to my humble little home and my precious Zoey.

60

 

 

How is it possible,

It is so improbable,

But ultimately unstoppable,

I’m going to be 60.

 

60 is a speed limit, or minutes in an hour.

60 are days in two months or the stories in a tower.

But 60 simply can’t be my age.

 

Who’d have  guessed us Boomers would live so long,

After all we drank and smoked, partied and did bongs.

Our “Use By” date is past due…This Is Just Wrong.

 

My music is Oldies, my Neru Jacket is moldie,

My hands and feet are coldie and I’m due for

A colonoscopy.

You Call That Breakfast?

 “Hello, Hospital Nutritional Services, do you want to place an order?”

“Yes, this is Beranski in ICU# 3, I would like some breakfast please.”

I had not eaten a thing for two days due to my surgery. I swooned for the commanding strength of a hot cup of black coffee; shear ambrosia.

“Yes, Ms. Beranski, I have your chart up in the computer. When was your surgery?”

“Saturday.”

“Have you moved your bowels yet?”

Even though I was still in the fog of post anesthesia, I found that question a bit off-putting. One would never be asked that at the Russian Tea Room.

“I think so.”

“What would you like to order?”

In my opinion, there are precious few “stand-alone” foods; these have no need of assistance from spices or other provisions to make them perfect. One such food is bacon. What begins as a wilted sliver of pork, dances and cackles in the skillet, becoming  a perky ribbon of gastronomical bliss, and the ideal colleague for eggs.

“I want two scrambled eggs, bacon, well done and a cup of coffee, please.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, you cannot have that.”

“OK, an English Muffin with strawberry jam, a banana and coffee.”

“No.”

“Alright, French toast, fruit cup and coffee.”

“NO.”

“OK, let’s take another avenue here… how about you tell me what I can have.”

“Cream of Wheat, plain, or Quaker Oats, plain. No coffee, decaf tea only.”

“What about a glass of orange juice?”

“NO.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have a big mess of Quaker Oats with a morphine chaser.”

“We will get that right up to you Ms.Beranski, and thank you for calling Nutritional Services.” (as if, I had a choice of caterers to call.)

Breakfast arrived within the hour. Carrie, a lovely young lady from the kitchen staff, placed the institutional green tray on my bedside table. As she lifted the metal covering from the bowl of Quivering Quaker Oats, a single puff of steam made its escape toward the ceiling.

“Boy, that steam is sure anxious to get of there.”

Carrie laughed, “Yeah, this stuff looks disgusting, but it doesn’t taste as bad as it looks.”

“Thank goodness for that. I will need some utensils.”

“OH, Duh…I’m sorry.” Carrie reached in her pocket and retrieved a napkin with the utensils.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Oh, that’s a ‘Spork’….you know, spoon / fork. We use those with the runny foods. Do you need any help eating?”

“Only if you’re willing to swallow this for me.”

“You’re so funny…no thanks, I had my breakfast already. Bon Appetite.” Carrie chuckled and continued on her rounds.

As the first sprok-full of gruel passed my lips, I was transported back in time to a Dickensoinan workhouse with Oliver Twist. But unlike him, I would not be asking for MORE.