Molar Musings

I just got back from a checkup at my dentist's office. The hygienist said my teeth were looking good and needed minimal cleaning. My dentist checked her work and said everything was just dandy, so that was good. I told them that my nightly red wine wash was obviously working. They agreed, somewhat reluctantly. I asked if they had free bacon flavored mouthwash. No deal. But they laughed. All that plain vanilla cheer and professionalism made me nostalgic for the dentist I had when we lived in Georgia. He was funny. Irreverent. And excellent. We carried on conversations much like the one that follows, and I am not making this up. Dentist: "Well, John, time to get that filling taken care of." Me: "Might as well. No one's hurt me so far today. You might as well start it off." Dentist: "I've been dreaming of the opportunity to test your pain threshold. Are you good and numb now?" Me: "Yep." Dentist: "Too bad, I was hoping it would hurt a little bit, just for my amusement."

He begins poking around in my mouth.

Me: "Looks like you're catching up on your instruments. But I miss the chisel and 5-pound sledge hammer." Dentist: "Hmmm, I don't think I should have nicked that gray thingy in there. Say, John, did that hurt?" Me: "No, but I'm numb from my chest down." Dentist (aside to his secretary): "Oh, Margie, would you call my lawyer, please?"

He works around inside my mouth some more.

Dentist: "Hmmmm, I didn't think you would bleed quite that much. Interesting. A little more suction, Susie," he says to the hygienist assisting. Me: "I'm feeling faint. And I haven't even seen your bill yet."

And so on. It's fun having a noir dentist, and I miss him.

Screen-shot-2011-08-11-at-12.42.46-PM

I'm coming out on my birthday...

I've decided to come out of the closet. I really should have stayed in because now it's not so crowded since Caitlyn Jenner and Rachel Dolezal have emerged. But I take courage from their disclosures and feel that I might as well let everyone know that I no longer identify myself as a white guy from Iowa. There. I've done it. But I'm not satisfied with just that admission. Oh, no. I am moving forward. I am me, hear me roar! I am proud and pleased as punch to say that I am the first trans-species person on the planet! Oh, I expect scoffers. I expect harassment from all over the place. And I expect and even demand lots of face time on the networks who have nothing more important to talk about than Caitlyn, Rachel, and weird weather.

You might be wondering what other species than homo sapiens I might identify with. Here it is. I, John Carenen, now identify with the three-toed sloth. One source described the species as "bizarre animals who appear to live in slow motion," and if that ain't me, you haven't been paying attention. I am also described as "cryptic" ("having a meaning that is mysterious or obscure" - Oxford English Dictionary) and "slow moving." Family, friends, former classmates, teachers, and coaches are all saying at once, "Aha! That explains it!"

Indeed.

All these years I have been living in slow motion and without any clear meaning, and now I know why. When I first concluded that I was trans-species, I thought maybe I was a Golden Retriever. But the truth has set me free. Slowly.

three-toed-sloth

Leftovers on Loan

Lately, I have been going to the public library here in Travelers Rest. It is excellent. And I've been checking out books. It's free! Who would have known? Anyway, it is wonderful, but I have noticed something as I plow through novels by Robert B. Parker and James Lee Burke. It is this: Some people who borrow books at the library have poor hygiene. It is a rare thing when I go more than three or four pages without coming across residue of some kind. I am positive I have found blood smears, mucous from at least two places in the human body, and food stains (frequently chocolate). If possible, I use a thumbnail to dislodge those deposits which can be dislodged. Then I sweep away the debris and continue. If the blemish is a stain, I just keep reading. After all, I am not a dilettante. Is this a general phenomenon, or does it apply only to those who read Parker and Burke? Knowing that there is no answer available, I will not let poor hygiene from previous readers deter me from enjoying a good story.

Far be it from me to participate in such sacrilege. When I read, I immediately blot out my wine and beer spills, and make sure to remove most of the pork rind crumbs, Cheese Puffs dust, and bacon bits before I return the book. I have standards.

horror

Facing Up To Facebook

Facebook is cool. It has been a fine thing for me to keep in touch with friends I had in elementary school and since. It has information, beautiful photos, enticing recipes, even inspiring postings. But it has other things. (Slow drumbeat in the background.)

It has opportunities that leave me wondering about, well, why would anyone want to go there? For example, something like this shows up: "Fifteen microscopic pictures of body parts that will make you sick to your stomach!" Yeah, can't wait to check that out. Or, "Ten horrifying secrets of your favorite movie star!" How can they be secrets if they're on Facebook? I'm sure my fetid imagination does not want to go there, either. If the lead-in is a fat John Travolta (not one of my favorites, by the way), shirtless, I'm moving on. Plenty of ick out there without hunting it down. Or "Look at what happens when a naked biker runs head-on into a bridge abutment!" Really? I know accidents on the interstate might make you slow down for a quick look, but that's something you run into driving home from work. But to SEEK OUT! awful things is beyond me. Finally, have you clicked on this?: "Watch man eat live tarantulas!"

No. Thanks.

Time to enjoy photos of puppies and ducklings, blind dogs being led by dogs that can see, and recipes of gooey casseroles.

facebook_like_thumb

Dee Clark was right...

"Oh no, they can't be teardropsFor a man ain't supposed to cry." - Dee Clark

And that's the way I was brought up. Guys don't cry. Period. When we had that Indian attack just as we got out of our Conestoga wagon to settle down for the night on the Great Plains, and I got an arrow in my shoulder? No crying. Gritted my teeth as taught and barely flinched when my dad pushed the arrow on through, snipped off the arrowhead, and pulled the shaft back out. I thought about sniffling a little when he poured in the mercurochrome, after all, I was only 8, but I fought it off. No crying! And proud of it.

So, a few weeks ago, at the soft urging of those who matter in the media, I decided to get in touch with my metrosexual self, my inner feminine side. I allowed myself to cry, urged on by our society's new and enlightened expectation of guys. I saw a butterfly and pointed and burst into tears. So beautiful. I watched the Hawkeyes destroy Davidson in The Big Dance. Sobs. I saw a newborn baby at church - uncontrollable weeping.

But that was the problem. "Uncontrollable."

Someone has to control themselves at all times or society will fall apart. Have you noticed how screwed up our country is these days? It's because men have become goober-faced wimps, swayed left and right from being urged to show emotions (soccer is another key turning point in American weakness - I mean, men and boys running around and kicking each other in the shins? But I digress.). I have now renounced all crying. Emotions are unreliable and I'm thrilled that I don't have any. They can get you into trouble. They lie. They deceive. They kid around with your innards.

So don't hang around and expect to see me get all squishy when something terrible or wonderful or routine happens. Ain't supposed to cry, Dee Clark sang. Damn straight. Gotta be some control somewhere.

Preston-real-men-2

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

panoramic-view-baseball-field I love baseball. And for all of you coming up with reasons for why you don't love baseball, know that I will ignore them.

It's that time of year when all the big league teams are undefeated and hoping or believing they'll win the World Series this season. Spring training is in full swing and the stories of older players hoping for one last season ("I'm in the best shape of my life") and rookies hoping for that first season ("I think I can, I think I can") abound.

I love baseball.The games are not restricted to a shot clock, halftime report, or endless time outs. The game begins with the first pitch and ends with the last pitch and that can be any length of time. So what? What's the hurry? Take time for a conversation with the guy in the seat next to you, go up to the concession stand for a brat and beer, watch the entire field instead of being limited to what the camera allows. Keep score. Take. Your. Time.

Catch a few rays. Consider strategy. Guess how many ways a runner can score from third base (I came up with 11 just off the top of my head), keep score.

I love baseball. It smells good. Leather gloves, baseballs, freshly-cut grass, the scent of pine tar on bats, resin on the ball.

I love baseball. It sounds good. The crack of bat on ball (send all aluminum bats to hell), a fastball popping into the catcher's kit, runners running, umpires calling a player out.

I love baseball. It looks good. The manicured field, the green grass and brown of the skinned infield, the open sky, the ads on the outfield walls, the Green Monster in Fenway, the ivy in Wrigley Field.

Go to a game. Turn off your cell phone. Better yet, leave the stupid thing at home. Watch, listen, smell. Relax. You'll be glad.

I love baseball.

I Saw the Sign

logo Recently I had the oil changed in our Honda Accord. On the way home from the shop, I drove down one of the busiest, commercially-loaded streets in town. Traffic was moving slowly, so I had opportunity to glance at the signs for various business enterprises along the route. These are three that caught my attention.

One: "Breakout Bra's." I am not kidding. Imagine.

Two: "Rainbow Vacuums." I always thought rainbows were pretty, and now we have a vacuum that apparently sucks them up.

Three: "Mr. Mattress." For some reason, I thought of Hugh Heffner.

I think I'll go another way home next time I get the oil changed. Easier on the neck.

Apples vs. Oranges vs. Nugat

I was at the supermarket today, comparing apples and oranges (Golden Delicious and Navel), and bought some of both for snacks. And then it hit me. What in the world was I doing buying fresh fruit for snacks? I know my mom always encouraged me to, when I wanted a snack, "Have an apple, knucklehead," but why in the world would a kid like me prefer an apple over a Snickers bar or an orange instead of a six-pack of chocolate-covered Spudnuts? Give me a break, Mom. And now, and now, as I "mature," and as I change some of my eating habits out of preference, I am beginning to understand. Always the dim bulb among my friends, who knew better on just about everything before I figured things out, it's getting clearer. Those apples and oranges really are sweet AND good for me. Un-believable! My mom would be proud, after she got over being stunned.

Sitting back in the car in the big Publix parking lot, enjoying the pint of chocolate milk (not low fat) I picked up in the dairy section, along with the jumbo Payday candy bar at checkout, I contemplated the benefits and joys of a refined personal menu, and gave thanks.

payday

No more Dr. Squeegy-Hands

I'm a little grumpy today. Last week I cancelled my Friday classes so I could fit into an orthopedic surgeon's schedule for a consult about my injured right arm. I arrived promptly 15 minutes before my appointment so I could fill out the required 37 pages of questions they had for me. Then I was told I could sit and they would come get me when it was time. They had little pagers that would send a shock through one's privates to let them know they were next. Around 10:10 a little helper came and took me back to a sterile room. "Dr. Squeegy-Hands will be back in a moment to see you. You may take off your shirt." I waited until she had left before taking off my shirt lest she swoon.

I read Architectural Digest and two more magazines, learning that there is a cool villa for sale in the south of France for just $100 million. I waited and waited. I wrote a little. No one came by. At 11:20 I put on my shirt and left, more than a little annoyed.

At 12:10 they must have noticed I was gone. There was a phone call. On my cell phone (I hate cell phones) as I was attending to errands. The lady had the temerity to ask, "How are you, Mr. Carenen?"

I told her, exercising great restraint in avoiding perky Anglo-Saxonisms. She apologized. I told her it wasn't her fault, but the fault of the arrogant, inconsiderate, self-absorbed, and unprofessional Dr. Squeegy-Hands.

I decided I could do without a consult for a while, give my arm a little more time to recover, then, if it is still troublesome, seek out another orthopedic surgeon. A different one. One who does not see himself or herself as God incarnate.

Yeah, I'm a little grumpy.

I miss Banana Flips

I drifted into one of those snooty supermarkets, you know the kind, where they have hand-held-throughout-the-growing-season arugula for sale. Let's call it, hmmm, "Elitist Market." Anyway, I only went there to get four items. Four. I knew they would have them. I mean, if I could buy Norwegian goats' milk cheese from animals that listen to Chopin as they sleep, I could find four items in that supermarket. Four items. The main one was a key ingredient for Swedish meatballs from a recipe given to me by one of my students, a fine young lady from Sweden who is at Newberry College to earn a college degree and play golf. The item was blackberry current jelly. Elitist Market did not have it! I looked high and low and found a wide variety of jellies, many whispered to in the packing process, and Elitist Market did not have it.

I was frustrated, convinced that the end times was near. They didn't have the other three items, either! I walked out of the place empty-handed, muttering.

The other four items? Milk Duds, Banana Flips, and candy cigarettes.

The apocalypse looms.

images

Bug Back Boogey

Recently, my LSW (long-suffering wife) and I spent four days visiting her sister and brother-in-law at a state park in eastern North Carolina. In an RV. This was no skanky RV, dear reader. It had an upstairs, a downstairs, and a basement. Suffice it to say, we did not suffer. In addition, one afternoon there was free entertainment at the campsite across the road from us. A young woman was laying out food and utensils on a picnic table, obviously preparing lunch for her husband and child. She was a redhead. She wore a summer shift. Everything was pleasant and peaceful, and then a bug went down her back, inside the confines of the shift.

What followed was a wildly-gyrating interpretive dance that had to be seen to be believed. In an attempt to dislodge the insect, this lady engaged a variety of moves that would have made Michael Jackson appear to be a catatonic. It was either a fertility dance or an ode to Satan, but in either case, it was energetic enough to free her from the intruder that had slipped inside her shift. Mission accomplished, undeterred, she continued with her work at the picnic table.

I finished my chilled glass of domestic chablis, entertained random thoughts of youth and energy, and nodded off into the comfort of a nice nap.

Manly Mucus

I was brought up to believe that spitting, even if I called it “expectorating," was vile. I was led to believe that spitters were corrupt, nasty, icky, disgusting, and had communistic tendencies. So I didn’t spit. I took on the unified and consistent teachings of my parents and elementary school teachers. Since I’ve lived in the South a long time now, and never learned to spit, I feel as if my manhood has somehow been eroded. Even though, in my dark and sordid past, I hunted and fished and even played golf, I don’t do those things any more. I don’t have a pickup truck. I don’t hang around WalMart in a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off revealing my barbed wire tattooed biceps. All because I never learned to spit.

It wasn’t that I didn’t try. I did. I failed. The best I could do was blow out a kind of spray with no direction, power, or concentrated warhead. I could expectorate a watermelon seed a little ways, controlling its direction, but that’s not the same as spitting, um, well, you know - SPIT. I have given up, which is a sign of a failure.

Someone suggested I get a little dab of Chattanooga Chew and practice spittin’ brown juice. I drew a line on that one. I do not want to emulate grasshoppers.

Still, somehow, men in the South just know how. As I look out my office window I see college students spitting, demonstrating that spitters can’t be profiled only as illiterate rednecks from deep in the piney forests, although I have had a few freshmen that were those things. The art of spitting spreads across generations, races, ethnic groups, and just about any religious belief. And so, to me, the evidence is clear that if I’m to be a real man, I need to learn how to spit.

On the other hand, I just remembered that I have a chainsaw and know how to wield it. Without spitting. There. My voice is getting deeper already.

Spitting man

Techno Battle

I am normally a pretty laid-back guy. I can only think of one time I raised my voice during the 41 years of marriage, and that was a long time ago. (I don’t count my increased decibel level while watching the Hawkeyes and the Red Sox.) But I do get frustrated, and that frustration is almost always technology-related. That’s because technology knows when it’s me and decides to mess with my mind. Recently, I had a variety of frustrating moments with my email carrier. It wouldn’t let me open emails. It wouldn’t let me send emails. Finally, it told me why. Due to “unusual activity” with my emails, they decided to put a lock on my emails. This resulted in my having to come up with a new password, which I did. Now it doesn’t allow me to do any of those things again. With the new password. Which they approved.

angry-computer-large-500x320

So earlier this week I spent hours fighting the good fight and growing more and more frustrated. I ate a handful of TUMS as if they were M & M’s. I finally got through thanks to help from my long-suffering wife. I stomped away from the computer and decided to run some errands. One of my errands was to get cash from the automatic teller at our bank. I did get the cash, but some of the bills were upside-down. I am not a control looney, but this was annoying. How difficult can it be for a freaking BANK! to simply have all the bills facing the same way and right side up? On top of that, their serial numbers were not consecutive. I drove away, jaw set, teeth grinding.

Then I took a huge risk. After Mapquesting Blockbuster to see where their nearest site was (two we’ve used in the past are now a pet shop and an auto parts store, I got the address and drove to the location. Empty. Nothing there. So I went ahead and headed for a nearby Red Box. Previous experiences with Red Box had been frustrating, to say the least, especially for someone like me hated by technology. I decided to try once again. And it worked! I was ecstatic, euphoric, and pleased! I selected the second movie in the Hunger Games series and went home with my prize. My long-suffering wife was impressed and, even though the movie was about an hour too long and frequently defied logic, we enjoyed it.

When I took it back, it was rejected. The Red Box told me I put it in the slot wrong.

Goin' Gray

I suffer from "Gray Automobile Confusion Syndrome," or GACS. There, I said it. My long-suffering wife and I own two gray automobiles; actually, just one is gray, the other is what they euphemistically call "silver." It's gray. My problem is that I return to my car left in a parking lot and ultimately discover it is not my car. It belongs to someone else. It looks like my car. It is not. So I stand there pushing the little "unlock" button on my car thingy and nothing happens. The parking lights don't flash, there is no sound of doors unlocking. Nothing.

Then it dawns on me. It's the wrong gray car in a monochromatic parking lot filled with other gray cars like mine. I look for something inside that would clue me in to the fact that it is, actually, my car. Workout gloves, book I'm reading, an item of clothing distinctively mine.

Another person approaches. A woman. She is getting closer. The parking lights flash, the door unlocks, I edge away. Successfully offer up a confused, pathetic, brainless look. A weak smile. She does not smile back. I turn and begin wandering through the parking lot, pushing the little "unlock" button on my car thingy. My gray cars says, "I'm over here. Stupid."

I slink up to the gray car and get in, slouching behind the wheel, pressing the ignition button. I wait until the woman gets in her car and leaves. I wait a long time after she has gone. She thinks I'm a creep, a stalker; worse, a dweeb. She's right.

I drive home in my gray car.

gray-cars

Ah-Nold, I'm not

Ah-nold I've decided not to enter the 2014 Mr. Olympia Contest. I gave it a lot of thought, talked to Arnold, and decided to let it go. However, that doesn't mean I don't head to the gym anymore. I like to go, think about working out, look at the free weights and machines, and then do about seven hard minutes on the elliptical trainer. Then it's chocolate milk and maybe a couple of doughnuts to hasten my recovery.

There are characters at the gym. One of my favorites is the guy who grunts and shouts and drops weights when he's finished a set. I have noticed that these guys only grunt and shout and huff and puff when females are present. Maybe just a coincidence.

I tend to avoid mirrors for obvious reasons, but there are plenty of Mirror Men at the gym who can't help themselves, flexing and prancing and grimacing. When they're through, the gym attendant has to come by and get the kiss marks off the mirrors.

Others perform a couple of half-reps in the machine, stay seated there, then chat with friends before their next set. This ties up the equipment, but at least I give them credit for being at the gym. These people are usually my age or older. I don't have the heart to tell them to move on; besides, it gives me an excuse not to perform that particular exercise.

And those are just the men who work out at my gym. The women are a whole different category, as always. So I'll write about them later. Right now, I hear the refrigerator calling.

Probably not Probable

I just heard on the news that our leaders in Congress (sorry about the contradiction in terms) have reached a bipartisan agreement to extend the ban on "undetectable firearms" for another ten years. Think about that for just a minute. That should be plenty of time to prompt a question or two.

Time's up. So, how in the world are the police going to enforce a ban against something that's "undetectable"?

The idea from these politicians is to make it illegal to have one of those plastic guns that aren't detectable, the kind that can slip right through airport screening without being, um, detected.

Okay, so I can accept the premise that one does not want people boarding aircraft packing heat.

But the question comes back. Ban or no, if the firearm is undetectable, how in the world will law enforcement be able to arrest someone for having something that is undetectable? Probable cause? If a person looks like they might be the kind who would be carrying around an undetectable firearm, should they be searched for something that can't be detected? And if the cops don't find it, doesn't that make the person guilty? The fact that the officers couldn't find the gun on the person must mean that the person has it, right?

I thought so. Next stop? A law to ban silent prayer.

Policeman: Hey, you, were you just praying silently? Being: No, sir. Policeman: I'm arresting you on probable cause. You looked like you were praying silently. Being: But, officer . . . Policeman (taking out his handcuffs): You have the right to remain silent, you have . . .

*&%^$#@^*&^$

Asshole. Shit. Fuck. These words do not offend me; after all, I’ve been around a long time and in a lot of places, including the military. To be offended means I have to take offense, and I don’t. I pray these first three words of my blog do not offend you, dear reader. But they do indicate what I call the coarsening of America. English is the language with the largest lexicon in the world, so why not take the time to come up with a better way of expressing strong feelings? I know those first three words of this blog are used for emphasis. While it works, it saddens me to see them used so often, especially in the social media. In literature, I understand. In movies, I’m not so sure. But when I go to Facebook those words are all over the place. See for yourself.

That’s not to say I’ve never used such strong Anglo-Saxonisms myself. But I do rarely, and only in my private, personal life, when no one is around. At specific times. Such as when I see a snake. By surprise.

Instead of writing, “Fuck you, England, you assholes are full of shit,” this Irish guy wrote “A Modest Proposal.” And isn’t that better?

Left field for the Sox or industrial gaskets?

industrial gasket I was driving around the other day, not lost yet, and saw a business that announced "Industrial Gaskets" and I wondered, where did that idea come from? I mean, when asked as a child, "What do you want to do when you grow up?" imagine this, squeaky little voice and earnest facial expression: "I want to have an Industrial Gasket store!"

It set me to wondering what happens to lead people into different capacities as adults; I mean, do children want to grow up to be podiatrists, mattress salespeople, septic tank specialists?

I wanted to play professional baseball. For the Red Sox. Left field. I gave it up when, at the age of 15, I realized I couldn't see well enough to distinguish between the rotation of a curve ball and the spin of a fast ball. Two pitches that didn't break on two consecutive at-bats resulted in two beanings that drove the point home. But at least I got to first base, although they had to point me in the direction. Explains a lot, I think.

Then I wanted to be a writer, but why? Maybe it was the positive attention from my friends for writing grisly, warped-humor poems in high school. More likely, it was a creative writing teacher when I was a senior who encouraged me, and still does. Maybe it was the fun of making things up that people liked.

So that's what I am now - a writer. Pretty happy about that. I would've made a lousy industrial gasket guy.

Whale-watchin'

humpback_whale_sfw Some of you reading this doubt that there are demons. Had you been on a recent flight with me from Charlotte to Seattle, your minds would have been changed. I don't know the filthy little brat's name, but he emitted shrieks and shouts accompanied with outright temper tantrums and screams of "NO!" for about four and a half of the five and a half hour flight. His parents were incompetents, so everyone else on the flight suffered. He should be a prize when he's fourteen.

Other than that, our cruise to Alaska turned out well. There's a whole subculture of people who cruise their lives away; some of these folks had been on fifteen or twenty cruises. This was our first.

Alaska is breathtaking. The scenery, the people, the wildlife all made the trip a pleasure.

They love their wildlife in Alaska. Even in the little towns there are places where creatures could hang out. For instance, I saw a Moose Lodge in Ketchikan and an Eagles' club of some kind in Skagway. We saw a black bear crossing a city street in Ketchikan, bald eagles all over the place (including one in a tree that we got within six feet of before it took flight), and eighteen hump-backed whales in one place - a rarity.

Speaking of whales, there were quite a few on the ship. One had red hair and an attitude. And I must say, I have never seen so many morbidly obese people in my life. With "dining anytime" privileges, I had a pretty good run at being a fat boy myself. I was on first name terms with the sausage chef, Guido; and the bacon chef, Arnauld.

My long-suffering wife, Lisa, ate fruit and salmon. That's why women outlive men. More sense.

Even at night there were interesting amenities, such as first-run movies in our cabin. We watched "The Life of Pi" one night and I told Lisa when it was over that they'd never get me on an ocean-going vessel. She gave me a strange look. Women.

So now we're back at the Carenen Cottage and a simpler life. My diet starts today, and I'm sure that somewhere, somehow, Guido and Arnauld are cheering me on.

At least the shirt was clean...

People rarely ask me for advice, and I'm okay with that. As a result, however, sometimes I kindly offer advice, even though it has not been sought. Here's my advice to you: Don't put an open tube of Super Glue in your mouth. You're welcome. No charge.

Understand that this advice comes from someone who hit himself in the head with a baseball bat when just a mere boy, who walked into a stop sign and split his head open resulting in profuse bleeding for which I was unaware until the lady at the dry cleaners screamed, and who was struck on the head by lightning shortly after being married.

Head issues. I'll admit it.

The reason I advise against placing an open tube of Super Glue in one's mouth is born out of experience. A few days ago I was gluing a chair spindle into the place it was supposed to be. So I placed the Super Glue in the hole in the chair and some more on the spindle Then I replaced the spindle in the proper place, but that took two hands; one to hold the chair and one to push the spindle.

What to do with the Super Glue? I figured I could gently hold the tube in my mouth, and I could. Still, some oozed out onto the roof of my mouth, which I worked with for the nest few days, making funny faces for which people held me accountable.

My younger daughter asked me why I didn't hold it with the opening outside my mouth, and I told her, "I didn't want to get any on my shirt."

At that, she began laughing much harder and longer than I thought necessary, without explanation.

Anyway, as the Animals warned in their hit single, "The House of the Rising Sun," just be sure you " . . . don't do what I have done."

You're welcome.