The Eyes Have It

Jeremy did it. Again.

Seven and a half years ago, we invested what was -- for us --- a whopping sum of $4,000 to have his eyes corrected so he could see without glasses or contacts. He'd been wearing heavy-duty glasses since he was a little kid and school chums teased him with the nickname "Four eyes."

So when he passed the half-century mark, we decided enough! His eye doctor had been talking to him about laser surgery for years, and we took the plunge and made the investment, despite other more pressing bills -- or what at the time we thought were other more pressing bills. The surgery came with a lifetime warranty, too, and when he walked out of the Tulsa clinic -- the exact same one where Tiger Woods had his surgery -- he could see far away with one eye and up close and personal with the other. Monovision, it's called, and he'd been practicing in the previous years with contact lenses that did the same thing.

Within 24 hours, we knew that this was the best thing we'd ever spent a lump of money on. It was like a newfound freedom, Jeremy said. I, too, was tickled by how pleased I was that he didn't have to mess with contacts and eyedrops and goggles when he swam. Now I could splash him in the face with reckless abandon. And I did.
That, perhaps, was the only downside, from his perspective.

Fast forward to last week. Jeremy's eye doctor had been telling him that, perhaps, it was time for a tuneup on those eyes -- a procedure called an enhancement. Jeremy's eyes never got very bad, but, well there was this lifetime warranty, so he went in today -- we went in, actually, he and I and our baby granddaughter whom we were babysitting.

Within 50 minutes of arriving, he was walking out with dark glasses wrapped around his head and a sleeping pill dissolving in his stomach, so that he would go home and rest with his eyes closed.

Tomorrow he will open his eyes and perform at an area children's library -- he and I under our act's name of 'Just The Way We Are.' And he will be able to see as well as the 4-month-old who with me watched his eye surgery on a television camera.

It's no big deal, and it's the biggest deal in the world: to be able to see clearly now, the fog is gone ...


My younger brother is about the same age as Jeremy was when he had his first surgery. I hope my brother puts the money down and invests in himself. He still has almost half a lifetime to reap the rewards. It's a no-brainer, as far as I'm concerned.

So she told me she was getting another tattoo ...

No, not another one! Please, daughter. You are so pretty. Your pure, clean God-given skin doesn't need needles drilling black ink into it.
"It's my fourth," she said. "Lauren and I decided we would both get one. It would be a bonding experience."
"Couldn't you both just get drunk together?" I counter. Or run off and join the circus.
But wait. They could become the newest tattoo ladies under the big tent.
And then she dropped the bombshell.
"Well, I'm tattooing your initials on me," she said.
Omigosh!
I urged her to go with a design, not letters. I could just see Popeye with "Mom" popping up on his biceps.
"How about a heart? To represent our love," I asked her.
She called a few days later.
"It's done," she said. "It hurt like hell."
She got the initials, but she had them worked so the letters looked like a heart with a small tail. On her ankle.
She cried out so much, the tattoo artist thought she was ... well ... somewhat turned on, shall we say?
When he asked her, she laughed uproariously.
"That took some of the sting away," she told me.
"Now I have more tattoos than my brother."