Ou est le bibliotheque?

 I was sipping a chilled glass of an extraordinary vintage Merlot when Walter, my major-domo and family retainer, told me the good news.  The Queen has requested red roses from my esteemed gardens for Kate Middleton's wedding bouquet.

"Fine news," I replied, coolly. It's best not to show too much emotion with the servants. "Please tell Her Majesty...."

Then my alarm went off and I had to get up and go to work.
 
I work for a well-respected neurosurgeon who is forever running around the world, sharing his words of wisdom and single-handedly saving lives. But saving the world, while rewarding, is also extremely exhausting.  Just last week he attended an all-day conference in Los Angeles, then was a speaker at a dinner conference, hopped a red-eye back to Baltimore without sleeping, and was in his office at 8:30 am. 

"You know, " I said to him, "you don't have to save the world alone. I can go on these trips and represent you." There is nothing I like better than traveling on other people's dime...er...I mean, doing my part to help. 

Dr. Lifesaver just looked at me, momentarily wondering if perhaps I'd lost my mind.  A thought, I believe, which has occurred to him before. 

"And tell what you know about  Reverse Delayed Ischemic Neurological Deficits after Aneurysmal Subarachnoid Hemorrhage?" he asked. 

"Oh, puh-leeze," I sputtered. "Just give me some notes and I'll be fine. Seriously, if I could understand the last two seasons of  Lost, this reverse... epidemic.. dismal submarine hemorrhoid stuff should be a breeze."

For some reason, he has declined my kind offer.  I haven't given up, however. In a few months, the doc is going to France. Yes, France, the one place I have dreamed of going since...well, since he told me about it. 

While I don't exactly speak fluent French, I know enough to get by. 

"Ou est le bibliotheque?"  For you non-Francophiles, that translates to "Where is the library? " How much more would one need to know? 

When I enlightened Monsieur le Doctor of my linguistic talents, he reminded me that he, himself, had lived and studied in Paris for three years. 

"Exactly, " I replied, swiftly changing tactics, "you need somebody like me along to make you look good. You know the French are always criticizing how American's butcher their tongue. But next to me, always asking  where is the library, you will look like a genius." 

Of course, that stopped the conversation. He doesn't need to look like a genius because he is a genius.

Damn it.

Something tells me that the only view I will see of Paris is the postcard he sends. And knowing Dr. Lifesaver, it'll be a picture of a stupid library.

Candles and Waxes and Nuns...........Oh My.

When I was a junior in college,  I was also employed as a staff writer with an "underground" newspaper. Their articles were usually peppered with words not normally found on the pages of the stuffier Baltimore Sun or now defunct Baltimore News American; words like shit-faced and cocksucker. Example: "So as I was marching up Remington Avenue, holding my "Kill Whitey" sign, some shit-faced, trailer-trash cocksucker threw a brick at my head." 

Aside from writing hard-hitting journalistic masterpieces, (Infiltrating the JHU Party Scene: One Woman's Journey into Nerdville), I was also tasked,  two mornings a week, with assisting the walk-in customers who wanted to advertise in our little gazette.  I believe I was given this job because:

a) the mostly male staffers would rather have chewed their own balls off than do this, and

b) I was the single person sober enough to be responsible for this cash-only enterprise.

All the lonely people (really, where do they all come from?) found their way to my desk. A veritable Ms. Manners among the kinky set, I would offer suggestions on wording their ads just right. After all, I had the sterling reputation of the paper to think of.

"Hmmm, so you are looking for a woman who will drip hot candlewax on your bare chest.," I 'd say to a would-be paramour.  "Perhaps,"  I'd advised, "we can go with this heading. "Are you a woman Seeking Warm Times By Candlelight?"

One fine morning, as absolutely adorable young man came to my desk desiring to place a personal ad seeking a nun who could offer companionship and stern discipline.

Trying to be real cool and unjudgmental and all, I sputtered, "I'm....sorry, but I didn't think nuns, you know....dated."

"It doesn't have to be a real nun," he allowed, looking as if he would bolt for the door any second. "I'll take a  woman in a nun costume."

Of course, maybe a real nun would respond to his ad. I've always felt there was something  mysterious about nuns. One time when my mother was indisposed, my father got the kids ready for school.  He let us eat birthday cake for breakfast.  And as soon as I walked into the fourth grade classroom, Sister Alfreda looked and me and knew about the birthday cake.  She just knew. Witches all of them, I swear.

I took their money, set up the ads, and never saw any of them again.  I've often wondered if  these lost souls every found the woman of their dreams. I hope so. It's a cold world out there, folks, and we all need a little love, be it in the form of a candle dripper or  role-playing nun, to keep us warm.

How Hitler Sabotaged My Sex Life

Recently my friend, Cheryl, a feng-shui superstah, gave me some pertinent advice on how to jump-start my dormant romantic life.

"Remove your father's Nazi sword from your underwear drawer," she advised.

Good advice for anyone, I would think.

It really is a Nazi sword that my father brought back from his service duty during World War II. How my father got this sword is nebulous, as he fought in the Pacific Theater, not in Europe. I know he must have told me the history of the sword, but....and this is embarrassing to admit....whenever he started to talk about The War, my mind automatically went elsewhere....you know, important stuff like shoes, or what happened last week on "Dallas." 

Now that I am old enough to appreciate, and be proud of, Dad's wartime accomplishments, it is too late for me to learn about the sword. Dad had been gone many years now, so the mystery of the sword will go unanswered. Luckily for me, I have a gift for lying out my butt, so this is the story I tell people:

"My father single-handedly kicked Hitler's ass, " I tell them. "Here's the proof."

That's right. That's my made up story and I am sticking to it.

Anyhoo, I have been traveling around with this sword for decades now, holding on to it as a piece of my father's history. The tricky thing about having Nazi paraphernalia is...well, where to you put it in your house?
It is, after all, a link to a horrific time of darkness. Plus I have some sticky-fingered relatives who have been eyeing that baby for years. Far be it for me to name names, but you know who you are.

So what do you do with a piece of history that you don't want to put on display? Why, let it find a home in your lingerie drawer, of course. For years, it has been content to snuggle up between silk teddies and delicate unmentionables. This coincides with the time my love life seemed to dry up like a used lemon slice and I started sleeping....alone.....in old  tee-shirts.

Coinky-dinky? Or something more? Hmmmm......

Just recently, in the spirit of feng-shui, I have removed the sword from the lingerie drawer and given it to my sister for safe keeping. She and her husband have been married for 33 years; I'm guessing that they are not exactly humping like rabbits anyway.

So now that Hitler is out of my underwear, I am just sittin' back, waiting for the phone to ring. But, being a grey-haired goddess and all, just don't call past 9 pm, okay?