Sweet Child Of Mine

There came a time in my life...perhaps a time in every mother's life....for me, it was born at the time I learned I was pregnant with my first child.

Long before I birthed that first child, I found myself consumed with the health and well being of that child that I , and only I, was responsible for. I quit smoking (mostly). I ate healthier (usually). I exercised and ate my veggies (OK, OK, let's not get into fairy tales here). But he was mine to take care of, and I took that responsibility to heart.

Lo, and behold, a healthy son was born. And I continued to rule supreme over the well being of this SON. I fed him wholesome foods (mostly). I taught him to look both ways when crossing the street. He learned to ride a two wheeler while always wearing a helmet.

He cried when getting immunizations, and I cried silently along with him in my heart. He got bit by a dog, and it was all I could do not to bite the dog back. He learned to drive, adding more than a few grey hairs to my growing collection.

Every scar, every scraped knee, every wound on his body was a personal injury to me. I spent years cleaning, bandaging, healing each and every blemish this cruel world left upon that body. I cried oceans of unshed tears for every single pain that coursed through this body I had given life too (very God like, no, dear reader? No wonder women keep having babies. The power angle is awesome!).

Yes. I, and I alone (well, almost alone) took this little zygote and cherished and protected and loved and nurtured it into, well, a person, dammit! Yes! I had grown me an adult (again, mostly). I had taken the ultimate challenge of what to do with this thing growing inside me, and I had (presto, magicko) turned it into a person. An adult. A young adult. An adult now entrusted with his own well being.

And this is how he came home:

From Graduation Day june 2009

The little b@stard! It doesn't even say "MOM". (Although if you look closely, it does kinda look like me when I'm pissed at him-which would be now!)

And So they Gathered At the Summit

When deciding to join forces with the mountain man, I realized that as a blended family (yep, from mudslides to margaritas to step kids!) there was certain to be a fair amount of family traditions exchanged and shared as we created our own future memories (Oxymoron? Perhaps, but hey, one man's oxymoron is our theme song!)

Any who, there is a tradition in the history of the mountain man that goes back to his childhood (And seeing how he was a personal friend of Jesus, we're talking waaaaaay back!)

Ooh, constant reader? Obscure mysuestories fact. Did you know that Jesus' middle name is Horatio? No? Me neither, but when I was 6 years old, I asked my Dad (while he was fixing something-2ND obscure mysuestories fact- Daddy was not happy about fixing shit- anyway, while attempting some home repair, I kindly asked what the "H" stood for in my dad's every other minute exclamation of "Jesus H. Christ"--to which he simply replied "Horatio." Your welcome, dear reader, for such invaluable information.

Anyway, this particular tradition of mountain man was,well a trek, if you will. A five and a half hour trek only to be covered in a car filled with way too many kids/camping gear/pillows/books/ AND comfortably secured in it's own seat belt, Lappy Toppy! (even though there was not one iota of Internet access where we were going, and I knew this fully well before ever packing precious Lappy in the first place. I can only claim deep denial, readers).

So, mountain man, mysuestories, and our shaggy entourage of kids headed to (where else?) the mountain. As tradition dictates, we gathered with forty five of our nearest and dearest who also heeded the call to pilgrimage to the summit of what can only be known as Mount Back in Time.

Upon arrival to this most sacred of summits, many rituals had to be adhered to. Clearly, the most popular was the initiation of the "utes" into sloppy drunken adulthood, which took place after most of the previous inductees and those under 4 feet tall were asleep.

In order to call upon the favors of the gods for a successful mission, tribal music is played throughout the ceremony. While it is entirely up to those to be inducted to choose what hymns shall resonate, it is apparently imperative that whatever is chosen must be loud enough to vibrate the entire mountain.

In this particular ceremony, those about to cross the threshold into oblivion divide into sets of two, with two teams juxtaposed across a given altar (in our case, these altars were erected from long tables from the plasticene era). Gifts are made to the deities in the form of 10 plastic chalices precisely aligned in the shape of a triangular form. The chalices are then carefully filled with nectar of the gods. (Apparently, some of our congregants were weight conscious, for the nectar chosen was of the Lite variety).

Once the alter is set, the opposing apostolic teams faced off against one another, each trying to sink the Orb of the Almighty (read: ping pong ball) into the oppositions chalices. Upon orbic destiny, or the sinking of the ball, the other team was to consume the nectar-Lite. This ritual is repeated until each participant is either hurling up the coveted nectar (-Lite), or there is no longer anyone able to toss the orb in the vicinity of the chalices.

As mysuestories is well slightly over the age of orb tossing, I was one of the unlucky pilgrims who had gone to bed before the ceremony began. Some hours later (no clue how many!) I was awakened to the throbbing of the tribal drums.

Upon investigation, I noticed that all of our apostles were snoring loudly. I climbed over the mountain man, stepping atop one of our apostles (who let out a swoosh of air as I bounced off of him!) and crawled out of our camper (another day, another post, constant reader).

Outside, across the field in which the ceremony was held ( which judging by the dozens of empty Lite cans, was quite successful!), not a soul was standing. I staggered two hundred yards in the pitch black of night without benefit of street lights and set out to find the damned stereo to turn it off. I (who can barely see with benefit of daylight and eyeglasses) had absolutely no luck.

I staggered two hundred yards back to the camper, stepped on the sleeping apostle, (another swoosh of air), and over the mountain man. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the pounding beat of the music. No. Such. Luck.

I whispered to the mountain man, which immediately woke him up. (Have I mentioned mysuestories does not have an indoor voice? Or a whispering voice?) I told the man of my dreams, the one I have forsaken all others for, of my dilemma of the music that would not let me sleep. I may have cursed along the way six or twenty times. Surely he would rescue me in the form of turning off the blasted stereo, no?

Apparently, no. The man who once promised to love, honor and cherish me did not believe this included allowing me to get a decent night's sleep. He did, however, tell me to just go shut off the stereo. Gee, what a novel idea. When I told him I could neither find the stereo, or see anything out there!!!!, he very wisely advised me to simply follow the music.

I must have still been half drunk asleep, because that sounded like a good idea at the time. Once again, I climbed over the mountain man, stepped on the snoring apostle (swoosh again- at least he was still breathing!), crawled out of the camper and back into the pitch dark. I (again) staggered two hundred yards toward the offensive music, and following it's vibrations on the ground beneath my bare feet, located not one, but two speakers. However, the offending stereo? Nowhere in sight. Damnit!

Back two hundred yards to the camper, over the apostle (yes, another swoosh!), over the mountain man, and back into bed.
"Mountain man!!!!" I whispered as loudly as the music. " I followed the music!!!! I can't find anything but the damned speakers!!!"

Finally, by the grace of the gods of peace and quiet, mountain man calmly arose ( okay, so not so calmly). He stepped on the apostle (swoosh!). I followed (swoosh again!). He crawled out of the camper. I crawled behind him. He stomped across two hundred yards. I tiptoed. Hey, no sense in waking the rest of the tribe, right?

Mountain man, my hero, finds the speakers. "See?" I told him. " Speakers but no stereo." Duh. Hadn't I been saying that all along?

In a move worthy of Brad Pitt in Troy, my mountain man reached down to each speaker and grabbed every wire attached. He pulled them out. Hard. The music died.

In that instant, I saw the man I have come to adore. He is so cute!!!!!!

He stomped back to the camper, over the apostle (swoosh!) , and back to bed. I followed.

The next evening, well before the nightly ceremonies commenced, I noticed the speakers were not where they had been the previous evening.

Where did they go? Well, it appears our many time stepped upon apostle was not asleep the night prior. And, he thought it would be great fun to have me looking all over the mountain for the damned music again.

I showed him, though. The next night I wore high heels to bed!!!!

Swoosh, my ass!

Till Cell Phone Battery Death Do We Part

There comes a time in every relationship when a decision is made to either discontinue the union, or to consummate it in the most permanent way possible. The mountain man and I decided to bound one another (no, dear reader, not with duct tape---this time!), for each of us to be bound to the other in the most legally binding way available today; I added him to my existing phone plan. For a two year contract.-- A contract Houdini would have trouble escaping from if a) he had a cell phone and b) he hadn't destroyed it while submerged in a tank upside down while in a straight jacket.

So, I agreed, in a moment of drunkeness unrequited lust, to love, honor, and obey all laws of said cell phone contract, till ungodly early termination fees do we part.
Since this penultimate decision to co-phonitat, much has happened to facilitate the progression of the mountain man/mysuestories collaboration. We have out of necessity, as many such newly joined couples, raised our sharing plan minutes. We have chosen together our "Special 10" - those "friends" who dare to have service out of our network, and who now by the grace of Verizon Wireless Deities are not counted against our allotted precious minutes.
We have even ventured together to the evil inferno that is the Verizon Wireless phone store to secure an updated cell phone for the mountain man. Note to reader: Any phone not requiring a third party operator to connect your call Ala Lily Tomlin and smaller than a bread box would qualify as an update.
So, I take the mountain man into the land of all that is glittery and geeky, and we peruse the aisles upon aisles of available phones. To say he is bewildered is akin to saying Michael Phelps can doggy paddle.
We examine flip phones, sliders, and blackberrys of endless shapes, sizes, and colors. What we cannot locate is one with a rotary dial. A salesman, who has no idea he is about to honestly earn whatever pittance of a salary he is being paid, steps into the Twilight Zone that is our humble lives.
Our salesman is excited that we are looking to expand our phone lines by one (Oh the joy!) and that we are looking for new hardware (Can I get a hallelujah!)
He brings us full circle to the front of the store, where, once again, we examine flip phones, sliders, and blackberrys of endless shapes, sizes, and colors. Our personal geek gleefully explains every whistle and bell available. On. Every. Single. Phone.
We have literally handled every individual demo available, and still mountain man looks like the rain man five minutes before Judge Wopner. Our sales geek's enthusiasm is starting to wane.
"Mountain man," I inquire, "which one do you like?"
"I don't know, mysuestories. They are all just so small."
"Um, yes, mountain man. It is a portable phone. So you can carry it with you," I explain.
At this point our sales geek is looking for the little yellow school bus parked outside.
"Mountain man, just pick one. Any one. For the love of maryjesusandjoseph. Just. Pick. One."
The mountain man turns from me to our geek and asks, "Do you have one with real big numbers on it?"
Geek looks at me. I shrug, and he turns to the mountain man and speaks slowly, as if addressing a child on the theory of quantum physics. "Er, sir, if we made them BIG, then they wouldn't fit on the little phones."
"Why are the phones so small, anyway?" mountain man asks geek boy, who by now is wondering if maybe he should rethink that college brochure his father keeps shoving at him at the dinner table.
"Sir, small is good. Everybody wants small. Nobody wants big any more."
Mountain man turns to me. "But, mysuestories, I
like big."
I patted him gently on the arm. I grabbed the nearest little phone with the biggest numbers available and told the geek we'd take it.
"You've got to compromise, mountain man, It's the 21st century, you know."
He grumbled, but agreed.
Our geek couldn't get us to the register fast enough.
"Accessories?" he asked warily?
"What kind of accessories could I possibly need with a tiny phone?" mountain man quirked.
And that's when it all went bad.
The geek said it.
He did.
He said, "Would you like a blue tooth with that phone?"
And honest to fucking Betsy, the mountain man replied," How would
you like a black eye?"

Oh, and the compromise? The mountain man now has a cell phone that rings exactly like the phone on "The I Love Lucy" show. You know. From a hundred years ago. Sigh.

Wait till I tell ya about trying to get the man out of black dress socks with sneakers and shorts....

On the Road Again

If you know mysuestories at all (and by now, you should, dear reader), you know that I prance to the beat of a different oboe...I just don't like to be doing what the rest of the world is doing. In the movie "Midnight Express"? I am the only person cheering Billy Jack on as he walks around the pole counter clockwise. I do live on the edge, huh?

Anyway..while most of the blogging world is heading to Chicago to attend Blog Her (even the Hims that blog are all going!), where everyone will trade all the latest in techno secrets as they text each other on their gadgety new fangled phones while sipping mojitos.....I shall be heading to the land of no. As in no t.v., no cable, no cell phone service, and (gak) no Internet connection.

A nice cushy childLESS stay in a suite hotel was a bit much to ask for. Oh, no, not me. I opted (Options? I had options?) to camp in the mountains (Lions and Tigers and Bears oh MY!) with the family and forty of our nearest and dearest.
(a.k.a. - AmIoutofmyf@ckingmind?!!!)

Whats' five hours smushed in a car with complete strangers humping all my shit so I can unpack it in a rustic setting and sleep on rocks for the love of Christ?

But THIS is when I realized just how long this weekend was really gonna be.

mysuestories: "Er, mountain man? Who ARE all those strangers in the back seat?"
mountain man: "mysuestories, I'd like to REintroduce you to our kids."
mysuestories: "Even the short one with the game stick thingy growing out of his hands?"
mountain man: "Gamester, say hello to your mother."
gamester: "Hi mother. "
mysuestories: to mountain man "Are you sure he's one of ours?"
mountain man: sighs heavily...."This week will be good for all of us."

Yeh. Nothing like sleeping in the great outdoors worrying about bear attacks and falling rock territory. I don't think I could out run a bear in the sorry shape I'm in these days.

mysuestories: "Er, mountain man? Did you pack any snacks and chips and dip?"
mountain man: "Of course. I know what you like." He sure does, and it usually comes wrapped in foi with a fat content label of over 30%, protein 0%. No sense dieting now. Too late to train to run from that bear.
mysuestories: "Er, mountain man? Did you pack any honey?"
He nods.
Great!!! If I can't out run the bear, I'll just coat one of those strangers in the backseat with honey. Then I only have to out run that one kid......Genius. Pure genius.


See ya in a few days. Hopefully. Sigh.

You Take My Breath Away

Woe, faithful reader. As in woe is me.
I have been missing amongst the blogosphere, and I have returned to you all with the requisite doctor's note.

"Dear Constant Reader(s),
Please forgive mysuestories' abscence from the blogiverse of late. She has been doing a lot
of breathing lately.
Signed,
The Doctor who Nearly Killed Her With Her Own Breath

Huh?
Yeh. It's been that kind of week.

It all started last week, when I started waking up in the middle of the night with a little cough and a throat tickle.

"Mountain man? Are you awake?" I scooted over to his side of the bed, carefully placing my icy cold feet on his back. The desired effect has occurred. Mountain man half leaps off the bed, unaware why.
"Huh? Whassamatta?" he manages.
"I can't sleep. Did you hear me coughing?" I then cough for effect. It comes out more as a throat clear than a cough, but hey, he's still half asleep.
" I didn't hear anything. I was sleeping."
That's another thing about mysuestories manor. When I can't sleep? Neither can he. It just seems selfish on his behalf, no?

"Well, I was coughing. And there's tickle in my throat..." I complain continue.
At his non-responsive, once again snoring form while I am awake(!!!) I half nudge him toward the edge of the bed.
"Huh? Whassamatta?" he grumbles again.
" I was telling you how I can't sleep. You know, 'cause of this *cough* cough."
" Why don't you just go back to sleep?"
Seriously? Now why didn't I think of that? Oh. Yeh. "CAUSE THE COUGHING IS KEEPING ME AWAKE!!!!"

Not to worry, oh loyal reader. The mountain man proceeded to get plenty of rest that night, as he went right the f*ck back to sleep! I, on the other hand, spent the next three nights catching a lot of late night infomercials between coughs. (Side note- have ya ever noticed that EVERY SINGLE item sold solely on t.v. -before it gets to the "As Seen On T.V. " section of Walgreens- every item has the same shipping and handling fee of just $6.95. Yep. Just $6.95 to have anything from the latest in Ginsu Knives technology to a new mattress delivered to your door--Be dialing, people!!!!)
After three nights of coughing, (and subsequently waking the mountain man each. and. every. time.), he became concerened over his inability to get a good night's sleep my health.
"Mysuestories, it's time to see a doctor."
"Doctor? Why would I need a doctor?" I replied.
"Because you're sick and I care about you deeply! I can't get any sleep!"
" That's not true, mountain man. I know this because I have had the dubious job of watching you sleep while I am up all night coughing."
"AND you're coughing because YOU ARE SICK!! " Now, I ask you, constant reader, what kind of loving man yells at his beloved when she is obviously sleep depived and denying she is sick to begin with?

Two days (and long Billy Mays filled nights) later, mountain man calls me at work to tell me he has made an appointment for me, to see our doctor that evening at 4:15 p.m.
"But, mountain man, I am not sick!!!"
"Good. Then that's what the doctor (whom I haven't seen in over four years!) will tell you!"
" But, mountain man," I whined. Yeh. I whine. So shoot me. I even whine while I wine. Then again, most wine drinkers do. "I can't possibly make a 4:15 appointment. I won't be home from work tioll at least 4:30..." because at this point? Yeh. No way I was leaving work fifteen minutes early to get to some doctor's appointment I didn't even need!
"I, saviour of the New World and all things Holy, shall go to the doctor's office and sign you in and wait for YOUR appointment . Then YOU can casually show up 20 minutes later as they are ready to call your name." he stated.

Apparently I was not to wiggle out of this too easily.
"Fine. I'll be there," I conceded. But come the end of the day? I left work fifteen minutes later than usual...making me 30 minutes late for the appointment, and hopefully edged out of my time slot!
I arrived at 4:45 for my 4:15 appointment and found the mountain man dutifully sitting in a chair in the waiting room for me. Along with FIVE other patients. Four of whom had been there BEFORE the moutain man arrived at 4:00. (He's a stickler for punctuality, my man, he is!)

Fifteen minutes later, 3 Emergency Medical Technicians come bursting through the outer door, trailing a mobile cot and half of our local volunteer fire department. (It must have been a slow fire day.)
It appears the patient who was holding up the rest of us went into anaphylactic shock from taking someone else's antibiotics inside one of the exam rooms! I mean, just how inconsiderate can one person be? He could have just gone to the emergency room....or suffered silently at home...but no, let's inconvenience all us sick people (Yeh. Once I've already gone to the inconvenience of going to the doctor, I am officially sick).

At SIX O'CLOCK, I am finally called in to see the doctor for my appointment. You know, the appointment that was for 4:15.

Breathe in, breathe out...Blow in to this machine...Suck on this inhaler. Breathe again. Deeply. one more time. By the time I left there, I was all out of breaths. Shit, couldn't they see I was sickly? Jeez.

One chest X ray, a breathing treatment, a steriod prescription, an inhaler, and a script for cough medicine with coedine (SCORE!!!) and I was on my way home.

At 7 pm, I was resting comfortably on my couch, having downed a good couple of swigs from the cough medicine. Yep, it may take me a whole week of just sitting on this couch *cough*cough*, letting the mountain man wait on me...*cough*cough* "I'm so thirsty." "Gee, I could use another pillow..."
I'll teach him to tell me I'm sick!!!!

It Shoulda Been A Drive In

I must apologize for my lack of posting lately, however, mysuestories has been robbed. Yes, faithful reader, I have been assaulted as severely as any cashew at the Planter's factory. I, constant follower, have been raped, if you will. F*cked, really. Without benefit of alcohol or lubricant, either.

The dirty scoundrel responsible for this bestial attack? Female, punk-cut pink short hair, aged 16 -18, and smirking with indifference. Her weapon of choice? A cash register at the local cinema. Her ransom? Movie tickets to Ice Age 3-D.

Yeh. I got screwed at the movies. And not only did I have a child with me, I wasn't even sitting in the balcony!

The mountain man and I decided to take the gaming addict to a movie after work this evening, since Camp Mountain Man seems to consist of doing laundry and shooting at the neighbor's chickens with a BB gun. (Archery- the art of shooting arrows at the neighbor's chickens begins next week- We are thatwell rounded here!)

So, I unsuspectingly skip up to the movie counter and kindly ask for two adult and one child ticket. I was gonna ask for a senior ticket for the mountain man, but I kinda figured that might put the kibbutz on the pretzels and spicy cheese sauce I was hoping he'd spring for!

So the pink haired rebel without paws asks for $23.00, and hands me some movie stubs and send us to the red velvet rope police standing just four feet away. (Really. Little Miss I Hate My Life and Having to Serve Mere Mortals for A Living could have just waved us through eliminating the need for that extra salaried Keeper of The Red Velvet Rope.

Anyway, we approach the Keeper of the Red Velvet rope, who informs me that we; mountain man, gamester, and mysuestories; are a party of three. Rocket scientists, here, huh? Red Velvet Rope Keeper, who now looks like she should be wielding a scythe informs me that I am holding only TWO tickets.

I look down. The crypt keeper's twin is right. We retreat four feet back to Little Miss Sunshine Before Adolescence Set In, and I point to the two ticket stubs, and say
"Excuse me, Miss My Parents Hate Me, but you only gave me TWO tickets. We, (as the Red Velvet Rope Protector has pointed out), are a party of THREE."

To which this spawn of the devil and all things frugal states," That will be another $13.50."
"But I already paid $23.00!" mysuestories exclaimed!!!!!
To which Little Miss I'd Rather Slice Layers Of Skin Off of My Body Rather than Have to Talk to Idiots Like You says, " That was for one adult and one child ticket."
Yeh. Even though we are clearly THREE. And the sign on the counter states that adult tickets are only $10.50.
I show Little Miss I Would Rather Massacre You Than look At You One More Time the sign. "But adult tickets are only $10.50", I squeak. I am now positive this Emo/Slasher is scamming three bucks off each ticket sale to buy the latest mercenary gear from the back pages of Soldier of Fortune magazine, and I, mysuestories, in my pursuit for liberty and justice for all in the name of three dollars have just put my family on the top of her to do list.
"Ma'am," she croaks out with a draeaded eye roll (Note to reader: There is nothing I hate more than being called "Ma'am", except for being called "Ma'am" with na accompanying eyeroll!) "Ma'am, $10.50 is for regular movies. It's $13.50 for "3-D" movies." And she proceeds to point to the same sign that I had used to correct her.

And there, right under the $10.50 for adults, it read $13.50 for "3-D".
I coughed up (quite literally) another $13.50 and we were than granted access to the theatre beyond the Red Velvet Rope Taker.

"Geez, mysuestories," spoke the love of my life, the yin to my yang," isn't $36.50 an awful lot of money for you to pay for a movie?"
Yeh, thanks mountain man. It is. I could spend a lot less than that in a bar and have my way with him in the bedroom after. And at least I (and he) would know what was in store. And none of it would involve androgenous pink haired punks with authority issues.

Instead, I said something akin to, "Not to worry, mountain man. Just spending quality time with you and the kid is priceless."
He smiled, all lovey dovey like.

Then I led him to the snack counter and proceeded to order $40.00 worth of munchies and pretzels with spicy cheese sauce. His treat. 'Cause I'm thoughtful like that!

Scratch This Itch!!!!!!

We are a "big box store" family. We buy, eat , and shit in bulk. (Why else would any store sell toilet paper rolls in sets of 62?) With three boys (men? Man childs? At what age do they become adults in their own right?) plus the mountain man and myself, big lot stores are definitely a big part of our shopping experience. Why buy one pound of ravioli when you can purchase seven pounds all in one bag?

Point being, there is good justification for shopping for detergents by the barrel full. Many a family makes good use of reduced pricing in exchange for using that extra bedroom as a storage closet. I mean, where the hell am I supposed to store eight packages of 1000 count napkins, anyway?

On the flip side of my own little argument here (Argument? Who was arguing? - I was, dammit, now shut up and slink back into the far reaches of my mind, you meddling disorder, you!)----- Sorry, I digress....

As beneficial as buying rice by the ton is for families such as ours, there ought to be some rules to accompany membership into the gluttony purchasing club. For example, if you are single and over the age of seventy, it ought to be considered elder abuse for management to cash that $50.00 membership fee.

Case in point... This past weekend, the mysuestories clan were fortunate enough to have been invited to revel in the gloriousness of the Fourth of July at a dear friend's house. Said friend, Joe, is approaching ninety and lives alone.(And he throws a helluva party!-Again, irrelevant but we did have a great time! Nobody can party like a bunch of retired seniors with no where to go for, oh say, about six months-)

At one point, (some where between five Bud lights and two Bahama Mama's -hey, I'm patriotic- I was celebrating--- Not to mention helping to stimulate the economy of our local neighborhood liquor outlet!---Hey, don't judge. ) I excused myself to the bathroom. While in the bathroom, I did what gracious guests every where do, I sized up the room. And was I rewarded with a tidbit upon which to ponder while I was, um, er, pondering? I was. Upon the sink's counter I spied this:

From New Window

(And yes, I do take my camera with me every where, even the loo.- Hey, one never knows when something blog picture worthy will occur!)
Yep. A brand spanking new 10 pack of toothbrushes. For a ninety year old. At 1 new brush every six months? Shit, he and his pearly whites will probably be brushing right up at the pearly gates! With a few to spare!!!! Ya gotta love the optimism, though.

So, later that evening, as I share the adventures of my trip, trip, trip to the loo with the mountain man---yeh, I know. It doesn't get any better than that, friends- Isn't love just grand?!- I share my photographic prowess with him, and we come upon the pack of toothbrushes for every occasion.

"Imagine, mountain man, " I marveled, " It says a lot about a person when you're buying a long lasting item like toothbrushes in bulk at that age!"

"Yeh, mysuestories. It speaks volumes. About Joe. And senility. He's had false teeth since for at least 30 years. He doesn't brush them. He soaks them. Like in a cup. Over night. Must be like a phantom pain," my hunk of too much information continues, " You know, like if some one's had a limb removed but it still itches...They say ( And, NO, dear reader, do NOT ask who they is!) that if a person truly believes the limb is there, they really do feel that itch, and can even "see" it there! You CAN actually wish an appendage to life!"

Hmmm. I wonder if I should have mentioned the 1,000 pack of individually wrapped Trojans I just slipped in the mountain man's night stand drawer. Size XXL.