Slap Away The Years

It seems that every day we are pummeled with products and services claiming to reverse or hide the signs of aging. Wrinkles disappear, turkey-neck is gobbled up, and suddenly your son’s friends are making thinly-veiled references to The Graduate. Most of these are topical solutions contain fabricated ingredients like “elastisis technology” or “rejuvenox extract.”

Others may wish to bypass such over-the-counter remedies and go straight for Botox injections. While this treatment can certainly provide subtle improvements over an extended period of time, impatience invariably gives way to overuse and pretty soon you are unable to convey basic human emotions. So where does that leave someone who wishes to avoid both expensive daily creams and costly injections?

Fortunately there is a new youth restoration technique sweeping the country: face slapping. Based on an ancient Taiwanese tradition, customers pay to have an experienced practitioner wallop away their crow’s feet and frown lines. Currently, the only certified face-slapper in the continental United States is a woman named “Rassameesaitarn New Series World” who San Francisco-based Tata Massage parlor is generating quite a buzz.

According to her website, first time customers must pay a (cash-only) $5 “face-slapping consultation fee” and an additional $350 if they wish to undergo a session. For those whose epidermis requires more intensive healing, there is a $1,000 full-course offered in three distinct styles:

·         Face Slapping to Look Like a Celebrity

·         Face Flapping to Look Younger

·         Face Slapping to Charm Your Significant Other

While I applaud non-chemical holistic treatments for aging, I believe I am going to have to see some science behind this. If getting repeatedly slapped by a woman is the anecdote for aging then I am pretty sure Benny Hill would still be alive and Charlie Sheen would be carded when buying cigarettes. I have to wonder about the screening process behind the $5 consultation fee. Are there certain people too wrinkled to slap? Does she turn a certain number of her rings around based on case severity? The only thing more depressing than realizing you just paid a woman named after a future Flaming Lips album $350 to slap you is realizing that you just gave her $5 to tell you that no one hits hard enough to fix your problem.

I imagine Mrs. Rassa is also going to have to clear up a few misunderstandings in her first year of business. After all, one cannot open a cash-only parlor promising “tata massage” in San Francisco without generating a certain amount of confusion.

Her webpage features subject-verb confusion set against a fluorescent green backdrop and a photo of the proprietor holding a framed certificate that we are to infer was bestowed upon her by the official governing body of face slappery.   

I also have several questions about the “full-course” package. Does the customer get to pick the celebrity or are they chosen at random, because there is a big difference between the George Clooney and the Larry Bird. Also, is there not a way to incorporate all three? If I am going to pay someone $1,000 to give me five-across-the-eyes, I want to walk away looking like a young celebrity that would impress my wife. The last thing that my spouse wants walking through the door is a Lyle Lovett doppelganger that recently drained their joint checking account.

The one product she needs to provide is gift certificates. She could even have a “revenge enhancement” if you wish to give the certificate to someone you loathe. Maybe for an extra C-note she will give them a Goodfellas style once-over under the guise of “wrinkle reduction.” Just imagine how fun it would be to send that goober from marketing down to the Mrs. Rassa knowing you slipped her a little something extra to “put some real stank on it.”

Hobby Lobby & The Hearing Impaired

Not long ago my wife and I were at Hobby Lobby looking for some supplies for an upcoming baby shower. For those who have never been to a Hobby Lobby, the merchandise breakdown is as follows:

• 30% = Seasonal Items (mechanized Santas, ceramic pumpkins, pictures of a mechanized Santa sitting on a ceramic pumpkin)

• 40% = Craft Items (scrapbooking materials, items that were designed to interact with hot glue, pictures of other people’s completed craft projects)

• 15% = Letters of the Alphabet (these are sold individually as block letters, wall decorations, or photos of random letters that spell words like “love” or “peace.”)

• 15% = Owl-based decorations (lamps, sculptures, pictures of owls overlooking Santa’s craft project involved pumpkins carved with letters of the alphabet)

At any rate, while my wife was agonizing over the varying shades of pink napkins I was approached by a well-dressed Caucasian man in his 60’s who silently handed me a business card. The card indicated that he was deaf and that he supported his family by selling the card in exchange for donations. The card featured a set of praying hands and the words “God Bless You All” on the front and a chart of the sign language alphabet on the back.

What struck me immediately was the quality of said card. It featured embossed lettering and thick cardstock. My curiosity was immediately peaked and I wanted to retain the card so that I could research the legitimacy of his claim. This left me with two choices:

1.      Give him some money and possibly contribute to fraudulent panhandling.

2.      Keep the card, refuse to pay him, and take the chance of going to Hell for stealing from the hearing impaired.

Always one to hedge my bets, I gave him a dollar and he signed either “Thank You” or “Dumb Cracker” before walking away (I was unable to decode his motions fast enough using the card I had just purchased). He seemed to be operating alone, and since the deaf can legally drive I assumed he provided his own transportation. I tried to keep track of him to see what kind of vehicle he drove but I lost him near the felt section.

Once I got home, I Googled the phenomenon and apparently my new friend was either legitimate or operating on the bleeding edge of auditory scams because I could find no references to his modus operandi. It appears that the most prevalent scams involving the deaf consist of a woman claiming to be a single mother going house to house selling alphabet flash cards. It appears that many of the hearing impaired carry business cards identifying themselves as such but not in an attempt to generate revenue.

I must admit, the idea of handing someone a business card in exchange for currency is somewhat enticing. I pondered which of my genetic predispositions would generate the most sympathies and how best to monetize them. Here are some ideas for my business cards:

Hello…I Am Socially Awkward at Funeral Visitations. Please Give Me A Quarter.

Hello...Myopia Prevents Me from Reading without My Glasses. Can I Borrow Your Car?

Hello…Many of My Skin Moles Have Worrisome Irregular Edges. May I Have Your Wedding Band?

Hello… I Subconsciously Project My Fears Onto Unrelated Situations Causing Irrevocable Damage to my Interpersonal Relationships. Are You Going to Finish That Sandwich? 

Hello…I Suffer from Gingivitis. Will You Loan Me $200

Perhaps this man’s story was legitimate and my dollar helped support a disadvantaged American struggling in these tough economic times. Either way, he could greatly increase his profit margin by forgoing the raised gold-leaf lettering and printing his cards on something other than Egyptian papyrus stock, but then again people might not pay as much for it. If nothing else, he probably has a future as a business card design consultant.

A Baby Story Part 4

In this installment of our semi-popular web-series we will be looking at the phenomenon known as “pregnancy brain.” It is a condition whereby intelligent women become unable to perform some of the most fundamental cognitive functions. Some attribute the onset of symptoms to hormones, others to a simple lack of sleep. Whatever the reason, this ailment may affect as many as 68% of the 1/3 of women highly susceptible to it.

In my wife’s case, the onset of symptoms began around week 18. We were preparing for our workday and my wife was standing in our bathroom curling her hair. Following a series of exhausted huffs, she shouted with thinly-concealed rage, “What is wrong with this stupid curling iron!!!” Always the dutiful husband, I returned to the restroom to find my wife furiously manipulating her curling iron in an attempt to produce her desired hairstyle.

I immediately noticed that the appliance’s electrical cord was unplugged and dangling uselessly by her side. As anyone in striking distance of a pregnant woman knows, this is a delicate situation. One must exercise extreme caution since one verbal misstep could result in either body-wracking sobs or a flying Conair product. I diplomatically suggested that connecting the curling iron to a power source might produce better results. Glancing down at the untethered power-cable, her eyes narrowed as she exclaimed, “I don’t have time to let it heat up now! I am already LATE!!”

She then tossed the curling iron on the counter, and announced that everyone was just going to have deal with her having straight hair. I believe I mumbled something about her uncurled hair, “framing her face” as I retreated toward the door that led into our bedroom. While the incident unsettled me, it would have been irresponsible to classify it as a pattern. At least, that’s what I thought.

That evening, we were jovially recalling the curling-iron incident while watching television when my wife decided to have some cereal. Still uneasy leaving her unattended around electronic appliances, I watched as she calmly poured herself a bowl of Cheerios and placed the gallon of milk into our pantry before attempting to refrigerate the remaining cereal. I gently proposed reversing her food storage decisions at which point she realized what had happened and asked me, “Why am I stupid!?”

Now my wife is a fiercely intelligent and capable woman, and I consoled her by insisting that we cannot allow a few rational blunders to affect her self-image. However, beneath my calm exterior I found myself increasingly concerned by my wife’s mental degradation. In the weeks that followed, she would walk into rooms wearing a confused expression only to sheepishly admit she had forgotten her original purpose.  

Many times she would call me to let me know that she had thought of something important only to admit that she had forgotten it between the first and second ring. Often this would be immediately followed by a call-back meant for another family member she had somehow expected to reach via the last-number redial command. One day, she dedicated an unspeakable amount of time attempting to speed-dial someone using the Blackberry “lock-key.”

In an effort to protect both my spouse and my unborn child, we worked out a simple code for the onset of cerebral fogginess. She states “I don’t know no Portuguese” at which point I assist her in avoiding sharp objects or high-order math. So far, we have avoided any major incidents since the implementation of our safety phrase. I am simply thankful that her profession doesn’t involve the operation of a ban saw.

The Babymoon Part 2

One of the perks of taking a cruise ship is the extravagant dinners. Entrées featuring steak, lobster, duck, and lamb are included in the price of the trip allowing middle class Americans to eat like a Roman emperor without concerning themselves with the check. The one miscalculation I made was assuming that my wife’s pregnancy cravings would momentarily subside while we were in international waters.

So one evening while the rest of the boat gorged themselves on gorgonzola and fillet mignon, my wife experienced an insatiable urge to consume a bowl of Frosted Flakes. Being the dutiful husband, I called room service and requested a bowl of her desired cereal. I did not foresee this being an issue since that particular item had been freely available on the breakfast bar every morning of our journey.

However, when I requested Frosted Flakes there was a long pause before the gentleman informed me that they could only provide Raisin Bran or Corn Flakes. After being reassured by my wife that no substitute would be accepted, I again pleaded that they simple grab a couple of boxes destined for the next morning’s buffet. Again, I was met with strong opposition and they told me that they “did not have access to those boxes at this time.” Given the staff’s propensity for going above and beyond, I was somewhat taken aback by the refusal to comply and even more concerned about the apparent security precautions concerning a children’s breakfast cereal. 

Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I went to the deck with the breakfast bar thinking if the door was unlocked I could swipe a couple of boxes and no one would be the wiser. Finding the outer door ajar, I walked in but was immediately confronted by a nearby employee who kindly informed me that I was not allowed in that area and suggested I take advantage of a different culinary offering.

Undeterred, I went to the upstairs balcony which featured a pizzeria and overlooked the dining room I had just been kicked out of. I then approached a young gentleman who was cleaning a table and I explained my situation. He digested my request for a moment, replied he would see what he could do and then instructed me to “go stand over there and not follow him or make eye contact.”

I obediently sat at a table and pretended to read e-mails on my phone for the next few minutes. When he finally emerged from the back he was empty-handed and I assumed that he had been unable to obtain “the goods,” but as he approached me he cut his eyes toward a nearby corner. Once we were only a few feet apart he reached into his pockets and produced two small pouches of Frosted Flakes that he had apparently de-boxed in an effort to avoid detection.

As we completed the transfer he reminded me that I “hadn’t gotten these from him, and didn’t know where they came from.” I assured him that I would never divulge my source and he quickly slinked away. The gravity of the situation was so overwhelming that I half expected our stateroom to be tossed for breakfast paraphernalia.

In my haste, I had also forgotten to acquire a bowl, spoon, and milk so once I was back in the room I called room service again. Undoubtedly thrilled to see my room number on their caller ID, they asked if I had finally decided on a cereal. I responded that I wished to simply have a bowl, spoon, and milk delivered to my room since I wasn’t willing to admit I had acquired my desired cereal by nefarious means.

Concerned that I was now ordering cereal accessories out of spite, they reminded me that if I wanted milk they could provide a glass instead of me drinking it out of the bowl. I replied that I preferred my milk in this manner. They again clarified that I wished to have all of the necessary components of cereal consumption without any actual cereal. I again confirmed. There was then a short pause and I began to wish I had simply ordered Raisin Bran to assuage their suspicions. Finally they agreed to make the drop.

Once I ended the call, I took some cash and went back upstairs to slip my source some money for his trouble. I walked around the area with my hand in pocket long enough to make several people uncomfortable, but was still unable to locate my co-conspirator so I decided to try and locate him the next day.

Despite several attempts to compensate the young man, I never saw him again. Perhaps we simply kept missing one another but I couldn’t help but wonder if, given the draconian nature of Frosted Flakes dispensation regulations onboard the vessel, the captain hadn’t had him executed. I can just imagine the poor guy being water-boarded while the cruise director paces back and forth saying, “Don’t be a hero Ralph, our breakfast canine alerted on your work chinos I won’t allow a repeat of the Carnival Cruise Corn Pops scandal of ’99 on my watch.”