They Could Call It Snipe and Swiff

They Could Call It Snipe and Swiff

Sometimes what I want to say and what I do say are two completely different things. Like years ago when I worked as a veterinarian’s assistant, I would often refer to a dog’s “flick and tea” problem.

Or, there was the time in the genetics lab when one of the technologists said “lymph noids” instead of lymph nodes. I have since been annoyed with the habit of saying “noids.” And once I asked the receptionist at the doctor’s office for the “stubber ramp.” It was shameful how we laughed hysterically in front of all those snifflers and sneezers.

As is customary this time of year, I shopped for my children’ school clothes. I stood in line at the mall with an armload of tops and bottoms and remembered the sales ad that mentioned a promotional gimmick.

“And how are you, ma’am,” said the clerk.

“Oh, I’m good. How are you?”

“I’m great. Is all this stuff yours?”

“Unfortunately, yes. By the way, do you have any of those ‘Scratch and Sniff’ cards featured in the newspaper?”

The young man looked at me like I had sprouted wings and tap shoes.

“Uh, well, we have these cards where we scratch them to see what extra discount you will receive on your purchase, but I’m not sure about the sniffing part.”

Of course, as soon as the words escaped my lips, I knew I had committed yet another of my bumbling blunders. And then the laughter ensued.

“Ho, ho, ho, hee, hee, hee, oh, man!” I chortled. “Yes, of course, no sniffing required.”

Then the clerk, who apparently was long overdue a break, joined me.

“Heh, heh, heh, ha, ha, ha, whoa, whoa, whoa,” he snorted. “Let’s see. Maybe we ARE supposed to smell them.” He lifted the card to his quivering nose. “Yep, smells like money! Hahahahahahaha!”

By this time, I expected the people waiting in line behind me to be less than amused with our giggle fest. But, the three women had joined us, tickled to the point of laughing out loud.

“I really think you’re onto something,” said the clerk.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said, “It could be the next great promotional tool. If your card smells like strawberries, you get 50 percent off your next purchase!”

“No, no, not strawberries,” corrected the clerk. “Too many people think strawberries and raspberries smell the same. It would have to be something like…”

The woman behind me cleared her throat. I think she had finally recovered and was eager to finish her shopping.

“Like peanut butter?” I proposed. The women behind me were still with us, because they nodded in agreement.

“You know, my roommate in college didn’t smell very good,” said the clerk.

Of course, what he meant to say was that he didn’t smell well. I envisioned both a stinking dorm room and a student with impaired olfactory abilities.

“He could smell spicy things, though. He was from New Orleans.”

My mind reeled with smell versus taste. How does one smell spicy?

“Anyway, those scratch and sniff cards. If you made them smell like hot sauce, they just might work.”

Much to the relief of the captive audience behind me, the clerk loaded my bag and asked if I would like him to call for the forklift.

“No, I can get it, but thanks,” I said. “By the way, how much of a discount did I get with that card?”

He dragged the small piece of cardstock beneath his nostrils.

“Smells like 10 percent,” he said.

“I expect you to call corporate office with our brilliant new concept,” I told him.

He had moved on to the next customer, saying something about “smelling nutty.”

When I joined my husband in the parking lot, I shared our “Scratch and Sniff’ discount card idea. He tried to listen but was deeply distracted by the overpowering smell of burning plastic. Which gave me another great idea:

Credit card companies should consider a “Swipe and Sniff” feature, a strong but gentle reminder of what that bill smells like a month later.

Perhaps they could call it “Snipe and Swiff.”

On the Road to Kentucky

On the Road to Kentucky

Last week I drove to Ewing, KY to visit family with my aunt and daughter. It is a drive of about 700 miles. Now that I’m back, I would like to state for the record that we did not get a speeding ticket, did not wreck and did not get lost. Well, except for that accidental detour through the heart of downtown Lexington.

Before we embarked on our adventure, there was some debate over whether to take the interstate or travel the scenic byways. My husband insisted we stick to the safety and efficiency of the interstate. My aunt recalled fond memories of driving in full view of the lush countryside and the local markets boasting fresh corn and peanuts. Both my aunt and husband reminded me of how often I have managed to get lost on even familiar roadways. I secretly gave them a very special driver’s salute and tried to memorize the map.

We compromised. We hit the interstate until the overpowering presence of eighteen-wheelers induced a desire to exit six lanes of roaring traffic and ease onto quieter, more scenic routes. We lasted about 30 minutes. Where Mom-and-Pop cafés and fruit stands once offered periodic invitations to stop and browse, national retail stores and outlet malls stretched from one town to the next. Traffic clogged the narrow arteries where tired, solitary pickups once chugged alongside the fertile farmland. The stop-and-go of multiple signals and speed zones set at “crawl” had us trudging back to the rush and relief of the 70 mph limit on I-65.

I could tell Aunt Ora, or “Wee Wee” as we call her, trusted my driving implicitly. She stomped her right foot on the floorboard frequently, obviously in agreement with my flawless braking capabilities. She signaled feverishly, clearly filled with enthusiasm for my ability to careen across numerous lanes of swerving traffic, just in time to make the exit ramp. She seemed completely captivated with our van’s speedometer and cruise control capabilities. The sight of a highway patrol car nestled in the median elicited the kind of explosive excitement I’ve witnessed only at births and beauty pageants.

Just before the trip, we purchased a portable DVD player so my daughter could watch movies on the road. It is undoubtedly the best $149 we have ever spent. While she watched the first three seasons of “The Andy Griffith Show,” my aunt and I enjoyed a peace I never thought possible with a pre-teen girl in tow.

During those hours on the road, I found the view to be deeply moving. The rocky terraces and green foothills of Tennessee were beautiful, as were the long, sloping pastures and horse farms of northeast Kentucky. Even more than the expansive pastoral scenes of Mississippi and Alabama, the view I enjoyed most was from the mental images gleaned from the stories Wee Wee told as we sailed toward Kentucky.

She shared childhood tales of dressing a calf in a black raincoat and bell that left her mom and Aunt Katie certain it was the devil himself who galloped crazily across the back forty. She described the time her friend Tommie shot a raccoon and prepared it with vegetables for their dinner. After waiting several starving hours for the meat to stew, Wee Wee announced, “I don’t believe I care for coon.” Neither of them ventured a bite.

When we finally arrived in Ewing, my Aunt Eddie Lee announced that they wore the window out looking for us. Through that window is an enticing view of the signature green of picturesque Kentucky, a vibrant vision of the comforting cycle of bountiful growth and harvest.

I looked at my daughter, her eyes wide with an earnest attempt to file away memories of family we rarely get to see. My Aunt Eddie Lee, Uncle Brownie and cousin Iris gave the window a rest, and we all enjoyed the view of familiar faces over a home-cooked meal. It is in those moments, however few and far between, that distance matters little and minutes matter a lot. Regardless of how you get there, the embrace of loved ones seldom seen always makes the trip more than worthwhile.