Travelin' Man (cont. (part 4 in a series of indeterminate number) (update) (which means the same thing as 'cont.'))

Hello from the two-syllable town of Armonk, rumored headquarters of IBM, a rumor I have no way of verifying.

Ah, life is hard. She missed the cut again, and is deep down in the dumps. No golf yesterday, a complete weather washout. Today she played better, like a champ, actually, until misfortune befell near the end.

She could probably get in to the Corning Classic or whatever they call it, but she's going to skip it so she can be in Florida when her sister, the ballerina, comes to visit.

Speaking of whom: during dinner at the Outback Steakhouse last night, Bern text-messaged her sister that she, Bern - like all the other girls in the tournament - had been made a gift of a bracelet from Tiffany's, courtesy of the tournament sponsors. Her sister (who is very poor) texted back: "U bitch. U are so spoiled. What does it look like? Have diamonds?" No, said Bern, just sterling silver, about 130 dollars worth. Sister: "I don't want to talk about it anymore."

Some lady reporter from a local paper corralled Bern when she came off the putting green yesterday. She was doing a feature story on what the LPGA ladies like to take onto the golf course as snacks to keep the energy up. Bern's answer: "Well, I like pretty much anything with chocolate in it." I think that's about as far as it got. I can't figure out who would want to read about such stuff, but there must be somebody or they wouldn't have assigned a reporter to cover it. Probably a girl thing.

- Speaking of girls - Pansy has been suffering from something called morning sickness. (I used to get it after drinking too much the night before.) She, however gets it everyday, doesn't like it, resents it actually, and has "a theory": if men got morning sickness, there would be an aisle in CVS dedicated to morning sickness remedies, in between allergy medicine, headache remedies, and Pepto Bismal. But...what if there is no remedy?

Further evidence of resentment: Or how about this, does your average man, not good husband person who has seen this and gets it, just men in general even, or to be fair, just people really know how debilitating morning sickness is? And if we did all know this, how would it help in alleviating morning sickness? I'm just asking some logical man questions here. Her comment box, where no man has dared set foot, is full of support from currently or formerly pregnant women. After using some words no man knows the meaning of - like "hyperemesis gravidarum" - she enumerates the symptoms: plain ole fatigue and nausea, not knowing what to eat, not having energy, any movement or things with lights makes you seasick, smelling everything around wayyy too much... Yep, sounds just like what I used to get after a night of too much...

At the end she asks forgiveness for subjecting us to her complaints. What about it guys? Should we? Remember - she's a woman, she's pregnant, and there's that seventy times seven thing.

- Somewhat in contrast to Pansy's fecundity was the situation on a Home Improvement rerun on one of the 8 channels we get in this 120 dollar a night motel. Our hero (whose name I can't remember; he's played by Tim Allen but I haven't seen enough episodes to remember anyone) was apparently under some pressure to get a vasectomy. Why I don't know. I guess they found children threatening, even though they already had some. Anyway, he was finally coaxed by his adorably average but insurmountably wise wife (which is how it always works in these days of wimpy husbands) into admitting that his reluctance was due to a primeval presentiment that, should he undergo the surgery, he might feel like "less of a man." (Which sounds like a pretty normal response to me.) But, counters his annoyingly insightful soulmate, if I had my tubes tied, would you consider me less of a woman? Why, of course not, he says, without a moment's thought. Well then...and he sees at once the error of his ways and agrees to the snip. I realize that fashionable shows only remain that way by catering to fashion, and yet I still half expected him to say, "Yes, I would see you as less of a woman. You don't want children and you've had yourself permanently sterilized. How does this make you the same woman you were before?" Sometimes I live in a dream world.

One other little thing about our motel (or "Inn" as they call themselves). Yesterday morning we couldn't brush our teeth or take a shower because when we turned on the faucets in the sink and tub, and when we flushed the toilet, brown water poured from the first two and bubbled up in the third. Deeply dark brown water. We did not speculate out loud on the source of the brown. It was later fixed, the water now crystal clear again, but ever since I have not been able to make myself take a drink of it.

We haven't yet figured out what the 120 dollars is paying for.

-Another blogger with whom we are somewhat fondly familiar fixates briefly (if that's possible) on the problem of hand position during the 'Our Father.' He prefers the palms up but will go with the priestly palms forward "if that is indeed part of the rubrics." I do see people lifting their hands as if they'd wandered into a Benny Hinn traveling salvation show, but what I mostly see is people wanting to hold hands. Rubrics shmubrics. Try my position. It's called 'palms in the pockets.' If I don't know you, why would I want to hold hands with you? And why is it you only want to hold hands with me in church? Why don't you hold my hand in the parking lot in lieu of your usual technique of either laying on your horn or trying to run me over with your car in your hurry to get out of there? Furthermore, since upwards of 70% of so-called Catholics support artificial birth control and a potpourri of other heresies both moral and theological, what are the odds I'd actually be holding hands with someone who shares with me the unity of faith? Furtherfurthermore, I have no idea where your hands have been prior to your appearance in church. But I do know this: over 40% of men do not wash their hands after using the restroom. The percentage is somewhat less for women. I saw this on one of those TV newsmagazines, so it's probably infallible. Think about it next time your brother Catholic reaches out to touch you. As far as I know, there's nothing in the rubrics requiring a congregation to form a human daisy chain or float their arms skyward during the Our Father. Someone'll probably dig something up to prove me wrong, but considering the apparent freedom the Church gives us these days to disagree on things of far greater import, my hands stay in my pockets unless your name bears the imprint of my immediate family.

There is another position you could try. Place your hands, palms together, in front of your chest and slightly beneath the chin. This is called an attitude of prayer. It's out of fashion, so don't be surprised if people stare.

- I wanted to tell you about the retarded guys who work at the local supermarket (which is a good thing, I want it known before you jump all over my ass) trying to get a flowercart through the automatic door, but I'm worn out.