THE FAVOR

COWORKER:   I just spent three hours in a meeting.  That’s three hours of my life I’ll never get back.

ME:  I’ll give you three hours of my life.  You can have three hours of my next colonoscopy prep.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

A friend of mine calls me up the other day.  He needs to ask me for a favor, but, before asking for this favor, he prefaces his request by listing off a litany of things he has done for me in the past.  He starts with recent history and begins to work his way backward.  Before he can retrace our shared history to the kids’ soccer field days, I interrupt him.

What is it?  What favor could possibly be so crazy-important that my entire existence has to be rehashed in a plus-minus column? 

I begin to panic.  I am really and truly hoping that this favor doesn’t involve my limited closet space, a green card, or anything that requires me to shave my legs.

Instead, his request is almost apologetic when he finally comes around to it.  “Will you drive me to my colonoscopy this summer?”

Before anyone makes poop jokes, I have two things to say about colonoscopies.  First of all, they’re wicked important.  Second of all, it’s the best damn sleep you’ll ever be blessed enough to have. 

I hate anesthesia; it makes me vomit, generally speaking.  However, when I had my charming colonoscopy experience several years ago, the anesthesiologist gave me some unbelievable stuff.  It starts with a twinkling around the edges of the vision field, almost like sparkling stars coming together to form a border around the frame of impending blackness.  The wake up is easy and absolutely without complications.  Well, except for the realization that I was suddenly munching on animal cookies and sipping ginger ale without any recollection whatsoever of obtaining them.

Yup, after having a colonoscopy, it is easy to understand why Michael Jackson was addicted to Propofol.  That damn drug is amazing.

The colonoscopy prep?  Not so amazing.  I should restate that: The prep is amazing but not in a positive way.  Comedian Billy Connolly has a hysterical routine about colonoscopy prep, and it is as hilarious as it is dead-on accurate.  Colonoscopy prep is when you do not want to laugh because if you do, you’ll mess your pants.  This fact along with my friend’s solemn request sends me into a fit of giggles.

My friend, sheepishly waiting on the distant end of a cell phone for my answer, is not nearly as amused as am I.  He is a chicken, perhaps more of an ostrich with its head in the sand, when it comes to medical procedures.  I’m not entirely certain he could survive a dislocated finger being reset, something I’ve been known to do (both the injuring and the readjusting) while playing Frisbee at school field day or while exercising at the gym.

“Have you ever had a colonoscopy?” I ask him.

“No.”  He pauses then adds, “I should be fine with the prep, though.  It’s good to clean the system out every now and again.”

This is true.  But, when one does this extensive a clean-out, it is best to be close to facilities at all times.  I’ve already decided that my next colonoscopy needs to be closer to home, and I only went two towns away.  Potty-availability is crucial.  My next question is critical to my sanity and to the Scotch-Guarded seats in my car. 

“Where are you having this done?”

Following the asking of the question and right before I hear the answer, I say a little prayer.  Remember that confessional I told you I avoided the other day?  I probably shouldn’t have passed on that golden opportunity.

“In Stoneham,” he tells me, as if this information is not enough to give anyone, especially someone with whom you are only casually acquainted, a major fucking heart attack.  Stoneham is at least three very long towns away down a road full of traffic lights.  It is easily a forty minute drive.  The other option is the morning commute down gridlocked route 93, the major access to Boston.

I start imagining ways to rig garbage bags onto my car seats without offending my friend.  “Stoneham,” I repeat, spending a little too much time emphasizing the long o sound.  “Um, that’s kind of a long drive.  Can you book anything closer?”

I suspect that my friend thinks I might be jockeying for gas money.  This is not true in the slightest.  He whines a little, like men tend to, and I quickly explain myself.  “Let’s just say that you’re not going to make it between point A and point B without making about twenty pit stops.”

“It’s all right,” he reasons.  “There are plenty of places to stop along route 28.”

This is true.  But, making it from the street to the parking lot, to the restaurant, to the bathroom, into the stall in time – This whole scenario presents a series of possible disasters.  I churn these devious possibilities through my nasty little brain and giggle some more. 

This is going to be hilarious, I decide.  Hil-fucking-larious.

“Of COURSE I will drive you to your colonoscopy!”  Then I tag on, “And you can take me to lunch afterward.”

“Oh, no.  I won’t be able to eat lunch after that,” he responds.

Again, has he ever had a colonoscopy?  No.

“Afterward you’ll feel terrific,” I assure him.  “Clean as a whistle.  You won’t be able to shit for days.”

Part of me is just (forgive the expression) talking out of my ass.  It has been a few years since I’ve done this drill myself, so I don’t know what happens anymore.  I do, though, remember being ravenously hungry and eating everything within a fifteen yard radius without suffering any ill effects.

And the Propofol.  Any time that I wake up from anesthesia without puking is cause celebre.  Of course, so is keeping stains off the car seats, but that’s another issue entirely.

EVIL GENIUS AT WORK

I stay at work later than usual today.  It's my own damn fault.  I spend my planning period yukking it up with some colleagues, laughing so boisterously that the math teacher next door has to open her door to see what we are up to (no good, of course).

In the course of this no-good-ness, one teammate and I concoct an evil plan to take over the universe.  Well, maybe not the whole universe; just our universe.  This plan hatches so quickly that we spontaneously set it into motion without allowing ourselves time to reconsider (or thoroughly examine all possible ramifications). 

Immediately after setting into motion our evil plan to take over the universe, I stand in the hallway smacking myself in the head.  "What have I gotten myself into?" I shake my head and look at my feet.  I'm not equipped to take over the universe.  I don't have that kind of brain capacity; I don't have that kind of time; I don't nearly have that kind of patience nor compassion for humanity.

My teammate smirks at me.  Oh, she is so evil ... an evil genius.  Even more evil-genius that I could ever hope to be.  I fall right into her trap without even hesitating.  Trust has a way of doing this to people.

In the end, I make her promise that in the course of taking over the universe, she must promise to stomp on my toes under the table if I get out of line, and she must promise to duct-tape my mouth shut if I do something uber-crazy, like volunteer for a committee.

No matter.  We are stuck with each other.  When it comes time to pack up our stuff for another move to another building (in nine weeks), I will roll her bins into my room and store them where she cannot supervise her stuff or me.  In this case, she will have to trust my evil genius.

This, of course, makes us laugh that evil, maniacal, gut-clenching cackle.  We are going to take over the universe with foot-stomping, duct tape, and a whole lot of plastic rolling moving bins.  Maybe we'll even race the bins down the extended indoor ramp that connects four levels of classrooms.

We are up to no good (of course), and the world will be a better place for it.

THIS WAY TO DEEM'S COLLECTION: TALES FROM THE ART MUSEUM - PART 2

I am still at the museum, still unable to take any snapshots of the paintings and other works because dodo man at the kiosk says I can’t.  He also says he won’t chase me around if I do, but what the hell is the fun in breaking the rules if no one is going to make me work for it?

After enjoying the photographs of the Gate to Hell, because I did just come running from the Basilica of the Immaculate Conception, I head over to the second special gallery.  This place is full of works by a guy named George Deem.  It’s all kind of interesting – lots of perspective pieces and a bit of Escher-like designs with a lot of patterns.   He is very much into art deco-like presentation.

 In the midst of all the chaos, Deem steals.  That’s right … STEALS.  He actually has a multi-panel painting that shows step-by-step how to paint a Vermeer.  In addition to showing everyone in the entire world how to paint a Vermeer, he actually “borrows” Vermeer’s characters and places them together in rogue paintings.  For example, a woman leaning against a wall in the Vermeer is now leaning toward someone’s ear (another borrowed Vermeer character from a completely different painting), telling secrets. 

One painting that fascinates me is Deem’s take on Matisse’s 1910 The Dance.  The Matisse original has nude figures dancing in a circle.  Deem adds in patterns and room decorations, but it’s still a painting of naked people.  And this totally fascinates me because …

…. there is a busload of eight year olds wandering around the gallery.

You know that insurance commercial with the pig in the pool chaise singing, “Boots and pants and boots and pants?”  Well, I have that song stuck in my head, only I imagine elementary school kids chanting, “Boobs and butts and boobs and butts…” 

I move away from that end of the gallery, just in case, stopping by the four bricks with the continuous colonial Americana painted on them, but still moving enough to keep ahead of the potential boobs-and-butts chanters.

I stop at a far wall and look up. 

Suddenly, I see her.  There she is in all her Da Vinci perversion.  It’s the Mona Lisa.  Only – it’s not. 

It’s Mona Lisa with her head on sideways.  The entire painting has gone wrong.  Reading it left to right (which may have been hung the wrong way for this show), there’s the head shawl going one way, Mona Lisa’s head rolling in the complete opposite direction, and then her neck and body continuing across the canvas, disconnected from her head and disappearing into the side frame.

(She was hanging the wrong way.)

I have to admit, she looks damn pleased with herself.  That little semi-smirk Leo gave the original?  It’s almost playful and somewhat bewitching when turned on its side.  Maybe she’s laughing at the children seeing the naked dancing counterparts across the gallery floor.  Maybe it’s me she is laughing at.  Maybe, just maybe, she knows I got lost an hour ago and accidentally walked into a church, where I almost fainted when I saw I would have to confess.

I have my new journal with me.  I picked it up at DSW in the clearance section.  That’s right – a journal in a shoe store because the journal has shoes on it.  It was 50% off, people!  I decide to write a poem, so here is my poem about George Deem’s painting.  I’ll say it in advance:  You’re welcome!

This way

to George

Deem’s collection.

Look.

Mona Lisa

doesn’t have her

head on straight.

I admit she looks

damn happy

this way.

Perhaps she secretly wishes

Da Vinci had painted her

this way.

It must be fun to look

this way

and that way

without concern for

decorum.

I suspect the Louvre

might shit itself.

Mona Lisa

smirks as her eyes

follow me.

“This way,”

she beckons.

“This way

to escape the frame.”

I tour the rest of the museum but come back to see the sideways Mona Lisa before I go.  It has been a long two-plus hour drive to get here in addition to the time I’ve spent in the Mattatuck Museum, so I hit the restroom before I head out on my next adventure. 

The restroom is right across from dodo man at the kiosk.  Of course he starts talking to me, preventing me from breaking away to go potty.  Eventually he ceases speaking long enough for me to make a parting comment.  I make good use of my time, peeing in a few seconds flat.  I’m afraid if I take too long, my new-found buddy will start pounding on the door to make sure I’m still listening to him.

This is when I see it.  Yup.  Inside the bathroom on the wall next to the door near the sink, is a painting.  It’s stuck to the wall, almost as if it should be part of the tile work but is not.  I whip out my cell phone and snap a picture of the abstract art.

Aha!  Victory!

Finally, I am able to snap a picture of some kind of artwork here in this art museum!

I pop my head back into the gallery and give a quick nod to sideways Mona Lisa with her head on all wrong.  I did it, my eyes tell her.  I mocked decorum and will escape with my photograph of a painting after all!

I secure my cell phone back into my pocket and escape the frame by walking straight out the front door, leaving my painted friend hanging on the wall behind me, grinning wryly at the chattering young voices of children who haven’t the slightest inkling as to who she is.

DO YOU SMELL FISH? TALES FROM THE ART MUSEUM - PART I

Vacation, all I ever wanted; Vacation, had to get away!

Waterbury, Connecticut, is not a place I would put high on my list of vacation destinations.  I end up there for the final road trip of my sports-mom career.  I like to do weird stuff when I go places, so I drive down early and head to the Mattatuck Art Museum. 

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you already know that I am ironically surrounded by a busload of third grade students while I am at the museum, but there’s so much more to tell.  So very, very much more, because these are the tales of the truly awful things that I endure simply on account of being none other than me. 

First of all, I am worried that I won’t find any place to park in Waterbury.  This turns out to be an unrealized fear because there are parking spaces and parking lots all over the damn place, which is surprising since I am right smack between district and superior courts in a rather … (shall I just say shady?) … eclectic area.  I park in a lot that the map claims is near the museum, directly behind the YMCA on a side street.  The lot is free! 

So far, so good.

I try to follow a guy out of the lot who appears to be carrying an art portfolio.  His apparel is kind of folksy with a combination of artsy and fartsy, so I figure he must be going to the Mattatuck.  I get sidetracked making sure my windows are up and the car is locked.  When I look up again, Creative Guy has disappeared, but I swear I see his scarf trailing to the left around a building.  Figuring I’m good to go, I also head left through the side alley along the YMCA.

I immediately encounter a beautiful building with intricate Corinthian columns, huge ornate doors, and stained glass.  It’s beautiful, it’s majestic, it’s stunningly artistic.  I excitedly climb the granite stairs out front, enter the palatial foyer, and read the giant sign:

CONFESSIONS.

Confessions?  Holy shit, I’ve walked smack into a church.  Not just any church, mind you.  No, I’ve entered the holy mother of all churches: The Basilica of the Immaculate Conception.  Crap, crap, crap!  I’ve got to get out of here before someone holy sees me and tries to get me to confess, and then I’ll be responsible for the building falling down and the bleeding of holy ears from my litany of ill repute.  Right now the only thing I want to confess is that I’m lost.

I hustle out of the Basilica just as the bells start chiming the hour, furthering scary the buhjeezus out of me.  I now wonder if the artsy-looking guy I saw earlier might be a priest or something.  Maybe he’s the devil because he has simply vaporized.  I hurriedly head back the way I came, head to the right this time, and spot a rather modern looking brick building with the giant, colorful sign “Mattatuck” hanging from its front.  Apparently, actually reading signs is too obvious for someone like me. 

I enter the Mattatuck (right before the busload of children arrives) and try to pay the gentleman at the desk.  Instead, he starts telling me all about the two special exhibits they have going on in addition to their regular museum.  This is all wonderful, except that I am having a major hot flash right there standing across the desk from him.  He doesn’t seem to notice my red face nor the sweat beading up and cascading down my face, and he just … keeps … on … talking.  Finally, I buy an admission ticket, get a word in, and ask if it’s okay to take pictures of the artwork with my cell phone if I keep the flash off. 

“No,” he explains, “because we don’t own these pictures.  They’re on loan.”  Oh.  Okay.  You own the rest of the museum, all the historical artifacts.  I mean, seriously, don’t be a dick about it.  Suddenly he adds, “Do you smell FISH?”

Oh my god.  I’m having a hot flash, but I showered this morning before I left the house.  Did I forget deodorant?  Am I emitting some sulfurous stench?  Have I turned into the old lady in the nursing home who always smells like peepee?  I am momentarily flustered and stammer, “Um … no …”

Actually, now that he mentions it, the museum reeks.

“Someone cooked fish earlier, and my coworker says it still smells in here, but I can’t smell anything.  Do you smell FISH?” he repeats.

It’s not me!  Thank you, Yardley English Lavender; I don’t smell like old ladies nor fish, at least, not of which I am aware.  “Er, maybe a little bit,” I lie, then add, “but it’s really not noticeable.”

Before entering the regular part of the museum, I tour the two small galleries of on-loan works.  The first room has photographs in monster size by Avery Danziger, whose exhibit is entirely on The Gate to Hell, which is a 230-feet wide fire-breathing crater in the midst of the Karakum Desert in northern Turkmenistan.  I’ll be honest with you, I can’t keep up with the changing countries in Eurasia anymore; I don’t even know where Turkmenistan is.  I look this information up and discover it used to be Turkmenia, which doesn’t even begin to frigging help me. 

According to the pamphlet, Russian oil workers and geologists were  working a site dig when they hit some pressurized water and then massive quantities of natural gas, which they ignited, assuming it would burn off eventually.  Well, forty-three years later, the damn thing is still on fire because only a dumb-ass would believe that throwing a match into a huge-ass crater full of gas is a sound and intelligent maneuver.

Anyway, this guy Danziger has taken over fifteen-hundred images of the place, and a handful are on display here in beckoning old Waterbury, Connecticut.  These images are fascinating and eerie and somewhat catastrophic.  The place has been called Door to Hell as well as the name given to the artist’s show, The Gate to Hell.  Either way, I feel a little bit like I might be there between the hot flash, the fishy stench, and the sudden arrival of the forty or so elementary students who pour out of the bus and into the gallery to avoid the rain outside and to be the first one through the doorway, because we all know how important it is to eight year olds to be first, first, first!

Really, I don’t mind sharing the space with them as long as I don’t hear a single one of those little shits whisper, “Did you get a sniff of that strange lady over there?  She stinks … like FISH!”

(More Waterbury museum tales to come; tomorrow, the second gallery.  Don’t hold your breath, though … unless you smell that disgusting fish, then you should totally hold your breath.)