Analogies have never been my wife’s strength.  Now, before I go on I must clarify that my wife is an extremely competent woman with a masters in social work who manages our home with the wit and cunning of a wall street executive and the heart and compassion of Mother Theresa.  Which is why all the neighborhood children call her “Mother Wall Street.”    However, even high power, saintly executives  have their blind spots… and Yarei’s are analogies and 80s-90s name-that-tune challenges.

Recently we were discussing a  heavy meal we had eaten and how stuffed we felt.

“I feel like that one girl in Willy Wonka who turned into a blueberry and got rolled away,” I moaned, sinking into our coach while rubbing my stomach.

“I know!” agreed Yarei…. and if I could peer into the inner workings  of her brain, I would have seen a Chocolate Factory full of minions running back and forth carrying little manila envelopes of information from one lobe to the next.  But there was a problem with the lobe that creates analogies… a short circuit, if you will.  Those minions were bumping into each other frantically and yelling as the mouth was about to speak out its own “i’m so full” analogy.

“I feel like the Heineken blow up doll!” she blurted out.  In the background, the   sound of a vinyl record scratch could be heard. Yarei looked at the ceiling and leaned into the reclining chair while letting out a long breath.

Chaos had erupted in the analogy lobe as one minion slapped the other for obviously sending the wrong manila envelope down the “speech” tube.  No one dared send the “illogical response” message to the frontal lobe, leaving Yarei to believe that what she had just said made complete sense.

“Like the what!?” I sat up, furrowed my brow and tried desperately to understand what she had just said.  My own minions were flipping through every analogy archive available in my brain, but all were left with blank stares and shrugging shoulders.

“Bah…” she responded, annoyed at my ignorance   as she continued rubbing her bloated mid-section.  “You know… the Heineken blow up doll!”she motioned her hands in the outline of a round shape.

Panic engulfed the minion workshop as message tubes from one lobe to the other got entangled leading to wrong  perceptions of reality.  Some started abandoning ship and swimming south for other organs.

My blank stare must have sparked some type of order in her brain as she started to piece what she just said together.

“The big white character…”  she started, slowly.

One minion from a dark corner of the analogy lobe squealed and jumped up while shaking a manila envelope in his right hand.  He started pushing his way to Communication Central with a big grin on his face.

“..that has all those rolls on his body…” each word falling in place like orderly Tetris blocks.

The minion made his way to Communication Central and shoved the envelope into the “speech” tube with a look of triumph followed by spontaneous high fives.

“… they were tires… his body had fat rolls made of tires,” she said, almost as if reminiscing about a long lost memory.

A collective light went on in both our brains as the sound of joy and triumph exploded from our mental minions.

“The… Michelin Man??” I responded  incredulously.

“YES!! That one!” she yelled.

“Yarei… how did come up with…” I paused, thought about the question… “never mind.  Just never mind.”

“What?” she gave me an annoyed look.  “They kinda sound alike… I can see the connection.”  She nodded with a hint of arrogance.  Her brain minions were nodding in sync with her, commenting to each other how it wasn’t that far off.

“Never mind… let’s watch something on Netflix.”  I clicked around and paused on a  possible option.  “How about  the new Star Trek movie?”

“Mmhmm,” came her disinterested response as she flipped through a coupon magazine.                                                          “Beam me up, Spotty.”



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