Now playing on my refrigerator. Shakespearean curses:
You tell 'em, Willy!
Oh yeah, and by the way, it's damn good to be home again, where my full-acorn'd husband can enjoy my clack-dish in the privacy of our own four walls.
We were in London two years ago, but this is our first time in Sweden. I'm gleefully awaiting the looks on my daughters' faces when they see the variety of smoked fish at the breakfast buffet. My husband and I placed bets on which one says, "Eeeeewww, that's disgusting" first. I have my money on the younger one. Ah, yes....herring -- it's not just for breakfast anymore...
OK, I've got to get back to my enormous checklists and yell at my kids yet again to pick up the Valentine chocolate wrappers scattered throughout the living room. I take comfort in one thing: my kids are now too old for car seats, diapers, strollers, and coloring books. They are content to sit and read, quietly, by themselves. Which means I will be able to sit next to my husband on the flight and actually have adult conversation! Damn, what a concept!
Well, at least that's how it feels to me. I always experience music on a very deep level.
I've never listened Dark Side of the Moon while I was high, although I'm told that is the classic Floyd experience. Maybe one day I'll try it. If I ever get high again, which is doubtful. I never smoked pot when I was a teenager. I was a late bloomer. Remind me later to tell you what a boring goody-goody I used to be.
This album used to scare me; depress me. Those lyrics about being shorter of breath and one day closer to death -- when you're 14, that's heavy shit. But it doesn't really phase me anymore, because now I'm 30 years older and I've dug my share of holes. And I've seen the dark side of the moon. I decided long ago not to live there.
But every so often I enjoy a brief visit. Especially on bleek days like this, when I'm PMS and it's cold and I'm in a pissy mood. Thank you, Roger Waters and David Gilmore; thank you for sharing your softly spoken magic spell.
But I also have a Lolex.
Not a Rolex. A Lolex.
I bought it in Thailand at the Night Market in Chiang Mai four years ago.
"Hey Lady! You my first lucky customer today! I have nice Lolex for you, look!" He was one of about a hundred fake watch hawkers at the Night Market, which is bigger than any flea market you've ever seen or imagined. The thing spills out into the streets and goes on for blocks and blocks. If you like to stay up all night and shop, this is where you die and go to heaven.
Among the Thai silks, the Buddhist carvings, the obligatory t-shirts, and the countless utensils made from bamboo and coconut husk are fake Rolex watches. And fake Patek Phillip watches. And fake Choppard watches. In fact, you name the high end watch, there is a knock-off at the Chiang Mai Night Market.
And they are cheap. I paid $11 for mine. And that was the upgraded model. Jeez, that's only a dollar more than the unimpressive no-name watches they sell at Miami Airport!
It looks just like the real thing, down to the mechanical movement with the sweeping second hand, the heavy clunky weight, and the official green Rolex sticker on back . I know what a real Rolex looks like because my husband has one -- the stainless steel model. He bought it to celebrate a swanky promotion 10 years ago. He eventually got laid off from that job. Good thing he bought the Rolex while we could still afford it.
I have no desire to spend thousands of dollars on a Rolex, because I have my Lolex, and it keeps good time. When I remember to wear it, that is. That pesky mechanical movement keeps screwing me up. I forget to wear it for a couple of days and it stops ticking. And because it's a fake, it's a pain in the ass to re-set; virtually impossible. Which is why I usually slink back to my battery-operated Citizen. I could pay a hundred bucks for a watch-winder gadget from The Sharper Image, but somehow spending a hundred bucks on an $11 watch seems -- I dunno -- stupid.
Around Christmastime my email overflowed with spam. I bet yours did, too. Many of those annoying spams touted a great deal on a fake Rolex. Perfect replica, only $500. Makes a Great Gift! Some even said that the fakes were made in Italy. Yeah, sure.
Now imagine this. Some schlub goes to Thailand or Indonesia and buys a trunkload of Lolexs for -- say -- $7 each. And then he sells them on the internet for $500. That's one great profit for one enterprising bastard. And if you paid $500 for an $11 Lolex, you are one stupid bastard. Sorry to break it to you that way. Somehow, I doubt that any of the Spamming Lolex Peddlers are donating a penny of their obscene profits to the Tsunami Relief Fund. But it would restore my faith in humanity if they did. If you hear of any, let me know.
So the next time you get one of those Fake Rolex spams, remember lady...you their first stupid bastard -- I mean their first lucky customer -- today.
Enter the Evil Hot Glue Gun.
Before I had kids, I had never heard of the hot glue gun. I'm not an artsy-craftsy person by nature. I remember the quizzical look one of those Scrapbooking Quiltmaking PTA Moms gave me several years ago when my older daughter was in third grade. I remarked, "How the hell are you supposed to make this stuff stick to the cardboard?" Aghast, she answered, "With a hot glue gun, of course!"
So I went to the craft store and bought a hot glue gun. And I quickly learned why they call it a hot glue gun. It took two weeks for the skin on a couple of my fingertips to regenerate. I didn't play guitar for a while after that.
Fast forward to last weekend. Another third grade diorama awaited me and the evil hot glue gun. Oh, but this time I was going to be extra careful. Or so I thought.
My daughter and I worked on this project for three evenings -- constructing little huts, painting the cardboard, spreading the stuff that melts and looks like water, etc. And then it was time to glue. And just when I thought I was out of the woods -- when we finished everything -- it happened. I stupidly pulled the glue stick out of the glue gun before it had completely cooled. A big glob of molten glue landed on my knuckle. Instinctively I tried to quickly rub it off. And then I realized I had rubbed off the top layer of knuckle skin.
Ow. It hurt. A lot. It smarted for days. It still looks like hell. It still hurts. I'm trying really hard to keep it from getting infected. I was going to post a photo, but then I realized it was just too gruesome -- some things are better left to the imagination.
Damn stupid evil glue gun.
My daughter's diorama looks pretty good, and she is happy. We got to spend some quality mother-daughter time building it. Next year, the big project will be constructing a Spanish Mission. You guessed it -- Return of the Evil Glue Gun, Part Two. But this time I think I'll take all my craft materials directly to the hospital waiting room. A little planning will save everybody a lot of trouble.