Don’t you love Gmail?
It offers such pertinent advertising suggestions above your email inbox.
Eavesdropping in on some of my recent emails–which, I’m sure, involved meditation–something I try to do daily–it decided that I needed a “Great Buddhist Nanny.”
A Great Buddhist Nanny?
For children who are now 25 and almost 30?
And, pray tell, what might be a “Great” Buddhist Nanny?
I am thinking Google may have come up with the term “Nanny” because my kids used to call my parents “Nanny and Papa”. OK, some of them still do. Some of the nieces and nephews call them “Nan” or “Pop”. Google probably hasn’t discerned that yet.
Google has also discerned that we need a “Heart Cath.” Yep. Barry’s going in for this procedure on Thursday.
Today we visited YouTube and watched detailed explanations of the procedure. It looks very simple and uncomplicated. Except for the part about having to lie very quietly for five hours afterwards. I suggested to Barry the advisability of taking a photo of him lying amidst all sorts of electrical wires in the heart unit.
He eyed me with a disturbed gleam in his eye.
“I don’t think so,” he said (although hesitantly. You could see his journalistic self was pondering this.)
“Wait a minute,” I said, “Aren’t you the newspaper columnist who wrote publically about your family having the flu and vomiting all those years ago in GREAT detail?”
“Paybacks are hard, Mr. Editor,” I replied. “I have a blog now. ANYTHING is fair game after what you’ve put me through in the newspaper for over thirty years.”
Mr. Editor looked sheepish.
In last week’s paper–I kid you not–he referred to me as–wait a second, let me look and quote properly: “Dear wife Kathy is growing long, white rabbit ears nibbling her way through the rest of the Drue garden greens, all by herself.” (You see, he’s on blood thinner, can’t eat Vitamin K, and he’s missing all the garden greens, which are loaded with “K’.)
Are you blog readers sympathetic yet?
You should be.
I sat there–minding my own business at work on Friday–this is a true story–and the substitute teacher, Ruth, poked her head in my office and said–I swear this is true: “Your husband didn’t tell the truth. You don’t have long rabbit ears.”
Off she walked toward gym class, laughing.
My rabbit ears twitched indignantly.
Seriously, it doesn’t bother me at all. I’m not a scared rabbit.
But anyone who can publicly take such liberties shouldn’t mind a photo of Himself wrapped in electrocardio equipment, should he?
OK, I probably won’t.
Unless he approves 100%. (Which he might, considering…)
And he usually runs his editorial columns by me before publication, and, really, why should I mind being called a rabbit?
Although I don’t need a Great Buddhist Nanny. Honest…