A Phone Call We’d Like to Hear

News in of the last couple of days – a Mexican army helicopter flew over the U.S. border and fired a couple of shots at Border Patrol agents.

Some details – no one was hurt and the Mexican Army denies this happened. However, someone from the Mexican Army called to apologize.

THIS is the call I want to hear. Exactly how would you go about this? Someone in Mexico had to tell someone else (do doubt of lower rank) to get someone at the U.S. Border Patrol on the phone to say they were surely sorry about the shooting.

There are plenty of awkward calls that have been/will be made. Sorry about the syphilis, your lawn furniture is in my pool, I really didn’t mean to run over your dog, the check is NOT in the mail. But I can’t really think of anything that really rises to this occasion.

“Hello, this is Captain Suarez. One of our helicopters…umm…just flew over your borders. We were chasing somebody. Err…I’m sorry about those two shots we fired at your Border Patrol agents. (talking)

Oh, I’m so glad no one was hurt. By the way, I’m going to deny that any of this happened, but I’m sure you can understand. (more talking from other end)”

Is this the way it’s done? Do I just get to call and say “sorry” and then everything is just fine and back to normal? If so, then I have been hanging out with people who are a lot less forgiving than the U.S. Border Patrol.

While We Are On the Subject of Bosoms

Do you know who always had bosoms? Old Blisters. (For those of you who don’t know, an Old Blister is a woman of 50 years or more of a nasty or hyper-critical personality.) My sainted father was wont to say, upon sighting one, “Look at that Old Blister. I’ll bet she’s on her way home to make some poor son of a bitch’s life miserable.”

I love the notion of an Old Blister. I’ve known plenty of them, and I’ll bet you have, too. In the Daddy Lexicon, there really wasn’t a good male equivalent, usually just a “nasty son of a bitch”.

While we are on the subject of the Daddy Lexicon, I will share a few other terms with you that you may find helpful.

Joker: noun. A male who is not as offensive as a nasty or stupid son of a bitch, but who is never the less worth looking at. As in, “Look at that silly Joker.”

And we did.

Jelly: verb. What jokers do. “Look at that stupid joker jellyin’ down the street. “Jellyin’” looks exactly like you think it does. Usually done by young men, moseying down the street with nothing on their minds.

Whore’s Dream: noun. Any particularly colorful person, place, or thing. “That looks like a whore’s dream!”

Sartorial Jackpot: Any dramatically colorful outfit. “Look at that crazy son of a bitch. That outfit is a sartorial jackpot!” A joker or old blister was often in this category, as well.

Chirk: verb. As in “that will chirk you up” and make you feel better.

My father was a man of vivid language. Never profane, just descriptive. He loved talking about the people he saw and the places he went. He was also endlessly patient and kind, even with people who didn’t reciprocate.

I was in college before I found out that not everyone (actually, no one) used these same terms.

And I was the only one who ever received, by mail, a case of canned peaches because I told him I was hungry and hated dorm food. It chirked me right up.

Too Good Not To Share

I came across this just now in my email file…and realized it is a blog post just waiting to be posted. And so I will share it with you:

As part of the high school graduation festivities for Tyler, there was a Mothers' Tea.  They prepared a booklet of each graduate's thoughts about his/her mom..."I'll always remember her smile", "I will show patience and respect", "My mom would wish for me to live a life of success and live in the Lord", "I will have Mom's determination", "I want to be as beautiful and loving as Mom is" - all worthy and noble thoughts.

But not even a patch on Tyler's entry:

"I'll always remember that, with discretion, she was never really afraid to tell people exactly what she thought and exactly what they were doing that she didn't approve of.  I will argue like Mom, or at best handle my complications in the same way."

I have the best children, my Travis and Tyler.  And God bless Tyler for noting that I show discretion!

I remember that tea so well. All the moms were dressed up, discrete tears were shed. I remember how I felt when I saw the booklet stuffed inside a mug that each graduate had made for their mom. (I still have mine.)

My hands were a little shaky – I really had no idea what Tyler would say about me or his childhood. Would he remember how much I loved him? Would he remember the good times with his brother, Travis, and his dad? What would he take away from his childhood?

I found out, that day. And couldn’t be happier.

Cue the Music from “Jaws”

Cue the Music from “Jaws”

DA-dum, DA-dum, DA-dum. Something is about to happen, maybe.

“We” are now starting to change my anti-seizure meds. I’ve mentioned this before. Dilantin is hard on one’s liver and other bits and pieces. I have a sentimental attachment (if nothing else) to all of them and so it’s time to move to another drug.

I have very mixed emotions about this. The med cocktail I’ve been on for this year and a half has kept me seizure-free. Occasionally cranky, sometimes tired, with surprisingly hairy toes and overgrown gums – but seizure-free.

And so it is now time to go from the sort-of known to the assumed. My neurologist , who is splendidly enthusiastic and inclusive, says “we” are going to move from this drug to that, and “we” are going to monitor what happens, and “we” are anticipating an excellent outcome.

I love the idea of “we” as an inclusive pronoun for something that is going to happen to one of the people in the conversation. I remember an old joke of Daddy’s that ended with something like…”or do you have a mouse in your pocket?” And a horrible Lone Ranger joke where the Lone Ranger and Tonto see thousands of Indians coming up over a rise and the Lone Ranger says, “This looks like trouble for us, Tonto”. Tonto says something like, “What you mean us?” Which is clearly a joke from another time but absolutely captures my meaning.

And so this week I’ve started the transition, adding another anti-seizure med to the cocktail I take every day. And I’ve been watching myself to see if anything is happening. If there is anything more boring and unproductive than monitoring yourself, I’ve yet to find it. Especially when you are on a bunch of meds with the same side effects profile. Shall I look for more of what I’ve already got?

One thing is certain, I should not be operating heavy machinery – all the package inserts agree.

Otherwise, I think everything is fine. I think. But this is like being alone in an old creaky house. Or waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or hearing someone breathing behind the draperies in the library.

Something might be happening. Now take that to bed with you and have a nice night. Sleep tight.

Whatever Happened to Bosoms?

When I was a girl (and kept a dinosaur for a pet in the back yard) women of a “certain age” had bosoms. These remarkable features must have developed at about forty. “Ample” bosoms would precede women into the room, conferring a certain dignity and gravitas. The last time I recall these kinds of bosoms must have been in the late ‘60s or early ‘70s.

Bosoms were not the shape of women’s chests/breasts today. They were usually large, shapeless, and ideal for holding handkerchiefs, folded money, or the occasional change purse. An English teacher of mine had an extraordinary bosom – she used it as a book rest in class. We tried not to giggle but we barely had breasts, let alone bosoms.

My theory is that bosoms were created by the corsets of the period, which were one-piece garments like swimsuits (except with no crotch so you could pee without getting undressed).

The clothing that went with bosoms was usually a taffeta or silk slip (usually of some pastel color or black) paired with a translucent dress that went with the slip. I remember indistinct patterns something like the camo prints of today. Then there were stockings, of course. (Held up with elastic garters or attached to the corset with little clippy things.) Then shoes usually by “Enna Jetticks”, which were lace up, square toed, with low “Spanish heels”.

I can think of dozens of women of my childhood acquaintance who dressed exactly like this, and it must have been some sort of rite of passage that after you got over a “certain age” you adopted this costume.

Today, in place of bosoms, we have breasts. Everywhere. Enlarged, reduced, lifted, tucked – on display by women who, in an earlier age, would have had bosoms ruthlessly strapped down, tucked in, and constrained forever more.

No doubt we are more comfortable. But, alas, there are no women now who remind me of the prow of a ship.