Missing a Whatchamacallit: a Study In Perspective
Posted: Sunday, June 13, 2010
by John Brazell
Before I tell you about my recent deep emotional "stirring" I'll fill you in on a few fundamental truths.
Very grown-up men have feelings too. They're just hidden under layers of bluster, "don't want to" and "so what." Though we analyze, synthesize, verbalize and hypothesize, we're mainly concerned with "Do I have enough duct tape and WD-40?" I did.
I've had two or three "issues" which could be the cause of my emotional state, then maybe not.
My favorite coffee mug was broken, on purpose, I think
I lugged it back from Harrods of London forty years ago. My lovely didn't tell me until I emptied the cabinets, sock drawer and vacuum cleaner looking for it. Without emotion, she told me its life support got unplugged.
In a pinch you could mix hot water with the 40 years of residue, create instant coffee and swear it came from Starbucks. It was the first thing I reached for in the morning. My lip prints were embedded on the rim; my DNA was scattered from stem to stern on Cutty Sark -- the schooner not the Scotch -- etched into one side. My fingers wrapped around the ear like Wyatt Earp's on his favorite Colt 45.
I once rescued the mug from a neighbor's trash. I was there to offer recommendations for a lawyer and bug exterminator -- not necessarily the same guy -- and got distracted. She thought the mug belonged to a yard worker who had dug it out of a dumpster.
But alas, I found an identical mug, sans stains and dribble, stashed behind my collection of Lady Bird bluebonnet shot-glasses.
I lost my car key with the combo knife and ear-wax-remover attached .
How do you lose a key the size of a Big Mac that goes "beep, beep" at the slightest touch?
After filling the gas tank, I parked in front of the store went inside and bought a diet cola. The key took leave somewhere between the pay counter and my car never to be seen again. I didn't see ghosts, dead people or hear thunder from the heavens. The sympathetic clerk noting my embarrassment, doddering gait and tearful eyes assured me it happened to lots of, uh, mature people sometimes right where I stood. The gathering crowd cooed, "Oh you poor dear."
We were 200 miles from home but fortunately there was a spare key.
Except for pride, not much was lost as I decided to "hot wire" the car should another key go poof into the stratosphere. The truth is I wouldn't pay $250 for a "beepity-beep" replacement key.
The car does have wires, right?
My pluviometer (whatchamacallit) was broken by a gust of wind.
Fortunately we live in a compound where many earnest "sages", aka, geezers, hold forth. It's entirely possible to have semi-enlightened conversation and answers to complex questions way on up to naptime. Like, what's a "pluviometer"?
In my circle, time spent slouched in a chair resting and pontificating between tennis games is the most productive time of the week.
We held forth this day, right there on the new-blue-colored-tennis-courts. I was thoroughly entranced by the moment when it came to me like in a vision, like a bolt of lightening, like a dose of salts.
"There is something a very grown-up man can't live without. It's essential for peace of mind, for spiritual sustenance, for completing a day, for regularity, for shrinking the prostate." All the sages nodded.
So I hastened forthwith to the Big Box store on the hill and filled the gapping hole in my psyche. We'd spent two long rainless years and now it was over. My tube-with-numbers had imploded in a gust of bone-dry air. I had forgotten.
I bought a new rain gauge, "pluviometer" in meteorology-speak, for $3.79, the last one in the Big Box. The only stirring now is in my oatmeal bowl. I can measure the rain. I am a sage. I am at peace.
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In a poll, men over the age of 65 selected a rain gauge over intimacy 999 to 1. The holdout lives alone in the Mojave Desert .
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Top-level comments on this article: (4 total)Whenever you hear, "Oh you poor dear," you know it can't be good. I was wondering where you've been John, but now I know. You've been busy looking for your keys and your whatchamacallit. Wonderful article.Hi Brianna,Gosh, as always, you're a special delight for any writer's ego. It is a crazy world in which we life, what with keys and whatchamathings disappearing. Reckon this has anything at all do with wild comb-overs, bad knees and faulty memories. Nah, couldn't be.Best to you dear one,JB
This article is hilarious! I am looking forward to reading more of your stories.Ken, good to hear from you. A little lady told me, "If you can't laugh at yourself, you're probably cranky." Maybe there's something to that. It certainly keeps you humble.Thanks for dropping by.
john,enjoyed reading.looking forward to other articles to come...bingThanks, Bing. We have to make our own humor sometimes. Fortunately (or not) it's easy for some of us.Best to you
Enjoyed you article immensely. Whatever that means. Well, I chuckled and heard myself thinking, "I have been there," several times. Like you, I was the only boy in a typing class '55. The girls had the new IBM electric. I had to use the old Royal because, "Boys hit the keys too hard." At that age I fell in love with all the girls, no matter where I was.Hi Bob, thanks for dropping by. We, in the classes of the '50's are a shrinking but fortunate breed. Those were the "good old days for sure." Kids now days have never seen a typewriter.Wishing you good writing and happy memories of all those bobby soxers : )
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