Mostly Anecdotal

My wife and I seldom go shopping together. My shopping trips are short, hers are long. I know what I want, she doesn’t. I buy what I need, and go home. She likes to pack a lunch and make a day of it. Hers is let’s go and look around and we may discover that there is something we need that we didn’t know we needed which is my definition of something we don’t need.

So when I needed a new computer chair I didn’t invite her to come with me. It would be a short trip, and she knew it. I was going to IKEA one of her favorite stores, and she wanted to go, but she knows shopping with me when I’m on a mission is not much fun, and so she didn’t even get out the picnic basket.

She did take out her IKEA catalog and asked if I’d like to look at the section on computer chairs before I left. It sounded like a good Idea.

“Here let me show you,” she said, and started flipping through the pages. She stopped, “look at this wouldn’t these little tables be great in the family room,” she said.

“I don’t see the computer chairs,” I said.

“Yes computer chairs,” she said and continued flipping the pages, and then stopped.

“Computer chairs?” I said.

“No, bookcases,” she replied.

“I want to see the computer chairs,” I said. I started getting that impatient feeling I get when we shop together.

“Well okay,” she said clearly disappointed that the shopping trip she’s wasn’t invited on was nearly over.

“Here they are; I like this one,” she said pointing, “and the desk that goes with it would be nice too,” she added.

“I have a desk,” I said. “It’s a table,” she said. “Same thing,” I said and gave her the look. “Enjoy your shopping,” she said, and gave me a sweet kiss goodbye.

There is more to the story than I’ve told, and so to be fair let me come clean. If the shopping trip is to a bookstore, my motto is let’s go and look around, and we may discover that there is something we need that we didn’t know we needed which is my definition of time well spent and my wife’s definition of, it figures.

“We’ve got all kinds of good music, bands you’ve never even heard of,” she said. “Well there’s your problem.” I said, “bands—I’m more of an orchestra guy.”

Tim, Chris, Cinnamon and I were getting ready to leave for Las Vegas to play chess. Chris had purchased an FM transmitter for his iPod we’d be able to play his 30 gigabytes of tunes through the radio. Well not entire thirty gig the trip is only 400 miles, about six hours, more like 300 megabytes.

There was a time when I made the trip in five hours not six, but caution comes with age, and one too many tickets. “How fast do you think you were going,” he’d say. Today I’d say about 60 megabytes an hour officer, and smile knowing that I was not being stopped for speeding.

It was true what she said there were many bands I’d never heard of. My education started with Mercury Program, and their funky vibraphone sounds, then a reprieve was issued and we listened to some Britpop, all very melodic, and all quite enjoyable. Then came Bloc Party, a Post Punk Indie band, Nine Inch Nails, I’d heard of, a guaranteed headache. They are the poster child for all the angst and anger in the current generation. Ghostland Observatory and Ratatat followed, they both play electronica, but unlike Mercury Program they add lyrics. Then there was a German band Rummstein singing Du Hast. Won Beta Band, American Analog Set, Interpoll, oh my do they have a dark sound. A little bit of Thom Yorke and we were there.To be fair there was a Mozart Concerto and some Beattles in there somewhere, but mostly it was stuff I’d never heard.

All told we listened to 8 hours of music on a six-hour trip, thanks’ to Chris’ temporally transcendental iPod. I’m still a classical guy, but now I’m up-to-date and musically savvy.

An elevator is normally a quiet place, all the occupants on a mission to discover something interesting on the ceiling while keeping an eye on the blinking red light registering the floor number as they ascend or descend. Las Vegas is different, a conjunction of happy vacationers bent on having a good time—cheery, hopeful, and friendly. It was just such a car we occupied with five others, eight total, well under the 3000 pound capacity, on our final night in Las Vegas. Let me see, were we going up or going down, returning from the latest round of the chess tournament, or on our way there. I don’t recall. I do remember I was standing near the wall on one side, my sons Tim and Chris on the other. The woman was standing in the middle.

I recognized her immediately. She had mid-western written all over her and child of the twenties tattooed on her glasses with rhinestones. She was probably one of those moms, like mine, who did the ironing while I listened to the Lone Ranger on the radio–hi ho Silver, away. Today she was in Las Vegas, and sharing the elevator with us. She was a look-a-like for Pauline, my father-in-laws second wife. Her hair was white and the whiff of grey was the frosting on the look-a-like cake.

I caught Tim’s eye pointing her out with a nod of my head while mouthing her name. He immediately nudged his brother, glanced at her, and repeated my message. They were both smiling now. The woman was talking to her husband. It was Pauline’s voice reincarnated in this stranger in Vegas having a good time.

Memories of the times in Yuma visiting Pauline and Earl flooded back, and Pauline’s catch phrase, an exclamation, one she often repeated on the Golf course flooded back. Sink a long putt and Pauline would say, “well, goodnight Agnes” or during an evening game of Shanghai rummy, Pauline’s game, a surprising play was guaranteed to generate the phrase.

The boys had heard her say it often, so when Pauline’s double told her husband that she felt a jackpot in her future, I couldn’t resist– “Well, goodnight Agnes,” I said. The boys would have spit up their drinks if they’d had any. They showed remarkable restraint by not laughing out loud– but best of all was the woman. It was as if she had known Pauline, as if she’d been in on our private communications from the beginning, she laughed and said, “Yep, that’s right.”

My wife sells Avon. No, that’s not quite right. My wife buys Avon because she gets a discount selling for Avon. She recently had a rash that wouldn’t go away. She tried creams and oils and various products, but nothing worked.

“It’s probably a reaction to something you’re putting on your skin,” I said. “The only way you’re going to figure it out is to stop using everything and add them back one at a time.”

“No makeup,” she said.

“Nothing,” I said.

“I can’t go without makeup,” she said.

“An attractive women like you doesn’t need makeup,” I said.

I still know how to charm a woman, and she was getting desperate and so decided to give it a try. It turns out that most Avon creams and lotions contain something that she’s allergic to.

“Does this mean you’re going to stop ’selling’ Avon?” I said.

“Oh no,” she said “Avon sells lots of things that aren’t cosmetics.”

She produced a catalog and started showing me the merchandise.

“Here’s a nice watch with a cool metal band,” she said, “would you like me to get you one.”

“No thanks,” I said. “They give me a rash. ”

My little sister Janna plays bass in Ridin’ The Fault Line and is executive director of Heart and Soul an organization that brings a little joy into the lives of those who need it most. A local TV station did a short segment on the organization and the role my mother played in its formation. Here they are, my sister Janna, my brother Doug, and Mom who is missed, but who’ll never be forgotten.

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