THE ESTROGEN PAGE

Being confined to quarters, as I was for the better part of 2006, brings with it some interesting rewards that almost balance out all the icky things that led me to be confined in the first place.  I say almost because no combination of goodies can make up for what confinement can do to a person’s psyche on any given day.  Unless, of course, that person is by nature mischievous.  Those of you who know me will recall that I have vast experience going head to head with some world class brats, so I am proud to assure you that the most important part of my persona is still intact.  But there are some things slogging around my brain that I need to share.

First and foremost you should know that I have adopted “icky” as my new favorite word.  That’s because there is never any doubt what someone means when they use the word “icky”.  It is a word equally comfortable being a feeling, a texture, an attitude, a span of time, a state of mind or location, but be comforted knowing it is rarely used to describe a person.  This is because there are so many other colorful appellations that do the job so much more effectively!  I’ll admit I sometimes use “Icky” when using “F---“ would likely offend the other participant(s) in the conversation.  But I also use “icky” when no other word comes to mind that does the situation justice.  I think it is an elegant and versatile word but the best part of “icky” is that not one foreign-born medical professional has a clue what it means!  This is a small but meaningful victory for the person who is being stuck with yet another needle or handed a plastic container and lid and asked for just one more sample of their excretory process. Yup, icky pretty well covers that.

Ever since my last professional reincarnation over 7 years ago I became a slave to the flotsam and jetsam of mass transit, New York City style.  I was one of millions that was up early and home late so there were hours and hours of suburban intrigue I missed out on. I had no idea what time the mail arrived, how many Jehovah’s Witnesses rang the door bell in an attempt to save my pathetic soul, what day the meter readers came or what was on daytime TV after Imus.  Let me assure you, none of these matters commanded a nanosecond worth of my attention until that fateful day when it became clear that those would be the only non-medical things I would be pondering with any regularity for the foreseeable future. Gradually a visit by UPS or Fed Ex became the height of my day – especially if it brought an oddly shaped and overweight package.  This could mean only one thing – something had been ordered for the race car that I didn’t know anything about. So, Ladies, repeat after me…“Honey, a box came for you today and since its contents are obviously much too big to fit on my finger, please fork over an equivalent value in cash so I can go pick myself out a treat as soon as I’m not feeling so icky”.

Under the best and healthiest of circumstances I can be a bit of a nudge when it comes to clutter in my environment.  Let me be clear…at the Chateau, clutter consists mostly of magazines – those unsolicited literary gems printed on glossy paper and bound with really sharp staples that mysteriously arrive in the mail box and have one and only one purpose – to part you and your money. Let me be clear about the term “unsolicited.” Just because I buy something from a catalog or from a company’s on-line store does not mean I am ever, ever going to buy anything else from them so they certainly should not feel they have the right to clog my mailbox with their glossy papered sales job.   You see, I have to be really firm about these things because the really tall guy that I share this house with has absolutely no ability to say “NO” to any cockamaimie offer for a sample subscription to anything. As such he lays claim to 95 percent of the magazine clutter that arrives with disturbing regularity. Having said all that… once each piece actually makes it into the house (its my secret what happens to the ones that don’t make it into the house….and I’m not telling so don’t even try.) there is a divvying up process, one for me, six for him is about typical.  My pile consists of seed catalogs, clothing catalogs and “things” catalogs.  His pile includes magazines and catalogs for auto parts, auto accessories, auto racing (every imaginable form), auto racing services, auto racing supplies, raw materials to make auto racing parts, power tools, camping equipment, big and tall man clothing and my all time favorite, a catalog that sells containers (every imaginable form).  We’ve covered this fetish in previous rants and, I repeat it here only to assure you that once afflicted there is no cure.  But I digress. The original hypothesis was the issue of clutter and how magazines are the primary cause of it here at the Chateau. But, having said that I find I must modify things a bit by admitting that it’s not the catalogs and magazines I mind so much...it’s the catalogs and magazines from 1994 that he refuses to part with that clog up the natural order of things and force me to take matters into my own hands. And, if you’re not sure what I mean, just go ask your wife and I’ll bet she’ll be happy to give you a live demonstration.

And speaking of containers, I am happy to report that a life threatening illness apparently is no longer a pre-requisite to an inability to open a container of any sort, anymore.  It is just me or have any of you found it physically impossible to open a bag of potato chips lately?  How about trying to get the plastic protective seal off a bottle of salad dressing or prying off the extra metalicized lid sealed under the cap of a mayonnaise jar or undoing the heat sealed inside sleeve of a loaf of bread without tearing it to shreds?  You know, I left you guys in charge for a while and the whole world has gone crazy.  Give me a couple of weeks to straighten this icky mess out.