Words & Tales
Pistachio Perspective
LIFE IN THE KINGDOM OF THE QUEEN
The other day as we discussed the upcoming elections and each party’s platform, a fellow philosopher asked me if I could devise my own “kingdom,” what would it look like.
First off, I would be Queen. And I would look no further for my King because in my land the Queen thinks the thought and it is done. Consequently, I’d have to be reallllly careful about those thoughts. No wishing I had twelve hands, this computer stinks, or I’m sick of the sunshine. The King appears instantaneously. He, of course, is perfect. So am I. We’re a perfect match.
Now for some of the laws. Very simply, if you lie, your nose grows. With each lie, it extends a little longer. And there are no surgeons to alter the growth. This liar law would include everything from the mere “hey, it happened” when it didn’t, to the unfaithful marriage partner (no, only the nose grows), to the entertainment industry’s tradition of friendly exaggeration.
Cancellations are only misdemeanors, though they could easily fit within the confines of the liar law. Since there’s a purer intent in trying to correct the wrong, the nose would not blossom. However, here’s where the three strikes rule emerges. After three cancellations of an appointment, your feet would widen. This would expand the shoe industry, with unlimited growth potential.
There are no guns. Or even slingshots. This is a peaceful kingdom. Weapons advocates have found other means of enjoyment and ways to kill time. Like haying. Or shuffleboard. Or catching flies with their bare hands and letting them go. If found with any arms whatsoever, besides those connected to the body, the guilty person is required to travel by pogo stick for the rest of his or her life.
Pollution is wiped out. Any business found dumping waste where they oughtn’t or using harmful pollutants must shut down, and those responsible would have a new career in raking leaves. The rake has returned as a popular tool, since the leaf blower was unanimously cast away, as was its creator. Innocent employees are allocated funds to go into the shoe business.
Recycling is mandatory. The Board of Bountiful Bliss has made recycling bins easy to access. Those found aimlessly disposing a can must wear a trash bonnet (like the “A” worn by Puritan adulterers of yesteryear), fashioned from their collection of recyclable materials found by dipping their hands into large goopy garbage bags.
Lawsuits are rare. Therefore, there are less lawyers. Mostly because kindness, integrity, responsibility, respect, laughter, gardening and dancing (many men relinquished their citizenship on that one) are also mandatory. All suits are brought before the Queen and though I’m nice and sweet and all that, you don’t want to step on my toes, especially if I’ve just had a pedicure.
If a suit is found unwarranted by her holiness, the Queen (me), the lawyer is thrown in the ocean to be eaten by another shark and hence, reincarnated as a doctor. The one who brought the suit is reduced to the size of a fairy, spending eternity learning to fly right. If the suit is warranted, the Queen sends the guilty party to the King, who though perfect, is not easy on canines. The sentence could range all the way from changing dirty diapers, eight hours a day, seven days a week for several years, to swimming with dolphins to understand what manna is all about.
Only men age.
The top nine at the box office are women. Number ten is Denzel Washington and holding steady. This is just a temporary payback for all the years of discrimination females have endured. When the karmic roundup is complete, both genders will be ageless, and there will be balance at the box office.
However, the number of years spent on the planet will be honored, and wisdom revered. Any tots or teens found mouthing off to an elder will have the permanent taste of soap on their tongue and has to plant an oak tree. Occasionally, a senior may be reduced to spouting attitude, but they have usually earned it.
Oh yeah, and everyone has a room with a view. Lalalala…
THE TALE OF THE MISSING MOLAR
I woke up happy. For no particular reason, just that I was feeling cheerful. After gliding out of the right side of the bed, I proceeded down the hall with a spring in my step. I brushed my teeth with vigor, flossed with a smile, and sang while sudsing in the shower.
Beautiful day for a drive, as my dad used to say. Without further adieu, I grabbed some fruit for nutrition’s sake, jumped in my roadster, and started cruising down PCH on this gorgeous clear Saturday morning.
Soon hunger struck. Heeding, I lithely picked up a perfect plum from my fruit stash. One of the great joys in life has to be biting into a succulent plum on a summer’s day and letting the juice trickle down your mouth. Mmmmm…mmmmmm….good!
Windward Beach had become my desired destination, but I hadn’t quite reached Sunset when I realized what happened. I couldn’t believe it. This cannot be. What? Where was my tooth? My tongue searched feverishly for the missing molar. Here, there, everywhere. But it was gone. Gone. Lost forever. I had swallowed the sucker. That plum…that doggone plum. If only I hadn’t heeded.
Suddenly Saturday’s step wasn’t as springy. I was in a daze. It is very disconcerting to consume a tooth, let me tell you. Just plain weird. Like you just lost a part of yourself. Well, swallowed really.
No longer was I interested in heading down the highway, so I turned onto Sunset. Not quite a mile up, I saw signs for the Self-Realization Center. I quickly drove in, hoping to realize what condition my condition was in.
After parking, I dared myself to look closer in the mirror. Usually one to accept a dare, especially to learn the truth, I peered cautiously at my reflection. I smiled wide. Not so bad, I thought. I opened wide. Yup, sure as shootin’, there was a hole where my tooth used to be. It was a crown that had evidently worn out its welcome. I tried to think of something good about this situation. Thinking…thinking….thinking more. Well, it didn’t hurt. And it was a back bottom tooth, so it wasn’t really visible. That’s two good things.
But, ugh, I have to get a new one. The mere thought of going to the dentist sent me into a quagmire, not to mention the expense. Dental insurance isn’t exactly liberal with its benefits. Where was the tooth fairy when I needed her?
The only thing to do was to get out of the car and soak up the tranquility of my current surroundings. If you have ever visited here, you know what I mean when I say it’s a timeless place of peace. And as reported in the L.A. Times, September 2001 , it’s “a little serenity in a city of madness.”
As I walked the grounds, my mind quieted, but my tongue kept winding its way to the newly acquired space in my mouth. About the time I conjoured up a giggle at the ludicrousness of it all, I stumbled upon a metaphysical thought. Maybe I was clearing away (or gulping down) the old to make way for the new.
Later I googled “teeth” for the fun of it. I learned there’s a patron saint of dentistry, Saint Apollonia. After having her teeth knocked out in 249 A.D. during a riot in Egypt, she threw herself into a fire rather than renounce her Christianity. In art, she is shown holding pincers and wearing a gold tooth around her neck. Given the circumstances of Apollonia’s martyrdom, I’d prefer praying to Mr. Ed for tooth safety.
I also found several dream interpretations about losing teeth. Many validated my own thoughts that it’s about a time of change. I’m not sure if that’s true or not. But at this point, it doesn’t matter. The plain truth is my tooth is gone. It’s been ingested and inevitably will be replaced with a brand new porcelain one. Lalalala…
LOO MANNERS
This is a bit of a suppressed subject. Few are speaking out. And let me apologize ahead of time for the downright tawdriness of it all. But it doesn’t take your Great Aunt Lucille to tell you that the ladies room proprieties are vanishing.
Last week was probably the culmination of a series of experiences that has detonated restroom etiquette for me. It was never perfect, but there have always been certain civilities a girl can count on once she has entered the loo.
I was visiting the ladies room in a swanky building where I sometimes free-lance. (Please don’t confuse swanky with classy. That would be an erroneous assumption.) As I was stepping into the place in question, sweet-faced Millie, who worked down the hall, was stepping out. We greeted each other with a smile and a wave. Millie also gave me the eye-brow lift, which I took as a sign. Uh oh.
I wasn’t sure what the sign represented, but in that mere moment I prepared myself for the worst.
Upon entering, I noticed the usually well-kept three-stall facility had paper towels and toilet paper strewn about. Excess water slopped up the sink and areas surrounding it. Bad, but not bad enough for an eyebrow lift. The first stall, to put it delicately, was out-of-order. The second was occupied. So I slipped into the third. Sheesh! Must have been Millie’s stall. Why was she lifting her eyebrow? To warn me she’d left a trail of drippings on the toilet seat? Ick, Millie! Don’t have to be a detective to know who the spray culprit was.
As I stood unamused in the stall, I heard laughter from next door. Followed by blaring yakkity yak. Either these bathroom walls were quite the amplifier, or she was speaking at approximately seven octaves higher than normal.
Obviously she was on her cell phone, unless there were two people in there. But as I looked down, I saw only one pair of legs. And she’d settled in, because her shoes were off and her feet were snuggling on top of them.
Did I mention cigarette smoke was rising from the chatterbox’s chamber?
Is nothing private anymore? Did she absolutely have to have this conversation now? And in a public restroom? Hellllooooo, ‘Miss Loud in the Loo,’ someone else is in here. She vexed me. I really didn’t care what her therapist told her about Andy yesterday. And if I were Andy, I’d change my locks or hightail it back to Mississippi.
Oh, dear. What was I going to do?
I wondered if the person she was speaking to knew she was on the throne. Then I wondered…if I flushed Millie’s toilet, would it make her location more clear? Perhaps even interfere with her reception? Hmmmmm. I decided to take action. Couldn’t help myself. I flushed. Not once, but thrice. Third time was with a smile.
Now here’s an option to consider. I recently read that at Amsterdam’s Kulturzentrum De Balie, a talking computer-run toilet is teaching proper bathroom behavior. If anyone uses too much toilet paper, leaves the toilet seat up, fails to flush or smokes, they are admonished by the computer in “Private Room 2.” A newfangled toilet/artwork designed by artist Leonard van Munster, the computer cautions the discourteous user with varying degrees of humor and sternness. If they fail to heed, a live monitor arrives.
Anyway, I left ‘Miss Loud in the Loo’ to her own improprieties and headed upstairs, hoping to find a necessary room Great Aunt Lucille would approve of. Lalalala…