Head in the Sand ... and other unpopular positions

by Linda M Au

  This is a huge dilemma, the kind of dilemma someone like me—with no will power of my own and no inclination to borrow someone else’s—cannot bear for very long without dire consequences. Consequences like eating a Quarter Pounder and washing it down with a Starbucks Frappuccino, followed by a pack of Ho-Ho’s.

  Some days I fight the urge to yell, “That’s it! You’re all on your own!” and enact that declaration as house law for the next year and a half. But what kind of eating lessons would I be teaching myself if I could lose weight only when I have to cook for no one but myself? Easy enough when you’re single, but tack on a handful of teenagers with metabolisms running at twice the speed of light and a husband who never met a Hot Pocket he didn’t like, and you have a diet disaster in the making.

  Part of one diet group I recently signed up for involved a periodic two-day “cleansing” that severely limited my caloric intake and flushed my system by forcing me to drink their pre-made fruity-juicy stuff and eating some veggies and lean protein. At the time, this seemed like a good idea for jumpstarting a diet that had plateaued. And, aside from the pulse-pounding headaches and mind-blackening nausea I developed midway through Day One, it worked. Oh sure, I could have done without the flop-sweats and the LSD-like hallucinations, but you can’t have everything. In fact, on this diet, you can’t have anything.

  Plus, I have a feeling that any day now they’re going to modify that two-day cleansing plan into something like this: “Drink 45 glasses of water today and breathe only our bottled, purified air, available for $49.95. Breathing regular air may result in bloating, weight gain, indigestion, insomnia, and copious amounts of hair loss—but not necessarily from your head.”

  Be afraid. Be very afraid.

  And pass the Twinkies.

  Household Chores (a poem written in childhood)

  I helped my mother in the house,

  It gave me such delight!

  Until I found out soon enough

  I could do nothing right.

  We first cleaned up the living room

  And watched the vacuum clog

  Because I turned it up on “high”

  And then sucked up the dog.

  Next we cleaned the bathroom up,

  And, boy, I surely blushed

  ‘Cause Mother’s arm was still inside

  When I the toilet flushed.

  Next we ironed the wrinkled clothes,

  Which started out just grand,

  Until I set the iron down

  And burned my mother’s hand.

  I never do those household chores,

  Not since that day back then.

  Mom said she’d do those things to me

  If I ever “helped” again!

  What Happened in Vegas: A Diary: Part Four, Elvis Edition

  October 17, 2000

  Today is a great day if you find yourself bored at five-thirty p.m. Eastern time, have Internet access, and want something unique to do online.

  Come to the wedding chapel’s Web site and click on the LIVE webcast! There you’ll see Wayne and me renewing our wedding vows with Elvis!

  What better way to wind down a whirlwind and wonderful vacation than to experience something Vegas is known for? (No, not the buffets—we’ve been hitting those all week!)

  It is T-minus two hours till the limousine arrives to take us to the Elvis wedding chapel, and Wayne still doesn’t have a clue what’s about to happen. (That’s probably just as well. If he did, he’d have taken a cab to Arizona by now.)

  LATER:

  And look, I’m posting a picture of us in our nuptial re-wedded bliss … .

  Continued …

  Is Nyquil a Legal Drug?

  I had been sick with The World’s Worst Head Cold® (which was so bad I trademarked it) for over two weeks, which truly changed my outlook from I Love Life cheeriness to Let Me Please Just Die Overnight, Okay? Anything But This Incessant Coughing and Wheezing. Really, quite a change in personality for me, often talkative to a fault. In fact, when my throat hurt its worst, I sat next to Wayne, who was asking me something innocuous (as is his habit).

  I squeaked out quietly, “Throat … hurts … too … much… . I … can’t … talk.” In his usual droll fashion, he continued to stare at the TV, now playing another old episode of Alias Smith and Jones, and said simply, “Finally.”

  A few days later, just as I was getting better, he started sneaking the thermometer out of the medicine cabinet and getting up in the middle of the night to hit the Chloraseptic bottle. He obviously had a problem and needed an intervention. Unlike regular people, Wayne unscrews the spritzy top of the spray bottle and just chugs the stuff like a shot of cheap bourbon, gargling it loudly right outside our bedroom door—awakening even the mice in the basement—and then swallows it. The sound is more effective than the trays of mousey poison we put down near the fridge. (The trays have this blue crunchy stuff in them and look like little pet food dishes—almost cruel, really, except when you consider the alternative of mice crunching on the Cap’n Crunch in our pantry.)

  Where was I? Head colds. Wayne was now fighting off the cold I probably gave him. Probably? Considering I was sleeping in his recliner and preparing his dinner and doing his laundry for the two weeks I was sick, yeah, I’d say he got it from me. Anyway, he must know what a turn-on the mixed aroma of Nyquil and hand sanitizer is because he started dousing himself in both things like they were cheap cologne on a gigolo. I swear he uses the pump-bottle of hand sanitizer like body wash in the shower. Reminds me fondly of when we were first dating and he’d wedge a quart-sized pump-bottle of the stuff between the bucket seats of his car and use it before kissing me at the drive-in—back when we were middle-aged and foolish!

  Maybe I should let him suffer with that cold. He’s earned it.

  Water, Water Everywhere

  By the time I was thirty-eight, I had still lived a relatively sheltered life. I’d never gone streaking, never given blood (on purpose), and never slept in a waterbed. Then I married a man who owns a king-sized waterbed—and since then it’s been sink or swim.

  Getting into the bed is easy. Let’s just say “stop, drop and roll” works for more than just fire safety. But climbing out is a different matter. No amount of unladylike gymnastics or contortions can get me out of that bed gracefully. And the padded side rails aren’t good for anything except moral support. Or a rather unseemly dismount. Mary Lou Retton, I’m not.

  My husband’s quite used to sailing the seven seas at bedtime and doesn’t need to take Dramamine before docking himself at night. Plus, he’s fourteen inches taller than I am and—unlike me—doesn’t need a pool ladder and a life guard to get in and out of the bed. Meanwhile, on my side of the bed, falling asleep with loud sloshing noises in my ears does nothing for my bladder. So I wake up in the middle of the night and sway back and forth, trying to hoist myself over the side and onto the floor. The mattress, which is filled with more water than the Hoover Dam sees in a year, lurches to and fro and wakes him up.

  “Do you need a little push or something?” he mumbles from the inlet on his side of the bed.

  “No.”

  “Life preserver?”

  “No. Now go back to sleep.”

  “Wet suit? Rubber ducky? A copy of Moby Dick?”

  I ignore him and create a small tsunami trying to get out of the bed.

  “What are you doing over there?” he mumbles.

  “The breast stroke.”

  “Need any help?”

  “Very funny. No!”

  I don’t know whether to kiss him or drown him.

  “How can you get comfortable in this contraption every night?” I ask.

  “Easy,” he says. “You’re good ballast.”

  Drown him. Definitely drown him.

  The Bus Stops Here

  I’m sitting on a bench at the busway, minding my own business, trying to act like I instinctively know the bus schedule by heart and do this all the time. But, I know better. I k
now my Honda is in the shop and this is the first time I’ve taken the bus in decades. And now I need to maneuver my way via bus schedule and self-induced panic across town to the shop to pick up the car.

  While others around me are nonchalantly chatting or doing other things, I’m worried I’ll get on the wrong bus, or get on the right bus but get off at the wrong stop. I secretly remind myself to buy a better car, as soon as I find several thousand dollars in loose change in the couch cushions.

  In the distance, still blocks away, a bus that will probably stop here rounds the corner and pops into view. For the umpteenth time, my hand dives into my purse and finds the zippered inside pocket where I keep quarters and dimes. Going in this direction, out of town, I pay the fare when I get off the bus—I think. I check again to see if I have enough change, worried that I have inexplicably forgotten how to count money and will get on the bus without enough money to pay for the trip. I have no clue what they do to people who get on the bus without the proper fare. Does the driver make an added stop at the next police station so the cops can cuff them when they make a break for it? Could a person end up with a police record for this? I shake myself awake and pay more attention.

  As I ponder these deep truths, the bus gets within a block of where I’m standing. I look up just in time to see it stop right in front of me. What if I’m wrong and they now collect fares upon entering the bus? The pressure is too great. I’m not ready.

  I step aside to let others get on the bus ahead of me so I can watch what they do. I’ve become a mindless bus sheep. An older lady—clearly a senior citizen who rides free anyway—gets on first, which doesn’t help me determine at what point fares are paid. The second person in line is the middle-aged man I saw spitting on the ground when I first got to the bus stop. He walks right past the bus driver and the fare box without dropping in any money or showing any sort of bus pass, so I figure we’re paying upon exit, as I suspected. My heartbeat slows to a rate that might not need a pacemaker after all.

  My hand slowly slides back out of my purse as I take my turn and step onto the bus, where my next worry assaults me: Is there an appropriate seat left for me? I’ve been so busy worrying about the method and timing of bus fare payment that I neglected to allow enough angst-time to deal with the implications of having nowhere to sit, or having to sit with people who make me nervous or scared or who just creep me out. I’m suddenly aware of all the issues I still have. I realize I am a pathetic blob of fear and self-loathing.

  I look around me as I settle into an empty seat on the aisle halfway to the back. Before I have time to chastise myself for being such a panic-stricken idiot about something so simple, the bus turns left at the next intersection and heads south.

  But the mechanic’s shop is north.

  I’m Your Biggest Fan

  My beloved husband has to tinker with every electrical object within a fifty-mile radius of his toolbox. It’s his nature. But for some reason this doesn’t include our four ceiling fans. He avoids them like the plague. And I’m pretty sure he routinely avoids the plague.

  At some point during the Mezzazoic Era the chain on the living room fan broke and now we can’t turn it off. In the summer Wayne says, “It provides good circulation.” In the winter he says, “It brings warm air off the ceiling.” (And whooshes it out the front door at breakneck speed, I might add.)

  The whole contraption wiggles around in an electronic belly-dance. Wayne says, “I should balance that thing” and spends half a weekend at Walmart buying a balancing kit, which he puts on the coffee table and promptly forgets.

  One time he shut off the electric to fix something—and the fan finally stopped. The dust gunk on the paddles was a foot thick. I thought I might be able to use it to stuff pillows for the couch but hosed it off with a power washer instead.

  The ceiling fan in our home office tries to shear off the top of my head whenever I get too close. It’s a good thing I’m only five-foot-two, or by now I’d be, well, probably five-foot-one. When this fan goes into its own little belly-dance, Wayne says, “I gotta balance that thing” and disappears on a field trip to Home Depot to buy another balancing kit, which he puts on the coffee table alongside the first one. I make a mental note to get a bigger coffee table.

  The ceiling fan for the kitchen has been in the box since 1997. When the coffee table fills up with gadgets, faucet parts, and balancing kits, we start using the kitchen fan box as an auxiliary coffee table.

  Finally Wayne finds time to install that fan. (He has no excuses this time. It came with its own balancing kit.) This one does only a tiny belly-dance. I feel strangely blessed.

  The bedroom ceiling fan—which hangs directly over our waterbed—is a mystery to me. One of the paddles is bent and hangs at an awkward angle. In hushed tones, Wayne cautions me never to turn it on. Never. Whenever I enter the room, my fingers are drawn to the switch out of morbid curiosity. But I resist the urge, because ever since he said that I’ve had nightmares of burning helicopters spinning out of control and crashing into Lake Erie.

  What Happened in Vegas: A Diary: Part Five

  October 18, 2000

  We’re hours away from leaving for the airport to come home. We’ll probably be on Pacific Time till at least February. Beyond that, we’ll have no excuse for our behavior, I guess.

  A white stretch limousine arrived at the house yesterday at two p.m. to take us the short distance to the wedding chapel to renew our vows. Wayne was napping (okay, snoring) till the limo arrived, so he spent most of the ceremony in a confused daze—just like our original wedding. (Today he hopes it was just a dream. I may let him continue to think that. It’s less embarrassing for him.)

  I’d never been in a stretch limo before. Inside were a TV, VCR, champagne glasses and decanters (empty, though, in our case, because I was too cheap to pay the extra fee), and plush leather seats. We were met inside the door of the chapel by Elvis himself. He was handsomely decked out in a fire-engine red, sequined, bell-bottomed jumpsuit, and had jet-black sideburns and swept-back hair. The phone rang, and the receptionist was busy with our paperwork, so he nonchalantly answered the phone. Who knew Elvis was so down-to-earth? So accessible to the common man. So … secretarial.

  We had to sign release forms for the live webcast. Wayne balked a bit, asked how much he’d get paid for his performance, but then finally signed. (I left him no choice.) I heard him mumble something about a trip to Reno later, but dismissed it as sleepiness.

  We were then shown into the chapel and Elvis showed us how to go through the motions smoothly. He pointed out the video camera (for our personal videotape), and the Web camera. (We waved a few times for anyone who was watching. People do log on there randomly and watch, so we don’t know who saw it.) Sadly, we began the ceremony about ten minutes before our prearranged time, so I have no idea if people missed it because of that. Plus, there was the whole RealPlayer fiasco. Don’t get me started.

  The Hoss Challenge:

  Today we got a request from Wayne. He decided that he wanted to go back to Timber’s and try their Hoss Burger Challenge. If you remember, that’s the 2½–3-pound burger as big as a dinner plate, complete with tons of tomatoes, lettuce, cheese, sauce, etc. The challenge was to eat two (yes, two) of these monsters in half an hour (yes, half). He had to eat every bit, including the condiments and bun. He had to sit at a separate table from anyone else and be timed by the staff (synchronized down to the second). The prize for this is $100, both burgers free, and your photo on their Hall of Fame board.

  He was allowed to do any cutting or arranging beforehand, but couldn’t take any bites till he was told to. He cut the burgers into quarters and got everything arranged.

  GO!

  He was right on schedule for the first half of the first burger, which had to take no more than 7½ minutes. But, he was at the 16-minute mark at the end of Burger 1, so we feared the worst.

  We didn’t know what to do. Should we cheer him on, ignore him and talk in hushed tones be
hind his back, or go sit in the car and pray that he not explode? We opted for sitting there normally, but trying vainly to ignore him. He didn’t say much of anything, didn’t even look at us till he hit the end of Burger 1 at 16 minutes. Uh-oh.

  Things kinda went downhill from there. Chaos ensued, and all hell broke loose. My memory might be a bit off, but I vaguely remember someone losing consciousness, a small tow-truck, paramedics, the fire department, a crane, several two-ton girders, and someone saying, “Don’t go toward the light, Wayne … don’t go toward the light!”

  Well, okay, maybe I’m exaggerating. But he did realize that it wasn’t gonna happen, and he (thankfully) slowed the pace and tried instead to save face and not get too sick for the car ride back home. It probably didn’t help when we stopped at a store in 85-degree desert sun, and everyone but him ran in “just for a minute” to pick up some trashy novels and word puzzle books for the flight back. We came back out to the car and found Wayne with the seatback reclined fully, cooking there sunny-side up, looking a little green around the gills.

  To add insult to injury, the construction workers here in the neighborhood laid new curb all around my parents’ block today, and we had to “walk the plank” across a small board to get from the wide wet cement into the driveway. Wayne (and the 1½ burgers he was carrying around with him) somehow made it across the board safely.

  Later that evening, Wayne and I braved sitting at a blackjack table with a real Las Vegas dealer. We sat at the “cheapskate” $5 bet tables with the other embarrassingly-low bettors, and decided to take it all in as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I’m a people-watcher, and this is a unique city in which to watch people from all over the world in various weird places and situations.

  Blackjack is an easier game to play because it doesn’t force you to bet against other people, and there aren’t nearly as many subtle nuances and body language as in a game like poker. We sat at the same table and made a few minimum bets and played well. We watched other people come and go from our table. The people who sat down were as varied as I’ve ever seen. Most were very friendly, and I found that the tables are often a place to socialize with people while you’re playing (or watching other people play).