My dad: “Jennifer! I need to talk to you RIGHT! NOW!”

Me (sitting down, just in case): “OK.”

My dad: “Are you familiar with a product called ‘Vera Mist’?”

Me (realizing that it’s OK to relax, yet not entirely sure where this is going): “Um, no.”

My dad: “Well, your mother and I were just watching TV and we saw a commercial for it. Apparently it’s a new nasal spray.”

Me: “Hm.”

My dad: “And you know how they have all that small print at the bottom of the screen, like ‘Not for use for children under 12′ and things like that?”

Me: “Yeah.”

My dad: “Well, one of the disclaimers said-and I swear, this is exactly what it said-’It is not entirely known how Vera Mist works.’

Me: (now in dire need of some Vera Mist myself, due to all the snorts of laughter.)

My dad (imitating a marketing executive): “Yeah, we don’t actually know what our product does. But why don’t you just go ahead and squirt it right up your nose anyway? Near your brain!”

Picture of an egg: “This is your brain.”

Picture of an egg frying in a pan: “This is your brain on drugs.”

Well, I’m feeling a real affinity for that commercial this morning. and I’m thinking that I could revive that ad campaign by making my own, updated version of that commercial. Only mine would not be about substance abuse. Mine would say, “This is my brain after four days of an extremely inflamed shoulder muscle, which was then poked with what felt like really sharp sticks, but was actually a licensed health care professional using medically approved health care tools.” Catchy, huh?

The purpose of my commercial would be to illustrate the process my mind undergoes as it searches for the perfect, most articulate, most precise method of utilizing swear words to describe this particular pain. (Hey, I never said my commercial would have a deep or meaningful purpose.)

Step 1: I mentally inventory all the “bad” words I know, often trying them out in a Fill-In-The-Blank, Complete The Following Sentence With The Best Word sort of situation.

For example, “_____, my shoulder hurts!” Or, “My shoulder hurts like_____!” (This is where all my years as a language teacher really come in handy.)

Step 2: Once I’ve settled on the perfect word I play around with it a bit, to see if there are any ways that I can embellish it.

For example, Can I string it out by adding extra syllables? Can I stress it in a different way? Can I pronounce it in a funny accent?

Step 3: Next I look for a catchy theme song or a kicky advertising jingle, in order to set my words to music.

I don’t need to provide an example here, because I know that if you’re reading this post, you’re already experimenting with this process for yourself.

Step 4: Generally by this time the pain meds have begun to kick in, so my song drifts down to the level of a mantra, or a tribal chant.

For example, “BUM, bum, bum, bum, BUM, bum, bum, bum, BU-um, BUM.”

I’m not really sure what happens next because, if all has gone according to plan, at this point I am finally asleep. Or, at the very least, I am enjoying the benefits of a heavily medicated stupor, cradled by this gentle lullaby: “BUM, bum, bum, bum, BUM, bum, bum, bum, BU-um, BUM.”

And what did I encounter in this amazing place of clarity? A deep insight into the mystery of life? A powerful connection with the Divine? Actually, yes. But in the middle of those incredible experiences, somehow there was also still room for the following thought:

“Whatever it is I think I see, becomes a Tootsie Roll to me.”

So what that says to me is that apparently, I will never truly understand how the mind works, no matter how much I may study it.

For example, why is it that I often have trouble remembering simple things like my age and my phone number, yet I can recall almost the entire sign language alphabet which I learned in 1977 when I was in kindergarten?

And it’s not just my mind I don’t understand, either.

This weekend my husband and I were visiting some friends, one of whom was telling us about her brother’s recent wedding. She began by describing how her brother called her on a Thursday to tell her that he was getting married that following Monday. So she and her mother decided to fly out and help with the preparations. After running around all weekend they finally made it to the day of the wedding, and she and her mom were with the bride-to-be as she was getting her hair done for the ceremony.

Our friend: “So, she finally found someone to do her hair. He was a little person. You know, that’s what you’re supposed to call midgets now.”
Us: “Huh. That’s different.”
Our friend: “Yeah, so as he was doing her hair and riding around on his scooter…”
Us: (interrupting with snorts of laughter)
Us: “What?! He was riding a scooter?!”
Our Friend: “Well, yeah, because he couldn’t walk. So, anyway, I had to be his assistant and hand him his tools because his partner had to go out.”
Us: (the snorts have become shouts now)
Us: “What?! He was a gay midget hairdresser?”
Our Friend: “Yeah. But his partner isn’t a midget. He’s a regular-sized person.”

At this point further conversation became impossible, because my husband was laughing so hard that he was crying, and I was laughing so hard that I fell off of their couch and onto their living room floor.

But believe it or not, that was not the funniest part of this story. The funniest part was the fact that our friend told us this story with absolutely no reaction whatsoever. She. Never. Laughed. Once. And she honestly did not understand why we were in hysterics. She told the story in a tone of voice that suggested that gay, scooter-riding, hair-dressing midgets are a time-honored, traditional part of everyone’s nuptial experience.

I don’t really have anything more to add to this story, which I truly believe was a gift from the humor heavens. So to close, I will share with you the additional mental gem I received during my weekend of quiet contemplation:

“Pass, pass, pass, pass the Old El Paso.”

So about two weeks ago I finally took our knives in to be professionally sharpened. Everything was going along just fine until the man helping me asked me what I wanted him to do about the edges on one particular group of knives, in a tone that suggested that, a) I should know exactly what he was talking about, b) clearly the mere fact that these knives even had this type of edge should have been keeping me up at night, and c) I should apologize for even owning that kind of knife, much less bringing it into a professional cutlery establishment.

I decided to do what anyone would do when faced with a room full of sharp knives, dangerous machinery, and a very large man with bulging, tattoo-laden biceps who tests knife blades by slicing off his own arm hair. I told him to do whatever he wanted.

So he did, and now that our knives cut well again I am ready to be seized by a new compulsion. I’ll keep you posted as things develop.