Garbage In, Garbage Out -- Mommy's Christmas Budget

I have to say that unemployment is everything it’s cracked up to be!  I recently completed with success my ninth full month of persistent job-less-ness, and truly, it is an accomplishment.

Inside each of the magical 274 days of this Space-Bridge to Free Time, I have discovered deep and personal insights.

Last week alone I discovered that my benefits had run out!

Nine months is a powerfully long journey of self-discovery and rebirth. Some folks actually GIVE birth within roughly the same time. (Two of my personal friends did this by welcoming actual babies!  Hugs again to Stella and brand new Elsa!! XO XO)

Me? I gave birth to a budget.

My cost-cutting plan is such genius that I should probably patent it for profit. But if I have learned one thing in my nine-month-sojourn of reflection, it is this: “You Only Get Out… What You Put In.”

With Christmas a mere three weeks away, my new budget includes no gifts.  I am following my now-deceased mother’s footsteps the year before she died by creating a Heritage Christmas and divesting myself of all the things I could have made a small profit on at Yard Sales.  But I was too busy updating resumes and going to mandated Unemployment Trainings and attending job seminars.

I am covering these treasures in recycled (used) Christmas / Birthday wrapping, then presenting them, along with sentimental tears, to our four kids … as Heirlooms.

Oh I can hear their reactions, now! 

“Mom, wow! A ceramic … --albatross?  Oh hey, it’s even got a missing wing!  Doesn’t this sorta remind you of the one Grammy had locked up inside her guest room? The one we all thought was haunted?”

Me: “You remembered!" (sniff-sniff) "MERRY Heritage Christmas!”

Also, I pretty much cancelled anything ‘extraneous’ on our car and home insurance.  As long as we continue on with our excellent histories (an average of two car accidents per year, one law suit against us per lifetime, and only four house claims for catastrophic natural disasters on our home in the last 18 months) I think we’ll be fine.

One of the things I cannot compromise on is Starbucks coffee.  Lord knows I tried.  For a while I had collected a little army of generic coffee samples to find a preferred-to-Starbucks flavor.  When that failed, I went to the “Mix It With Starbucks and Make It Last” campaign.

All of those ‘cheaper trial runs’ and Dilution Plans cost way too much.

“Ya gotta spend a LITTLE … to save a LOT.”   Total B.S.

It not only didn’t pan out.  It became a matter or ethics. Would a committed professional smoker compromise his excellent life-choices by purchasing generic cigarettes? 

Take cheap sex. 

Or do-it-yourself home projects where you end up hiring a professional after you’ve broken the budget on materials PLUS all the time you spent causing damage that your house insurance no longer covers.

The only way to save money would be to quit Starbucks entirely.

 (Ha ha ha…  see what I did? I am a trained humorist.)

Meanwhile, my children and their significant others may expect to find in their Christmas stockings generic lunch-bags sealed with green and red twister ties I shall call, Coffee Sachets. For re-gifting.  Or the cat box. (I use my own generic grounds to extend time between litter-changes.)

All are fiscal successes!

The only time I encountered insurmountable issues with my Budget was when I cancelled cable TV. 

I realize how drastic that sounds, but know that I replaced it with a more prudent plan via satellite-style TV.

The reception and the basic plan I selected are all just fine.

The problem was Abigail and her Anime Cos-Play Costume that led to an embarrassing DISH INSTALLER moment. 

Abby The College Slob has no idea how to hang up clothes.  After spring break seven months ago, she apparently left her Deadpool costume on the floor in the living room. Probably with the comment, "I'm leaving my Deadpool costume here," except at the time I did not know she meant this literally ... as in, 'here on the floor five feet from where I am announcing this -- and not inside a bag.'

Within days, it became part of our décor.

I only “re-discovered it” once the Dish Installer phoned to apologize for being an hour late, adding he was five minutes away.

I hustled about to re-tidy the living room and bedroom -- where our two TVs reside.

THAT is when the costume, lying for months in a pile, looked suddenly out of place. (Had I really vacuumed around it at Halloween?  Dusted it for Thanksgiving guests??)

The dude arrived before I could decide how to hang all of the infernal and complicated Deadpool Parts, so I tossed it in our bedroom, never guessing the bedroom television would be the first place a Dish Installer makes a beeline.

What was his surprise to step OVER a pair of tangled panty hose, a black leather corset, white coveralls and red & black face mask in a heap on the floor by the matrimonial bed.

I directed his attention upward to the television but it was too late.  He had stopped making eye contact.

Thank you Abby.

No wonder I can't 'On-Demand' anything.  The installer high-tailed it outta there prior to completing the installation-processes. Bad, Bad Abby.

Which brings me to my final cost-cutting plan.  Abby now owes me SOOO much manual labor as compensation for my embarassment, I am cancelling my Twice-Per-Year-Treat of Merry Maids and making her scour our home for Christmas.

And that is the final piece in my Grand Mal Puzzle that has become our Fiscal Salvation.

You know, after running the numbers it seems that, if we DO actually quit Starbucks, we could be back in the BLACK. 

No wait …  not only could I remain unemployed, my husband could RETIRE!

(Ha ha ha… that was me exercising ‘humor’ again.)

Actually, my husband needs to get a second job OR work into his 80s.  Starbucks:  it’s that important.

Boxers Of Christmas-Past

Christmas, 2004

Dearest Zachary,

   Before you open this gift, Daddy, Abby and I have the following story for you:

  As you know, just as the shopping season thrust itself upon your father and me, Abigail had already launched this year’s First Christmas Miracle by finding The Perfect Piece of Literature to craft our family's Christmas reading-tradition (There's A Monster At The End Of This Book). 

  While similar Santa miracles continued to unfold, the Zach Gift you are about to unwrap was truly the work of a Higher Christmas Power.  

   Her name was Debbie.  She works at Walmart.

  

   There we were, our Zach-List in hand, in the Zach Gift Area, searching for just the right style of Gift, as per List Criteria.     

    We found the right fabric, colors, length, drape-ability, waistband softness, and other special effects. 

   Daddy magically unearthed an OPENED box so we could all feel and stretch and hold up to ourselves to model -- then cross-referenced its features to The Special Features List.

 This brand met every criterion! So we pressed on down the Aisle to find The Right Size.

  Using Spatial-Relations Skills I learned from my colleagues at the math and science academy, I can say that the Aisle was, technically, A Swath of Wall, as tall as Much-Higher-Than-I-Can-Reach, and Many Daddy-Paces long.

   Using our collective Reading Powers (Abigail) we set our sights on the bacteria-sized font that comprised the numbers of available sizes.   

   There were One Thousand sizes. 

   And the correct Zach Size was in a different part of The Wall. 

   We Daddy-Paced southward the distance of two Buicks and discovered seventeen bins labeled with The Right Zach Size.

   Empty.  Every one.

   We continued looking through every shelf from floor to Much Higher-Than-I-Can-Reach across the span of Southern Utah. We think this took six hours. 

   When all hope seemed lost, a salesclerk named Debbie appeared from...   the South Pole. 

   We asked her if she knew when the supply of the Right Sized Zach Item would be replenished.  She cheerfully reported, “You’re in luck, because this particular Zach Item comes in every night.  But I can check to make sure.”   

   She recorded the Bacteria Font Data and vanished, and announced upon her return, in tones usually reserved to announce to the bride, “The plane did not contain your fiancée,”  “I’m SO sorry, but this item won’t be in for FOUR DAYS.”

   That brought us to December 27.

   The three of us were so crestfallen, Debbie’s eyes began to mist.  

   In a polite show of support, she frowned at The Wall, pretending to look for a Zach Item our family may have missed.

   After two seconds of Perfunctory Looking, her arm of its own accord reached across and plucked from a bin at eye-level one package sitting so precariously close to the edge, it fell into her hands.  With no fanfare, she presented us with one pristine package of the Zach Item in The Right Size. 

    It was the only one in Central Massachusetts.

    Daddy and I said in unison, “How did you DO that?”

    Debbie said, “I don’t know. Just luck.” And – poof...

        … she was gone.

   We know that package had not been there before Debbie manifested it out of thin mess. Debbie, we now realize, was a Yuletide Unicorn.

    So, another Christmas Miracle blessed our family this Joyous Season.

   And Zachary, should Mommie and Daddy’s Holiday-Dimentia mean this ONE remaining package of Your Item in all of the free world has ANY incorrect features, create another miracle, by cheerfully saying, “Meh.”

   Thank you for reminding us of the MANY ‘meh-s’ in Christmehs.  We love you!!!!

XX OO  Mommie, Daddy and Abigail

Confessions of a Sushi Addict

I am well aware that I possess some addictive gene. It's strange to me that it does not translate to things like Pilates, beet smoothies or kale.

For years I have been trying to 'do fewer life-ending things' – with some success! No cigarettes, no sugar, no caffeine, limited alcohol except for holiday binging, all complemented by sporadic self-inflicted fitness-based activity.

I just re-read the paragraph above:  interesting that the only things I’ve done permanently are deleting nicotine, sugar and caffeine.  Doesn’t research say these are the most addictive things?  Should I NOT be able to conquer EVERYTHING bad and addict myself only to GOOD? The Jedi Mind Trick Plan?

In my quest for addiction-conquering (to which I have not yet addicted myself) I was recently traumatized when, after all this work, a new addiction cropped up. There I was: one day eliminating triggers, and the next ensnared by a tuna roll.

Sushi. 

Who knew?

To be honest, I've know for some time I have the potential for food-addictions, but I thought these were isolated incidents.  Cake, for example – particularly white cake of the wedding ilk -- was a downfall my whole life. Fortunately, we attend a wedding every three years so that took care of itself.

But when I was pregnant with my second child, I developed such a thing for McNuggets, I'd drive to the closest McD's each morning, for weeks, ‘til I'd literally devoured our grocery budget. 

It was hideous, sitting in my own guilt each morning inside what I’d come to view as "my parking space" – the one around back where employees park, with a birds-eye view of the Drive-Thru Line, snaking around secret corners and Disney-esque turns.  I sat there impatiently tapping my wristwatch, hoping to time-travel to 'soon' or ‘now’ or ‘FINALLY’ when McDs migrated from breakfast to lunch …

…  so I could be first in line for my Thirty-Pack Family-Sized Trough O’ McYummy.  It was a Hefty-bag sized portion -- the bulk of which I could hardly get into my mouth fast enough while speeding past window-staff.

It was this past Halloween that I became addicted to sushi.  I thought I was doing the right thing:  instead of annually purchasing 20 pounds of our personal favorite Halloween chocolate bars (knowing full well no child has trick-or-treated on our street in half a decade), I decided to buy nothing.  Sugar is not good for myeloma or menopause -- the two things my household caters to these days -- so we called another couple (also sans trick-or-treaters) and asked them to pick the restaurant.

Halloween fell on a Wednesday this year, and this couple explained that for months now, they have indulged in Mai Tai Wednesdays at a wonderful Asian Fusion place the next town over. 

It didn’t take long for the Mai Tai to lend itself to words I never thought I’d speak.

 “Can I try a piece of your sushi?  Maybe this ricey one right here with wasabi and ginger soy and OH MY GAWD LET’S SUPER-SIZE THIS PLATTER. Get me the menu … BRING ME THE CHEF … AND MY DEBIT CARD, NOW!”

The next day, the 36-tuna-roll-hangover could not stop me from obsessing over my next sushi hookup.

Such is the nature of addiction.

In fact, I instantly reconnected with friends I had not seen in more than 15 months.  “I miss you! Let’s do lunch!  Dinner – snacks. I know a place.”

Without a proper income, it was the McNugget Hell all over.

But in the same way that I was able to divert my attention from Halloween “Leftovers” by distracting us with something new … I was able to go cold turkey (or cold sushi).  

Although that wasn’t my intent.

I intended a few Tuesdays ago to serve a trial-run Thanksgiving turkey using a stuffing recipe that included smoked oysters.  It was so rocket-fuel-tasting awful that I bundled up the meal, tossed on extra eyeliner and spirited my spouse back to Sushi Hut.

(You realize the trial run Thanksgiving meal was perfectly fine.  Such are the lies addicts tell…)

Returning to that sushi menu was like going home: it made me salivate and tap my foot ... like a happy dog wagging its tail.

I was rehearsing my instructions for rolling my Sushi inside out, so the rice is on the OUTSIDE of my spicy yellow-tail rolls... and was ALMOST ready to inquire about something called eel sauce when the server appeared out of nowhere, so I inhaled to deliver my Request Speech.

I didn't even eek out a partial syllable.

She was a psychic server (or else she saw the drool on the open page of The Dragon Tail with eel sauce).

"There is no Sushi on Mondays and Tuesdays."

Speechless.

 -- after all that rehearsing --

"I cannot accept that," was all I eventually mustered, so she calmly repeated that there is --  no  --  sushi.

I would have none of her broken-record routine. I sent her away so I could begin my search afresh, but she would not be dismissed so readily.  She inquired, with sincerity, whether we wanted to order drinks.

I had chosen the first half of November to engage in physical fitness and alcohol abstinence, to prepare my liver and hormones for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

But the denial of sushi … the rage?

I ordered a Sake-Tini: sake, absolut, vermouth.  Big Glass.  Chilled. Yum.

By the time the server returned for my non-sushi order, my mood was markedly improved.

"I see," I said, smiling up at her, "that your menu offers nothing in the way of anything that I want."

 I motioned that she should take my spouse’s order and I closed the menu and morbidly fondled my Sake-Tini.

She took his order for something with a number, then regarded me closely. After a pause, she said, "You know, we can PREPARE for you anything that you like."

Well, this was good news.  I told her I wanted sushi.

Then I began randomly calling out ingredients, and she kept PACE with me, with pen and a completely separate order pad. I think she moonlights as a court stenographer.

"Green pepper, garlic, onion, celery, string beans, in a white wine sauce with Ponzu, SPICY ZECHAUN-HOT with SHRIMP. And no carbs … no noodle." 

"Thank you," she said, and returned later with THE MOST delicious entree... I have ever consumed.  It was genius.  Next to sushi, the nameless entrée was, and I quote myself, “THE MOST DELICIOUS THING I HAVE EVER CONSUMED,” but I’ve lately been saying that a lot.  

We are going again on Non-Sushi Nights, of which there are several each week, to capture the talents of our Dictation-Steno Server and Their Direction-Following Chef.  

I have not hit bottom yet; but I am practicing really hard, getting to the bottom of those sushi-platters and hot-shrimp entrée bowls at increasingly lightning-speeds. 

... and you KNOW I’ll keep you posted …

My Brain Was Abducted by Christmas Custard

   Cookbooks ought to be counted among the world’s most lofty fiction.  Many things are more trustworthy:  a slushy pond in April to safely support twelve toddlers; a bottle of cold capsules with a broken safety seal.  I trust piranha more.  Cookbooks can be trusted as far as they can be thrown, which, from my back porch, with wind and adrenaline, is nearly 400 yards.

   Some of my acquaintances (two accountants and a friend in law enforcement) have great success with cookbooks.  They cannot fathom that I remain unscathed each time I cook without one.  (My friends are soothed by things like margin lines and tax codes.  And trillion-piece puzzles of grass.)

    “Your problem with cookbooks,” says my mother (a bookkeeper) “is that you don’t know how to follow directions.”

   She shared this insight while watching me force dry, clotted dough through a cookie press until the cylinder burst.

   “What do you mean, ‘follow’ directions, Mother?  I didn’t realize you wanted me to be a ‘follower’.  Perhaps you should have named me ‘Trailer’, or ‘Snail-Slime’ … or—“

   “Why don’t you toss that dough out back and help me separate the fescue from the crab.  This puzzle is very relaxing.”

   I’m sure I was adopted.

   It isn’t that I don’t know how to follow directions.  I choose to cook without them.  Reading about cooking seems so abstract.  I prefer just to cook … breathlessly, sloppily, dangerously.  And when I am finished, the food is succulent and my family cleans up the mess.

   Occasionally, I resort to reading recipes.  But only in emergencies like a sudden religious holiday.  Holidays require cookbook food, because that is what “guests” come to eat. Guests are, technically, metamorphs, like chameleons and mosquito larvae.  They lie dormant during most of the year, excited by Campbell’s soup and Milk Duds.  They think popcorn is a vegetable.

   But on holidays they mature into professional food critics who expect their meal to be prepared under laboratory conditions using scientific method, and beakers.  Guests are gratified by cooks who emerge from their kitchens exhausted and disoriented. “Where am I? What was I doing in there?” then serve Crème de Bif Gras Noir.

   Even if we are invited out for a holiday, I will still need a cookbook because I have asked a terrible question:  “What can I bring?”  I am always surprised that no one asks for dangerous, breathless food. 

   I have learned to stop asking, “What can I bring?” The truth is that I want to bring nothing.  I want to drive to a house that smells like Pledge to eat dangerously and drink breathlessly and watch my hostess suffer.

   Last Christmas, for our family’s annual Yankee Swap, I asked my sister-in-law what I could bring, and she emailed me a recipe for “Slipped Custard Pie.”

   The name alone dripped with portend of doom.

   At first, the directions seemed innocuous enough. I found no violent cooking-verbs like whip, beat, dice, scrape, spank, flatten or scorch.  No dramatic foreshadowing such as “early in the day, pre-heat pressure cooker.”

    In fact, when I turned to the last page to see how the recipe ended, I discovered a soft caramel glaze ensconced in a run-on sentence: ‘Heat sugar to soft ball stage until strands twirl in water but do not lose their shape unless removed with wooden spoon to which it clings but won’t stick.’ 

    I am a licensed English teacher.  So I edited the ending. “Sprinkle with cinnamon,” I wrote in red ink, then returned to the beginning.

   An unexpected conflict was introduced early on: ‘Stir custard constantly over very low heat for 600 strokes until arm drops into filling.’  Who was the author? Josef Mengele? 

   But it wasn’t until I got to the ‘mystery twist’ that I became suspicious.

   It said simply, ‘Butter a second 9-inch pie plate.’

   I wondered about the first pie plate only after the recipe told me to pour custard into one of them.

   Before I could settle the issue of which plate the filling went in, the recipe sprinted ahead, ‘Sprinke filling with nutmeg,’ so I shook the recipe violently, “WAIT What about the PIE plate!?”

   But the recipe only snickered.

   ‘Bake 35 minutes,’ it grinned, ‘until knife inserted one inch from edge comes out clean.’

  “Why ONE inch?  Which goddamn plate? AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH MY NUTMEG?”

   ‘When custard is cool—‘

   “When IS that?!  Five minutes?  NINE DAYS!?”

     ‘loosen from pie plate with spatula.’

  

   That’s when my spatula joined the fun.  ‘Loosen!?’ it said, really amused, then it just gored and slashed.

  Finally, the recipe drew itself up to its full 15 inches and delivered the Big Finish:   

   ‘After shaking to dislodge custard from Plate Number Two, hold far edge of pan over far edge of crust and tilt custard gently toward Plate Number One.’

   I threw myself on the floor while the recipe spun on the countertop, fanning its pages and speaking in tongues.

   ‘As custard slips toward second crust,’ the recipe giggled, drooling, ‘pull plate back quickly--‘

 “NO!!” I screamed.

   ‘—until custard rests in crust!’

   “My custard’s resting on my shoe--”

  ‘Let filling settle,’

   “On my SHOE?”

   ‘then garnish with whipping cream.’

   Whipped cream is the only thing that saves a Slipped Custard Pie.  But it does not save one’s sanity.  The only thing that does that is a chewable vitamin necklace tied to loved ones’ throats to sustain throughout the remainder of the religious holiday.

   Actually, trillion piece puzzles of grass can help.  I find them relaxing – quite delicious – especially served on tax codes.  Oops – could you hold on while I get the phone?

   My margin line is ringing.

Helping Your Child Select A College

   When my oldest son finished his junior year in high school, he’d already fallen victim to high-pressure marketing campaigns perpetrated by American universities – plus one from Sydney, Australia.

   The more considerate institutions of higher tuition even enclosed applications for student loan sharks for his convenience.

   Meanwhile, my son was so pacific, he had no clue what he wanted to study. (His own mother, after all, had felt no pressure to make a hasty career choice.  After four decades.) 

   But when 8X10 glossies started to arrive featuring bikini-intensive women sprawled across ocean-front campuses, the kid got restless to pick an ocean.

  One afternoon, as he sifted through the latest barrage of mailbox propaganda, he asked me soulfully to share with him – as his professional mother – my opinion of his talents.  I was touched.  So before I rendered an opinion, I consulted my recipe files.

   Now, I’m not being flippant about my ‘professional mother status.’ I don’t even read recipes or cook in any traditionally–accepted way. So long ago, I converted this vacant file box to a Quote Holder: a repository in which to store memorable utterances my kids spouted while growing up.  Things like, “Mom, what’s a ‘kosh’?”

    “A ‘kosh’!?  I don’t know.  Spell it.”

    “You know, like when you throw ‘kosh’ into the wind.”  Like that.

   I figured a glimpse at this son’s extra-lengthy section might lend insight into his aptitude and interests, from which a handful of college majors might spring.

   Together, we reviewed years of his razor-sharp whimsy, then brainstormed for careers in the following manner: “Mom, take a look at this one: In first grade I said, ‘Me and my Dad are like Father and Son.’  So whadya think?  Family Therapy? Social Worker?”

   “I don’t know.  Grammarian?”

    rolls eyes

   “Okay, honey, what about … ‘Geneticist’?”

    “Cool,” he said and wrote this down.

   So it went, until we had sufficient careers to put his troubled mind to rest, or we ran out of cards.

   The following is the result of our work starting with quotes uttered at various developmental stages, followed by appropriate career paths.

 Grade 2: “Are alligators and crocodiles enough alike to mate?”

Career Options:  Biotechnology / Human Sexuality Double Major

 Grade 3: “How do you pronounce our religion?”

                “You mean, ‘Protestant'?"

                “THAT’S it. I always get that confused with ‘prostitute.’”

           Career Options:  Comparative Religions, Speech Therapy

             Grade 4:   “Why can’t tree bark be called Tree Crust?"  

             Botanical Linguistics Upstart

Grade 5:  “If blood is really blue then turns red when it hits the air, why is it red  

 when a nurse draws it through a needle from the vacuum created by an

airtight syringe?”

            Hematologist/Professional Geek

Grade 6:  “Statistically, is it possible for everyone to win the lottery if they play each day and live forever?”

 Statistics / Immortality Double Major

Grade 7:  “Look! I can palm my own head!”

 NBA Center

Grade 8:  Anonymous Poetry

My best friend’s not reel TALL.

I shoved his face in a WALL.

He called me DOPE

I said NOPE

Then I made him FALL.

Correctional Facility Maintenance Staff

  Grade 9:  “Why are there so many lawyers?  My best friend wanted to be one

‘til he found out there were so many.  Now he wants to be an assassin.”

             Reality TV Talent Scout

      

Grade 10:  After falling off skateboard.  “Man, my lower back KILLS!”

 Lawyer

 

            Follow-up, same incident:  Mom: “Gosh, do you want to see a chiropractor or 

            physical therapist?”

 Son: “No, but I might want to see Terminator 2.”

 Film Critic/Law, Double Major      

 Grade 11, Real Time:  Son to brother who mistakenly sweeps Quotes off table walking by:

      “Nice move, RE-boy.” 

Mom:  “ExCUSE me.  Why is what you said wrong?”

Son:  (sighs) “’ Because. . .’using a sub-group as a swear insults members of that group.’”

Mom:  “Yes. And what do we say about insults?”

Son:  “They’re okay as long as you use them correctly.”

Public Relations or Presidential Election-Campaign Manager

*BONUS CAREER:   Son ‘noogies’ mother as she jots down a career. Mother accidentally ‘inks out’ a line. 

              Mom: “Watch out or I’ll write on YOU.”

              His brother.  “Or write more ABOUT you.”

               Son:  “Yeah, and get rejected.”

               Entire Staff of The Atlantic

   Not only were we able to come up with absolutely nothing viable, my son became so frightened by his own American childhood, he decided to apply to the Indian Ocean in Australia to major in general electives.

   And so, it is clear that with a little parental understanding and teamwork, this very troubling life decision can be successfully compounded by confusion, panic, and the need to acquire a passport.

   Therefore, I recommend that parents everywhere begin to cook recklessly and fill their recipe boxes with embarrassing childhood memories that eventually can be read by strangers – that your children, too, may abscond to a different country upon their high school graduation.

   If there is anything else I can do for you and yours, don’t hesitate to write it down -- then burn it.

    

WHAT!? Speak into my EYES so I Can See What You're Saying

   Back in the day, most people preferred to NOT wear their glasses. The only reason I ever wear mine is that I can’t see when I take them off.

   Frankly I’m considering Lasik surgery, since recent improvements make the procedure more effective and last much longer, like George Foreman grills and Ferbies. 

  Cuz I’ll tell you, those of us who wear glasses wish we did not need them. 

   There are tons of reasons for this:  if our glasses break, life as we know it ends.  We cannot drive, we can’t walk around, we can’t feed ourselves or think or even breathe because we are unable to locate the really good air as we cannot see it without our glasses.

   We also can’t hear without glasses. 

   This is a common phenomenon Optometrists giggle about at Optometric Conventions. “Yeah, I had Mrs. Wacknagel in the hydraulic chair and I aimed her eyes at the eye chart and said, ‘Read the first line,’ and SHE says, get this, ‘I can’t HEAR you. Speak into my EYES so I can see what you’re saying.’”

   Optometrists also giggle about how sign language was invented by nearsighted people trying to read an eye chart.

   This is not true.  Everyone knows it was invented by the pretty, smiling brunette lady who worked on Sesame Street.

   People hate being so depending on their eyewear. That’s why the Declaration of Independence includes a clause called ‘Freedom To Wear Contacts’.  Unfortunately, contact-wearers began losing this eyewear at Optometric Expos.  Which led to the invention of the Disposable Contact Lens. That way, people could drop contacts onto carpeting and leave them there to melt, then pop a fresh lens into their eye. 

   Unfortunately, disposable lenses also melted in peoples’ eyes, which caused corneal ulcerations and lawsuits. Which meant that most of us were stuck wearing glasses until our species evolved better eyes or bigger lawyers.

   Glasses wouldn’t be half as bad if we didn’t have to endure the Ritual Eye Exam.  

 “Hello, I am Carolyn. I am here for my 5:30 eye exam.”

 “We’ll be taking your glasses now.”

 “What?  Shouldn’t I fill out some forms first? I’ll NEED my glasses to fill out the fo—“

 “We won’t be using any forms, Carolyn.  Doctor will ask you all the questions he needs, so if you’ll just give me your gl—“

 “Let me try and find my credit card first. I want to PAY you for this exam and—“

 “Doctor utilizes third party billing through your insurance company. Now hand over the glasses.”

“No.”

 “Oh, LOOK! It’s Lady Gaga!”

 “Where!??”

  --SHWAP---

  Receptionist whisks glasses off and spirits them to a small room where muffled giggles are heard.

  Next, a deer with blonde hair sidles up.

  “Hello, my name is Bambi and I’m going to be your guide.  I realize everything is a weensy bit fuzzy right now. But your exam will begin soon. Can I get you some coffee?”

 “What? I can’t hear a word you’re saying.  Hey.  What is that THING coming out of your head?”

 “What thing?  You mean my EAR?”

 “I already SAID I can’t hear, but what is that thing com—“

 “Here, Carolyn, let’s you and I cross the Eyeland Bridge over to Frame World where you can feel around to select some new frames. Meanwhile, several technicians will observe you from a two-way mirror to see how much you fall without your glasses. This helps Doctor determine how much to change your prescription.

 “Over here we carry our designer frames, and some stunning frameless lenses held up with just a nose clip.  OOOPS, that is a philodendron.  Let me get that off your face.”

 The exams were worse.

 An optometrists sits you in a dentist’s chair and puts big machines over your eyes that you look through to read the alphabet, which is in random order, but you won’t know this because the optometrist is busy making the machine cause double vision and hallucinations.  He says things like, “Is it better now… or NOW?”  “Is this better… or how about…THIS?”

  After you tell him you can’t see anything until he takes the machine off your face, the optometrist puts drops into your eyes that make you go blind.

 “Excuse me. What did you just put in my eyes?”
 “Nothing. Now if you’ll just—“

 “What do you mean nothing?  My eyes are numb and you look orange.”

 “It’s just some eye medicine, Carolyn, with an anesthetic in it and some dye.  Now just LEAN—“

 “Why do my eyes need anesthesia?  What are you going to do to them?”

 “Nothing, Carolyn, NOTHING. If you’ll just take some deeeep breaths.  Okay, good. Now, lean forward so I can put this pointed instrument directly onto your eyeball to look inside your brain and read your mind.  Ha ha ha.  Just a little optometrist humor!

 “Well, now.  Mmm hmm. OK! All done.  Hello, Carolyn, are you alright?”

    Once Bambi returns you to consciousness with several slaps to your cheek, she gives you your old glasses back and says your new lenses will be ready in about an hour. 

    An hour in Optometric Time is between five and twelve business days, and you should arrive for your fitting ceremony drunk.

    That is so the frames you selected by means of Braille will appear to look nice.

    By the time you sober up at home and realize the new glasses make you look like a very large insect, the optometric mall franchise will be subsumed by Burger King.

   And so, it was the Archaic Ritual Eye Exam and Fly-Disguise Frames that gave way to industrialist-style Lasik Surgery and I for one want to be the first in line …  for the 6^th Gen Procedure … due out in 2015, when Halo 12 is released. 

   See you there in either line.