TATTOOS, GAGS & THE FOURTH STOOGE

You know what really moves me just to the left of complete apoplexy? 

“No, Carson,” you reply.  “What is it today?”

I will ignore the sarcasm of your snide question, because #1—there’s a bit of truth to it, curmudgeon that I am fast becoming, and #2—you'll read my ramblings anyway.

The answer is:  modern medicine.

I have never felt more bovine than when I am visiting my doctor.  Oh, and that’s another thing—“visiting” --like it’s some kind of a social gathering—for which you must pay and pay dearly.  And since when do you pay to visit someone, anyhow?  I think a trip to the doctor should be called “fiscal disquietude” or perhaps, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here” with a picture of an empty wallet spotted with tear stains, or alternatively, a bleeding stone.

Whether you have health insurance or not, staying alive and well has become financially ruinous.  I happen to have insurance, but the policy I could afford has a deductible that rivals the National Debt; so I’m alive and well and now I’m also depressed and stressed out and eating Cheerios three meals a day to pay for all this good health.

It might not be so ghastly if you could actually have a mutually concerned partnership with your medico. 

It is to laugh.

These days, at least in Arizona, this is how a patient fleecing usually goes—you sign in and you wait—oh, and before I forget, bring a book with you (preferably War and Peace) and enough food and water to last a couple of days, anyway.  So while you’re chewing on your last piece of beef jerky and are on the last page, the doctor’s assistant ushers you into the inner sanctum, where you will be weighed (love that part) and your pulse and blood pressure will be taken.  I always ask about the blood pressure results, just to confirm how totally pissed off I am by that point.

The assistant looks at me like it’s none of my damned business, mumbles something, then legs it out of the room.

I sigh.  I grab a magazine from the rack in the room.  Oh, joy.  A copy of “Guns and Ammo” from 1976.  I read it with interest, as I am hoping to pick up a few pointers for when I return later that afternoon, with 'my leetle friend.'

Finally, the doctor, or, as I like to refer to him, 'Henry Ford,'  because there is nobody but a present-day doctor who can make you understand the concept of an assembly line better, arrives.

Now, I’ve been going to this ding-dong for quite a while now, and though he’s finally learned my name, he is unable to remember much else about me.  One might think he’d take a moment to consult my file before he walked in; but no.  Such niceties have gone the way of $1.00 a gallon gasoline.

Let me give you an example:

In the initial new patient paperwork that we all fill out, there is an area that requires you to list any surgeries you’ve had.  I had a hysterectomy in 1999, so I put it down.

A couple of months later, I came in for a physical.

“You need a PAP smear,” the doctor said.

“For what?” I asked.  “I had a hysterectomy.  I don’t think that stuff grows back.”

“You need it.  You can still get cancer of the vaginal wall.”

At that time, I had no insurance at all, and I knew a referral to an OB/GYN would cost me big.  My doctor in Connecticut (whom I miss sorely—he was one of the all-around great guys) always did the smears himself, so I figured this guy could deal with it here.

“Can you do it? I asked foolishly

“Sure.”

He got all his mining equipment together squished on the KY and got on with it. 

 Then, he asked me the question.

“Have you had a hysterectomy?”

“Yes,” I replied, wondering in which landfill my new patient paperwork was currently mouldering.  You’d have been proud of me—I didn’t say anything more than “yes.” 

The holes in my tongue are pretty well healed up now.

So he did the smear.  “Come back in a week,” he said.

“But what about the rest of the physical?”

“I want to get one thing dealt with at a time,” he replied as he hopped it out of the consulting room.

He was with me for a total of ten minutes…for $143.00.  And that didn’t include the cost of the lab work for the test.

Okay. One week later, I’m back in his office.  He arrives in the consulting room.

“The test was inconclusive.  We'll have to do it again.”

Since I had taken the precaution of gagging myself before he walked in, lest I inadvertently blurt out something obscene, I simply nodded.

I did, however, glare at him in a hostile manner.

Another ten minutes, another $143.00, and ‘come back in a week.’

Back in a week.

“The test was inconclusive.  We have to do it again.”  Behind my gag, I thought of how fortunate it was that I had had the foresight to have someone tie my hands behind my back that morning.

“But the good news is, I spoke to the GYN down the hall and she told me about a better way to do this.  Should give us some results this time.”

The mere thought of where in hell this guy got his medical training makes me shudder and take to my bed to this day.

So, in we go again. 

“Have you had a hysterectomy?” he asks.

That was pretty much it.  The bonds on my wrists shredded like paper, the gag blew out of my mouth and imbedded itself in the opposite wall as Carson Buckingham, mild mannered writer, went somewhere else and the Incredible Hulk, or S.J. Perelman—I’m not sure which—took over.

“WHAT?  If I’m not mistaken…Doctor…you have been spelunking in my body three times now!  Can you not see that the usual suspects have taken a powder?  Do I need to tattoo my inner thigh as a friendly reminder?  Of course, that won’t do any good anyway, because I have serious doubts that you know how to read.  And where did you get your diploma—Billy Bob's Medical School and Fish Shack?  I have seen things lying on their backs at the bottom of bird cages that are more adept!”

Oh, I did go on—for exactly ten minutes—then he left, mid-rant. But believe me; I made those ten minutes count.

And when I got the bills from the lab and the doctor, I wrote a two word message on each and sent them back.  

“Finances Inconclusive.”      

FIRE ANTS, HOMEMADE JAM & BLOOD PRESSURE

        These days, with the economy in the state it’s in (Rhode Island, I think), I am doing my level best to find multiple uses for everyday items in the home in order to save money and make my husband, Stij, realize what a clever wife he has and how lucky he is.

And you know, I think I’m doing pretty well at it.

For instance—homemade jam.  I grow grapes in the back yard and this past season I was able to put up a quart and a half of grape jam.  I’m sure it’s delicious, but I managed to overcook it to the point where the seven packets of pectin I added just said, “Oh, fuck it,” and vulcanized the entire batch.

However, being the inventive person that I am, after scraping it out of the pot with a crowbar, I discovered a myriad (don’t you love that word?) of other uses.  For example, after a mere hour of blowtorching, I found that I could reshape the jam into intriguing sculptural forms; that is, until Stij came in, demanding to know “…what that horrific smell is and why are there 127,000 fire ants on the counter?” just prior to his donning oven mitts and chucking the whole thing into a trash can--which he then threw over the wall into our neighbor’s yard.

“He’ll never know where it came from,” Stij said confidently.

 "Oh, I wouldn't take bets on that," I muttered.

 All right, so the multi-use jam didn’t work out too well.  But how about brownies?  Brownies can be used for a lot of different things, too.

Recently, I made a quadruple batch of them, but forgot to add the eggs.  After employing the crowbar previously used in the jam, and cutting the hardened sheets into pieces on Stij’s band saw, there were enough of them to glue to the concrete slab by the front door in a really attractive herringbone pattern.  While debating whether or not to paint them, Stij walked by and told me that if I put any more of my failed baked goods outside, the fire ants have threatened to eat the tires on his truck—just to get rid of the taste.

So much for that.

Well, how about taffy, then?  See?  I don’t even need to write anything; you’re already laughing.  Why bother?

So since I screwed up the stuff anybody can make, I reasoned, “I guess they’re just too simple—maybe I should try something more challenging.”

Oh, don’t ask ME where I get this logic—just roll with it.

I tried baklava, which ended up tasting like a balaclava.  However, if carefully sanded and polished to a high gloss, it makes a really interesting sound when it hits the garbage can—ask my husband.

Another thing I made that had multiple purposes, which was the original premise of this column—remember?—was pancake syrup.  I figured, no problem, I’ll go outside, tap a tree, and do it the old fashioned way.  So out I went with my peg and bucket and my drill.  I drilled an appropriately sized hole, affixed the bucket hanger and adjourned indoors to watch “Jeopardy.” 

When I went back out, the bucket was full of milky white sap.  I hauled it in and dumped it into a pot on the stove to begin boiling it down.

It didn’t boil down.

It boiled over the pot, ran down the side of the oven, and onto the linoleum floor, where it proceeded to eat right through to the foundation.  The fumes alone were removing the paint, sheetrock, and framing.

It is to Stij’s credit that when he walked in on Armageddon he didn’t just kill me and toss me over the wall to keep the garbage can company.

 When we finally got everything back under control, we assessed the wreckage.  We had exactly half a house left.  Why it stopped at half, I’ll never know.  Maybe the doorknobs gave it indigestion.  All I know is that Stij managed to stuff it all into his refuse trailer and drove it off to the landfill, after first saying a Novena that they would take it when he got there. 

He was underwhelmed upon his return three hours later.

“What happened?  Did they take it?”

“Eventually,” he said.  “When they asked me what it was, I said, ‘pancake syrup,’ then they got all pissed off because they thought I was being a smartass.”

“So what happened?”

“I explained your culinary exploits.  Two of them have wives who cook just like you do.  We cracked a couple of beers and traded stories, and here I am.  What I want to ask you is this—which tree did you tap?”

“That huge Rubber Tree out back.”

“That is NOT the kind of tree you tap for syrup.  You tap a MAPLE tree.”

 “Oh, I know that.  I just thought I’d add some maple flavoring to it after it was boiled down.  Sap is sap, right?  Your face is really red—are you having blood pressure problems again?”

“High blood pressure is the least of my worries lately.” 

“Well, then, what do you want for dinner?”

“A paid-up life insurance policy.  Since we only have half a kitchen left, we’ll be eating out—for the next five months, probably.”

Now see that?  Multiple uses.  Beyond its usual use, my pancake syrup can also be used to get your house remodeled, give your husband the opportunity to make new friends, and get you taken out to dinner.  It also makes a great fire ant killer.

I’ll be releasing a cook book later this year, dear reader, so watch this page!

WACKOS & DRESSING FOR DINNER

Have you ever felt as if the world were slowly slipping beyond your grasp and that, if allowed to sit quietly in a corner to contemplate it all for about ten minutes, you will quietly go insane?

This is where I am now.  No, not sitting in the corner—just quietly going insane after having come to the conclusion that the world is completely out of control.

I’ll tell you how I know this.

I helped out a friend last weekend in her shop.  This is a business where people come to buy clothing and specialty items. . .for their dogs and cats.

You heard me.

At first, I was mildly amused, when a little old blue-haired lady dashed in and grabbed me by the sleeve as if I were a lifeguard on the Titanic.

“Will you help me, please?  I’m in a terrible hurry,” she said.  “I need a collar for my pussy—she likes blue.”

I looked at her crotch and asked, “How can you tell?” and she left before I could show her a single collar!

Well, it was easy to laugh off…at first.

But then things abruptly got worse.

The next customer to happen by was an older gent who was tethered to an English Bulldog.

“Nigel needs a dress coat,” he declared.

I glanced down at Nigel, who was slobbering so copiously that he looked as if he’d just chewed up a can of shaving cream.

“No, sir.  Nigel needs a raincoat…”

Nigel proceeded to prove this by shaking his head with such alacrity that he coated me, his owner, and the car across the street with more slime than Bill Murray could have ever imagined.

“…and so do I,” I said.

Nigel’s owner, dripping saliva that smelled like something FedEx’d from the bowels of hell, didn’t miss a beat.  “Nigel already has a raincoat.  Now he needs a dress coat, if you please.”

“Ah, a dress coat—of course,” I said, donning a scuba mask and snorkel.  “And would you like spats with that, as well?”

Up strode my friend.  “Good morning, sir.  Is Carson being of help?” she asked, shooting me a withering look.

I jumped in before the old baggage could dry his soggy handlebar mustache enough to reply.  “Oh, yes, Gail.  This gentleman is looking for a dress coat for Ninny, here…”

“That’s Nigel.”

“Of course, Nigel, pardon me.  At any rate, he may be interested in spats to go with it.  Do we have them?”

“Certainly we have spats.  What size?”

“I think a medium would do nicely,” Nigel’s owner said.

Good God!  Not only did we actually have spats for dogs, but this wacko knew his dog’s size!

“And I have a marvelous black camel hair Saville Row dress coat that would look wonderful on him,” Gail gushed.

Remember, we’re talking about a dog here.

So, Gail trotted out a size 20 hand-tailored coat and matching spats for this four-legged professional drooler and dressed him, wrapping a Burberry scarf around Nigel’s not inconsiderable neck for a peak fashion statement.

“What, no trilby?” I asked.

“I’m getting to that,” she whispered, skewering me with a filthy look.  “I’m on a roll.  Just step back, watch and learn.”

I must admit, when Gail got going, trying to stop her would have been as futile as holding a newspaper over your head during a monsoon and expecting to stay dry.  Before the fellow left, not only had he purchased the coat and spats, but he also opted for the trilby, a set of four Florsheim shoes and Yves Saint Laurent monogrammed socks, a trench coat, three pairs of silk jockey shorts, a smoking jacket, a pair of Egyptian cotton pajamas, and some erotic leatherwear for when he’s feeling frisky with the ladies.

Total bill?  $4500.00

He paid it without a blink.

I watched him walk out the door.  “Gail, I’ve been wondering—is this store near an asylum, by any chance?”

I received my third stink eye of the day in reply.

There followed a breeder of Corgis, whose pick of the litter was having a coming-out party and needed a blue taffeta gown with matching heels; a Basset Hound requiring a plaid cummerbund to complete his tuxedo for a New Year’s Eve celebration; and a Rhodesian Ridgeback, whose owner purchased two original Matisses because the dog house was looking so very drab.  Oh, and let’s not forget the French Poodle that absolutely had to have a hand-carved, solid mahogany Louis XIV dog bed.

And the food!  Cats choose from freeze-dried Komodo Dragon, Minced Mouse Mousse, Chinchilla Sushi, or Passenger Pigeon Pate.  Our little canine friends are offered Steve’s Raw Chateaubriand Diet, Elephant Loin, White Buffalo Brain, and (yum, yum) for those puppies that have been especially good, Braised Suckling Pig.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to lunch. Today I have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple, which I share with the homeless gentleman down the block.

OODLES AND OODLES OF DOODLES

I worked in the pet trade years ago, and came away from the experience with a ‘pet peeve.’

New dog ‘breeds.’

You’ve all heard of the Labradoodle.  This is a cross between a Poodle and a Labrador Retriever.  When this ‘breed’ was newly-minted in Australia at the Tegan Ranch, the progeny sold for $1500 to $2500!

Not a bad price for a mutt…and that’s what these puppies are. 

But folks used to come to the pet shop daily with their noses in the air over these mongrels.  Now don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against mutts—they make terrific pets, they are smart, and they have many fewer health problems than the purebreds.  But for these affluent upper-classers to ponce around with their noses in the air over a three-thousand-dollar puppy that they could have had for around fifty bucks at a local shelter makes me think that the money would have been better invested in brain transplants.

BUT…

As an enterprising citizen, I have decided to cash in on this disposal of discretionary income that only P.T. Barnum could have devised.

I am going to create my own breeds, too.

Here are my new Poodle crosses, as well as a few others to be on the lookout for come next spring:

Great Poo—A Great Dane/Poodle cross.  The name sums up what he will leave on your lawn.

Cockadoodle—Poodle/rooster cross.  Must be fed promptly at dawn.

 Shoobedoobedoodle—Poodle/Frank Sinatra cross.  Has questionable business associates and blue eyes, but at least it’s hypoallergenic.

Kittenkaboodle—Poodle/cat cross.  Smart enough to do tricks, but refuses to.

Hungarian Pukei—Interesting looking dog with a sensitive stomach.  Eats freeze-dried Pepto Bismol.

French Chihuahua—usually seen around Taco Bell, turning up its nose at the food because the proper wine isn’t being served with it.

English Sheepdoodle—Sheepdog/Poodle cross.  Herds circus performers.

Saint Limberger—foul-smelling dog that revives unconscious skiers by breathing on them.

Pugoodle—Pug/Poodle cross.  A small feisty dog that punches itself out for looking like a sissy.  White curly coat, black eyes.

Schipperkoodle—Schipperke/Poodle cross. A small, irritating dog that lives way too long.

Bagel—a small hound plagued with yeast infections.

Pit Poodle—Pit Bull/Poodle cross.  A small fighting dog that slaps its adversary into submission, then runs him over, pushing a gaily-decorated wagon full of cats while balancing a ball on his nose.

Am I going to make a fortune, or what?

DENTAL HYGIENE & CHARLES MANSON

I have a question.

When did the simple act of a child brushing his or her teeth become a festival?

I was in the grocery store the other day and happened to notice that there is now an entire section of dental products geared for the kiddies.

We didn’t have this back in the Stone Age, when I was a child.

When learning the fine points of dental hygiene,  what we had was a mother standing over us, handing us a plain old manual toothbrush, and squeezing onto it the same mint-flavored toothpaste that the grown-ups used, then showing us how to hold it and the proper way to brush.  Oh, and not to swallow the toothpaste, because we’d get sick if we did.

That was it.  We brushed our teeth twice a day and didn’t think anymore about it.

That was then.

NOW it’s a party.  There are, conservatively, 700 different types of toothbrushes, and even more if Disney comes out with yet another animated movie hit.  They are every color of the rainbow.  They are electric. Some play music.  Some talk.  I think some even have DVD players in them.

So NOW, in a bathroom gaily festooned with streamers, balloons, and glitter, the brushing of youthful teeth becomes a rite of passage.  Photographers are hired.  DJs set up in the bathtub.  Party dresses and suits are purchased.  The family is invited over.

Kids don’t even have to worry about learning not to swallow the toothpaste—there is toothpaste that they CAN swallow, in all different flavors including strawberry, chocolate, tutti fruitti, split pea, and avocado.  Not only will they brush their teeth with the stuff, but will probably put it over ice cream, too.

It’s going to be a bad day at the local Emergency Ward when the kiddie toothpaste eventually changes over to the regular kind and all the kids in town have to get their cute little stomachs pumped because they each ate three tubes of regular toothpaste, never having been told that they can no longer do that.  On the up-side, the stomach pump will be pastel colored and sport stickers from ‘The Lion King.’

Then, there’s the kiddie mouthwash in many bright colors, most of which are reminiscent of toxic waste. These products will brighten their teeth, give them healthy gums, and raise their IQs by 75 points.  And the bottle even converts to a scooter!  That’s another thing—the bottles.  In order to add to the society-page cotillion that oral hygiene has already become, we add mouthwash containers shaped like ‘Hello Kitty,’ the Minions, Sponge Bob SquarePants, Edgar Allan Poe, and Charles Manson.

Well, the kids can have all that crap.  Me?  I’m waiting for the Chardonnay flavored toothpaste.

OFFICE MAX & GERMANS (DON'T MENTION THE WAR)--PART TWO

Picking up where we left off last week:  my twelve bookcases and desk were finally delivered from Office Max, I'm now out of the hospital after emergency back surgery, and the time has come to put the damned things together.  Oh, yes.  I have to put them together all by myself.

First, the bookcases.  According to the box, no tools are necessary for assembly, and each case only takes twenty minutes to put together.  Buoyed by that statement, I opened the first box and ripped open my right hand on some sort of packing crap…I think it may be called a brad or a staple or, hell, Mildred Pierce for all I know.

Following a quick trip to the emergency room and 57 stitches, with the promise of a 50/50 chance of being able to use my thumb again, I set to.

I yanked at the boards in the box.  Nothing.  They were stuck.  I sat down on the floor, braced the box with my feet, and really put my back into it.  Out flew a long board, narrowly missing my head before embedding itself in the wall.  Try as I might to remove it, it became clear that  board and plaster had plighted their trough, and would be joined there for all time.

I stepped back and surveyed the destruction; much like van Gogh would step back from a painting in progress just prior to cutting off some body part or other.  To sum up, I now had clotted, drying blood all over my beige oriental rug and a six-foot board sticking out of my wall, looking as if it were shot there by some gigantic deranged Indian.

What to do?

I grabbed two stools, placed one on each side of the board, and called it a "Breakfast Nook."

Being a humorist and therefore having no capacity for self-preservation, I opened another bookcase box.

Out charged the biggest rat I've ever seen since Humphrey Bogart in The Roaring Twenties.

My ferret, Gizmo, took a great deal of interest in this rat, and in a frenzy, managed to get out of his cage and make a beeline for Mickey Mouse on PCP.  The fact that this rodent was twice the size of Giz didn't seem to bother him at all.  He latched onto the hairless tail with all the might and killer instinct that a two pound animal can muster, and proceeded to be dragged around the room by this panic-stricken, shrieking rodent.  Vases toppled and smashed gaily on the floor.  Plants were overturned and trampled.  Bric-a-brac didn't stand a chance as the rat scrambled up onto furniture with my ferret still attached to his nether regions.  Watching him try to get shed of Giz reminded me of kids playing "Crack the Whip" at ice skating rinks.

But Gizmo would not be moved.  Well, that's not entirely true.  He'd allow himself to be dragged around the apartment like a dust mop, but that tail was going to remain firmly clenched in his fangs.

Finally, the rat got tired of it all, reached back and gave Gizmo a roundhouse punch in the nose.  It surprised him enough to let go, and the rat legged it to parts unknown, leaving me with an embarrassed, ashamed ferret to comfort.  After two hours of assuring him that I didn't think he was a pantywaist, I returned to the bookcases.

The rat was still at large, but I didn’t care anymore.

I emptied the box of its selection of boards and little hardware doodads that I assumed I'd be needing, and picked up the instructions…which were written in German!

I am nothing if not game, so I laid the pieces out in what looked like the appropriate arrangement, and started putting in dowels and screwing in screws…for the next three hours.

"Twenty minutes! @$%#%$#% Office Max!   @$**%#$#% bookcases!  And mostly, %$#@$#@%#%#% Germans who don't have the decency to provide English instructions!" I remarked.

At any rate, at the end of three hours, the swearing was done and I stepped back to drink in the full impact of my creation.

It didn't look like a bookcase.

It looked more like a chicken coop in a slum. 

I took it apart and tried again.

This time, it was a ghastly recreation of my ex-husband that I knew would haunt me until the day I died.

Some would call me "persistent," others might opt for "idiot," but I gave it one more try.

My final effort resembled something out of an Irwin Allen movie, and  the rat immediately moved into it…to give birth.  Though I had to relocate them to a shoebox, I am keeping her family, and the rest of us, nice and warm.

Guess what I'm using for firewood?

BOOKCASES, IDIOTS & NOVENAS

I made the grave error of buying something from Office Max, a/k/a "Temple of Doom."

But let me backtrack a bit.

Having moved into a new apartment, and living alone for the first time in my life, I discovered I was woefully unprepared to deal with setting the place up.  For one thing, I am a book fanatic, and have a personal library of over 6,000 volumes.  Unfortunately, I had not one bookcase to my pitiful name.  The time had come, as the Walrus said, to stop threading my way through my living space around ten-foot vertical piles of books.

Being somewhat frugal at this point in my life, I naturally checked the Sunday circulars to see who might be having a sale.  After flipping through Circuit City, Best Buy, Wal-Mart, Sam's, and a place called "Jimmy's House of Edible Lubricants" flyers, I came upon an ad from Office Max.  To my delight, they were having a great sale on, not only the bookcases I needed, but also on computer desks.  The clouds parted.  Seraphim sang in perfect harmony.  A ray of sunlight fell across my face--a face that was covered with a sheen of grateful tears.

Who says the universe doesn't have a sense of humor?

I high-tailed it down to Office Max, humming all the way.  I danced in the front door, only to find…ground zero when the shit bomb hit.

I had never seen such disorder in my entire life.  If ever a place of business looked as though it had been picked up 2000 feet and dropped, this was it.  But, undaunted (well, okay, maybe a little bit daunted) and spurred on the by the great prices, I stumbled forward.

Upon finding the desk/bookcase area, I glanced around for a salesperson.

Nada.

Finally, I ran serpentine through the mess and inquired at the customer service desk.  I was sent a salesperson forthwith.  Or, as forthwith as I could get, anyway.

After about twenty minutes, a wizened man three days older than dirt tottered up to me.  "Can help you, Miss?"  he rasped, in a voice reminiscent of Im Ho Tep.

 Stifling the urge to reply, "Gee, may I help you," I told him of my mission.

"I'll have to check out back to see if we have any more left," he said, and in the style of Tim Conway's little old man, shuffled off to the nether regions.

Thirty-five minutes later, he returned, and I noticed that he was now wearing one of those Mission Impossible type black headsets.   I wondered if this was really the image they wanted to project to a shopper in their establishment.

"I'm sorry, Miss, but we'll have to order them for you," he said.

"Why?  The circular was just released this morning!  How could you possibly have sold out of them already?"

"I just work here, Miss.  I don't know."

"Ah, that sounds familiar.  Just following orders?"

"That's right, Miss.  The order desk is right this way."

I shrugged and followed him.  It didn't really make that much difference, I supposed.  I'd done without them this long; a few more days wouldn't matter.

At the desk, their latest twelve-year-old hire greeted me with a highly professional, "Yeah?"

"I need to order twelve bookcases and a computer desk."  I'd brought the circular with me, so I pointed out exactly what I wanted.  "Please have them delivered on a Tuesday."

"Lady, you can't just pick a day like that!"

"Then this is the only store in American where I can't!" I retorted.

Another twelve-year-old, drawn by the raised voices, sauntered over.  "Sure she can," he said.

This resulted in a filthy look from moron number one, and additional typing.  Oh, I could see tense times at recess today!

"What's your phone number?"

I gave it to him.

"What?"

I repeated it.

"Excuse me?"

I repeated it.

"OK.  Is it 236-8799?"

"Close.  646-5086."

"What was that again?"

After another five minutes of this delightful banter, I gave it to him in semaphore and American Sign Language, and I think he finally got it.

"That's $853.72.  Your order will be delivered on Tuesday between 8:00 am and 5:00 pm."

"Can you be any more specific than that?"

"No," he said, handing me my receipt.

"Well, you're welcome, of course.  And I must say, it's been a wonderful, friendly experience, and I think I'll have you all over for a big cookout this summer!" I snarled, snatching my receipt and stomping out the door.

I wondered what the odds were that I would actually receive the items I ordered.

So, Tuesday morning came, and I bounded out of bed to the jangling of the alarm clock.  This is not easy to do on a day off, but I did it, because I wanted to be ready when everything arrived.

I waited all day and the only person who showed up was a Jehovah's Witness, looking for heathens. I sent him to the apartment below me, but not before telling him that he might want to stop back tomorrow, because by then I will have committed a murder.

"Oh.  You ordered something from Office Max, didn't you?" he asked. "Believe me, God will understand.  He may even help you."

I thanked him, gave him a cookie, and directed him downstairs.  Misery loves company, don't you know.

At 5:15, desperately trying to keep my voice from sounding like something out of "The Exorcist," I placed a call of Office Max.

"Office Max.  How may I direct your call?"

"The store manager, please," I said.

"Hello, this is Wayne."  Good God!  His voice hadn't even changed yet!

I told him my tale of woe.  No matter what I said, he replied with, "I can certainly understand how you feel."

Finally, after the fourth time he said that, I asked, "How can you possibly understand how I feel?  Have you bought something from Office Max recently?"

"Oh, no!  I'm a whole lot smarter than that!"

"Yes, you probably are," I sighed. "How are you at ducking throwing knives?"

"Why?"

"Oh, no reason.  Just call the warehouse and find out what happened, will you please?" I asked.  "And then call me back and let me know what's what."

"Fine."

After twenty minutes, Wayne called me back.

"It seems that there was some damage to some items on the truck, and they couldn't be delivered," he sniveled.

"And when was this reported, Wayne?"

Mumbling.

"Pardon me?  I didn't hear you."

"At noon."

"AT NOON!  And you couldn't be bothered to pick up the phone and let me know?  I've been sitting around my apartment all day with my thumb where the sun don't shine, and you're telling me that your people knew AT NOON that the delivery wasn't going to be made?  Is that what you're telling me, Wayne?"

"Um, yes?"

"Hold on, Wayne.  I have to run and stick my head into a bucket of ice water so it won't EXPLODE!  Don't go anywhere!"

When I returned to the line, I was considerably calmer.

"I WANT TO KNOW JUST WHAT THE HELL YOU PLAN TO DO ABOUT THIS, YOU AMAZING MORON!" I remarked casually.

After screaming myself hoarse, we decided that the items would be delivered the following Tuesday, when I would again be at home for the day.  In return, I agreed not to lie in wait for Wayne in the parking lot with the intention of chewing his leg off.

During the balance of the week, I said twenty-three Novenas, sacrificed three white roosters, and danced naked by a fire in the light of the full moon.  Confident that I had all bases covered, when Tuesday rolled around, I again leapt from the covers early, and waited with, as Dickens would have said, great expectations.

At 12:30, there was a tap at my door.  Sure it was the delivery, I flung it open.

On my welcome mat stood a short, fat creature who looked like he just crawled out of a pipe.  "Delivery from Office Max," he mumbled.

"Fine!  Bring it on in!" I cried.

"Nope.  I was told that this was a dock-to-dock delivery.  I don't get paid to haul this stuff up two flights of stairs.  There are fourteen boxes in the truck and they're really heavy."

"Do you mean to tell me that they sent you out all by yourself, with no help?"

"Yeah, lady, and I have a bad back like you wouldn't believe."

"My friend, once I get through with your boss, he's going to wish a bad back was ALL he had!"

Door shuts.  Short, fat deliveryman exits stage left.  Our protagonist grabs the phone and dials Office Max.

"How may I direct your call?"

"WAYNE!  WAYNE NOW!"

"I'm sorry, but he's tied up at the moment."

"THEN GET HIM UNTIED, YOU PERVERT, AND PUT HIM ON THE PHONE, PRONTO!"

"One moment."

Thirty seconds later, my buddy, Wayne, arrives.

"Hello?"

"IS THAT ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY?  'HELLO?'  THIS IS CARSON BUCKINGHAM, IN CASE YOU DON'T RECOGNIZE MY SWEET, DULCET TONES!"

"Oh my God.  What happened?"

He didn't have to ask ME twice.  He got such an earful, it had to have been leaking out his nose.

When I finally lost my voice, Wayne said he'd call the warehouse and see if they could get the short, fat deliveryman some help and send him back over.

"Fine," I croaked.

Two hours later, another tap at my door.  I said a quick prayer of thanks to any deity that cared to listen, and opened up.

It was the Jehovah's Witness again.

"Hello.  I just thought I'd stop by to see if you needed any calming down."

"How on earth did you know?"

"You're dealing with Office Max, my child."

"Right.  Please come in."

We talked for hours and he calmed me down considerably…until I glanced at the clock.

"It's 4:35!  DO YOU BELIEVE THIS?  IT'S 4:35 AND NOT A GODDAMNED SIGN OF THEM!"

"Now, Carson, remember what we discussed…forgiveness, serenity, patience…"

"OH, BLOW IT OUT YOUR ASS!" I suggested, scrabbling for the phone.

"Office Max.  How may I direct your call?"

I shrieked into the receiver.

"Oh, hello, Ms. Buckingham.  I'll get Wayne for you."

"Hello, this is Way…"

"THE QUESTION YOU HAVE TO ASK YOURSELF IS, 'DO I FEEL LUCKY?'  WELL, DO YA…PUNK?"

"Oh, Ms. Buckingham…hello.  Did your delivery arrive?"

"NO, MY DELIVERY DID NOT ARRIVE.  CHRIST WILL ARRIVE BEFORE MY DELIVERY DOES!"

Wayne, fearing for his life, came up with a cunning plan.  The items would be delivered the following evening at 6:30, when I would be home from work.

OK.

The next evening, I actually allowed myself to feel hopeful.  I arrived at home at 6:20 and walked up the stairs, only to discover that my doorway was completely walled in, 'Cask of Amontillado' style, by fourteen huge boxes!

After I finished banging my head against the wall and shuffling these monoliths out of the way, I propped open my door and dragged the fourteen boxes, easily weighing about 150 pounds each, into my abode.

As a result of all this heavy lifting, I am now in the hospital.  They want to put me in traction to correct my back problem and relieve my pain, but the traction machine is broken.

They're waiting for a part from the medical division of Office Max.

I may just slit my wrists and save them the trouble.

(NEXT WEEK:  PART TWO)