Chirky

I was in fifth grade when I first learned to write notes to my friends using calculators, the pre-cursor to sending messages on hip-slung beepers.

We couldn't say much other than "hi" and "hello," and if we were really stretching the capabilities of the calculator and our ability to interpret what different digits might represent, we could say "love," "hate" and "bite me."

Two days ago I was rummaging through the Storage Closet O' Goodness, trying to choose what gift(s) should be bestowed upon the winner and runner-up of the Ch-Agua contest. After probing for a bit, I found an old calculator of mine from high school. I immediately opened the hard-shell cover and turned it on, and was delighted (and surprised) that it still worked.

I felt exhilarated by this tiny find and - almost as if law compelled me - I performed a super-secret calculation to ensure that, yes, this precious piece of my past still functions correctly.

And then I realized what a peculiar obsession I have developed. One that I have never found necessary to share with my husband, Roger, but that I'm perfectly willing to divulge to The Internet. It is a fixation that rushes back and seizes me any time I am near a new calculator or a calculator that I have not used recently.

I have sat in numerous meetings, in classrooms and at home, and before I trust such an unpredictable machine as a calculator, I must complete a certain riddle that invariably leaves me snickering to myself. It goes like this:

Dolly Parton has 69 pounds of – what crass term can we include here? – boobs. (Udders? Silicone? I just did a search on the Internet for other terms for women's breasts, and do you know how dirty it made me feel? Especially because of big brother, watching me? Sick. I need a shower now.)

69

That was too, too, too much.

69222

So she took 51 pills…

6922251

…for 8 days…

6922251 x 8

…and that left her...

I'm not sure what it is about this riddle - Does it even count as a riddle? – that throws me into fits of giggles.

Is it the thought of Dolly Parton without breasts? I cannot even imagine such a thing. That's like thinking of Kate Bosworth or Nicole Richie and ignoring the fact that each have become synonymous with anorexia. Or thinking of Kevin Federline and not becoming perplexed by how he convinced Britney Spears to marry him. I mean, he's so greasy. And he wears tube socks with his flip-flops. That alone should have been enough of a warning sign to her.

(Or, perhaps it is the fact that I am a grown adult and am still fascinated that I can spell out "boobless" on my calculator.)