“Too many deeries!”

The Keed with the dreaded D100.

Wig and hat on faux head.

Last Thursday (October 11, 2007) the wig-lady called to report the two wigs Linda had ordered were in, and she could try them.
A number of tryout appointments were suggested, one of which was the next afternoon — Friday, October 12, 2007 at 6:30 p.m.
I have taken to being the taxi-driver for these forays, despite the utterly predictable accusations of selfishness from Mr. rumpeta-rumpeta, who would rather get $1,000 custom wheels for his GeezerGlide than repair a $40 IED faucet for his poor, long-suffering wife.
400+ miles distant from the noisy judgmental input of the almighty Bluster-King, I know that Linda is automotively-challenged, and while I think she could find wig-lady herself, despite the frenzied maelstrom that is Monroe Ave. in deepest, darkest Brighton, I’d rather fill in for her.
There also is the fact she’s being treated with chemo (and often crashes), and I’m not. It might effect her driving judgment, whereas I’m not getting chemo.
And so we set out in the Bucktooth Bathtub for wig-lady, me with a Car-and-Driver magazine in tow, so I could sit quietly in the tiny lobby refusing scones, while Linda got fitted with her wig.
While driving there we encountered two deeries — in fact, it was a dark Buick LeSabre in front that slowed for them.
The two deeries scampered off into an adjacent field. Sun was setting.
It was dark returning. Three more deeries; one a tiny fawn, and one a large buck that refused to leave the road.
Each encounter meant a slowdown, since I have a rule that if you see one deerie, ya might see five more.
“This is amazing,” Linda said. “When I was a kid we could drive for hours in the country, and never see any deer.”
“Too many deeries.”

“Linda” is my wife of nearly 40 years. She has lymphatic cancer. (It’s treatable with chemo.)

“Mr. rumpeta-rumpeta” (“the almighty Bluster-King”) is my macho, loudmouthed brother-from-Boston. He noisily badmouths everything I do or say. The “rumpeta-rumpeta” is his classic 1971 454 SS Chevelle; a muscle-car. (It goes rumpeta-rumpeta.) His “GeezerGlide” is what I call all Harley Davidson ElectraGlide cruiser-bikes. He has a very laid back Harley Davidson cruiser-bike, and, like most Harley Davidson riders, is 50 years old. So I call it his GeezerGlide. The “$40 IED faucet” is his wonky kitchen-sink faucet, that wasn’t replaced for five years. It was rather explosive and frightening.

RE: “automotively-challenged......” equals having difficulty with driving.

“Brighton” is a suburb east of Rochester.

“The Bucktooth-Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub, and appears to have a bucktooth on the grill.

RE: “sit quietly in the tiny lobby refusing scones.......” My macho blowhard brother-in-Boston would say “no scones in man-land.”