My wife and I checked into the Hampton Inn on the outskirts of Asheville during our first trip ever to North Carolina. We wanted to visit the Biltmore, a gift to my wife from me, and do a little shopping downtown.
As we were checking in at the front desk we overheard this couple checking out of the motel, asking the clerk about a woman in downtown Asheville, who was strutting around bare-breasted.
"It's not, you know, illegal here in Asheville," the clerk answered. "And you're not the first ones that asked about her either. She comes out about this time every Summer for a couple of weeks, you know, then goes back to where-ever-it-is she belongs. There's been, you know, a couple of complaints from businesses downtown but for the most part, they just, you know, ignore her."
My wife and I took casual note of the conversation and went back to tending our own business, looking forward to visiting the Biltmore, doing some shopping downtown, and oh yes . . . . the inevitable wine tasting experience.
It took a good part of the morning to make it through the whole house at the Biltmore. The mansion was a little on the warm side . . . . being the middle of June and all, but we took it all in stride. We wound-up outside at the stables next to the courtyard area. I seated myself at a table off to the side, got myself a mint tea and enjoyed the cooling breeze while my wife engaged herself with the gift shop.
After "lunching" at the Deerpark Resturant, we headed downtown for more shopping. I was missing my regular afternoon nap, which means that my awareness of downtown Asheville was somewhat dulled, and for the moment, I was content to just be the chauffeur. This was, after all, a "gift" trip for my darling wife.
"THERE SHE IS", my wife yelled! "SLOW DOWN! THAT WOMAN OVER THERE. SHE'S NOT WEARING A BRA. Don't you see that woman on the bus bench? Look at her . . . . she's . . . . . BRALESS."
My awareness returned with a snap and I almost hit a parked cop car. "Turn around! Go back," my wife yelled. "I want to see if what I think I saw is really what I saw. Get closer."
"What'ya mean get closer?" I yelled. Half believing what my wife was asking me to do. "For what possible reason on God's green Earth could you possibly have for . . . . . .
I didn't get a chance to finish. The half-nude woman began chasing our car. She was flopping-about and running after us . . . hands waving in the air. "C. Allen . . . . C. Allen . . . . is that you? C. Allen . . . high school . . . . remember? History Class. Remember?Longtime no-see . . . . C. A-l-l-e-n."
Sunday, December 24, 2017
The Day I Almost Killed the Cat
Static electricity is, by far, one of the worst, scumoftheearth annoyances around. When it's cold outside, I either get zapped at, sparked at, or discharged on, all winter long. It's so bad in my house, I can't even pull the metal chain on the ceiling fan without getting damn near electrocuted.
Last year, on a cold December day, while my wife was out shopping, I decided to watch a ball game on TV and enjoy a couple of beers. As is my custom, and much to the chagrin of my wife, I keep the front door wide open with the outer, storm door, pulled shut and latched. This gives me the ability to see my wife’s car when she pulls into the driveway from the comfort of my easy chair and gives me enough time to pick up my empty beer cans. (You husbands know what I'm talking about.)
The second half of the ballgame was about to commence when the doorbell rang. There, all huddled together on my front porch stoop were a few of those nice, religious type people that go from door to door in the neighborhood handing out pamphlets and talking about someplace, probably in Texas, called Armageddon. “They’re just looking for converts,” my wife would always say. “Don’t you dare sign anything.”
Forever trying to be a good Christian, I always invited them in. This time was no exception. I figured they could stay inside a few minutes, get warm, leave me a pamphlet, and be on their way. My hypothesis was that their visit to my house was penance for not accompanying my wife to the mall, as I should have. What happened next was an accident, I swear to God.
Grabbing the beer with my left hand, I slid off the couch, slipped on my wooly slippers, and sauntered on over to greet my visitors. As I reached for the metal latch, a giant threefoot yellow spark leaped from the door and zapped me with a shock so intense it knocked me sideways against the wall. My Budweiser hit the floor spewing foam all over the front of my pants. The sudden movement and vocal (“dammittohell”) expletives must have created quite a negative impression on the group because they quickly vacated my front porch leaving behind hundreds of pamphlets scattered all over the yard.
Standing out in front of my house with a wet crotch and a foamy beer can, I watched as they sped down the street on their bikes, shirt tails and butts, flapping in the wind. My neighbor walked over and asked me what happened, to which I replied. “I think I’ve just been blacklisted by the Holy Brethren of Mount Ararat Worshipers.”
That night, over supper, I told my wife the whole story. To my dismay, she was not overly sympathetic. She’s not plagued by static shocks like I am and thinks I’m making too much fuss. “Manup”, she's said time and time again. “Grin and bear it like a man."
Her continued disinterest troubled me somewhat and caused me reflection for several days. She just did not understand my plight. I needed to find a way to help her feel my pain.
The next morning, I came up with a plan. A good one if I do say so myself. On Sunday nights, right after the local news, my wife usually falls asleep on the couch. It’s her only nap of the week and her way of dealing with the stress of Monday mornings. Her nap is short but noisily intense.
We have avocado colored shag carpeting in our living room which fit right into my plan. I'd put on my wooly slippers, drag my feet over the floor until I was sure I had built up a nice static charge, sneak on over to where she was sleeping, gently touch my finger to her earlobe, and then ZAP! She'd receive thousands of electric volts, wake up with some ringing in her ears, and finally, come to the realization what I had been saying was the truth all along. Static shocks are the scum of the earth. We'd share the same plight each winter, and she'd no longer assail me for being such a wimp.
It was time to put my magnificent plan into action.
After a few minutes of footdragging on the carpet, I knew I had an unusually large charge builtup because I could feel the hair on my arm tickled as it waved back and forth, like ripe wheat swaying in the breeze on a remote Kansas farm.
As I was in the process of scooting on down to the end of the couch where she was sleeping it dawned on me. What if my clever plan should fail? What if the static shock should have no effect on her? What if she just woke up with my finger in her ear and no ZAP.
Too many "whatifs" for me. Being the perfectionist that I am, I needed assurance that my plan would work. I needed PROOF. What I needed was a TEST SUBJECT.
The cat, her cat Fluffy, was asleep on the other end of the couch curled up in a gray ball, with one ear pointed straight up, like sleeping cats have a tendency to do. I reversed my foot-dragging direction, got down on my knees and slowly crawled across the floor toward Fluffy, my index finger poised for the spark. The hair was still twitching on my arm meaning that the high voltage amperage charge was still there. This was going to be good, and quite amusing.
Bracing my left hand on the floor I used my right index finger to sneak up on Fluffy’s ear. Closer and closer I sneaked. Three inches. Two inches. One inch BANG, SCREECH, YEOWWWW, POOF!
The shock bounced my entire body up off the floor. My finger was still bent into a pointing position but had turned grayish black and all covered with goo. Burnt cat goo. There was a small puff of smoke rising toward the ceiling and a horrible stench in the air. My head was hurting and Fluffy was missing. And of course, all this commotion woke up my wife.
I got up off my knees and wiped my finger on the back of my pants. “What in the hell are you doing down there?” she asked. “I dropped my car keys and thought they went under the couch”, I answered. “Sorry. I woke you up, didn't I? Go on back to sleep”.
Fluffy was outside, okay but dazed. I scooped her up to carry her back inside. As I reached for the metal door, the second time today, (you guessed it), ZAP!
Last year, on a cold December day, while my wife was out shopping, I decided to watch a ball game on TV and enjoy a couple of beers. As is my custom, and much to the chagrin of my wife, I keep the front door wide open with the outer, storm door, pulled shut and latched. This gives me the ability to see my wife’s car when she pulls into the driveway from the comfort of my easy chair and gives me enough time to pick up my empty beer cans. (You husbands know what I'm talking about.)
The second half of the ballgame was about to commence when the doorbell rang. There, all huddled together on my front porch stoop were a few of those nice, religious type people that go from door to door in the neighborhood handing out pamphlets and talking about someplace, probably in Texas, called Armageddon. “They’re just looking for converts,” my wife would always say. “Don’t you dare sign anything.”
Forever trying to be a good Christian, I always invited them in. This time was no exception. I figured they could stay inside a few minutes, get warm, leave me a pamphlet, and be on their way. My hypothesis was that their visit to my house was penance for not accompanying my wife to the mall, as I should have. What happened next was an accident, I swear to God.
Grabbing the beer with my left hand, I slid off the couch, slipped on my wooly slippers, and sauntered on over to greet my visitors. As I reached for the metal latch, a giant threefoot yellow spark leaped from the door and zapped me with a shock so intense it knocked me sideways against the wall. My Budweiser hit the floor spewing foam all over the front of my pants. The sudden movement and vocal (“dammittohell”) expletives must have created quite a negative impression on the group because they quickly vacated my front porch leaving behind hundreds of pamphlets scattered all over the yard.
Standing out in front of my house with a wet crotch and a foamy beer can, I watched as they sped down the street on their bikes, shirt tails and butts, flapping in the wind. My neighbor walked over and asked me what happened, to which I replied. “I think I’ve just been blacklisted by the Holy Brethren of Mount Ararat Worshipers.”
That night, over supper, I told my wife the whole story. To my dismay, she was not overly sympathetic. She’s not plagued by static shocks like I am and thinks I’m making too much fuss. “Manup”, she's said time and time again. “Grin and bear it like a man."
Her continued disinterest troubled me somewhat and caused me reflection for several days. She just did not understand my plight. I needed to find a way to help her feel my pain.
The next morning, I came up with a plan. A good one if I do say so myself. On Sunday nights, right after the local news, my wife usually falls asleep on the couch. It’s her only nap of the week and her way of dealing with the stress of Monday mornings. Her nap is short but noisily intense.
We have avocado colored shag carpeting in our living room which fit right into my plan. I'd put on my wooly slippers, drag my feet over the floor until I was sure I had built up a nice static charge, sneak on over to where she was sleeping, gently touch my finger to her earlobe, and then ZAP! She'd receive thousands of electric volts, wake up with some ringing in her ears, and finally, come to the realization what I had been saying was the truth all along. Static shocks are the scum of the earth. We'd share the same plight each winter, and she'd no longer assail me for being such a wimp.
It was time to put my magnificent plan into action.
After a few minutes of footdragging on the carpet, I knew I had an unusually large charge builtup because I could feel the hair on my arm tickled as it waved back and forth, like ripe wheat swaying in the breeze on a remote Kansas farm.
As I was in the process of scooting on down to the end of the couch where she was sleeping it dawned on me. What if my clever plan should fail? What if the static shock should have no effect on her? What if she just woke up with my finger in her ear and no ZAP.
Too many "whatifs" for me. Being the perfectionist that I am, I needed assurance that my plan would work. I needed PROOF. What I needed was a TEST SUBJECT.
The cat, her cat Fluffy, was asleep on the other end of the couch curled up in a gray ball, with one ear pointed straight up, like sleeping cats have a tendency to do. I reversed my foot-dragging direction, got down on my knees and slowly crawled across the floor toward Fluffy, my index finger poised for the spark. The hair was still twitching on my arm meaning that the high voltage amperage charge was still there. This was going to be good, and quite amusing.
Bracing my left hand on the floor I used my right index finger to sneak up on Fluffy’s ear. Closer and closer I sneaked. Three inches. Two inches. One inch BANG, SCREECH, YEOWWWW, POOF!
The shock bounced my entire body up off the floor. My finger was still bent into a pointing position but had turned grayish black and all covered with goo. Burnt cat goo. There was a small puff of smoke rising toward the ceiling and a horrible stench in the air. My head was hurting and Fluffy was missing. And of course, all this commotion woke up my wife.
I got up off my knees and wiped my finger on the back of my pants. “What in the hell are you doing down there?” she asked. “I dropped my car keys and thought they went under the couch”, I answered. “Sorry. I woke you up, didn't I? Go on back to sleep”.
Fluffy was outside, okay but dazed. I scooped her up to carry her back inside. As I reached for the metal door, the second time today, (you guessed it), ZAP!
The Smiling Elephant
We have a restaurant here in Nashville known as The Smiling Elephant. It's a great place to eat and relax. I was obliged to eat lunch there the other day while my pet Guinea pig was at the vets down the street being neutered.
I'm not adverse at trying new places to eat but I'll be the first to admit I don't know a damn thing about Thai food. I was pleasantly surprised.
For my drink, I ordered Lemon Grass tea. That sounded pretty straightforward to me---might taste like funny lemonade, and I thought it was worth a try. The tea was almost to my liking. It tasted more like grass than lemon and could have used a sweetener, but what-the-hey, I was savoring the experience by putting-on-airs at a fancy restaurant while my Guinea pig was being "altered".
For my entree, I ordered the special. I can't pronounce the name of the dish but it had a couple of "moo's" in it. This didn't make a lot of sense to me because the dish was mostly curried pork over rice. Why would a pork dish have the word moo in its name? Pigs don't moo, that would be a cow, or beef--not pork. The K-something moo C-something moo came with half a barbequed egg. I'm not kidding, the description of the dish included one-half of a barbequed egg. I asked the waiter which half of the egg they used. He replied the right half. I then asked him what they did with the other half. Sensing that he was on the spot here to come up with another witty answer, a glint came to his eye and he came back with "we use it in another dish".
He was on a roll and I was too, so I asked him, "How do you barbeque an egg?" "At night," he said. "That way, it won't slip through the grill."
At this point the conversation was getting a little too weird for me, so I just let his last comment slide. If I made him mad by saying something I shouldn't, he might consider spitting in my moo moo pork and half a barbequed egg on the side, dish. I didn't want to take the chance. There are a few people in the world you don't want to make mad and your waiter is one of them. Your barber is another. I could think of a few more--------but someone would have to buy me a beer, first.
If you're ever in Nashville and want to "Thai-one-on" so to speak, The Smiling Elephant is your place.
C. Allen Benson
I'm not adverse at trying new places to eat but I'll be the first to admit I don't know a damn thing about Thai food. I was pleasantly surprised.
For my drink, I ordered Lemon Grass tea. That sounded pretty straightforward to me---might taste like funny lemonade, and I thought it was worth a try. The tea was almost to my liking. It tasted more like grass than lemon and could have used a sweetener, but what-the-hey, I was savoring the experience by putting-on-airs at a fancy restaurant while my Guinea pig was being "altered".
For my entree, I ordered the special. I can't pronounce the name of the dish but it had a couple of "moo's" in it. This didn't make a lot of sense to me because the dish was mostly curried pork over rice. Why would a pork dish have the word moo in its name? Pigs don't moo, that would be a cow, or beef--not pork. The K-something moo C-something moo came with half a barbequed egg. I'm not kidding, the description of the dish included one-half of a barbequed egg. I asked the waiter which half of the egg they used. He replied the right half. I then asked him what they did with the other half. Sensing that he was on the spot here to come up with another witty answer, a glint came to his eye and he came back with "we use it in another dish".
He was on a roll and I was too, so I asked him, "How do you barbeque an egg?" "At night," he said. "That way, it won't slip through the grill."
At this point the conversation was getting a little too weird for me, so I just let his last comment slide. If I made him mad by saying something I shouldn't, he might consider spitting in my moo moo pork and half a barbequed egg on the side, dish. I didn't want to take the chance. There are a few people in the world you don't want to make mad and your waiter is one of them. Your barber is another. I could think of a few more--------but someone would have to buy me a beer, first.
If you're ever in Nashville and want to "Thai-one-on" so to speak, The Smiling Elephant is your place.
C. Allen Benson
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)