Melicious Details

Hospital Schwag

Clyde had to have outpatient surgery that required about an hour of general anesthesia. To best decribe his post-anesthesia amnesia, I wish I could have created the following video.

Scene One

I enter the recovery room to see Clyde sitting up in bed.   

Me: How are you feeling?
Clyde: Fine.
He looks down at this feet, which have on bright turquoise socks.
Clyde: Why do I have these socks on??
Me: They probably didn't want your feet to get cold.
Clyde: My feet are never cold.

Scene Two

I drive up to get Clyde outside the surgery center. He gets in the car, holding the turquoise socks but acting like he has never seen them before. 

Clyde: Look! They gave me these socks!
Me:  NICE.

Scene Three

We arrive home. Clyde is still clutching the socks. 

Clyde: I'm going to go put on some shorts.
Me: OK.
Clyde: Did you see these socks they gave me?
Me: Yes. You showed me already.

Scene Four

Clyde comes into the family room wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and - inexplicably - the turquoise socks.

Clyde: I'm going to go work in the yard.
Me: The doctor said to take it easy today. Why don't you relax and watch TV for awhile?
Two minutes later he is sound asleep on the couch.


Scene Five

I am working in my home office. Clyde comes in and sits down.

Me: How was your nap?
Clyde: Good. He looks down at his feet. Why do I have these socks on??

 

 

The English-Italian-Vietnamese Translation Triangle

I love my manicurist, Nancy.  She's been doing my nails for almost 20 years.  She came to the Bay Area via a small boat when she fled the communist regime in South Vietnam in the 1970s. Even now she still has a strong Vietnamese accent, which, when combined with her slight lisp, can create some funny conversations. 

When I was in Italy, I'm sure the Italians were thinking something similar about me:  that blonde woman's strong American accent combined with her slight lisp make for some amusing pronunciations.  Like the time I ordered fish gelato.  Because I was trying to say the word for peach (pesca) and it came out sounding like the word for fish (pesce).

Nancy and I recently had this conversation:

Nancy:  Mayleesa, in backyard, I put kacheebo!

Me:  Nancy?  A what?

Nancy:  Kacheebo!

She does some gesturing.

Me:  Oh!  A gazebo!

Nancy:  Yes, kacheebo!

Me:  Nice!

Nancy:  Now we put in a <insert sound of puppy sneezing>

Me:  A what?

Nancy makes the puppy sneezing sound again.

I am perplexed.

Nancy:  A tub.  It has jet.  It has BAUBLES!

Me:  Ooooh!  A jacuzzi!!

Nancy:  Yes!  How you say it?

Me:  Ja-coo-zee.

Nancy:  Ya-coo-zing.

Me:  Exactly.

Man vs. Wetsuit

Clyde's upcoming surfing trip required a visit to a local surf shop.  Even though he was not buying a wetsuit, we ended up in the wetsuit department, which has that rubber-like smell that makes me kind of nauseous.

There were two dressing rooms to choose from. They were separated by a thin wall that didn't go to the ceiling and had doors that didn't go all the way to the floor.  Underneath one dressing room door, I could see large bare feet and hairy ankles so I presumed there was a man inside.  Clyde went into the other room with his stuff to try on. From the room containing the owner of the bare feet I could hear loud grunting and heavy breathing, and a smacking, thwacking sound which could potentially be confused with slapping or spanking. I opened the door to Clyde's room and looked at him like "Are you hearing that??" 

He smiled at me, but didn't say anything. If we talked, the guy next door would hear us.

I mouth the words "WHAT IS HE DOING IN THERE??"

Clyde mouths back "He is trying to take off a wetsuit."

 I have to walk away because I start laughing in my really loud laugh, which causes the salesgirl to approach me and say, "M'am, can I help you?"  I point at the dressing room where all the noise is happening.  "I think he's in trouble."

Salesgirl:   Sir, how's it going in there?
Man:  Uhh...(gasp)...I uhh....(thwack)...Shit!...I'm...uhhh...
Salesgirl:  Do you need another size?
Man:  God, no. I might need you to rescue me out of this one.

I look down and see black neoprene bunched around his legs.  He's getting close to extricating himself. Which eventually happens because as we were leaving, he finally emerges from the dressing room looking like a hot sweaty mess.

Sadly this experience caused My Evil Twin to come up with this idea as something to do with a houseguest who has overstayed their welcome:

1. Convince them they need to buy a full-body wetsuit. The 6mm-thick ones are best.

2. Once at the surf shop, tell them that wetsuits run big so they should try on a size smaller than they normally wear.  Like if they are Large, they should definitely start with a Medium.

3. After they are in the dressing room and have the wetsuit approximately three quarters on (which is as far as it is going to go anyway), make up an emergency that requires you leave the surf shop right away.

4. As they try to get the wetsuit off, say things like "How much longer is this going to take?" and "Is there any way you can hurry it up at all?"

Oh Man.  I am going straight to hell.

Eye Witness News

On Sunday Clyde was working on the gate he has been building and when using the grinder (is that what it that tool is called? grinder? sander? skillsaw? I'm not sure.), something flew up into his eye.  The next morning, after lots of eyedrops and not too much sleep, he had a very red and painful looking right eye.

Clyde: If I fold up my upper eye lid do you think you could  look at my eye?
Me:  No!  Ugh.  <insert retching noise here>
Clyde:  You can't look?
Me:  Eyeballs are so gross.
Clyde:  It feels like there's still something in my eye.
Me:   I might barf just talking about it.
Clyde:  <silence>
Me:  OK. Let me call the eye doctor for you.

He goes off to the appointment I have arranged for him and after a while I get a text that says:  It was a piece of metal the size of a VW bug.  I think I could sell it as scrap on Craigslist.

When Aphasia Strikes: The Holiday Edition

After my last post where I made fun of Clyde's aphasia, I was reminded that I had my very own memorable aphasic experience which some people now feel the need to bring up EVERY Christmas.  So before you hear it from them, I'll just share it myself.

Each year, the Sister Wives get together for a Christmas lunch where we exchange amusing or even nice gifts. At this particular party, Desiree had given us gifts that had little cashmere bundles tied to the top. I just knew they were socks. When It came time to open our presents, I insisted on going first.

Me:  Socks!

Desiree:  Nooooo....

As I unfolded the "socks" I could see they were hand-shaped.

Me:  Oh!!  Muffins!!

I now wear them when I am having my English Mittens for breakfast.

It's not hard to see how a brain can misfire and get confused between muffins/mittens or nozzle/muzzle.  But this - my REALLY favorite aphasia story - is harder to explain:

My friend Dee and I were having brunch. I'd ordered pancakes and she'd ordered eggs.  I could not possibly eat all of the pancakes that were delivered to me, so there was quite a bit left on my plate when I was done.  As we sat there chatting, Dee looked at me and said "Can I have a bite of your hamburger?"

When Aphasia Strikes

You know how sometimes you are thinking of one word, but inexplicably say another?

We were having dinner with our friends Sue and Rick and the conversation wandered to the topic of different breeds of dogs.  The background on this is that when we were first married, Clyde and I had an Irish Terrier named Raleigh.

Sue:  Didn't people always think Raleigh was an Airedale?

Me:  Yes, which was weird to me because Irish Terriers are reddish and Airedales are brown and black.

Clyde:  I think it was because they had similar nozzles.

There was a few moments of silence while we were all thinking:  nozzle?  Did he just say nozzle? 

Me:  Maybe you mean MUZZLE.

Clyde:  Right. Muzzle.

The worst of the wurst.

I was at the hair salon last week and had this conversation with my stylist.

Kate:  After standing on my feet all day, I get cankles.
Me:  Does everyone call you Hillary?
Kate:  My feet and ankles also get really swollen when I'm on long flights.  So I went and bought some medical-grade support hose.
Me: Don't you need to be somebody's grandmother to be allowed to purchase those?
Kate:  They worked great. But they are sooooooo ugly. 
Me: I bet.
Kate:  I got black. The only other color they come in is that weird color - it kind of fleshy...you know... it's like the same color as potted meat.

I have to stop here for a minute and say that I had never heard of potted meat, but since Kate's mom is British, I figured she was familiar with all kinds of bad cuisine.

Me:  Potted meat?  You mean like Spam?
Kate:  Actually more like liverwurst.
Me:  So you can buy medical grade support hose in two colors:  Black and Liverwurst.
Kate: <squealing with laughter> Right!

I had not thought about liverwurst for YEARS. But it all came back to me:  When I was 7 or 8 years old, I was playing at my friend Cheryl's house.  At lunch time her mom made us sandwiches.  I'm all ready for PB&J, but what is handed to me?  Wonder Bread with mayonnaise and liverwurst. One of my Top 5 Most Horrific Culinary Experiences. Ever.

Unnatural Disasters

My new favorite website is called Photoshop Disasters. It's a collection of mostly hilarious examples of what happens when amateurs try to use Photoshop to somehow "enhance" a photograph.

I'm pretty sure the conversation for this ad went something like this:

Marketing Person:  So the model will be wearing the black button down sleeveless shirt.  And jeans.
Photoshop User:  A button down shirt that is sleeveless?
MP:  Yes.
PU:  Seriously?
MP:  We want him to look cool and kind of edgy...let's have him holding a motorcycle helmet in one hand.
PU:  And in his other hand, his fingers can be entwined with disembodied fingers!  Now THAT is edgy.

Photoshop Disasters' posts are sometimes over my head when they show a photo that looks perfectly fine to me, but has a headline that says "clearly a vertical hold problem" or "terrible leveling". 

Which reminds me of the years when I worked for the company that makes Photoshop.  I must have had this conversation a hundred times:

Person I have never met:  You work at the company that makes Photoshop?
Me:  Yes.
Person:  Wow!  I've been using Photoshop since Version 3.
Me:  We're on Version 27 now.
Person:  It's a great product.  But I have a problem when I try to <insert technical words here>.  Do you know how to fix that?
Me:  No.

The other amusing thing about Photoshop Disasters is that it has actual examples of disasters created by the company who makes Photoshop.  What could be more ironic - a Photoshop Disaster featuring a photo of Photoshop packaging.  I thought this was so funny.  Like really laugh out loud funny.  But that might be because I am relieved to a degree you probably can't imagine that I no longer have responsibility for marketing Photoshop.

So You Think You Can Pole Dance

My friend Celeste decided to celebrate her birthday by inviting several girlfriends to join her in learning how to pole dance.  Celeste is the kind of friend who would do anything for you, so I felt I needed to do this for her.  I admit I was scared.  In grade school I always got hurt playing on the playground bars and poles.  But unlike grade school, this event involved drinking champagne, which is guaranteed to improve my dancing.  And also my "musicality".  Maybe it would help with the pole.

The first thing you do when you enter the pole dancing studio is put on pole dancer shoes.  Which are shoes you wear when walking around the studio.  And when attempting to pole dance.  I realized really quickly I would have to make a choice:  either I could guzzle champagne OR I could wear the shoes.  Even I - who's worn high heels since I was 14, who often said I broke through the glass ceiling with my stilettos - was no match for these shoes.  They scared me almost as much as the pole did.

Our dancing instructor's name was Brandy and she was obviously a professional.  At many things.  I think she may have gotten her name from the standard method of pole dancer naming whereby your first name is the same as your childhood pet.  In case you are wondering, mine would be Snowball. 

Brandy provided us with impossible to follow step by step instructions on how to dance with the pole.  She also told us we should concentrate on the person we were imagining we were dancing for, as opposed to watching the other women next to us who were grappling with their own pole.  But honestly, watching the other women was so hilarious, it's pretty much all I could do.  And anyway, my pole and I had like no chemistry.  At all.

As you might imagine, Brandy takes her pole dancing very seriously.  Her instructions included all kinds of graphic - and creative, by the way - ideas for how to "be sexy and uninhibited with your partner."  After Brandy's third eyebrow-raising suggestion, the woman next to me said, "If I tried that, my husband would say 'What is wrong with you??''.

Brandy also taught us lap dancing, which at first I thought was going to be so much better because we could take the shoes off.  Right?  You don't lap dance in the shoes do you?  Oh. You do?  Really?

When my husband was a ninja vampire.

At the dermatologist's urging, Clyde had a treatment using blue light to remove some pre-cancerous spots on his face. While the end result would be a less spotty face, immediately after the treatment he couldn't be in the daylight or be near a window where sunlight was coming in, or sit too close to fluorescent or incandescent lights for 48 hours.

The morning after the blue light special, I was awoken at dawn to this:

Me: What are you doing?
Clyde: I'm going to water the tomato plants before the sun comes up.
Me: Seriously??  I need to take a picture of you.
Clyde: Are you going to put it on Melicious Details?
Me: Absolutely.
Clyde: You don't need to take my picture.
Me: This would be hard to describe without a photo.
Silence
Me: So then are you going to spend the rest of the day laying under the house?
Clyde: First I have to go to the bank.