As many of you know I have an internet business doing something called e-therapy. It uses an e-mail system for people who either do not want to make traditional weekly appointments in an office or are not able to. The key point of this is – e-mail is important to me. Very important.
So, imagine my surprise to find some people are ending up in my Spam folder. It’s a crazy system. The web site has an e-mail address and they forward the mail from this to my e-mail account which has a different e-mail address. They are, what do you call it, in sync. Only, after having this system in place for several months I find all kind of important information I have not gotten because SPAM ate it.
This makes me a bit upset, peeved, ticked, pissed, you name it. No one warned me about SPAM. I grew up with SPAM. SPAM in a can. I have no idea what SPAM in a can really is. They tell me its ham but I like ham and well then there is SPAM. There was also a bit done by Monty Python called Spam-a-lot. I only remember some pieces to this and I don’t think they were talking about SPAM in a can, but I know they were not talking about SPAM in my e-mail system.
My mother never served me SPAM in a can and I had to learn about it the hard way, as a poor student in college. That’s not a good way to learn about SPAM in a can but I’m sure there are worse. She also never warned me about SPAM in my e-mail system. Yes, I know there was no internet or e-mail back when I was growing up but I really don’t see this as a good excuse for mom not introducing and warning me about SPAM.
Warnings, like, “Dear, when you get older, there will be this thing called the internet. People will send you things you normally get in the mailbox. You really need to be careful, especially if you open an internet based business, that you check this little hidden device called SPAM. No, not the stuff we see in the grocery store in a can. Now be a good girl and eat your ham.”
Okay, maybe it’s not a good idea to blame my mother for my short-comings in regards to SPAM. Perhaps I should look at the inner recesses of my own sub-conscious. Could it possibly be I’m so confused about SPAM in a can, it’s not ham but it is, I like ham but not SPAM that I don’t think about my SPAM folder?
Maybe I was traumatized as a young adult, sitting in my dorm trying to open SPAM in a can with my geometry compass tip (I didn’t have a can opener), and accidently swallowing it with SPAM that I fear flashbacks? Maybe, I should have really thought harder about opening a business where SPAM was going to be involved on any level! Sh-t!
It’s too late now. I’m almost finished my office so I can start seeing people face to face again. Still, I really wanted this e-mail system to take off… Damn…Damn you to hell you dirty, stinking SPAM! (That’s a spoof of Charlton Heston’s line in the film Planet of the Apes)
This morning I discovered a wonderful and deadly secret, Burger King now carries Cinnabons. I love Cinnabons! Until this morning, I could only get them at the airport. Usually, I could resist them, too worried about making my flight or having oozing cinnamon sauce dripping down my chin and shirt.
Now, I can go less then a mile from my home, sit in my car and indulge in cinnamon-sugar ecstasy. Burger King has Cinnabons!
Like a cocaine addict, there I sat. Could have ordered the bacon, egg sandwich or better still, the oatmeal with fruit. No, I ordered Cinnabons, two of them. I deserved them, I told myself. Reasons why, I have no clue.
I ordered, paid and planned to sit in the parking lot eating them. My napkins in hand for the dribble mess that only a Cinnabon can produce. I opened the box. Two scrumptious, twisted, doughy circles dripping in brown cinnamon syrup and decadent white icing stared at me. Oh my!
My cell phone clock buzzed. I looked at the dash clock. It’s later then I thought. if I sat in the parking lot, I’d be late for my class on spiritual discipline. You know, learn not to over indulge. Keep an even-keel, that sort of thing. So, I have to eat the Cinnabons on the go. What could go wrong?
I turn out of the Burger King parking lot and the first gob of icing hits my jeans. It’ll wait. I can’t turn, hold a Cinnabon and grab a napkin at the same time. I’m not that coordinated. Not a problem. For the three miles it takes me to get to my class on discipline, I gorge myself on these overly-large, incredibly addictive, way-more-than-I-can-eat rolls. Pleased, that I only have that one glob of icing on my jeans to contend with.
At my destination, I pulled into the parking lot and found a spot. The rolls are eaten. Not something to be proud of, but next time, I’ll order the oatmeal. No one has to know I slipped up and once again found myself in a sugary stupor. I’d gotten away with it! Ha, ha, indulge today, disciple tomorrow!
I garb a napkin to remove the incriminating evidence from my jeans only to find… it is joined by five other considerable larger globs all down my shirt and jeans. Crap! Good thing they gave me many napkins.
Did you know napkins adhere to Cinnabon icing globs like flies on flypaper? Napkins ripped, shredding all over my shirt and jeans. I look like a kid just learning how to shave, ending up with toilet paper wads all over their face!
I should be in class several minutes ago! How in the hell am I going to clean this up and look dignified? No one is supposed to know I fell off the band-wagon! I wonder if I can lick some of it off. I don’t have any water and drowning myself in caramel-mocha coffee doesn’t seem like the answer!
There is a knock on my car passenger window. It’s a friend of mine also going to this class. Her gleeful expression quickly turns to confusion. I’d be confused too if I wandered up to her car only to find her sitting there with napkin shreds hanging off globs of icing all over her shirt, hands and pants.
There is really nothing to say here except, “Burger King now has CInnabons.” She still looks confused.
“I’m not really sure how to help you with this one,” she says. Her head cocks sideways the way my dog does when I’m trying to explain the concepts of karma to him.
“That’s okay, I don’t’ know either.” I wonder if I can claim this as a new grunge/bohemian look.
So, I’m going to class wearing shredded napkins and not-strategically placed globs of syrup and icing. A smile on my face. I’m taking responsibility for my actions. I’ll take the consequences, the tisk-tisks, the smirks, and the malaise when this sugar rush crashes.
I get out of the car and straighten out my newly decorated shirt and strategically hug my friend who says, “Wow, you smell like a bakery, like Christmas cookies! That’s not too bad. It could be much worse.”
And this is why I have her as my friend. Everyone should have friends like this.
Hello, my name is Deborah Sickle Hill, Burger King has Cinnabons, and I have a problem. Damn good thing I’m taking a class on spiritual discipline. I think I have a stomachache.
The universe keeps telling me to slow down—loudly and often. Apparently, I have short-term memory loss.
This morning started with a doable to-do list. That lasted about 30 seconds. I noticed a water stain on the wall, which reminded me the upstairs needs painting. Since I’m turning that space into an office, it suddenly felt urgent. And that’s when it all unraveled.
7:30 a.m. “Okay, that wall… and that one… and wow, the ceiling? What mood am I going for? Time for a paint color deep-dive!”
9:00 a.m. Two hours later, I’ve selected nothing but somehow watched a YouTube video on belly fat and found myself planning a trip to Lowe’s.
10:30 a.m. In Lowe’s, I get overwhelmed by paint options. Do I want satin or semi-gloss? Quart or gallon? Also, how did I end up in the garden section eyeing Lily of the Valley bulbs?
11:30 a.m. Back home with paint and leftover pizza in the microwave, I head out to the garage to get the roller. Instead, I spot the half-dug hole for a future fish pond and—naturally—start rototilling.
11:45 a.m. I hit a rock, grab a trowel, and find myself digging with archaeological precision (old habits die hard). I find a marble. Then six more.
Clearly, someone lost their marbles, and I wonder if it’s me.
12:15 p.m. The rototiller hits steel wire and wraps around the axle. I flip the machine over and head to the basement for WD-40, dragging dirt through the kitchen.
There, I realize I forgot to switch the laundry.
12:25 p.m. Back outside, staring at the broken machine, I finally get it: This is one of those “slow your roll” moments from the universe. So naturally, I decide to blog about it.
I grab my camera to document the chaos and end up taking pictures of the fish instead. They’re the real reason I came outside, after all. They survived the winter in an above-ground pond—the least I can do is give them a moment on the internet.
Sure, getting only three hours of sleep probably didn’t help this morning’s misadventure. But if I’m honest, I’ve done this well-rested too.
So now I’m making coffee. I’ll take it slow. I still have the afternoon to get something done.
Maybe I’ll paint. Or maybe I’ll finally eat that pizza still waiting in the microwave.
What do you get when you mix a lime green Datsun with floor portholes, a trunk full of Twinkies, and an angry mob of monkeys? A safari detour gone spectacularly wrong—and a car barely held together by granite and hope. Hang on tight for this laugh-out-loud road trip through chaos, feathers, and fur. (Reading time about 8 minutes)
It was a two door, 1971, lime green Datsun B-210 with a black vinyl roof. Custom detailed with dual, on-the-floor, port holes for your road viewing pleasure. An additional emergency pull-rope release added onto the driver-side door for times when it’s not cool to use a handle. And a specially designed hood bent into the majestic shape of a steep mountain. Perfect for quick engine checks and radiator ventilation without having to fool with antiquated, interior, hood releases. The five pound Massachusetts’ granite, air-filter and cover-attachment-system fit perfectly under the shape of the hood.
Roach clips, never used, with hot pink feathers are swinging to the riffs of Keith Richards’ bass guitar and Mick Jagger’s edgy vocals. It’s Sue’s car. To the world, I am a Lennon/McCartney girl. Behind closed doors, I’m a Richards/Jagger mistress. I have a Sweet Pollyanna Purebred reputation to uphold.
We’re in New Jersey on a sweltering hot, July morning after a heavy rain. The smell of evaporating water on asphalt whiffs through my passenger side, floor porthole. I watch the macadam and occasional puddle fly by my feet straddling the hole.
“Let’s go see the monkeys at the drive-thru safari,” I suggest. I’d seen a sign just outside of New York City. “We’re only twenty miles away.”
“Sure, why not.” Sue replies. Sue is a tomboy. Something she readily embraces. This is evidenced by her grungy rock band tee-shirts, faded jeans, cowboy boots, and hat, slightly greasy dirty blonde hair, and automotive grease under her fingernails. She was always tinkering with the car.
I used to be a tomboy but exchanged it for grace, poise and the showmanship my performance persona demanded. I envy Susan’s grunge while I sit here in a crisp white pair of shorts, turquoise and white spaghetti strap tank top, with appropriately and pain staking matched jewelry. My white Jack Purcells are as spotless as my fingernails which have never touched motor oil.
The car wheel hits a puddle, splashing muddy water into my floor porthole. My crisp, clean whiteness is now a muddy, drenched mess. Water is running off the end of my pampered, Maybelline, light beige covered nose. It took me fifteen minutes trying to find my reflection in a campground mirror this morning to get this nose well blended!
Susan looks over at me and asks. “What the hell? How did you get all wet and muddy?”
“Oh I don’t know. Something about a hole in the floor that needs fixed.” At least my Nikon camera and accessories didn’t get wet. I look around for something to use as a towel but only find our mildewed tent, sleeping bags, duffle bags, firewood, a half empty bag of potato chips and an unopened box of Twinkies.
“Serve’s you right for wearing white!” She laughs, pulls the 8 track tape out of the dashboard, shakes it and puts it back in. I have no idea what this ritual does but this will be the sixth time I’ll hear the song, I Can’t Get No Satisfaction, in the past two days.
A kid with pimples greets us at the safari gate. He announces to no one, “Twenty dollars, stay in your car, the windows can be down except in the monkey enclosure, don’t feed the animals, the animals have the right a way, don’t stop in the monkey enclosure, take all the pictures you want, have a nice day.” He takes a breath. We drive on to join a long line of slow moving vehicles.
Our windows are down so I can take pictures without a glare. I tend to see everything through a camera lens. I go almost everywhere with my gear ready for that opportune moment. Several cars ahead, I see two mammoth gray ostriches weaving between them. Occasionally they case a car, seemingly looking for trouble. This could be that moment.
“Hey look.” Susan says as she points to the birds. “They’re getting really close. You might actually get a good picture.”
The birds are now several car lengths away. I look at my camera and realize I don’t need the telephoto lens so I bend down to get the 50 mm.
“Um,” Sue says. Her voice sounds a bit distressed but not enough for me to sit up. “Um, don’t, okay, just don’t get, um, I think we might have a problem.” I cock my head toward her to figure out why she suddenly forgot how to formulate sentences. Her face is oddly drained of color. “Right now,” she continues in a near whisper. “Don’t move, Debbie. We have a serious problem happening.”
I slowly turn my head to face the largest beak I’ve ever seen followed by two, large, black eyes on a face covered by prickly hairs. I definitely remember the animals have the right of way.
The beak, eyes and prickly hairs jolt past me heading for the back seat. It’s followed by an incredibly powerful, prickly haired, neck and a body of varying shades of musky smelling, gray plumage that completely covers my window opening. I’m pretty sure the 50 mm lens is the wrong one. What I really need is an extreme wide angle lens. But that‘s okay because I don’t think the ostrich is in the mood.
The gray plumage and powerful, prickly haired neck whip back out my window with the half-eaten bag of potato chips covering its eyes and beak. It’s really very stunning. The red and white of the family size, chip bag, against the increasingly frantic varying shades of musky smelling, gray plumage now in full regalia is so avant-garde. I can’t decide what strength and angle of flash to use on all this gray plumage with the very overcast, gray sky in the background. This would be a great shot in subtle shades of grays, blacks and white in the style of Ansel Adams.
“Put the window up!” Susan yells. “You’re gonna get in so much trouble for feeding the animals!” I really didn’t need to get into anymore trouble. I nervously try to push strands of my honey blonde hair behind my ear without success. It’s cut too short.
I look over at Sue’s white knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel. Her breathing is labored but is curiously in rhythm with her head shaking left to right and back again. It’s not my fault the damn bird likes chips. Not that it matters. I glance around the back seat for damages. Except for a few remaining terrified chips scattered hither and dither, all seems normal. The chips were destined for consumption anyway. What’s the problem?
“Well,” I tell her, “at least they didn’t get the Twinkies.” I can see from Sue’s expression there are no words to express her feelings on the topic. We start moving forward again.
The monkey enclosure looms ahead with its two-story cement walls topped in high voltage wire. Cars are only allowed through the massive wood and steal double doors at select intervals. Two armed animal control wardens monitor the opening diligently.
“They did say this is a monkey enclosure, right?” I ask. Sue nods yes and pulls the car up to the stop line before the immense, fortified doors. I recheck the settings on my camera.
A warden steps up to Sue’s window and says, “Door’s locked, windows up, don’t stop, no exceptions – got it?”
The massive doors open wide enough to swallow us and no wider. We pull through and they close quickly behind us. I look around expecting to see a cross between Godzilla and King Kong. I see nothing but the road we’re on and a well manicured lawn with lots of low shrubby trees. There is a red car about three hundred feet ahead of us moving slowly..
A large, gray-brown male macaque steps out from behind a tree onto the road ahead of us and sits down. Sue stops the car. His steal, green eyes watch us, the animals in the cage. He’s in no hurry to move. Peripherally, I see movement and turn to my right to see macaque mother’s with their babies.
“Check it out!” I tell Sue. “ Aren’t they cute?” I want to shoot a picture but my window has animal slobber all over the exterior. “What does it look like out your window?” She doesn’t answer and I turn to find out why.
On her side of the car, the one with the convenient, emergency, pull-rope door release, a line of fidgety, gray-brown fury bodies with green eyes watch us.
“This can’t be good,” Sue says. She turns the tape player off and we wait in silence.
The large, gray-brown, male macaque responsible for stopping the car jumps onto our mountain shaped car hood. He yawns, shakes his head and urinates all over the window.
“That’s something you don’t see every day,” I say and take a picture.
“This isn’t gonna to be good. I think we might have a problem,” Sue whispers.
Urine-monkey stands, flaps his arms, and opens his mouth displaying sharp incisors and screeches like a banshee. Suddenly, al I see out any window is a gray-brown, fury, moving carpet. The car shakes and bounces reminding me of an amusement park ride. I struggle to turn and look out the back window and see black ash rain.
“Sue, is that your black vinyl roof?” I ask. Thousands of pieces of black vinyl roof slide down the back window. I brace the camera against the rocking car seat and shoot a couple shots of the storm.
“Oh hell! No!” Sue yells. I spin around, jostled off balance as I go. “ They’ve got the rope!”
I lean over to assess the situation. Five monkeys are in a line pulling on the convenient, emergency, pull-rope release. It’s the exterior part with the knot we untie to release the door. Sue has the other shorter, interior end in hand. It’s obvious they have more leverage then we do. I can’t grab the rope. Sue is in the way. So, I move back to my side of the car. Counter balance, I figure.
My side of the window is now void of fur and I have a clear, abet smudged shot of the baby monkeys with their mothers. What the hell? I shoot a couple shots at different focal lengths and apertures, trying to adjust for the rocking motion of the tug of war occurring on the driver side of the car.
“What the hell are you doing?” Sue yells at me. I spin and look at her.
“I’m taking pictures.” I say and notice her eyes. Their size and her panic enhance their green and brown color making them look wickedly, earthy in this light. I shoot a picture.
“They’re going to kill us, you know.” She struggles to wrap the small section of rope around her arm like she was wrapping a garden hose.
“I suppose this is not a good time to tell you I think disassembling and reassembling the car door last night was a bad idea on your part?”
A blue mini-van filled with kids passes. My window is once again covered in fur but I see camera flashes. I realize the mini-van has a better point-of-view then I do. What good is expensive camera equipment if your point of view is wrong?
I’m distracted by the sensation that my shoe is moving on its own accord. I look down. Little hominid fingers have hold of my muddy, Jack Purcell shoe laces. Crap, I forgot the porthole. I yank my foot up but quickly halt. There is an arm and a shoulder attached to the hand and I’m pulling them inside the porthole. This would make one hell of a short video if I had a camcorder with me.
“Do something!” Susan yells. “Now! Put the damn camera down and kick that beast back to hell! I listen and obey.
The car stops rocking and the windows are fur free. The porthole is empty and the rope release on the door is limp. It’s no longer raining black ash. I take a picture of the empty, now larger porthole between my feet. I look up to see a warden in a bright yellow jeep beside us. He looks perturbed. The monkeys act aloof and I don’t know what I look like, but Susan looks like hell. He motions for us to follow him and we do.
“Go to the clerk,” he says. “She’ll take care of the damages.”
We park the car; examine all the thin, side, metal trim now jutting out at odd angles, the driver’s side door no longer sitting flush with the frame and the hole in the black vinyl roof.
“My poor car,” Susan says.
I look at the misshaped hood, the remains of the rope hanging off the broken door and my muddy Jack Purcells, complimentary of the floor porthole. “Yeah, it’s a shame.”
“There is no way the clerk is going to believe this,” Susan says. “Well, we might as well find out.”
We walk over to an office and I proceed to gingerly, almost embarrassingly explain our situation. I know they are going to look at Sue’s car and think we’re idiots.
“Damn monkeys,” the clerk says. “I bet your car is green. There is something about green cars. Take your car over to the park police. They have to make a report and photograph the evidence.”
We drive the car over to the police station. A pudgy, black officer steps out with an antiquated Polaroid camera in hand. “The monkeys did all this?” He asks while circling the car, stopping to look at the Massachusetts’ granite under the bent hood and the missing car floor from my open window. He looks directly at me.
I’m horrible at lying. Ever since I can remember people have told me, don’t play poker! “No.” I tell him.
“So, what damage did they do?” He’s still looking at me. I shoot a look over at Susan who’s shuffling her feet nervously.
“The roof and the metal, jutting out thingies,” I say.
“Thought so,” he says. He takes a couple Polaroid shots and waits for them to develop. “Are you two far from home?”
“Five hours, maybe,” I reply. Not sure why this is important.
“This car is a death trap. You know that?” He’s still looking at me. It’s not my car. I keep quiet.
He comes over to my side and shows me a very tiny, poorly exposed picture of Sue’s car. “This doesn’t quite do the car justice, does it? I bet if you used your camera, we could really see the damage.” He pauses, looks at me, Sue and then the car. He sighs, pulls out a pocket knife and slashes the monkey made hole in the roof and pulls it back exposing the metal. He snaps another picture and looks at me. “I think this might get the point across.” What am I supposed to say?
He takes Susan into the station to fill out paperwork while I stand guard over the car. I’m not sure how we’re going to get the car home with all that metal hanging off the sides. Sue comes out with a smile on her face. They paid her twice the amount of money she originally paid for the car – six hundred dollars.
“Ready to go home?” She asks.
I look over at the metal protrusions. “What about these?”
“That’s not a problem.” She pulls the metal completely off each side of the car and shoves them in the back seat with the moldy tent and Twinkies.
We drive back to Maryland in silence. I know my pictures will all be blurry and I’m bummed. We pull into the driveway, and as we unload the car, it hits me, and I stop moving.
“What?” Sue asks.
I turn and look at her. “I should have put the camera on automatic instead of manual.” I can see from her expression there are no words to express her feelings on the topic.
Deborah Sickle Hill 