Dear You,
Riding the casino boat out of Melbourne, Florida, you look in vain for the Pretty People, the sort you might see at your neighborhood pool or PTA meeting. Take my word for it - I traveled fore and aft on all levels of the SunCruz ship looking for an unweathered face.
By and large (and that can be taken in a literal sense) they seemed a hard lot. Those who weren't smoking appeared to have burned a few cartons in their past. The several bars were busy before we cast off at 11 that morning.
The boat and its passengers weren't going anywhere. The goal for the former was to make its way outside the three-mile limit, after that cruising north and south and north for the next few hours. As for the passengers, most would drive home that afternoon with less in their pockets and purses than they brought. And not because the ticket was dear - only $8! - or the drinks were overpriced. As long as you pressed the button or rolled the dice, the drinks were free.
For whatever reason, I managed to stay above it all. Literally, since I found a quiet chair up top where I could watch the gulls and finish reading "Glory in Death" before it was time to learn how much money my companions had lost.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
But don't call 9-1-1 just yet!
Dear You,
Every time I wind up in the hospital, and despite any pain that otherwise confuses my thinking, I remember to ask for one of those little pressurized containers of shaving cream.
These come with the plastic razor, the thin washcloth, the little bar of soap and the breakable comb, in a pink plastic tub that fits into the rollaway tray-table that also holds the get-well-soon flowers and ice water with the bendable straw. I make nice with the nurse after I hide the first can - it's about the size of an inhaler, so it can go unnoticed even in a pajama pocket! - and I request another. They have hundreds of the things, I figure, so I don't consider this larceny.
With luck, I am released back into the world with at least two - sometimes more! - of them. Back at home, my shaving needs are met with the big red and black can of Gillette Foamy I keep under the sink. This is just not suitable when I am Away.
In my toilet kit, everything is small and travel-sized: comb, toothpaste, anti-perspirant . . . all available in the supermarket or drugstore. And thanks to Rochester General, so is my shaving cream.
Every time I wind up in the hospital, and despite any pain that otherwise confuses my thinking, I remember to ask for one of those little pressurized containers of shaving cream.
These come with the plastic razor, the thin washcloth, the little bar of soap and the breakable comb, in a pink plastic tub that fits into the rollaway tray-table that also holds the get-well-soon flowers and ice water with the bendable straw. I make nice with the nurse after I hide the first can - it's about the size of an inhaler, so it can go unnoticed even in a pajama pocket! - and I request another. They have hundreds of the things, I figure, so I don't consider this larceny.
With luck, I am released back into the world with at least two - sometimes more! - of them. Back at home, my shaving needs are met with the big red and black can of Gillette Foamy I keep under the sink. This is just not suitable when I am Away.
In my toilet kit, everything is small and travel-sized: comb, toothpaste, anti-perspirant . . . all available in the supermarket or drugstore. And thanks to Rochester General, so is my shaving cream.
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