If you have to hand-deliver your medication prescription to your druggist, you are going to have a wait on your hands, and a weight on your feet, while you stand around and let the druggist do her thing.
If you go to Wal-Mart like I do the wait can be made more interesting if you are subject to wander in wonder through all the new junk that just came in the back door right off a steamship freight container from China.
While waiting on my prescription to be filled I stumbled my way over to the garden section looking for a sprinkler can for my tomatoes. The Swilley Farm this year consists of six tomato plants that are requiring too many trips from the kitchen to the back deck just because they are thirsty. They begin to make choking sounds and turn yellow when I forget to water them. Our thimble-sized water pitcher makes the watering task tiresome.
I made my way to the bright and shiny objects over where they showcase highly polished ceramic planters. I was fascinated by three huge coffee cups and saucers you can plant your petunias in. One was white with red stripes, another had black stripes and a third one was white with green polka dots. I didn’t linger long because I know Katie Mae gets nervous when my fascination with brightly colored objects leaves me in a coma like trance.
I managed to tear myself away from the coffee cup planters but things got worse for me as I walked straight into a big free-standing framed rack that had dozens of brightly colored electronic fly flappers hanging from it. For only seven dollars you could personally own a delightful piece of electrified plastic and metal that you simply hold in the air, mash a button and it virtually sucks an offending insect from the air, tazers him right out of his miserable existence and mercilessly drops his fried, extinct carcass to the floor.
This thing was only seven bucks but I later found you could stretch your budget and go to the $17.99 model that is most appropriately named The Executioner, Fly, Swat, Wasp, Bug, Mosquito Swatter, Zapper. I don’t think they wanted to leave anything to your imagination when they named their invention.
Once again I was entranced. I stood there in a stupor and drooled over all the captivating colors. I decided on a bright pink model. I had a warm loving vision of my little bride smacking a big bad bug out of the air with one swift flick of her wrist. She’s still quick, that girl, and she has always been a great little athlete. Playing tennis with a mosquito, and him with no racket, was a no-brainer. How could she lose?
The smacking sound I heard was reality slapping me horizontally across my forehead with a ham-sized open hand.
Have I lost my mind? Do you get so old your memory dribbles out your ear and blows off in a dusty breeze? Katie Mae is deathly afraid of bugs. I would have to use a whole roll of duct tape to attach that racket to a broom stick for her and no body and no thing in the house would be safe with her swinging it at bugs.
And besides if you took it out on the deck which is ten or twelve feet above the ground, one of these North Georgia mosquitoes would grab it while you’re swinging at him and he would throw you off the deck so fast you would look like a helicopter making its final landing with one rotor missing.
The worst thing that smacking sound conjured up in my head was the terrible thought that Katie Mae could actually just walk up on me while I was trying to sleep-in some morning (most any morning) and catch me face down, pull my drawers down to just-below-cheek level and turn that darned thing on and smack the hell out of my fat tail with an electric fly swatter. Talk about a scorched fanny!
I can hear her saying, “Well I told you to get up!”
I threw the gadget into a planter shaped like a giant coffee cup and ran for the door.
Exacting revenge on the inventor of this terrible tool of torture would be sweet if only we could lash him to a board and smack his forehead about a hundred times with his electric swatter creation until his upper head looks like a French fried waffle.