Really, Dad, I don’t think they call them cadillacs any more . . .

So I was driving home from the eye doctor the other day and there was this guy on a motorcycle in front of me.  The cool kind of guy with a big, beautiful Harley and a t-shirt that had a picture of a semi-naked woman and it said something like I got serviced at Bartlets.  Or Bartels.  Basically, I think he got’er done in a bar by a nice naked woman and don’t you wish I weren’t dyslexic so I could tell y’all where that bar is?  Yeah, that kind of cool I’m not.

And his neat, post-servicing and all I got was this dumb t-shirt was blowing up in the back a little bit and I could see part of a HUGE tattoo on his lower back and it said . . . something.  I was intrigued.   But I couldn’t read it, so it was driving me crazy.  I thought it must be something profound and thought provoking, cause he was clever enough to know it would only show when he was riding fast enough for his t-shirt to blow up. 

Nope.  I never did figure it out.  I choose to believe he had the answer to the universe written on his back/buttcrack/taint.  Whoa.  Not sure why I went there, but now that I’m here, would the universe really explain itself on someone’s taint?   Actually, now that I think about it, what more perfect place to hide a secret?  Only the truly worthy would ever find it . . .  

OR, he could have had the eye chart tattooed back there for all I know.  Because evidently I can’t see that either.  Turns out I have cataracts (not cadillacs, dad in heaven) in both eyes.  Allegedly.  Because the specialist hasn’t confirmed that yet. 

So let’s not get upset or freak out or anything.  No, no.   Let’s not spend all night crying on the couch because when I sit outside with my four year old space nut, I can’t see the stars he’s talking about.  Let’s not mourn the fact that I love to read almost more than I love to write and I can’t do either of those much any more.  Definitely let’s not be scared by the thought of surgery on my eyes, or worse, being told I’m not a good candidate for surgery at all.   NO.  Let’s just take a deep breath and CALM DOWN people.

Oh, oh,  but did I mention that I also have super-powers?  It’s true.  I am (indiscriminately annoy the hell out of hubunit) Supergirl.  Because I’m from the planet human and he’s from the we’re-all-jerks-and-I’m-a-big-fat-man-ass planet.  I don’t think he knows that yet.  Can Supergirl save him . . . ? 

Stay tuned. 

PS:  Or will she tie him up to a big net-draped wall, like Batman in the old TV show, and parade around in front of him like Catwoman did?  In a vaguely threatening, yet completely alluring, and frankly, overtly sexual, way?

Seriously, stay tuned.

PPS:  Oh, listen.  Like everybody didn’t have wet dreams about that show.  The masks, the tying up, the heavy breathing, the tights so tight-y under those swirly capes . . .  Yeah, I bet you people never gave yourself knee hickeys or hovered over the drain in the bathtub as the water funneled out either.  Riiiiiiight.