Bless Your Heart, Tramp

by Celia Rivenbark

  I just wanted to buy a birthday card.

  But have you ever tried to walk into a card shop, march up to the “birthday” section, pick one out, and pay for it in under five hours?

  It can’t be done. Your office will dispatch a search party and there they’ll find you, elbowing the person next to you, saying, “Read this one.”

  Part of the problem is that there is a greeting card for every imaginable condition.

  It was hard to find a plain birthday card because I had to wade through cards labeled, “We’ve Just Broken Up,” “Secret Pal,” “Secret Pal—Identity Revealed,” “Now That You Know I’m Gay,” and I suspect somewhere in there, “Surprise! I’m Your Secret Pal AND I’m Gay.”

  There were separate cards for golfers, joggers, bridge players, cyclists, computer nerds, insurance salesmen, lawyers, single parents, and People Under Stress.

  There was even one category labeled “I’m Glad You’re My Doctor.”

  Personally, I think $200 for a thirty-minute office visit is thanks enough. Believe I’ll skip the card.

  And, speaking of doctors, there’s a card labeled “So You’ve Had A Hysterectomy.”

  As usual, it’s okay to have cards like that for women, but don’t hold your breath for the male equivalent: “So! Your Prostate is the Size of A Buick!” Or for the man who has had a vasectomy, “Because You’re Shooting Blanks…”

  It’s comforting that greeting card manufacturers can help those of us who have trouble, you know, uh, well, saying stuff that, you know, says stuff about feelings and stuff.

  Take the “We’ve Just Broken Up” line. On one card there was a long-winded ode to the “beauty of a relationship that was tender but not forever.”

  Excuse me, but don’t you think it’s a little strange to break up with someone and then send them a goony card with rainbows and unicorns all over it? I prefer a more direct approach: “Because you dumped me, I’m gone go up side your haid!”

  And what of the bizarre category of cards labeled “Thanks for Covering for Me.”

  Who do you send this one to? Your buddy who lied to your wife and said you were playing pool at his house instead of hanging out at Hooters quaffing pitchers and wearing the Hooter Girls’ orange shorts on your head?

  What’s the thinking behind the “Marriage (Special)” section, which contained a card that read in part: “Our marriage may not be exactly like everyone else’s but that’s okay.”

  What does this mean? Is one of you inflatable?

  If you take a look at greeting card sections, you’ll discover friendship isn’t as simple as it used to be. There are many tiers of friendship: Friend, College Friend, Special Friend, Friend in Need, Bowling Friend, Lifelong Friend, Wonderful Friend, and Sorry I Haven’t Written Friend.

  This last might be one to buy if you’ve been out of touch because you’re still steamed that the last card you got was a Friend card and you really thought you were more of a Wonderful Friend.

  Or it could be you haven’t written lately because you’ve been too busy writing your dogs and cats. There are actually greeting cards for “My Wonderful Cat” and to “My Friend’s Dog.”

  The day I start mailing cards to my cats is the day I’ll deserve to be on the receiving end of one other category of card I saw: “Now That You’re In Therapy.”

  Congestion in the Cold Aisle

  Those of us wandering the cold/pain relief aisles at the drugstore had the same wretched, red-nosed look.

  The man beside me was nearly in tears.

  “I just want something to make me breathe easier at night,” he said.

  My own cold made me greet this partner in suffering, this soul mate in sinusitis, with sisterly love.

  “Outta my way, whiner, I got problems of my own.”

  About a half dozen of us stood there in our winter coats, each clutching a box of tissues.

  Even that purchase wasn’t easy for a male friend facing an agonizing array of tissues.

  He said he’d picked up the first box he saw—blue Puffs Plus in a boutique box—and headed for the cash register when he saw the display of Kleenex MAN-SIZED tissues—white in a masculine, oversized brown box.

  Suddenly, he felt ashamed of the little blue floral print tissues in his hand. His whole sexual identity was in question.

  It is hard for men not to equate bigger with better, and Kleenex knows this. It’s the Hungry Man frozen dinner theory run amok. And don’t even ask about Magnum condoms. Like any man is ever going to tell the pharmacist, “No, no, regular’s just fine.” No Southern man, anyway.

  Marketing wizards know this stuff. My friend bought the manly tissues, puffed out his congested chest, and left the store walking tall.

  Back on the cold/pain relief aisles, there were many decisions to be made, all by people with fevers high enough to melt the ice in Dick Cheney’s heart.

  I had a sinus headache so the first stop was pain relief. Choices included Extra Strength and Maximum Strength (is there really a So-So Strength?), nighttime and daytime, caplets, coated caplets, enteric (who knows?), buffered, aspirin-free, with sleeping aid, without sleeping aid, effervescent, liqui-cap, caffeine-free, with cream and sugar, thin crust or hand-tossed…

  The words on the labels began to swim before my eyes. I moved on to the cold pills thinking that would be easier.

  So far, the only thing that was sure was that the little section labeled “suppositories” would be ignored.

  The cold and flu subsection was even more confusing. Did I have a cold with “flu-like symptoms”? (Well, technically speaking, yes, if flu-like symptoms include chills, body aches, and persistent delusions that I am Mrs. Doubtfire.)

  Was a regular, maximum-strength, or SEVERE cold formula called for? Severe isn’t a word normally associated with a cold. Severe is for weather or third-degree burns or that suit with the medals on it that former Sugeon General Joycelyn Elders always insisted on wearing. No one responds “severe,” when someone asks how her cold is.

  In fact, nine out of ten Americans respond to “How’s your cold?” with “It sucks.” So there should be an It Sucks cold formula.

  Was it a cold influenced by not only the dreaded flu-like symptoms or was it sinus influenced? Another decision. Did I want Co-Tylenol, Co-Advil, or Co-Dependent Tylenol and Advil for the dysfunctional cold sufferer?

  DayQuil promised relief of sinus pressure and congestion, but so did Chlor-Trimeton and Tavist-D. They couldn’t all be telling the truth, could they?

  How often did I want to take this stuff? Every four hours, six, twelve, twenty-four? I was leaning heavily toward Contac, which boasted Severe Cold and Flu Maximum Strength Continuous Action for Adults. Most adults would love continuous action. The Contac ended up in my basket and almost made it to the cash register. But wait! Almost forgot the cough syrup.

  One bottle bragged about “added expectorant.” What is that? Sounds like something apt to stick to your shoe.

  Life used to be simpler, of course. The solution was Bayer Aspirin, Vick’s Vap-O-Rub, and chicken soup. Today, it’s Bayer Select Aspirin in head cold, chest cold, head, AND chest cold, flu, and nighttime varieties; Vap-O-Rub is available in menthol, regular, and edible for kinky types; and chicken soups come in wide or flat noodles with regular or free-range chicken.

  It’s enough to make you sick.

  Fun with Realtors

  A friend has been trying, unsuccessfully, to sell her house without using a real estate agent. The house is adorable, what agents like to gushily label “a dollhouse! An absolute dollhouse!”

  This sort of high muckety-muck real estate terminology is one reason real estate agents warn that, just like the guy demonstrating the Porsche in the desert at 160 mph on TV, you should never, ever attempt to do this yourself.

  I couldn’t agree more. I don’t think it’s right to try to sell real estate until you’ve officially joined the coven and drunk the blood of a newt.

  Just kidding. That part was take
n off the license exam months ago.

  Real estate agents shrivel like a slug in salt at the sound of the word “fizzbo,” which stands for FSBO, which, for you real estate-challenged, means “for sale by owner.”

  Plenty of folks plant a sign in their yard that says “FSBO,” then go back in the house to watch Wheel of Fortune, blithely waiting for the offers to pour in.

  Sure, if they’re successful they’ll save the six percent that usually goes to the real estate agent who seals the deal, but who needs the grief, the aggravation, the unwashed masses tromping through your “dollhouse! absolute dollhouse!” asking all sorts of intrusive questions like, “Eight of you really live here with just one closet?” and pointing and laughing at your dorm-room decorating style?

  No. No. If people are going to laugh at my furniture I want them to have the good taste to do it behind my back.

  Personally, I think you should always use a realtor when you’re trying to sell your house.

  I was trying to figure a way to concisely convince my friend of this and came up with a list of the “Top Ten Reasons You Should Always Use a Real Estate Agent to Sell Your Home.”

  10. Big hair favored by women real estate agents provides handy storage areas for extra sales contracts.

  9. Agents undergo rigorous training enabling them to utter the words “handyman special” without breaking into uncontrollable laughter.

  8. Gold jacket worn by Century 21 agent goes nicely with Autumn Harvest appliances that remain.

  7. Fun to gather family around and watch neighborhood toughs steal cell phone and CD changer out of realtor’s big fancy car while parked in front of your house.

  6. Nice to watch agent’s face fall when told children developed useful third eye after playing in “the big foamy ditch out back.”

  5. Let agent have unenviable task of explaining to prospective buyers that mildew is actually considered a delicacy in some Middle Eastern countries.

  4. Using realtor assures you will receive at least two Christmas cards every year, including other one from “All the Guys at Biff’s Texaco.”

  3. Telling agent that “of course” you won’t be home when prospects are coming over, then springing out from behind door at them in your underwear for real icebreaker!

  2. Fun to switch “take one” brochures in box in front yard with recipes for your Aunt Doozie’s Famous Spam Casserole.

  And the Number 1 reason for always using a professional real estate agent to sell your home:

  Watching agent squirm when she realizes her suggestion to “fill house with potpourri and welcoming scents of baking bread and simmering cinnamon” mistakenly heard as advice to bake husband’s dirty basketball socks in oven.

  Now. Isn’t that kind of fun worth a piddling six percent?

  Thought so.

  Home-shopping Blues

  A couple of days home from work with the flu convinced me that the QVC home-shopping network is more addictive than crack cocaine (which QVC’s head hawkster Kathy could shamelessly sell for “just $188.98 for a solid rock of crack cocaine available in four Easy-Pay installments of just $47.25 per month”).

  Getting hooked on QVC isn’t something you plan, of course. It’s just that you can only watch Passenger 57 so many times before you realize maybe those premium channels weren’t such a great buy after all. So you surf. And what to your bloodshot eyes should appear but Judy, QVC’s morning gal!

  Home shopping networks use words like “gal” a lot. It’s a Yankee word. Southern women never, ever use the word “gal” to refer to their women friends. “Y’ole slut” is preferred by the bad rural perm set and is spoken with the utmost affection.

  Despite their obvious Yankeedom, it’s hard to channel-flip away from Judy and Kathy and the rest of the gals.

  I found myself staring open-mouthed at the lozenge-cut amethyst bracelet that Judy described as having “a lot more oomph and guts than your average amethyst bracelet.”

  Does the average woman demand a lot of guts and oomph from her bracelets? What is she talking about? Who knows? Who cares? Where’s my telephone?

  QVC’s star attraction is the perky, pixie-cut Kathy, who recently sold 1,000 bottles of Rochas perfume in six minutes by babbling about how “way back in the time of Cleopatra, people were into camouflaging one bad smell with a good one. But back then, you had chickens sitting around the kitchen for three days!”

  Too bad you didn’t have a bracelet with the guts to go out there and do something about that smelly chicken.

  Perhaps the most addictive part of QVC is the viewer call-ins. Typical was Doris of Parkersburg, West Virginia, who greeted Judy with a mushy “I love you!” They chatted about Doris’s upcoming forty-seventh anniversary and Judy’s parents’ fortieth and, before I knew it, I was ordering the Diamonique pocketbook pendant watch with the 122 handcut Austrian crystals ($39.95) ’cause Judy said I should.

  Judy said the necklace and matching earrings would “prove to others that you are making a strong statement that you are a person who enjoys accessorizing.”

  I used to think strong statements should be reserved for deeply held philosophical and ideological convictions. But does it really matter that much where I stand on the moral and social questions of our day? How do I feel about capital punishment? Who cares? I’m a person who enjoys accessorizing, toots. Eat my filigree Diamonique.

  As I watched QVC from the old sickbed, I became numb and number. All those designer scarves, all those thunderbird motif Southwestern-designed feathertone pseudosilver pendants and all that insightful commentary from QVC hostesses, like this describing onyx earrings: “Black is a color that some people think is very, very, well how can I describe it? Dark! Yes, it’s a very dark color. That gets darker the longer you look at it. You might even say it is a very serious, dark kind of black shade with permutations of really delicate and fine darkwork.”

  QVC “gals” can sell a tenpenny nail by describing it breathily as “just so elongated and elegant in a silvery-toned way that is just so incredibly versatile and statement-making with its round, orb-like top and its very sharp and angular bottom, the tenpenny nail, gals, item N-one hundred fifty nine gazillion…”

  Going back to work was difficult. I missed my friends at QVC who had seen me through a time that was, well, kind of dark blackish in its statement. Or something like that.

  Drowning in the Jury Pool

  With trembling hands, I opened my first ever jury summons. This was terrifying. How could I sit in judgment of my fellow man when I have trouble deciding what flavor of Instant Breakfast to mix with milk every morning?

  Eggnog or chocolate malt? Gas chamber or thirty to life?

  The last time I’d been in a courthouse was to pay a traffic ticket and then I—honest to goodness—had to wait for some loser wearing a Snoop Dogg T-shirt to ask the judge for “four quarters for a dollar so I can get a soda.”

  I brainstormed with my friend, Ben, who’s an expert at these things. We decided I should try any of the following to get out of jury duty:

  1: Tie—and retie—a tiny hangman’s noose while being questioned by both sides.

  2: When asked my name, leap to my feet, point my finger to the heavens, and shout: “I am the arm and sword of the Lord. Woe betide he who disobeyeth me!”

  3: Chant “Acid is groovy, kill the pigs” under my breath while others in the jury pool are being questioned.

  4: Have Domino’s deliver a hundred pizzas to the judge then laugh uncontrollably when they arrive.

  5: When asked my views on capital punishment, smile stupidly and say, “I don’t know. I’ll have to ask the little man who lives in my pants.” (This may have worked better for Ben.)

  Armed with my list of excuses, I dressed for jury duty: sensible shoes, a small purse with change for the parking meter, a simple blue dress, and an Indian headdress.

  The day dragged on and my name wasn’t called.

  They’d already dismissed the man who “heard voices
” (hopelessly unoriginal) and the woman who said the defendant looked too much like Regis Philbin to be taken seriously.

  Finally the word came down to the pool: the defendant had agreed to a plea.

  “That means you can all go home,” the bailiff said.

  Know anybody who could use four dozen miniature hangman’s nooses?

  Stupid Bumper Stickers

  Aren’t you tired of those bumper stickers that say “My Child Is An Honor Roll Student” or “My Son Makes Straight A’s at Bigstuff Academy”?

  Just once, wouldn’t you prefer a little bumper-to-bumper honesty?

  “My Son Makes C’s and D’s But Does Lots of Extra Credit” or “My Daughter’s Just Getting By.”

  I really loathe “Proud Parent of a Terrific Kid!”

  Why not a bumper sticker for the unlucky parents, something like: “My Fifteen-Year-Old’s In Detox and Not Speaking To Any of Us” or “My Kid Robbed a 7-Eleven and Is in a Center for Youthful Offenders.”

  Let’s get rid of all those “heart” bumper stickers, too.

  One passed the other day that said “I (heart) my wife” (convenient since you married her and all) and, on the other side, “I (heart) my German Shepherd.” I sure hope Bubba doesn’t get confused and take his wife out for Alpo and buy fancy nightgowns for the dog.

  Why not something brutally honest? “Yes, I Sleep With My Secretary” or “I Get My Kids Every Other Weekend But I Don’t Enjoy Them”?

  Some bumper stickers tell you more than you want to know about the jerk on board.

  Like: “When You Take Away My Gun You’ll Have To Pry It From My Cold Dead Fingers.”

  Why not just say, “I Am A Deeply Disturbed Individual With A Callous Disregard for Human Life” or, simpler still, “Postal Worker.”

  There are certain truisms in the bumper sticker world. If you see “Think Globally, Act Locally” or Visualize World Peace” you can safely assume that person brakes for roly-poly bugs.