nervousrek's Open Salon Blog

Pop Goes the Toaster

Mon, 14 Jan 2013 16:01:18 -0500

It was 8:00pm on that Friday night when I felt an urge for bacon and eggs. I went down to the kitchen and took the bacon, eggs and bread out of the refrigerator. I went to put the bread in the toaster and noticed the toaster was missing.

I asked my wife if she had seen the toaster and she stopped what she was doing and starting looking around the kitchen. We searched the small counter space and even checked the dining room but no toaster appeared.

I felt myself becoming agitated. I was hungry. I was tired. I asked my three sons if any of them had seen the toaster. Two of them barely had the energy to look up from their video games. The third gave me a quizzical look.

“Huh?” he said

“The toaster,” I repeated. “Have you seen the toaster?” I asked him as if I was talking to someone hard of hearing. I mouthed each letter of each word as I spoke.

“The toaster?” he answered. “Who would take a toaster?”

He was being rhetorical. That’s what he did when he lied.

“So you took the toaster.” I say in an accusatory tone.

He had stopped listening. He was walking away before I finished the sentence.

“You took it.” I said to his brother.

“I can tell by your face that you did it.” I continued.

“I didn’t” he said not even looking up from his computer.

“I can tell.” I taunted him

“Really mom, really, how can you tell?” He taunted me back.

I moved on to my oldest son.

“What did you do with the toaster?” I asked him with certainty.

“Why would I take the toaster? He asked as if I was insane.

“Is it in your room?” I asked

“Just tell me” I begged

He paused for a moment, smiled and went back to his video game.

My wife checked the basement, I checked under their beds, she went out to the garbage, I checked around the garage, but alas it was to no avail, we could not find the toaster.

That night, as we laid in bed, each of us caught up in our own thoughts, she asked me.

“Who do you think took the toaster?

“Who would take a toaster?” I responded

We ran through each of the four possibilities, which included my three sons and my daughter. We called my daughter that night but no, she had not seen the toaster.

I retraced my steps and tried to come up with a time line of when the toaster was last seen. I had made toast yesterday, or was it the day before. Who could keep track?

By the following day, it was as if everything we wanted to eat required a toaster and we no longer had one. By day three we broke down and pulled out my father’s old toaster, which was downstairs in our basement, waiting for just such an occasion.

“Maybe it’s in the backyard,” I suggested one evening.

“No I checked there.” Said my wife

Whenever I was alone with one of the kids, I would accuse them of toaster theft, hoping that the certainty of my accusation would elicit a confession. None of them budged. Worse still, while my wife and I spent whole days trying to solve the mystery of the missing toaster, the kids seemed to care little or at all that the toaster was gone. It was as if one day we came home and the toilet was missing from the bathroom and no one was even curious that it was gone.

“Toilet, what toilet?” I imagined them saying

We went on vacation. During the flight I started to drift off to sleep when my wife tapped my arm.

“I think Noah took it, he likes toast.” She said as if reading my mind

“Could he be so lazy that he took the toaster to his bedroom?” I asked.

“No it’s too crazy” I answered myself

At the casino, waiting for the shuttle to bring us back to the hotel,

“It must have been Oliver. He must have broken it and thrown it away” I suggested as we waited in the cold night air.

“But where did he put it?” Cried my wife

Later that week at the Hoover Dam,

“It’s got to be somewhere” said my wife as we looked out on to the man-made wonder.

“But where? I queried. “We have already looked everywhere.”

By the time we returned home, I had accused nearly anyone who had ever been within 10 feet of the toaster. All the while, my kids remained totally unaffected by my toaster grief.

One evening my wife and I surmised that we were spending nearly six hours a day trying to solve the mystery of the toaster.

That Friday night, nearly three weeks after the toaster went missing, my 16 year old son confessed.

I’d like to think he did it because it was the right thing to do but really it seemed more like he succumbed to the guilt. Knowing what he knew and seeing us falling apart over the toaster finally became too much. We were so overcome by his confession that part of me questioned if it was even real.

“You didn’t really take the toaster.” I challenged him.

I did, I swear it.” He proclaimed.

“Tell us where it is” my wife said as if he had hidden a body

“We were having a party in school,” he stammered, “and my friends said Noah never brings anything, he should bring the toaster.”

Before I could interject he continued, “So I brought the toaster to school and after the party I brought it with me to the cafeteria. I left it in the cafeteria but when I went back to get it, it was gone. My school has no lost and found.” he offered as a final Mea Culpa

My wife was still skeptical but I was so relieved to have any answer, no matter how implausible, that I readily accepted it as well as his apology. My wife continued to lament about the loss of our seven dollar toaster, reminding my son that it could not easily be replaced. She reminded all of us that the replacement toaster did not have the button to release the toast, a loss we would all have to suffer.

It took some time to get past the loss of our toaster. I still found myself accusing the other kids long after my son confessed. My mind would play tricks on me and I would some days decide that the kids were all just taunting us, that they made up the story up and someone else stole the toaster. I eyed the neighbors with suspicion, wondering who among them dare enter my house when I wasn’t home.

My son offered to pay to replace the toaster, but there are some things that money can’t buy, like my piece of mind.

Naked

Sun, 8 Jul 2012 15:07:29 -0400

We are not naked people. That’s what my wife said about us soon after we started dating. Without explanation, I knew what she meant.

We were not the kind of people who walk around naked, especially during the daytime. I don't even like taking my socks off, so if barefoot was intolerable, then naked was out of the question.

My wife's ex-husband was a naked person. He took great pride in his nudity. He slept naked rain or shine. He liked to walk around naked, even do household tasks naked, even work naked which was all quite possible being that he worked at home. Problem was, his wife wasn't so keen on the naked. While she clung to her flannel pajamas, he only felt more emboldened by his ability to remain naked. He might even have called himself a nudist, had he had a colony to be nude in, but when you are one person and the only person not wearing clothes, you’re not really a nudist, just a naked guy.

I figure most people who want to be naked refrain from doing so because it would offend those around them. Certainly my 16 year old would be agast to find me cooking dinner in the nude, furthermore should he come to the table nude; I would likely drop the salad bowl on my naked foot in shock.

So when the kids all went to sleep away camp this summer, leaving us alone in the house for the first time since we married, we were tempted for a moment to take advantage of our newfound freedom. It started out quite by accident. We were lying in bed and the dog was whimpering. In only her underwear, my wife got up and tried to quiet the dog. I suggested we put the dog in the crate however being only partially clad evoked the specter of the bad porn movie. We both laughed and she said that she refused to have anything more to do with the dog crate until she was fully clothed.

There we were both in bed naked except for my socks, both of us thinking there's an opportunity here to be had but neither of us knowing exactly what to do. The dog was getting louder and louder and yet neither of us moved to do anything. Finally my wife got up and did what could only be described as a pirouette, and then quickly jumped back into bed under the blanket. We both giggled at her boldness but were still left with the problem of the dog.

Then in a daring move on my part I challenged her to put the dog in the crate naked. She cringed. I laughed harder. We both agreed it was a bad look. The nakedness seemed out of context.

Moments later we gathered our clothes, got dressed and went downstairs to get a snack. Naked in the bedroom was as far as we got.

Her ex-husband however graduated to a whole new level of naked. He and his girlfriend declared entire portions of their apartment as clothing optional. This was really more of a warning to those who visited them. Should they enter certain rooms in the house, be forewarned, naked people might be walking around, or folding laundry or doing whatever people like to do when they're naked. I often wondered if the announcement of clothing optional was more like an invitation to guests, should they want to shed their attire. I imagined him giving uncle Herb and aunt Carol a tour of his new apartment, and pausing as they came upon the den, this room he would emphasize, is a clothing optional room. Then moving on to the kitchen, a room ripe with dangers should one endeavor to cook naked, is clothing required. I could see uncle Herb enthusiastically pulling off his shirt while Aunt Carol, aghast at her husband's behavior, grabbed his shirt off the floor and pulled it over his head before anymore flesh would be exposed.

I suppose the only people who took advantage of the clothing optional rule in his apartment would be people like himself. Perhaps there are those that felt so encumbered by their clothing, the only way to enjoy a pleasant evening with friends was to do so naked. Still, naked is not necessarily sexy. I suppose his naked friends were very much like him. Their nakedness elevated them as they sat around mocking the rest of us in our 100% cotton T-shirts.

Can I Call You Back, I'm Dying.

Thu, 28 Jun 2012 20:06:51 -0400

My father came to Connecticut to live near me. Within weeks of his arrival we found out he was dying.
It shouldn't have come as too big a surprise. Only a year earlier we moved my 89-year-old grandmother from New York to Connecticut. We packed and unpacked all of her things. She was even going to bingo for a while and it looked as though she might live past age 95. Just six weeks after she moved in she fell, banged her head and died soon after that.

I spent my entire adult life wishing I could live near my grandmother and for those six weeks it was a dream comes true. Back then I might've said it wasn't in the cards, or just wasn't meant to be, but when the doctors told us my father had amyloids in his heart, I knew it was my bad karma not his.

Of course we were all in shock. It's easier to blame the sick person. You’d like to believe that somehow they're smoking or conspicuous consumption of pickles led them down the path to poor health but that wasn't the case. It turns out amyloids are a rare condition, so rare that the very doctor who diagnosed it had never seen a case before my father’s. As a doctor explained what in fact was happening to my father's heart, you couldn't help but notice he had what could only be described as pride. He had discovered the amyloids like those medical mystery shows where the viewer has to guess which of the three conditions the patient has, the doctor had guessed correctly and it was all he could do to hide his excitement. Unfortunately his prize was my father's death.

Everything seemed unreal. My father had smoked three packs a day for most of his adult life; he even had a heart attack. He drank Yoohoo and ate Drakes Cakes. One of his fondest childhood memories was eating rendered chicken fat on a piece of rye bread. He bought a NordicTrack and kept it for 20 years as a dusty lawn ornaments the middle of the living room. It was as if owning it made him part of the fitness world.

By today's standards my father's lifestyle was more like a suicide mission. Yet he is now dying of a rare disease that no amount of exercise could have prevented.

Once the shock of his pending death took hold, we all retreated to the Internet for more information. The news was grim.

The more we read the worse things seemed. My brother and I compared notes on the phone and my father; he just kept trying to catch his breath, literally. He'd been short of breath for over a year and now with such a poor prognosis instead of looking winded he looked like he was catching his last breath. It took several days to get a referral and by the time we were in the hematologist’s office both my father and I had reconciled with the prognosis.

The doctor asked my father a series of questions. Each time we answered yes we felt we were further cementing our fate; weight loss, shortness of breath, lethargy, my father had the endurance of a slug.

Tests were ordered. These were the kind of tests only very sick people have to get. The first, a bone marrow biopsy took seven days to get the results. Time was of the essence, I started cooking my father's favorite foods albeit without salt. There was no point in hastening his death. I reassured him that the second the doctor said his death was imminent, I would be the first person to get him a pack of cigarettes and a Big Mac.

The test results came back negative which was good news except the doctor reassured us that there were more tests to be done as if to squash the smallest hope that my dad indeed wasn't dying. The second test called fatty tissue biopsy would surely be more conclusive. We watched a how-to video on YouTube about the procedure. It went through each step of the procedure just in case we wanted to try it at home. My father watched the video as it showed each gruesome step. Surprisingly he remained optimistic even cheerful.

Meanwhile my father got a pacemaker which improved the quality of his life in significant ways. He was able to breathe, and even remain awake while sitting in front of the television, a significant improvement from before. As his health improved so did his spirits. When Citibank called hounding him for minimum payments on his credit cards he was quick to tell them that he was dying from a terrible terminal illness, that he had been awakened by the phone, had to nearly crawl across the floor to answer it and no, he didn't think he could make that 38.00 dollar a month payment.

Soon he was telling anyone who would listen that the angel of death had knocked on his door. The reluctant clerk at the video store extended a membership to my dad with the promise that I would return any and all rented videos should my dad's untimely death occur before the videos were due.

I suppose when you know your time is near, life’s consequences don't seem quite as dire. In fact, my father seemed to enjoy all the advantages of being dead soon. He no longer concerned himself with the outcome of nearly any medical tests because as he liked to remind me he was dying anyway. Any junk food left at his apartment would be eaten in a single serving. I reminded him that we would still have to get his fat ass into the hearse but that wasn't enough to discourage him from eating an entire package of Oreos.

One Sunday afternoon we went for a short boat ride on the Long Island Sound. We spent the sunny afternoon weighing the merits of the burial at sea.

Things were going so well that even I had to admit there was a bright side to this grim prognosis. For Father's Day, my brother and I threw all caution to the wind and bought my dad some new clothes despite their expected shelf life.

The following day the doctor's office called with the test result of my dad's most recent biopsy, it was negative. I guess those Father's Day clothes weren't such a bad idea after all. It turns out, whatever is killing my father, it's not happening quick and it's not happening now which means he is dying just like the rest of us. I just wonder how he's going to tell the folks at Citibank?

So the China Man does want out...

Thu, 3 May 2012 18:05:37 -0400

So the China man wants to come to America after all. The first time I heard about him was on The Daily Show. I thought John Stewart was making a joke about the man being blind but no, indeed the man is blind. I wonder how he managed to find the embassy being blind. I can’t think of one embassy building of which I know the location. How does one find an embassy? Perhaps he thought being blind would make him more symp'athetic to the American Embassy. It seems as though those grim faced bureaucrats had other ideas.

It appears the folks at our embassy spent the last six days trying to talk Chen Guangcheng into staying in his sleepy little village outside Beijing, but to no avail.

"Come now, Chen, can't we work something out" says the Embassy spokesperson

"I no want anything but Hillary" says Chen

"Secretary of State Clinton is unavailable at this time." says the spokesman

I meet with Hillary. We eat Big Mac. We go for drive in Chevy truck. We fly home to meet her Mr. Clinton

"No can do amigo" says the spokesperson

On his 6^th day held up in the embassy, just when they thought they had everything wrapped up in a tidy little package, the Chinese activist decided that he would rather buy his Chinese goods as imports not exports.

It is true that Chen was in prison for 7 years, followed by house arrest, and suffered physical abuse from local officials; however, China is not the only country that denies its citizens their civil rights. Right now there’s a group of guys at Guantanamo Bay that could make the same claims against United States. I don’t hear them running to the Cuban embassy looking for a ride from Raul Castro.

Ah yes, the ride. Could it be that this all boils down to a sweet ride home. Chen made his declaration, directly to the free press; he wants to go home with Hillary Clinton. Not literally Clintons home(s) but you get the drift. Still, he must be naïve to think that all he has to do is ask and he’ll be boarding Clinton’s private charter.

Besides, we have our priorities. We can’t let one lone dissident screw up our relations with China. What is one man’s freedom compared to the importation of millions of lead based toys.

I decided this story bared a second look. As it turns out, this is not the first China man seeking asylum. Back in fall of 2011, a young man in his early 20s, boarded a flight in Hong Kong, bound for Canada disguised as an elderly Caucasian. He donned a latex mask which looked like a bad Halloween costume, but neglected to disguise his 20 something hands which ultimately gave him away. A couple of hours into the flight, he snuck into the bathroom and removed the mask which led the flight attendants to become suspicious. At least he made it to Canada.

Slut Dog

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 14:04:56 -0400

"I think I want a dog" I said as we took a walk down our street.

"Everyone has a dog, look they have a dog,” I pointed to our neighbor’s yard.

"Don't you like those dogs over there" I said pointing to a group of small dogs yelping.

"Who’s going to walk the dog?" she asked as we passed the chorus of canines.

Indeed it was a good question. It was true that I have trouble getting up in the morning or staying up too late at night. My sons had proved themselves totally irresponsible when it came to household chores. It was she, my wife who somehow managed and coordinated all of our domestic responsibilities.

"I'll walk the dog!" I said confidently enough to almost believe myself.

"You'll walk the dog?" she said accusingly. "You know you can't rely on the boys, so if we get a dog you're going to have to be responsible for it."

There was that word again, responsible. I was already responsible for my four children, a responsibility I often found daunting. As I was already done with the ass wiping portion of my parenting, it did seem foolhardy to take on a dog especially a puppy.

"Hey, what if we got an older dog, something that didn't require a lot of training?"

"Someone still has to be responsible for taking care of it."

"Me, of course I'll do it." I said although I felt my argument was not very compelling.

In truth I had promised my sons at some point, when, I did not know, if we were living in the right place, and they have proven themselves worthy, and by some miraculous chance I had an ounce of energy to spare, we might under certain conditions get a dog.

There had never been a right time but now as I was embarking on my fourth year of unemployment I did have an ounce of energy to spare, and at times I felt the companionship of the dog would really give me a lift.

A few weeks passed and we were once again walking past the chorus of singing dogs.

"Look” I said “aren't they adorable”

I walked closer to the dogs but they stayed where they were. “The owners must've installed an electronic fence.” I said

"You can't say they're not cute they really are cute aren't they cute” I persisted. Perhaps they were cute but all she saw were four rodent size animals yapping as we walked by.

I decided not to pursue the issue any longer. I concluded long ago that it's never a good idea to talk someone into something that was your idea. As time passes they come to resent you for your suggestion or worse blame you for their own lapse in judgment. In either case I could ill afford to throw a wrench into my relationship over a dog.

Then one day, unsolicited she announced "I think you should get a dog."

"Really?" I said not quite convinced

"For your birthday, you can get a dog for your birthday." she said nearly convincing me that it might really be at all possible.

Once she married the dog to my birthday it was hard not to follow up with the idea. Like a scene from a Disney movie the idea of getting a dog on my birthday had all the romance and charm of the fabricated world in which all Disney movies live.

"Really, my birthday?" I asked trying to contain my excitement.

"I want you to have a dog, I want you to be happy." She continued.

And so it happened, I would soon be the owner of a dog of my choosing.

"What do you think of the name Murray” I asked

"I like it but it has to be a girl dog." She answered

"A girl dog?" I said disappointed

"I don't like girl dogs I want a boy dog, I’m a boy dog kind of person." I argued

She was emphatic it was a girl dog or no dog at all. Why not a boy dog I wanted to know. She didn't like the dog penis. She didn't leave me much to argue with. I imagine dogs much like their human counterparts love their penises. It certainly wasn't the kind of thing you could minimize, so I conceded and agreed to a girl dog.

A few weeks later my son and I went online to Petfinder.com and went looking for a girl dog. I didn't explain the details about the girl dog to my son and he didn't ask. We scanned the photos and read the bios of each dog.

Summer is in pitbull terrier mix. She is two years old. She loves to play catch and can follow a few simple commands. She is ideal for a family with mature children and has some food guarding issues. She also will flinch if you move too fast around her.

Summer was our dog. While eating our lunch my son and I renamed her Sydney. Before buying a leash and collar I thought it was a good idea that we go and meet the dog.

In the intervening week I showed pictures and videos of summer to my wife who seemed less than enthusiastic about our new dog Sydney. Whatever the reason and I didn't dare ask, she showed no interest in the dog.

The following weekend we looked up the address of the animal shelter to check out the dogs. I may have mentioned Summer once or twice but made it clear that I was open to the idea of any dog. We would know it when we saw or should I say saw her.

As we walked into the animal shelter I was accosted by the smell of wet dog hair and fur. I wondered if my house would smell like this if I had a dog, but ignored the thought and I signed us in. I overheard one of the volunteers tell my wife that the dog she had in the corral was in fact our dog Summer. It annoyed me that they were calling her Summer as we had already renamed her Sydney, but I refrained from making any comment.

My son and I went into the corral and pet Sydney. The volunteer showed us how to get the dog to sit and handed us some treats to give the dog. My wife stood reluctantly outside the corral wrinkling her nose as we let the dog lick our faces and slobber all over us. When I asked her what was wrong she just shook her head as if to say, not my kind of dog.

We walked through the kennel and looked at several other dogs. Each had a card attached to its cage listing the numerous emotional problems that the dog had. The volunteers would quickly minimize these problems reassuring us that it was nothing that the right family couldn't fix. Several of the dogs had already had litters of puppies but the animal shelter's policy was to fix or neuter any animal before its adoption so I wasn't concerned.

That night as we were lying in bed I asked my wife why she didn't like the dog.

"Did you see it's tail, did you, did you see it's tail?" She asked as if the answer were obvious.

"What? It had a black spot on it that was all I saw. Don’t you like the spot?” I asked

"Nooooo,” she whined, "you know, the tail" except when she said it she made a motion like she just got the chills.

Finally she confessed

"The dogs vagina, didn't you see the dogs vagina?"

"The vagina?" I said aghast "Why are you looking at the dog’s vagina?"

"I wasn't looking." She said shaking her head

"It was just, you know, there."

"The vagina?" I repeated not sure what any of this meant. "You wanted a girl dog. This is what a girl dog has, what do we do about the vagina?"

What could I do? Perhaps if I looked more closely I would've noticed it too but I hadn't and she had. The following day my son suggested we get a eunuch.

Later that week I asked her again what it was, about the dog’s vagina that bothered her so, but she could never quite articulate it. The only thing she could say was something about animals needing more hair in certain spots and mentioned something about an orangutan.

My son asked her why she didn't like the dog.

“It already had a litter" she said shrugging her shoulders and shaking her head. "Sluts, all those dogs were sluts.

Later I asked her what she meant by sluts. After all, it’s not as though the dogs could use birth control

"Did you see that row of nipples?" she asked

"I saw them, but you said we had a get a girl dog so I thought that's what a girl dog looks like." I answered

"What are you going to do when the dog rolls over on its back to be pet, are you going to pet all those nipples? “she demanded

"Nipples, that's what this is all about, nipples?" I asked as my voice rose higher.

“How are you going to pet those nipples. What are you going to do, pet around them” she added

I hadn’t thought about it but I suppose I would get used to the nipple, but the more we talked about the dogs genitals the less I wanted a dog, any dog.

“They’re like a landmine she countered.”

Can’t you just ignore those parts of the dog? I asked

But no she could not. I suppose when she saw the dog it was all genitals and a little fur on the side.

She kept looking for dogs on-line but I finally had to confess to her that she had killed the image I had of me riding in my pick up with a dog by my side. Now all I pictured was me riding around town with a vagina and nipples. Not so much birthday fun.