Luck of the Polish, Part 1

I came home last weekend after being out of town and was looking forward to a couple days of nearly epic laziness. That's when I found a small red spot on my skin just above the sock line on my right leg. The spot was itching, so I did what any idiot would do: I scratched the hell out of it.

Soon the little red spot had a few friends on my right leg and then he had a few friends on my left leg. They must really have been enjoying themselves, too, because they were all puffed up and burning and itching like nothing I have ever experienced. It was the kind of itch that makes you want to scratch until your fingernails come off.

I discussed the situation with my mother on the telephone. She said, "It sounds like you have poison ivy. Please don't scratch it until your fingernails come off."
"What about double-amputation?" I said with a quavering voice.
"Go to the pharmacy."

I told the pharmacist of my situation. She gave me a look that sent a subtle message. "The rest of the people in your life may not think you're an idiot," said the look, "but I know." She guided me to a shelf of pink plastic bottles.

I was skeptical. I had seen that pink plastic bottle before. I had seen it in every medicine cabinet I'd ever snooped around in while going to the bathroom at a party. It was always three-quarters full and wearing a label that placed its manufacture date somewhere in the mid- 70's. This pink plastic bottle didn't seem to be helping the general public. I looked at the pharmacist. Her body language said, "This is your only option... idiot."

I bought the pink plastic bottle and some cotton swabs and started home. I should say that I sprinted home. The little burning, itching red spots on my leg had given me this wonderful new urgency with which to conduct my life: I longed to run everywhere.

I had little to no faith in the pink plastic bottle, but... well... desperation is a funny thing...

(to be continued)

Effortless Winking and Other Talents Possessed By My Alter-ego

I only allow myself to drink on Sundays. It’s a part of my diet plan. Actually, I don’t allow myself to call it a “diet plan”. I prefer to call it a “lifestyle change”. Of course, calling it a “lifestyle change” makes me seem like one of those self-help junkies that never really seem to change during the “lifestyle change”. I think I’ll call it Project Kickass.

So, as I was saying, I only drink on Sundays because of Project Kickass. It follows that Sundays are now the only day that Neil makes an appearance. Neil is my drinking alter-ego. After I drink a certain amount, he enters the room. Neil often dances into the room. Neil is a dancer.

Neil is a talker. I don’t like to have Neil talking to people for too long. It’s not that I’m embarrassed by Neil- I’m afraid that if Neil were given enough time, he might run for public office. If Neil ran for public office, he would win. Neil knows how to build a constituency.
Neil knows how to talk to the ladies. Neil is not intimidated. He always remembers names and he knows how to flatter. Neil can wink. He can wink without closing both eyes or twisting up half his face like he’s having a stroke. Neil knows when to ask for a dance.

Neil knows politics, religion and economics. He will let you know who you should have voted for, give you some tips on meditation and has a very interesting investment opportunity to tell you about.

I can’t let Neil out more than once a week. Last Monday, I woke up with a personal check from a person with a very Russian sounding name, three voicemail messages from someone claiming to be my campaign manager, and the distinct feeling that I had been slapped only hours before.

I erased the voicemails, ate a healthy breakfast and went to the gym. It was time for Dave to take over the choice-making. Dave is most likely never going to run for office, but he’s going to work on the winking.


P.S. Don’t worry, Vlad, the bank won’t let me cash anything made out to Neil.