A CASE OF YOU

A CASE OF YOU

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote:
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another,  only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

It wasn’t like that at all.

If Cara were to write in nautical terms about that time in her life, it might be something more like: Two kayaks traveling down the same river heading for the same rapids, would hit the white water at different times. She would hazard the torrents of divorce well before Brad. Out of her marital kayak she’d fly into the cold, clean water of singleness. She would swim alone for a while but not forever. Eventually, she’d be pulled back and into a different canoe built for two.

That would be more like it.

But none of that had happened yet. At this point in time, Cara and Brad were each in their own paddle boats on a stretch of river where the current drew them in close to one another. There was a distinct but unmentioned pull.

Who can explain the magnetic forces of personal attraction? They were both nice-looking, both personable and both married. Perhaps it was the nature of their studies at the reproductive endocrinology research center at the university. The essential goal was to solve the problems of the infertility. In layman’s terms, they researched how to get women knocked up. Sex and the science behind it was their daily job. Maybe it was Cara—she was in deliberate and steadfast denial about her bad marriage, making her susceptible to, and keen for the attention of other men. Maybe it was Brad, but Cara would never be sure since they didn’t talk about it. Many years would pass before she would learn of his divorce. The news would definitely give her pause for thought—one of those “ah-ha” moments.

It seemed, then, that they were each afloat in their own unsustainable matrimonial boats. Whatever the case, there was enough emotional turbulence; chemical eddying and hormonal undercurrent, that it made work life interesting.

Cara’s research associate job, among other things, was to report findings from the assays she performed on the tissues submitted to her scientific oversight. Ovaries, endometrium, testicles and the like, ended up thinly sliced, histochemically stained and preserved between slides and cover glass. She was a mistress of microscopy.

Brad’s principal investigator job, among other things, was to sit across from Cara at the two-headed microscope and listen and watch while she narrated and guided him through experimental results. Together, they viewed magnified samples as she steered the stage, expertly navigating tissue coordinates.  Brad was also Cara’s boss.

The table supporting the microscope was narrow, necessarily so, since the scope itself was not wide. Cara and Brad sat opposite each other, eyes to binoculars. On this occasion—as often happened—their knees knocked, momentarily intercalated and bumped against each others’ in a bid for space. Eventually they settled their limbs, parking their patellas necessarily close, but not touching.  Soon after reaching this articular dentente, Brad reached for the stage controls, asking, “OK if I drive?” Their fingers tangled momentarily as she relinquished control.

“Oh. Sorry.” Cara couldn’t help apologizing. The unavoidable closeness of working at the double-view scope made her edgy, especially when Brad’s knees were close enough to hers that she could feel his warmth. He seemed to be burning some serious calories as he sat across from her. Or maybe it was Cara. Either way, in academia, it was unusual to find yourself in such close proximity to someone else and it felt to her like someone had turned up the heat on a warm, summer day.

Brad seemed unfazed. “No worries. It’s just the nature of the beast. I mean, here we are in the reproductive endocrinology center. Knocking knees, clashing fingers—that’s just part of the preliminaries.” He glanced up, and flashed a rakish smile. Cara wasn’t exactly sure what that meant but Brad was a well-know flirt. Regardless, the comment seemed rather brazen. She laughed—trying to deflect the tension. She wished he didn’t make her so made her damned nervous, but he there was no question that he did—in a good way.

They continued their microscopic exploration. The images were promising. They discussed various theories for the differences they saw and the next assays to run. All the while, their eyes focused down into the binoculars.

Eventually the talk turned to the subject of their families and the recent winter holidays.  Suddenly remembering the gift she’d given him, Cara looked up from the scope and asked, “Hey! How’s that beer I gave you for Christmas? Was it any good? I wasn’t sure...” A case of international beers could go either way.

Brad looked at her and tilted his head.  “It’s really good. Thank you. I meant to say something earlier.”

“Oh, good. I’m relieved to hear. You never know when it’s stuff you haven’t tried.”

He paused, pushed back from the table and crossed his leg over his knee still holding her gaze. “Actually, I think of you whenever I have one. There’s a Joni Mitchell song, ‘A Case of You’. I think of that song, and you, when I’m having a bottle. You know that song? It’s on the Blue album.”

Cara’s eyes shifted from his. She felt her stomach drop and the air around them seemed to condense. She knew the “Blue” album but it had been too long since she’d listened to it. “Uh…I’m sure I’ve heard it. But I’m…uh…not remembering it now. I’ll have to listen to it again.”

“It’s a great song. You really should check it out.” With that, Brad got up from the scope and walked out of the lab.

Cara, temporarily stunned, stayed seated and tried to figure out 1) what that smirk on Brad’s face meant, and 2) if she should feel flattered. Mostly, she felt confused—that, and flustered.

Before she went home to her disinterested husband, she stopped by a record shop and bought a copy of the “Blue” album. She listened to the song twice on the way home. She listened to it more the next day on her way to work. Again and again she played it.

The song was conflicted. The lyrics mentioned lost love, but also referenced an emotionally fraught relationship—not a particularly healthy one, Cara thought. The line “I could drink a case of you, and still be on my feet.” was the part of the chorus.  To Cara, it could be interpreted two ways. If a person was truly intoxicating, you’d take one sip and pass out. On the flip side, if you could drink a case of someone and still be on your feet, it meant... She wasn’t sure what it meant.

The next day at work, Cara felt more than a little tightly wound, especially in the presence of her boss. In a true Freudian moment, as he walked into the lab and she walked out, they glanced off each other. This resulted in her modestly-sized breast accidentally grazing his upper arm.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry.” Cara, who rarely blushed, felt her face flush hotly as their eyes met. She did the only thing she could do in her embarrassment, and laughed. Meanwhile she wished she could sublimate into the industrial, grey linoleum.

Without hesitation, Brad assured her, “No, no. It was my pleasure.” He gave her a wide, devilish grin and continued into the lab. She heard the door close and made a hasty path down the hallway.

The coolness of the corridor helped Cara relax. Her face shifted back to a normal state of blood flow and the tell-tale red faded.  She slowed her pace. She’d just brushed her bosom against her boss and he…well, he certainly didn’t seem to mind—that was for sure. Meanwhile, the chorus played over and over in her head. “I could drink a case of you, and still be on my feet.”

 With a few more feet of safe distance between her and Brad, Cara decided, whatever it meant, it just had to be something positive.

*     *     *

Years passed, and whenever she heard the song, Cara couldn’t help but think of Brad. She was happily remarried and she’d heard through a mutual friend that Brad was happily divorced. They were no longer in touch.

Still, whenever she looked back on it, she had to admit, at the time, she’d had a pretty heavy duty case of him.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YuaZcylk_o

 

THE GHOSTS OF CHILDHOOD’S PAST (Part I)

The Huzby and I recently went by the house where I spent the first years of my life—from birth through the summer between my second and third grades. Needing more than a mere drive-by, I asked that we park, and have a walk around. Based on an outside examination alone, the house had been upgraded with a brick sitting porch and bay windows all around. It had been downgraded by slipshod gardening and a past due paint job. The overall look was quite a bit different from what memory provided. Regardless, those memories rushed me. The Huzby indulged me as I internalized the exterior of my first home.

I pointed out where the big walnut tree used to be between our house and the Lecce's. Their Pomeranian  “Faw-Faw” seemed to be allergic to walking and children. My strongest recollections of him were that he was generally carried and I could look at, but not touch him. The mom, Joyce, bleached-blonde and extremely fit, used to teach tap dance and gymnastics to the extended neighborhood which included my sister and me. (Somewhere there’s a picture of me in a pink bunny suit tap-dancing my little cotton-tail off with a line of other bunnies at the Los Gatos Elks Club.) Apparently after Joyce’s divorce, she decided mowing her grass while wearing a mini skirt was the right thing to do. I clearly recall my mom making a declaration after her own divorce about how she was going to mow our lawn in a mini-dress since Joyce was doing it. Desperate divorcees in the mid-sixties? Call it what you will. I think I see a flash-back reality show opportunity.

The bushes where Mom hid during “Where’s Mommy night” were gone. (If you need clarification on” Where’s Mommy night” please see this blog entry http://evelynnave.blogspot.com/2011/05/in-advance-of-mothers-day.html)  It was a relief not to have to picture here there, cowering like a mischievous child in the bushes, waiting for my Dad, my sister, and me to go searching for her. With her in her nightgown and my sister and I in ours, in the smack-damn middle of the night, it has the feel of a surreal, Victorian nightmare. It’s still hard for me to fathom her thought process during that ridiculous drama. 

Some of the same rose bushes remained. I recognized the Queen Elizabeth rose my mom planted in honor of my sister—also an Elizabeth. Back in those days I was pretty sure that plant was responsible for the uppity attitude of self-importance my sister seemed to exude. In truth, it was probably just her older-sisterliness I found offensive. Imparting so much power to a thorny but beautiful shrubbery seems to my adult mind as being overly Naturalistic and unreasonably superstitious. What was probably really bothering me was that we grew no foliage named for me. No doubt I suffered from a vegetation-induced inferiority complex. In case you doubt how profoundly this affected me, I am painfully aware that there is an Evelyn rose which was never cultivated in our garden. :::Sniff.::: You'd think I'd be over it by now...

The peach tree that used to be on the parking trip was replaced by a liquid amber. When I was around four, my dad, armed with a pruning saw, attacked the tree which was suffering from peach leaf curl, and ended up slashing his forearm. There was a lot of anger and blood involved in my hazy recollection. I believe that was the precipitating event for the replacement tree. I am quite sure that was the first and only time I’d ever had peach leaf curl explained to me but the resulting misshapen leaves were extremely impressive. How else can you explain that I still remember what ailed that tree?

The biggest, most memorable thing that happened outside our house (There was plenty more action going on inside the house which I won’t be addressing in this missive.) was the night a drunk teenager came rounding our corner, not quite making the turn. The result was the front half of his car landing in our den and the back half of his car becoming a temporary lawn ornament. My sister and I—young enough to enjoy the deep sleep of innocence we were due—found out what had happened the next morning. By then, the totaled car and surviving driver had been taken away. Plywood sufficed where pulverized stucco had given way. Our kitchen play-set which, the night before, had occupied a large portion of the room, was twisted and mashed beyond salvage. I remember finding a lone headlight in the rubble of toys, plaster, and architectural shrapnel that covered the carpet. Luckily we were not a house of night-owls and no one had been reading, sewing or playing house past bedtime.

My dad supplied this tidbit about that night: He had just started (or finished) his honeymoon and was with his new bride at his mother’s house in San Francisco. My mom called in the middle of the night insisting he come down and board up the gaping hole in the house. Instead, he called his old high school buddy who lived in San Jose (Mr. Frank—I’ll never forget you!) and he came to deal with the wreckage. Mr. Frank had four kids and a wife of his own, yet he drove over in the tip-top of darkness and boarded up his old high school pal’s ex-wife’s home. That’s a really good friend.

Less outstanding but still present were memories of the grass hill we played slip-and-slide on, the sour grass and pomegranates we were allowed to eat only outside, the roof where I witnessed what I believed was our cat being killed by another cat (Mom told me they were mating—an explanation if found impossible to believe given the violence involved.) and the steeply sloped driveway our car (in which I was sitting) once inched backwards down,while Mom got out to open the garage door—a far too exciting event that I still encounter on the occasional stressful night's sleep.

Having taken in enough of the outside of my original abode, the Huzby and I got in our car and drove to meet my brother and sister-in-law for a walking tour of downtown Los Gatos. On the way from the house to the main artery, I began to recall another exterior theme. As we drove, a the list of places I'd scouted and cataloged as nests, nooks or crannies—possible places I would run away from home to—blinked into my murky repressed consciousness.

THERE’S NO ACCOUNTING FOR TASTE

It’s a well known fact.  Indeed, it’s so well known, it’s been knocking around the world since the olden days in the form of the Latin phrase “De gustibus non est disputandum” : In matters of taste, there can be no dispute. I’m OK sitting with that.  Still, I think it’s fascinating how tastes develop.

Some foods most of us love (rice, potatoes, bread, pasta) while other foods require early indoctrination /inculcation in order for acceptance to occur. They are so–shall we say “distinctive”?–that unless you have early exposure, you’re not likely to develop a taste for it in future. At our house we have a taste rift that I believe is a direct result of exposure or lack thereof.

The Huzby spent his early formative years in New Zealand, while I have never moved beyond my comfort zone of Northern California—specifically, the Bay Area. In general we agree about food. However, on a few key comestibles we diverge.

The Huzby cannot abide:

1)      Peanut butter

2)      Popcorn—neither the regular nor the kettle corn version

I cannot abide:

1)      Marmite/Vegemite/Cenovis/Vitam-R

(What’s in a name? That which we call yeast extract by any other name would still smell as retch-inducing.) Note: These are different names for the same thing from different countries. For the rest of this essay I will refer to this agent-of-emesis as Marmite—not overlooking the fact that fanciers of a specific brand all claim the others are inferior.  ::Ahem::  No comment.

I know you know what peanut butter and popcorn are and you may also know on a gross level (and I do mean gross)—what  constitutes Marmite. (If you’re interested in the history of Marmite please follow the link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marmite. Everything you never wanted to know about it is there.) A quick tutorial on the making of Marmite:  You take brewer’s yeast, put it into a salty solution that causes the cells to disgorge their innards, heat the mixture, spin it down to remove the cell walls, and subsequently mix it with more salt, (Too bad the Star Trek dudes didn’t have this stuff with them when they encountered the morphing salt creature!) various vegetable extracts, (God forbid you eat the entire vegetable.) spice extracts, (ibidum) and various other vitamins.  And voila!

I know what you're thinking: YUM! Right? Let me lick that black stuff right off the knife!

If you’ve never seen Marmite nor smelled it, my most compassionate recommendation is that you never do.  At best, the stuff looks like dark brown tar—the same stuff that killed so many dinosaurs. Coincidence? NOT AT ALL. At worst, well, it staggers the imagination. Its consistency is more like peanut butter but the dark color makes it look positively sinister. A bit of free association yields:  Black Plague effusions. Squid ink pudding.  Voodoo glue.  Demon diarrhea.  Succubus sludge.  Incubus entrails. Enraged Ebola.  A pandemic in a Kraft jar. The stuff’s so scary looking you could imagine it killing the alien in “Alien”.  And the smell! ::Gasp! Choke! Wheeze!:: Salty, yeasty, rancid…I can only sum it up as noxious, lung-withering and gut-clutching. The stuff has the potential to cause your nasal lining to slough right out your nostrils and back into the jar where it would go unnoticed until some unsuspecting extract-eater took a swipe and spread it on his morning toast. Ugh.

Oh, and here’s some inspiration: They feed this nasty, toxic paste to babies! A non-exaggerated fact:  Marmite  is chock full of glutamic acid—that’s right, monosodium glutamate, a known excitotoxin. If I get nothing else across to anyone reading this, it would be: Do not feed this to your babies. Just don’t.

Because you can take the boy out of New Zealand but you can’t take the Marmite out of his olfactory memory, we have a jar of the stuff (actually it’s Vegemite) in our refrigerator. It expired in 2003. I haven’t seen him use it on food in probably 5 years but when the topic of the Marmite shortage in NZ came up a week ago, he quickly ran to the fridge, opened the jar and took a hit. “You can never throw this out!” I was told as he looked into the black pit lovingly and gently twisted the lid.

Does he actually think I’m going to get that close to it? Au contraire, mon frère. As far as I’m concerned that jar orbits its own sun in an alternate universe. I want nothing to do with that flask of fulminating malfeasance. I do my best to pretend it doesn’t actually hold a space on the door shelf. Although I’m sure when the door is closed and the light is out, it’s issuing orders to the other refrigerator inhabitants—trying to inspire the mustards, jams, and relishes to a pestilent mutiny. “We gotta kill that bloody Yank. C’mon then. Let’s show that Sheila what expired really is. Botulinum, Staphylococcus, Pseudomonas. Let’s grow some toxins mates, and get that bitch!”  Fortunately, the Vegemite says this with such a thick Kiwi accent, none of the other condiments have any idea what it’s talking about. So I’m safe. I believe the Huzby said it best when he declared that after the apocalypse, two things will survive: Keith Richards and Vegemite. There are no expiration dates on fine wine so why shouldn't it be that Vegemite too gets better with age?



Do not be fooled by this innocent looking bottle. Excitotoxins? Yes! Refrigerator mutiny? You betcha! Expired almost a decade ago? Indeed.



 As far as peanut butter and popcorn go, I confess:  We do keep a jar of peanut butter in the house. It’s there mainly to give the dogs pills should the need arise. I was fed far too much peanut butter growing up and have no desire for it other than an occasional yen for a peanut butter cookie. And I will rarely enjoy some popcorn at a movie, but it’s less enjoyable these days because the Huzby is so disgusted by the smell, he leans as far as possible on the outside armrest of his seat, as far away from me as can get.  As you may imagine, this does take some of the pleasure out of eating popcorn.

Anyway, as stated at the beginning, there’s no accounting for taste. If the Huzby had grown up in the States he'd probably be down with popcorn and peanut butter. If I'd grown up in New Zealand (or the UK or Australia, or Canada) I'd maybe be slurping down yeast extract like it was cheese spread. (That's a big maybe...) But I know one thing for sure: I'd have thrown out that disgusting jar of Vegemite by 2010 --without a doubt.

MY GRUMPY VALENTINE

 MY GRUMPY VALENTINE

Behold the way my ill-tempered friend

His anger doth parade.

Thou knowest not my furious friend

The picture thou hast made.

Thy furrowed brow and thy bulging veins

Conceal thy good intent.

Thou outraged, huffy, chafing, inflamed

And rather stormy gent.

You’re my grumpy Valentine.

Pissed off and saturnine.

You make me sigh with my heart.

You look irascible.

Unphotographable

Still you’re my favorite work of art.

Are your eyes a little tweaked?

Is your temper somewhat piqued?

And you grumble and you shriek

and you harp.

Don’t  grizzly bear for me.

Not if you care for me.

Hey, grumpy Valentine, hey…

Chill out it’s Valentine’s Day.

KARMA COMES KNOCKING--

And it's your turn to open the door.

"Knock, knock."
"Who's there?"
"Karma."
(You gulp. This sounds ominous.) "Karma who?"
"Karma. You know who. I have you on my list as 'unfinished business'. We need to talk."

Although you have no idea what's heading your way, you're sure it's not good and that you deserve it. You don't question Karma. You take a deep breath, meekly open the door and peer out with ample caution.

Karma is dressed smartly in the unmistakable Cake fashion--short skirt, long jacket and all the other accoutrements that go with it. If you need a refresher on the Cake look please have a listen (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_1gShXIO6pk&feature=related or scroll down to see the lyrics.*

Not only that, Karma looks extremely smug. She's going to tell you a story and she's changing the names to protect the innocent.

(Cue dreamy flashback music as Karma's narrative unfolds...)

You are a biologist and you have for an idea for a new drug-- it may have crystallized 7 or so years ago--something like that. You hold on to the idea because it seems like a good one. You worry if it's such a good idea someone is probably working on it already but you haven't heard or seen anything that would indicate that. Although you work for a large pharmaceutical company, you are not in a position to discuss it there because you work in an oncology research environment. No one is paying you for ideas about anything other than cancer-related therapies. So you sit on it.

Years go by. You finally get fed up with being invisible and inaudible at your pharma-global-opoly. Your husband is making daily declarations that you must quit, and because it does finally seem to be the right thing to do--you resign. A bit more than a year later you finally find yourself working at a small pharmaceutical company that cares less about large profits and more about small unmet needs (orphan diseases). This means that among other things, your new company specializes in enzyme replacement therapies.

It just so happens that your drug idea is one involving enzyme replacement. So you go and talk to the guy in charge of "discovery" about it. He's intrigued. You send a few emails back and forth. You talk about your idea with others at your new company until someone mentions that your idea is in fact so good, it's already in clinical trials in Asia. "Check out the pipeline at Torpedo Pharmaceuticals," you're told.

Sure enough, there it is. Your brainchild is on its way to fruition with no help from you. Mostly, you're glad. How great is it that someone else identified the same problem and had the same idea? Pretty great! Still, you've been scooped. So you continue to talk about it with others in your company.

A few weeks later you're in a conversation with a colleague who mentions he not only knows about the nascent drug, he knows the guy who hatched the idea and brought it along. The guy's name is Todd Cooper. That's weird, you think. You went to junior high, high school and college with a Todd Cooper. So you start asking questions. How old is this guy? Where did he go to college? Where is he from? What does he look like? Everything you hear makes you think this might be the same Todd Cooper you went to school with, but let's face it, there has got to be more than a few Todd Coopers out there. Not only that, what are the chances that someone from your own high school would think of the same idea for a drug? Certainly not bloody likely.

So you go to the next level and check out the Torpedo Pharmaceuticals website to see his picture--he is president of the company. It's been ages since you've seen Todd so you can't be sure that's him--although it certainly could be. So next you check Linked In. The picture there is not of great quality but you think it really does look like your Todd Cooper so you move on to see if FaceBook has anything on him. At this point you realize a few of your high school connections are also attached to Todd, so you message them to see what they know. The answers come back leaving no doubt. The Todd Cooper who had your same idea for a drug is also the same Todd Cooper you went to school with.

Crazy! Unreal!--you think. That's just too weirdly coincidental.

In trying to process this, you continue to talk about it with your colleagues until one of them mentions she knows him fairly well and would you like her to set up lunch for the three of you?

Now you're in the soup.

The truth is, you are generally not shy about reconnecting with folks. You would have already sent an email to Todd to hear about his discovery and give your congratulations if it weren't for one very embarrassing story that happened when you were in 8th grade and Todd was in 6th grade. But here's the problem: You did something not very nice to Todd Cooper back in junior high. Not only that, two years later when he showed up at high school you decided the best way to handle it was to just pretend you didn't know him. That worked for two years until you left for college. Two years later--to your mild horror--Todd showed up at your university. So what did you do? That's correct. You continued to treat him as a persona non grata. Nice. Very nice.

You haven't lost sleep over it but you've owed this guy an apology for literal decades.

Karma continues: You look puzzled. Must I rehash that mortifying tale from when you were fourteen and he was twelve? Oh, all right. You are a glutton for punishment.

You were in 8th grade. You were tall, gangly, and yes, let's face it, your looks ran to the homely side. (Hey babe, the truth hurts sometimes. What were you thinking hanging out with 6th grade boys when you were in 8th? What self-respecting 8th grade girl does that?) Anyway, it was towards the end of the year and some dance was on the horizon so you arranged to meet not only Todd Cooper at the dance but also one of his classmates, Miles Jefferson. You thought you had it all wired until a savvy girlfriend said, "How's that going work? You can't meet up with two guys." You hadn't really worked out the logistics. All you knew was that if one meet-up was good, two had to be better.

When the night of the dance came you suddenly felt awkward and uncomfortable. You feared someone's feelings might get hurt. So you did what any average eight-grader would do in a similar situation.You spent the rest of the night ditching both 6th-grade boys.

Youth, as they say, and you so aptly demonstrated, is wasted on the young.

And indeed, after that you pretended not to know either Todd or Miles when two years later they rejoined you in high school. And if that weren't bad enough, two years after you started college, Todd showed up there as well. At that point it didn't make sense to admit your error and apologize. There was just too much time gone by.

So now you have the opportunity to not only meet and congratulate the inventor of what might have been your drug, you also have the chance to apologize for your bad behavior from too many decades back.

You give your colleague the go-ahead to set up lunch. What have you got to lose? Maybe Todd will give a resounding, "NO!" when he sees your name pop up in his email and then you'll know where you stand. However, he accepts your co-worker's invitation and on a sunny Friday the three of you meet for lunch.

You've been advised by those in the know (read: another guy who has keen memory of being a 12-year-old boy back in the day) that you shouldn't dredge up history--he's probably forgotten all about it. So when you see Todd you again pretend like nothing untoward ever happened. You say hello, shake hands, go inside, order lunch and proceed to talk about the drug idea as well as do a shallow 30-year briefing. Todd agrees that it's an amazing coincidence that two people from the same high school and college would have the same idea for a pharmaceutical.

In the last five minutes of lunch you can't stand it any longer. You mention the momentous dance and your idiotic, disgraceful behavior.

Todd is a very nice guy. Thankfully, he's also a guy's guy. This means that he doesn't remember any of it. Not only that, he doesn't remember you either. FaceBook has pimped your name to him from time to time but if not for that, you'd be just another nobody who wants to claim title to his great idea for a medication. Phew!

You're reminded of Miles Jefferson's name during the conversation with Todd. And on the subsequent email to Todd where you actually submit your belated but very heartfelt apology, he suggests tracking him down. You think that's a good idea and (for a change!) you beat him to the punch. With very little trouble, you find Miles on FaceBook and send him an investigatory email telling him his name came up when you were having lunch with Todd Cooper. His interest is piqued and in the next email you retell the tale of your shabby behavior, you apologize and wait for his answer.

Like Todd, Miles is a very nice guy and has no memory of the event. Also like Todd, Miles is a guy's guy and is quite sure he doesn't remember you either.

Karma is finished telling her story. And there you are taking it all in. While you stand at the door looking like the idiot she's just illustrated you are, she's turns to leave. Somewhat stunned, you can't even muster a wave.

She clicks her exit down your walkway in her red-suede, kitten heels. (How Cake left  the details of her footwear out of their song goes beyond your understanding.) Just when you think she's done with you, she turns back around, waves her finger at you and says with a smirk, "Don't get too comfortable, honey. You know I'll be back."

Sheepishly, you close the door and close your eyes. You really hope you've learned something.

*"Short Skirt / Long Jacket" by Cake (known by myself as Karma's song)

I want a girl with a mind like a diamond
I want a girl who knows what's best
I want a girl with shoes that cut
And eyes that burn like cigarettes

I want a girl with the right allocations
Who's fast and thorough
And sharp as a tack
She's playing with her jewelry
She's putting up her hair
She's touring the facility
And picking up slack

I want a girl with a short skirt and a lonnnng jacket......

I want a girl who gets up early
I want a girl who stays up late
I want a girl with uninterrupted prosperity
Who uses a machete to cut through red tape
With fingernails that shine like justice
And a voice that is dark like tinted glass

She is fast and thorough
And sharp as a tack
She's touring the facility
And picking up slack

I want a girl with a short skirt and a lonnnnng.... lonnng jacket

I want a girl with a smooth liquidation
I want a girl with good dividends
At Citibank we will meet accidentally
We'll start to talk when she borrows my pen

She wants a car with a cupholder arm rest
She wants a car that will get her there
She's changing her name from Kitty to Karen
She's trading her MG for a white Chrysler La Baron

I want a girl with a short skirt and a lonnnnggggggggg jacket

I'M SO OVER AWESOME!

Seriously. Aren't you? Aren't we all?

It seems impossible to me that after a decade of verbal abuse AWESOME is still clogging the word-o-sphere. It's AWESOME this, AWESOME that, AWESOME the other and the next thing. It's the thing your kid told you about, the thing the sports announcer described, the rapper decried, your neighbor relayed, the description of your girlfriend's latest shopping spree, the exclamation regarding your son's report card , your husband's recent threesome dream, the overambitious expectation of your daily doings--Have an AWESOME day. It must be AWESOME and if not, you're sure to have bummed somebody's trip.

You may not know anything else about what's coming your way but you certainly know this: Some part of that thing that you have yet to know about will be AWESOME. Guaranteed. Bonafide. Dyed-in-the-wool, believe it or not, nothing that compares to--TOTALLY AWESOME!

Do you know why it will be AWESOME? Don't give me that look of perplexity because you know. Oh, YOU KNOW. You just won't admit it to yourself. Face it.You don't  have to dig down very deeply to get it. It'll be AWESOME because everything that's  part of the way to pretty good or even most of the way to A-OK these days is AWESOME. And if it's not AWESOME it's TOTALLY AWESOME!

Ugh.

Here's what I propose: There is a strong likelihood it's not going to be AWESOME. It's going to be SOMETHING ELSE that requires a different adjective than AWESOME.

Word, people:
AWESOME has been thoroughly overused, abused, sacked, raped, pillaged, and has incurred a social disease of the worst kind: AWESOME is dying from a severe case of AD NAUSEUM. AWESOME has become trite, hackneyed, disingenuous, weak and flabby. It doesn't mean anything anymore except an over exuberance of false emotion, lack of imagination and sheep-like devotion to popular verbiage.

In an effort to reduce the the edema of misuse/overuse/hyperbole of this once special and now all too common word, I'm going to offer you some alternatives to AWESOME suggested by the main authority I most often consult, Thesaurus.com:

alarming ,amazing, astonishing, awe-inspiring, awful, beautiful, breathtaking, daunting, dreadful, exalted, fearful, fearsome, formidable, frantic, frightening, grand, hairy*, horrible, horrifying, imposing, impressive, intimidating, magnificent, majestic, mean, mind-blowing*, moving, nervous, overwhelming, real gone, shocking, something else, striking, stunning, stupefying, terrible, terrifying, wonderful, wondrous, zero cool    Antonym: unamazing.

Here are a few of my own:
earth-shattering, sphincter-clenching. goose-bump inducing, pit-drenching, panty-dampening, eyebrow-raising, heart-thumping, daze-inducing, fusion-inspiring, Maker-awakening, mountain-trembling, jaw-dropping, irrepressibly bouyant, teeth-grinding, knee-knocking, headlight shining, pants-wetting, chest-beating and so on...

It's time folks. It's WELL BEYOND time to pick a few new adjectives and set our vocabularies free.

I can't tell you how AWESOME it would be if AWESOME moved back to its rightful place, ie., in relation to descriptions of extraterrestrials, miracles, telekinesis, alchemy, reanimation, spontaneous human combustion, plagues, acts of God, etc..

Variety is the spice of life. Care to partake?

Please feel free to comment and/or add to my list of superlatives. I would be be happy (overjoyed, thrilled, satisfied, appreciative) to see the list grow to afford us all a bit more verbal latitude.

The Ring--Not-So-Flash Fiction Inspired by a Story by Gary V. Powell

It was date night. They were new to empty-nesting and hadn't yet realized every night was date night.

Meredith took her last bite of lamb vindaloo, drank her last sip of cabernet franc, dabbed at her brow with her napkin and made a controlled dash to the bathroom. In the cool privacy of tile and porcelain, she stripped off her black silk blouse. She let the water run cold and splashed her neck, shoulders, and middling cleavage, not caring if her Natori zebra bra got wet. Dry or wet, she was sure Eric was going to love her new lingerie.

Damn these hot flashes! What purpose do they serve except to humiliate you and remind you you're getting old?

She checked again to be sure the door was locked then resumed her sink ablutions, this time including her pits and arms. She wished for the umpteenth time that bidets were the norm in the U.S. A little cold water spritz on the undercarriage would be put her right in no time.

Meredith gauged her body temperature by checking to see if she could remove her wedding ring. Only when she could slide it off was she sure she wouldn't suffer another imminent attack. Within ten minutes she was able to slip off the band.  She put herself back together hoping Eric wouldn't make a big deal of her long absence once she got back to the table. He could be so annoying sometimes. To distract him, she left the top four buttons of her blouse undone, slid off her slightly moist matching striped thong and walked back to the table.

She playfully leaned over Eric's shoulder flashing her bra and tucked the scant panties into his shirt pocket. He pulled the small wad out and a grin subsumed his chin.

"New?"
"Uh-huh. We need to break 'em in. You game?"
"Check's paid. Let's get outta here jungle woman."

In the car she unzipped him to get him fully fluffed for home. That's when she realized she'd left her ring on the sink.

Shit. If Eric finds out... He thinks I'm a scatterbrained twit these days. With one kid starting college and one kid starting a new job fresh out of college, my commute, my job, the garden, the pets, the beef with my sister, Dad's heart condition, Mom's diabetes, a hyper-critical husband prone to yelling and these effing hot flashes, sometimes it's all I can do to remember my name. No worries, though. I know what to do.

Without missing a stroke she kept him at the ready until they arrived at the house. She gently but firmly grasped Eric's joystick and led him to bed where she proceeded to play him like a flute.

She wooed him with her expert embrasure, wow-ed him with her highly-trained tonguing. He thrilled as she trilled. Her vibrato was full throttle. She changed tempo--largo to allegro to presto and back. She varied her style--dolce, animato, appassionato. He crescendoed, then decrescendoed--until his breathing made her worry for his health. After an hour of their sweaty duet, she orchestrated their paroxysme musical.

Eric slept like an overly-sated Satyr while she called the restaurant. Some kind person had turned in her ring. She got in the car, got the ring and was back in bed within 20 minutes.

Whew! Went off without a hitch. Next time--we'll eat outside on the patio. This date night was a bit more exciting than intended.

While Meredith absentmindedly twisted the ring on her finger trying not to think about her growing list of worries and relax into sleep, Eric dreamed of his empty nest being filled with models in animal print lingerie.

The Erudite Way to Say, "Nice Ass!"

This past weekend the Huzby and I were out to dinner before a concert. It was early in the evening—5:30—and yet the restaurant­—Boca in Novato—was starting to hustle and bustle. (An aside: Consider the phrase "hustle and bustle” a portent of the subject at hand. The title, of course, may be enough already. I'm merely priming the pump.) While we waited to be served, we did what human animals do—we quietly observed the other fauna in attendance. It’s natural. It’s unavoidable.

When observing, we make ascertainments about we see. While we may not say it aloud, somewhere in a quiet portion of our brains we judge the people within our range of view.  So in my head I silently cataloged and classified what I saw. The stream of consciousness went something like this: “Nice smile—good-looking waiter. If I were his age I’d see what I could do about making arrangements for when he’s off his shift. She’s got a friendly face and wise eyes. I wonder what happened to her teeth. It’d probably be worth the bucks to get them fixed. What’s this? Lord! How is it possible a grown man sits at a table in a restaurant and picks his nose? Did his mother teach him nothing? It’s a shame all those good looks are wasted on bad manners…” And my brain rambled on.

OK, I'm pimping a bit here. Something tells me you don't mind.

Then I saw her. Mid-twenties, long blond hair, short torso but nicely proportioned, slim-waisted, hugged by black pants that fit like skin on skin, the young hostess had the most amazing ass I’ve seen in a long time—possibly ever. It was just so. Perfectly formed and right for her body, her cunning caboose was not only bringing up her rear, it brought along (and did not disappoint) any and all gazes from appreciators of the female form. It was a derriere extraordinaire, phenomenal fanny, glorious gluteus, superior posterior, best bum bar none, eye-feaster kiester, the haunch that launched a thousand ships. It was all that and possibly more in two heart-shaped butt cheeks.

I was fairly certain the Huzby had already noticed—he rarely misses a physical spectacle especially of female origin—but I had to be sure. So I pointed her out to him. Indeed, he was already keen on the scene and agreed with me. It was a most excellent view.  He had been enjoying it immensely. 

I love it when we agree. It gives me more time to spend in my head pondering life’s inconsequentialities. I immediately thought about the tantalizing toosh that inspired a passage from “9 and 1/2 Weeks”. Mickey Rourke’s character extols the virtues of a heart-shaped ass and how it’s the one thing that gives his life meaning—or some such thing. For the first time, I got it. This was what he was talking about.

Wow, I thought. That is one sensational sit-upon that deserves some serious homage. This is a first class ass. It’s a feature that deserves its own song, a hymn perhaps, a song of praise, with refrains of reverence. Or maybe the well-regarded rear merits a mantra of veneration which includes a cheeky chant of deference to a desirable duff.  All this and more ran rampant through my head when suddenly it occurred to me. There is word specifically invented that denotes a fine heinie.

To wit:

CALLIPYGIAN also CALLIPYGOUS: Having shapely buttocks.

Etymology
From Ancient Greek καλλίπυγος (kallipugos) < καλλι- (kalli-“beautiful”) + πυγή (pugē, “buttocks”).

Callipygous/callpygian is not to be confused with either “steatopygous”: an excess accumulation of fat on the buttocks, or “natiform”: shaped like a buttocks. (Another aside: If you were searching for an obfuscation of the word “butthead” I suggest the morpheme: “natiform-cranium.” It’s good code when the need arises.)

Anyway, just imagine! The need arose long ago for a one-word adjective meaning “nice ass.” The sumptuous rump (Another morpheme springs to mind: rumptuous—a useful term don’t you agree?) inspired it’s very own verbiage for which we can thank the beauty of the Greek language.

Of course the next step in this line of thinking is what do you call a nice rack? I’ve already done the homework on this and the answer is: callimastos—again, calli- “beautiful” and mastos-“breasts”. It’s not a real a word that you can actually look up, but I’m putting it forward as a worthy option. Say it with me now, “That is one eye-popping callimastos!” Yes, indeed. Isn’t that satisfying?

Indeed! You probably could literally pop your eye on those things.

And in the interest of being all-inclusive, we must consider the remaining protuberance of likely interest: the man package. Again, we begin with calli- “beautiful”. Unfortunately, the Greek for “package” doesn’t quite roll off the tongue: syskefasiasto. And I have yet to find one word that means “male genitalia”. But I did find the word for “junk”: skoupidia and while I admit, calling it junk doesn’t really do justice to the male promontory; calliskoupidia sounds a lot better than callisyskefasiasto.


Package, junk? Who cares?


To review:

·         callipygous/callipygian: beautiful buttocks

·         callimastos: beautiful breasts

·         steatopygous: fat ass

·         natiform: shaped like a buttocks

·         rumptuos: a sumptuous rump

·         natiformcranium: butthead

·         calliskoupidia: beautiful package (junk)

So there you have it. Now, when you’re out with your gal pals or barring with your bro’s, you can talk about the talent you’re scouting and no one will have a clue—unless they’re Greek. And hey, you never know, someone might even mistake you for someone who’s really smart…or just very weird.

Did I Mention I'm Planning to Run for Congress?

I met my future campaign manager at the Salt Lake City airport in June—a lobbyist for the Human Rights campaign representing the GLBT alliance. I'll call him Bob. Bob and I were introduced when I went scouting for the Huzby who’d been MIA much longer than the normal time it takes to have a beer at the bar. Fearing a random bathroom mugging, or possible rufie ambush (I know--overly dramatic but never say never...) and unable to reach him by cell, I decided to posse up. After 60 seconds of not-so-arduous carpet-cantering, I found him knocking back a few with Bob.


Bob was big. Bob was friendly. Bob was loquacious and highly animated. This had everything to do with the fact that Bob was just shy of being blithering-drunk on a combination of beer and cocktails. He introduced himself immediately and gave me a very hearty handshake which I returned with what I hoped was a strong enough grip to convey the fact that I don’t wither under pressure from overzealous greeters.

The first thing Bob asked was my profession. When I told him I am a biologist, he decided I'd be the perfect person to help get a national health care bill passed. It's true that I'm in favor of health care for all, however it's also true that I'm not the least bit politically savvy. And although I can, from time to time, be somewhat charming, I do not possess the charisma needed to win the mass appeal required to hold a seat in office. So before he got carried away, I mentioned to him my lack of statesmanship and dearth widespread appeal—I consider myself an acquired taste— but he shrugged me off.


I averred, "You know, Bob, I really haven't gotten out of the lab much. I'd be horrible at holding a public office. Besides that, I don't really know enough about the broader issues at stake. Plus, I don't have a platform and if I did, in addition to health care, it would be something to do with energy alternatives. I know nothing about how to create jobs or fix the economy." At this point I demonstrated my utter ignorance of all things economic when I tried to explain why having a high national debt is a bad thing. “It’s…well…it’s not good. You shouldn’t owe more than you can possibly pay back. And there’s something about the GDP in there too… I mean…I’d need some very smart advisors…”


He countered, "Listen. You’re a biologist, a scientist, someone who knows why it’s important that everyone is afforded health care.  And here’s the thing— you have the look."


“The look?”


"Yeah. That generic, somebody’s-nice-looking-wife-and-mother, believes-in-the-traditional-values, wants-what’s-good-for-America look. You’ve got the look that’ll get votes.”


Bob meant this as a compliment—I assumed. I smiled but shuddered. This is only one of many things that are wrong with the American political system and only goes to show what we’ve always known: We are shallow, often mindless voters and the proof is that we vote based on the look.


“Well, just because I look a certain way doesn’t mean I actually know anything about anything. What would you do, just dress me up, tell me what to say and prop me up on stage?”


Visions of Sarah Palin’s interview with Katie Couric as she waffled and dissembled about which publications she read, jammed my brain. I started to sweat. I’d be journalist meat faster than you could say “Slice me off a hunk of that dewy-eyed, dim-witted political hopeful. I like mine rare and bloody and splattered all over the news.”

I felt reassured that this was all a joke when the Huzby stated that Bob had originally suggested that he run for congress. Bob's hopes were dashed however, when the Huzby informed him he is not a US citizen. I’ve got news for Bob, not only is the Huzby not a US citizen, he suffers from an extremely virulent and resistant strain of influenza which causes him to say exactly what he means with little or no filtering. The end result is not what the masses would appreciate nor tolerate. I’m still getting used to it myself and I’ve known him for nearly a decade.


Bob’s plane was getting ready for take-off and one of the bar workers came to hustle him off in time to catch it. We said our good-byes and he left us his card. “Let me know if you decide you want to run. I’ve got connections. I can get you hooked up. Really, you’d be great.”

I waved goodbye wondering how many drinks he’d be able to suck down between SLC and Sea-Tac and if he’d still be able to ambulate by the time he landed. I also wondered who paid his salary and if they thought they were getting their money’s worth. Which begs the question: Is anyone getting their money’s worth from anyone “working” in D.C. these days?


Anyway, I hadn’t given any more thought to running for congress until this Labor Day weekend when it occurred to me—not for the first time—that we should change the week length to eight days. What I propose is that with eight days a week, we could still work our five days but then we take three days to recover and get stuff done and actually have a day to relax. Think of how much more humane and civilized this would be for everyone. We’d be more efficient at work and less stressed in general. It’s a win-win. I mentioned my idea to the Huzby who immediately dismissed it as more of my ridiculous blathering.

Undeterred, I did a bit of online research and found that the eight day week has been done. The Etruscans had an eight day week and for a significant period of time, the Romans adopted it too. However, eventually the seven day week won out over the long haul.

But these are modern times. Certainly the Romans and Etruscans weren’t dealing with weekend scenarios of home maintenance, gardening, doing laundry, getting the pets vetted and shampooed, attending kid’s sporting events, getting the oil changed, cleaning house, having dinner parties, going to concerts or wine tasting and trying to actually enjoy themselves for a freaking, fleeting moment in their jam-packed week, all in addition to their full-time, long-commute “regular” jobs. Right. I think the Romans and Etruscans were probably polishing their swords and armour on the weekend. Or maybe taking the family donkey out for a joy ride around the Circus Maximus?

The more I think about it, the more I like it. And because I’m a scientist,  I've decided it would be a good idea to run the experiment of the eight day week (5 days on/3 days off) in North Korea. I mean, you know those poor North Koreans are stressed to the max. We get a baseline sample the population by checking for behavioral signs of stress (depression, anxiety, eating disorders, disruptive behavior etc..) and measure stress-related hormones present in the blood. Then we institute the 8 day week for three months and compare the measurements.

No doubt, they'll still be stressed but significantly less stressed than with seven day week. They'll have time for more Korean BBQ, kimchi and soju. Yahoo! 야호 Let's get this party started!

파티를 시작합시다

So there you have it, I'm proposing the eight day week. It can only help. Along with a national health care system and alternative energy ramp-up, I'm thinking I can win. Oh, and don't forget that very smart team of advisers I'm going to need. VERY, VERY smart.

Oh and one more thing--I'm looking for an expert speech writer/ventriloquist. I need to find someone to tell me exactly what to say because now that I've come up with my three-pronged running platform, all I really need to do is keep working on the look. The rest is up to everyone else on the team and of course, the visually-overinvested voters.

Can't wait to talk to Bob about all this. After all, he was the one who had the idea in the first place. And you know, something tells me he's definitely a 8 day week kind of guy.