Bulls**t Baffles Brains

What’s on my mind? How did American cable news networks ever exist without medically related ads? And is the punishment worse than the cure?

Example #1: 

Casino Card Dealer (quite likely, actor portraying casino card dealer): “My teeth were so messed up …” 

Man in White Smock (also quite likely, actor portraying man in white smock): “David was … (dramatic pause) 2-4-8 complete reconstruction.” 

(What the heck is “2-4-8 complete reconstruction”? It has to be something major, or why would a man in a white smock confide in us, as though we were best buddies? Could the (highly researched, focus-grouped) conclusion be that even if we’re clueless what “2-4-8 complete reconstruction” is, we’ll think: “Holey moley! That sounds serious!”)

Example #2: 

Male voice: Strong chemo can put you at risk of serious infection, which could lead to hospitalizations. In a key study, Bratsolin* reduced the risk of infection from 17% to 1% - a 94% decrease.

(Wa-a-ait a minnit! Lemme … Lemme do the math! What was that, again? 1% means 94 wha-? How much was that? What percent? I said Wa-a-ait a minnit! I wanna do this! How much was it? How much?

Example #3:

Do not take Britziko* if you’re allergic to Britziko* … Side effects may include ruptured spleen … fatal as well as serious lung problems, allergic reactions, kidney injuries … capillary leak syndrome. Report abdominal or shoulder tip pain, trouble breathing. or allergic reactions to your doctor right away. In patients with sickle cell disorders, serious and sometimes fatal crises can occur. The most common side effect is stomach [word unclear] muscle ache. 

Among Britziko’s* “common” side effects are bone pain, pain in your arms or legs, and injection site reactions (bruising, swelling, pain, redness, or a hard lump). 

Example #4:

As the images of a famous movie star flash by, so do these side effects, from a currently televised smoking-cessation drug. The advertiser notes that these issues can occur “with or without Kwiddit*” - a valid disclaimer. They also say the product works best “with support.” 

In another ad for the same product, the advertiser reinforces the simple truth that: “To increase your chance of success, use this medication with a stop-smoking program that includes education, support, and counseling.” Yep.

The side effects follow: “Some people have changes in behavior or thinking ... aggression ... hostility ... agitation ... depressed mood ... suicidal thoughts or actions with Kwiddit.* Serious side effects may include seizures, new or worse heart or blood vessel problems, sleepwalking or allergic and skin reactions which can be life-threatening … The most common side effect is nausea.”

The medication’s side effects are verbal, rather than written. In medication ads featuring written side effects, the font is so small and the images are so compelling that I scarcely notice the warnings. Bet you don’t, either.

Many of these TV ads also appear on YouTube. What do viewers have to say? Here are some of their responses:

• Wanna know how my dad quit smoking? GOD.

• When u come up with a cure for cancer, I'll pay attn. Piss off.

• I dont think about cigarettes anymore, now I think about the transmissions in my tooth telling me to violenty murder my neighbors for collaborating with microscopic, alien squid... Ill take another brand new, brand name pharmacutical drug for these effects....

Others ask if the house in the quit-smoking ad belongs to the famous movie star, or if the woman in the ad is his wife. I’ve fictionalized the medications’ names, but not the content or spelling of the viewers’ responses. So much for focus groups.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Thank you, Mr. Harris

What’s on my mind? I apologize. I’m sorry. I’m really, really, really sorry. I’m living under a cloud of guilt (Jeez - a cloud. I’m making it worse). 

Where I actually live is on an island. Islands, as (here comes Da Prez) Donald Trump said in 2017, are “surrounded by water, big water, ocean water.” 

How perceptive! If only I were a “very stable genius”! The president said those words, too. Not of me, but of himself. 

(I’d take issue with some of those words, Mr. President. The “stable” part. The “genius” part. The “very” part’s fine, but with other descriptors.)

None of this lessens my guilt.

So now you know I live on an island. An island surrounded by water, big water, ocean water. As a wannabe very stable genius, I chose to live on a part of that island that tends to be sheltered from cold-weather extremes. 

(I didn’t dream that up. It was some meteorologist who said it, or the guy down at the hardware store, or maybe our next-door neighbor, Mr. Harris. What-ev-er! Ohhh, I feel so guilty! This isn’t helping. Cut to the chase, Nicole.) 

There are two kinds of idiots: Idiots who love snow, and idiots who don’t. (There! I’ve said it and I’m glad.) I happen to be an idiot who loves snow.

You can count on idiots who don’t love snow saying stuff like: “Snow’s fine as long as it stays on the mountains.” Screw that! I want it here and I want it now. And that makes me feel very, very guilty.

Bad things happen to good people when it snows. Vehicles slide into ditches - or worse, into other vehicles, or into people. Roofs collapse. Buildings overheat and catch fire. People die. Animals die. Hunger worsens. And, unfortunately, hell never freezes over. 

I feel guilty because I want to see some snow. Just enough to make a snow man. A snow angel, perhaps. 

Just enough to say: “Hi, Mr. Harris! Why don’ I shovel that driveway of yours?” 

Upon which Mr. Harris would say: “Don’ yew trouble yerself, li’l lady! I’ll do it later!” and I’d say: “Okee-dokee!” and sidle off, my guilt lessened without having done SFA. 

And that’s why I love snow! Because I - wannabe very stable genius, inhabitant of an island surrounded by water, big water, ocean water - am smart enough to have chosen Mr. Harris as my neighbor! 

Which means I can mosey on down the road and feel a whole lot less guilty than I did two minutes earlier. I love snow! 

Two hours later: We’re having a blizzard! I hate snow!

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Dance ’til It Hurts

What’s on my mind? It’s never a good sign when you walk into a dance hall (1) squinting because you’ve left your glasses at home and (2) realizing you’ve mistaken the band’s instruments for exercise equipment.

Himself and I attended a dinner dance, last night. An actual dinner dance! I’ve never been to a dinner dance. Never! I’m proficient at eating dinner, but have no idea how to dance.

The band had already played two numbers and I’d already gulped two martinis and no one had yet claimed the dance floor, so I told Himself: “Let’s dance!” He stared at me, dumbfounded.

“You’ve always said you don’t know how!”

“I’ll figure it out!” I said. “How hard can it be?” Very hard, apparently.

Easing off my orthopedic Oxfords, I slipped around the stage, terrified of sliding into someone’s ice cream and chocolate sauce.

We lasted one dance before Himself threw his neck and back out, took two painkillers, declared he’d had enough dancing, and retired to a chair. 

I kept waiting for someone - anyone - to ask me to dance, but no one did. I even asked two women, each of whom said she was indisposed (I didn’t know a 78-year-old could have menstrual cramps, but I’m not a gynecologist). 

My heart hardened when I overheard the fake-cramps woman whisper to her hypochondriac friend: “No way, Jose!” (Hmmff! They’re obviously members of the Clichés R Us Fan Club).

One of the men at our dinner table said I danced just like Elaine Benis. Not being among the 189.3 million cool people who watch Seinfeld reruns, I had no idea who Elaine Benis was, so took it as a compliment. 

I quite like this dancing stuff. I should try it again. Neck-up, I definitely look better without my glasses. Neck-down, I’d definitely look better if I tried some of that exercise equipment. 

I’d also accomplish three things: Blowing my own horn as I slither into the band, making new frenemies in the Clichés R Us Fan Club, and kicking up the heels of my orthopedic Oxfords, menstrual cramps notwithstanding.

© Nicole Parton, 2019 

Joy

What’s on my mind?

My aunt’s Swiss cousin stopped writing. That was it - no letters, ever again. My aunt chewed on this like a dog chews on a bone. It bothered her that she didn’t know what had happened. 

Was Susie ill? Was she on vacation? Had her letter been lost in the mail? It never once occurred to my aunt that Susie might have died. Susie was too young! Too vivacious! She skied! As though that might shield Susie from what happens to us all.

Neither Susie nor my aunt used email. They relied on letters slid through a slot in the door. 

I didn’t know Susie, but my aunt was my favorite of many aunts. She died 10 years ago, never knowing what had happened to Susie. It must have been hard, not knowing.

Unlike my aunt’s predicament, I know exactly what happened to Joy. Who thought I’d remember her, some 40 years after we first met? The truth is, I’ve thought of Joy often. We first met to discuss a subject close to her heart - a topic that could have changed children’s lives for the better - but the government turned away. 

What it was doesn’t matter now, but Joy’s efforts eventually drew 100,000 letters of public support. The lobbyists were too powerful; Joy’s campaign did not prevail.

After I retired, Joy and I talked every couple of years. Once, we had lunch at her place. I loved her intelligent, rat-a-tat, no-nonsense voice. Her husband of 66 years had been a banker. She seemed quieter after Reg died. And then I stopped hearing from her altogether. 

Joy and Reg’s wedding anniversary would have been March 5; her birthday, a week later.

I never met Garry, her son, or Donna, her daughter-in-law, but I know how much she loved them. Joy would have been 90 in March.

Joy lived well, but not extravagantly. In that practical way of hers, she’d say: “No one ever saw an armored car drive up to the cemetery.” Joy said that often.

I should have guessed what happened to Joy when I looked her up and couldn’t find her. The wonders of the Internet! Today, I stumbled across her obit. Joy was a nice woman; a good woman; a smart woman.  

People usually leave a mark, for good or for bad. Joy left hers. I won’t easily forget her.

© Nicole Parton, 2019 

Two Neurons Bouncing

What’s on my mind? A thousand things.

We visited a craft fair two weeks ago - by far the biggest event of its kind in our village. Somewhere - in some newspaper, on some radio show, in some program of events - I’d read or heard that the craft fair had thousands of different items for sale. Or was it prizes? Or was it prize money? I really couldn’t remember, but the word “thousands” lodged in my brain the way a grain of rice sticks to the bottom of the bag and won’t come loose.

I never win prizes, mostly because I never enter contests. No lucky-number lottery tickets, no draw prizes, no beauty prizes (Du-u-h! That’s a given) … No worries!

You know where this is going, of course. I won the door prize.

I was about to give a crafter $15 for something I couldn’t live without when I heard my name boom from the stage. As the two or three neurons in my brain bounced around like ping-pong balls, I instantly deduced I’d won. A sound I’d never heard before escaped my wide-open mouth:

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!! EEEEK! EEEEK! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK!!!”  

“Nicole Parton appears to be in the room,” came the blasé voice over the mic.

Running toward the stage like a linebacker, I was unable to control myself: “EEEEK! EEEEK! EEEEK! I’ve won! I’ve won! I’ve won a thousand dollars!!!” 

A puzzled look passed over the face of the woman with the mic. 

Instead of a demure and modest “Thank you …”  my first words were: “Where’s my thousand dollars?” Puzzlement passed over the faces of everyone in the auditorium. A mental case had won the draw.

“There is no thousand dollars,” the woman with the mic whispered into my ear.

The faces of the other two winners (the other two winners???) were stamped with annoyance. Their names had been called before mine; they’d been patiently waiting as I clambered onto the stage.

I hit that stage with such loud enthusiasm that the woman holding the mic lied: “Because Nicole Parton reached the stage first (the other women’s faces twitched with rage), Nicole will have the first pick of the prizes!” (They hated me; I knew it; I didn’t care).

“What’s it going to be, Nicole? Something from the knitting table, or the jewelry table, or the mmfff-mmfff table (I had no idea which table that was; I wasn’t interested and had blanked it out).

“Knitting!” I yelled. I’d been lusting after one of those fancy ponchos at the knitting table. The other two winners glared at me.

The woman with the mic lead me to the knitting table, at which point the knitter lead me to a small table at the rear. She said I could have “one knitted item from this table.” Everything there was five bucks. 

There were no ponchos on that table. There was nothing worth a thousand dollars. I fingered something I liked on a different table, but it was $15.

With my disappointment palpable, the knitter said of the $15 item: “Do you want it, dear? Do you really, really want it?” No, dammit, I wanted the poncho, but instead sniffed: “Yeth.” 

“Then go ahead and (sigh) have it. It’s yours.”

I’d prefer not to tell you what “it” was, because I immediately regifted it to a friend who just might read this - even though what she probably wanted was an expensive knitted poncho. 

She’d better like it. As everyone knows, a woman can never have too many knitted toilet-paper cover-ups.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

A Mile - Give or Take - Down the Road

What’s on my mind? A shoe. And then another shoe, a mile - give or take - down the road. Sneakers, to be precise. Sneakers sneaking around in plain sight, on the road.

“Why?” I wondered. 

There’s no telling. My first guess was that these shoes belonged to some reckless teenager who threw them onto the road as he raced around by car or on foot. 

A dare, perhaps? Why throw away one shoe at a time when perfectly good utility wires span the road? Tie them together and throw them up and over the power lines or telephone wires until they catch and hang there? Isn’t that the usual way young people abandon their sneakers? 

Ha-ha, very funny. Ha-ha. Not funny at all. And not a casual gesture, as it turns out.

I recently read that looped shoes on a wire can signal a drug dealer’s nearby, or that a gang hit took place in the area. And here I thought these were just shoes, dangling in the sun and the rain and the wind until someone, sometime, climbs into a bucket lift to take them down. Who knew? 

Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar, as Freud so famously said. Shoes looped over a wire mean the expected - that some idiot did this to another idiot drunker than the first.  

The laces of these shoes weren’t tied and looped. They were just shoes, left in different places along the road. There was nothing fancy about these shoes - no recognizable swoop or color pairing or elevated sole to signify some upscale brand. If I were going to abandon a pair of sneakers, or fling them over a wire, that’s the kind I’d throw. The nondescript kind. 

I wouldn’t be tossing any leather sneakers with custom insoles, no-siree! First, they’d be too expensive to replace. Second (especially if I suddenly took to wearing stilettos, and wore a guilty smirk), everyone would know I’d done it. Third, I don’t know any drug dealers, unless you count “Mmff-mmff” in the neighboring village who bakes and sells dope-laced brownies “for medical purposes.” I’m sure “Mmff-mmff” isn’t about to fling her shoes over the power lines to broadcast each fresh batch. 

But these particular shoes … These! Shoes thrown on a road. Not fancy shoes. Just everyday sneakers. A signal, perhaps? (“Da guy’s stashed in da freezer. Make it snappy, Guido.”) A kidnapping? A heist? A worn-out pair? A pair that didn’t fit? A way to make a statement? 

Wartime drawings once said “Kilroy was here.” With nothing that dramatic happening in these parts, flung shoes say “I was here.” (Everyone’s on to you, Guido!) 

But these shoes were separated - not flung. A shoe. And then another shoe, a mile - give or take - down the road.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Dear Ms. Parton: Hat Hair

What’s on my mind? Hair. Not mine. Hoo-hoo! Never-ever-ever mine. 

So here are my Weekly Words of Wisdom: Head hair does not necessarily mean hat hair. Hat hair is what happens to head hair when you stick a hat on your head. Thank you. 

Questions? Does anyone have questions?

Dear Ms. Parton: I don’t own any hats. My hair still looks like hat hair - Curious in Cleveland

Dear Curious: Obviously, you borrow hats. Next question?

Dear Ms. Parton: I don’t own any hats, either. In fact, I never wear them, but my hair still looks like hat hair - Hopeless in Hartford

Dear Hopeless: Try a little shampoo. I hear it works wonders.

Dear Ms. Parton: My hair usta be short? En-it was easy to wear? En-I looked good in hats? En-no-one ever knew I-da worn one because my hair still looked great? E-nother women have prollems en I don’t? Em-I weird or what? - Wondering in Wyoming

Dear Wondering: Yes.

Dear Ms. Parton: My boyfriend asked me to grow my hair because he loved the long, luxurious locks that once rested on his shoulder as I read Nietzsche and he read the Kama Sutra. It wasn’t long before I was resting my hair on his shoulder, again. All he wants to do is run his fingers through that long, lovely hair and he’s satisfied. Now he’s reading Nietzsche and I’m reading the Kama Sutra - Desperate in Detroit

Dear Desperate: Wear a hat.

© Nicole Parton, 2019

We All Scream for Ice Cream

What’s on my mind? On this bleak winter’s day, a summer recollection, embarrassingly true.

In the summer of 2017, Himself and I were lolling around scratching our privates, as married people do, when a Dairy Queen ad came on TV. We like Dairy Queen, and have the love handles to prove it.

The ad said seniors could get a free, small-size Dairy Queen cone on such-and-such a date, the word FREE prompting my heart to thump even louder and faster than a hypothetical 30 minutes on the treadmill - hypothetical, because I’ve never actually done it. 

I haven’t had anything free since I steamed the uncanceled stamps from the birthday card my sister sent me in 2016, so I was pretty excited, and Himself  even more so. Himself’s crazy about ice cream.

On the day we’d marked on our calendars (did I say we were excited?), we hied on down to Dairy Queen and stood in a long lineup of (we presumed) freebie-seekers. When Himself made it to the head of the line, he grinned and said: “We’re here for our free ice cream cones!”

The young lady behind the counter looked at him with one of those vacant stares that says: “I don’t know who the hell you are or what the hell you’re doing in my line-up, but get the hell out of here.” 

What she actually said was: “Huh?”

So Himself, still grinning, repeated what he’d said: “We’re here for our free ice cream cones!”

“We don’t have any free ice cream cones,”she said.

“You may think you don’t, but we saw it on TV!” Himself said.

“There are people in line behind you, sir.”

“B-b-but … We saw it on TV…” 

 “I’ll have to call my supervisor.”

“For seniors!” I yelled. “Free for seniors!”

The young lady was fast morphing into a - I don’t normally use this word, but it rhymes with “itch.”

“Psst-psst-psst-psst-psst-psst-psst …” Itch to Supervisor, who turned to us and said: “Step out of the line, sir. STEP OUT OF THE LINE!”

Himself went into shock. I’d retreated to my happy place, which is whiny and red-eyed. If at first you don’t succeed, cry, cry again.

“But we’re seniors,” I whispered.

With a look that said: “You’re idiots and I really don’t give a fig,” the supervisor addressed us in loud, slow words, so that as elderly folk, we might grasp it: “The ad was on American TV. It was for American Dairy Queens. Not Canadian Dairy Queens. There are no free ice cream cones in Canada.”

Himself went further into shock. Perhaps not wanting to look like the cheapskate he is, he said: “Well, then … We’ll have two medium-sized cones.”

They were massive. We felt sick, eating all that ice cream. We haven’t visited the Dairy Queen since, and probably never will. 

© Nicole Parton, 2019

The Problem with Pigeons

What’s on my mind? In this pigeon-hating world, it seems appropriate to draw attention to the curious story of the little pigeon that could - and in so doing, found a nest to call his own. With a tip of the toque to Canada’s CTV News, the link’s below.

Why are pigeons reviled? 

Because they’re “rats with wings.” Because they’re “dirty.” Because they multiply and “take over.”  Because they’re “stupid.” 

Really? I was about to write a few snappy rebuttals when I recognized an uncomfortable truth. Aren’t some of these comments similar to what the ignorant and the fearful say of asylum seekers? I’m not for a moment drawing a parallel between pigeons and asylum seekers. That would be deeply offensive.

Reports Google: “Although the pigeon is one of the most intelligent of all the bird species, man has found limited uses for the birds other than for the purposes of sport, food and as a message carrier. A team of navy researchers, however, has found that pigeons can be trained to save human lives at sea with high success rates.” 

As admirable as that is, this appears to say that Pigeons = Useful = Good. 

Not everyone must be Useful to be Good. Nor am I suggesting any identifiable group is “intrinsically good” or “intrinsically bad.” Most are just people - with faces, families, names, and histories. People are people are people - each of us in some ways different, each of us in some ways the same. 

All people deserve respect, dignity, fairness, and courtesy. All people deserve a chance. All people deserve a nest to call their own, no matter how modest.

But in this pigeon-hating world, the short story below may surprise and delight you, as it did me. Yes, it’s about a pigeon. But it’s also about reciprocated kindness, and that’s what really counts. 

https://edmonton.ctvnews.ca/video?clipId=1592251

© Nicole Parton, 2019

Rock Solid, Full Cup

What’s on my mind?

Have you ever made a triple batch of peanut butter cookies in your GREAT, BIG, SEXY, HEA-VY, DU-TY electric mixer, belatedly realizing you’ve forgotten to soften the solid-as-a-rock FULL CUP OF FROZEN BUTTER you’ve just added to the bowl? Have you? Have you?

And then shrugged and said to yourself: “Meh!” 

And then thought: “This 325-watt baby can handle anything!” 

And then turned the mixer to its highest setting? 

If you haven’t, don’t.

If you have, enjoy the butter and brown sugar in your hair! As well as this oldie ... 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=amcH5gBQEzM

© Nicole Parton, 2019