I don't know where my head is today. If I had it on straight I'd be writing something inspirational like Kitchen Table Wisdom. Instead, I think of death, depression, sex - not necessarily in that order.
When I say my second husband was Mr. Potato Head to me, I mean that in the most loving way. Dick is a gruff man with a surprisingly simple sense of humor, the kind of guy who considers The Duct Tape Book a perfect gift.
His granddaughter gave him the original Mr. Potato Head one year for Christmas and he made such a fuss over it, the top of our bedroom armoire was gradually filled with a Tuber Town community.
Mrs. Potato Head was there, of course, and the usual combination of parts. With our divorce, I barely escaped the upward marketing trend in Potato Heads. Otherwise I might have found more of them looking down on me — Pirate Potato Head, Trick or Tater, Spud Bunny, and my favorite: Darth Tater.
What about my first husband, you ask? A talking head. To be more exact, Dave was a headshrinker. Psychiatry was not, in those days, so far removed from the original practice perfected by clans in the Amazon river basin, where shrinking heads had religious significance. With modern shrinks, harnessing the spirit of the enemy became harnessing the energies of the id. I tried it myself, when our marriage was dying. After nine months of therapy it suddenly dawned on me that I had my head up my ass.
The only other arena where "head" comes to mind would bring me full circle: death, depression, sex. Maybe next time.
His granddaughter gave him the original Mr. Potato Head one year for Christmas and he made such a fuss over it, the top of our bedroom armoire was gradually filled with a Tuber Town community.
Mrs. Potato Head was there, of course, and the usual combination of parts. With our divorce, I barely escaped the upward marketing trend in Potato Heads. Otherwise I might have found more of them looking down on me — Pirate Potato Head, Trick or Tater, Spud Bunny, and my favorite: Darth Tater.
What about my first husband, you ask? A talking head. To be more exact, Dave was a headshrinker. Psychiatry was not, in those days, so far removed from the original practice perfected by clans in the Amazon river basin, where shrinking heads had religious significance. With modern shrinks, harnessing the spirit of the enemy became harnessing the energies of the id. I tried it myself, when our marriage was dying. After nine months of therapy it suddenly dawned on me that I had my head up my ass.
The only other arena where "head" comes to mind would bring me full circle: death, depression, sex. Maybe next time.
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