I don’t have any good pictures
2006-02-13, 1:39 p.m.
Since I don’t have any good pictures for you today, until I (1) get my phone and email to start speaking to each other again (gentle coaxing doesn’t seem to be doing the trick, nor tapping on the screen) or (2) purchase a little cable, I give you with these long-discarded remnants from my hard drive:
Ha! You finally meet my sister, whose permission I did not obtain. Here she is, freezing her ass off at Enchanted Rock
And here I am, doing the same, plus waving dorkily. Hello!
Today was the day for the eyeball appointment.
My eye doctor, who only as of today is MY eye doctor, and may be only as of today ANYBODY’s eye doctor, was a very nice man with the voice of Kip Dynamite. Not so much with the whining, but that same “I need not open my mouth, for my voice comes out just fine through my nose” tone.
I say that about ANYBODY’s eye doctor because he seemed very ill at ease and not used to being enclosed in tiny rooms with disarmingly sexy women. Although not any younger than I, he kind of acted like maybe today was his first day on the job, or with a woman, and I was his very first patient, or woman. Perhaps he was a mid-life career changer, or a 40-year-old virgin. I think in a former life, he hung out in chat rooms, chatting with hot babes all day.
As is my wont, I did my damnedest to ease his nervousness and stiff (hah!) manner by chattering and making all kinds of funny jokes and observations.
Him: So the floaters, they, ah, they just happen with age. Nothing to be concerned about; nothing you can do about it. The only time to worry is if you see a flash of light and then a bunch of them all at once.
Me: That would scare the crap out of me. What causes that?
Him, flipping through illustrated flip chart: Well, ah, the vitreous fluid… [here I zoned out a bit, for with my dilated eyeballs, I am soooo relaxed. And funny] … so when it detaches you will see a flash of light.
Me: I am really not looking forward to that.
Him: It will probably never happen to you. Nothing to worry about.
Me: If I see a flash of light, I’m going to think it’s the ghosts. Again.
Him: So did you, ah, get some sunglasses?
Me: Yes. They are very pretty. Thank you.
Him: Ah, well. You’re going to need them.
Me: I’m just driving and then going to work. I don’t need to see.
Don’t you love it when you know you are making universally-accepted wisecracks, and you STILL manage to flummox somebody? I never said anything about sluttiness (spell check wants me to say “smuttiness”, so I will. SMUTTINESS), or stealing from my company, or beating my child. I did not mention hobbits, or poop, or 80s dancing. And I still left him unable to know how or whether to respond.
Ladies, I noticed he’s not wearing a wedding ring. (Because I had to check! I mean. I had to know if he had found his soul-mate, so I could wonder about her) If you’re looking for somebody who filters his voice through his sinus cavities and gets that deer-in-the-headlights look when you are deliberately not going over his head with your funny, I can try to hook you up.
In other news, DW and I went to a wedding, and DW was anticipating having to dance at the reception. If you don’t know my husband in person, then you don’t know the special treat of having him perform a strip dance at your social function. I found out about this expectation when DW was talking to my attorney/friend Killer, and then handed the phone to me, telling him “You ask her.”
Me: What’s the question?
Killer: What’s the best music for DW to dance to at the reception tonight?
Me: Oh. ACDC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long”, without a doubt. That’s good, standard, wedding reception fare.
Killer: Oh, good one. He danced to “I Touch Myself” at the gym the other day, and that was good, too.
It’s no secret that the blushing bride is a big fan of DW’s dancing, from the very first time she saw him mime straddling a dance pole, so it was not at all a surprise that Killer was putting together a CD of DW’s Hottest Dance Hits. But I was not expecting to simultaneously learn that my husband had treated his basketball buddies to a strip dance at the gym.
For the record, he doesn’t really undress. Oh, he might take his shirt off and whip it around his head, but his specialty is the “Stripper Skip.” You know when a stripper is on one side of the stage, and somebody starts waving a bill at her from the other side, and she needs to get over there really fast? That’s the skip. Once you reach your destination via the skip, you turn around and wave your butt in the general direction of the bill waver.
I had bought a disposable camera just for the occasion, but try as he might, the reception DJ was never able to run off all the grandparents, so the strip dancing was 86ed so as not to offend the sensibilities of the aged. But God, those were going to be some good pictures for you all.
And I want everyone to know that if my grandmother had witnessed a middle-aged man strip dancing at my wedding reception, she would have been UP like shot – screw being crippled and blind with emphysema - and out there on the dance floor trying to upstage him. Old people: there’s just no middle ground.
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