Every now and then I encounter a situation that, while in it, I’m thinking of how I’m going to write about it. The incident – either what is happening to me, or what I’m seeing, or what I’m hearing or reading or learning – seems so unique, so interesting, so odd, or just so crazy, that I’m convinced it must be put to writing. There is gold in that moment, and all that’s left is for me to lightly polish the nugget. With the conviction that I have something funny or intriguing or worthwhile to add as literary sheen, I anticipate sense the shine I will create, and I pulsate with the knowledge that this will be a good one.
Yet when I get to computer, my enthusiasm fizzles as I face the blaring obviousness of the scenario, and I can’t imagine escaping the trite, surface realizations. I can’t say anything more, and this backs me up. There ought to be something more to say, to add, that would allow me (and my fantasy readers) to transcend the obvious, but I can’t reach it. Maybe it’s unreachable, or maybe my brain just stops sometimes.
For instance, I learned recently that a friend spent a short stint in her pre-professional life working in a Made-in-Texas type store, where, she grinned in the re-telling, they sold everything big, just like you’d expect. I understand a bit about these short stint jobs, the ones we cut our teeth on and prove our independence and start to pay our own bills, even if they do not permanently stay on our resume’s or CV’s. Taco Bell does not appear on to my CV, even though I spent much of a high school summer learning first-hand what it’s like to get small pinto-bean burns on my arms as I stirred huge vats of refried beans, and the blank stare of customers as I parroted, “Would you like some Cinnamon Crispies with that?” to people who clearly did not wish to add Cinnamon Crispies to their taco order. My short stint taught me two other lessons, in addition to learning what up-selling is and how to avoid it when I’m on the other side of the counter. First, I didn’t want to be like my manager, who slept in his car in the parking lot, and who saw this job as the end of what he was destined to accomplish. Second, I needed to find a professional outlet for my independent and creative sensibilities – my ideas of how to improve the way things were done were lost in that environment, or perhaps more than lost, they were loathed, and I wasn’t admired at all for my autonomous thinking.
My friend has her own memories of this phase of her work life. Mostly she recalls all the items that the store sold that were made out of Texas license plates or formed into the shape of Texas, which is exactly what all the Made-In-________ stores manage to sell: state-shaped cheese and pot-holders that if you weren’t in the state at the time you saw the item you might not recognize the state: the cheddar Wisconsin or the Christmas stocking shaped like California or the cornhusker red potholders shaped like Nebraska or the wooden plank to add a smoked flavor to grilled salmon in the shape of Washington state. Out of the stores, they look like misshapen amoebas, until your host or hostess reminds you of the geography they are supposed to represent (unless your item also has the state name printed largely across it – a dead give-away that lends definition to the otherwise unidentifiable form).
She also remembers a uniquely Texan item: a purse made from a cow testicle. And this is the moment when my mind left the experience of two friends sharing chuckles about early versions of ourselves, as I realized I had to write about this. My mind veered right off the conversation into flights of fancy. I was on fire with questions. I needed details. I asked her whatever came to mind. Later, I realized that I had even more questions, but I couldn’t bring myself to go back and ask them of her, so many of my queries remain unanswered. Was it wrinkled or had someone figured out how to smooth it out? Was it soft or hard? Who would buy such a thing? Was it supposed to be a gag gift or was it serious? Did she ever sell one? Did she ever have to touch one? Would the person who bought one know it was a cow testicle or was it sold under the pretense of something else (a generic “genuine 100% Texas leather” bag or a “Texan pouch”)? Was this destined to be the best-ever Texan bachelorette party gift? And, if so, what would the bridesmaids put inside? Confetti? Penis lollipops? Does she think they still sell them? Could I find a picture of one on the internet? Could I keep myself from Googling one?
We had loads we talked about that night other than this little interchange, but the cow testicle purse lodged itself in my brain and I found myself thinking about it from time to time, still wondering how to write about it. When I told my husband about it (one of the first things I related about my girls’ night out), his reaction was to correct the gender and anatomical inaccuracies inherent in “cow testicle”: the purse must have been made from a bull scrotum. And off on another flight of fancy I went, this one linguistic. What’s the plural of scrotum? Scrotums? Scrota? I realize only now that I’ve never thought of them as other than singular. And yes, testicles are inside, holding all the inside bits – if anything, they’re destined to become Rocky Mountain Oysters (how’s that for another wave of ookiness? Really, who are these people?). Testicles themselves could never be the thing destined to become a fashion accessary capable of holding lipstick, compacts, a wallet, cell phone, mints, condoms, a sheathed fix-blade knife or small handgun – the barest assembly of essentials for any respectable Texan woman that I suppose could easily fit into a “we grow-‘em-big-down-here” Texan bull’s scrotum. No Midwestern or East Coast bull scrotum could hold all that.
But try as I might, I can’t find a single thing to say about a cow testicle/bull scrotum purse. My thoughts about the purse go ’round the same circular path of mere ordinary and predictable commentary, and I’m left with an idea that ought to have been worthy of writing about. Maybe it’s for the next person who dares to imagine a purse made from a bull scrotum to find the way to write about. I just can’t do it.
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