Presents and George’s Prickles

When I walk around my house, I see an abundance of wonderful gifts my friends have shared with me throughout the years. Hand-crafted ceramics from Kat and Sue. My first teddy bear from Kathy. Gifts from friends’ travels, housewarming presents, and etiquette gifts offered when coming over for dinner or a party.

My soul friend has traveled around the world a few times and has brought back a multitude of cool things: a hand-painted, long-beaked bird created from a gourd, two caramel-colored Indian elephants all decked out for stomping, a marble box with side holes to allow the scent of good-smelling things placed inside to flow through, a Kama Sutra device that serenades while in use, and a wood giraffe from Africa to join my giraffe collection.

My best guy friend Ray used to buy me gorgeous earrings. With artist’s eyes, he’d select jewelry fit for royalty, and now he shares his gifts with his bride (the artist on this column’s right, Redfish Artwork).

A handsome neighbor, Jim, brought me a percussion instrument from Australia, since I’m a musician and can’t keep a beat. Plus, on another venture, he found an exquisite glass wine stopper in New Zealand and presented it to me for all the wine bottles I should stop.

My hiking bud Bob, also a world traveler, always brings me earrings from faraway lands. He’s been to Australia enough times (five) to be aboriginal. The earrings from there are usually made from shells, wood, or other natural materials, such as an ostrich egg shell and echidna spines, but none of marsupial gonads—too heavy. His numerous givings, and misgivings (a hopping appendage from Amsterdam), are displayed about my home and ears.
But the prickliest gift anyone has ever given me was a pair of cacti. My high-school friend, George, came to visit me at college, and as he walked into my room (see previous post), he said, “It’s polite to bring a gift when you come and visit someone,” and handed me two cute, little saguaro cacti, two and three inches tall.

I’ve always had a green thumb, so I was crushed when one of the little fellas dried up. But the sole survivor moved with me to 10 locations in two states and kept on growing. So here’s my cactus, Aquarius, named after my friend’s astrological sign. He's at least 31 years old.

But I’m still trying to figure out why dear George chose to give me a succulent with a thick, fleshy stem that grows spines, not leaves, and is shaped like a phallus.

Hearing, Etiquette, and the Single Man

I’ve determined that I attract hearing-impaired men. The problem isn’t necessarily physical; it’s psychological, and sometimes, a matter of etiquette. Some teenagers have the same malady.

“Honey, don’t forget to make your bed and bring your water mug into the kitchen by 6:20,” that’s a.m., I’ve reminded my daughter for nine years during the school year. She has yet to remember these things.

But if I say, “Honey, grab your eyeliner and let’s go out for a bite to eat,” the pencil’s in hand and she’s in the car. Hearing depends on content and underlying desire. Let me pose some scenarios.

For five years a friend has driven by my house two or three times weekly. Why? “Just to see if you’re okay.” He rarely stops and knocks to see if I’m okay—or even alive, for that matter, which is fine because I don’t like to be disturbed during my workday.

During this period we’ve had our home broken into, I’ve had a procedure for precancerous-cell removal, and numerous other ripe cowpies have fallen from the sky—none of which this person learned via drive-bys.

After telling this friend over the phone several times to stop driving by because it’s weird (think stalker), he continues to do it. So I keep my blinds closed. What would you do?

On a few occasions Mr. Drive-by has knocked on my door. “Gee, I hope I didn’t bother you.” Not at all. Just trying to work. “I was wondering if you could take a look at this and tell me what you think. It should only take a half hour.” Etiquette. Maybe I need to be more complete when I say things—not that they’d be heard.

I write, edit, research, and design from home and need to focus. Some think that because I work from home, I have more discretionary time. Not true.

It’s true that I spend much less time in my car (3,559 miles in 2008), less time shopping (’cause I don’t like to shop and have no money), and less time conversing with others during the workday than most. But I also do my own home repair, have too many animals to clean up after, and have to look for missing mugs.

Being hearing impaired could be a benefit. Often I don’t answer the phone or door, because they might interrupt my little train of thought. And once my engine veers off the track, it’s difficult to get the little choo-choo chuggin’ again.

Now what was I saying?

I’ve also made it known to my friends that I go to bed early because I get up early. Where etiquette states not to call after 9:00 p.m., I tell friends I’m a little old lady who goes to bed at 8:30. I jump on my warm heating pad and read.

But there’s a person who not only used to call every day, every day, but calls after 9:15 p.m., not because he’s in jail and needs to be bailed out, or he’s drunk and needs a ride home, or even that he’s depressed and feels like going back to his wife. He just wants to hear my voice.

But after my saying “hello,” he begins an incessant oratory. I hear about how he’s still in love with the wife he’s divorcing, his actions on lawsuits, his financial dealings. This man doesn’t care about me and knows very little about me. That would take his questioning me and my being permitted to answer. If he were to ask me a question, I’d think I’d have lost my hearing and be speechless.

Dad once said, “You can tell a gentleman by asking him questions. Then, if he turns to you, asks you questions, and appears genuinely interested, you might have a gentleman before you.”

Say what?

(Puzzle pieces 33 and 34 of 38.)

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