Guess which one of us is made of wax?

Why yes, Johnny, I will have your baby. But beware. With age comes chromosomal mishap…

Anybody out there with whom you’d be willing to pollute the gene pool?

*     *     *     *     *

Before I end this ridiculously Lazy Blog Day, enjoy the latest Awful Offspring Offal:

Teen son in response to pre-teen son’s insightful comment: “LOOMA.”

Me, who by now should know better: “What does LOOMA mean?”

Teen son: “Laughing out of my anus.”*

 *Note to Mr. Rubin: Apparently we have already polluted the gene pool… By the way, Mr. Depp has nothing on you. Plus, he tends to liquefy when situations get heated…

I hope the preceding statement does not make me appear ungrateful. Quite the opposite. I am honored and humbled that the very talented writer and poet Polly has nominated me for The Genuine Blogger Award and the Reader Appreciation Award. Thank you, Polly. Despite my feistiness, the gesture is much appreciated. That you and I breathe the same air is remarkable.

 In tracking down the rules for these awards, relief rained upon me. You see, The Genuine Blogger Award has no rules. It is merely a way to let recipients know their work is appreciated. That is so sweet, syrup drips from my follicles.

As for the Reader Appreciation Award, I must share a bit of what I’ve been up to and pass the award onto some deserving bloggers.

Oh, dear. I am dull. Hear the air yawn around me.

Rather than bore you with my daily comings and goings, allow me to share what three strangers have been up to. That’s right; I don’t know these people. Does that matter?

• For example, the balding man idling at the red light in front of me two days ago makes candles. How do I know? Because he plucked wax from his ear as if paraffin would soon be a scarcity. Never have I seen such determination. But where he stored his treasure is anyone’s guess. I’m just glad the light changed before he needed a sticky adhesive.
• At a recent conference, seated two rows ahead of me, I discovered a starving woman in my normally well-fed community. At least, I assumed she was famished, because never before have I witnessed a diminutive woman eat a bread roll bigger than her head.
• Oh, and I must tell you about Cheeks, a woman entering the deli just ahead of my son and me. It’s not that I’ve never seen spandex on a dimply, over-sized buttocks; I’ve just never seen the clingy material bury so deep in one’s crack that two distinct hills are the outcome. It was like butt boobs. Or so said my teenage son.

Image credit: One Inch Punch

As much as I’d love to go on, I recently promised brevity in blog posts, so I must bid you adieu. Besides, there is a string-bean of a man laying mulch outside of my window, and lest he think I am a mesmerizing master at work (yeah, right) or a slacker (bingo!), I best get my single-breasted buttocks out of this chair.

But before I go, I need to nominate others for these awards, always a difficult choice when one reads dozens of wonderful blogs. I opted on the following bloggers because, aside from Polly, they were my six earliest followers, who—against all odds—faithfully come back to see me. As always, do not feel pressure to play the game. Just know that I truly appreciate your support.

JM McDowell

Kourtney Heinz

The Girl in the Cat Frame Glasses

Postcard Fiction

GM Barlean

A Rich, Full Life In Spite of It

What about you? Have you encountered any strange strangers lately? Or maybe you’re the strange one?…

If you pedal backwards through my blog, you will notice post-miniaturization. In other words, goodbye high word-count tomes; hello reader-friendly nubbins.

So, instead of:

“Hey, all you wonderful folks, how’s the skin rash?”

You’ll soon get:

“Hey, all you wonderful folks.”

And finally, just a simple:

“Hey.”

Well, okay, except for my Lazy Blog Days, the entries will not be that short. But my point is, brevity can be good.

Ironically, writing a short piece proves tricky, at least for me. But with my last few posts, I’ve tried to balance having a message with getting you out in time for lunch. Or for your S&M bondage session. Your choice. I don’t judge.

Pull my finger.

So what is the ideal blog post length?

Once again, I crawled into bed with Google, and this is what I found. For optimal Search Engine Optimization (SEO), the general consensus seems to be that a post should be at least 300 words. If you would like a description of SEO, you’ve come to the wrong place.

How about maximum word count? Opinions vary, though several sites I queried note 1,000 words as the upper limit. But even that might push the patience button. According to The Secrets of Blog Post Length, 400-600 words seems a reasonable goal.

I like the sound of that. And if it keeps you lovely people checking in, I hereby swear to abide by the following mantra:

Four hundred down low,

Six hundred up high,

If ever I should stray,

Pitch a fork in my eye.

Well, hold on. On second thought, let’s make it 300-700 words. My eyesight is lousy enough.

Nope. These are not my big red glasses from the eighties. But we’re getting closer. Will I ever be brave enough to post that horror?

And now, since I have a few allotted words left, allow me to share my son’s newest expression. It’s really adorable. In fact, I could make this a regular feature. For example, some bloggers like **–brain splats–**  have the Lexicon word of the day. But on my blog, in lieu of helpful education, I’ll showcase my teenager’s crude vocabulary instead. Let’s call it:

The Awful Offspring Offal*

So for today, enjoy this little gem he recently tossed out. Trust me, no context is necessary. Just know that my other son now goes by the name “Vagina Nuts.”

What about you? What do you consider the perfect blog post length? Is there such a thing? Or if you prefer, tell me where I’ve erred in parenting, which, if you reread my two opening sentences, is pretty much a rhetorical request.

All images from Microsoft Clip Art

*Offal: Noun  1. The entrails and internal organs of an animal. 2. Refuse or waste material.

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Several months ago, I caught the end of a morning talk show, where a successful novelist mentioned she never read fiction because she worried she might inadvertently plagiarize something she’d liked. For example, perhaps she might stumble across the following passage from my sophisticated post, Scaring Your Doctor from A to Z, and unconsciously incorporate these words or concepts into her own work-in-progress:

“X-ray of Mountain Dew bottle nestled in your rectum—I guarantee, if you bring this exhibit to your doctor’s appointment, you will not leave anytime soon.”

And really, given the lyrical nature of this prose, how could she not?

Still, I was a bit skeptical. It’s common belief writers need to read as much as they write. How better to improve our technique, our storytelling, our plots?

But last week, while composing a post on my yellow-bellied nature, her words came back to haunt me.

In describing my response to being put on the spot in front of a room full of people, I used the phrase, “…you’ll have front-row seats to spontaneous combustion.” No problem. It sounded good. Described my typical reaction. But after I proofed the post a few times, doubt poked my pre-frontal cortex, that microscopic chamber still possessing higher thought. (Or at least it did last week. Currently all bets are off.) Had I encountered that phrase before? In a book? On a TV show? Perhaps from another blogger?

I Googled the phrase, as if that would solve my conundrum, and came up empty-handed. A good thing, right? But still it bothered me.

Mentally, I scanned the bloggers I follow. Did the phrase come from one of them?

At this point you’re probably thinking, “Blogging a little too much, Idiot Girl?” But out of genuine concern I searched for this phrase on several blogs—at least on those that housed a search box—and was pleased to once again find zilch.

Common sense tells me nothing influenced my writing or maybe everything influenced my writing. Like sponges, we absorb what we read, and we’re bound to wring it out later. The best we can do is write honestly, and if something does tickle our pickle, be sure to credit the source.

What about you? Have you written something that seemed oddly familiar? Does the author from the talk show have a valid point?

All images from Microsoft Clip Art.

Let’s start today’s post with a short quiz, shall we?

A. Streptococcus mutans, Porphyromonas gingivalis, Bacteroides gingivalis, Treponema denticola, Fusobacterium nucleatum, and corynebacteria are:

1. Aliens inhabiting the planet Ifyouchoosethisansweryouareanidiot.
2. Children with dreadful name-picking parents.
3. Politicians who have sexted images of their genitals. Twice.
4. Disease-producing organisms commonly found in the mouth.

B. You should share these critters by pre-masticating food and thrusting the disgusting blob into a defenseless child’s mouth:

1. True
2. False

If you answered 4 and 2 respectively, you are one step ahead of Alicia Silverstone. Yes, this video is old news, but as with most things horrifying, I tucked it away for future use. So if you failed to view the terror flick last month—because you were too busy actually living a life—I encourage you to click the link and view it now. Go ahead. We’ll wait.

After this oral feast aired, public outcry poured, though most of it centered on Momma. “How could she do that? What was she thinking? That’s so gross.” Today, however, I’d like to present the pre-verbal infant’s side in this animalistic feed.

Dear Mommy,

I know you love me. I love you, too. But I don’t love your dental disease. Or your sore throat pathogens. And it’s really—oh, wait, is that a Herpes lesion I see on your lip? Oh, Mommy, those hurt. Please don’t give me oral Herpes. I guess that ulcer could be Coxsackie, you know, the virus that causes Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease. I hear there’s a particularly nasty strain circulating. So maybe—and, you know, I’m just spitballing here—maybe you could try using a blender and spoon instead, like all of the other nice mommies.

Sincerely,

Baby Silver

I know a little something of which I speak. You see, I’ve experienced a similar oral horror. No, my mother did not feed me that way. At least I hope she didn’t. Sadly, this trauma comes courtesy of my husband.

Years ago, before Mr. Rubin understood the true entity that is Carrie, he committed an unthinkable act, one that still makes me shudder and quake like Bruce Banner on the verge of his Hulk-dom. In an inexplicable move, my Y-chromosome mate used my toothbrush. My toothbrush! The same bristles that scrub my Type A, never-share-a-cup, on-the-cusp-of-a-germaphobe chompers.

What was his pitiable defense? He couldn’t find his; he didn’t think I would notice; we’re husband and wife. Well, the good man knows better now. Boy, does he ever. Because Carrie is so very. As a sensitive introvert, I detect smells and annoying tactile sensations that normal people might not.

And I’m telling you, my toothbrush smelled and tasted differently.

You don’t believe me? Well, you should. Besides, if the smell hadn’t clued me in, the big chunk of food hubby left behind sure as hell did…

Nothin’ says lovin’ like foodstuff in the scrubbin’…

So what about you? Would you ever share a toothbrush? Use the same spoon? Enjoy someone else’s chewed up food? Lick a hotel wall?

All images from Microsoft Clip Art except the peas-and-carrot toothbrush which is compliments of me.

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Enough of this and she can find her own d**n G-spot.

Now let’s leave the topic of G-spots—I am uncomfortable enough as it is—and ponder the following quote:

“Your sweet spot is the place where you’re optimally stimulated.”

No, I’m not back where I started; this sweet spot is not buried in an octogenarian corpse. Rather, it symbolizes the discovery of the environment most suitable to your personality. The quote is from Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking by Susan Cain, and by golly, if you think you’ve seen the end of my posts referencing this book, you are as delusional as those people who still use the term “by golly.”

To understand the sweet spot, let me offer an example.

Once upon a time I attended a healthcare conference. There I was, nestled in the back of a carpeted and gray-paneled room, content in my solitude though preferring invisibility, when the speaker, dressed as a cheery extrovert, produced the most dreadful of words. “Good morning, friends and colleagues! Let’s start by going around the room and getting to know each other. Tell me about yourselves! That way we can foster more meaningful dialogue.”

Say what?

Oops, I crapped my pants…

Given my posterior location, there was ample time before my trip to the guillotine. Although I learned nothing of the other attendees, so lost in my thoughts was I, by the time Mr. Cheery reached me, I had a lovely monologue prepared, and—if I may toot my own horn—how witty and confident I appeared!

Obviously, my sweet spot is a place of low-stimulation. Give me time to prepare, time to process my thoughts in a low-pressure environment, and I will do just fine. Maybe even better than fine. But toss me into a hyped-up, on-the-spot, chaotic and pulsating rave? Well, good morning Miss Idiot! May I get you a brain?

Which brings me to my second example. For every yin there’s a yang, right?

At yet another conference in yet another small room at yet another back table, I started out safe in my low-stimulation environment. That is, until Mr. Aggressive, I Am Alpha Male Hear Me Roar, decided to mix things up a bit. You know, just so he could thrive in his own sweet spot. Which, sadly for me, was a high-stimulation environment.

Before I knew what hit me, Mr. Alpha Male pounced in front of my table, thrust a lion’s paw in my face, and demanded, “Quick! Name five things you hope to improve in your professional life by attending this meeting today!”

A bla bla bla bla th-th-th-that’s all folks!

It’s a shame you weren’t there to witness my Katherine Hepburn vocal tremor, verbal vomit, and tomato face. If you were, you could have nodded in understanding like the other attendees, all the while thinking, “Poor little imbecile. She must be in the wrong room.”

I admit it. I’m a thinker. Give me preparation time, and I’ll succeed. I might even impress you. But put me on the spot in a high-stimulation environment, and you’ll have front-row seats to spontaneous combustion. Which is why Mr. Alpha Male would be a great soldier or fighter pilot or trauma surgeon. I, on the other hand, would shoot off my foot, crash into a looming mountain, or pluck out a bladder instead of a hemorrhaging spleen. Oopsy daisy.

But isn’t the world a better place with both types of personalities?

So what’s your sweet spot? Do you perform best in a high-stimulation, on-the-spot environment or a low, good-god-give-me-time-to-prepare one? Do you pee your pants when called upon or strut your fancy feathers? Are you further convinced I’m a nincompoop? Or do you no longer use the word nincompoop?

All images from Microsoft Clip Art

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Kids, there’s a boring topic in the neighborhood today. Let’s try to make it fun.

Image credit: Microsoft Clip Art

I need to confirm where to put periods when dealing with quotation marks that set off titles or quoted or spoken language—is it before or after the final quotation mark? For example, which of the following is correct?

A. My son’s favorite new made-up word is “paenus”. It is a combination of his two other favorite words “penis” and “anus”.

Or would it be:

B. My sons call my Prius the “Vagina Car.”

Although the content of those examples is regrettably true, ignore the implied parenting failure, and tell me where to put the freaking period. Is it after the final quotation mark as in exhibit A or before the final mark as in exhibit B?

The Elements of Style was no help, so I reached out to my good friend Google. From the Guide to Grammar and Writing, I found the following:

“In the United States, periods and commas go inside quotation marks regardless of logic.”

Well, that’s a shocker.

The fact that my chubby, reality-TV obsessed country defies logic will surprise no one, but the source goes on to say that in the American style, the period goes before the final quotation mark as such: “paenus.” But in the United Kingdom, Canada, and other locations influenced by British education, the period goes after the final quotation mark like this: “anus”. The same holds true for commas.

Fair enough. Clear as chocolate pudding, though I still prefer the Bristish way. But what about punctuation other than periods and commas? Well, according to the same source, all other marks follow the final quotation mark, as in:

A. Shouldn’t a father intervene when a son swats his mother’s fanny with a dishtowel, laughs, and calls her “jiggly butt”?

Or

B. Sometimes I enjoy a good shimmy and shake to LMFAO’s “Sexy and I Know It” or a pleasant head bobbing to Rob Zombie’s “Dragula”; nothing clears a room faster.

These last two examples apply to Americans as well as those from other lands. The punctuation part, that is. Not the jiggly butt part…

Image credit: zazzle.com

So, tell me, do I have my facts straight? Have I interpreted these rules correctly? And for those of you who aren’t writers or who couldn’t give a ferret’s foreskin about periods and commas, what loving terms do your children call you? Your significant others? What songs get you hopping? Are daughters as fascinated with human anatomy as sons? Whatever you’ve got, I’ll take it.

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Image credit: Microsoft Clip Art

Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.

You see, I’ve received the Beautiful Blogger Award by the witty, charming, and beautiful I Mayfly. This may or may not be her real name, but if it is, she has my sympathy. On the other hand, her parents have my stink eye.

The rules are simple. All I need to do is express my gratitude to my lovely insect friend (thank you, I Mayfly!) and pass the honor to other bloggers. For those of you who enjoy rules and order, I have included the award regulations at the end of this post.

Absent from these rules is any requirement I divulge personal information about myself, a gift for which we are all grateful. But I have to give you something, no? And since it won’t be my chocolate, I’ll need an alternative. And yes, I like to start sentences with conjunctions. And no, I don’t care if The Elements of Style tells me I shouldn’t. But yes, I do care what you think. So yes, I’ll stop if you want me to.

So what to do? What to do? What ties into the theme of beautiful blogger?

This could be me, but there's no chocolate smeared around her mouth, so it must not be. (Image credit: Microsoft Clip Art)

Got it!

The sexy/ugly game, of course!

Years ago, my sister and I enjoyed a sincere but cruel game of sexy/ugly. This involves naming a celebrity who’s ugly but at the same time sexy. A Google canoodle the other day assured me I wasn’t the only one to play this game, but my search was cursory. As a science gal, I never want to introduce bias.

I’ll admit, I hesitated about this post, because I don’t enjoy poking fun at others unless they deserve it. But then I realized the soon to be mentioned celebrities have armpit hair more important than me, and any hurt feelings generated by my adolescent musings would be more than compensated by their mansions, pool floaties, and well-dressed pooches.

So here goes. My list of sexy/ugly is:

David Bowie—Not only sexy and ugly but hip as well. A triple threat.

Angelica Huston—A face like a drag queen but sexy as hell.

Billy Bob Thornton—Introspective and he sports vials of blood.

Sandra Bernhard—An apt surname given that prominent proboscis and gap-toothed grin can both burn and make… (Oh, now I really apologize for that last one.)

Tommy Lee Jones—A younger Tommy Lee Jones, not the current Shar-pei version.

Image credit: dogbreedworld.net

Mick Jagger—Maroon 5 didn’t make a song about those gyrating hips for nothing.

Steven Tyler—Best. Accessorizer. Ever. Just stay away from that mouth. It’s big enough to eat you.

Sam Shepard—Rugged and manly. But don’t Google his 2009 mug shot unless you’re hankering for a shudder.

Joan Cusack—Hmmm, I guess I’ll let you be the judge on this one. Might be too mom-ish for some.

The Hangover Monkey—Come on, you know it’s true.

Image credit: mediagallery.usatoday.com

So there you have it. Evidence once again of an education gone wrong. The astute among you will notice the list contains more men than women (and believe me, I had to scrounge for those women) and too many lily-white visages. Might this be because ugly white men can make it in Hollywood easier than their less comely female and ethnic colleagues? I’ll skip the social commentary, but just saying…

So who are your sexy/uglies? If you are too dignified to answer, then I am interested in your opinion on solving the U.S. health care crisis, a discussion on the fragility of the current global economy, or the solution to unsustainable oil production. What’s that? You’ll stick with the sexy/ugly? Thought so.

*     *     *

The rules for the Beautiful Blogger Award are:

1. Thank the person who gave you the award
2. Paste the award on your blog
3. Link the person who nominated you for the award
4. Nominate your choice of bloggers
5. Post links to the blogs you nominated

As you can see, there is no specified number of victims to pass the award on to. Therefore, I gift it to everyone. Feel free to accept it and paste it onto your own blog or not. A cop out, you say? Perhaps. But such inclusiveness is my appreciation to everyone who has clicked my follow button. Because to me, that really is beautiful…

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Mr. Nasty Pants, my personality nemesis, spawned by Microsoft Clip Art.

Keeping my pantaloons-challenged personality fiend at bay is difficult. Like dead fish after an oil spill, he just keeps surfacing.

My most recent conversation with Mr. Nasty Pants went something like this:

Mr. NP, hiking up those dreadful trousers and puffing out his chest: “Hey Miss Wannabe Writer, thought you were supposed to be blogging about your transition from one life chapter to the next. Instead, you’re busy yacking about loogies on urinals and dog poop.”

Me, head lowered: “Variety is good. Besides, there’s not much to tell. I’m still waiting to hear from my editor.”

Mr. NP, eyes wide as frisbees: “What?! And your book is supposed to be released in September? Good Hades, you must be soiling yourself!”

Me: “Well, the author’s handbook said I wouldn’t hear back until three months before the release date.”

Mr. NP: “So blog about that. Tell those kiddies about your mounting panic on meeting the editing deadlines. How Mr. or Ms. Editor might throw so many changes your way, you won’t even recognize the material. Or how maybe,” Mr. Nasty Pants laughs, vanishing a bouquet of dead flowers up his sleeve, “poof, they’ll forget about you all together.”

Me, staring at his empty talons: “Um, I think I’d rather write about poop.”

Mr. NP: “Well at least tell the folks what you’ve accomplished during your agonizing wait. Surely, you’re halfway through a new work-in-progress by now.”

Me: “Um…”

Mr. NP: “Oh, come on, lady. Don’t tell me you’ve mucked that up, too? What in the heck are you doing all day? Visiting naughty blogs like Tales of a charm city chick  and The Mainland?”

Me, color infusing my melanin-deficient cheeks: “Now wait a second. I’ve written stuff. I finished an outline of my new novel and am now drafting it scene-by-scene. I’m up to scene six.”

Mr. NP, his tone mocking: “Oh, so you’re an outliner then? You know what your buddy Stephen King says about that, don’t you? He says outlines confine a writer. That ‘plotting and the spontaneity of real creation aren’t compatible.’ He’s a fly-by-the-seat sort of guy, or a pantster, as you wannabes like to call it. Seems to have worked just fine for that rich ass dude, wouldn’t you say?”

Me: “Well, I don’t want to fix plot problems after the fact, you know? But I’m also working on a short story. No outline with this one. Just open that baby up and see where the words take me.”

Mr. NP: “And how’s that working for you?”

Me, face brightening: “Not bad. Pretty fun, actually. I’ve written about 8,000 words and would like to make it 10,000. So almost done.”

Mr. NP, just when I—idiot me—thought we might be connecting: “Well, you know it’s going to suck butt, don’t you? Just like your novel—the new and the old. And then you’ll start sweating, start pacing the floor and rubbing your neck and devouring cashew caramel trail mix, because, well, because you QUIT YOUR FREAKING DAY JOB! What are you a fu—”

Me, shooting to full height, cashew bits flying from my mouth, mad woman in action: “Hey, you know what, sicko? Shut the hell up. For once in your life, shut your hideous hamburger hole. I’m doing all right. I’m having fun blogging. I’m having fun writing. I’m having fun just taking care of me and my family for a change. So crawl back into your cerebral foxhole, you self-doubt asswipe!”

Gee, I didn’t know I had it in me…

Image credit: icanhascheezburger.com

What about you? Got any personality fiends fueling your self-doubt? Or, if you’re a writer, are you an outliner or a pantster? Or maybe you prefer to write without any pants on at all…

Image credit: Microsoft Clip Art

People are like roadkill. You encounter disturbing masses daily but they rarely form lasting impressions. Every now and then, however, a squashed squirrel or demolished deer or flattened fox proves so memorable, you can’t shake the mental image.

Thus was my experience with Swallows,* whose name will make sense in a moment, and whose memory recently resurfaced during my daily ritual of “I’ll get that damn calcium tablet down my throat if it kills me.” Not a good pill taker am I.

Picture me circa early 1990s, permed hair forgotten, shoulder pads retired, teeth still crooked (no braces until age 33, remember?), a lowly student in training. Now travel with me as we board a rickety bus with the rest of the young’uns and drive to the forensic psychiatry inpatient unit, home to killers, rapists, and armed robbers mentally unfit for prison. Yes, class, that’s where we’re headed today.

Image credit: Microsoft Clip Art

Although we white-coated munchkins receive counseling on what we might see, nothing quite beats reality: Institutional, kitcheny scent; unadorned white walls; barred windows; glossy, heel-scuffed floors. Oh, and look, peeking around the corner is Sharpy. We’re told he stabbed his friend with a butcher’s knife. Twice. And over there is Jesus. Well, sometimes he’s Tonto, and sometimes he’s Elvis, but today he’s Jesus. We take this as a good sign, no?

But the real treat comes when we’re divided into groups, each unit of four to observe a psychiatric session with one of the patients. Mine, and by default yours, will be with Swallows.

Swallows is very honest. When asked by the psychiatrist to reveal why he’s in the institution, he tells us he killed his mother. He says this with a giggle and a shy glance at his audience, now frozen in our seats like wide-eyed cake pops.

Image credit: etsy.com

We then go on to learn that during his long battle with mental illness, Swallows has devoured hundreds of different items, many of which pass through, but many of which don’t, prompting surgical removal on twenty-eight different occasions. In case we don’t believe him, Swallows lifts his shirt and reveals a scrawny, diffusely pink- and white-scarred belly. One of the cake pops murmurs.

The unfazed psychiatrist describes a list of the obstructing objects, ticking them off his fingers as if trying to count them all: A couple of spoons, a small hairbrush, a toy airplane, plastic containers, batteries, rolls of coins, and numerous sharp objects like nails and open safety pins not safe to pass through on their own. And then the good doctor pauses, smiles, and waits until Swallows catches on and grins back. “Tell them, Doc. Go ahead.”

So Dr. Seen-It-All tells us a tale of one of his earliest interviews with Swallows. By that time, the staff had wised up to the deep-throated fellow and kept everything bolted down, locked up, or out of reach. No personal grooming items allowed unattended. Food only by finger or mouth. Television viewing without remote. But on this early occasion, Dr. Seen-It-All made a grave mistake. After all, the session was long; he was getting nowhere; Swallows was uncooperative. Defeated, Dr. Seen-It-All removed his eyeglasses, set them on the table, and rubbed his weary eyes.

Oops.

The doctor looked up in time to see the wire-rimmed frames disappear behind chomping lips, Swallows’s esophagus working overtime, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a coked-up Russian dancer.

Image credit: thedepotcafe.com

After telling the story, Dr. Seen-It-All and Swallows share a good laugh. The cake pops exchange nervous glances.

The eyeglasses required removal—surgery number twenty-five or twenty-six—leaving only a fun tale for Dr. Seen-It-All and his patient to tell. I don’t know how long Swallows remained institutionalized, but clearly he’s not been forgotten. And although his story offers humor, his life was sad, and we cake pops can certainly see that. Which means this post started out funny and ended up gloomy.

But although our field trip has ended, I refuse to leave readers in a melancholy state. So for your enjoyment, I will add one final tidbit. Luckily for Swallows, Dr. Seen-It-All’s glasses were small and compact. If Swallows had chosen to sample the ginormous frames I once donned in the eighties, those babies would have never gone down so smoothly…

Exchange the color for red and subtract the coke-bottle lenses (though that may no longer be the case), and you get an idea of my specs in the 80s. Talk about roadkill...(Image credit: Microsoft Clip Art)

 What about you? Anybody from the past still on your mind despite only one encounter?

*Names of all individuals are my own creation, and some facts have been distorted for protective purposes.

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