Friday, February 24, 2006
"Passengers must avoid carrying things without their knowledge."
For some reason, I begin to laugh hysterically. I'm at the airport, of course, when I hear this announcement. I'm on my way to another booksigning in Denver, or is it Missouri, or Austin? I dunno. It's the weekend so I'm going wherever every other tired person at Gate 2 is going. Anyway, they make this announcement several times. They keep reminding us not to leave our luggage unattended. I wonder how you can avoid doing something without your knowledge. Where's Freud when you need him? Not that I want to talk to a dead guy, but I bet he'd know.
I think about looking in my carryon to see if I have something I didn't have knowledge of having. I'm sure there's a stray nickel or an old luggage tag in there. Does that count? In fact, there are several cards and scraps of paper in my wallet I haven't looked at in years. Expired memberships. Frequent diner cards. Old receipts. I don't know what they are anymore. Do they count if I have no knowledge of what they say, but I know they exist in a relative, cosmic sense?
"Avoid carrying things without their knowledge." Whose knowledge? I know about my medicine but do the pills know about me? Can they see anything through that brown bottle? Should I introduce myself? Hello migraine pills. I'm Moe. I swallowed your friends but don't hate me. I'm truly sorry. Let's be friends.
And what if someone put something in my carryon I had no knowledge of but I open it and discover some previously unknown entity. Now I'm knowledgable. Will they arrest me if I tell someone in security? Ignorance is bliss I think.
I leave my bag zipped and continue laughing. The man next to me stands and walks away shaking his head. There's a stain on his pants. I bet he has no knowledge of it. Hmmm.
Friday, February 10, 2006
According to S. Freud, men, both married and single, think about sex a dozen or more times a day. Women, especially women with children, are far less likely to think about sex. Freud says we average one fleeting thought a day unless we’re on vacation in which case we equal the men. That’s Sherman Freud, by the way. He’s the guy who delivers the bottled water to my home. He was right about the Steelers in the Super Bowl so I’ll entertain the thought.
After pondering this baffling statistic for a while, I decided to closely monitor my thoughts for an entire day just to see if Freud was right. I chose a Monday because I’m still fresh then and, therefore, most likely to have fresh thoughts.
6AM: Rise and shine. Okay-just rise. Put on robe and make coffee. Wake children. Consider calling my boyfriend and something shiny distracts me. Drink coffee. Go to work.
8AM: Start work. Act friendly, help people. Wonder what to eat for lunch. Admire assistant’s new hair style. Room is hot. Adjust thermometer. Count days until next vacation.
Noon: Go to Mexican restaurant. Order Greek salad with French dressing. Waiter is attractive, nice cologne, ripped body. Almost think of sex then remember youngest son needs new jeans. Grow like weeds. Eat salad and make grocery list.
2PM: Call my Boo at work. He says, “Hey baby, what’s up?” Flashback to our second date when he called me “baby" for the first time. Feel warm and fuzzy momentarily, then I remember labor pains. Tell him I have to go and hang up. Spend several minutes looking at a paper clip. It's shiny.
5PM: Drive home and change into something comfortable. Help with homework while cooking dinner. Open mail, return calls, read newspaper. Read about sex but have no independent thoughts about the subject.
10PM: Prepare for bed. Think about sex while brushing teeth. Notice teeth are yellow. Need to whiten again. Not romantic. Crush thought and go to bed.
12PM: Did not hear phone ring 14 times (according to caller id) with booty calls. That would be any call after 10 pm. Hear son scratch his ear and shiver in his bedroom. Get up, wash son’s ear, apply cortisone, put extra blanket on him. Go back to bed.
6AM: Rise for a new day.
Gosh, I guess ole Sherman’s on to something. Just to make sure I wasn’t weird, I called several friends of various ages, races, and professions. Friends assured me that I’m normal and possibly above average. No one had an explanation for the thought drought. Everyone updated me on their children’s latest accomplishment and their horrendous work load. We concluded thinking about intimacy is another responsibility like paying bills or balancing the checkbook. If one partner enjoys it more, they should have at it.
Wait, I think I’m about to have one of those thoughts. Nah, it was just gas. Gotta get a tums. See ya.