Is PoisonEx Right for You?

What’s on my mind? I am “under the weather,” as the saying goes. I have a cold, as do millions if other people at this time of year. Bummer.

So, feet up on the couch, eyes rheumy, nose sniffly, I stare blankly at CNN. The pharmaceutical ads that pay the bills for this and many other stations command my attention: “And now, a word from PoisonEx, the makers of cyanide!”

I’m joking, of course. Today, ads seamlessly segue from one to the next, their “entertainment factor” high.

“Ah was healthy until ah started ta take these pee-ulls …” 

No one says that, either, though it’s sometimes true. Consumer Reports magazine notes Americans take an average of four prescription meds as well as over-the-counter vitamin and herbal supplements, some doing more harm than good, with unreported drug interactions.

As Consumer Reports further notes: “The number of prescriptions filled for American adults and children rose 85 percent between 1997 and 2016, from 2.4 billion to 4.5 billion a year, according to the health research firm Quintile IMS. During that time, the U.S. population rose 21 percent.”

The article lists 12 conditions for which people can attempt lifestyle changes before taking prescription meds: ADHD; back and joint pain; dementia; mild depression; heartburn; insomnia; low testosterone; osteopenia (bone loss); overactive bladder; pre-diabetes; pre-hypertension, and obesity. The pharmaceutical ads don’t mention that; they should be required to. 

Maybe I’m just crabby. Maybe you feel differently. As you watch the ads - sniffly and rheumy-eyed, feeling sorry for yourself - three things may happen: 

(1) You start to drool as the ad shows real actors - not people - who once felt lousy. Today, they’re playing tennis, bouncing grandkids on their knees, frolicking in swimming pools (which any fool knows is a prelude to sex), and cuddling (ditto) as they watch the sun set on the pain and misery they suffered before taking PoisonEx. 

You chew that over awhile. Everyone in the ad is wearing color-coordinated clothes. Dang! You’re worthy! Why aren’t you wearing color-coordinated clothes instead of this ratty bathrobe? 

It takes another 30 ad exposures for you to make the connection that PoisonEx = color-coordinated clothes = silver-haired foxes of the sexual persuasion = sex! sex! sex! for y-o-u-u-u-u! 

(2) You barely read or hear the federally mandated cautions because the visuals are so compelling. Delivered in fine print and in calm, reassuring tones, these cautions include words such as “excessive bleeding” … “seek medical help immediately”…“liver and lung” … “certain fungal illnesses” ... “serious and sometimes fatal incidents have been known to occur …” 

It’s hard to read and hear those messages as you fixate on the sexy, athletic, pill poppers who walk on beaches, stroll in parks, smile as they jog, and laugh during family picnics.

There they are, holding hands and making (nudge-nudge, wink-wink) eye contact. Because you’re still thinking about those color-coordinated clothes (and what might happen when you peel them off), little else registers in your brain.

(3) And now for the clincher, as a disembodied, hypnotic voice says: “Ask your doctor if PoisonEx is right for you!” 

And you, wanting sex and color-coordinated clothes, think: “Maybe PoisonEx is right for me …” After which you also think: “What’s it supposed to fix, again …?” You can’t quite remember. Too many ads. Too little time.

If you’re sensible, you snap back to reality - still feeling lousy, still rheumy-eyed, still blowing your nose, but savvy enough to know your cold will be gone in a week. PoisonEx is not right for you, though a little frolicking and cuddling may not be such a bad idea. 

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

Hotter than Havana

What’s on my mind? Our freighter of a fridge has died. Died!

DOT-DOT-DOT-DIT-DIT-DIT-DOT-DOT-DOT … 

SOS! SOS! SOS!

Died! With dinner guests about to descend. And no hope of resuscitation. When Himself tried to give it mouth-to-mouth, he nearly choked on melting ice cubes. Our fridge is hotter than Havana.

SOS! SOS! SOS!

We’ve got a tugboat-sized fridge beside our (puny 12 cu. ft.) deep freeze, but that smaller fridge is full. We also have a plug-in cooler the size of a bar fridge, but it’s crammed with the salad dressings, sauerkraut, and those other things that we’ve jammed in and piled - topsy-turvy - atop the stuff that was in our broken main fridge. 

Our freighter-of-a-fridge is adrift in a pool of water on the kitchen floor. We’ve been told the freighter’s “old.” Obsolete, even. How old? Oh, maybe 10 years. Around that vintage, anyway. Even its parts manual is no longer online. Hmmm …. 

Its replacement, some fancy cruise ship model, costs so many thousands of dollars I can’t even count that high. 

We recently walked through a department store and saw a $10,000 fridge. It was wider than ours, but otherwise looked the same. But hey! It was on sale! I know you won’t believe this, but as God (and Himself) is my witness, it was $10 off. Ten dollars! Whoopie!

When we bought the tugboat-sized fridge four years ago, the clerk sniffed: “You don’t want that! It has wire racks!” It also had an $800 price tag, which nicely met our budget for a second fridge. 

She suggested that what we really wanted was a glass-shelved fridge of several thousand dollars. I suggested what she really wanted was a big fat commission. Besides, a glass-shelved fridge can look grungy - especially when its owner (who, with better ways to spend her time) never cleans it.

Two things: It occurs to me that many of us in the western world have too much of everything - whether food, clothing, rooms in our houses, cars, boats, and more. Too, too much. It’s shameful. 

It also occurs to me that I’m never going to be able to find a basic fridge with the same stainless steel doors the freighter had, but without an ice maker, water dispenser, dancing blue lights or any of the other fripperies that kick up the cost. I just want a fridge the size of my (RIP) freighter, to fit the existing space. With wire racks, of course.

Now that would float my boat.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

She Doesn’t Want It

She says she doesn’t want it. 

Doesn’t want it? Anyone would want it! It’s beautiful! 

She says she doesn’t want it. Why should I care? Her loss! 

(My loss! Mine! She doesn’t want it. What am I going to do-o-o-o-o??? She doesn’t want it. Oh, God! Oh, God! Panic attack! I can’t bre-e-e-e-athe! Oxygen! Someone give me oxygen! She doesn’t w-a-a-a-nt it!) 

Bitch.

How could she do this to her mother?  To do it to some random woman on the bus … Fine. But to her mother? Her own flesh and blood? How could she not w-a-a-a-nt it?

Of course, she wants it. Of course! Kidding me, that’s what she’s doing - kidding me, so I don’t have to give it up too soon.

(Where the hell am I supposed to put it in this tiny place?) 

She doesn’t w-a-a-a-nt it!

I don’t accept that. I won’t accept that. She loves it. She’s always loved it. She’s kidding me. I know it! Kidding me, as a kindness.

She doesn’t w-a-a-a-nt it!

Not true. Deep in her heart, she does. Don’t I know my own daughter? She does, she does want it! She’s waiting for me to die, God forbid, so she won’t hurt my feelings by taking it now. 

No-o-o-o!!! You don’t have to wa-a-a-a-i-t! Take it no-o-o-ow!

She says she doesn’t want it. 

Bitch.

I saved for that china! I collected it, one piece at a time! I loved it! I still love it! (Where the hell am I supposed to put it?)

I’ve done everything for her! Sacrificed! Gave her bread while I went hungry! Worked two jobs, so she could go to school! How does she pay me back?

She says she doesn’t want it.

Royal Albert, it is! Gold on the rims! Real gold! (There was that thing about the dishwasher, sure, but why should that matter?) It’s an heirloom! Why should she wait until I’m dead? 

She says she doesn’t want it.

She’s young! She doesn’t know her own mind! Fifty’s the new 30!

(Where the hell am I supposed to …? Under the bed? My treadmill’s already under the bed …)

She says she doesn’t want it.

Bitch.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

Pascal, Mon Amour!

What’s on my mind? Weather.

Dork! It’s pouring! 

(I don’t see any rain …)

Idiot! There’s a gale! 

(I don’t see any wind …)

Fool! There’s lighting! 

(I don’t see any lightning …)

Moron! It’s snowing! 

(I don’t see any snow …)

Dolt! It’s 999 hPa! 

(Wha-???)

Himself and I are the proud owners of a “weather predictor.” I’ve started to learn many mysterious weather terms, among them, “hPa” (otherwise known as “hectopascal”). I once dated a Pascal. He was French, and so, I think, is “hPa.” I now have 999 of them to worry about, as if I didn’t already have enough on my plate. 

Our weather predictor is a practiced liar. Many of the things it says about the weather aren’t true, but - like a stopped clock being right twice a day - will be true if we wait long enough. 

Isn’t technology great?

It was once said that everybody talked about the weather, but nobody did anything about it. I did. I looked out the window. The sun, the sky, and the clouds were a reasonably reliable weather predictor until technology invaded our lives.  

I see no rain. No gales. No lightning. No snow. No hPa. No Pascal either, but that’s fine by me. Pascal had a big ego and a small brain, even if he did speak French.

We have a second weather predictor in the kitchen. This weather genius says it’s 38 deg. F - not 42, as the one in the bedroom says. Probably, each is right. Hot stuff tends to happen in bedrooms.  

The kitchen predictor’s my favorite. It’s also more accurate. When the weather’s iffy, the little man who lives inside the kitchen predictor stands under his umbrella, which means it will probably rain. The little man is prepared for anything. I love it when he wears his bathing suit and gives me his “come-hither” look.

Weather makes me think of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (doesn’t everyone?), who wrote “There was a Little Girl”:

There was a little girl

Who had a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good

She was very, very good,

And when she was bad she was horrid.

It’s sleeting, now. I know that because the little man says so, even though the sky is clear and he’s still lollygagging in his bathing suit, which makes me want to “come-hither.” I think I’ll name him Pascal.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

“In My Great and Unmatched Wisdom ...”

What’s on my mind? Words. 

The italicized words below are what US President Donald Trump tweeted this morning. It’s been all over the news. As political pundits and even several Republican politicians have commented, the sudden withdrawal of US troops from Syria opens the door to a Turkish slaughter of the Kurds and the revival of ISIS. Here’s the tweet: 

 “As I have stated strongly before, and just to reiterate, if Turkey does anything that I, in my great and unmatched wisdom, consider to be off limits, I will totally destroy and obliterate the Economy of Turkey (I’ve done before!). They must, with Europe and others, watch over…

“....the captured ISIS fighters and families. The U.S. has done far more than anyone could have ever expected, including the capture of 100% of the ISIS Caliphate. It is time now for others in the region, some of great wealth, to protect their own territory. THE USA IS GREAT!”

I am not a political pundit. I watch the news, and draw my own conclusions, but have neither the confidence nor expertise to express those views publicly. What I am, is someone who pays close attention to the words I hear and read. 

It’s widely known Trump’s tweets are sometimes written by staff attempting to imitate his style. “Stable genius” that he is, he didn’t pen the tweet above. I’m sure of it. 

My best guess is that either presidential counselor Kellyanne Conway or political advisor Stephen Miller wrote this tweet at his direction.

The clues? The phrase “As I have stated strongly before ...” Too sophisticated for Trump’s limited use of the language. Try “just to reiterate ...” Have you ever heard Trump use this word - or even spell it correctly? I doubt the man who refers to a “smocking gun” is capable of spelling and using such a cosmopolitain word. 

“in my great and unmatched wisdom ...” A phrase that panders to the President’s vanity, but which exceeds his limited and repetitious vocabulary. 

“obliterate ...” Uh-uh. Four syllables. Beyond Trump’s intellectual grasp.

“They must, with Europe and others, watch over ...” Trump doesn’t use grammatically correct compound sentences ... too difficult for him. “... the captured ISIS fighters and families.”  When has he ever displayed empathy?

“... the ISIS Caliphate ...” Again, a word too complicated for Trump to spell. 

“... It is time now for others in the region, some of great wealth, to protect their own territory.” A weak attempt to sound “Presidential.” 

“... THE USA IS GREAT!” Nice try, but where are the multiple exclamation marks and the nasty slurs the President is so fond of using? 

Why do this? Were I a political pundit, my guess would be that Trump’s limited language and intellectual skills weren’t adequate to address this topic. 

My further guess would be that the Kurds are the sacrificial lambs intended to distract the media and the world from the multiple scandals swirling around this President’s feet. 

Am I right, or am I right?

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

A Week in the Life ...

What’s on my mind? Generosity’s name is Darryl, our friend of many years. 

When Darryl couldn’t wait to give Himself and me our holiday gifts, I knew they had to be something special. Jumping up and down with excitement, I felt certain magnanimous Darryl was about to give me the 1967 Volkwagen camper I’ve wanted for 52 years. 

He didn’t. Instead, Darryl gave me a bottle of Italian seasoning salt, which is still a pretty good gift, especially for a talented Italian speaker such as myself. All modesty aside, words such as “pizza,” “biscotti,” and “gelato” regularly roll off my tongue. 

And Himself ...? Darryl gave him a (gen-u-wine) “piece of eight” Darryl bought on eBay. The seller’s assurance that a (gen-u-wine) pirate had once owned it clinched the sale.

As well as being a cunning linguist, I’m the polite type who always sends thank you notes. Honesty being the best policy, my note started with happy thanks, but soon soured. Little did I know the horrors that awaited, or that I’d be sending Darryl another note, and another, and another ... 

Monday, 7:00 am 

Dear Darryl:

The seasoning salt is delicious! I used it to flavor chicken soup. Himself is so excited about his “piece of eight” that he plans to buy the other seven pieces on eBay. We’ll need to mortgage the house to do this. You have ruined our lives.

Love, Nicole 

Tuesday, 8:00 am

Dear Darryl:

Himself woke up with pink eye and I’m seeing red. He’s made himself a leather eye patch he plans to wear forever. I blame you. 

Love, Nicole

Wednesday, 9:00 am

Dear Darryl:

Ever since you gave Himself that wretched piece of eight, he’s been telling me to “Avast, Matey!” The dictionary says this means “Stop, young man!” I think Himself is bisexual. This is your fault.

Love, Nicole 

Thursday, 10 am

Dear Darryl:

Himself has started to wear one of my gold hoop earrings. He says he wants to grow his hair into a ponytail tied with a ribbon. I don’t think he’s bisexual, anymore. I think he’s gay. Because of you, I am broken-hearted.

Love, Nicole

Friday, 11 am 

Dear Darryl:

You know the phrase “I’d cut off my right arm for a friend”? Himself thinks so highly of you - especially since you gave him that damned piece of eight - that he wants to cut off his right leg. If he does that, he won’t have a peg leg to stand on when I divorce him. You did this.

Love, Nicole

Saturday, 12 pm

Dear Darryl:

Himself has bought a parrot. It’s sitting on his shoulder as we speak. I’m an animal lover, but the thing poops all over the kitchen. There are feathers that have never met a chicken in my chicken soup. By giving Himself that #$@! piece of eight, you encouraged him to do this. You are my sworn enemy.

Love and curses, Nicole

Sunday, 1 pm 

Dear Darryl:

Problem solved! I used the piece of eight to buy a plank at Lowe’s. I made Himself and his bleeping bird walk it. Hey, big guy! Want to drop over for lunch? I’ve got homemade chicken soup! All I need to do is strain out a few feathers.

Love, Nicole

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

What a Pair!

What’s on my mind? The complications of married life. I tease Himself mercilessly, but he has broad shoulders and can take it. He also has a great sense of humor. The following exchange took place exactly as stated, yesterday.

This is plant-and-divide season in the garden. Our friend Joan had been hoping for some of our excess of Black-Eyed Susans, so Himself dashed over to drop some off.

Joan is the generous type, so in exchange, she gave Himself some apples and pears from her garden.

Bent over my desk, I heard Himself quietly muse: “Joan ... So sweet! So tender! What a pair!”

I leaped from my desk to yell: “Wha-a-a-a-a-t???”

My outcry startled Himself. “I was just thinking about Joan,” he said. “I’m eating one of the pears she gave us. It's so sweet and tender!”

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

Down Goes the Flag - and the Gin

What’s on my mind? There’s always a frisson of excitement in the village-that-pretends-to-be-a-town where we live. It suggests that life is somehow bolder and more risqué than in the plebeian burbs of the Big City.

Himself and I live our lives on the edge. This comes naturally. If we walked in our sleep, we could fall into the ocean. This cleverly crafted statement begs the question: “Helen, do these dopes live directly on the ocean, or what?” The answer to that is “what.” We’d have to be serious sleepwalkers to tumble into the sea, which is several blocks from our house.

Regardless, Himself has taken a fancy to gussying up our “property.” Which sounds a whole lot grander than a standard lot. 

We now have a flag suitable to our station as the owners of a 2 BR, 2 BA bungalow. Not just any old flag, but a honking huge flag on a honking huge pole. We’d formerly displayed the flag on a fence stanchion, but no-o-o-o-o! That wasn’t good enough for Himself! Our new flag pole stands about a thousand feet high and towers over the roof. I’ve seen shorter old-growth trees. 

Our flag could double as a king-sized blanket, with plenty of room left to hide asylum seekers who might squeak into the country in a criminal bid to find food, shelter, and work as they try to escape murderers and rapists. That’s the good news. 

The bad news is that if a high wind ever whips away our flag, it’ll take out the Harrises’ chimney. Mr. Harris wouldn’t like that, but Mrs. H would be ever-so-grateful because she’s sick of chopping wood. She wants one of those electric fireplaces with faux flames (ideally, purple, pink, and green) to match the couch.

Flags go up, and flags come down. It’s said that one villager (now deceased) exercised a civilized family tradition. As well as flying the flag on the sprawling lawn of her oceanfront family compound, she owned a cannon. Doesn’t everyone?

On the arrival of each summer day’s cocktail hour, the cannon boomed, the flag slid down, and so did the G&Ts (If you don’t know what a G&T is, you haven’t lived).

Lowering our flag at sunset would require major effort. Think Car Dealership Flag. With Spotlight.

Say it isn’t so, but Himself wants to light our flag at night. He says we could get away with not hiring a flag-puller if the flag were lit. I say we could get away to Palm Springs if it weren’t for that stupid flag.

Himself always says “pick your battles,” so we’ve struck a compromise. The light trained on our flag and the music Himself wants to accompany it will double as a security feature. Anytime a prowler (human, rabbit, or deer) sets foot or hoof on our lawn, Himself wants our flag to blast the national anthem at 175 decibels - louder than any cannon. 

We’d better stockpile some gin.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019

The Flicker

What’s on my mind? Ffffeefff.

My friend Deb and I went to a play, this week. Beside us sat an elderly woman with a man we correctly assumed to be her spouse. No sooner had the play begun, than we heard “FLICK! FLICK! FLICK!” 

It wasn’t occasional. It was constant. It drove me bonkers. Her hand cupped into my ear, Deb whispered her annoyance with the distracting “FLICK! FLICK! FLICK!” 

I silently mouthed: “I hear it, too!” With nods and hand signals, we guessed the woman was flicking the cover of her program, perhaps by nervous habit. “She may not realize she’s doing it,” we agreed, saying it was better to stay silent than embarrass her. 

“FLICK! FLICK! FLICK!” 

Deb shoulder-checked me, rolling her eyes. I gritted my teeth. 

“FLICK! FLICK! FLICK!” 

During the intermission, I stood up.

“Madam ...” I began. I offered her a grim little smile, as though I were about to ask if there were anything I could do to make the play more to her liking (Cozy pillow? Champagne? Full refund? Be as obsequious as I can?).

“FLICK! FLICK! FLICK!” 

The woman looked at me, smiling vacuously.

“FLICK! FLICK! FLICK!” 

“Madam ... Would you please stop making that noise!” 

Deb gave me the thumbs up.

“I’m not making any noise,” the woman said.

“FLICK! FLICK! FLICK!” 

“It’s driving me crazy! It’s driving my friend crazy!” 

Finding her courage, Deb bared her teeth: “You are, you are, you are making noise! You’re flicking your %$#@! program!” 

The woman’s husband bowed his head in embarrassment. It must be difficult for him, I thought, living with a Flicker.

“It’s me ...” he whispered.

“Tell them, Harold,” she said.

(His name wasn’t Harold. I don’t want to rob him of his dignity, but he occupied seat E5.)

“It’s m’ ffffeefff,” he said.

” Pardon? Pardon???” I asked. ” I can’t hear you when you whisper.” 

“It’s his teeth!”  boomed his wife.

Head still bowed, he mumbled, sotto voce: “M’ ffffeefff, m’ ffffeefff …” 

“It’s his teeth!”  his wife yelled.

“It’s his teeth!” I shouted at Deb. Red-faced, she whirled away from me, as though we’d never met. That Deb sure can be touchy.

The elderly gent looked at me, emboldened. In a matter-of-fact kind of way, he said: “I like to click them.” 

Oh.

I again became obsequious, as though I were asking if there were anything I could do to make the play more to his liking (Larger teeth? Bigger tongue? Smaller seat widths?).

“No-o-o-o problem!” I said. “It doesn’t bother me at all!” 

Deb shifted in her seat, perhaps not trusting her ears.

“Really?” he said, weakly.

“Re-a-lly! Go right ahead!” 

I told myself that Deb would get over it. Eventually.

After that, he didn’t make a sound, that dear man. Mostly, he kept his head down during the rest of the play, while I felt deeply sorry to have said a word. I was to blame!  It had been the flicker-clicker’s bad luck to have nasty me as his seat mate! 

I’ve experienced worse. I once followed another elderly man so eager to take his theater seat that - as he tottered toward his destination - his pants fell down. Not just his pants, but his underpants, too. I was horrified, but said nothing when he cracked up. Or, more precisely, down. Those words, I tactfully left to his wife.

©  Nicole Parton, 2019