Mentalmorphosis

Mentalmorphosis

I’ve never heard anyone say they wished they were dumber. Have you? In fact, I’ll bet there’s not one of you who’d refuse a few extra points of intelligence if they were thrown your way; I know I’d be first in line to catch a fistful. Or just imagine, reaching into a paper bag and closing your greedy little fingers around a nice, yeasty gob of smarts. You could roll it into a tiny ball, pop it into mouth, swallow, and voila, you’d be the smartest kid on the block! Of course, if it were that easy, we’d probably have about three hundred million Albert Einsteins walking around the U.S. polluting the air with theories of relativity, thermodynamics, and quadratic equations. But when it comes to brain cells, you got what you got and that’s what you got, so just accept it and be happy. Right? Well, maybe not.

That’s why my pulse surged when I read a magazine article suggesting that certain activities might actually raise my IQ by as much as twenty-one points. Why, that’s just about double my current count! I’d be almost as smart as a dog, and I’ve always yearned to live a dog’s life because they’ve got it made, at least every dog I’ve ever fed. With that in mind, I figured it might be wise to read on.

Scanning the first couple of paragraphs, I saw that the article listed thirty-one ways to get smarter, things like learning a new language, eating turmeric, reading Shakespeare, playing music, mastering chess, things that required you to exercise your brain, things that necessitated being a smarty-pants, things that didn’t fit the Levis I wear. Already mentally exhausted, I almost stuffed the magazine in the trash when my eyes drifted past the brain strainers to less stringent methods of training the brain. There, nestled in amongst all those nasty little brain expanders, was the real destination of my search, the alchemy to change mush to grey matter.

You might shake your head when you read this (I’m only relaying what the article says), but after sifting through all thirty-one suggestions, I’ve decided to adopt five or six from the list. If following a formula of almost three dozen exercises will lift my mental acuity twenty-one points, condensing it to a strict diet of half a dozen and then quadrupling each one should have the same effect.

Now, if you’ve read the article, you’re probably wondering which exercises I’ve chosen for my program, so I won’t keep you guessing any longer.

1. I’ll eat more dark chocolate and drink more red wine: These are a good source of flavonoids that help improve memory. Don’t worry if you see me stumbling around with wine and a slurry of chocolate dripping down my chin; I’m getting smarter.
2. I’ll wipe that stupid smile off my face and frown more: Ever notice how frowners are usually more skeptical and analytic? It’s true.
3. I’ll drink at least two gallons of water per day: They say that drinking more water makes the brain work harder, probably trying to find the closest urinal.
4. I’ll drink at least four cups of coffee each day: Caffeine is a crystalline compound that is a stimulant of the central nervous system and bolsters short term memory, which I’ll need to remember where that last urinal was.
5. I’ll join a knitting circle: Refining motor skills bolsters cognitive skills; although I might drop a stitch or two due to my caffeine shake.
6. I’ll try to nap during the day and get to bed early in the evening: The brain continues to process memories even after going to sleep, and I’m sure I’ll be exhausted from running back and forth to the bathroom.

If you know me, you’re probably shaking your head and have a frown on your face after reading this. You’re considering the titanic task I’ve taken on and you’re thinking that there’s no way I’ll accomplish this incredibly difficult feat. But I assure you, by this time next month, you’ll marvel at my mental dexterity. My old stupid self will be a mere memory in your minds. You’ll be amazed by the astounding metamorphosis.

And, if I haven’t grown exponentially smarter, at least I didn’t tax my brain trying.

The Girl Next Door

The Girl Next Door:

Okay, I admit it, I still live with my mom and dad, but what’s wrong with that? They pay for everything: my food, my clothes, even my entertainment, though I must say, I’m pretty easy to please. Heck, I even let them tuck me in at night, but that’s more to give them a sense of worth than anything else. But mostly, I stick around because of the girl next door.

She really is something else. I think you'd agree if you ever met her.

It was love at first sight. When she walked in the front door I fell for her worse than a startled old crow trying to dance on an electric fence, literally! Suddenly, I got all weak in the knees and had to lower to the floor. And yes, it was humiliating, sitting there on the tile like a dang toad in a fairytale waiting to be kissed, but she acted like it was nothing and gave me the sweetest smile I thought I’d die.

Then she bent over and whispered, “Hi there big boy, my name’s Candy,” in a syrupy voice so sweet I ached to lean in and lick the words right off her tongue. I didn’t want to wait for them to reach my ears; I needed to taste them the second they came out of her mouth. I mean, what would go through your head if someone said that to you? Believe me, I almost choked on my spit.

As if that wasn’t enough to send me over the edge – now picture this if you can – there I was splayed out on my butt, staring straight into the top of her blouse at the perkiest little melon breasts a man could imagine. They were absolute perfection! Her nipples were barely hidden under the lace of her bra, but I could see the faint darkened halos of her aureoles pressed against the sheer pink fabric. It took my breath away.

I know you’d call me a pig if I told you what happened next, but I couldn’t help myself. Without thinking, I brought my hands up and cupped her breasts. It seemed like the natural thing to do. Now keep in mind that she hadn’t walked in the door more than a minute earlier and here I was, already showing my appreciation for her feminine attributes. She should’ve slapped my face, kicked me in the groin, and called the cops.

But she didn’t.

And she didn’t move away.

Instead, she gave me a little smooch on the cheek, helped me to my feet then led me to the couch.

It was almost embarrassing because my mom and dad were standing right there watching every move. I couldn’t wait for them to get the hell out of the house so I’d have Candy all to myself, but they must’ve dithered in the doorway for five minutes or so before they finally took off.

Less than ten seconds after their car pulled out of the driveway, Candy turned to me. “You want to play some games?” she asked.

Stunned by the rapid evolution of our relationship, I was speechless. All I could do was nod.

Well, I won’t go into all the details of our antics. Suffice it to say that at the end of the evening, I came out totally exhausted.

It was a dream come true.

That night I slept like a baby.

So, that's why I stick around these parts. It's because of the girl next door. And honestly, I'd really like to just crawl on over and move in with her right now, but it might be better if I wait until I’m potty-trained and learn to talk.

A Heart Wrenching Story

When Shorty came into the third grade after summer vacation
and showed us the purple scar down the middle of his chest,
like a ten inch drip of congealed grape juice, we all wanted
to touch the welt, but decided it might squirt from the pressure.

Shorty laughed and told us he'd sliced himself wide open with
a butter knife just to see if he really had a heart. He said
he'd held it in his hand for over a minute and watched it beat
before he chucked it back inside and sewed himself up.

He was tough, ole Shorty. That's why it kinda surprised us when
Mrs. Lofgren made him stay inside at recess, because of his heart.
How'd she know what he'd done? Besides, we needed him. Last
year he flew around the bases faster than any other kid in class.

A month later, when they faced us at his funeral, his parents
didn't have the heart to hear our theory that maybe
he'd shoved it in backwards.

Speed Dating

Speed Dating

"Definitely not marriage material," Angelica muttered, folding her Christian Dior sunglasses and sliding them into a pocket of her Louis Vuiton purse. Not with his crazy haystack of red hair, those freckles, and that droopy right eye that seemed to twitch every time she glanced across the table.

And the odor! She wrinkled her nose. My god, had he just stepped off the farm? The barnyard aroma preceded him by a good ten feet when he walked through the room to meet her.

Angelica noticed a tiny piece of lint on her new black, Vera Wang dress and flicked it onto the floor with a perfectly manicured nail. Sighing, she pushed her chair back, picked up her purse, and rose to leave. Why waste the time? They were probably all like this one -- losers. A quick scan of the room confirmed her suspicions.

He stood up, his hand out to shake. "But we haven't even exchanged names," he said, reaching over the table.

"Why bother?" Angelica scowled, stepping back to size him up. She glanced down at his shoes. Could it be? Her breath quickened. Were those $750 Gianni Versaces peeking out from under the ragged cuffs of his faded Levis?

Hmmm. . .

Maybe he deserved a closer look.