The Prevaricator...Phyllis

You can call my dad a prevaricator. He would start a story and it would go here, then go off track, weaving and winding around, making things up as he went along and never got to the point. We were sitting at the dinner table once in September. I know it was September because I had just brought home a brand new spelling book from school. I accidentally tore the front cover and I was very worried about it. It was fresh and new and I was disappointed that I ripped it. I taped it back together and it was almost like new again. I never was a very good speller. I got Cs in spelling and an occasional D. Even now, when I hit spell check, it sounds like a chainsaw tearing through my work. He would go on and on and the rest of us would look at each other and my mom would smoke a whole pack of cigarettes while he went round and round like a merry-go-round.

You know, the merry-go-rounds at school were big, heavy metal contraptions. Not like the playground equipment now that’s made of colorful nerf. And they were surrounded with asphalt. If you got forty kids on it and got it spinning, the centrifugal force would throw about seven of them off and we wouldn’t see them again for weeks. The teeter totter was fun, too. They were also made of metal and on a hot day, they would burn the skin right off your legs. It was great fun to jump off when your friend was up and you were down, sending her crashing full force to the ground and biting through her tongue. Well, fun for me, anyway. That’s probably why, to this day, I size people up when I first meet them. If they appear to weigh less than me, then yeah, I’ll teeter totter with them.

And so he would go on and on. We would look at our watches, and we weren’t wearing watches. I’ve never owned a nice watch. I’ve gotten Timex watches for gifts and I was very happy with them. I don’t wear a watch nowadays, but I always seem to know about what time it is. I get to work on time. That’s about the only time I really have to be concerned about it. According to Einstein, time is relative. Try using that excuse when you’re late for work. They don’t buy that theory there. They also don’t respond well to the ‘does-anyone-really-know-what-time-it-is’ excuse. “You’re lucky I came in at all” doesn’t go over very well, either.

But if my dad were alive today and if he were telling a story, I would pretend to look at my watch. And I would think, “This is a trait I’m glad I didn’t inherit.”

I Found My Toenail Clippers! - Sue

If they can put a man on the stage who sings country and western music, why can't they just plop a new car down in my driveway? Why do I have to suffer through spending hours trying to find the title for my "old" car, only to fail, and then having to negotiate a champion obstacle course to get a replacement title? Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near?

These are questions best left to progressive thinkers, like Temple Grandin or Lewis Black. If you flutter through life by the seat of your shorts, you not only have to take it one day at a time, you have to take it one moment at a time, like a butterfly. A butterfly never thinks more than a moment ahead. A butterfly smells a flower. A butterfly flutters to the flower. Simple.

I say, "Sure, I have my title at home. I'll just go get it." I flutter home and ten hours later, I still can't find the flower. But it has to be there. Flowers don't grow legs and walk away. Flowers stay where you put them.

This is why I believe in the theory that multiple universes, perhaps billions, exist simultaneously. My title is still there, right where I left it two years ago, somewhere embedded in the stack old electric bills that should have been discarded with the mustard from 2006 that I found in the refrigerator. But it's still there! It's just in a different universe!

Some people flit from one universe to another, smelling and fluttering to the next flower. It might be a crazy life, but it's my life, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Every problem has a solution or it wouldn't be a problem. That's what defines a problem. If it didn't have a solution, it would be classified as a catastrophe. Losing my title in this universe is a problem. I just have to deal with the previous lien holder sending me a copy of bla bla bla and go to Motor Vehicles and get a bla bla bla and then take it to the dealer and bla bla bla. That's a little higher on the scale than an inconvenience, which only has two bla's. An irritant only has one.

So we go sequentially up the scale from irritant > problem > catastrophe. The problem category has the benefit of having a positive, or bright side. Whenever you're faced with a problem, just think "Bright Side," and it will come to you. The following are a few bright side points I encountered:

I found my favorite fingernail clippers. I found the dog nail clippers and I found the receipt for the piano so the daughter can prove how much I paid for it if she ever wants to sell it. Oh, I also found the registration and insurance card for the old car. That went a long way in healthy relations with the Motor Vehicle Department and starting the process of getting a replacement title.

And now, we're on to the next moment, where I believe in a universe long ago and far way, I detect the sweet aroma of magnolias.