Hand Talk

Tony says that his first wife divorced him because of his hands. What?!

Tony is Italian. Well, Italian from  New York City's Little Italy.  His grandparents emigrated from Italy, his father like he was born in New York, and his mother was a full-blooded Italian.

"We Italians speak with our hands," he tells me. "We can't do it any other way!"

His first wife was from an English stock, "you know, stiff upper lip, hands by your side. Just watch British films or TV series to see what I mean."  And she was from a large family living in a small house.  Tony figures that sitting at the the crowded dinner table the kids had to keep their hands in front of their bodies to eat, there was no room for gesticulation.

"So, she hated my gesticulation, it irritated the hell out of her," he says.   (His second wife is Italian. From New Jersey.)

I was reminded of my own story of hand talk.  I wanted to see a doctor, but they sent me to a psychologist.  She had a PhD in clinical psychology, was young and drop-dead gorgeous. I instantly fell in love with her.   We talked for an hour, and during that time she explained to me the effects of alcohol on the body and mind, recommending that I give up drinking.  Needless to say, I had heard before most of what she said, but this time she used her hands to described the stages of impact of alcohol as it travels through the body.

I saw her again sometime later, and then was told that she was resigning from the clinic.  Google search revealed that she was setting up private practice and getting married.  I no longer remember her name, but i haven't forgotten that mini lecture.

Reluctant Adventurer

I hear she's in Uruguay now, but at one time long ago we ran together, and what I remember most was the incident after which she asked me to keep a secret.  I did, not that I had much choice, revealing it would cause all sorts of trouble to her, her associates and probably myself as an unwilling accomplice.  No one died, as far as I know, but laws had been broken and by pure accident I happened to witness some of the activities.

It was her mistake, She was to take with her Harry, but due to a time and day mix up, she had me, a complete innocent and reluctant adventurer to accompany her.   Afterwards, she realized her error, apologized to her bosses, telling them that I didn't understand Portuguese, which was true,  and asking them to leave me alone, and demanded of me  that I keep a secret.

I had a friendly visit from the FBI nonetheless.  I told the two humourless G-men nothing, they themselves knew little beyond that I was her friend, they asked if I spoke Portuguese and I told them "a little",  they warned me against her associates, thanked me for my cooperation, and that was the end of it.

Not long thereafter I moved out of the area, primarily for health reasons - my doctor recommended that I move to a drier and cooler climate -  and I lost contact with her.  I hear she's in Uruguay now.

Zeus in the park

In the dog park the regular visitors know more names of other regulars' dogs than of their owners. I know two owner names, David and Jordan, and I think they are the only humans there who know my name.  It's all right, really, I'm bad at remembering people's names, and here you may be presented with the challenge of memorizing the names of humans and their canines, an impossible task.

Jordan knows everyone's name, every dog's name, even the names of those seen there infrequently.  I remember a few regular dogs' names.  There is Moxie, Leo,  Amiga, who's not terribly friendly, Frankie, old Luna, Garlic, the best dog name ever, Zeus, Jordan's well trained German shepherd.  My own dog was named Duckie when rescued from the pound, and I said what kind of dog name is Duckie, and renamed him on the spot to Doobie, which people assume is in honor of the band Doobie Brothers, named in honor of the slang name for a marijuana joint, but I prefer to think my dog's name refers to the old Roy Orbison song "Ooby Dooby".

The dog park surface is covered with wood chips and shavings and every few months  a city truck dumps a fresh pile of it there.  Unfortunately, some dogs, including my dog, like to chew on the pieces of wood which causes them to vomit and have diarrhea. All of it later, when they return to their home carpets and couches.
 
I hear that's a great place to meet women, said to me a friend when I informed him that I visited the dog park daily.  You heard wrong, I told him, although I once met a lovely Argentinian there, who came in the mornings with her brother and three purebreds.  What is it with the dogs chewing on the wood, I wondered sitting next to her on a bench one day watching the action.  It's treated with fish oil, she told me, which acts as a weed killer, but attracts the dogs, especially after rain.   That was the last time we spoke, and  she, her brother and the three dogs disappeared after the New Year.

"The Lady Vanishes", said my friend, a Hitchcock enthusiast.

GET OFF MY LAWN!

The standard portrait of a curmudgeon is an old man shaking his fist at neighbourhood kids, shouting "GET OFF MY LAWN" (he's no apartment dweller.)   While some comedians and comic actors use curmudgeonly humour to great effect, a sourpuss  offstage is usually no fun, no fun at all.

I was sitting at a picnic table of an outdoor cafe in the company of five over-50 people - I was the oldest in age and youngest in dress (Rolling Stones' T-shirt) and haircut (a la David Beckham), if not in attitude - when the conversation took a turn toward predictable complaints about today's youth, their dress, their music, their language, their manners.  I stayed silent, embarrassed for the group, because we could be heard by people at adjacent tables, and because it was all my doing when I had made what I thought was an innocent  humorous remark about tattoos.  

The woman  sitting on my left finally admonished the group for acting like a bunch of church ladies, and after I told another joke, conversation returned to  neutral subjects.

Nobody plans to grow up a crank (one of 18 synonyms of 'curmudgeon'), so it may be a shock when a friend suggests as politely as possible that you may have become one of them.