The Babymoon Part 1

At the suggestion of some wise friends, my wife and I decided to take one last trip before our son is born. Seeking to couple thrift with excitement, we settled on a four-night cruise to the Bahamas. Our trip began in the typical fashion with me making lame jokes and my wife mumbling something about her child “not having a father.”

While my wife was directly ahead of me waiting to pass through airport security, she was asked by the nearest TSA officer to enter the body scanner. Concerned about the effects of backscatter radiation on our unborn child, she asked him if the scanner was safe for her since she was pregnant. At her pronouncement I feigned shock and loudly exclaimed, “You’re what!? You said we were just going on a trip together!” As the assembled travelers began to stare, a middle-aged gentleman behind me said, “Oh my God! Are you two even married?” to which I gravely replied, “Well chief, it sure looks like that’s where we’re headed.”

At that point my wife and I were both placed in a separate line and I never saw the guy again so I can only assume we left him with a story to tell. With any luck he is an evangelical pastor and we are being used as an anecdote in an upcoming sermon titled “The Moral Decay of America.”

Once we finally arrived at the dock and began the check-in process, my wife happened to clear her throat while speaking to the cruise representative and we were both immediately presented with a “health questionnaire” to complete. The questionnaire was an attempt to weed out those with communicable diseases and prevent shipboard epidemics utilizing about a dozen questions that can easily be whittled down to three:

• Do you have diarrhea?
• Do you have a fever?
• Have you, or anyone in your party, been bitten by a primate?

Once cleared for departure, we began four nights of fine dining and people-watching. For those that have never been on a cruise, here are a few regulars to watch for:

Casino Lurkers – This group is inordinately comprised of mobility-challenged chain-smokers over the age of 60. They tend to favor slot machines over human interaction and their dedication to the craft is either admirable or depressing depending on perspective. They can sometimes be seen outside their natural habitat during evening bingo in the Otter Lounge.

The Sales People – Like most cruise ships, our was equipped with several jewelry and watch emporiums promising rock bottom prices on name-brand items due to their exemption from United States tariffs and taxes.  Each evening, there would be a $10 “flash sale” on various accoutrements that no one ever wanted ever. I saw two women come close to trading blows over a matching wrist-watch/iPhone 4 case/business card holder combo that probably began its life in a coin-operated game called “The Treasure Claw.”

The Duty Free People – On the last night of the cruise, there is a mad dash for cigarettes and alcohol in the general store. It is the only time in my life I have seen a five-carton carrying case for sale. While waiting to purchase a Twix, I was sandwiched in between a woman holding two gallons of Grey Goose and a gentleman dropping a car payment on enough Marlboro Reds to satisfy a Turkish militia.

The Staff – They are predominately foreign, infinitely courteous, and supernaturally efficient. Almost all of them have three or more functions on the ship. For instance, our muster station officer also rented beach umbrellas in between her performances as a dancer. She may or may not have also served as 1st mate.

The captain was somewhat interesting but tended to ramble. He used his Columbus Day address to remind passengers that his countryman Leif Ericson still did not have a federal holiday despite pre-dating Columbus by several centuries. While his observation (and perhaps indignation) was valid, I am not sure it merited use of the PA system.

Truthfully, I have been on several cruises and I have seen the allure of the captain’s address. It is generally timed to interrupt afternoon naptime and conveys information readily available on the in-room televisions. If the ship has suffered a hull-breach or someone spotted a Kraken off the starboard bow, by all means please make an announcement. However, if the most riveting portion of your speech involves wind direction you might be best served just steering the ship and eating dinner with the passengers. 

Cologne Design

A few Saturdays ago, I found myself in our local Ulta store killing time while my wife searched out various facial accoutrements. For those who have never been to an Ulta, it is what your local Macy's would look like if the make-up counter became self-aware and cannibalized the nearest four departments. So while she agonized over which shade of cheek dust to purchase, I huddled with the other disenfranchised males in the cologne aisle. It was there that I became aware of a disturbing trend in bottle design for men’s fragrances.

Since I did not record the actual fragrance names I have created Calvin Klein pseudonyms for each of the pictures I took. The first item we will call CK Wicker. 

As you can see the bottle is ensconced by a wicker exoskeleton which I assume is meant to convey a sense of danger and adventure. After all, who doesn’t look at the top of their dresser and say, “Why isn’t there more wicker up here?” 

Instead it reminds me of what would happen if Pier 1 was commissioned to create a decorative flask series. On top of looking like a cheapskate, you have the added bonus of being unable to visually asses the amount of remaining fragrance. Besides, if I drop $50 on something comprised of wicker, I am at least going to have the pleasure of sitting on it. 

The next one we will call CK Pathogen because it appears to have been designed after the vial used to transport the Chimera virus in Mission Impossible 2. 

The container and unnecessarily-complicated lid apparatus lend an air of danger to what would otherwise be an evening of agonizing over the dessert specials at Applebee’s. Of course, in a post-911 world I don’t know how comfortable I feel packing this in a carry on since it resembles a small-pox delivery system.

Our next contestant we will call CK Monarchy. 

Sporting a translucent, crystal container and dispensing what appears to be cheap scotch, CK Monarchy conveys the subtle dignity that your wardrobe choices cannot. Why inherit an actual trust fund when you can drop $75 and smell like you have already pissed it all away. I was unable to translate the Latin under the crest but I assume it means “My dad is tough to buy gifts for.”

The next fragrance was CK Estate Sale. 

The awkwardly-shaped triangular bottle couples with the useless faux-gold nozzle appendage to create a visual treat like no other. The only real upside to the design is the likelihood you will drop it and be forced to use another scent before your second date with the girl from T-shirt kiosk in the mall. It seems as though the designer wanted to combine the nostalgia of grandmother’s antique crystal with Joe Pesci’s overuse of gold before filling the entire container with apple juice.

The final design we will call CK Bulge. 

As you can see, it is the perfect fragrance for the unobservant male who keeps accidentally spraying himself with his wife’s Clinique Happy before heading off to work. As if a male torso wasn’t enough, the bottle design team incorporated a dongle bump to erase any remaining gender ambiguity. The bottle looks like a Ken doll that has been in a horrific accident.

I cannot fathom why these companies are investing so much money in making a smell more visually appealing. Are there that many men out there who select their fragrance based solely on bottle design? Can you see some guy telling his friends, “Sure my new cologne smells like a feline tannery operating in a Bolivian prison, but the bottle is shaped like the sword from Braveheart!” At the end of the day all we really want is an easy-to-operate bottle that dispenses a smell more appealing than the one we naturally emit.

Speculative Scenarios

There are times in each of our lives when we witness something so unusual that we are forced to speculate on the series of events that culminated in the scene before us. Like you, I have experienced many such episodes but I wish to address three of them at length.

Scene 1 – Turd in a Tube Sock

The year was 2000 and a group of friends and I were headed to a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert in Little Rock, AR. At some point we stopped at a rest area about an hour outside of town and walking into the men’s room we were confronted with a large white tube sock with the business-end of a crumbler peeking out of it. The sock bore no signs of a struggle and the outside was free of fecal debris indicating an experienced practitioner.

We immediately began to speculate: Was this the original crime scene or had the sock been transported here? If it was the scene of the crime why not use the toilets? If it was not the scene of the crime why get it all the way here and then leave it on the floor? I have to imagine that the only thing more embarrassing than evacuating one’s bowels into a sock on the Interstate would be explaining to someone why you are carrying said sock in a public place.

I am categorically opposed to littering but I can assure you that if one of my socks has to take one for the team that bad boy will not remain in my car past the next mile marker. Needless to say, we left the poo-cozy where we found it and felt fortunate that the person in question had not chosen to purchase ankle socks.

Scene 2 – Worst Case Scenario

Several months ago I was waiting for my prescription to be filled and as I was hovering around the counter, I could not help but overhear the pharmacist talking on the phone. Obviously I have no real context for what I was hearing and the party on the other end could have been anyone from a college roommate to a current patient, but it certainly was not reassuring to hear as someone who was about to ingest what he handed me.

While staring at the computer screen, I heard him calmly inform the caller that, “to be honest, worst case scenario is that we mix up the pills and he dies.” This was apparently found to be satisfactory by the other party because the conversation ended shortly thereafter with no visible agitation on the part of the pharmacist.

First of all, isn’t death usually considered “worst case scenario?” I doubt there are a lot of pharmacists having the following conversation with their friends:

“I had a tough day. I accidentally gave someone my dog’s heartworm medication instead of their antibiotics.”

“Man, I’m sorry. What happened?”

“Their face exploded and they fell into a chipper shredder just before their heart stopped.”

“Oh my God!”

“It could have been worse. At least they never developed a rash.”

Secondly, even it was simply a college friend and the pharmacist was downplaying the level of vigilance necessary to perform his job, it might be best to save such conversation for the break-room.

Scene 3- Things Are on the Move

If you have followed my blog for any length of time you know that I have an issue with people tossing 

garbage into my yard as they drive past. Most of the time the refuse consists of cigarette butts and fast food wrappers, but recently I discovered a singularly unique item amidst my struggling Bermuda: an unopened blister pack of name brand laxatives.

The question that immediately arises is, “Who is in such a hurry to evacuate their bowels that they are attempting to pop laxatives while operating a motor vehicle?” Perhaps they read the package, calculated the exact moment the pills would take effect, and synchronized this with their expected arrival time. While there is something to be said for such digestive efficiency, it can be dangerous to cut that too close in case you run into unexpected traffic or a malfunctioning red-light.

I suppose I should take some comfort in the fact that the laxatives were not of the suppository nature, but I feel that today’s motorists are distracted enough without attempting to pry a tiny pill from a blister pack at 45 MPH. On the plus side, if someone were to lose control of the vehicle at 45 MPH the laxatives might no longer be necessary. 

A Baby Story Part 3

As one could imagine, the majority of my function at our pregnancy appointments is to provide emotional support to my wife while trying not to alienate our caregivers through ill-advised jokes. This has gone somewhat poorly. When the doctor was discussing pain management with my wife, I interjected that after much soul-searching we had settled on a 1920’s-era combination of morphine and scopolamine known as “twilight sleep.” I was met with a blank stare by the physician and a rather unsavory look from my wife at which time I decided I could be of best of use by reading the billing codes on the back of her chart.

As a mental exercise I began placing these billing code descriptions into three distinctive categories: insulting codes, unnecessarily specific codes, and codes that could also double as the name of a rock band.

We will begin with the insulting codes:

Incompetent Cervix – This seemed unnecessarily condescending in my personal opinion. Pregnancy is intense enough without being told that your “cervix is incompetent.” What is the treatment for such an ailment? Remedial courses? Conceptual tutoring? Interestingly enough, the cervix is the only part of the female anatomy to earn this designation. While other components can be “injured” or “abnormal” only the cervix can be so unskilled as to be unemployable. Someone needs to take a stand before they start billing for “ovarian ineptitude” or “fallopial maleficence.”

Obesity – This condition’s proximity to “pregnancy  confirmation” could lead to some awkward conversations. I can just see the doctor walking in and saying, “Well, you’re not pregnant so we have had to change your diagnosis to ‘Level 3 Fattie.’” Keep mind, there is still a separate diagnosis for excessive weight gain during pregnancy so the medical staff has dug themselves quite a hole with this one. Perhaps something easier to swallow like “girth of an unknown origin” would soften the blow.

Unnecessarily Specific Codes

I did think that it was interesting that there is a code for vomiting, another code for nausea, and a separate code if you feel nausea while you are vomiting. Now I am not an expert on the human body, but it is rare for me to experience vomiting without feeling some digestive uneasiness. To further complicate matters, there is a fourth billing code for a “vomiting pregnancy.”

There are also some interesting billing codes under “Pregnancy Complications.” Most notably there is a designation for “Prom < 24Hrs. Prior to the Onset of Labor,” and while this could potentially spell disaster for any high-school senior I am not sure it needed a specific code.       

Band Names

GERD – while actually an acronym for gastro esophageal reflux disease, this would look fantastic on a tour T-shirt and the acronym could be easily altered to something more cutting edge like Gringos Eschewing Racial Division or Gateways Encroaching Relative Darkness. As a bonus “GERD LIFE” make a great knuckle or stomach tattoo.

Blighted Ovum - This could work for a punk-band or a Norwegian death-metal conglomerate. Any use of the word blight outside of a potato famine has instant cache and the name provides the snicker-worthy acronym B.O.

Uterine Scar – this could easily be assigned to an all-female grind-core band or a group of twenty-something frat guys with maternal abandonment issues. Either way the debut album cover should feature a Cabbage Patch doll festooned with throwing knives.    

Vulvar Lesion – while undoubtedly an unpleasant condition, the band’s popularity could help educate their young male fan base and dispel the notion that a vulva is the optional bug screen for a Volvo sedan.

Transverse Lie – this has Emo-core all over it. The name suggests the incongruity of deception and begs the possibility of a concept album about a break-up with each song named for a stage in the grieving process.