DYSENTERY, PARIS & LOOSE TRANSLATIONS

I am so excited!  I recently returned from Europe after a two-month stay, only to discover that someone I had met in Paris had dropped me a line.

I am also quite proud of my ability to translate it.  I didn’t know any French at all before visiting Paris, but within a day or two, I was jabbering away like a native!  As a matter of fact, here is the letter, with my expert translation capitalized and in parentheses.

Mars 2012  (MAILED FROM MARS IN 2012)

Bonjour!  (WASSUP?)

Comment vas tu?  (I TRUST YOU HAVE RECOVERED FROM THE DYSENTERY). J’ai tres bien (THE PEN OF MY AUNT IS IN THE GARDEN OF MY UNCLE).  Quelle heur est t’il?  (DID YOU SPEND HOURS EXPRESSING DISGUST AT THE SMALLNESS OF THE MONA LISA?)  Moi, aussi  (MY BUTT IS THE VICTIM OF PAINFUL CONSTIPATION).  C’est vrai, il ne pas chocolate  (COULD YOU PLEASE SEND SOME EX-LAX?)  Madonna aussi  (I UNDERSTAND THAT MADONNA HAS THE SAME PROBLEM).  L plume de ma tante est en le jardin de mon oncle  (WHILE IN PARIS, DID YOU EAT MUCH SPOILED FOOD COVERED IN RICH CREAM SAUCES?)  Oui  (ALSO, SEND ME SOME NAUGHTY MAGAZINES).  Comment s’appelle t’il?  (IS IT TRUE THAT THE TERM “FRENCH KISSING” IS DERIVED FROM WHAT U.S. GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS ARE COMPELLED TO DO TO FRENCH HEADS OF STATE’S NETHER REGIONS IN ORDER TO SECURE ANY SORT OF EVEN THE REMOTEST COOPERATION?)  Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?  (HAVE YOU PURCHASED A NEW COUCH?)  Present-nous, veux tu?  (GIVE ME THE NEWSPAPER BEFORE I BECOME VEXED).  Des saucises, sans doubt  (THE SPAGHETTI SAUCE IS FULL OF SAND).

Au revoir  (LATER, DUDETTE)

Jean Paul  (GEORGE RINGO)

If you have anything you need translated, be sure to send it my way.  I’m always glad to help.

TRICK FISH, EXORCISMS & SURPRISE PARTIES

Did you have pets when you were little?  We did.

My parents purchased a pair of hamsters for my brother and me, because they wanted us to witness the "miracle of birth."
        Well, they'd be sorry...
        My little brother, Markie, ever interested in anything he was too young to understand, stepped up to Mom one day.

"Mommy, we have a male and a female hamster, right?"
        "That's right."
        "And they're going to have babies, right?"
        "Uh huh."

"And they do something called 'mating' to make those babies, right?"
        "Yes."

"Then I have a question."

"What is it?"

"When you and Daddy made me, did Daddy chase you around the room and bite you on the leg?"
        So much for the hamsters.

After that, we had a series of animals that met, shall we say, an early demise.  We had tropical fish that Markie ran in, all excited, one day to report on.
        "Hey, Mom!  Our fish are really smart!  They learned a trick all by themselves!"
        "Really?"

"Yeah!  They can swim upside down!"
        They were buried at sea, so to speak.

From there, he had parakeets that could lie on their backs for hours and hours, turtles that could concentrate so well that they never moved, a frog that croaked (with and without noise), a guinea pig that had a massive coronary when my brother arranged a surprise party for it, and a rabbit that just couldn't take it anymore, and chewed through an electrical cord.  We found the suicide note under a carrot.

Next, he had a kitten that hung in for quite a while.  It alarmed the neighbors that something at our house actually lived, and there was talk that it was possessed by evil spirits.  The kitten subsequently disappeared, and I contend, to this day, that it was kidnapped and taken to the local church for exorcism.

Then there was the hognose snake, which mysteriously "got lost."  My father found it when he put his hand in the box of nails in the garage and was met with attitude in the strike position.  Markie's bottom was met with my father's palm in the flat position.

But you know what really scares me?

Markie is now in veterinary college.

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.