tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-202070552024-03-07T18:35:04.360-06:00welcome to the addiverseIt's all right. It's all wrong. It's all good. It's an entire blog of self-serving rantings about various mundane subjects of no redeeming value except a laugh or two along the way. Welcome to the Addiverse: 2005-2022.datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.comBlogger1077125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-12019427268420976072022-07-03T09:01:00.004-05:002022-07-03T09:54:03.149-05:00Thank You from the Addiverse<p><i><b style="font-family: inherit;">Here's to Wild Mama.</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Thank you for reading every post.</span></i></p><p><b style="font-family: inherit;">The end of
this chapter--this blog--is upon us.</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> People are ticking and tocking, snapping
and chatting, vlogging and reeling. The Boomers are looking mighty out-of-date,
out-of-touch and out of time. The Addiverse is no different.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;"><b>The timing
is perfect for the closing of this blog.</b> <br />I’ve entered a new decade. <br />I've entered the "third act" of this play called life. <br />We’re
moving to a new house. <br />Menopause is firmly set. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><b>Beginnings after endings.</b> I
know there will be a new creative adventure, as beginnings following endings. What
that will be, I do not know. </span><span>When I do
know, I’ll post a link/info/invite/warning label on this final entry.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;"><b>As I’ve note
in the previous 15 posts,</b> I decided to go out in style, featuring 16 of my
favorite blogs, which represent my 16 years of blogging. Today, I write the
final post. In preparation for this momentous event, I zipped back to the first
entry. After all, one should finish where they started. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><b>Interestingly
to me, there is only one post from 2005.</b> Why interestingly? Because I would
have sworn I posted more one time during that inaugural month of blogging.<br />
I know I started the blog in December 2005… <br />
I remember setting up the blog… <br />
I remember the reasons to I began to blog…<br /></span><span>Perhaps I am
delirious.<br /></span><span>Perhaps there really was only one post… seeing as the first post is dated 12/31/2005,
it stands to reason it is the only 2005 post.<br /></span><span>Doesn't matter than I would’ve bet dollars to donuts there would be more than one entry.<br />The blog does not lie.<br /></span><span>Insert shoulder shrug here.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;">Let’s
start with the original blog and then I will close with some words of wisdom.</span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;"> <br />Or, words of ridiculousness. <br />Hold
that thought.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #800180;"><b><u>Welcome to the Addiverse: The Inaugural Blog</u></b></span>
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcX_BqjYAi5mLQrjujBY9CQYKR5EEJ4IUm2ejKIUL1_1hSDJ24EpqRsdHHDEdyTKHXkQpIDfJADB39oAULylVtzu3pFcvJtHZgdB8JYgibgXcOfRpXGElfbXZggcKNv5EOc4NlSE6qLDyitcxar_PpkaTRtL5ELhCPqPx0OOgRIu2k05OV-b4/s1024/icecreamcake.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1024" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcX_BqjYAi5mLQrjujBY9CQYKR5EEJ4IUm2ejKIUL1_1hSDJ24EpqRsdHHDEdyTKHXkQpIDfJADB39oAULylVtzu3pFcvJtHZgdB8JYgibgXcOfRpXGElfbXZggcKNv5EOc4NlSE6qLDyitcxar_PpkaTRtL5ELhCPqPx0OOgRIu2k05OV-b4/w229-h168/icecreamcake.jpg" width="229" /></a></div><span style="color: #800180;">Welcome to
the Addiverse...</span> forget the universe, this is the Addiverse... </i></b><span>what a strange place it is.<br /><br /></span></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">
No editing. <br />
No spell check. <br />
No grammar patrol. <br />
Mundane ramblings of no redeeming value. <br />Therapy for me; laughs for you.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;">The ice cream cake roll photo has nothing to do with anything besides
illustrating my love of delicious, naughty, always-chocolatey sugar
products. <br />
It's an addiction. <br />
I am powerless and its unmanageable. <br />
Ask me if I care.<br />
<br /><b><i><span style="color: #800180;">
Now, dog diarrhea....</span></i></b><br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
Meet Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia</span></b>: a 17 lb shih tzu/Maltese mix, affectionately named
after <i>Lucy</i> Lawless and Gabrielle, <i>Bard of Poteidaia.<br /></i>Lucy is definitely NOT a
foo foo dog...<br />she's more like if Ellen DeGeneres was a dog, she'd be Lucy.<br />Why
she's so big, we have no idea but the mama swears she really is shih tzu and Maltese
but we remain skeptical.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjeVR7j9Mg1DJ6PCzBJpztcAt9GNQ3gS6Nfv8eCv3sDiv0NKXAdjVzR7it1lhaCCw36aqtL0K_gtEystcgYdc4Gn1J7Uhukd8U-K5xFzD7nu8qBQmOtsVTJOGoU5fBQDBW3snN-ekMlWUNMoBSNkz46tBSxJaeYpapmk1-ukwBenohEqwUnEU/s320/lucybow.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjeVR7j9Mg1DJ6PCzBJpztcAt9GNQ3gS6Nfv8eCv3sDiv0NKXAdjVzR7it1lhaCCw36aqtL0K_gtEystcgYdc4Gn1J7Uhukd8U-K5xFzD7nu8qBQmOtsVTJOGoU5fBQDBW3snN-ekMlWUNMoBSNkz46tBSxJaeYpapmk1-ukwBenohEqwUnEU/w260-h195/lucybow.jpg" width="260" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #800180;"><b>Today, Lucy
got into some disgustingly rich raccoon poop after running away on my watch.</b> </span>I
know better not to let her go outside without her leash, but I learn the hard
way. Sometimes, I don’t learn at all. Anyway, she runs straight across the
street--never a good thing--and flocks right to this giant pile of the most
vile-smelling poop on the face of the earth. I put our other dog (Freckles
Warrior Princess--a shih tzu/Lhasa mix with a bad attitude and a worse underbite)
in the car and go to get Lucy.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="color: #800180;">I can smell her from the street.</span></i> </b>This is not a good thing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #800180;">I swear she is smiling while rolling around and eating this mess,</span></b> getting all
covered with the present from the neighborhood critter, smacking her lips in
delight. Dear god, my eyes were watering when I picked her up--this was no
regular poop. She's covered with shit and I'm trying to carry her at arm's
length and Freckles is watching from the car wondering what the hell is going
on. I have to get Lucy into the house for an emergency bath. With Lucy in one
arm, I open the car door and Freckles plops out. I leave the car and carry her
at arm's length.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;"><i>I can go get
the car later.</i><br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
Lucy is loving every minute of the tasty poop</span></b> she is licking off her fur as I'm
trying to carry her....and then....<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
When I get to our house, </span></b>I immediately sense that the wife is NOT amused that
<br />(1) Lucy was off her leash when I know she is just going to run away, <br />(2) that
Lucy had indeed run away and had rolled in poop, <br />(3) that Lucy now smelled like
something that died three months ago, <br />(4) that I smelled like something died
three months ago and,<br />(5) that Lucy has been eating this crap (literally).<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
Now, I know you don't know the wife yet, </span></b>but let me just say she is very
fastidious-obsessive-compulsive-clean-rule-following woman and she is NOT
entertained by me, poop or Lucy at this moment.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
The bath went swimmingly (pun intended).</span></b> Soon, we were smelling fresh as
daisies. All seemed to be going fabulously in the Addiverse. The car was back home. Freckles was fine. Lucy smelled better. I was kinda-sorta forgiven.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
All that poop eating led to Lucy getting sick.</span></b> Of course it did. I'm
talking exploding diarrhea. Not just a little case of shooting poop--we're
talking shit flying everywhere. For days.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
The wife was no longer speaking to me or Lucy at this point.</span></b> We were both
in the doghouse. Freckles, having more brain capacity than me and Lucy
together, was smart enough to lie low and wait out the storm from somewhere
under a bed.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
Due to the poop patrol needs, </span></b>I slept on the floor with Lucy, as every time she
woke up and stood up to go outside, poop would machine-gun right out of her
poor little butt. Woof! So, when she'd wake up, I'd grab her and run out the
front door. I had to take two days off work to stay home with her....after all,
it was my fault she was shooting shit.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
I finally took Lucy to the vet </span></b>'cuz the diarrhea wasn't getting any
better and I was tired of not sleeping and because the wife was getting more
irritated by the milli-second. (Who can blame her? Cleaning up diarrhea every
two hours isn't very fun and the new carpeting really didn't need such
initiation.) I try to scoop up some poop for the vet to look at, but it's
REALLY hard to pick up dog diarrhea. I got some in the baggie and off Lucy and
I went.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
The vet and the assistant get this HORRIFIED look on their faces</span></b> when
they hear the words "raccoon feces." It is obvious it is a very bad thing for dogs to eat racoon poop. I guess there's some bad
juju with raccoon poop--trust me, I did a lot of research on the web and found
this poop to be a bad, bad thing--for people and for pets--and these ladies
didn't do anything to calm my sleep-deprived nerves. They sent us back home
with directions to feed the Bark of Poteidaia some rice with hamburger.<br />
<br /><i>
(Side note: the web is amazing--who woulda thunk you could find photos of
raccoon poop on the web? There are all sorts of pictures of it. Close ups, in
various settings, with different textures. Is this a great world or what?)</i><br />
<br />
Suffice it to say, it took several more days and an injection from the vet (for
Lucy, not me) to get things back to "normal" in the Addiverse. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">None of us have had the balls to find out if we have the yucky raccoon worm
problem that is out there. <br />I figure time will tell. <br />Time and poop. <br />Time and
poop.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;"><i><span style="color: #800180;"><b>As for me, ask me if Lucy's been outside without her leash since then...</b></span></i><br />
<br />
...okay, maybe once. Twice? Lucy and I live on the edge.<br />
<br /><b>
Don't tell the wife.</b><br />
***************************************************<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFSOhodZyMd8el6aEx1mOZa3I11NFgoS1nhRcNBXFE3RWN2uKZ7OE7Ri1g8PAXRNOycs8SF1zQTsHl2cpaWzF8RidBZoRTjKBPBoqU5rsLmSq6InTDICU5Bb4z7nHj_TixbwaADfkPWO1urbO96c5E6XXocX-0zFDlAFEGXGDDLxmxyLcglM/s398/tv.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="398" data-original-width="398" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnFSOhodZyMd8el6aEx1mOZa3I11NFgoS1nhRcNBXFE3RWN2uKZ7OE7Ri1g8PAXRNOycs8SF1zQTsHl2cpaWzF8RidBZoRTjKBPBoqU5rsLmSq6InTDICU5Bb4z7nHj_TixbwaADfkPWO1urbO96c5E6XXocX-0zFDlAFEGXGDDLxmxyLcglM/w183-h183/tv.png" width="183" /></span></a></div><b><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;">Thank you for visiting the Addiverse. </span></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A place where it's okay to dig ice cream cake out of the garbage,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A place to recycle a Bible,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A place to celebrate friends a family,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A place to mourn, celebrate, recognize,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A place for free therapy,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A place of ridiculousness,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A place of exaggeration,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A place of the truth with not a shred of exaggeration,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A place of no redeeming value, </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">except for a laugh or two along the way. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sophomoric dribble--</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">still dribbling from my brain, sixteen years later.<br />*************************************<br />I daresay the blog will not age well, </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">but it will stand in time no matter how it ages.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #800180;">Perhaps many years in the future,</span></b> someone will find the Addiverse and think, "what the hell IS this?" and then take a few moments to peruse the contents of the Addiverse.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hard to say if the documentation of a this slice of time will bring clarity<br />or confusion<br />or angst<br />or happiness<br />or something very personal<br />or guttural<br />to the unsuspecting visitor. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #800180;"><b>We end at the beginning.</b></span> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It's been fun.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Until we meet again,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;">Thank you from the Addiverse.</span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq30gl56gJZssBeiMymwND2-6sr8iA-PPhHjJkG9yvZr5RH5K_QXbGXEWdBcwHo91XRQMlJpE0BH6sKRX1wzNIxNi06PSv77JwHS9A0RuFyLmIxQSCYKX8IY51FHVR1FcIt1sP5ANRhsyP1b2FT0DrtP5aVg6krub3PM5qRmpM-iUVceCyWCo/s910/Bandido.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="337" data-original-width="910" height="119" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq30gl56gJZssBeiMymwND2-6sr8iA-PPhHjJkG9yvZr5RH5K_QXbGXEWdBcwHo91XRQMlJpE0BH6sKRX1wzNIxNi06PSv77JwHS9A0RuFyLmIxQSCYKX8IY51FHVR1FcIt1sP5ANRhsyP1b2FT0DrtP5aVg6krub3PM5qRmpM-iUVceCyWCo/s320/Bandido.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And remember: Don't tell the wife.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">**********************************************</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-31822138610526151012022-06-19T09:29:00.002-05:002022-06-19T09:29:27.448-05:00Day of Fathers<i><span style="color: #800180;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2t5ZMwVfv9v-is_YfZhpV7CxOdoy04zlznxkuwNblA2SBsiCDvwk_TJp05tu77F40grwCSfFTxqcMLPDWsd97JgFL2A1vLFDS8KwjM92fBGR_H2R_v45TtlTBc7vm0kCTpzkTfXjBWkc1y3q4kmc33hEVK37UGyBC0g22WLJYgr9wE0pKN6k/s259/dadstud.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2t5ZMwVfv9v-is_YfZhpV7CxOdoy04zlznxkuwNblA2SBsiCDvwk_TJp05tu77F40grwCSfFTxqcMLPDWsd97JgFL2A1vLFDS8KwjM92fBGR_H2R_v45TtlTBc7vm0kCTpzkTfXjBWkc1y3q4kmc33hEVK37UGyBC0g22WLJYgr9wE0pKN6k/w190-h143/dadstud.jpg" width="190" /></a></div><b>Ah, blog #2C of 16.</b> Just one more blog to go after you read the final sentence of this particular diddy. </span></i><div><i><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span style="color: #800180;">I hadn’t planned on this entry to be this entry. But, seeing as it is Father’s Day as I sit down to type this, it seems perfectly fitting. I’ve taken the original Father’s Day post from a few years back and added a eulogy. It’s my blog, so why not? </span></i><br /><br /><b><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">I. Father's Day. </span></b></div><div><div><span style="color: #800180;">Today' is Father's Day, </span>which means dads of all kinds are being celebrated and/or remembered and/or scorned. <br />Good dads<br /> Not-so-good dads<br /> Great dads<br /> Loving dads<br /> Absent dads<br /> Unknown dads<br />Want to be dads<br /> Step-dads<br /> Adopted dads<br /> Working dads<br /> Unemployed dads<br /> Coach dads<br /> Couch potato dads<br /> Stud dads<br /> Your dad<br /> My dad. <br /><br />There are Father-in law dads<br /> Grandpa dads<br /> Great grandpa dads<br /> Brother dads<br /> Uncle dads<br /> Mom dads. <br /><br />Father of our country<br /> Father of the bride<br /> Father knows best<br /> God the Father.<br /> <br />Dog dads<br /> Gay dads<br /> Single Dads<br /> Divorced dads<br /> Quiet Dads<br /> Boisterous dads<br /> Cool dads<br /> Nerd dads<br /> Diaper changing dads<br /> Dads in fancy offices<br /> Dads in prison. <br /><br />Dads are complicated.<br /> Dad jokes are corny.<br /> Dad status is not reliant on biology. <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXD75phx1259JnIEjXVi3ZmynE2ZNDpV6ww2lssawSNhhve89pOLONqrhDjgV9_obLe_RUpd9hR5BLlL09QbTOgKMKOGJ9QAGy4tZZjRSyJaJ7mO9cTYJavgSfsMr-ogPvYETdUITGuiIhNaTh1MO-PO2D7Cre4_AirmNr7VlR5DhPRN1dL0U/s419/chuck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="314" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXD75phx1259JnIEjXVi3ZmynE2ZNDpV6ww2lssawSNhhve89pOLONqrhDjgV9_obLe_RUpd9hR5BLlL09QbTOgKMKOGJ9QAGy4tZZjRSyJaJ7mO9cTYJavgSfsMr-ogPvYETdUITGuiIhNaTh1MO-PO2D7Cre4_AirmNr7VlR5DhPRN1dL0U/w191-h254/chuck.jpg" width="191" /></a></div><div>Bible dads.... Lots of Bible Dads.</div><div><br />Missing dads<br /> Present dads<br /> Military dads<br /> Distracted dads<br /> Attentive dads<br /> Beer belly dads<br /> Physically sick dads<br /> Healthy dads<br /> Responsible dads<br /> Not-so-responsible dads. <br /><br />Is your dad a caring dad</div><div> an abusive dad<br /> a corny dad<br /> a sleeping-on-the-couch-saying-he-is-watching-TV dad? <br /><br />Perhaps your dad is a<br /> hero dad<br /> a long gone dad<br /> Accepting dad<br /> Spiteful dad<br /> Funny dad<br /> Famous Dad<br /> Beloved dad<br /> Tough guy dad<br /> Pushover dad. <br /><br />Father<br /> Daddy<br /> Dad<br /> Papa<br /> Pops<br /> Daddy-oh.<br /> Insert his name here. <br /><br />Here's to your dad<br /> My dad<br /> The dad of your choice.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9gmjEfA3msi-rCQrOeUDK8SJaLfGFI43V3pmn24Nf-kZen8aUCScNdoZlZ2iCU386uqmnDJrT4hXj_3xsf3TEzZ15OvBmW03eTXIav_NSbLiHFsd5T5qcbotrNGrdyhcZiZ-1SutyC9kLFOKhPZ2lRSz4iwuYbr0gYD7W-24BNj3sOt2-qo/s320/Picture1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI9gmjEfA3msi-rCQrOeUDK8SJaLfGFI43V3pmn24Nf-kZen8aUCScNdoZlZ2iCU386uqmnDJrT4hXj_3xsf3TEzZ15OvBmW03eTXIav_NSbLiHFsd5T5qcbotrNGrdyhcZiZ-1SutyC9kLFOKhPZ2lRSz4iwuYbr0gYD7W-24BNj3sOt2-qo/w212-h212/Picture1.jpg" width="212" /></a></div></div><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">II. Eulogy</span></b><br />My father passed away during the height of COVID. <br />Not of COVID, just during COVID. <br />I spit on COVID for myriad reasons-- <br />This being the biggest reason of all. <br />My father didn’t want any service or fanfare, <br />His Five Wishes were very simple and humble. <br />Because of COVID, his wishes came fully to fruition. <br />We honored his wishes without even trying, <br />as, like for so many others, COVID robbed opportunity to have service or fanfare. <br /><br />Had I the chance to give a eulogy--and, I would have given a eulogy-- <br />I would have used index cards <br />To ensure I remembered to mention what I wanted to mention. <br />I would not cry. <br />I’d read my index cards<br />Be proud <br />Be brave<br />Be humorous...<br />And then probably throw up in the parking lot after everything was said and done. <br /><br />My father was a simple yet complicated man<br />Generous <br />Determined <br />A man seemingly of few words with so much to say. <br />Loyal <br />Hard working to a fault <br />Proud. <br /><br />He projected an impenetrable exterior <br />Protecting a well-hidden tender heart. <br /><br />A Formidable presence… Sarcastic, Reflective, Self-assured <br />Authentic. <br />Resilient. <br />Determined to understand things he didn’t understand. <br /><i>Always right, even when not! </i><br /><br />Those of us who knew him knew different versions of who he was-- <br />After all, he was a son, brother, husband, dad <br />Uncle, grandfather, friend, long lost relative… <br />An employee, employer and boss. <br />A product of Arkansas <br />From poverty to riches <br />He brought the American Dream alive for our family. <br />His love of progress scored us the first microwave on the block <br />The first VCR of anyone I knew <br />Giant-ass speakers to best hear favorite music… <br /><i>Shaft… you’re damn right. </i><br /><br />A Ford man <br />Sporting a Torino as a family vehicle <br />Ensuring my mom looked sporty in her Mustang. <br /><i>Trust me, she looked sporty. </i><br /><br />He tried to teach me how to swim--that didn't go so well. </div><div>He tried to teach me to bowl—utter failure on my part, not his. <br />He tried to teach me how to play the drum pad along to the Carpenters Greatest Hits album. <br />My dad turned down promotions so we could finish school where we started. <br />He quietly made sacrifices <br />countless times <br />So others could enjoy what he enjoyed. <br /><br />While growing up, there were many times I did not understand him. <br />I always wanted to be like him.<br />I always admired, loved and respected him.<br /><br />My father is not “gone” <br />He lives in my sister’s facial expressions <br />Her mannerisms <br />Her words. <br />Sometimes I look at her and I am blown away <br />How much she looks and acts like him <br />Without even knowing</div><div>Without even trying.</div><div><br />My father is not “gone” <br />He lives in my mother’s heart <br />In her stories <br />In her love of roses <br />In her bowling approach. <br /><br />My father is not gone. <br />He lives in my sarcasm <br />In my workaholism <br />In my love of football <br />In my quiet sacrifices for the greater good. <br /><br />My father passed away during the height of COVID. <br />Not of COVID, just during COVID. <br />My father didn’t want any service or fanfare, <br />Because of COVID, his wishes came fully to fruition. <br />Despite COVID, <br />Despite the passage of time <br />Despite the bizarre obstacles of today’s world <br />It’s not too late to honor him. <br /><br />It’s not too late to remember him. <br />It’s not to late to celebrate him. <br />And for that reason, I post this entry today <br />Father’s Day. <br />I honor, remember and celebrate him. <br />Just as others honor, remember and celebrate their dads.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwV_d_C8HECCCVZ-V4kVljZu0oSAOnIDzikc8RnsTd_LUYPN3269k8mvMiIyEUchvXJ0s6m8ckPYyopk0jfrs7NeOU1C8tO_GAJAXemRaKHz0rVh0229t6Mbd4NAIaWmYP2W9ROg2KwJ1QQ5ogFnsgoCfXw6FeX1ipVquGVSPlj37I6r46ICY/s1890/dadwash.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1666" data-original-width="1890" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwV_d_C8HECCCVZ-V4kVljZu0oSAOnIDzikc8RnsTd_LUYPN3269k8mvMiIyEUchvXJ0s6m8ckPYyopk0jfrs7NeOU1C8tO_GAJAXemRaKHz0rVh0229t6Mbd4NAIaWmYP2W9ROg2KwJ1QQ5ogFnsgoCfXw6FeX1ipVquGVSPlj37I6r46ICY/s320/dadwash.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div> <br /><br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">III. Fathers. </span></b></div><div>Good dads, Not-so-good dads, Great dads, Loving dads.</div><div>Absent dads, Unknown dads, Step-dads, Adopted dads.<br /> Working dads, Unemployed dads, Coach dads, Couch potato dads. <br /><br />Dads are complicated. Dad jokes are corny. <br /><br />Father, Daddy, Dad, Papa, Pops, Daddy-oh, Insert his name here.<br /> Here's to your dad.<br /> Here’s to my dad.<br /> Here’s to the dad of your choice. <br /><br />Happy Father’s Day to all, indeed.</div><div><span style="color: #800180;">*******************************************</span></div></div><div><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-31182648692383159842022-06-11T08:32:00.000-05:002022-06-11T08:32:06.301-05:00#2B: Supporting Cast Members in the Addiverse<p><b> P</b><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><b>re-Preface:
The timing for the final posts of this blog could not be more perfect.</b> We are
closing one chapter of our lives and opening a new one. We are selling our
house and moving. The Addiverse started here and it shall retire here. Another great
sign from the Universe.</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><b>Preface:
The time of this blog has come and gone.</b> The influencers have crushed blogs
beyond recognition. Let’s face it--the caboose of the Boomer train has arrived
at the station. I’m going out in style, featuring 16 blogs, representing the
16 years of blogging. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: #7030a0; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><b>Here
is 2B--Supporting Cast members in the Addiverse,</b> a conglomeration of several
old posts to tell the tale of those who have visited
the Addiverse.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">“MJagger
had a GREAT idea—she suggested that I have a “blog party”</span></span></b><span style="color: #7030a0; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">and
invite everyone who has been mentioned in the blog. Supporting cast
members. I thought that sounded fabulous and thus started digging through the
archives to see who would be on the guest list.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Family & friends, <br />
clients and pets, <br />
stuffed animals and spirit guides, <br />
co-workers and TV stars, <br />
poop lovers and religious icons—<br />
Baby and Adult Jesus. <br />
Peruse the blog and you find them all.<br />
<br />
Those who have moved on… <br />
Harvey the one-boob-wonder, <br />
Cloudy the Hamster,<br />
Grover, my spirit guide.<br />
Mr. Winkle,<br />
Stella the 72 year old Xanax addict, <br />
Mary the merry-go-round-riding smelly-crotch girl, <br />
Gert the smoking bra babe,<br />
Slim Jim Triathlon Friend.<br />
<br />
Those who have changed my life…<br />
my appendix surgeon, <br />
the doctor who performed my colonoscopies,<br />
they mystery pooper at work (always look after the toilet flushes),<br />
My Beloved Lady Chiropractor,<br />The turkey of 1996,<br />
My hair-a-pist.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">
The wife gets top billing on the guest list, </span></b>as she is probably the most
mentioned person in the Addiverse, quite to her dismay….and, she’ll get stuck
cleaning up after the party, so she best be at the top of the list. To keep her
company, I’ll invite Dr. Pasture and Frieda Fibroid. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Wild mama and Lady Di </span></b>read this blog, so they will be guests of
honor.<br />
<br />
Since it was her idea for the party and because she is a friend extraordinaire
(who just happens to have a stalker mentality about Madonna & still speaks
to me when most people would not), MJagger (the professional seat-hopper at
concerts) is also at the top of the list. <br />
<br /><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>
Since we’ll need something to do at this party, we’ll go bowling</b>. </span>Wild Mama and
Father John (who made the Addiverse possible) will lead the bowling brigade. Lady
Di, Chief BIL, Nieces #1, #2 and #3 are mandatory attendees. Hitting the alleys
with us will be The Gaybors, Bitty Bichon, our friend the Warrior;
Griffin-door, Three Hawk, Argo Warrior Princess… and, My Work Children.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Rounding out the guest list are
friends hiding in the wings…<br />
Blue Eyes and Master Reiki,<br />
Patty Party Pecs and Phalange-a-slam, <br />
Pee Peeker and Ingabor Logjammer,<br />
Ms. UConn, Ms. Tennessee, <br />
Spotted Owl and Einsteina Vagina, <br />
Rita Rulebook (formerly known as Little Debbie Sneezeclumper). <br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">
For good measure, I’ll invite HotDiggity </span></b>(the anal gland-impaired dog) and the
racoon that laid the killer poop that almost killed Lucy after she ate it. I
figure a few famous blog-mentioned people should do me the honor of attending--Jillian,
Jackie (mentor of my 2007 hairdo), She who must not be named, Madonna, Gaga, Xena,
the cast of Grey’s Anatomy, the current Doctor Who and Brett Favre.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Of course, there
are <i>things</i> and <i>events</i> that made this blog what it is</span></span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">. Such topics deserve recognition as we
reflect on the closing of an era. Thus, I sing praise of (1) lemon cake, (2) an
appendectomy and, (3) a Thanksgiving dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><u><span style="color: #2b00fe;">(1) Ode to a
Lemon Cake</span></u></span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><u><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span></u><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><i>Anyone who has known me for more than
20 minutes knows that I am a raging chocolaholic.</i></span></b> I'm one of those people
who gladly puts M&Ms on a slice of pizza (you don't??), includes chocolate
with breakfast every day (breakfast of champions), bypasses a "real" meal
to leave more for chocolate-infused anything (life is short). So, it may seem
rather strange--misplaced or misguided, even for me to sing praise to something
other than beans of cocoa. This cake with tiny bites of tangy lemon heaven—leaves
my mouth watering and my heart happy.. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><b><i><span style="color: #2b00fe;">The first time I ate this lemon cake was at a
dinner party. </span></i></b>Color me skeptical. It wasn’t chocolate but it was pretty—after
all, yellow is a happy color and the blueberries made nice contrast. I reminded
myself that comparing a lemon cake to a rich, dark, gooey chocolate cake isn't
really a fair comparison--it's like comparing apples to.....lemons. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i><span style="color: #2b00fe;">That damn lemon
cake was so good that I announced I would like this cake for my birthday.</span></i></span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><b><i><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span></i></b>I then continued to eat morsel after
delicious morsel, immediately forgetting that I ever spoke aloud about the
birthday cake. I might have had three pieces. Might have.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Fast forward a few months to my day of
birth. I hadn't thought much about my birthday and wasn't expecting
anything. I certainly didn't think about a lemon cornmeal cake. Imagine my
surprise when I returned home after a long, stinky, sticky, hot day of work
only to find the wife had made me the "Lemon Cornmeal Cake with Lemon
Glaze and Crushed Blueberry Sauce" (from Bon Appetit, for those of you who
are wondering). I was stunned. Overjoyed. Excited! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i><span style="color: #2b00fe;">I love that cake</span></i></span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><b><i><span style="color: #2b00fe;">. </span></i></b>I love it so much that I want to weep when I
eat it. It's not a cake everyone will like. It's not a cake I'd associate
with me in any capacity. But, I love it. I love it so much I am going to write
an ode to it I love it so much I deem it necessary to write an ode about it. Thank
you, dear wife, for remembering my comment of how I wanted this cake for my
birthday. Thank you for taking the time to make it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Bright little
ball of sunshine</span></b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> <br />
beaming from the plate <br />
tangy yet sweet <br />
glaze glimmering, <br />
inviting sifted powdered sugar and lemon juice <br />
simple beauty, <br />
simple elegance. <br />
How can something so sour be so sweet? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Rays of sunshine <br />
Bites of heaven Morsels of love<br />
My lips pucker with the first sour but sweet bite. <br />
<br />
The tanginess whets my appetite for more <br />
I shut my eyes to enjoy every golden mouthful. <br />
<br />
Cornmeal texture<br />
buttermilk delight<br />
Lemon peels oozing zest <br />
I am in love with you, Lemon Cornmeal Cake!<br />
<br />
Bright yellow swims in a sea of blue berries<br />
bobbing on the surface <br />
sauce slo-o-o-owly dripping <br />
sauce slowly seeping in <br />
sauce bringing just the right balance of color, of taste, of texture, of
love. <br />
Called a rustic cake with zing from lemon glaze <br />
I know you will make a great companion to breakfast, lunch or dinner <br />
I picture you next to ice cream <br />
I picture you in my bowl of cereal <br />
I picture you with whipped cream... <br />
who dares not love you? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Lemon Cornmeal Cake<br />
such an earthly delight.<br />
I still love you, beans of cocoa but, <br />
for this moment in time <br />
for this moment of sunshine <br />
for this glorious mouth-watering moment <br />
lemon outshines the wrapper of a Dove Dark chocolate square and I cheat on you.
<br />
I feel no guilt, no remorse. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Bright little ball of sunshine <br />
beaming from the plate<br />
tangy yet sweet simple beauty, <br />
simple elegance. <br />
How can something so sour be so sweet?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">*******************************************************<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FEFDFA; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><u><span style="color: red;">(2) The Appendectomy. </span></u><span style="color: #333333;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FEFDFA; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: red;">It's 2003.</span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">For creative blog
purposes and in homage to one of my favorite TV shows, I’ve combine
the true story of my appendicitis with the characters of Grey’s Anatomy. If you
don’t watch the show, you will still be able to glean the true facts of the appendectomy,
but it won’t be half as fun. BTW, this was in the days before we all carried
cell phones. I think I had a pager. So, I couldn’t call the wife. I was stuck
at a bookstore until she physically returned.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FEFDFA; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And yes, I really did get
pictures of my ovaries and cervix out of all this.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Scene
One: Feel like shit</span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
[Arrive at home, early afternoon.]<br />
The Wife: What’s wrong? Why are you home so early?<br />
Me: I dunno—I don’t feel right.<br />
Me: [plop down on couch. Ugh.]<br />
Izzie: You look like shit.<br />
Meredith: You’re home early. It’s only 2 PM on a workday.<br />
The Wife: Don’t forget we have dinner plans with Phlange-a-slam, Little Debbie
Sneezeclumper and Suzuki Di Franco.<br />
Me: [<i>The thought of food makes me nauseous. How the hell am I gonna eat?]<br />
</i>Me: “Perhaps it’s just a gas bubble.”<br />
Izzie: Maybe a muffin will help. Eat a muffin. That might help. <br />
Meredith: A gas bubble. I don’t think it’s a gas bubble.<br />
Izzie: She just needs a muffin. I’ll bake some muffins.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Scene
Two: Refuse Dinner</span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
[At the restaurant, with wife and friends.]<br />
The Wife: Aren’t you going to eat?<br />
Me: No, something is wrong in my gut. I must have a giant poop stuck somewhere
in my colon.<br />
Me: [<i>Always go with constipation or a gas bubble when experiencing gastrointestinal
distress, that’s my motto.]</i><br />
George: Are you going to eat that? I’ll eat that.<br />
Izzy: You look like shit. You should have had a muffin.<br />
McAddi: Are you pregnant? If you’re pregnant, I can help you.<br />
Me: I am SO not pregnant. <br />
George: Are you wearing clean underwear? You know, well, in case it’s not a gas
bubble. “<br />
Me: Of course I have clean underwear on.<br />
George: My mom always preaches how important it is to wear clean underwear. <br />
McAddi: Are you sure you’re not pregnant?<br />
Christina: She is SO not pregnant.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Scene
Three: Moment of Insight<br />
</span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me:
A caffeine/chocolate-laced product might be a delightful way to feel better.
Let’s go to “Books at Barnes.”<br />
Suzuki: I’ll go.<br />
The Wife: We’ll drop you off at the bookstore and come get you when we’re done
shopping<br />
Me: [Yeah, yeah. <i>Jesus, just go already! I need a Frappaccino.]</i><br />
Me <i>[bent over, just about crawling to a table, start sipping on the drink of
the gods. Hunch over the table.]</i><br />
Suzuki: You don’t look so good.<br />
Me: I’m sorry I’m such lousy company. But, this is a tasty frappaccino. [take a
slurp from the straw]<br />
Me: I’m gonna do what all good nerds do: Go get a medical textbook and bring it
to the table.<br />
Why go to the doctor when you can find the answer yourself? I’m going to get a
medical textbook.<br />
Bailey: What the hell are you doing in the medical textbook section? You don’t
look so good.<br />
Christina: I didn’t even know you knew how to read.<br />
Izzie: She just needs a muffin.<br />
Me: [grabs a copy of the Merck’s Manual, flips through the pages. Flip, flip,
flip. Damn, it sure does look like it’s appendicitis—at least it is according
to this book. NO!] <br />
Me: It HAS to be a gas bubble! Maybe an egg shooting out of an ovary.<br />
McAddi: I can help you if it’s a problem with an ovary.<br />
Me: I hope it’s not my ovary. <br />
[I waddle back to the table, book in hand.]<br />
Me: “I think it’s my appendix.”<br />
[The guy at the next table overhears this and looks horrified. He scoots his
table a few inches away from us.]<br />
Me: I hope I’m wrong but… <br />
Me [Continue to drink my Frappaccino. The wife—who has the car—has yet to
return.] <br />
Me [quietly]: I need to go the emergency room.<br />
Cristina: I am scrubbing in for this surgery.<br />
Meredith: I had my appendix out in season three. It really wasn’t that bad.<br />
Me: There is NO WAY I am having my appendix out. I am TOO OLD for this
nonsense! Don’t like ten year olds get their appendix out?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FEFDFA; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We wait. And, wait. The wife and
friends finally arrive at the bookstore. At this point, I’m pale and no longer
joking around. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Me: Please take me to the ER. <br />
The wife: [silent and horrified] Get it. Let’s go.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Scene
Four: Crawl to ER<br />
</span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Me [Crawl/hobble/waddle
to the desk]<br />
Receptionist [looks at me]<br />
Me: [literally bent over] I’m not sure what’s wrong but…<br />
[She waits to hear no more, brings me right in.]<br />
(Hint: always clutch your chest or bend over with an appendicitis, and there
will be no sitting in a crowded ER waiting room.)<br />
Enter wife and shoppers.<br />
Me: If I’m going to have to be in an ER, we are SO going to have a good time.<br />
[Hear laughing. See us laugh, tell jokes, talk about stealing the cross off the
wall, decide this is not a good thing to do when possibly facing surgery—you
don’t want the ol’ J.C. pissed off at you.]<br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">Meredith: I’m going to get some
blood for bloodwork.<br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">Cristina: Duh. That’s what blood is for.<br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">Izzie: Can I draw the blood?<br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">Bailey: NO! You are under psychiatric care and can’t do a thing.
DO…NOT….TOUCH….THIS…P</span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">ATIENT.<br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">Wife goes green, almost passes out.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FEFDFA; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
See Suzuki, Phlang, Little Debbie and the wife telling poop stories, having a
delightful time<br />
Bailey: What the hell is going on in here? You are going to get thrown out of
that ER if you take that crucifix off the wall.<br />
Me: You know you have true friends when they are willing to sit in a boring ER
with you, hours on end.<br />
Cristina: ER s are not boring. Do you need surgery? I want to do your surgery.<br />
Izzie: Can I scrub in?<br />
Bailey: NO!<br />
Me: What about that McAddi? Can she scrub in? <br />
Alex: I am not doing an appendectomy. How about a rhinoplasty while you’re in
there?<br />[Pain. Laughter. Pain. Laughter.]<br />
Me: There is NO WAY this is my appendix. I’m just constipated. Or an egg shot
out of an ovary the “wrong” way.<br />
Bailey: Get a CAT scan. STAT.<br />
George: You’ll have to drink volumes of luscious chalk shakes over the next two
hours.<br />
Me: Now, THERE’S a boring way to spend time late in the evening.<br />
[See wife, the poor thing, looking like she needs medical attention more than I
did. See Suzuki watching me choke down the chalk.]<br />
Cristina: The CAT scan was an utter failure—why? Because you are so damned
constipated, we literally can’t see anything but a bowel full of shit.<br />
<i>[Shows me the xray.]</i><br />
George: Wow, that is a giant intestine of white matter blocking out the view of
everything else. That’s a lot of shit.<br />
ME: I TOLD you was constipated! And, for this I took out my belly button ring?<br />
<br />
[We are now into the wee hours of the morning and there is little I can do but
come to my senses and admit that my appendix needs to come out. My friends are
more than exhausted. They are true troopers. Everyone should have such good
friends.]<br />
McAddi goes home because her shift ended.<br />
Me: Damn.<br />
McDreamy: You need surgery.<br />
Me: Um, aren’t you a Neurosurgeon?<br />
McDreamy: Yes. Why do you ask?<br />
Me: So, why are you doing my surgery?<br />
McDreamy: It’s a holiday. Besides, my hair looks so good, I want to show it
off.<br />
Meredith: You always look steamy. Even at 3 AM.<br />
Burke: Derek, are you really going to waste your time with an appendectomy?<br />
Me: Um, I can hear you!<br />
George: She can hear you.<br />
Burke: Shut up, queerbait.<br />
Meredith: Really. I had my appendix out. It’s really nothing.<br />
Cristina: Did you just call him a… queerbait?<br />
Izzie: Can I scrub in now?<br />
Bailey: NO!<br />
Meredith: I’m sure he didn’t mean to call George that.<br />
McDreamy [pushes on my belly….holds it…and, when he lets go, I see stars. White
light. Searing pain. The pain was absolutely horrific].<br />
Me: I read about “rebound pain” being the hallmark of an appendicitis.<br />
(Side note: see? Those medical text books at the bookstore do come in handy)<br />
Me: I’m convinced! PLEASE take the damned thing out…. Please rip it out.<br />
Chief of Surgery: Burke, did you just call George a derogatory name?<br />
Burke: (and I quote) I can neither defend nor explain my behavior.<br />
Cristina: I so want to have sex with you.<br />
McDreamy: Burke, any tremors? If not, I can make sure you have some.<br />
George: I am gay, so what?<br />
Burke: Queerbait.<br />
Me: Can we just take the damned thing out?<br />
Wife passes out.<br />
End scene.<br />
</span><b><span style="background: #FEFDFA; color: red; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
Scene Five: Machine-gun-diarrhea</span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">See them rolling me to surgery. See me beg
them to stop. See me jump off the gurney. Literally. See me drag my IV bag to
the bathroom. Suddenly, see shit flying out of my butt. Serious amounts of
shit.<br />
</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Meredith: Uh oh, that barium chalk stuff is
deciding NOW is the time to come out.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Cristina: THIS is why I want to be a
cardiothoracic surgeon. No shit. Literally no shit.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Bailey: Izzie, clean this up.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Me [in bathroom, projectile, machine-gun
diarrhea flying out of my butt]</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Bailey: Are you stalling in there?</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Me: No, I’m having serious poop problems.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">(Side note: you know, I have always wondered
how my clients at work miss the toilet…how does one miss the toilet when
pooping? Now, I know. I know because I shot shit everywhere. It was an
explosion matched by no other. Shit hit the toilet, the floor, the wall, my
gown…..it was a veritable shit fest.)</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">[See me doing the best I can to clean
everything up. I’m wiping the walls as fast as I can and there is nothing I can
do about my gown except get back on the gurney will the poop-stained gown and
go to surgery like nothing is wrong.]</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Cristina: Is that poop on your gown?</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Meredith: I’m sure her poop-stained gown won’t
be the talk of surgery.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Ales: Hey, she forgot to take off her
undies—allow me.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">See Alex remove my dirty undies and place them
in a garbage bag by my head on the gurney.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">(Side note: See how important it is to wear
clean undies?).</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Izzie: There’s poop on her gown. Can I scrub
in?<br />
Bailey: NO!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">I’m lying on the gurnee in the freezing-cold
operating room. I look up at McSteamy. </span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Me: I want photos of my insides.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">McDreamy: Photos.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Me: Yeah, photos. You’ll be doing the
scope-thing-with-a-camera; the least I can get out of this is some pictures.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Meredith: Izzy, aren’t you glad she didn’t eat
any muffins? She would have aspirated on them.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Enter Dr. McSteamy, plastic surgeon.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">McSteamy: Someone need a nose job?</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Me: No, an appendectomy.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">McSteamy: that is one big honker you got
there. Sure would look better with plastic surgery.</span><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Enter Callie. (For no reason but because I
like her and it’s my story.)</span><br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="background: #FEFDFA; color: red; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Scene Six: Recovery</span></b><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Cut to me laughing and I’m talking to some
nurse in the recovery room. See me looking at my very-ugly-red-black wormlike
appendix. See me having a good time.<br />
See me realize I am awake and the surgery is over and it’s…..hey! It’s like 9
AM!<br />
<br />
Me: What the hell happened?<br />
McSteamy: I gave you a nose job.<br />
Me: No way!<br />
McSteamy: Just kidding. Too bad, though. You could use one.<br />
McDreamy: I couldn’t find your appendix--A simple surgery took over three hours
long because your appendix was somewhere hiding by a kidney. I had to open you
up the “old fashioned” way, remove your intestines, plop them on your belly,
dig around, cut the pup off and shove your intestines back in.<br />
Meredith: He looks so handsome while shoving those intestines back in you.<br />
McDreamy: Meredith, You snore.<br />
Meredith: Derek, you have bad breath.<br />
Me: Can I eat? I’m hungry.<br />
<br />
Fade to black.<br />
**********************************************<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); font-size: 12pt;"><u><span style="color: #660000;">(3) Thanksgiving, 1996. </span></u></span></b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); font-size: 12pt;"><u><span style="color: #660000;"> </span></u><span style="color: #333333;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: #660000;"><i>It
all started out so innocently.</i></span></span></b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); font-size: 12pt;"><b><span style="color: #660000;"><i> </i></span></b><span style="color: #333333;">I decided
(for some very unknown reason) to invite my family to the house for a
traditional Thanksgiving Dinner. This was in the day that I was not
welcomed at the wife’s family dinner, so I must have thought it a good idea to
have my family of origin over for the day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FEFDFA; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); font-size: 12pt;"><b><i><span style="color: #660000;">As I am not
known for my cooking prowess,</span></i></b><span style="color: #333333;"> this should have struck all of us as extremely
odd and as a very bad idea.</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">The wife traveled off in the wee hours
toward Cheddarland</span><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">, leaving me
behind to create the perfect culinary delight of thanks. It was a horrible,
miserable day—wind howling, dark grey clouds hovering, garbage blowing by in
the cold November breeze. I was a bit worried about the wife driving on such a
lousy day, but I had a dinner to worry about, so I put her out of my mind and
turned to the stove.</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><span style="color: #660000;">First things first</span></span></b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><b><span style="color: #660000;">—I stared at the turkey…<br /></span></b></span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">looked at the
belly button<br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">read the directions,<br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">stared at the turkey,<br />looked at the belly button.<br />Turned on the oven. <br />Stared at the turkey.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FEFDFA; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); font-size: 12pt;"><b><i><span style="color: #660000;">
I knew enough to pull the giblets out of the inside of the bird,</span></i></b><span style="color: #333333;"> so I had a
moment of pride in the kitchen. I plopped those frozen goodies into the sink
and returned to staring at the bird. I took out one of those turkey baggies—you
know, one of those plastic cooking bags—and wrapped ol’ Tom Turkey in the bag.
(I think I wiped him down with some butter before wrapping him up, but I can’t
say for sure.) I tied up the bag, shoved the bagged bird into the giant
aluminum pan and turned on the oven. <br /><br />I am all puffed up because I am on
schedule and I am in charge of my turkey! </span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">Then… thirty minutes later…..</span><br />
<br />
<b style="color: #333333;"><i><span style="background: #FEFDFA;">….the power goes out.</span></i></b><br />
<br />
<span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);">No oven. Can’t open the refrigerator. No
heat. No microwave.</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><span style="color: #660000;">I don’t immediately panic</span></span></b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;"> because there are four hours before anything
needs to happen, as it’s four hours before my family will arrive. Still… the turkey has only been cooking for 30 minutes. Everything I
need besides the corn is in the refrigerator and I certainly can't open that
door. I pace.</span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><br />
I realized it was going to get mighty cold in the house without heat.</span></span><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;"> So, I decided to make a fire in the fireplace
as means of heating the house and giving it a warm, cozy holiday feel.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><b style="color: #660000;">Words of wisdom: </b>DO NOT make a fire in the
fireplace on the windiest day of the year.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><b><i><span style="color: #660000;">I start the fire even though I hear the wind
whipping down the chimney and into the fireplace.</span></i></b><span style="color: #333333;"> It doesn’t dawn on me this might
not be a good thing. I get that puppy burning and then wind whips in and FILLS
the house with smoke and soot and ashes and embers. I’m not kidding. Soot
everywhere! </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FEFDFA; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><b><i><span style="color: #660000;">I look at the what used to be white lampshade and think OH SHIT!
This is SO not good. </span></i></b><span style="color: #333333;">I’m trying to put the fire out, I’m trying to stop the
soot, I’m dumb enough to close the flue in an effort to keep the wind from
howling in, but this only means ALL the smoke now comes into the house. I
reopen the flue, choking through the dust.</span></span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><i><span style="color: #660000;">Insult to injury, the fire alarms start
going off. </span></i></span></b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">I now have to
open the windows and doors. And, I thought it was cold before all this nonsense
started.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);">I am in sheer panic.</span></b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"> </span></span><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">It’s been two hours without electricity, the
house is freezing and smoky, the turkey is rotting in the oven and there is
nothing I can do….</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">….so I call the wife, who is just sitting down
to a delicious home-made dinner with her family. Like she can do anything.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #660000;"><b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);">Three and a half hours later, the power
comes on.</span></b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"> </span></span><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">I leap up in joy,
crank the heat, crank the oven, start opening cans and boxes like mad, put the
pie in the oven next to the turkey.....</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><span style="color: #660000;">I figure turning the oven WAY up will make
everything cook faster. </span></span></b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">I’m serious.</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><i><span style="color: #660000;">My family shows up</span></i></span></b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><span style="color: #333333;"> </span><b><i><span style="color: #660000;">and I explain what has happened.</span></i></b><span style="color: #333333;"> My father,
who has been in the food service business his entire life, gives a
skeptical-we-are-all-going-to-die-if-we-eat-that-turkey look to me, but I
prevail. We have to wait several hours for dinner, as the turkey needed time.
Of course, I forget about the pie and burn the PISS out of it. (Black crust.
Mmmm. Tasty.) In the meantime, I’m heating canned corn and mashing potatoes. I
peek in at the turkey and notice….</span></span><br />
<br />
<b><i><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><span style="color: #660000;">….hey! I can’t see the belly button!</span></span></i></b><br />
<br />
<b style="color: #333333;"><span style="background: #FEFDFA;">Where did it go? </span></b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">I know it was in there when I started cooking this
thing. I call my father over and point out that I can’t see the belly button
anymore. We decide it must have popped out and thus the turkey must be done.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">He helps take the bird out of the oven and I
ask for his assistance with the carving of the turkey. We look at the bird and
kind of have quizzical looks—something is wrong here, but I can’t put my finger
on it. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FEFDFA; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><b><i><span style="color: #660000;">He goes to start carving….and nothing. </span></i></b><span style="color: #333333;">There is like NO meat. </span><span style="color: #333333;">I FREAK OUT. </span><span style="color: #333333;">This is like a 20-zillion pound turkey and he’s carving bones. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FEFDFA; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">He looks at me,
<br />looks at the turkey, <br />gives me that smirk look he has...<br />and flips the turkey
over in the pan.</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><span style="color: #660000;">I have cooked it upside down. </span></span></b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">When he flips it over, we can see the belly
button. Go figure.</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><span style="color: #660000;"><i>Suffice it to say</i></span><span style="color: #333333;">,</span></span></b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;"> i</span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 16px;">t was a nightmare of a meal. <br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">The turkey was a hockey puck,<br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">the
pie was black,<br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">the corn was cold,<br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">the potatoes were lumpy,<br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">the house was smoky,<br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt;">the furniture was sooty...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FEFDFA; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">Well, at least
the Stove top Stuffing wasn't a complete loss. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: #FEFDFA; line-height: normal; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250);"><b><span style="color: #660000;">My
father, always one to have the last word, says, “no one ever said you could
cook.”</span></b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;"><i>Touche.</i></span><br />
<br />
<b style="color: #333333;"><span style="background: #FEFDFA;">I’ve been a vegetarian ever since. </span></b><span style="background: rgb(254, 253, 250); color: #333333;">Gobble Gobble!<br />********************************************<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-55714878988095597842022-05-30T09:47:00.005-05:002022-05-30T09:47:41.146-05:00#2A.2 of 16: Dos Perritas<p><i><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;">Here we are, the second-to-last post, broken into three--well, technically four--parts: 2A.1, 2A.2, 2B and 2C. New posts but with old stuff thrown
in. <b>This is #2A.2: The Dogs (Bandido and Rosita).</b></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Pre-Rescue.<br /></b></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
knew we wanted to rescue a dog if we ever decided to get another party pup. (No
poodles or chihuahuas. All others welcome. Hold that thought…) Enter
serendipity. Quite by accident, we learn about Texas-based Tracy's Paws Rescue.
Without expectation of being chosen, I apply for the August Chicago Event and
then let it go.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I put the entire thing in the Universe's hands and went
on with my life...</span></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">....for twenty four hours. </b>Within a day, TracysPawsRescue called my
references, my vet and then me.<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">I was SHOCKED when the Adoption Manager called. </b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">When asked about the perfect dog, I provided a description
that the wife had given me: under 20 pounds, young but not a puppy,
non-shedding, female and with no awful medical issues. Bonus points if the dog
has two eyes. While interviewing me, she paused (no pun intended) and then
asked, "would you consider a smaller dog?"</span> So, now I'm being
interviewed AND I'm being asked if I would consider a smaller dog. <br />Could this
get any better? The Universe was out of control.<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />A small white female, <br />
some non-shedding type pup.<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">A
poodle, perhaps.<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Eight pounds of fluff, to be exact.<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps two or three years old.<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">If I had to pick something for the wife, this would be it.<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">By the end of the conversation, we were approved for adoption (she had already
talked to our references and vet) and we were put in touch with the foster mom.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><i style="font-family: inherit;">(Hmmmm…
a poodle. Wait, didn’t we say we didn’t want a poodle? No, we couldn’t have
said that. We love poodles.)</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Foster mama had lots to say</b>, which helped paint a picture of the pup
in question. </span>I’m giddy. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then, the Universe took a turn of yet another thing I hadn't seen
coming</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">: the little white dog had bonded with a scruffy brownish chihuahua-ish
street dog and they had been inseparable since being picked up together at a
high kill shelter. She said, “They share a bone at the same time, they eat out
of the same dish, they sleep in the same bed.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><b>The Universe morphed this into a two-for-one scenario.</b></span> I knew
there was no way I could separate them. <span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">None. Zero. Zilch. If I wanted the white ball of
fluff, the scrappy brown dog would have to be in tow. I dreaded telling the
wife this. It was hard enough for her to consider having a dog again. Having to
consider TWO dogs might push her over the edge.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="font-family: inherit;">(Hmmmm…
a chihuahua mix. Wait, didn’t we say we didn’t want a chihuahua? No, we couldn’t
have said that. We love chihuahuas.)</i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;"><b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">I didn't know what to do. </span></b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">After talking to the wife by phone, she said I
should come home and we could talk about it, decide. I warned her I was all in.</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<b style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><br />
I guess she was all in</b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">, too as on the counter were two little dog
baskets, two dog food containers and two squeaky toys. I contacted the Adoption
Manager and secured our new little furry friends. They are now officially ours.
Paid in full, posted as adopted.</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" /><b></b></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNCfQVsdAXe0JHcx_4b341KpnEUDyeTz1CSf0YbDBCGs6CWrlbNoasaVjaUXi5F7W6G1UwvaJu8gmF2JKibgK_vI8khQcl8bwM3rw8z55A4Vj7Ut3bd2f3kfSVWFJw1qll6vcDWEGVmkcD_-z-HvO9_ruTp0dvt4roKDdrltQsNK2rEUyJQBA/s640/dogz2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="640" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNCfQVsdAXe0JHcx_4b341KpnEUDyeTz1CSf0YbDBCGs6CWrlbNoasaVjaUXi5F7W6G1UwvaJu8gmF2JKibgK_vI8khQcl8bwM3rw8z55A4Vj7Ut3bd2f3kfSVWFJw1qll6vcDWEGVmkcD_-z-HvO9_ruTp0dvt4roKDdrltQsNK2rEUyJQBA/w228-h219/dogz2.jpg" width="228" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>
We have won the lottery. <br /></b></span><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">********************************</span></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: black;">Week
One.<br /></span></b><span style="color: black;">The wife and I quickly learn we know not
what we are doing. <br />
Our new pups do not understand the concept of leashes or collars or going for a
walk. <br />
Rosita demonstrates that walking on tables is normal behavior. <br />
Bandido does not understand the concept of toys. <br />
Neither know how to navigate stairs. <br />
They certainly do not yet know their names.<br />
Bandido likes to pee on top of Rosita's poop. <br />
Rosita likes to poop in the house. <br />
Thankfully, Bandido does not pee on Rosita’s in-house poop.<br />
Bandido has yet to make a peep.<br />
Rosita always has something to say. <br />
Bandido is scared of everything.<br />
Rosita is oblivious and indifferent. <b><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></b><b style="font-family: inherit;">Yes,
Bandido is a girl with a boy’s name.</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I named her. Of course I
did. Her given name was Beatrice. Nope. Not a Beatrice. Her full name is Maritza
Bandido, not Beatrice. The wife named Rosita.<b> </b>She named her after the
singing pig in Sing! I deemed her full name to be Senorita Rosita Luisa Amelia.
Her given name was Amelia, so I kept that part. And yes, I do call her Senorita
Rosita Luisa Amelia.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They
are so little.<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bandido is afraid of the water bowl.<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why does Bandido lift her leg to pee?<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why is Rosita on the table?<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">***************************************</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: black;">Week
Three.</span></b><span style="color: black;"> <br />We've had a case of diarrhea (Rosita, not me), a trip to the vet
(to get an official diagnosis of: diarrhea), 21 hours without peeing (Rosita,
not me--I can't go without peeing), an escapee from the harness (Bandido, doing
something of which I didn't even think possible), undisclosed injuries (mine)
and an Olympic-worthy runaway romp (Rosita). <br />
<br />
They’ve learned to navigate stairs. <br />
Bandido has barked once or twice.<br />
She still doesn’t understand toys.<br />
None of us understand Rosita. <br />
Rosita does not care that we need to go to work so she needs to pee. <br />
She pees when she deems it time.<br />
Rosita swims in the water bowl.<br />
Sometimes she just stands in it.<br />
Sometimes she tries to sit in it. <br />
No wonder Bandido was afraid of the water dish.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>While on a walk this morning, </b>I scared the piss out of poor Bandido by tripping
and falling over her. <i>(The wife was out of town. These things only happen
when she is not here.) </i><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">When I slammed onto the pavement, it scared
Bandido so badly that she Houdini-like slipped out of her harness and ran away.
From my panicked-sidewalk view, I watched in horror as she bolted down the
street. (<i>Thankfully, my glasses stayed firmly on my face and Rosita stayed
by my side. Had she run away and/or I didn't have my glasses, this would have
been a totally different adventure.)</i> I got my sorry ass up off the sidewalk
and limped home as fast as I could, carrying Rosita so I wouldn’t lose her,
too. Suffice it to say, Maritza Bandido ran back to our house (yay—she knows
where we live!), bound up the deck stairs (yay—smart dog!), and hid in the corner
of the open outdoor crate (YAY!--Thank you, Baby Jesus). The poor thing was
blurry with shaking. It took quite a bit of reassurance and a whole lot of
treats to convince her I am not a psycho mass murderer.</span> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I put
five bucks in her therapy fund for the terror I caused her.<br />
<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<b><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">The next morning, Senorita Rosita Luisa Amelia had her own
dog dash. </span></b>She is FAST. Fast and furious… and naughty. Cunning. How did she
get away this morning, you chastise? Well, let me tell you. It’s 5 A.M. We are following
our morning routine. We are at the front door, returning to the house after the
party pups have done their duty….<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
open the door…<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
bend over to take their leashes/collars off, as I always do…<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rosita
steps as if she's walking into the house and.....<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">BAM! She streaks around my legs and is G.O.N.E.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I
am holding an empty collar. GONE!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="font-family: inherit;">Have you ever tried to catch a dog that doesn't know its name?</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> It's not fun. I'm not sure why I bother yelling
Rosita's name because she is clueless in that department.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I'm sure the
neighbors are quite entertained as I'm running across their lawns--in flip
flops and boxer shorts and no bra--yelling "GOD DAMMIT, ROSITA!"</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> at 5 A.M.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For the record, I move mighty fast for someone wearing no
bra, sporting flip flops, hobbling from yesterday’s tumble and dragging along a
terrified chihuahua. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
I'm running, <br />
yelling, <br />
swearing. <br />
I kick off my flip flops so I can run faster.<br />
I’m getting cuts on my legs from the brush.<br />
I just stepped on something squishy.<br />
<br />
I actually had to wait until she squatted to pee to catch her. Mid-stream, I
picked her up and carried her home. No sense in yelling at her.</span> I didn’t
put her down until we were well into the house. I can't do two dog-n-dashes in
the same morning.</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">The wife asked why Rosita looked dirty and scruffy. I'm sweating
and not looking spiffy, either. I tell the Wife that it's tough to stay clean
when you've been in the brush.</span> I explain how the event transpired. She
looks less than amused—with any of us. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 107%;">There were prickers in my hair.</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
Cuts on my arms.<br />
Mud on my feet.<br />
Bandido looks terrified, as usual. <br />
Rosita has moved on to table surfing<br />
oblivious to the prickers in her hair and mud on her feet.<br />
<br />
As I stand there, my feet are itching like crazy. <br />
Dear god, were we running in poison ivy?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">*********************************<br />
</span><b><span style="color: black;">Three Months.<br />
</span></b><span style="color: black;">They know the sound of a peanut butter jar being opened…<br />
the jingle of their leashes…<br />
the flushing of the toilet in the middle of the night (meaning: one of us is
awake and we should come say hello). <br />
They bark at everything: <br />
the chime on my laptop, <br />
doorbells on TV, <br />
the actual doorbell, <br />
the opening of the neighbor's garage, <br />
the damn squirrel taunting them on the deck, <br />
the sound of the UPS truck. <br />
They've figured out that when the wife or I go to the basement it means we
might be getting them a bone to chew. <br />
They survived their first taste of snow--just a dusting, but a new experience
for them, to be sure. <br />
They've made it known they don't exactly love wearing their winter coats. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bandido no longer tries to pee on her sister (yes, ON her). <br />
Bandido's hair continues to grow--little tufts here and there. <br />
Rosita has expanded her girth. <br />
I swear Bandido is taller. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Rosita
remains on her own mission:<br />
She doesn’t respond to her name unless it’s convenient…<br />
She doesn’t do “tricks” on command unless she feels like it… <br />
She swims in her water dish when she wants to…<br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">She views
us as her servants.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: black;">We remain
unable to catch the "Ninja Pooper"</span></b><span style="color: black;"> before she ninja poops.<br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Someone
manages to leave us a warm turd in the living room…<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">A steaming pile in the corner of the bedroom…<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">A present in the kitchen.<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">We never
see her leave our site and yet, there it is: the ninja poop.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #800180;"><i>Three
months. Already or only?</i></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">****************************************</span></b></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-67084012094397615042022-05-23T17:31:00.002-05:002022-05-23T17:31:33.814-05:00#2A.1 of #16: The Dogs<p><i><span style="color: #800180;">I am panicking now, as reflected by the time between the previous post and this post. The decision of what posts to close this blog with weighs heavily. (I still have a lot to say-er, write and I'm still mad I put the "birth through the window" so early in the countdown.) So, I'm going to do something unplanned: I'm going to make the second-to-last post be three parts long: 2A, 2B and 2C. They will be mostly new posts but with old stuff thrown in. <b>This is #2A.1: The Dogs. Freckles and Lucy. </b>Rosita and Bandido will featured in 2A.2. Settle in and buckle up.</span></i></p><p><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">It took me 16 years and buying a house to convince the wife to let me get a dog</span></b>. Sixteen years. Finally, one fine August afternoon, she agreed to go look at dogs. I remember it clearly: I was laying on the couch because it was too hot to be outside. Her words results in my chin dropping to the floor. I was in the car before she finished the sentence.</p><p><b>Enter Freckles Warrior Princess. </b></p><p><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">I let the wife pick the dog,</span></b> as she was the one being kind enough to let me have a dog. She wanted a Shih Tzu with an underbite. Go figure. She picked out what she thought was the "quiet" one. Cute, not as hyper as the other dogs, friendly enough. </p><p><i>Turns out the damn dog had Girardi and wasn't feeling well, hence the calm demeanor. Surprise!</i></p><p><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Honestly, we didn't know what the hell we were doing. </span></b>After all, she had never had a dog and it had been since childhood that I had one. She really didn't like dogs. And, she was just about to start the school year--a terrible time to get a dog for an already stressed out teacher. We didn't know what to name her, so when a friend suggested Freckles, as related to the freckles on her nose, we agreed. Such a cute name.</p><p><i>Turns out the damn dog only had nose freckles for about a month and then they disappeared. Surprise!</i></p><p>I deemed her Freckles Warrior Princess to denote a ferocity that did not exist. Besides, such a regal name honored my favorite TV hero. Her start as a family member was a bit tentative. I almost squished her with the garage door. All that soft serve Giardia-fueled poop did nothing to enamor the wife. The whining from the crate hurt my little dog-loving heart. With medication, time, more solid poop and increased attention to safety from me, we fell into a rhythm of a happy little family.</p><p><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Freckles was smart... and stubborn</span></b>. She learned quickly how to potty outside, but that didn't mean she always chose to do so. In fact, there were times she would walk right in front of us, look us dead in the eye and squat, peeing on the carpet in a most purposeful fashion. Seeing as she was so smart and was being an ass about the whole potty-on-the-carpet thing, I hung a bell on the door frame so I could teach her how to ring the bell when she wanted to go outside. She learned quickly how to do this. It was almost amazing.</p><p><i>Turns out the damn dog only rang the bell when she wanted a treat. She wasn't dumb. Surprise!</i></p><p>In fact, she would walk over to the bell and WHACK it with her paw. If we didn't respond quickly enough, she would WHACK it again... and again... and again. There were a few times she whacked the bell right off the doorframe. So much for ringing the bell to go potty. </p><p><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Freckles was a Canine Good Citizen and a therapy dog.</span></b> Well, until she wasn't. She did great in class and she did great during testing. She got her little therapy dog tag and I made her a little name tag and she was ready to start visiting people and hanging out at work.</p><p><i>Turns out the damn dog didn't like people, didn't want to sit on laps and wasn't gonna therapize anyone. Surprise!</i></p><p><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">After two years, I decided Freckles needed a friend.</span></b> A co-worker brought a box of puppies to the office (OMG A BOX OF PUPPIES!!!!) and I picked out a feisty one. These shih-tzu/Maltese cuties were too little to take home yet and I still had to convince the wife that two dogs were better than one and I had to make sure Freckles was on board. I wrote a check as a deposit and braced to tell the wife. Of course, it was the start of the school year--again. We took Freckles over to the lady's house so the pups could meet each other. All the puppies were running around, with the one I picked being the wild thing of the bunch. Freckles seemed okay with the puppy, so I wrote the check and we took the puppy home.</p><p><b>Enter Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia. </b></p><p>Since I technically named Freckles, the wife got to name puppy #2. She said she always wanted to name a pet Lucy, so Lucy it was. I added the rest of the name. Of course I did. </p><p><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Lucy was a LOT of fun.</span></b> In fact, she was spunky beyond compare. Well, she was a lot of fun when we weren't trying to walk her on a leash. She would SCREAM like we were killing her. I'm sure the neighbors were amused. It took a lot of non-walks to get her to walk on a leash without screaming. It was quickly evident that Lucy was the complete opposite of Freckles, which was fine by us. Lucy LOVED Freckles. She would pounce on her, chase her, try to play with her. </p><p><i>Turns out the damn dog didn't want a playmate. Surprise!</i></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>Freckles tolerated Lucy.</b> </span>Tolerated, nothing more. I swear Freckles would glare at us with a "you have GOT to be kidding me" look upon her smooshed little Shih Tzu face whenever Lucy would pounce on her. We lost big parent points with Freckles. In fact, Freckles stopped liking other dogs. She morphed into Cujo when other dogs would walk by. Whether she was trying to protect Lucy or she was afraid we were going to bring another dog home (hence, she warned other dogs to keep away), I do not know. </p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-weight: bold;">Lucy was always in trouble. </span><span>At least she didn't poop in the house. The wife and Freckles seemed less than entertained by me and Lucy, But, I know deep down inside they were both chuckling.</span></p><p><span>When Freckles was nine years old, she got deathly ill. I won't describe the scene. Let's just say lots of bodily fluids were involved. The vet couldn't figure out what was wrong. Many interventions, medications and I.V.s later, I knew I had to ask. I'm standing in the vet exam room, crying. I ask, "is it time?" And, the vet quietly answered, "no, it is not time." So, I had a talk with Freckles. I made her promise that she would live until age 16 if I spent money on her to help her live. Who needs furniture money for furniture? It was spent the furniture money--most happily--on Freckles. </span></p><p><i>Yes, she kept her promise--no surprise. I told you she was loyal.</i></p><p><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>Lucy decided to spend our money in another way.</b> </span>A much more creative way. She had this sore on her face that just wouldn't heal. It was beneath her eye, kinda sorta on her snout/cheek. As it wasn't getting better, I took her to the vet. I tell the vet tech about the sore. She looks at Lucy, she looks at me, she looks at Lucy. I can tell immediately that she knows what is wrong. Uh oh! She gets the vet, who looks at me, looks at Lucy, looks at the vet tech. I am freaked out. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG?!!! The vet asks the vet tech, "do you know what that is?" and the vet tech answers, "yes, I do." The vet then asks me if I know what it is. EXCUSE ME--IF I KNEW WHAT IT WAS, I WOULDN'T BE THERE! I shake my head "no." </p><p><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">"That's not a scratch. </span></b><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">It's her tooth." the vet says.</span></b></p><p>Confused, I repeated, "it's her tooth."</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT0gIRngMVGJYcYV4CJuuEKp58agAGowNkelVizdgftT81gBiKxKahwz8IsBBCCmNC_SlVZPF84RE_Pp24uorSOBUDCjD5BAKE7f7uhgPrWJX6ImFQJL4ohmZOJp5zLNDK0Dk7lX3MYy20K4hnNoUNZOmbQtd2owSrb5uKUGc2z11eDr1mLik/s964/Lucytooth1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="964" data-original-width="724" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT0gIRngMVGJYcYV4CJuuEKp58agAGowNkelVizdgftT81gBiKxKahwz8IsBBCCmNC_SlVZPF84RE_Pp24uorSOBUDCjD5BAKE7f7uhgPrWJX6ImFQJL4ohmZOJp5zLNDK0Dk7lX3MYy20K4hnNoUNZOmbQtd2owSrb5uKUGc2z11eDr1mLik/w155-h206/Lucytooth1.jpg" width="155" /></a></div>"Yup. It's the root of one of her molars. It's poking out of her snout." <p></p><p>Dear god, I felt like a REALLY, really bad mama. </p><p><i>My dog has a tooth poking out of her snout and I didn't even know that was a thing. Surprise!</i></p><p>A lot of money and a little dental surgery solved the issue.... although nine other teeth basically fell out while they were removing the molar. Thankfully, I was not charged for the extractions because--well.... they weren't technically extracted. They fell out. Seems her habit of sleeping with a stuffed squeaky in her mouth was really bad for her teeth. So much for being a good mama at all. </p><p><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Although younger, Lucy was the first to depart. </span></b>She made it easy for us. She let us know exactly when it was time. There were no questions or second guesses. For that, I am eternally grateful. Only two weeks from time of her cancer diagnosis, she let us know it was time. Talk about fast growing cancer. Poor Freckles. She was basically blind and deaf by the time Lucy was no more. Freckles would stand in the kitchen, staring, waiting for her pain-in-the-ass sister to show up once again. She'd let out a bark every once in awhile. I don't think Freckles ever got over it, although she'd deny she ever liked her sister. </p><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18Fx3Jcp9fugEc1TMYA-Qks3Wb6cTaYeGTRvVyGXC2nq_xXfNoj6TpebdBuyfN84iwJEd31p_iO2nzZtDNU4fqhSrwkMYMUa_vEdbDQsYFo-_IeY2G14xqfla6O7Qw8dOybpwJO1fWsIRUvmnKzMzmX4VM593BUczc6vHmMxzFpxbAlozV7o/s1024/Feckles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18Fx3Jcp9fugEc1TMYA-Qks3Wb6cTaYeGTRvVyGXC2nq_xXfNoj6TpebdBuyfN84iwJEd31p_iO2nzZtDNU4fqhSrwkMYMUa_vEdbDQsYFo-_IeY2G14xqfla6O7Qw8dOybpwJO1fWsIRUvmnKzMzmX4VM593BUczc6vHmMxzFpxbAlozV7o/w241-h181/Feckles.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">As for Freckles, she lived out her days</span></b> eating treats, refusing to walk, getting eye drops four times a day and remaining loyal. She too made it easy. If we still had that bell on the door, she would've whacked it and said, "it's time." I thanked her giving me my money's worth. She was a dog of her word. She was an old soul who meant business. She was a one-eyed wonder. She was large and in charge. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She was an amazing gift, worth the wait of sixteen dog-less years, in trade for sixteen dog-filled years. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b style="color: #2b00fe;"><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b style="color: #2b00fe;">No need to get maudlin. </b>Let's end with me saying I have a bazillion of stories about these two party pups. Maybe two bazillion. How Freckles ran away, how Lucy rolled in raccoon poop, how Freckles would lay down in the shade on walks, how Lucy kept the wife awake with all the slurping. I didn't hear it, so the wife would WHACK me and tell me to "MAKE HER STOP IT!" So much for any of us sleeping. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcNIcp9JK8-vQ-ngbBBqYsFs-fiWR2qwU699gLJ7OAoYgJKdJcFiM8Bw2_0cjf6Pqpt3tJGL1XcMXcFz1wBTM364sCUxiNfoMCAUk7XFXWV0q7inEaFNahsFgIvSPVefi4JGKn-ne14Nb9A7vVlVzi79BfCAuHSRH1n3J8VZG4LfRBqDCVfoY/s1024/Bikini%20Babe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1024" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcNIcp9JK8-vQ-ngbBBqYsFs-fiWR2qwU699gLJ7OAoYgJKdJcFiM8Bw2_0cjf6Pqpt3tJGL1XcMXcFz1wBTM364sCUxiNfoMCAUk7XFXWV0q7inEaFNahsFgIvSPVefi4JGKn-ne14Nb9A7vVlVzi79BfCAuHSRH1n3J8VZG4LfRBqDCVfoY/w209-h153/Bikini%20Babe.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>The puppy shower they threw me at work...<br /><br />The grossness of anal gland juice...<br /><br />Lucy's fear of the rumble strips on the tollway...<div><br />Sitting on the lawn with the gaybors and their dogs, enjoying the cool summer evenings...<br /><br />Fleas JUMPING off Lucy as we're getting to leave for our Civil Union Ceremony...<br /><br />The sound of puking in the middle of the night...<p>Frantically looking for runaway Freckles, right as were to leave to see the wife's sister graduate from college, running around the neighborhood, screaming her name....</p><p><i><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>...all the while she's sitting at the front door. Surprise!</b></span></i></p></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-54227877227932502952022-04-23T09:13:00.000-05:002022-04-23T09:13:01.480-05:00#3 of #16: The Wife<i><span style="color: #800180;"><b>I'm putzing. It's hard to close a chapter of your life. Pressure's on now that I'm at the final three blogs.</b> I know what the final one will be. But #3 and #2.... still chewing on it. I will take requests.<br />Side note: While reviewing this blog to find appropriate entries, I noticed that a LOT of the formatting has gone catawampus and a ton of photos are missing. It bothers me. Ah well, maybe another day. Today, the font and formatting and photos will have to wait.</span></i><br /><br /><span style="color: #0b5394; font-weight: bold;">Let's see how well you know the sophomoric land of which I wallow: let's talk about the wife. </span>You know I could go on for forever about our adventures...jobs, cars, dogs, health, football, softball, vacations, concerts, food. Oh, the food! There is so much to say, so many blogs about the wife. I'd love to combine them into one big blob of a blog, but that is a novel in itself. I know she won't be entertained, knowing there is an entire blog dedicated to her. Too bad--I'm living on the edge today!<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">We officially first met in the college cafeteria. </span></b>She was on campus for freshman orientation. I was working that day because I was going to be a Resident Assistant for the year and one of our jobs was to welcome incoming freshmen. I was assigned to the beverage table. Of course I was. I was to pour out cups of ice tea or lemonade; but, being me, I was offering other things of which didn't exist. When the wife bellied up to my bar--er, I mean table, I said, "Vodka or Gin?" Yes. Those were my first official words to her. I remember it. She remembers it. We still laugh about it. We should have realized it was destiny. Thankfully, her father did not hear me.<br /> <br /><b><span style="color: #0b5394;"> We didn't speak again until many weeks later. </span></b>It was while standing in line waiting for the cafeteria to open when we next spoke. We were ALWAYS the first two in line. One fateful day, I turned around and said, <b><span style="color: #800180;"><i>"You're a woman after my own heart." </i></span></b>The need for food-related punctuality and respect of all things alcohol became the basis of true friendship. <br /><br /><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">As we got to know each other, I learned the wife worked for the Catholic Priest on campus.</span></b> Being the good Catholic that she was, this was the BEST WORK-STUDY JOB EVER. When I asked what she was supposed to do during this very holy employment, she replied, "Honestly, I don't know." As far as I could tell, her job was to hang around in the chapel. This meant I could often be found hanging around in the chapel. <div><br /></div><div>One of the wife's duties of which we could identify was to "break the bread" when it arrived for Mass. It was awesome. A parishioner would bake a large loaf of bread and bring it to the chapel. The wife then would "rip" the loaf into pieces, readying it for Communion during Sunday's mass. I tried to be around whenever the wife was on bread ripping patrol because I LOVED that homemade bread. Sometimes it was still warm when it was delivered. It was so good it didn't need butter. I wanted in on the action. Yum! This bread was DELICIOUS. I mean--we loved, loved, loved it. It was sweet but not sugary, hard but not too hard, dense and delicious. Because it was so delicious and because we each weighed about seven million pounds and because we were college students who really didn't think twice about things, we would eat as much bread as we could without letting it "show" bread was "missing." We quickly learned that if we filled the "bottom" part of the bowl with regular old hosts and put the homemade bread on top of those wafers, it looked like there was a lot of bread. If we tried to fill the bowl without the hosts, it looked like someone had indeed been snarfing down bread with the communion wine that was missing. That would have given us away. <br /><br /><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Of course, we needed something to wash down that bread. </span></b>We quickly learned that the communion wine would suffice. Yes, we drank the unblessed communion wine. I am here to tell you that the wine is AWFUL. Terrible. Gag-worthy. Being poor, desperate, thirsty college students, we didn't care. We just drank it and made faces and passed the bottle back and forth. It wasn't the blood of Christ yet, so we figured there wasn't anything wrong with this. We even drank it after accidentally pushed the cork into the bottle. It left little pieces of cork floating around in the bottle. Didn't stop us from drinking it.<br /><br />If you think it's entertaining that the wife worked at a church during college, you'll love to learn that I used to serve Communion while in college. You know, as an extraordinaire minister. Blessed or whatever, there I was, seal of approval to serve communion, doling out the Body of Christ to the parishioners. I did this whenever needed, hung over or not, dressed appropriately or not, feeling holy or not. Most often, I was hung over, a wrinkled mess and not very holy--but when the Body of Christ calls, you answer. <br /><br /><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">That bread consumption came back to haunt me.</span></b> Jesus sees all and knows all. But first, we must get through Saturday night to get to Sunday Mass.<br /><br />The wife and I were returning home from a party. A really fun party. Hell, there was a lady sitting on the toilet--bathroom door obviously wide open--with a lit cigarette in each ear. It's that kind of party. The wife, for some unknown reason, had a can of beer in her coat pocket. I do not remember the actual brand of beer but I am sure it was very cheap. As we were walking, the beer fell out of her pocket and rolled down the asphalt road (we were, obviously, walking downhill). We watched it roll, roll, roll. Then, I watched the wife start running down the hill, chasing the can. She couldn't, after all, let a good beer go to waste. The beer beat her down the hill but she finally caught up with it and put it back into her pocket. We continued our short trek and reached the destination: our dorm.<br /><br /> We were very tired from chasing that beer (a-hem), so we took the elevator instead of walking the few flights of stairs to our destination. One of the Holy-Roller-Sober guys was already on the elevator. He hesitantly but chivalrously held the door open for us. I give him credit--holding the elevator for two heathen drunkards would be a stretch for most Holy-Roller-Sober guys. The wife leaned against the back wall. I leaned against the left wall. He stood staring straight ahead, mortified. He was probably silently praying for our souls. The doors closed and the elevator began to move. As I'm standing there, I hear this <b><i><span style="color: #800180;">ssss-s-s-s-s-s-ssssss </span></i></b>noise, kind of like a snake hissing. At first I thought I was hearing things, but then I realize no, there really is a hissing noise. I turn to the the wife, I look at the guy, I look around. I then notice the guy's eyes get REALLY wide and it looks like he's holding his breath. I look back at the wife... <br /><br /><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">...and see a thin stream of golden liquid shooting out of her coat pocket.</span></b> It was a golden arch of beer, slowing hissing out of the beer can, shooting majestically out of her pocket. Seems the can we chased must have gotten a hole in it. Seeing as the beer was so shaken up from all that rolling, it was shooting beer out of the tiny hole in the side of the can. I BURST out laughing and then stop to realize this is the exact moment I am in love with her and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Sunday morning arrives.</span></b> The wife and I are at Catholic mass. We "might" be hung over. The wife is still wearing the beer-shooting-from-pocket jacket. I'm definitely wearing something that hasn't been washed. I'm sitting there, minding my own business when I'm reminded it's my weekend to serve Communion. I get up from my seat, drag my sorry ass up to the altar, get my Body of Christ from the priest, grab my bowl of bread-hosts-Jesus body and waddle to my place to serve Communion. </div><div><br />Looking down at the bowl now in my hands, I notice the wife and I were a little over zealous in the "use the hosts-to-fluff-the bread" department, as chunks of that delicious bread were just about flowing over the top of my communion host bowl. I'm standing there with my mantra, "Body of Christ, Body of Christ, Body of Christ," handing out bread when the <b><span style="color: #741b47;">unimaginable </span></b>happens:</div><div><br />The BODY OF CHRIST JUMPS OUT OF MY BOWL AND ONTO THE FLOOR. This is worse than death to a Catholic. <br /><br /><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">JESUS HAS JUST JUMPED OUT OF THE BOWL AND HE'S ON THE FLOOR!!!! </span></b>I do not know what to do. There's the hunk of bread, no longer just a hunk of bread but rather a hunk of Jesus, Body of Christ, on the floor by my left foot. I am filled with sheer terror. </div><div><br /></div><div>They never told me what to do in such emergencies. How was I to know Jesus would ever jump out of the bowl? I can see him, he can see me. <br />I look at the person I was about to provide Communion.<br />I look at Jesus on the floor.<br />I look at my bowl. <br />Jesus ain't getting off the floor and the priest isn't noticing the Catholic Chaos going on next to him. <br />The line is getting longer, people are waiting for their transubstantiated piece of bread....<br /><br />There is nothing I can do but bend over, pick up the Body of Christ and shove him into my mouth. <br /><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">I'LL SAVE YOU, JESUS!</span></b><br /><br />It's poetic justice. You know, the wife and I always tried to rip the bread into small, manageable pieces, but this Jesus-on-the-floor piece (of course!) was a HUGE hunk of bread. Usually, this would have been an awesome thing; it's the size you hoped you'd get when going to communion--but, in this case, this huge wad of bread was a bad thing. I've got this dry, dry cotton mouth, I'm already freaked out, I'm woozy and wrinkled, I'm on the verge of passing out and now I've got this wad of bread in my mouth that I can't swallow because I don't have any spit and I have to continue my job of serving Communion. <br /><br /><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">I shove the wad to the left cheek and mutter out "Bolly of Cliste, Bolly of Cliste."</span></b><br /><br />The world didn't end, I wasn't struck down by lightning. Everything seemed in order. Me? I returned to my seat and tried not to pass out or vomit. The wife told me I did good. I whispered that we needed to stop eating the Communion bread upon arrival at the chapel. I wasn't messing around with Jesus anymore.<br /><br /><span style="color: #0b5394;"><i><b>Flash forward several decades. </b></i></span><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">It had been a tough day.</span></b> An employee had alerted upper management about the morally reprehensible boss she had and thus she was quitting. She could not work for a homosexual. This was quite a shock to me, for myriad reasons. I was dumbfounded. As a boss, I actually had professional boundaries during this juncture in my life. I went to work and I went home. That's it. Maybe I had been too nice. I had listened to her proselytize and smiled when she placed a Bible on my desk. I didn't throw her out or tell her to knock it off. I just said thank you. In turn, she identified me as morally corrupt during her spontaneous exist interview with the top three people in the agency.<div><br /><div>I was one pissed off, disgusted person after learning of this. I was scowling mad. I drove home, fuming all the way. Upon arrival, I didn't bother saying hello to the wife. Instead, I went up to the bedroom, grabbed the Bible the lady had so "lovingly" placed on my desk, marched downstairs, opened the garbage can and forcefully, angrily and purposefully threw the Bible away. In. The. Garbage. I threw the Bible in the Garbage. You think Jesus was mad about that body-on-the-floor thing? This put that to shame. </div><div><br /></div><div>Still scowling, I stood there looking at the garbage, pondering if I felt any better. In true wife fashion, the wife said nothing. She looked at me, glanced at the garbage can, looked at me, walked over to the garbage can, opened the garbage can and fished out Bible. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">She then said, "At LEAST you could RECYCLE it." </span></b>She then literally walked out the door and put the Bible into the Recycle Bin. She returned, gave me a slight smile and went back to whatever she had been doing before I stormed in the door.</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-weight: bold;">That. THAT is true love. <br /></span><span>No questions. <br />No judgment. <br />Just acceptance and a nod to the environment.</span></div><div><span style="color: #800180;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="color: #800180;"><i>And so, this third of 16 final blogs comes to a close.</i></span> The wife. She's persevered through my my fashion faux pas and weird hairdos. She's boarded little planes, big planes and connecting planes, all without knowing the destination. She tries to hold her tongue when she finds gum in the dryer--again. She tries not to roll her eyes too loudly when I've once again lost my keys or phone or wallet. She's shared the Communion Bread with me. She's forgiven me and the dogs for the unmeasurable antics over the years. </div><div><br /></div><div>She's the person who takes the Bible out of the garbage so it can be recycled. <br /><br /></div><div>No questions.<br />No judgment.<br />Just a good buffet, another concert, a green and gold victory, a love of carbohydrates. <br /><br /><b><span style="color: #800180;"><i>A woman after my own heart.</i></span></b></div></div></div><div>*****************************************</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-59400920158619263202022-04-02T11:37:00.003-05:002022-04-02T11:41:33.122-05:00Godspeed, Harvey (#4 of 16)<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="color: #800180;">Wow, we approach the final countdown, already
to #4 on this farewell tour. </span></i></b><span style="color: #800180;">It's rather shocking. It's freaking me out. I'm running out of
time, space and numbers. I haven't spoken of Madonna yet and I'm not sure she's
going to fit into the countdown. For shame! </span><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">Let's recap, shan't we? </span></i></b><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;">I had to go back and see what I had babbled
about during this final countdown, lest I repeat myself or forget something of
major importance (however that might be defined in relation to a sophomoric,
self-serving blog). I did notice a theme of car-key stories; in fact, I almost
picked nother key-related blog to repost but then I thought I wanted to break
that chain. I have yet to pick the final three blogs but I have chosen today's
entry (#4). Here's where we've been so far:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #800180;">16. Lock Me Out and Shove Me In (probably my
all-tome favorite blog--why I made it #16 instead of the final post, I do not
know)</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">15. Jesus, Upside Down (I'd do this again)</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">14. Turkey Trot (seriously--you had to be
there to fully grasp the fun and fear)</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">13. Can You Hear me NOW? (I've decided this
one shouldn't have made the list)</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">12. Shooting the Poop (there had to be at
least one poop post in the final countdown)</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">11. Now for THIS I Went to College (probably
my all-time favorite work-related blog and a touching memory of which I will
carry until my dying day)</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">10. Friendly Neighbor, Snow-blowing Style (one
of the most requested stories I am asked to verbally share with others during
the holidays)</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">9. Happy Capers (Another day at my
adored job)</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">8. Let them eat cake (Because Ice Cream Cake
is vital in this thing called life)</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">7. Of Car Keys and Dog Puke (Uh oh--keys)</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">6. Great California Car Trunk Incident of 1988
(Uh oh--more keys)</span></i><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><i style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #800180;">5. Live Like a Dog (Because we should ALL live
like a dog).</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #800180;">This week, aka #4 of #16, has a more serious tone.
It’s a tribute to those I serve. A story of sadness, strength, and
schizophrenia. </span></b><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;">I re-worked this entry
so I could best honor a person who made a profound difference in my life. I’m
grateful for the life lessons, the laughs and the understanding that there is
no fine line between staff and client. We’re all clients.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #800180;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;">If you are swimming in grief or struggling with
anything mental illness related or just don’t want to contemplate life and
death, this entry is one to skip for now. Go back and read about me getting
shoved through a window. Kiss kiss.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="background-color: #800180;"><span style="color: white;">Preface. </span></span><br />
Sometimes, people are put in our lives to teach us lessons.</b><span style="color: black;"> I believe Harvey was a teacher—for me and for
those around her. Anyone who thinks you can’t learn anything from a person with
schizophrenia and terminal cancer is sadly mistaken. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Harvey was supposed to have died three years before
this blog was written, but she was too stubborn to die back then. Talk about a
cat with nine lives. For purposes of the blog, I named her Harvey. She knows
why. I’m sure it makes her laugh.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><b style="font-family: inherit;">Her formal name is “Harvey the one-boob-wonder.”</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> That’s because—well--she had one boob. They had
given her a mastectomy during her first bout of cancer. She didn’t want reconstruction.
She didn’t give a shit about reconstruction. What she DID give a shit about is
keeping one of the two boobs.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">When the cancer returned the second time, they wanted to do a mastectomy on the
remaining boob. Hell-to-the-no was the reaction. So, Harvey got to go through
life with one boob, which pleased her to no end.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><o:p style="background-color: #800180;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #800180;">One.<br /></span></b></span><b style="font-family: inherit;">It's late on a warm June night. </b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Despite being late, it's still warm out. I think it's about 11 PM
but I'm not sure. I am heading home after spending the day at the hospital.
It's been a long day. I don't think I ate very much but I'm not hungry. I'm
tired. I'm defeated. I am sad. I am definitely in need of therapy.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="font-family: inherit;">Walking from the hospital to my car, I stop to
make a call.</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Standing in the brightly
lit parking lot, I leave a message for my peers at work. This makes me cry. I
don't want to be crying but now I am crying while standing in the parking lot
of the hospital, on a warm June night. I'm sure I'm not the first person to cry
in a hospital parking lot and I know I won't be the last. I'm just the current
person crying in the parking lot. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><b style="font-family: inherit;">Harvey, the One-Boob Wonder" died
tonight. </b><span style="font-family: inherit;">I knew she was going to
die. I knew I would be there when she died. That doesn't make it any easier.
That doesn't make it any less sad.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve seen a baby be born and I’ve seen a person die. Both are wonderous in
their own way. Both are beautiful and ugly and emotional and raw and relieving
and painful. It is truly an honor to be with someone as they are born or as they
pass. Today, I was honored to bear witness as someone died. It was indeed beautiful
and ugly and emotional and raw and relieving and painful.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> A</span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">nd sad.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><o:p style="background-color: #800180;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> T</span></o:p><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: #800180;">wo.<br /></span></b></span><b style="font-family: inherit;">Harvey was “my” client from the day I started working at the agency.</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> She happened to be diagnosed with Schizophrenia.
She was my age, grumpy, bitter and funny. I don’t think most people took the
time to enjoy her humor. Sarcastic and witty. Easy to miss. I’ve always been
able to understand what Harvey was “saying.” All you had to do is listen.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> H</span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">arvey also lived with breast cancer… not just
once… not just twice… but, three times. I ask the Universe: Is Schizophrenia
not “enough?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Is it not enough to spend your life hearing
voices of which are relentless, hate-fueled, distracting, loud and angry? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Is it not enough to spend life swimming through
paranoia, not knowing what is true and what is not true? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Is it not enough to fear everyone, to wonder if
the cashier really is cutting your arm with your keys or if you are just
feeling that as part of your symptoms? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Is it not enough to have people cross the street
when they see you coming because they don’t understand why you are talking to
yourself and look disheveled? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Is it not enough to be judged, day in and day
out?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Harvey didn’t give a shit about those questions.
She was “fine, just fine,” as she’d say.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="font-family: inherit;">Harvey, dealing with Schizophrenia and breast
cancer for the third time, </b><span style="font-family: inherit;">had
two words when it was suggested she have chemotherapy for the third time. Those
two words were not “yes, please.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I</span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">t’s when I am filling out Harvey’s “Five Wishes”
papers I notice the symptoms of her mental illness seem less “intense.” I pay a
little closer attention. I realize her symptoms have eased up just… as her medical
condition falls apart.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> T</span></o:p></span><b style="font-family: inherit;">his is so very unfair.</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> You might think that any decrease in the
severity in symptoms of mental illness would be a blessing. In this case, it is
not--Harvey has insight she probably wished had never come. No one should ever
have insight at times like these. Harvey knows she is dying and she knows she
is mentally ill and she has full insight into these facts.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> h</span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">er body is failing her while her mind is waking
up. I am less than entertained by the Universe.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="background-color: #800180;"><span style="color: white;">Three.</span></span></b><span style="color: black;"><br />
For some reason, through the muck of paranoia & delusions, Harvey trusted
me. She let me take her to chemo treatments and to doctor appointments, she let
me watch as the doctor examined her one remaining boob, she let me talk her in
to blood work when she didn’t want blood work. In return, I went through many a
drive-through with her. Who am I to deny a cancer-ridden client of a Frosty or
a large order of fries? She loved Frosties. At times, a doctor or her mother or
some staff person would tell her she shouldn’t eat Frosties as they aren’t
healthy…<br />
<br />
<b>Everyone should have full access to a Wendy’s Frosty when desired.</b> Chemo?
Frosty. Bloodwork? Frosty. Oncologist appointment? Frosty. Healthy? The lady is
dying. She’s appeasing us by taking part in treatment that is killing her to
keep her alive. I was quite clear with people when they say such stupid things
to her: Shut up and let her have a friggin’ Frosty.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><b style="background-color: #800180;"><span><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span></b><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="background-color: #800180;">Four.</b><span style="background-color: #800180;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Harvey was scheduled to have a hysterectomy. Her
mom flew in from the West Coast to be here for the healing process. Her mom
didn’t get to town very often, so it was fabulous to see her. It was supposed
to be a simple operation.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">When they opened her up…all they saw was cancer.
They sewed her back up and called it a day. Harvey, the one boob wonder, was
full of mediatized breast cancer.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The fact that she didn’t have a hysterectomy
pissed her off. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">She was none-too-pleased
that cancer made it impossible to get a promised hysterectomy. She didn’t want to
hear it. She wasn’t going to do chemo again—this would be round three—and she
didn’t want to lose her hair—this would be round three of that, too. Harvey didn’t
want any more pills or doctors or surgery or mammograms. She was done, done,
done.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">You know what? She finally agreed to try round
three of chemotherapy, mostly to shut all of us up. So, her hair fell out, the
hair grew back and the cancer seemed to shrink to a “size” that left her alive.
Her mom went back to the West Coast, I took her for Frosties, and mental health
treatment went on as planned.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: #800180;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><b style="background-color: #800180;">Five.</b><span style="background-color: #800180;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Harvey was stubborn beyond compare. She never complained about pain, lying
through her teeth about how she was feeling, refusing to take pain pills and
basically denying anything is amiss, even on the worst of days. Maybe she
honestly didn’t know she was in pain. Maybe the pain in her body was “less”
than the pain in her brain. It’s the stubbornness that kept her alive, I’m
sure.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">But even terminal stubbornness cannot stop
terminal cancer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I watched Harvey waste away, legs refusing to work as they once did, eyes
floating around in her head, weight leaving, appetite dwindling, color fading.
And yet, she plugged along, saying, “I’m fine, I’m fine.”<br />
<br />
She was not fine but I smiled anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: #800180;">Six.<br /></span></span></b><b style="font-family: inherit;">Harvey started complaining of pain.</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> This was very unusual for her and
thus we took immediate notice. She started taking pain pills—something I had
never seen her do in all the years I have known her. She stopped eating pizza
at 3 AM. She wasn’t angry at the world. She had all the signs of a bowel
obstruction and that was not a good thing.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">Harvey and I went to the emergency room.</span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"> She scowled and squirmed and wanted to go
outside and have a cigarette. When a doctor finally showed up, she told him she
was “fine.” I shook my head in disagreement. She was not fine. Harvey repeated herself:
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” She then asked for a cigarette.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">I know she is dying</span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">. I know the doctor knows she is dying. I know
Harvey knows she is dying. I sat quietly next to her. No one who is dying
should ever have to sit alone in an emergency room. Her mom was not going to
get here in time--she can’t catch a plane in enough time. She won’t make it. We
found her dad, someone of whom I didn’t even know exist until he showed up in
the emergency room. Harvey was in too much pain to even acknowledge her dad.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">She was standing up, naked, screaming for
someone to bring her Heroin. Yes, heroin. That got attention but it did not get
her heroin. Hell, I would have gone out and gotten her Heroin had I known how.
I covered her with a sheet and coaxed her to sit down and talk with her dad. There
was no sitting down, only pacing. She did talk to her dad. Thankfully, she also
got more pain meds.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">The surgeon came in and tells Harvey she needed
surgery.</span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"> She has a bowel
obstruction of which is so severe he must do surgery. She wants nothing to do with
surgery. Nothing. NOTHING. AT. ALL. She yells at him she is not going to have
surgery.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">No more cutting. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">No more pain. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">No more surgery.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She swore at us in a most determined fashion. <br />
NO.<br />
MORE.<br />
SURGERY.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">You know what? I'm embarrassed to say that she finally agreed to surgery,
mostly to shut the surgeon, her dad and me up. She did it for us.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="background-color: #800180; color: white;">Seven.</span></b><br />
The surgery was nothing more than opening and closing her up. There was nothing
left inside her on which to operate. [I’ll spare you the description given to
me by the surgeon.] They wheeled her back to a hospital room and left her dad
and me to be with her, one on each side of the bed. I wiped her brow, just as
she has indicated in her “Five Wishes.” I talked to her. A pastor came into the
room, so I left, giving her Dad time to process what was happening. I returned to
find her looking at me. My reassurances were more for me than for her. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I stood there silently for the final moments of
life. She had earned some peace and quite.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Suffice it to say she died a true champion.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: #800180;">One.<br /></span></span></b><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">It's late on a warm June night. </span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Despite being late, it's still warm out. I think it's about 11 PM
but I'm not sure. I am heading home after spending the day at the hospital.
It's been a long day. I don't think I ate very much but I'm not hungry. I'm
tired. I'm defeated. I am sad. I am definitely in need of therapy.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><b><span style="background-color: #800180; color: white;">Epilogue.</span><br /></b></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The next day, I went to work as usual. Only it wasn’t as usual. Some co-workers
came and talked to me, giving me plenty of time to process. I don’t know what I
said but I do know what I was thinking:<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Harvey, I hope you are up there kicking God in
the shins and demanding to know why you had to suffer so much in this life.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Give him a kick for me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Heck, give him two kicks. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></o:p></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">After you are done kicking him, enjoy having two
boobs and no pain.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Enjoy being free of the voices that tormented
you for so long. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Enjoy thoughts of your cutie-patootie
oncologist. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Enjoy being free of all this nonsense.<br />
<br />
Thank you for all the laughs. You really did crack me up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thank you for dying so calmly, so quietly, so
nicely, so peacefully for me, for your father. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m sorry your life was cut so short but I’m
glad you had those three extra years. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Gave you three more years to teach me things,
and for that I am very grateful.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
Godspeed, Harvey, double-breasted wonder.</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><br /><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-48773417697052703502022-03-19T08:38:00.005-05:002022-03-19T08:38:56.892-05:00 Live Like a Dog (#5 of 16)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKgdePkBhXcus7zpMxTkVHQc4GaPdjrwAXJRIEVkWU7Cf_vjPw5zLTauorEIL2NyBkRv2w8ZzYOOwtSIrRVxZ_2QP56bC7-2LHqQcvUy3PW889YERbwQ_CrxjzrayD75ADUUmFxD8nvirRtPXbgnhyHIMg7ultJAw6J4IkM5m6mB4qm9JO4S8=s1071" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; font-family: inherit; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="841" data-original-width="1071" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKgdePkBhXcus7zpMxTkVHQc4GaPdjrwAXJRIEVkWU7Cf_vjPw5zLTauorEIL2NyBkRv2w8ZzYOOwtSIrRVxZ_2QP56bC7-2LHqQcvUy3PW889YERbwQ_CrxjzrayD75ADUUmFxD8nvirRtPXbgnhyHIMg7ultJAw6J4IkM5m6mB4qm9JO4S8=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;">The official ending of this blog creeps closer and closer.</span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;"> I didn't think this
through before embarking on this adventure. I didn't have a "Top 16 blogs" identified... I figured I'd scroll around a
bit and find something of interest here and there. Thus, this swan song isn't really a "top 16." It's "16 random posts which make me happy." In that spirit, here's a blog </span>from a happy party pup who had to exit life a wee bit too early. Her words include some good-hearted teasing of her fat, smelly sister Freckles.</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">[<b>Preface:</b> Lucy was a Maltese-Shih Tzu with a sparkle in her eye and a jaunty gait. I met Lucy when she was four weeks. A co-worker brought a box of puppies to the office. I took one look in that box and KNEW immediately that I had to have one of those puppies. Seriously--a box of puppies! I told the wife Freckles needed a friend. (Freckles didn't need a friend.) We added Lucy to the family when she was seven weeks old. Since I'm the one who asked for the second dog, the wife got to name her. The wife had always wanted a pet named Lucy, so Lucy it was. From the day she got here to the day she crossed that rainbow bridge, she brought us much joy and a lot of entertainment. (She brought disdain to Freckles--her smelly, crabby sister. So much for needing a friend.)<br /><br />Lucy knew how to get the most out of life. She reveled in life. We should all be so lucky to live life like Lucy. Unfortunately, Lucy developed a very aggressive cancer, giving us only two weeks to shower her with love. I truly believe she gave us the two weeks because she knew we needed them... </p><p class="MsoNormal">Or, maybe she just wanted two weeks to sleep in the bed. Knowing Lucy, it was probably a little of both.]<br />***********************************************************</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-weight: bold;">Live Like a Dog, as told by Lucy Bark of Poteidaia. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><b style="color: #0b5394;">Start each day with an obnoxious squeaky toy. </b>Don't stop
squeaking until (1) the squeaky is broken; (2) the squeaky is removed from
the toy and then broken; or, (3) some mean human comes along and takes the squeaky
toy because he/she cannot tolerate one more minute of squeakiness.<br /><br /></li><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">If someone takes your squeaky toy, don't let it get you
down. </span></b>Wait until the squeaky toy is put back in the toy
pile...wait....wait...go get it and start squeaking again. Pure bliss.<br /><br /></li><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Never miss the opportunity to give a kiss.</span></b> Heck, kiss them
twice. Kiss them when they are not looking. Kiss with reckless abandon.<br /><br /></li><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Never say "no" to a treat.</span></b> Never. Life is too short to
say no to treats. Besides, someone else will come over and steal the treat if
you don't eat it, so enjoy it yourself. The fat, smelly sister dog doesn't need
another treat.<br /><br /></li><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Tolerate your human friends when they do stupid things</span></b> like
put you in costumes, put boots on your feet, try to feed you healthy treats,
don't take you along when they go get ice cream, insist on yet another posed
photo with the fat, smelly dog. They can't help it. They know not what they do.<br /><br /></li><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Run. </span></b>Run when you can, while you still can. If you can't
run, skip. If you can't skip, trot. If you can't trot, hang out with the fat,
smelly dog.<br /><br /></li><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Stick with the underdog.</span></b> Who doesn't love an underdog? If
you can't stick with the underdog, stick with the under bite. There is nothing
cuter than a shih tzu with an under bite.<br /><br /></li><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Eat waffles. </span></b>Right, grandma? It's even better if the waffles
are made by said grandma. You can't have a bad day when you eat a waffle.<br /><br /></li><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Say hi to everyone you meet while on a walk. </span></b>You might
be the bright spot of someone's day. Say hi enthusiastically!<br /><br /></li><li><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Behave as much as you can....progress, not perfection.</b></span></span> If you accidentally chew the computer cord, don't forget to use that charm and personality. If you roll in raccoon poop, look innocent and apologetic. If you eat raccoon poop, look even more apologetic and remind your human you're behaving the best you can. If you run down the street when you are not supposed to be running down the street, run fast and then behave as best you can, using a kiss and charm to avoid issue upon return home.</li></ul><p></p><ul><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Ask for forgiveness, not permission. </span></b>See above. Oops! Did I just eat the fat, smelly dog's treat? Did I just jump up on the back of the couch? Did I just rip up that box of Kleenex? Gosh, I'm sorry. I thought it was for me--I didn't know. I'll ask next time. If that doesn't work, look adorable. When that doesn't work, use your pouty face. <br /><br /></li><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Remember that ice cream and whipped cream are the food of
the gods. </span></b>It pays to know that DQ gives out "pup cups" and Bucks
of Star give out "pup lattes." Get in the car and get thee to the
drive through.<br /><br /></li><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Use your cute face, sparkling personality and/or your under
bite to get your way. </span></b>Don't be relegated to the floor--sparkle that
personality and get your place on the couch.<br /><br /></li><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">If you throw up, it is best not to eat your own vomit. </span></b>Don't
let the fat, smelly dog eat it, either. No one will kiss you if you eat your own vomit. Actually, don't eat any vomit.<br /><br /></li><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">When offered a ride, take it.</span></b> While
you are at it, see if you can stick your head out the window. If they say no to
sticking your head out the window, enjoy the ride anyway.<br /><br /></li><li><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Keep it simple. Smile, wink, squeak, kiss, eat, pee,
poop.<br /><br /></span></b></li><li><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Celebrate life.</b></span> Squeak a squeaky. Eat a waffle. Kiss a
sad person. Kiss a happy person. Run, walk, skip, jump. Don't just sit on the
couch. Celebrate life.<br /><br /></li><li><span style="color: #0b5394; font-weight: bold;">Live like a dog.</span><span> Keep it simple. Stay in the here and now. Love the one you're with.<br /></span></li></ul><div>*******************************************************************</div><div><i>Thank you, Lucy Bark of Poteidaia. Thank you for the two extra weeks. Thank you for the laughs. Thank you for the words of wisdom. Rest assured I don't eat my vomit. I remain grateful for you and your lessons. Don't be fooled--that stinky, crusty sister of yours loved you as much as we did. Living like a Dog. That's what we're trying to do.<br />*******************************************************************</i></div></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-89994355299135923472022-03-05T08:35:00.003-06:002022-03-05T08:47:48.036-06:00The Great Californian Car Trunk Incident of 1989 (#6 of 16)<i><span style="color: #800180;"><b>The countdown to the final blog post continues</b>. Because the wife AND I still recall every vivid detail of this blessed event, and because we can now laugh about it and because it sums up our lives quite nicely, I share the updated version of the "The Great Californian Car Trunk Incident of 1989" as part of this blog's final countdown (#6 of #16). It follows nicely with the previous blog, considering it involves car keys....</span></i><br /><div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">Let's set the stage, shan't we? 1989....</span></b>The cell phone? I'm not sure there were even pagers in 1989. You had to use a pay phone. No cell phones. The personal computer was just becoming a "thing," with a floppy-floppy disk and dot matrix printer. The digital camera? Not a thing. Mapquest? Nope. Use an atlas. Uber? Lyft? Huh? Thankfully, airplanes had jet engines and M-TV had been around for eight years, so at least it wasn't the dark ages.</div><div><b><br /><span style="color: #800180;">The wife and I are on vacation, basking in the California sun.</span> </b>It is 1989 and this is our first "real" vacation together. An adult vacation. A trip which includes planes, rental cars hotel rooms and Travelers Checks. <i>Travelers Checks!</i></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #800180; font-weight: bold;">We are given a Geo Prism for our rental car.</span><b> </b>It's basically a plastic box with some wheels.<b> </b>Alas, it serves its purpose. In fact, that cheap car took us safely on the L.A. to San Fran drive-the-coast trip, got us to Disneyland and made its way to every mall in the area. It even allowed us to tool around some mighty big college campuses. The car isn't pretty and it isn't spacious but it is reasonably-priced adult vacation transportation--and, that's what matters.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">As we end our vacation, we head toward Huntington beach to do some laundry and hang out by the ocean. </span></b>Doing laundry on vacation is not very fun but it is important if you want clean undies for the ride home. We haven't spent any time hanging out on a beach during this adult vacation, so this is perfect. The laundromat isn't far from the beach at all.</div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #800180;"><b>It's a beautiful day, warm and sunny.</b> </span>We are wearing our swim wear as we will be going to the ocean after finishing our laundry. I'm sporting my huarache sandals (remember them? NOT comfortable) and the wife has some form of surf socks on. We pull into the laundromat parking lot, unload the trunk and shut the trunk. </div><div><br /></div><div>Let me clarify: I <b>slam </b>the trunk shut. It. Is. Slammed. Shut.</div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></b></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">Immediately upon slamming the trunk shut, I have a moment of terror: I'm not holding the car key</span></b>. I ask the wife if she has the key; she assures me I have it but I do not have it and so we are now both looking at the closed trunk. </div><div><br /></div><div>As the car is still open, I don't panic; I just open the back door and pull down the seat to get into the trunk...</div><div><br /></div><div>I swear to you the only thing that isn't plastic on this car is the very spot I'm looking. No, there is no access to the trunk via the back seat. I am looking at cold, hard metal keeping me from accessing the trunk like I would do in my own car. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">A trickle of sweat sneaks down my temple. </span><br /></b>No, there is no trunk latch. <br />No, there is no back seat access. </div><div>God Bless America, I have locked the keys in the trunk.</div><div><br /></div><div>We are in our swimsuits.<br />We are in California.</div><div>We are 3000 miles from home.<br />We have no one to call to help and I've locked the keys in the trunk.</div><div><br /></div><div>I stop and think. I'm so mad at myself. I look at the wife and exclaim, "Hey! There's that plastic key in the glove compartment. We'll use that to open the trunk." I go to to glove box, pull out the plastic key and...</div><div><br /></div><div>I find that the plastic key thing. <br />It is indeed in the glove box but it has never been cut. <br />It's just a big blob of uncut plastic with a key-shaped top. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">More sweat. </span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>I have to think. What to do, what to do, what to do. <i>"We'll call the car rental company!" </i>At least we don't have any trouble finding a pay phone. Thanks to the baby Jesus, we have LOTS of quarters in the car because we are about to do laundry. I plop a quarter in the pay phone attached to the laundromat. I call the car rental company:</div><div><br />ME: "I locked the keys of our rental car in the trunk."<br /><br />CAR GUY: Where?<br /><br />ME: "Huntington Beach."<br /><br />CAR GUY: [asks questions about my name, car, reservation]<br /><br /></div><div>ME: "Can you send someone here to help us, bring us the spare key?"<br /><br />CAR GUY: We don't do that. Nothing I can do.<br /><br />ME: (So much for customer service.) "What am I supposed to do?"<br /><br /></div><div>CAR GUY: You'll have to go get a key cut at a local car dealer. <br /><br /></div><div>ME: "Where's the a car dealer that will do this?"<br /><br />CAR GUY: I don't know. You'll have to find one. </div><div><br /></div><div>Are you friggin' kidding me? Like we know where that would be or how to do that. I'm none too pleased with his callous attitude. Mr. Car Rental Man and I hang up on each other. </div><div><br /></div><div>I pull out the phone book attached to the phone booth. The wife and I are starting to get a little bit testy with each other. Like that's gonna help. I find a car dealer in the phone book and use another laundry quarter to call.<br /><br /></div><div>ME: "Hey, do you make car keys for Geo Prisms?"<br /><br /></div><div>CAR DEALER: Sure. <br /><br /></div><div>ME: "Can you make one for a rental car? I locked the keys of our rental car in the trunk."<br /><br />CAR DEALER: Yeah, we can do that. Where are you?<br /><br />ME: "I'm standing in front of a laundromat on [street name]."<br /><br /></div><div>CAR DEALER: We're about a mile from where we are standing. <br /><br /></div><div>ME: "Thanks, we're on our way."</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">Since we don't have a car, we have to walk. </span></b>We're in good shape so walking a mile is no big deal. Walking a mile in my cheap huarache shoes and the wife's surf socks isn't fun but it's not impossible. With semi-sore feet and looking ridiculous in our swimsuits but nary a drop of sweat, we get to the dealer in about 20 minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div>I enter the dealership, excited to take care of this situation of which I have caused. I walk to the counter, ask about the key.</div><div><br /></div><div>ME: "Hi. I'm here to get a spare key made."<br /><br /></div><div>CAR GUY-NOT-DEALER: [Looks at me, looks at key-cutting machine on the counter, which is pieces and is definitely not in operation]<br /><br /></div><div>ME: "I just called!"<br /><br /></div><div>CAR GUY:-NOT-DEALER: [points to pieces of the key-making machine] Don't know what to tell you. I can't make a key. <br /><br /></div><div>ME: "How long will it be?"<br /><br /></div><div>CAR GUY: [looks at the pieces, shrugs] Not today. </div><div><br /></div><div><i><b><span style="color: #800180;">The wife and I are much more testy at each other now. </span></b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>ME: "Is there is another dealer in the area?"<br /><br /></div><div>CAR GUY: Yeah, down the road. <br /><br /></div><div>ME: "Can you tell me where?"<br /><br /></div><div>CAR GUY: [Verbally gives me the address]<br /><br /></div><div>ME: "Thanks."<br /><br /></div><div>CAR GUY: Hang on. [Calls the other dealer to ensure they can make the key; this is confirmed.] Yeah, they are on their way. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">The wife and I go out the door and start hoofing our way to the next dealer. </span><br /></b>I didn't ask any questions. <br />I didn't think about anything except getting to the next dealer to get a key made. </div><div><br /></div><div>(Words of wisdom: always ask questions. Always ask HOW FAR it is to the next place, especially when you are walking.)</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">We walk and walk and walk. <br /></span></b>We watch for a bus to go by, as we see lots of bus stops, but not one bus drives by. There are barely any cars zipping by. <br />We walk and walk. <br />I'm now a block ahead of the wife. <br />We aren't speaking to each other. <br />I'm angry she's so slow. She's angry that I'm so fast. <br />I'm angry that the plastic key isn't cut. She's angry that I assume she had looked at the key when I asked about it. <br />I'm angry that I've locked the key in the trunk. <br />She's angry that I locked the key in the trunk. <br />We're both angry that we are spending our last day on vacation walking to get a spare key made for the rental car.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm now about two blocks ahead. I'm angrier with every step. I'm also in more pain. The shoes are killing me. I'm starving. I'm sweating. I look back and see the wife is limping. I guess cheap surf socks aren't the best choice of footwear when walking for hours. I wait and she catches up. We walk in silence. Dirty undies don't seem like such a big deal anymore.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">Three hours later, </span></b>three bloody feet, no-longer-speaking-to-each-other hours later, three hot with no water hours later, we arrive at the dealership. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">THREE.<br />FRIGGIN'. <br />HOURS. </span></b></div><div><i><span style="color: #800180;"><b><br />I walk in to the dealer, hot, sweat and really pissy.</b></span></i> The wife follows a few seconds later. <br />Our feet are bleeding and covered with blisters. <br />We are parched. <br />We are sweaty. <br />We are are suicidal. <br />Maybe homicidal. </div><div>I'm teetering on the brink of insanity. <br />I do my best to gain some composure as I walk up to the counter.</div><div><br /></div><div>ME: "I'm here to get a key made." <br /><br /></div><div>CAR DEALER: [looks at me like I'm from Mars]<br /><br /></div><div>ME: "The dealer of such and such called, confirmed you can make a key?" <br /><br /></div><div>CAR DEALER: [He looks at me, still looking very confused] <br /><br />ME: "They called about making a key for the rental car."<br /><br />DEALER: Ummmm.... [pause] </div><div><br /></div><div>ME: [staring]</div><div><br /></div><div>DEALER [really surprised] <i>They called three hours ago.</i><br /><br /></div><div>ME: [I can feel my eyes starting to well up] "Yes, it was." <br /><br /></div><div>DEALER: [pause] What took you so long to get here?<br /><br /></div><div><b>ME: [</b><b>I scream-and I do mean </b><span><b><u>SCREAM</u></b></span>):</div><div> <br /><b><span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">"WE WALKED!" </span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>I burst into tears. </b></div><div><br /></div><div>I've completely lost any semblance of composure. <br />I'm not even sure where the wife is, let alone if she is okay. <br />I'm exhausted, I'm hot, I'm pissed and I'm done. <br />I keep crying.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">Panicked, he gets us some water, makes the key pronto and doesn't charge us</span></b>. With a sense of pity and urgency, he puts us in an air-conditioned car and drives us back to our key-in-the-trunk rental car. He doesn't even ask if we want a ride. He knows we need a ride.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">Trunk opened, with the rental key indeed in the trunk, he scoots off as fast as he can.</span></b> After all, it is very evident that the wife and I are NOT speaking and NOT happy and we are NOT rational.</div><div><br /></div><div>We didn't go to the beach. </div><div>We didn't do our laundry. </div><div>We didn't talk to each other for the rest of the day. </div><div>We definitely didn't walk anywhere.</div><div>We go to our hotel room and sit in silence.</div><div>Our adult vacation is coming to a very silent ending.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>(I think I might have thrown those shoes in the garbage. I know the wife threw out her surf socks.)</i></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #800180;"><b>In the morning, we drive to the airport to take the rental car back and catch our flight</b>. I</span> don't give the rental key the spare key I had made. Piss on them. I'm keeping that key. I mutter about them needing to cut the plastic keys in the glove box but say nothing more. Dirty laundry squished into our packed bags, limping toward the gate, we are ready to come home.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">We get home, barely able to walk for the next week.</span></b> The blisters tell the story. We get the film developed and enjoy the photos. There is one of the wife standing near Huntington Beach. It's the last photo of the trip. Thankfully, she is smiling. That's because she has NO idea of what is about to transpire. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">Ignorance truly is bliss.</span></b> <br />Adulting is overrated.</div><div>***************************************************</div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;"><i>Fast forward to today.</i></span> <br /></b>We have cell phones and real printers. <br />We have mobile apps with all sorts of maps and information. <br />We have Uber and Lyft and all sorts of ways to get from here to there. <br />Floppy disks and pagers are nowhere to be seen.</div><div>There is automated customer service. <br />We have that extra car rental key.</div><div><br /></div><div><i style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #800180;">I hang that extra key on the Christmas tree every year.</span></i><b> <br /></b>Yes, three-plus decades later, I still hang that key on the tree. <br />Now we can laugh. <br />I'm gonna hang that key on the tree every damn year until kingdom come.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Today, there is 24-hour customer service, <br />cars with foldout seats with access to the trunk, <br />satellite services that can unlock your car from anywhere. <br /><br />Today, no one drives Geo Prisms <br />or has stupid plastic keys in the glove box <br />or wears cheap huarache sandals. <br />Dirty undies in your luggage doesn't matter.</div><div><br /></div><div>I know why. <br />The wife knows why. <br />1989 knows why. <br />Now you know why, too.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Next Christmas, don't forget to look for the car key hanging on the tree. <br />*********************************</div><div><i>And no, in case you're wondering: I've never rented a car from the company ever again. </i></div><div>*********************************</div><div>1989. First adult vacation. <br />I'm glad to see we've had some excellent vacations since then.<br />We've had plenty of clean undies.<br />We've had plenty of car rentals. </div><div><br />I've yet to lock the keys in the rental car again.</div><div><br /></div><div>Knock on wood.<br />********************************</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-9258607769537679122022-02-19T07:49:00.004-06:002022-02-19T07:49:49.387-06:00Of Car Keys and Dog Puke (#7 of 16)<i><span style="color: #800180;"><b>The countdown to the final blog post continues. </b>At this point, I'm starting to regret starting the countdown as suddenly I have all sorts of ideas to write about. No. No, I tell myself. This chapter must be closed as planned. This particular blog was chosen because it sums up my very being. It's who I am to my core. Heh heh. Here's #7 as we count down the final 16 blogs of the Addiverse. From 2006, I give to you..... Car Keys and Dog Puke</span></i><div><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #800180;">
The dogs and I are in the doghouse....</span></b><br />
<br />
Again.<br />
<br />
Technically, I'm in more trouble than they are, but we're all treading lightly
at this moment. (Freckles has done nothing wrong but she is associated with me
and sister Lucy, so she gets dragged into our messes.)<br />
<br />
The problem started when the wife and I were getting ready to visit her family in
Cheddarlands. I had the wife's car keys in one hand and my car keys in the
other. I was going to hand her the set for her car but got distracted, sat down,
shoved the key in the ignition, and....<br />
<br /><i>
....you know where this is going, right? </i><br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
....I shoved the Saturn key into the Mazda ignition. </span></b><br />
<br />
Let me be the first to tell you--a Mazda ignition does NOT let go of Saturn
keys. It is in there and it is in there to stay. <br /><br />Two words: Death grip.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
Now, if this had been the first time </span></b>I had ever done this, I might have gotten
a bit of sympathy, an eye roll and a shake of the head. Perhaps a slight laugh at the absurdity of my action.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
If it had been the second time</span></b> I had done this, I would have gotten an eye roll, a more pronounced shake of the head and the
silent treatment of a painful, well-earned duration.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #800180;">If it had been the third time</span></b> I had done this, the wife would've given me a scowl, accompanied by words of distain... followed by muttering and stomping away in a most angry manner. That silent treatment would be more than painful. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #800180;">How do I know this to be true?</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal">Because I have experienced those things. I am humiliated to tell you this is the fourth time I have done this. <br />
<br /><b style="background-color: #800180;"><span style="color: white;">
FOURTH.TIME.</span></b><br />
<br />
I pounded my hands angrily and repeatedly on the steering wheel. <br />This, of
course, does not help the key come out. <br />No, it is in there, as if there is
cement in the ignition. <br />Super-Glued in place. <br />I don't want to tell the wife. <br />I don't want to tell her at all. <br />Fourth time!</p><p class="MsoNormal">We don't have time for this and I
am horrified that I am going to have to tell the wife AND I'm going to call a locksmith. <br />
<br /><b><span style="background-color: #800180; color: white;">
Again.</span></b><br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
The first two times I had both car keys on the same ring, so that was a little
more understandable.</span></b> I blocked out what happened the third time. I have no
excuse this time except that Mars is in Retrograde and that must account for
something. <br /><br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">Or, maybe Saturn is in retrograde.</span></b> It is a Saturn key, after all.<br />
<br />
We take the Saturn to travel to Land of Cheese--using the spare Saturn key--and
leave the Mazda-wrong-keyed-car to sit in silence. Despite not being able to do
anything about the problem, I fret about this the entire trip. I fret so much
that I ask the wife to leave early. As you can imagine, this wins me no points. <br /><br />I perseverate on ways to get
the key out. My thoughts become slightly hysterical. I am just SURE Home Depot
will have some fun kind of tool that will let me get that damn key out. I can get that key out. Google and YouTube will help me get that key out. I can't stop worrying about it.<br /><br />We left
the family party early.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
I sink lower on the shit list.</span></b> <br />It is a SILENT trip home. <br />Not a word, not
the radio, nothing.<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">Worse, I drive to Home Depot instead of Home Home. </span></b>I can't go home until I try to get some tools of which will help me get the keys out. Yup. I drive to Home Depot and the wife is stuck in the car and she is NONE.TOO.PLEASED.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I run in to the store, frantic and panicked and on a mission. I'm looking for someone to help me. I don't even know what to ask but I'm going to ask and I'm going to get what I need so I don't need to call a locksmith. <br /><br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">I find some guy in an orange apron</span></b>. I almost accost him because I'm so frantic. I'm not sure I'm speaking English as a spit out my tale of woe. His stare tells me everything I need to know. One, he's afraid of me. Two, Home Depot doesn't have anything of the sort.</p><p class="MsoNormal">No, Home Depot doesn't carry things to help people like me pick a car ignition; in fact, the man looks kind of
horrified when I ask. I'm not sure if his horror is that the key is stuck in
the ignition or that I'm asking for a lock-picking-kind of tool kit. He
suggests WD-40. Maybe he thought I was going to break into someone's house
with this lock-picking tool kit.<br /><span><br /><span style="color: #800180;"><b>Maybe he is afraid of me because I do look a
little frenzied. </b></span></span>Okay, I look a lot frenzied. Deliriously frenzied. <br /><br />Empty handed, we head home. Silent. No radio. No nothing.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #800180;">So, we get home and I greet the dogs and....I noticed Lucy smells like puke.</span></b>
That's not unusual in itself, as she does tend to vomit more often that I would
suspect a dog would do so....it's just really bad timing if that is puke that I
smell. <br /><br />I sniff her and know--she has puked while we were gone. <br /><br /><span style="color: #800180; font-weight: bold;">It's then I realize this is really bad. </span>Not now. Not today. I'm afraid to look. Don't look. Oh, I have to look.<br /><br />I look down the
stairs to where the wife has put a new rug. A nice rug. A nice, new rug. I look there because I know Lucy would think: why puke on the old rug when there is
a new one? <br /><br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">I look, pit in my stomach</span></b>... ....and there it is, in all its glory, almost glowing with pride...</p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="background-color: #800180; color: white;">...two large red stains of old puke.
</span></b><br /><br />Red, dark red, see from a mile away dark red puke stains from the luscious treats she has eaten. <br /><br /><i><span style="color: #800180;">Red, crusty puke that has had time
to set into the new carpeting. </span></i><br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
I start shoveling Girl Scout cookies into my mouth. <br /></span></b>We are all is so much
trouble. <br />More cookies. <br />More sweating. <br />Why the new carpet?<br />Why today?<br />I need more cookies. <br /><br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">The wife is silently livid.</span></b> A silent
meltdown, but one nonetheless. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. She grabs the cleaning products. I say a silent prayer to St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes, as this is a hopeless cause. I made her come home early... for this? There is no way that red puke is coming out of her beautiful new carpet.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
While she is cleaning puke,</span></b> I jump on-line in desperation to find out how to get the
Saturn key out of the Mazda ignition without having to call a locksmith. They
have EVERYTHING on the Internet, don't they? I google like there is no
tomorrow. Most of the sites I read are of no help--basically, they indicate
that I'm screwed. I visit a few locksmith sites and recognize some of the tools
the last three locksmiths used....but, I do not have access to such tools.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
It is about to be a long, cold, silent night. </span></b>The dogs and I will huddle together
for safety and warmth.<br />
<br />
It is time for drastic measures. <br />
<br />
I go to the basement, dig through every tool, every piece of metal, every
piece of art stuff I own. I grab the tool kit (thanks to my sister we
actually have a tool kit), a tool from my ceramics class in 1983 (I'm not
kidding) and a piece of a picture framing thingy made of very, very thin metal.
I march out to the garage, take the pliers and try to pull the piss out of
the key.<br />
<br /><span style="color: #800180; font-weight: bold;">
It doesn't budge. </span><span>Of course it doesn't. It's not that kind of day.</span><br />
<br />
I shove the little piece of metal frame thingy into the ignition and make a
bit of headway but still the key doesn't budge. <br /><br />It's beginning to feel like the pulling that
sword out of the rock story.<br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
I say a quick prayer to the Baby Jesus and take the tool from Ceramics class in
hand. </span></b>This is the final opportunity for glory. I look at those ceramic tools from 1983 and think about how 1983 was a good year. I am
feeling confident. I loved ceramics and this ceramics tool served me well over
the years.<br /><br /> I shove that puppy in there like there's no tomorrow, give a
yank....<br />
<br /><b><i><span style="color: #800180;">
....both the key and the tool come flying out! </span></i></b><br />
<br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
I just about weep in glory.</span></b> <br />I proudly hold the key above my head as if I have just won
the Nobel Peace Prize,<br />a gold in the Olympics, <br />the Disco Ball trophy for
Dancing with the Stars. <br />I run quickly up the stairs and dangle the keys in the
wife's face.<br /><br /><span style="color: #800180;"><b>I am saved! </b><i>(Or, so I foolishly hope.)</i></span><i><br /></i>
<br />
Thankfully, the wife does not slap the keys out of my hands. Thankfully, all I get is a scowl and a
nod of acknowledgement. <br /><br />Good enough for me. <br /><br />The rug looks no worse for the wear. Thank you, St. Jude. I don't know how the wife got those stains out of the carpet, but for the moment it looks like she has succeeded. I better go out and buy a lottery ticket.<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">
As for Lucy, I gave her a bath so she no longer stank of dog puke</span></b>. It appears I am
forgiven. Life is good. Mars is out of Uranus and my anus, retrograde be
damned.<br /><br />
For the record: once Lucy's bath was done, I marked my Mazda key with bright
silver paint. LOTS of silver paint. <br />
<br /><b><span style="background-color: #800180; color: white;">
A fifth time is not an option</span></b>. I can't keep Lucy from puking but I can try
and keep myself from doing stupid things.....<br />
<br />
Well, THIS particular stupid thing. I'm sure to do all sorts of stupid things as I crawl through this called like. For other stupid things, all bets are off. <br /><br />Trust me. There aren't enough Girl Scout cookies and carpet cleaning products in the world for me to shove the wrong key in the wrong ignition for a fifth time. Not even close. It is beyond what St. Jude can do for me. <br />********************<br /><i>The next day, I ate the remaining Girl Scout Cookies and put another coat of silver paint on the key. <br />St. Jude is proud. <br />I'm proud.<br />Saturn in Retrograde is proud.<br />My car ignition is proud.<br />The wife? I didn't ask. <br />I may be stupid but I'm not dumb.</i><br />********************</p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-54130744372839728002022-02-09T06:53:00.000-06:002022-02-09T06:53:11.891-06:00Let Them Eat [ice cream] Cake (#8 in the countdown) <p style="background-color: #fefdfa; color: #333333;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>T</b><b style="color: #800180;">he count down of the final blog entries continues. </b><span style="color: #800180;">I've chosen to feature 16 blogs, representing 16 years of blogging. As posts have NOT aged well, I'm re-working these final posts as to improve the story while preserving the madness.</span></span></i></p><p style="background-color: #fefdfa; color: #333333;"></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="color: #800180;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>This entry is about my favorite substance on the planet: Ice cream. </b>Let it be known that I eat ice cream at least <b>340 </b>days a year. It's only fitting that the topic of ice cream be included in the top 10 blogs. Here's #8 in the countdown: Let Them Eat [ice cream] Cake.</span></i></span></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">********************<br /><span style="color: #800180;"><b>Let's set the stage, shan't we?</b> </span>I avoid gluten like the plague. I include things like quinoa and flaxseed in my food regiment. I am meat-free. I don't drink
pop. I don't drink alcohol. I don't drink real milk. I eat chocolate with the
highest percentage possible. I don't smoke. I wear my seat belt. I pay my bills
on time. I take my shoes off when I come in the house. I don't use glitter on
the premises. I embrace my sugar addiction. And, yes....</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit; font-weight: bold;">I eat ice cream like it's going out of style. </span><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">C'mon. A person has to eat ice cream to live. I've made many conscious decisions about health. My health is dependent on ice cream. I have made a </span>conscious<span style="font-family: inherit;"> decision to ice cream every day of my life.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="color: #800180;">I once had a health professional suggest I give up dairy. </b>Mainly related to my throat-clearing problem, but also as related to my overall health. (She didn't even try to talk about me giving up sugar. She's not stupid.)</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My response to that health professional was less than enthusiastic. It was more like, "Ummm, did you say something? I must've heard you wrong. I know I heard your wrong. You know ice cream is a dairy product, right?"</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She *might* have suggested I try other frozen, non-dairy treats. Might have. I'm not sure as I was fading from consciousness. Has she ever eaten a non-dairy frozen treat? The texture is wrong. The taste is wrong. The enjoyment factor is wrong. The whole thing is wrong.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After regaining consciousness, my reaction? "Thanks. I'll think about it."</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To myself: "You can kiss my cheesy-wibblet-butt cheeks if
you think I'm gonna give up ice cream. Listen, asswipe--without
ice cream, there is darkness and chaos."</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">**********************</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: purple;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: purple;">One of my "work children"
scored a</span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> new job in the suburbs. For that, I am very
proud. It's like watching a baby bird fly the coop.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>What, don't you have work children? If people can
have a "work wife," I can have work children. </i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A going away party was scheduled for my
soon-to-exit work daughter, with a taco bar planned for all to enjoy. After all,
who doesn't love a good Mexican buffet? Guacamole--yes, please! Both clients
and staff seemed quite smitten with the taco bar idea.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #800180;">While setting up the taco bar, I
noticed there was an ice cream cake in the garbage.</span></b> I was standing at the
counter, slicing olives for the taco bar when I looked down
and...there it was. </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I took a closer look. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;"><b>Yup, that's half a DQ Ice Cream cake in the garbage.</b></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /><u>In</u>. <u>The</u>. <u>Garbage</u>!!!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: purple;">I yelled out to my work daughter, </span>"<i>HEY! IS THAT A DQ
CAKE IN THE GARBAGE?</i>"</b><span style="color: purple;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">From her office down the hall, I hear my work daughter yell, "What? Hang on."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="color: purple;">Me: </b>[audible gasp]. I look down at the garbage can. I felt a bit woozy. </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: purple;"><br /></span></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: purple; font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>[Quite indignant]<span style="color: purple; font-weight: bold;"> </span>"What
the hell is half a DQ Ice cream cake doing in the garbage? <br /><br /><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-weight: bold;">Work </span></span><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">daughter</span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">:</span></span><span style="color: purple; font-weight: bold;"> </span>[enters kitchen, stares at me, looks down at the garbage and then looks at me again]</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #800180;">Me: </span></b>"Is that an ice cream cake in the garbage?"</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Work </span></span><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">daughter</span></b><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">:</span></span> [stares at me, definitely confused] "Yes?"</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: purple;"><i><br /></i></span></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: purple;"><i>Me: That's sacrilegious</i>!"</span></b><span style="color: purple;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It still looked pretty frozen, so I knew it
hadn't been there very long.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: purple;">Me: </span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Why is there a DQ cake in the garbage?" </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Work </span></span><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">daughter</span></b><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">: </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I cleaned out the office freezer before leaving today." [shrugs shoulders]</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: purple;">Me: </span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;">[looking at other food products in the garbage, only to be drawn back to the ice cream cake. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am not amused. This is just plain wrong.
WRONG!]</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: purple;">Me: </span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "How old is this ice cream cake?"<span style="color: purple;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Work </span></span><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">daughter</span></b><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">: </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Um, I dunno. A month?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: purple;">Me: </span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;">[that's not very old] "But, why is there a half-eaten
ice cream cake in the garbage? I don't understand. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why is it in the garbage?"</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Work </span></span><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">daughter</span></b><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">:</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Seriously. I'm cleaning the office before I
leave tonight. I emptied the freezer and frig. I live too far away to take it home."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: purple;">Me: </span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> [I have failed my work children. Why
would they throw away part of a DQ cake?]<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: purple;">Me: </span>"Is there anything wrong
with it?"</b><span style="color: purple;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Work </span></span><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">daughter</span></b><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">:</span></span><b><span style="color: #800180;"> [</span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;">tentative</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">]
"Ummmm.. I don't think so. Maybe a bit freezer-burned."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: purple;">Me: </span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> [waiting, tapping foot]<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Work </span></span><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">daughter</span></b><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">:</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Nothing's wrong with it…. Well,
besides being old and freezer burned and in the garbage, if that's what you're
asking."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Work </span></span><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">daughter</span></b><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">:</span></span><b><span style="color: #800180;"> </span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;">[eyes widen]</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: purple;">Me: </span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;">[Speechless. This is wrong, unjustified, shameful! I need to put her up for adoption. She has done the unthinkable.]<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Work </span></span><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">daughter</span></b><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">: </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">[looks at the ground, appropriately
chastised]<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>I took a really close look.</i></b> Hmmm. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Just a little freezer burn. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nope, not too melted. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes, looks perfectly good. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Has some plastic covering on it…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hmmmm….<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #800180;"><b><i>You know what I did.</i></b> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You have no question about what I did. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I took that ice cream cake out of the garbage...<br /><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">put it on the counter...<br /><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">knocked the garbage sticking to the plastic cover off the cover...<br /><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">removed the plastic cover and…<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: medium;">...I ate it.</span></span></b><span style="color: purple;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><u>OF COURSE I DID!</u><span style="color: purple;"> </span><span style="color: purple;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: purple;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why on earth would someone throw out such a
wonderful, delicious, perfectly-fine ice cream cake? That is incredibly wrong,
wrong, wrong. No one should EVER throw out an ice cream cake unless it is
freezer-burned beyond recognition or is tainted with bodily fluid.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #800180;">My work daughter was mortified but
not surprised.</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In walks a co-worker....<span style="color: purple;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="color: purple;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Co-worker:</span></b> "Hey! Is that a DQ ice cream
cake?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #800180;">Me: </span>"</b>Yeah, I dug it out of the garbage and
now I'm eating it."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Co-worker:</span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Is there anything wrong with
it?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #800180;">Me:</span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "Not that I can tell. It tastes great,
it's still kinda frozen and I didn't see any garbage on it."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Co-worker:</span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> "It was in the garbage?" She
looked a bit surprised.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #800180;">Me: </span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Yeah, but I dug it out and it's great!
God, I love DQ ice cream cakes!"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I know she is wrestling with her brain, as she
love ice cream almost as much as I do. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Co-worker:</span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <b><i><span style="color: purple;">"Can
I have some?"</span></i></b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can't tell you how pleased I was to hear this
question. I now hold this person in higher esteem.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #800180;">Me: </span></b><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Of course!" Seeing as her hands
were full (she was carrying things in preparation for the party), she asked me
to shove a spoonful into her mouth. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I looked around for another spoon but she
indicated I should just use the friggin' spoon in my hand.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: purple;">I suppose when one is eating an ice
cream cake out of the garbage, a used spoon is the least of your
concerns. </span></b>So, I shoveled a big blob of that cake into her
mouth. I daresay she enjoyed that cake as much as I did.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>A few minutes later,</b> a client walked by the now-melting, half-eaten garbage-found ice
cream cake. He was holding a plateful of tacos, walking away from the taco bar.
He looked at the cake, looked at me, looked at it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He asked, "Is that a DQ Ice cream
cake?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I nodded in a most affirmative
manner,</b> adding how I had dug it out of the garbage.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="color: purple;">He didn't seem one bit concerned.
"Can I have a piece?"</span></i></b><span style="color: purple;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I knew I liked him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The guy put his taco-laden plate onto the
counter, used a spoon to hack off a large piece of the quickly-disappearing
cake and plopped it right on top of his Mexican fiesta. When asked about it
being in the garbage, he said, "I've had more than one
dumpster-dive-dinner along the way. This is nothing."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="color: purple;">See? There are still good people in
the world. </span></i></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He helped me finish off the cake without question. Other clients and staff looked a bit green in the gills,
watching us eat that garbage-blessed dessert, but it didn't slow us down one
bit.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: purple;">As you can imagine, the wife was
mortified </span></b>by everything related to this event. She was
disgusted that I would take something out of the garbage and eat it. She was
also taken aback that anyone else would join me in such nonsense.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: purple;">She OBVIOUSLY doesn't love DQ ice
cream cakes like we do. </span></b>She
doesn't recognize the pure joy, bliss, heaven such a creation can bring. Sad.
So sad. The wife might learn a thing or two by my behavior. Personally, I hope
she learns:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><u><span style="color: purple;">Life is short. Eat the cake.</span></u></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><u><span style="color: purple;"><br /></span></u></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: purple;"><i>...Even if you have to dig it out of the garbage.</i></span></b><span style="color: purple;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-38621652613980092632022-02-01T07:12:00.005-06:002022-02-01T07:12:31.829-06:00Happy Campers (#9)<p><i><span style="color: #800180;"><span face="Century Gothic, sans-serif"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As I count down to the final post of this blog, I feel a bit sad. After all, I've been posting since 2005. But, the time has come. Sixteen final posts, representing 16 years of blogging. Reworked from 2011, here is #9 of 16)</span></span></span></i></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;">We--three men with chronic mental illness and I (who may
or may not be considered chronically mentally ill)--went camping as scheduled
last week. </span></b><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif">There were supposed to be four guys, but one guy
panicked at the last minute and didn't join the fun. Smart guy. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Self: Why do you mention chronic mental illness as part of this story?</i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Me: Because that is the population of whom I serve.</i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Self: Is it relevant to the story?</i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Me: I daresay it is.</i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Self: Why? What is it relevant?</i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Me: Because these are my people. </i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Self: Hmmm.</i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Me: And, I hate camping. The only people I would take camping are "my" people.</i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Self: I do hate camping.</i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Me: There you go.</i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Self: Do they hate camping?</i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Me: They never get to go camping. </i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Self: Hmmm.</i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Me: Thus, I'm including their background in the descriptors of this blog.</i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i>Self: Okay. This time.</i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>The three guys who signed up for this overnight outing all reported camping experience</b>, so I hadn't been too worried. In fact, I didn't worry at all. As long as they had camping experience, all would be fabulous. </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Note to self: Do not believe all that is presented.</i></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Despite their camping prowess, none of them had tents,</b> so I borrowed some from a co-worker. We stuffed the tents, coolers, fishing poles, worms and duffle bags into the van. <i>(Note to self: if someone brags about camping prowess but doesn't have a tent, stop and question this.) </i>Since I couldn't fit everything in my car, I asked a staff person to drive the guys and their stuff to the site and I would follow in my two-door coupe Honda Civic.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>We
arrived as scheduled at our beautiful campsite, right on the lake. </b>Thankfully, the weather promised no rain. (There is no way in hell I'd camp in the rain. Been there, done that, never doing it again. Those guys would have been sad, lonely and at home if it were raining.) It was mid-afternoon, so we needed to get moving on setting up the campsite. After all, this was a remote tent-only camping site without power of any kind. Not even a hook-up in case of electricity-need-crisis (aka iPhone runs out of power). The guys dumped everything out of the van--onto the parking lot blacktop, dragged their fishing poles and worms to the campsite and sat down on a picnic table near the fire pit. The staff person drove off, leaving us without a van and only my car. Good enough, I think.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">Me [to the guys, sitting on the picnic table, looking at their containers full of nightcrawler]: "HEY! What about the rest of this stuff?" [point to tents, cooler, duffle bags]</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">Guys: [staring at me, as if to say, YOU bring it up here. We're tired. We're camping! We've got nightcrawlers!]</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">Me: "Come help me carry the rest of your stuff. You want food, don't you?"</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">Guys: [hear the word FOOD and perk up.] They dragged the rest of their belongings to the campsite and then sat back down on the picnic table. </p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;">It quickly became quickly--almost immediately--evident that my little campers had
misrepresented their camping prowess. </span></b><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif">It
didn't take long for me to realize I was the only one who really knew about
camping....and, trust me--I know very little about this complicated use of
leisure time.</span><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">[Chronic mental illness can warp the view of the world. So, maybe these guys thought they had camping experience. Maybe they stayed outside in the backyard in a blanket fort one time and that qualified for camping experience. Maybe they were so excited to be invited on a camping trip that they thought it best to agree with anything I said or asked. Chronic mental illness like schizophrenia can mess </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">with </span>cognitive this-or-that,<span style="font-family: inherit;"> so maybe this was the issue... or, maybe they are lying sacks of poo and the mental illness has NOTHING to do with the current situation.]</span></i></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;">Me: "Look, I know you want to go fishing and hiking and exploring, but we need need to put the tents up
first, then gather firewood, then have fun. [Point</span><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> to
the sky] The sun will soon be on its way toward the horizon. We have to do this stuff before dusk."</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Guys: [blank stares]</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Me: "You know, sun set. When the sun sets."</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Guys: [less blank stares]</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Guy #2: "Aren't there streetlights? We can put up the tents later."</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Me: "Streetlights." [A statement, not question.] "Do you see any streetlights? Any lights at all? Do you see an electric box?"</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Guy #2: "We don't have electricity here?" [shred of panic, followed by pulling phone out of pocket, definitely looking at how much battery life is left.]</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: "Tent first, firewood second, fun third." </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Guys: [Looking around the campsite, then at the sky.] <br /><br />Me: "Don't
forget--don't go anywhere without a buddy. Even if you are just going to
the bathroom, take someone with you. Got it?" <br /><br />Guys: [All three of the
guys nodded yes.]<br /><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Me: [not sure they are actually listening]: "Can I have you say yes, you heard me?" <br /></span><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><br />Guys: [All give a rousing] "Yes!"</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif">Guy #2: "Buddy system!"</span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;">Not three seconds later, Guy #1 announced, "I'm going
for a hike!" </span></i></b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">He then started
toward the lake. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif">Alone.</span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;">So much for my directives.</span></b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">I shouted at him to come back. I muttered
to the other two: "He wasn't supposed to go anywhere without a
buddy. We need to put up the tents before dark. Didn't I just say
that?" </span><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif">They nodded in agreement, too smart to say
anything beyond the nods. Mr. Wander-Away returned to the site, laughing. He shrugged his shoulders and said he wanted to check out the fishing spots.</span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">With the three guys standing in front of me, I pointed to the pile of folded up tents. Guy #1 dumped the tents out onto the
ground.....and, just stood there.....looking at the little piles of
tent-makings. </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><b>Here's what it looked like:</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjW3f4JS4XvFWKaWzv8H5YWSbsm_LyrzBzjMQAMlSqm8r_ku7QscNMfQvgtKRDeWsyxO2_r1EjnzkIO4B7hp-xnmhdCnlbEIJsncIyNYawgFsSGLrwu3rPLRiKwctQCMo_C_pvi8-gcWAoAY8WeehWZLGGqcThDpKqSSTkBndYiJU9CAAAtNE4=s319" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="238" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjW3f4JS4XvFWKaWzv8H5YWSbsm_LyrzBzjMQAMlSqm8r_ku7QscNMfQvgtKRDeWsyxO2_r1EjnzkIO4B7hp-xnmhdCnlbEIJsncIyNYawgFsSGLrwu3rPLRiKwctQCMo_C_pvi8-gcWAoAY8WeehWZLGGqcThDpKqSSTkBndYiJU9CAAAtNE4" width="238" /></span></a></div><p></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh boy. This is an issue. He definitely knows nothing about a tent. In fact, the look on his face suggests he has never even seen the inner workings of a tent.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I ask,
"so, does anyone know how to put up a tent?"</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;">The blank stares and teeny little shakes of the heads told me
what was already obvious</span></b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">. I turned to one of
the guys. "You told me you had gone camping LOTS of times and knew how to
put up a tent. Do you know how to put up a tent?" </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">He stared at
me and then quietly squeaked out, "no." </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Dear god, we're going
to rely on ME to set up the tents?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"> </span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;">Guy #1 started to wander off--alone--again, this time with fishing pole and worms in hand.</span></b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> In no uncertain terms, I made it quite clear that he would be
staying with me and putting together HIS tent. He stopped, came back,
stared at the tent-makings, making no effort to put the tent together. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Trust me, he learned how to put up a tent. So did I. Forty five minutes later, with a lot of sweating and a bit of swearing, one of the two tents was semi-standing and good enough for one night's sleep. It looked sad but it was standing, good enough for one overnight stay. I told them they'd be staying in one tent unless someone put up the second tent. </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">No one moved.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">No one asked where I was staying, either. Every man for himself, so it seemed.</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;">Next came the firewood search.</span></b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> Who knew none of the three had never made an actual fire during their "</span><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif">extensive" camping adventures? When I saw
the few twigs and branches--which MIGHT qualify as kindling--they brought
back, I knew I was in really serious trouble. "Um, I don't know how
to tell you, but that's enough wood for about 15 minutes. You'll have to
find more. Think bigger."</span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: inherit;">Suffice it to say we had to go to the concession stand on the
other side of the lake and buy cords of wood. </span></b></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Yes, I took them with me to go buy the wood. Yes, in my two-door coupe. I stuffed them in like sausages. I'm not sure how I got them in OR out of that small car. I mean, the one guy was 6"4.' The hell if I was going to leave them alone at the campsite. Buddy system, my ass.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">I was disappointed that we had to purchase a few cords of wood, as it seemed like
cheating, but I wanted a fire more than I wanted to not cheat, so I got over it
quickly. The sun was quickly fading and I so did not want to be in the middle
of nowhere without electricity and no fire. After peeling them back out of the car, I proclaimed my fire building prowess. </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">I am pleased to report that I got a
fire going without much issue. Thank god for Girl Scouts. </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">We didn't
have any paper, so I did cheat at one point by spraying a stick with bug spray
and then used that to get the fire going a little faster. (I do NOT
recommend this method of building a fire. If you are ignorant enough to
do this, make sure you are far away from the fire when spraying the
stick....and, don't tell anyone what you are doing. I certainly did not tell them what I was doing.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;">We enjoyed traditional camp-type activities--hiking, fishing, roasting
marshmallows, making S'Mores, texting, taking anti-psychotic medications...you
get the picture. </span></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Dinner was hot dogs on a stick, over the fire. You would think they had won the lottery with that one. Hell, they didn't even eat the hot dogs with buns. They ate them right from the stick. Since none of the guys (the same guys with extensive camping experience) knew what a S'more was, they learned a new skill. We<i> might </i>have eaten the entire package of chocolate and graham crackers. There were a few marshmallows left over, but that is only because we were getting nauseous from all the other crap we had consumed.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Medication. These guys are on serious anti-psychotics. We're talking knock-you-off-your-ass anti-psychotics. Sedating to drooling-on-yourself point. They all had their own little envelopes of medication. If there was one thing they knew, it was that they needed to take their medication, no questions asked. They knew when to take them, how to take them, why they take them.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">I forgot to address the medication part as part of this camping experience. I was going to tell the guys to take their meds a
little later so they could stay awake longer, but too late--the guys took their
meds at 8 PM, as usual. By 9 PM they were going to bed. Here we are in the
middle of a beautiful campsite, on a gorgeous night, with a great fire
crackling.....and, they go to bed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">At least I didn't have to worry about them wandering off.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">For the record, they didn't fall immediately asleep. How do I know? Because one would fart and the other two would laugh. All I could do is roll my eyes and chuckle to myself. Soon, the snoring overtook the farting and all was well in the camping world.</span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;">Suffice it to say, I had a LOT of time to be with myself.</span></b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> Around midnight, after
the fire had died down to a red glowing ember and the snoring was getting even louder, I realized it
was going to be too warm to sleep in my car (couldn't open the windows due to
the bugs), so I made myself a little set up using two folding chairs and a
cooler. As the daddy long legs were running rampant, I put on a baseball
hat, put on my sweatshirt, tied the hood tightly around my head so literally
only my glasses and brim of the hat were peeking out. I then sprayed the
shit out of my hood and brim with bug spray. I settled in, thinking how
cool it was that I was about to sleep under the stars, praying to the gods of
the Woods that the daddy long legs wouldn't crawl into my eyes. I was dripping in sweat but I was safe. I shut my
eyes, hoping sleep would come and the bugs would stay away. It really was a beautiful night.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;">It was 1 AM and I was still wide awake.</span></b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> I stared at the stars, checked my Book de la Face, hummed little
tunes, put a few logs on the fire..... </span><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif">then, I heard a small "crack." </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif">Huh.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif">Maybe it was the fire. I leaned back into my chair.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif">Crack. Crack.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif">This time, I took out my flashlight
and turned to my right, shined it on the tents. Nope. No
movement. Still snoring. Huh.</span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">From my left I hear a definite snap, followed by a crack and then another snap</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">. Like breaking twigs. Moving </span>branches<span style="font-family: inherit;">. </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Snap.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">I realized something was very close.....coming
closer....closer... </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">I turned my flashlight and pointed to my left....<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: inherit;">OMG! A KILLER RACCOON, BIG AS A TODDLER! </span></b></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Close enough to scare the hood right off my head. I don't
know how those three guys didn't wake up because I was hooting and hollering
for that damned thing to get away from me. I remember thinking about how I had no idea raccoons were big. This guy was big. I thought they were small and fluffy. There wasn't one damn thing small or fluffy on this dude.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Toddler Raccoon didn't seem too frightened of me and kept waddling my way. </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">He was too close for
my comfort. Waddle, waddle, waddle.</span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">"GET AWAY! WE DON'T HAVE ANY FOOD!" (</span><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif">This was true,
as I had put it all in my car to make sure we had no unwanted visitors. So much for that plan.) I
could tell it was not in any way, shape or form afraid of me or my rantings. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face=""Century Gothic", sans-serif">Standing on his back legs, he stopped and looked at me. </span></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I swear to God he was mocking me. </b></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He took a few steps closer. I thought I was going to shit myself. </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After staring at me for seven hours (okay, probably ten seconds), Mr. Raccoon finally
decided I must be not worth the effort and I really didn't have any food. He turned and slowly rambled slowly toward a the nearest tree....and, crawled slowly up the
trunk...he then perched itself on a branch and stared at me. </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Seriously. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Little golden eyes glowing at me from above.</span></b></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I stared at the tree and his little glowing, golden eyes. "I'm not taking my eyes off you, mister." I was struck by the fact that raccoons climb trees. Seriously, I'm worried about the guys not having camping experience? I didn't even know raccoons were in trees.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That's when I heard what sounded like a bunch of branches cracking and rustling. My killer raccoon wasn't moving, so I took this as a VERY.BAD.SIGN.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I pointed my flashlight a bit to the left... there were several sets of eyes staring at me from that tree. </span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh my gawd, it was a <b>friggin' FAMILY of KILLER RACCOONS!</b> I was sure death was inevitable. They were going to overtake me and the campsite. The guys would wake up to an empty campsite with not a trace of their fearless leader. Although the killer raccoon family wasn't moving, I knew I had to do something before they came and killed me.</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;">It is then I decided it was no longer too hot to sleep in my car. </span></b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Slowly, slowly, slowly I got out of my chair. I assured the raccoons I meant no harm and in slow motion backed away from them. Thankfully, the family stayed in place. I think I might have cried when I made it to my car.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">After I was able to stop shaking from my brush with killer raccoons, I slept from 2 AM-5 AM. For the
record, it is REALLY hard to sleep in a Civic. But, when you are tired and terrified of being killed in the night by killer raccoons, you do what you have to do. You sleep in a Civic.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;">Why did I wake up at 5 AM? Because the park ranger knocked on my window and scared the piss out of me. He told me I can't sleep in my car. Where was he when I was about to be killed last night?</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I crawled out my car, sore and beyond tired. Pleasantly, I was treated to a beautiful sunrise and a raccoon-free campsite. It was the perfect morning--well, besides the kink in my neck from sleeping in a Civic.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="color: #4c1130;">As for the guys?</span></b><span face=""Century Gothic",sans-serif" style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri;"> They
slept right through the night and didn't get up until I made them at 6:30
AM. They ate some chips for breakfast, stuffed the tents into the little
nylon bags, questioned my sanity when I told them about the raccoons and waited
for the van to arrive. They were happy and refreshed, ready to return to the
site so they could appropriately brag of their camping prowess and of their
survival skills.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b>Brag they did. </b>When the van arrived to pick them up, they were full of stories, unable to wait until even getting into the van before overtalking each other. It made me smile. </p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">It didn't matter that I was so tired I wanted to puke. </p><p style="margin: 0in;">It didn't matter that I didn't have a toothbrush or that I'd be staying to clean up the campsite. </p><p style="margin: 0in;">It didn't matter that they didn't know how to put up a tent.</p><p style="margin: 0in;">It didn't matter that they didn't catch fish. </p><p style="margin: 0in;">It didn't matter that I had to buy wood.</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">What mattered is that they had had a great time.</p><p style="margin: 0in;">It mattered that they felt like survivalists in the wilderness. </p><p style="margin: 0in;">It mattered that they got to do something "normal" in a world that does not find them normal.</p><p style="margin: 0in;">It mattered that they had something to brag about.</p><p style="margin: 0in;">It mattered that they had something of which to be proud.</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">It was at that moment I was reminded I have the best job on the planet. </p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">They left in the van, smelly, in the same clothes and without a care in the world. </p><p style="margin: 0in;">It didn't matter they were smelly or in the same clothes. </p><p style="margin: 0in;">It mattered that they didn't have a care in the world.</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">As for me, I cleaned up the campsite, went home and took a nap. Right before falling asleep, I swore to myself I would NEVER take anyone camping again. Never. I hate camping. I hate bugs. I hate killer raccoons.</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">Self: "You're an ass--you know you'll take guys camping again next year." </p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">Me: [smile] "I hate camping. You know that."<br /><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">Self: "I know you'll take guys camping again next year."</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">Me: [smiling]. "Maybe in a year I'll forget about the killer raccoons."</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">Self: "They weren't<i> that </i>big."</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;">*******************************************************</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><b><i>Dammit if I didn't take a group of guys camping the next year.</i></b></p><p style="margin: 0in;">********************************************************</p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-7820688627386545552022-01-24T09:33:00.003-06:002022-01-25T06:15:02.551-06:00Friendly Neighbor, Snow blowing Style (#10)<p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>T</i></b><b style="color: #800180;"><i>he count down of blogs continues. </i></b><span style="color: #800180;"><i>I've decided to go out in style, featuring 16 blogs, representing 16 years of blogging. I'm sad to say that some of the posts have NOT aged well. I'm updating posts so it improves the story while preserving the madness.</i></span></span></p><p></p><p><i><span style="color: #800180;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I picked this particular blog because it is a fan favorite. I've posted it in one version or another before. I shall rework it to make it worthy of being in the top 16 blogs. Here's #10 in the countdown: Friendly Neighbor, Snow blowing Style.</span></span></i></p><b><span style="color: #800180;">Last night, it snowed, sleeted, rained and made these weird little ice/snow pellets, all in a frenzied combination. </span></b>Mother Nature went into overdrive, leaving behind a seasonal pain in the ass kind of snow, spitting her snot onto our front stairs, resulting a sheet of solid ice on the steps and a snow-covered driveway sealed within a sheet of snotty concrete ice. With my history of slipping on the front stairs, resulting in a broken tailbone, I find myself less than amused when this type of window swoops down upon us.<br /><br /><span style="color: #800180;"><span style="background-color: white;"><b>As the dogs needed to go out as part of their morning ritual, </b></span><b>safe passage is created.</b></span> It's a wee bit terrifying for me, seeing as the ice-covered stairs are between me and the place of dog potty area. So, I go through the garage, grab the shovel, shovel a spot for them to pee, and penguin-walk my way toward the door, muttering as I slide toward the front door. <div><br /></div><div>Me: (muttering to self) God I hate ice....don't fall, don't fall, don't fall...where is the damned salt... mutter mutter.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>The wife (who doesn't have the same terror about ice that I have): watching from through the screen door</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: (Muttering about needing salt.)</div><div><br /></div><div>The wife: (Muttering about my salt muttering.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: "I need the salt. I'm not falling again." (Glare)</div><div><br /></div><div>The wife: (eye roll)</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Me: "Two words--broken tailbone!" (Glare)</div><div><br /></div><div>The wife: Opens door, throws the salt container at me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Me: "HEY!" (I am terrified of breaking my tailbone again--I talk salting seriously!)</div><div><br /></div><div>The wife: (Scowling as I spread what she finds to be WAY too much salt.)<br /><div><b><br /></b><span style="color: #800180; font-weight: bold;">I look up at the Ring doorbell, which makes me laugh. </span>I know somewhere in the world someone is hacking our doorbell. How can they not find my banter with the wife anything but funny? It's like a having a front-row seat to a reality TV show. </div><div><br /></div><div>If you are wondering who might be watching our Ring doorbell video, I am confident we are being watched by foreign governments. so I always say hello to the Russians when I enter the house. I dunno. Maybe it's the Chinese. North Korea?<br /><br /><i>Boris: "They're at it again."<br /></i><br /><i>Vladimir: "What is wrong with that one?"<br /></i><br /><i>Boris: "Eh. Wimpy America looks scared of ice on stairs."<br /></i><br /><i>Vladimir: "Pass me the vodka. This is gonna be good."<br /></i><br /><i>Boris: I'm calling Chen in China. He'll love this."</i><br /><br /><b>The dogs have peed. The salt is in place. Time to snow blow.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><span style="color: #800180; font-weight: bold;">Our snowblower is a serious machine. </span>It's giant. It's heavy. It's the real deal. Unfortunately for wimpy old me, I almost get a hernia trying to operate it--I just don't have any upper body strength. I'm a wimpy thing. It may be automatic-driven but you still have to push it, especially when it comes to ice covered snow, and it's super heavy. Hell, I can barely push it on dry pavement.<br /><br /><span style="color: #800180;"><b>I can't believe the wife even allows me to snow blow, considering the great 1998 snow-blowing incident.</b> </span>It's a great story of which I'm asked to tell now and again. I daresay this is the perfect time to recall the debacle. So, without further ado, I recall the story for your enjoyment.....<br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="background-color: white;">It's snowing. <br />It's 1998. <br />It's the wife’s fault. </span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="background-color: white;">Not the snow. </span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="background-color: white;">The incident.</span></i></b><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="color: #800180; font-weight: bold;">It's snowing.</span><span style="color: blue; font-weight: bold;"> </span>I'm giddy because we have a brand new snowblower. I've been waiting to use it. I'm all smiles about this snow. But, before I say more about this, I must speak of being an unfriendly neighbor.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #800180;"><b><span>The wife has always accused me as being “unfriendly neighbor.”</span></b> </span>This title was bestowed upon me because I supposedly don't spend much time interacting with any of our neighbors. She claims I don't even wave to them, but that's not true...I half-wave when in view of neighbors. I just don't stop and yip or engage them any further. <i>(Okay, so that might be a LITTLE unfriendly but it's not like I'm giving anyone “the finger” or lighting poop-in-a-bag on the porch or anything.) </i>I agree I'm not half as friendly as the wife is; she is always visiting or talking or discussing gardening—whatever. I'm in the house having a cool beverage while she is yipping to neighbors. It seems better that way.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">As I ALWAYS listen to the wife, I finally take her words to heart.</span></b> On this very, very, very snowy evening, I decide to be FRIENDLY NEIGHBOR.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />The wife purchased a new snow blower and thus I am very excited to see the snow--this means I can use the new machine. I am SO about snow blowers. I am in winter bliss as I plow up and down the driveway. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #800180;"><b><span>Once done, I look up and down our street.</span></b> </span>Hmm. No one else is snow blowing yet and the snow is piling up...<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #800180;"><b><i><span>I decide</span></i></b><b><i><span> that it would indeed qualify me for friendly neighbor status if I clear a few driveways for our nearest neighbors.</span></i></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #800180;"><b><i><span><br /></span></i></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">I plow the neighbor to the north’s driveway.<br />I plow the neighbor across the street driveway.<br />I plow the neighbor to the south’s driveway. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />That seems friendly enough. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I'm covered in snow and sweating like a pig, so I call it a day. After all, there is only so much friendly one can take in one outing.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #800180;"><br /><b><i><span>Then, I think I should do one…more….driveway</span></i></b>—</span>the neighbor kitty-corner from us. They're a young couple and I know they don’t have a snowblower. What’s one more driveway? So, I push the snow blower across the street and give one last round of Friendly Neighbor snow blowing….<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I should have stopped.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="color: #800180;"><span><b>I</b></span><b><span> push the snowblower right down the middle of their driveway, </span></b></span>heading from the street to the garage. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not kidding—right down the middle—</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />not to the left,</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />not to the right—</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />Right.<br />Down.<br />The.<br />Middle. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><b>I’m halfway up the driveway when there is this bloodcurdling </b><span style="background-color: white; color: red; font-weight: bold;">SCRREEEEECH....</span></span><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">....the tree to the right <span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: red;"><u>SNAPS</u></span></b> </span>down toward the ground....<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">....the tree <b><span style="background-color: red; color: white; font-size: medium;">SNAPS</span><span style="background-color: white; color: blue;"> </span></b>right back up.....<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">....the Christmas lights come <span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">RIPPING</span></b> </span></span>off the tree....<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">.....the snow blower <b><span style="background-color: white; color: red; font-size: medium;">SCREAMS</span></b> like it’s been hit by a truck....<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">....the Christmas lights come <b><span style="background-color: red; color: white; font-size: medium;">RIPPING</span></b> off the garage gutter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: red;">CHRISTMAS LIGHTS ARE RIPPING OFF THE GARAGE GUTTERS.... <br /></span></b><span style="background-color: white; font-weight: bold;">BAM BAM BAM BAM LIKE A MACHINE GUN.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">The brand new snowblower comes to a <span style="color: white;"><b style="background-color: black;">GRINDING</b></span> halt.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Shit. All there is...is silence. <br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Total silence. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">Unbeknownst to me our neighbors has a large orange extension cord running down the MIDDLE OF THE DRIVEWAY. </span></b>Now, why anyone would have an extension cord in the middle of the driveway, I do not know, but I DO know that this cord is attached to the Christmas lights on the garage and to the Christmas lights on that poor little tree that bent in half as the lights ripped off of it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t see their extension cord because it is under a foot of snow.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><b><span>There I stand in the partially-plowed driveway, extension cord and Christmas lights sucked into the snow blower that no longer works.</span></b> These lights, of course, are not the cheapy-kind most people use these days. Oh no, these are the old-fashioned big lights, probably from their grandparents as a gift...the expensive kind you can’t buy anymore. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The gutter is hanging slightly off the garage. The lights, of course, are off and no longer softly glowing in the falling snow. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">How I wasn’t killed by electrocution, I’ll never know.<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><b><span style="color: #800180;">Since it sounded like a truck hit the house when this all happened, </span></b>the neighbors come running out (in their bare feet, I might add). What could I do but say….<o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><b><span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-size: medium;">….”Uhhhhhh, hi, I’m your neighbor.”</span></b><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br />Piss on this friendly neighbor shit! </b>This sucks. Why the hell did I think being a friendly neighbor was a good idea? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>This is the wife's fault!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It takes the neighbor guy about thirty minutes to get the various cords out of the snow blower. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes, he is the one who pulled the cords out. I just stand there. I don't know what to say. I finally mutter a few words about trying to be a good neighbor but I can tell he wants to hear NOTHING of which I might have to say.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />No, their driveway never got plowed.<br />No, their Christmas lights weren't salvageable.<br />No, their gutter never got put back into place.<br />No, the neighbors didn't have friendly neighbor banter with me.<br />Yes, I felt like a complete moron....</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>...At least the tree had snapped back to an upright position and I hadn't been electrocuted...right?</b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="color: #800180;">I sadly and slowly push the still-jammed snow blower back across the street </span></i></b>and park it in the garage, not knowing if I have destroyed the new machine in addition to destroying the neighbor’s holiday decorations. I want to vomit. I dread telling the wife. It is going to be awful telling the wife about ruining the brand new snowblower. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The walk of shame has to commence. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I'm not sure which part the wife finds worse: ruining a brand new snowblower, alienating the neighbors or destroying vintage Christmas lights. She too is rather silent but her stare said all I need to hear. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #800180;"><b>Thankfully, the snow blower is okay....no worse for the wear... </b></span></i><b><i><span style="background-color: white;">but, those neighbors moved in the spring.</span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><b>So much for friendly neighbor crap.</b><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br /></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><span>For the record, I never replaced their Christmas lights because I couldn't find the type they had. But, I did buy them a new kick-ass, heavy-duty extension cord</span><span style="color: blue;">.</span> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">That has to count for something.</span><i> I don't recall what happened with the gutter but I think it was fixed before they moved..... I didn't exactly go over there and ever talk to them....</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><br /></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #800180;"><b><span>So, here I am. Salt on the steps. It's snowing. It's 6 AM.</span></b> </span>T</span>he streets are silent. I have the new snowblower in the driveway. No one has shoveled or cleared their driveways yet. This new snowblower is made for the task. I can redeem myself. I cab try one more time to be a friendly neighbor....</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #800180;">...like I said, piss on that.</span></b> I prefer gutters remain attached to houses and that the new snowblower remain in tact. I'd rather the Russians watch me slip on ice than destroy neighbor property. I take my wimpy self outside and I do the best I can, in OUR driveway and our driveway only. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: white;"><b><span style="color: #800180;">I prefer to be retain my unfriendly neighbor status. </span></b>Fri</span>endly neighbor status is WAY over-rated. I leave that to the wife. Half-waves will suffice for me. Half-waves and back into the house I go.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I can't snow blow for others. I have PTSDD: Post Traumatic Snowblowing Disaster Disorder. I have flashbacks. I don't need any more. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #800180;">Snow blow your own damn driveway.</span></b> Love, your unfriendly neighbor.</div><div class="MsoNormal">**************************************************************</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div></div></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-87452424312299471072022-01-16T19:26:00.004-06:002022-01-16T19:26:38.004-06:00Now For THIS I Went to College (#11 of 16)<p><i><span style="color: #800180;">As the end of the blog nears, I thought a sentimental story from my job would be the perfect post. I have a lot of funny stories about my job, none shared in disrespect. This one immediately came to mind. Counting down, this is #11 of 16. </span></i></p><p><b><span style="color: #800180;">Preface.</span></b></p><p><b>I work with people diagnosed with Schizophrenia.</b> An often misunderstood medical issue, tough cards to be dealt, endless judgement fueled by stigma. The disease can be cruel, but society is crueler. Personally, if I had to pick one population to work with for the rest of my professional career, I would pick men with Schizophrenia. </p><p>Serving those with Schizophrenia affords me many an opportunity to do things that I would not have otherwise had the chance to do...<br />Serving as a coach during the birth of a baby--up close and personal, full sights, sounds and... well, smells...<br />Holding the hand of a person dying...<br />Holding the hand of that person after she's passed...<br />Standing in as surrogate family during for someone without family...<br />Suiting up in hospital scrubs as to provide words of comfort & encouragement as a client receives an angio-gram....<br />Sitting quietly next to someone receiving chemo...<br />Yelling as a pile of police officers are forcefully taking down a client in psychiatric crisis. </p><p>And yes, it's true I've had to pull over on the tollway because a client dropped a lit cigarette down her top and caught her bra on fire (I kid you not). But, I think that could've happened to any of my friends in college, so I won't focus on that part of the story.</p><p>Let me be clear: I am humbled by these opportunities. I am honored to be with these amazing human beings. I am grateful for the chance be part of their journey. I'm one lucky bitch.</p><p><b><span style="color: #800180;">Blog.</span></b></p><p><b><i>I drove a client out of town so he could attend the visitation and funeral of his mom. </i></b>I can't tell you many details but, I can tell you that this particular person with Schizophrenia asked many an interesting question during the long ride to the funeral home. Feeling safe with me--I've known him for a decade--he asked question after question. Questions about the coffin, the embalming process, the services. He spoke about his life, the abuse endured, the losses incurred. </p><p>At times, he questioned what was and wasn't real, what was or wasn't true.</p><p><b>Two hours of questions. </b>His brain had a lot of questions. He's a guy who faces his experiences in what appears to be a non-emotional, factual, logical, almost robotic fashion. Data, facts, figures, questions, questions, questions, seemingly incongruent to the situation. There's a weird, odd slant to life that is grounded in some other place than where the majority of the world lives. </p><p>As fate my have it, those questions kept coming while he was standing in front of the casket. Understandably, he had a lot on his mind. This is his estranged mom. His mom is dead. It made no sense. He has lots of questions and lots to say. He wants data. He wants facts. He wants clarity. He wants the chance to say the things he never got to say. Unfortunately for those who perpetuate stigma and don't take time to understand this young man's mental illness, they glare or make fun or look uncomfortable. They don't take time to address the questions. They squirm as he steps to the microphone. This is a time to mourn, not ask questions. I see judgement dripping from them as he stands talking loudly. I hear him talking after being asked to serve as a last-minute pall bearer.</p>I stood in the foyer. He's an adult. He doesn't need me hovering over him. This is his time to grieve, to question, to say what he has to say. I am there to support him. So, I stood in the foyer, ready to provide support or do whatever he asked me to do. I listen to him talk loudly into the microphone. Statements. Facts. Questions. He went on and on and one. Ten minutes worth of statements, questions, facts.<br /><br />I am not surprised or bothered or concerned about his questions and relative-to-the-situation judged-to-be-inappropriate behaviors. The others EXPECT me to intervene. I am the expert, present to ensure something of what I am not sure. The family knows who I am. They think they know why I am standing there:<div><br /></div><div><b>I was there to keep the crazy guy in line.</b><div><br /></div><div>As I settled in to my seat in the foyer, I heard something. It was loud and unmistakable. I stood up and went to the door. The questions, I anticipated. The judgement, I expected. But, I didn't anticipate this...<br /><br /><b><i>As the client stood at the front of the room, standing in front of the casket, he sobbed. </i></b>He wailed openly and loudly and genuinely and completely....an incredibly appropriate and angst-filled response to seeing his mother for the first time in years. </div><div><br /></div><div>The funeral director looked at me in panic, as if to say, "what are you going to do?"</div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted to say, "I'm going to do nothing. Nothing. He is a human being, expressing genuine grief." Instead, I just smiled and shrugged my shoulders. I then looked away and focused back on the client.</div><div><br /><b><i>To be honest, I was momentarily taken aback. </i></b>Here's a guy who shows little or no overt emotion on a daily basis and he's sobbing in front of the casket. I am ashamed to admit for a fleeting moment I "forgot" that a person with schizophrenia might react in a manner which is appropriate to the situation. I was just as judgmental and tainted with stigma as an a person uneducated about mental illness. Because he has schizophrenia and has a whole different take on the world doesn't make him less human, less capable of pain or feeling or angst or grief.</div><div><br /></div><div>His grief was real. Raw. Anger seeping from his being. Appropriate anger. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It was in that moment </span>that I was completely and totally filled with emotion and reminded of why I am the luckiest person on earth to have a job as I do, to witness the realness of being completely human.<br /><br /><b><i>Another moment in life that I will never forget. </i></b><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i><i>(It also served as a reminder that I can be an arrogant, judgmental, condescending ass. Sometimes the Universe needs to slap the humility back into me.)</i><br /><br /><b>After he finished with the intense and genuine display of his most personal emotions,</b> he settled back in to his "normal" self. It was if nothing had ever happened. He served as a pall bearer, greeted me with a smile and started talking about something not even remotely related to the situation. People avoided him. No one wandered up to give him condolences. He didn't seem to notice. I did.</div><div><br /></div><div>After the service, I drove him to the grave site and watched from my car, giving him the space and dignity that he so much deserved. There was a line of people, waiting quietly to have a "turn" at tossing a small pile of dirt onto the now-lowered casket. One by one, tossing little piles of dirt. Shovel, pile, next. Shovel, pile, next. </div><div><br /></div><div>I watched as they handed him a shovel. I could see he was thinking about this. He tentatively threw a shovelful of dirt onto the casket, just like everyone else ahead of him had done. He then stood there. I could tell he was thinking. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>And then, quite to my utter delight,</b> he took another scoop of dirt and tossed it onto the coffin. A pause... and then he continued to throw shovelful after shovelful of dirt into the hole. Others had thrown only one shovelful of dirt but he was gonna throw as many as he damn well pleased. </div><div><br /></div><div>AS MANY AS HE DAMNED WELL PLEASED. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted to cheer from the car. <br />I wanted to yell in support. <br />I wanted to scream obscenities at those who looked irritated, scared, hateful, confused. <br />I wiped a tear from my eye. It was hilarious and touching and defiant. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>It was PERFECT.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>When done, he took one last look toward the casket, gave a nod, handed the shovel to the next person and then wiped his really dirty hands on his pants. </div><div><br /></div><div>He wiped his hands on his pants and smiled. </div><div><br /></div><div>He started walking toward my car, smiling, carrying a much lighter load. It's like he was waiting for a ride after visiting the library. Not a care in the world. Relief. On to new questions. New thoughts.</div><div><br /><b>He came back to my car, dirt all over his pants, hopped in and wondered aloud where he and I were doing for dinner.</b> I took one look at his pants and laughed. This was the guy I know and love and anticipated. Pizza. He thought pizza would be perfect for dinner. <br /><br /><span>I thanked him for the opportunity to be present at such a moment in his life. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><b>His response? "No problem."</b></div><div><br />I silently thanked the Universe for the best job on the planet. </div><div><br /></div><div>Pizza. Shovels. Schizophrenia. No problem. I'm a better human being because of people like him.</div><div>*********************************************************</div></div><div><b><span style="color: #800180;">Prologue. </span></b></div><div><br /></div><div>He talked the entire way home. Not one moment of silence. I cherished every single word, although I'd be lying if I said it wasn't exhausting. Science fiction. Movies. Ideas for writing a story. As we drove home, I looked in the rear view mirror. Framed perfectly in the mirror was a rainbow. A beautiful, bright breathtaking rainbow, then a double rainbow. One of the brightest rainbows I've ever seen. I pointed it out to him but he was concerned with other things. </div><div><br /></div><div>Rainbows weren't on the list of topics. </div><div><br /></div><div>Pizza. Shovels. Rainbows. Schizophrenia. Even the Rainbow-Glowing Universe knows I've got the best job on the planet.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-91380430834325371532022-01-08T09:00:00.000-06:002022-01-08T09:00:03.969-06:00Shooting the Poop: Before, During and After (#12)<p> <i><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;"><b>Preface: </b>The time of this blog has come and gone. I've decided to go out in style, saying adios by featuring 16 blogs, representing 16 years of blogging. </span></i><i><span style="color: #800180;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I picked this particular blog because it would be just plain wrong if I didn't talk about poop. From 2011: Here is #12 in the final countdown.</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">You
didn’t think you were going to get through the countdown without at least one
poop post, did you? </span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Trust me when I say
there is nothing more delightful in the Addiverse than a colonoscopy.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> From Start to finish, the
Addiverse shares all.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Before.
<br /></span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Prepping to a
garden hose shoved up your patootie is different than it was ten years ago. Back then, you drank--literally--a
gallon of this god-awful concoction and then hoped for the best. Since I
have a very slow-moving system, it took me FIVE HOURS after consuming a gallon
of tainted liquid to have any "motion." A gallon of liquid AND all that poop still in
there. Several days’ worth of poop. Miserable, I
went to bed because I got tired of waiting for something to happen and tired of
being upright while sloshing.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #783f04;">This time around, </span></b>I'm directed
to take three laxative pills, drink two bottles of this
terrible-but-tolerable tasting magnesium stuff and consume 1/2 gallon of Gatorade in five hours' time. I am supposed to wait until 4 PM for the pills and 5 PM for the bottle of
"stuff," but I don't want to end up with another "waiting for
five hours at night" episode due to my slow system; thus, I move up the
time frame. This seems genius. It also seems to be to be a great
equalizer--it's kind of like how they stagger the runners in track meets to
make it equitable. I look like I'm starting ahead of the pack but really, I am
with the pack. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My 5 PM is someone else's 7 PM.<br />
<br />Gatorade now comes in a "clear" form--it has flavor but not color. This helps a lot although I am quickly developing an aversion to Gatorade, no matter what the color or
flavor. I soothe my soul with gratitude it's only 1/2 gallon, not a full gallon. That makes things much less uncomfortable.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b><span style="color: #843c0c; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #843C0C; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: accent2; mso-themecolor: accent2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Despite being “early” in the game, I've already seen some amazing
things from long ago.</span></b><span style="color: #843c0c; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #843C0C; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: accent2; mso-themecolor: accent2; mso-themeshade: 128;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I just saw remnants of
last Tuesday's bagel (I kid you not) and I am awaiting arrival of corn. If
I see corn, I'm taking a photo of it because I can't even remember the last
time I ate any corn. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I poop until I can poop no more. I weigh myself upon what had to be the final poop. Four pounds
lighter. I pooped four pounds of stuff. Score!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #7f6000; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">During: Trick or Treat</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">! <br />I am here to give you a full report
on the non-sedated colonoscopy. But, before I tell you about the actual event,
I want to tell you about something very weird that was going on in the medical building. I assure you that what I
am about to tell you is 100% true… I reiterate that I was not on any drugs…
and, I have a witness to ensure my relative sanity.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #843c0c; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #843C0C; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: accent2; mso-themecolor: accent2; mso-themeshade: 128;">Children were trick or treating at the nurse’s station. </span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Yes, trick or treating,
complete with costumes. Trick or treating at the desk where people on gurneys
roll by as they get or finish colonoscopies.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I’m looking at a pirate
and a cupcake. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Maybe four or five or six years old. Pirate and cupcake costumes.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">My colonoscopy happens to be on
Halloween. There I am, in my full glory on the gurney, covered only by a
ratty hospital gown and a pile of sheets, curtains wide open for all the world
to see... and children are trick or treating just a few feet away. Never
mind the guy in the recovery cubicle is within earshot talking
about wanting a bottle of whiskey. Children are trick or treating at the nurses
station.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">That's a cupcake and a pirate. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
<b><span style="color: #783f04;">If I didn't have a witness or if I had
been on the happy drugs, I would have thought I was hallucinating.</span></b> Who the hell trick or treats in a gastroenterologist
office??? I call MJagger and ask her to come into the treatment area.
She wanders back to where I am. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I point at the cupcake and
the pirate. She agrees. There are trick or treaters at the nurse's station.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It is a bit unnerving to
have those little costumed kiddies staring at me. And I mean staring. This four- or five-year- or six-year old little chubby pirate girl stares at me for what seems like 30 seconds. Maybe she was waiting for me to
offer her some candy. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Damn nurse never offered ME or MJagger any candy. Maybe because we weren't
wearing a costume. MJagger wanders back to the waiting room, no candy in hand. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #843c0c; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #843C0C; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: accent2; mso-themecolor: accent2; mso-themeshade: 128;">As the trick or treaters move along, so do I.</span></b><span style="color: #843c0c; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-style-textfill-fill-alpha: 100.0%; mso-style-textfill-fill-color: #843C0C; mso-style-textfill-fill-colortransforms: lumm=50000; mso-style-textfill-fill-themecolor: accent2; mso-themecolor: accent2; mso-themeshade: 128;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Time to get the
party started. Getting the IV in my hand--actually,
not getting the IV in my hand--was rather awful. I have wimpy veins, so
I'm used to people having trouble with them but that doesn’t mean I like it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Me: “Um, I’m not getting
sedated.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Nurse (looks up,
surprised): “Excuse me?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Me: “I don’t need to be sedated.
I’m fine without it.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Nurse (furled brows): “You’re
not getting sedated?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Me: “No. I honestly don’t
need that I.V.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Nurse (after a pause of
which I’m sure is related to her questioning my sanity): “I still have to put
this in.” She continues to dig around, looking for a suitable vein.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Usually, I can talk
medical personnel out of something that I am pretty sure is not going to work,
but this nurse was having nothing to do with my gentle hints. I hate
suggesting things to medical professionals. After all, they are the professionals.
But, when it comes to my veins….</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Me (with hesitation): "Uh,
maybe you should try another vein."</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Nurse (continues to dig
around).</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Me (in my head--ow ow ow
ow ow): “Honestly, another vein might be better. Are you sure I have to have
this I.V. ready to go?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Nurse (ignores me, keeps
trying). She finally managed to blow out the vein. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">How do I know this?
Because she says, "Oh! I blew out your vein." </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I left that place looking like a bad night on the Twilight movie set. Off to
the procedure I roll, blown vein and all. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><i>At this point, I'd like to
make the disclaimer that under no circumstance should you try the non-sedated colonoscopy
unless you are as weird as I am, you like looking at your innards on a large TV
screen and you can deal with the discomfort associated with a garden hose
winding its way through your internal maze. I do not condone this
practice. They offer amazing drugs, so why not say yes? </i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The doctor walks in, confirms
that I don’t want sedation and asks me to roll onto my left side. I am ready.
He’s ready. The nurse is ready. As the doctor explains the procedure and moves
to start the journey, “Highway to Hell” comes on the radio. I kid you not. It
is the perfect song at the perfect time.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">You would think getting
a garden hose shoved up your patootie would be horrible</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;">, but it's not half as bad
as you would think....</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">....
Relatively speaking, of course.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> A garden hose up the ass isn’t
so bad, but you can’t really think about it. After all, THAT is an OUT hole,
not an IN hole. Getting a vein blown out is way worse than the start of the procedure.
Honestly, the worst part of that portion of the procedure is you can see your
butthole on the TV. That’s because the camera in the garden hose is already on
and you can see EVERYTHING from start to finish. I don’t want to see my butthole
but there it is, in full living color. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I am unable to fully
articulate what it’s like to have a colonoscopy. The room is dark, the noises
are loud and slurpy, the TV is glowing. It's tolerable. It's interesting. It's uncomfortable. It's unusual. It's slow and methodical. The radio is playing and I'm humming along. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b style="color: #783f04;">The
"going round the mountain" part? </b>Okay, this is quite "uncomfortable.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">" Did you know there are some
tricky turns in your bowels? I remember this from my previous
colonoscopy--the garden hose isn't good about getting around the bends. The hose is flexible but not that flexible. To get around the mountain, the colon needs
some outside help. I'd be lying if I said this didn't smart.. I'd say
"pain," but it's not like every day pain or like hitting your
thumb with a hammer. It's more like, "what the hell was that?" pain.
I am super-glad when the doctor asks the nurse to push on my abdomen when maneuvering the garden hose. That nurse might have blown out my vein but
she wins big points from me when she uses her hands to shove my bowels back
toward my tailbone. I mean she put her whole weight behind her and became my
personal girdle. I can't believe how that one little thing made a huge
difference-- her hands mashed on my belly sent that garden hose flying right to
wear it belonged.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><b><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
entire ordeal was made more "interesting" because I still had so much
poop-goop, sesame seeds and oatmeal stuff in me.</span></b><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> The doctor had to
"suck and spit" to get to where he was going--kind of like driving in
a blinding rainstorm at night with only one headlight. I comment on this, indicating I am embarrassed by "all" that is still "in there." He assures me this is normal and just fine. I'm skeptical but thank him for his kindness.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Can you imagine
what would be in there if I hadn't started my prep earlier than they
suggested? It would have been spelunking through cement.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b><i><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At least there was no
corn.</span></i></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Before
I know it, we are done. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">No polyps, no tumors, no weird
growths, no problems, no worries. Just a pretty-in-pink, healthy
colon and an ugly butthole Thank you, baby Jesus! Out comes the garden hose. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">It
comes out a lot easier than it goes in. <br />
<br />
</span><b><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="color: #783f04; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">After. </span></b><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As for the recovery
room, suffice it to say they are not equipped to address a non-sedated client. I sit up to text MJagger and a nurse admonishes me:</span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nurse: "My! Are we in a hurry to leave? Please lay back down!" </span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Me: (Huh. I guess
she thinks I'm a crazed drugged woman trying to escape the recovery area
before done cooking.)</span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nurse (glaring at me).</span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Me: "I wasn't sedated." </span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nurse: (looks surprised. Turns to Peer.)</span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nurse Peer: (Acknowledges this to be true.)</span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nurse: (Pleasant smile) "Relax and pass some gas." <br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #783f04;">I felt like I was being held
hostage. </span></b>As I was already passing gas
(there is no way you can stop that from happening) and still wasn't getting
anywhere, I decided it was time to kick it up a notch. No more silent
farting for me--I let them know I meant business. </span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Me: (Giant fart of cheek-slapping happiness). </span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Nurse: "There you go! You'll be able to go
as soon as they do your blood work." </span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Score! I call in my secret
weapon: MJagger. I know she can help speed things up for me...she did not
fail me.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #783f04;">After After.<br />Now that the colonoscopy is
behind me (pun intended), I make up for all that lost time</span></b>: I eat lunch at Culvers, get some fancy coffee at
Starbucks, eat home-made cupcakes from MJagger, stuff chocolate chips in as
fast as I could pour them, eat some homemade some guacamole and move on to other culinary delights. I lost four pounds preparing and I plan to
gain four pounds recovering.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: #783f04;">I am one healthy grrrrrl with one healthy
appetite.</span></b> I am going to focus on all the things
that are "right" with me. As writings from the "Secret"
suggests, "Fear nothing - just think about what you want. It feels so much
better!"<br />
<br />
I am thinking about what I want....and, it involves a lot of chocolate.
Suddenly, I feel so much better.</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-42616609931939308522022-01-01T12:17:00.007-06:002022-01-01T12:17:48.775-06:00Four of Sixteen: Can U Hear me NOW? (#13)<p><i><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;"><b>Preface: Happy New Year! You're just in time to join the count down of blogs. </b>I've decided to go out in style, featuring 16 blogs, representing 16 years of blogging. I'm sad to say that some of the posts have NOT aged well. I'm updating posts so it improves the story while preserving the madness.</span></i></p><p><i><span style="color: #800180;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I picked this particular blog because I have yet to forget this incident. Every word still rings true... which I am ashamed to admit. I am not proud and hope I have evolved since this event. From July 2008. Here is #13 in the countdown: Can You Hear Me NOW?</span></span></i></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">If you
read about a woman getting arrested in a Horizon store, don't worry</span></b>--it was
just me, chivalrously standing up for the wife and her crappy new Horizon
Phone.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-weight: bold;">It all started with a zillion dollar phone bill
from the wife's phone carrier, US Hell-u-lar.</span><span> The wife decided to jump onto my carrier/contract when her contract with Hell-u-lar was over. There was nothing "wrong" with her carrier. It was just that almost everyone in our circle was on Horizon.<i> (Back in those days, you paid per text, per time of day, per everything. Texting Horizon to Horizon was free.)</i> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>Contract complete, s</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">he went to Horizon, purchased a new phone and jumped on my plan. Perfect.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">Not so perfect. The wife did not realize a new contract was started and there was an early termination piece related when switching from Hell-u-lar.<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Read.<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">The.<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Fine.<br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Print.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="color: black;">No judgment. I don't read the fine print. Now I know why I should at least skim the babbling.</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">
I already had her on my plan. Horizon had already set up her new phone so everything was ready to go. So, one way or another, the wife would be paying to cancel a phone line on Hell-u-lar or Horizon. She paid the moola, grumbling all the way. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Moola gone, she marched forward with her new phone.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Unfortunately, her new Horizon phone had horrific
reception on the new-to-her Horizon line. </span></b><b style="color: #6600cc;"> </b>No one could understand her when she called.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> It was like she was drunk, under water. Talk about bitter, party of one. How this could be, neither of us understood, but we understood we could not understand her when she called anyone. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I could see she was already regretting her move to my contract. Yikes. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After a few days, she gave up. She went to the store to inquire about her phone. Before I knew it, she was home. They told her there was nothing wrong with her phone or reception. I asked if they had done anything. She said no. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After a few more days of really shitty phone reception, s</span>he took me and her new phone to the Horizon store<span style="font-family: inherit;">. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I stayed in the background, wandering aimlessly.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">At first, the associates were of no help</span></b>. In fact, I would say they ignored her. Maybe because she already had a phone. Who knows why. I mean, it wasn't very busy and the workers were plentiful. She was kind and patient. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I felt the beginning stages of stink eye developing in my head.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Tick... tick... tick... time creeped on.... I'm not kidding when I say it was twenty minutes before anyone made eye contact with her. Once she finally got their attention, she explained the issue of how her phone's reception was shit. She noted she had been there earlier in the week. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She was calm. She was clear. She was concise yet detailed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">What do you think they did?</span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The two looked-twelve-year-old associates</span><i style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"> </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">listened to the wife's complaint. I swear I heard one of them roll their eyes. With a sigh and a </span>condescending<span style="font-family: inherit;"> smile, one of them asked her for her phone. Both of them looked at the phone, flipped it this way and that way, open and closed the phone.... </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">...and then, standing next to each other... the one associate called the other associate using her phone. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hello?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Hello!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">They hung up. Both pronounced the call had been "crystal clear." They handed her the phone and turned to walk away.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">The wife was in tears.<br />
<br /></span><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">I had been watching these two nimrods long enough</span></b>. Stink eye in full bloom, I took things into my own hands. I grabbed the phone from the wife, marched outside, stood in front of the store and called
some friends who are also on the Horizon plan. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">They couldn't really understand
me and they sounded like shit to me. Then, standing in the same place, I called them from my cell
phone. They could hear me with no problem and I could hear them.<br />
<br />
Experiment over.<br />
<br />
I went into store and told the wife to give me EVERYTHING she had about her
phone--from the box to the receipts. She had wasted thirty minutes of her life. I was not going to have her waste one more millisecond. I took that pile of crap and headed toward victory. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>I wasn't nice. </b></span><b style="font-family: inherit;">I wasn't assertive. </b><b style="font-family: inherit;">I was a bitter asshole, party of one. </b></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I marched
right up to that Customer Service desk. I held up her shitty phone in one hand and in a very loud voice announced what a piece of shit her phone and reception was. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I then held up MY phone in the other hand and curtly explained how reception was just fine on my phone.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am here to tell you every person in that store stopped what they were doing and turned toward the counter. They knew...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-weight: bold;">They knew the poor Customer Service lady (NOT one of the two teeny bopper nimrods) was now my hostage.</span><span style="color: #6600cc; font-weight: bold;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I knew it wasn't her fault but with my irritation level being a 10 out of 10, she
didn't have a prayer. When the one of the teenyboppers approached the counter, I loudly proclaimed, "And, I want NOTHING to do with him!" </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">He
backed off and went back to the sales floor. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">I barked out my angry story of how I had talked the wife into this stupid
service, that her previous service was a billion times better, that her
previous phone was better, that Horizon had spent more time ignoring us than
helping us, that she brought her phone in and staff was basically patronizing to her
but of no help. I once again
held the phone up in the lady's face..... </span></span>I made it quite clear I didn't want to hear about testing the reception or about how the box didn't have the UPS code or how this or that....I was DEMANDING a new phone. A phone that worked.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">The Customer Service lady stared at me. After a few seconds, she asks: "did your friend change phone carriers?"<br />
<br />
"Yes," I answered, quizzical--what the hell could this have to do
with anything?<br />
<br />
She continued, "And, did she get a new Horizon number?"<br />
<br />
Where is she going with this? </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">"No," I coldly replied. "Why would she change phone numbers?"<br />
<br /> "Well, maybe your friend is having
trouble with her phone because of the phone number being from a different
carrier---"<br />
<br />
</span>I tell you what. I cut that lady off so fast and so loudly she
will probably need therapy for three years to get over it.<b style="color: #0b5394;"> </b><span style="color: black;">I almost jumped over the counter and shoved
that phone right up her ASS. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">Little veins popping out of my temples, I yelled, "BOTH carriers using the same friggin' cell towers!"<br />
<br />
It was at this point she went and got a new phone.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">You better believe I watched that lady like a hawk.</span><span style="color: #6600cc;"> </span></b><span style="color: black;">I made
sure she wasn't shoving the old phone in a new box. I made sure she had a new
phone out of a sealed box. It
was all going well until </span>she couldn't get the wife's contact list out of the old
phone into the new phone.<span style="color: #6600cc; font-weight: bold;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">Seems the wife's phone is a really new product so no one knows how to do anything with them. Before, we could get no attention. Suddenly, three people are working on
this project. I made it clear I would not be leaving without a transfer of the
contact list, all the while watching the phone to make sure there was no switch
back to the old phone.<br />
<br />
With much sweating and a wee bit of anxiety, the lady finally figured out a way to get the numbers on
the phone. I warned her that I best not be charged for this action; she assured me I wouldn't be charged for anything today. She handed me the new phone, accompanying box and receipt.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">I looked down at the receipt.</span></b> I felt a little ball of anger building inside. I then held the piece of paper in her face and
roared, "THEN WHY DOES IT SAY I HAVE TO ACCEPT THE $1.99 CHARGE RIGHT HERE
ON THIS PAPER?" </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">She swallowed and promised it wouldn't be on the bill but
if it were, it would be credited. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">Credited? Why do I need to be credited if there isn't going to be any charges?<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">This is where I snapped.</span><span style="color: #6600cc;"> </span></b><span style="color: black;">I looked at the receipt even closer and see a charge for $14.95. "THIS STUPID $14.95 BILL BETTER NOT SHOW UP ON MY BILL,
EITHER!"<br />
<br />
I think she piddled on herself.<br />
<br />
</span>She slide the new phone across the counter and meekly asked me to make some
calls so I could test it out. <span style="color: black;">She suggested I go outside
but I assured her that the phone would work right where I was standing or I'd
be handing it right back. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">I think it was her ploy to get me out of the store so they could lock the door behind me. </span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I stood my ground. I handed the phone to the wife and then called her using my phone. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">"Can you hear me now?"</span></b><span style="color: black;"><br />
<br /><i>Wrong carrier, correction question.</i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black;">Thankfully for all involved, she really could hear me and I could hear her. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I smiled, hung up
and thanked the woman for the new phone. I then grabbed all the wife's
belongings and left, new phone in hand.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="color: #0b5394;">I am happy to report the wife is much happier with the new phone,
</b>which is a very good thing for me and for Horizon. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Tell you
what, tho--if that damned bill comes and there are charges that are
wrong, I WILL drive my car right through their show room. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">C</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">all it what you will. Call me wrong. Call me bitter. Just don't call me on Horizon.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">*************************************************************</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Follow up:<br />Yes, there were charges on the bills. (You have got to be kidding me.) <br />Thank you, Universe, the charges were then credited. <br />No need to drive my car through the showroom window. <br />And yes, they admitted the two companies use the same cell phone towers.<br /></i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">**************************************************************</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><i><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"></span></span></i><p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-18170917598940600012021-12-27T09:32:00.001-06:002021-12-27T09:32:16.302-06:00Three of Sixteen (aka #14): Turkey Trot<p><i><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;"> Preface: Alas, the time of this blog has come and gone. I've decided to go out in style, featuring 16 blogs, representing 16 years of blogging. I'm sad to say that some of the posts have NOT aged well. I'm updating posts so it improves the story while preserving the madness.</span></i></p><p><i><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">I picked this particular blog because the memory made me laugh. The words don't do justice to my actual imitation and said incident. It wasn't read by very many the first time around. <b>Here is my third of 16 favorites: #14... from </b></span><b>December 2016.</b></span></i></p>
<h2 style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin: 9pt 0in 0in; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;">Turkey Trot</span></b></span></h2><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 9.0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #800180;"><i><b style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">A walk is always a great way to clear the head</span></b><span style="background-color: transparent; line-height: 107%;">-</span></i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">-empty out the brain, leave the heavy stuff behind. I do love a good
walk. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 9.0pt; mso-outline-level: 3;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">With much on my mind, I went for a walk. A beautiful early winter day--nice. Frosty but not too frosty. Rosy cheeks kind of weather. </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Focusing on all the good, all the
love, all the beauty, all the gifts, all the blessings in my life, I put one foot in front of the other. I leave behind the "load" I'm carrying. It
is wonderful to be out and about, humming and singing and whistling.</span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">
<br />
</span><span style="color: #800180;"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><i>As I'm walking along, I see a flock of turkeys headed my way.</i></span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;"> </span></span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">Neighborhood turkeys--you know, the kind that wander around the neighborhood
now and again, the kind that don't care about traffic or people. </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Big turkeys. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Scary killer turkeys. </span><div><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222;">(Side note: There were no turkeys where I lived as a child. Rats, yes. Turkeys, no. This suburban turkey thing kind of freaked me out until I got used to the idea.)<br /></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">The turkeys usually saunter off when
people come near to them but they never seem to be in a hurry to do so.
Heck, they barely rush as cars come zipping their way. This particular flock is crossing the street about a block ahead of me. Nine or ten of them. Definitely
on the move but not interested in me.</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">Hold that thought--I have to take you back to Thanksgiving for a second.</span></i></span></b><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"> </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">Imagine me seated at the kiddie table, just a few short days before this walk. I'm goofing around, gobbling as I believe a turkey gobbles. I mean, seriously--we all know how to gobble, right? Or, at least what people who are gobbling sound like? I'm a great gobbler.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><b><span style="color: #800180;">The four-year-old
seated next to me schools me on my lack of gobbling prowess.</span></b><span style="color: #222222;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;">Nephew: [scowls at me and shakes his head].</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;">Me: "What? I'm a pretty good gobbler, kid."</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;">Nephew: [Angry glare, shaking his head NO.]</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;">Me: [Stare back at him]. </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;">Me: [Give my best gobble]. "GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE!"</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;">Nephew [In a</span></span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"> tone of frustration and with the most serious of faces]: <br /></span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: red;">"THAT IS *<u>NOT</u>* HOW A TURKEY GOBBLES!"</span></span></b></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">Nephew: [crosses his arms and glares at me/my seemingly pathetic gobble].</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">Me: [stunned silence, eyebrows raised]. "Well, since you seem to be </span></span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">the turkey-gobbling-professional of the
party,</span></i></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"> how does a turkey gobble?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br />Nephew: [Makes</span></span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"> this noise which made me laugh quite
loudly]. [Impossible to denotate in a blog]</span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">God Bless America--now that I've heard him, he really does sound like a real turkey! I declare him the champion of gobbling champions. He is smitten with his new position at the table. </span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">We
gobbled our way right through dinner and I've been gobbling ever since.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">
<br />
</span><i><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><b>Do you see where this is going? </b></span></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">I take a gander at these real-life turkeys and think," I wonder
if his gobbling really works?" </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #800180;"><b>I let out my best turkey gobble,
just as my nephew taught me.</b></span><span style="color: #222222;"><b> </b></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;">Of course I gobbled. Those are real turkeys. How could I not gobble? </span></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">This is my moment of gobbling glory. I gobble-quite loudly--just like that kid taught me....</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">
<br />
</span><span style="line-height: 107%;"> ...the turkeys turn toward me...</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #800180;"><br /></span></span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #800180;">and, start RUNNING at me!</span></span></i></b><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">Not walking. Not sauntering. THEY ARE RUNNING TOWARD ME!</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">(Side note: I did not know turkeys run. I am here to tell you they can run and they can run FAST.)</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><b><span style="color: #800180;">I've obviously gobbled something of which they did not like.</span></b><span style="color: #222222;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;">They are JUMPING over each other to get to me</span><b style="color: #222222;"><i>.</i></b><span style="color: #222222;"> </span></span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Their necks are shuffling back and forth as they run toward me and although I don't know what a turkey's usual demeanor is, I can tell that these birds are MAD.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">
<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">At first, I think something must have spooked them but there is nothing anywhere near me. No cars, no other people, no dogs, no beeping, no
barking. Nothing but me. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">I keep my eye on them, walking backwards as
they race closer. The chick in the front isn't slowing
down. </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><i><span style="color: #800180;">I begin to panic. Do turkeys attack?</span></i></span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><i><span style="color: #800180;"> </span></i><span style="color: #222222;">Do they poke eyes out? What the hell DO they do when they attack? </span></span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">I'm
talking to them in the most calming of voices I can muster, hands out in front of me.</span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Me: "Hey, hold on now. Everything is all right. I'm not threatening you."</span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Turkeys: [charging, not losing speed].</span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Me: "C'mon now, go ahead and turn around. It's all good. I didn't mean to insult your mother."</span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Turkeys: [Closer. Closer.]</span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Me: "I'M A VEGETARIAN! I DON'T EVEN EAT TURKEY!"</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Turkeys: [<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Eight of the nine stop in their tracks.] </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #800180; font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><i>But, the leader of the
pack.... she's caught up to me. </i></span></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">She is walking next to me. Hot damn, she is BIG. She's giving me the side eye.</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">I speed up, she speeds up.</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">I start to trot, she starts to trot. </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">I stop walking, she stops walking. </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">I start walking, she starts walking. </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">Her pals have stayed put, quite to my
relief. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">She's definitely the angry member of the group. Bitter, party of one. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><b><i><span style="color: #800180;">Just as I'm about to shit a brick</span></i></b><span style="color: #222222;">... for some
unknown reason, she FINALLY stops, gives me a final look and then turns around. </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">I breathe a sigh of relief. I watch her walk back to her flock. I catch my breath and get ready to walk away.</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><b>You know what I did next, right? </b></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">Of course you do. </span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></span><b><i><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #800180; font-size: medium;">I gobbled again.</span></span></i></b><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">I HAD TO! </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">I wanted to know if it really was my gobbling that riled up
those feathered friends. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">
<br /></span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">I'm here to tell you that it was indeed my gobbling.</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"> </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Those birds were PISSED OFF. </span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: #800180;"><b>They were knocking each other
out of the way in an effort to get to me. </b></span></i></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">That lead bird was ON. MY. ASS. </span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">My
walk began to feature a bit more cardiovascular action than originally planned. </span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">I now know that I can outrun a turkey, if said turkey decides I can run faster than them. </span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">I did not turn around until I'd run a few blocks. The hell if I was going to get my eyes poked out by an angry mob of the Thanksgiving dinner menu.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">
<br />
</span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><b><i><span style="color: #800180;">Thankfully, I was able to escape unscathed. </span></i></b><span style="color: #222222;">Well, I was
physically unscathed. I'm in need of therapy from the event....</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #222222;">...I will
see turkeys in my nightmares for many nights to come.</span></span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #222222; line-height: 107%;">As for the walk, I'd forgotten everything I had been thinking about when starting my walk. The "load" I'd been carrying is now far behind. You can't carry a load while
running from frantic fowl. Everything <i>had</i> to be left behind, lest eyeballs
be poked out. </span></span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">I thank the Universe for the message AND for letting me keep my
eyeballs. Thank you, Universe for sending me a flock of killer
turkey to get me back on track. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">It's important to let go...</span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">...let go AND not gobble a real gobble at actual gobbling turkeys. </span><span style="color: #222222;">Leave the burden behind, leave the gobbling to the actual animals.</span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;">Just to be safe, I'll
stay out of that neighborhood for awhile.</span></div></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="color: #800180;">I can't wait to tell that kid he is right</span></i></b><span style="color: #222222;">. My gobble was all wrong until he set me straight. I'll assure him that he can do the gobbling, I'll do the watching and learning and I'll take video when the turkeys are chasing HIM, not me. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;">I wonder if reindeer make a sound? Can't hurt to ask him....</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;">Angry reindeer on the roof and lawn.... Maybe I'll keep my mouth shut.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #222222;">*****************************************</span></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-3214228529364113332021-12-18T09:19:00.006-06:002021-12-18T09:23:18.788-06:00Two of Sixteen (aka #15): Jesus, Upside Down<div><i>Preface: Alas, the time of this blog has come and gone. Well, at least from the perspective of the Addiverse. I've decided to go out in style, featuring 16 blogs, representing 16 years of blogging. I've reworked posts to make the story fresh--I'm sad to say that some of the posts have NOT aged well. Sigh. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I picked this particular blog not because it's a top post. I chose it because I forgot totally about it and the memory made me laugh. Here is my <span style="color: #2b00fe;">second of 16 favorites: #15... from 2006.</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlFBBZo8Gm6BQlGGhEC5-Y51S27m6IQXFX0cZg17jLGjKnYZtY0m8J5s78xpyXHv036B-FkBN-6ehCYH8bFHrBgcbrzY_CWUb_tdlSU5YLP2SpJ-fdzS7tdiGeGP6mrYGcuHFdWMxJ559SUcncne5-SjgaJnBFvin3Ooy2bvm9sBBAroM76-A=s512" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="442" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhlFBBZo8Gm6BQlGGhEC5-Y51S27m6IQXFX0cZg17jLGjKnYZtY0m8J5s78xpyXHv036B-FkBN-6ehCYH8bFHrBgcbrzY_CWUb_tdlSU5YLP2SpJ-fdzS7tdiGeGP6mrYGcuHFdWMxJ559SUcncne5-SjgaJnBFvin3Ooy2bvm9sBBAroM76-A=w234-h271" width="234" /></a></div>Our friends Master Reiki and Blue eyes are selling their home. </b>As they are good old-fashioned recovering Catholics, they subscribe to the tenet that <b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">if you bury St. Joseph upside-down in your back yard, your house will sell.</span></b> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As I was also raised in the fine Catholic tradition, I am quite familiar with ol' St. Joe in the backyard house-selling technique. I am 100% in agreement with this. If I ever have to sell a house, St. Joe will be involved. No question. <br /><br />Blue Eyes call to ask if I have a St. Joseph's statue or if I could secure one for their for-sale home. I only have St. Francis hanging around outside, so I can't immediately help them, but promise to go on a "find St. Joseph" mission.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Question: Who came up with this idea? Did St. Joseph, while lying on his deathbed gasp, "Bury me upside down and your house you shall sell?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div><span><b>Next thing I know, the wife and I are hanging out in religious stores. </b>Now, that's a good time. Did you can get really fancy, rhinestone-flashing bible covers? Jesus on a clock? Jesus on a cup? Jesus on just about anything? It is really an experience...but, no St. Joseph is found. He's all sold out. Here I thought those non-Catholic Christians just aren't big on the religious statue but it turns out he is a hot item, so they truly are sold out. We go home, empty handed. (It was tempting to get Jesus-on-a-clock but in the end, he stayed at the store.)</span><br /><span><br /></span><span><span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>While babbling to a co-worker about this </b></span><b>dilemma</b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>, it was suggested I </b></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: bold;">search </span></span><b>on line to find St. Joe</b>. Why this idea had not dawned on me, I do not know. You can find ANYTHING on line. Sure enough, I type in "ST. JOSEPH HOUSE SELLING" and all sorts of things pop up. I am drawn a site featuring "Our Father" as part of the website name. How can you go wrong with a site with Our Father in the link???!! What a GREAT name for a website. Baby Jesus, be with me!</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><b>Incredibly to me, you can buy a St. Joseph Statue on line for only $5.95.</b> Wow! FIVE NINETY FIVE!!! I whip out that charge card and start typing. I<span style="font-family: inherit;">n</span> only days, St. Joe will be ready for burying in their back yard. Three days. It will take three days. My thought is that in four days they will sell their house. Score!</span><br /><span><br /></span><span>In the meantime, the wife and I get a call from Master Reiki <span style="font-family: inherit;">and</span> Blue Eyes.... indicating that they too were unable to find a St. Joseph....</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>....so they decided to go with the "big guns," right "to the top." </span><br /><br /><b><span style="color: red;">They purchased a Jesus statue and decided to bury HIM upside down in the back yard. </span></b></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>Every thread of my recovering Catholic being shrieks in sheer terror. </span><br /><br /><span><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>YOU CAN'T BURY JESUS IN YOUR BACK YARD!</b> <br /></span>YOU CAN'T BURY JESUS UPSIDE DOWN!!!! <br />DEAR GOD! GET HIM OUT OF THERE!<br /><b>I. AM. </b><b><span style="color: red;">MORTIFIED! </span></b></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>This is sacrilegious! </span><span>I am truly freaked out. Burying St. Joseph is one thing; burying Jesus is another. </span>I call them and leave a message begging them not to bury the Son of God statue and to instead wait three short days for the arrival of St. Joseph dude. They only have to wait three short days!</div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>I call them back again, this time leaving a message from "God."<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>As God, I alert them that the <b>11th commandment is </b>"<b><span style="color: red;">Thou shall not bury my Son upside down in the backyard</span></b>" and that burying Jesus won't help them sell their house.....</span><br /><br /><span>They call back, laughing. Once they stop laughing at me, they tell me they have already buried the Big Guy's Son--upside down, in a baggie.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;"><b>OH MY GOD! Jesus is in a BAGGIE in the ground and he's UPSIDE DOWN! </b></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>I grab a paper bag to stop my hyperventilation..... </span><span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I<span style="font-family: inherit;"> breath<span style="font-family: inherit;">e into the bag, calming <span style="font-family: inherit;">myself with thoughts of how </span></span></span></span>St. Joseph will arrive at the Master Reiki-Blue Eyes household in<span style="font-family: inherit;"> just <span style="font-family: inherit;">three short days.</span></span> </span>I will be able to sleep easier once I know he has arrived and they have unburied J.C. But, I can't stop fretting about how you don't bury Jesus anywhere on your property and you most certainly do not bury him upside down. This is the Son of God!!</div><div><br /><span>I can't get <span style="font-family: inherit;">buried Jesus off my mind</span>. </span><span>I </span>have to try.....</div><div><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>I have to try and save Jesus. </b></span>After all, hasn't he tried to save us? I know Jesus is buried in that baggie in their back yard and know it is my Recovering-Catholic duty to remove him from the ground.... I have to pull him from the ground and release him from his plastic prison.</div><div><span><br /></span><span><span style="font-size: small;">Question: Is it "worse" to bury Jesus in a baggie or to STEAL Jesus in a baggie from someone's back yard?</span></span><br /><span><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>It was decided. I would go on a "Saving Our Father's Son" mission.</b> </span>Three days after Jesus went upside down into the ground, I pack the garden spade and put my favorite Xena doll in a quart-sized Ziplock bag. </span></span><br /><br /><b><span style="color: red;">My mission: save Jesus and replace him with Xena. </span></b> </div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2516/2020/1600/xena.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="139" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/2516/2020/320/xena.jpg" width="79" /></a>I figure using Xena as a replacement is a good--great--idea until St. Joseph arrives on Monday, as she was crucified many a time during her six year run on TV--those darn Romans were always crucifying someone. She was always getting crucified by those Romans. Here's a photo of Xena for your viewing pleasure.</div><div><br /><span>I think my timing perfect, seeing my mission would be three days since Master Reiki <span style="font-family: inherit;">and</span> Blue Eyes buried him--it is just like the Gospel! Jesus will "rise" after the third day. Rise from the ground, released from the plastic prison, free once again to save the masses. </span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>With Xena zip-locked into her baggie and the dogs in the backseat, I put my mission into action. <br /><br />I get to their house and don't see anyone around. Good! I leave the dogs in the car and head toward the mulched area in the backyard. Now, I figured it would be easy to see where they had buried the big J.C., but I am here to tell you, I don't see any moved mulch markings. I'm sneaking around but Lucy is barking and crying and howling so loudly, I'm sure even Jesus in that baggy can hear us.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>I'm yelling at her, pointing my garden spade toward the car, walking around the mulch and yelling at her some more. </span><span><span style="font-size: small;">No Jesus tell-tale signs, no nothing--just Lucy causing a commotion.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span>I dig around here and there, but nothing. I decide to move a rock--maybe they put a rock on top of him so they wouldn't "lose" him or maybe because Jesus moved that rock three days after being crucified. Just as I move the rock I hear, <b><i> </i></b></span></span><br /><br /><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><b><i>HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?<br /><br /></i></b></span></span></span></div><div>It's not Jesus. It's not the dogs. It's not the neighbors. <span>I am busted by Master Reiki. </span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>As I am holding a garden spade in one hand, a baggied Xena in the other and seeing as I am wandering on their property, it is easy to "guess" that I am there: I'm saving Jesus. There is nothing to say and certainly nowhere to hide. Master Reiki says, "My child, my child." We both burst into laughter and I confess my sin. I assure her that replacing Jesus with Xena is a huge sacrifice, almost a sacrificial lamb kind of thing. Xena is most revered. She is worthy of this mission. </span></div><div><b><br /></b><span><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">In the end, I promise Master Reiki I will leave Jesus alone until St. Joseph arrives on Monday.</span></b> In return, she will replace Jesus--or, at least put St. Joseph next to him--when ol' St. Joe arrives. I'm not pleased that upside down Jesus will potentially be left in place but at least he won't be alone. </span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>She does NOT show me where Jesus is buried--probably a good thing, as we do not want to tempt me further. I get back in the car and drive off with Freckles, Lucy and the still-baggied Xena.....and without Jesus.</span><br /><b><br /></b><span><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Well, without the buried Statue of Jesus</b>. I<span style="font-family: inherit;">'m sure the</span> "real" JC <span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">remains <span style="font-family: inherit;">m<span style="font-family: inherit;">y co-pilot.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div>Fast forward three days. St. Joseph arrives and is buried, upside down, just as the directions say. And, yes--they quickly sold their home. St. Joseph never fails! Did the house sell faster because Jesus was involved? I cannot confirm or deny. </div><div>************************************************************</div><div><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">This was in 2006. It is now 2021</span></b>. To this day, I have NO idea if Jesus remains in place, in the baggie, upside down. I have no idea if he was removed once St. Joseph arrived or if they are both still buried there, both upside down... I don't know if St. Joseph is in a baggie or hanging out directly with the worms. If he's still there, I hope he's not in a baggie. I don't think the directions say anything about a baggie. I don't know what you're supposed to do with Joe once the house sells.....<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">This looking-back-at-blogs might turn out to be a very bad thing</span></b>. You realize I am now going to Google what you do with buried St. Joseph once the house sells, right? </div><div><br /></div><div>And, you know I want to go and dig through their (previous) backyard, right? </div><div><br /></div><div>Baby Jesus, saved at Christmas 2021. Now THAT'S a Christmas present. I'll grab that Xena doll and put the dogs in the car.....</div><div><br /></div><div><b><span style="color: red;">Baby Jesus and the wife best have bail money ready to go. </span></b></div><div><b>*******************************************************</b></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-30390329025871262992021-12-10T07:09:00.004-06:002021-12-10T07:09:36.751-06:00One of 16: Lock Me Out and Shove Me In<p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Preface: The time of this blog has come and gone. Well, at least in the perspective of the Addiverse. I've decided to go out in style, featuring <b>16 of my favorite blogs</b>--which represents the 16 years of blogging. I've re-worked them to make the story fresh. Here is the<span style="background-color: #01ffff;"><b> first of 16</b></span> favorites.</span></i></p><p><i><span style="font-family: inherit;">*********************************************************************</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">Every single word of what I am about to write is true. </span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;">I believe today's blog entry is bound to become an
instant classic and I only hope I can paint a picture worthy of a laugh with a
snort.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;"></span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-us_g7f12Ydg/YbNMX0n_VrI/AAAAAAAAMLM/tG2cK4KYrCUaDVS66q2GF8orwP2SMpAtgCNcBGAsYHQ/s400/window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="315" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-us_g7f12Ydg/YbNMX0n_VrI/AAAAAAAAMLM/tG2cK4KYrCUaDVS66q2GF8orwP2SMpAtgCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/window.jpg" width="252" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Make sure
to look closely at this window illustration. </b><span style="line-height: 107%;">Take a good, hard look. Notice how small that
opening looks. Uh-huh. Feel free to refer back to this photo while reading the
tale. Feel free to recall my recent rantings about weight gain and changed body
shape, while you are at it.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">I was at
work this morning</span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;"> (yes, I am going to speak about what I do not speak, as
this technically has nothing to do with the actual work I do). I had gone in to
clean one of the programming areas--I have to go in on a Saturday and clean
while the staff is not present--with them there, I can't throw away one thing.
(Whenever I try and throw something away, they say things like, "No! Don't
throw away that moldy, coffee-stained half piece of paper--we can use it next week.") I was
unshowered, unkempt, smelly, sweaty and wearing what I had slept in. I figured
it would be fine to be so gross while cleaning for four hours.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">Still
looking at that window opening in the photo?</span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;"> Good.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">I'm off to
a great start--this is no time to lollygag. </span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;">I'm cleaning away, stuffing loads of crap into
garbage bags, throwing things out like there is no tomorrow, when I realize my
pile of garbage has lots of gross, used things that people in the building
might like to have. (We rent office space in an apartment building for
low-income tenants.) I make a little "FREE, PLEASE TAKE!" sign, grab
some scotch tape and go outside our office area to tape the sign to the wall. I
stick the sign on the wall and hear....<br />
</span><i><span style="color: #000099; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span></i><b><i><span style="color: #000099; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: large;">Click.</span></span></i></b><i><span style="color: #000099; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span></i><span style="line-height: 107%;">Oh shit.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">The office
door has closed and I am unfortunately standing outside of the locked office
door.</span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;"> Usually, I wear my keys on my belt loop so I don't lose
them, but I'm in my gross work out clothes that don't have a belt loop.
Although I know I am not wearing my keys, I reach for where my keys would
usually be, anyway....but, all I feel is my pants--no keys hanging there. Shit
shit shit.<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;"><br />
Okay, so locking oneself out of a building is not that big of a thing. </span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;">I've locked myself out of
various places many a-time. I shake my head and chastise myself a little bit.
Just as I'm getting over my self-directed anger, I realize:<br />
<br />
I don't have my cell phone.<br />
I don't have a list of co-worker phone numbers.<br />
I don't have my car keys.<br />
I don't have my wallet or purse.<br />
I'm seven miles from home.<br />
I don't even have any gum.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">It's just
me and my smelly arm pits.</span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit. This is SO going to cut
into my cleaning time. Just about the time I realize that this isn't going to
be a really big deal--I can walk home or to MJagger's house to use her phone--I
notice that I have left some of the windows open. I can't leave them open over
night--this isn't the best of neighborhoods--so, I am indeed going to have to
solve this problem I have created for myself.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">My options,
being quite limited, lead me to search for Harry Scary. </span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;">Harry's this guy who lives in the apartment
building and is always milling about. When I get to work, no matter what time
of day, he's always out there picking up garbage or smoking someone's cigarette
butt or talking to some homeless person who happens to be walking by. Harry
Scary is indeed hairy and he is indeed scary. No one is going to mess with
Harry Scary. Although he is greasy and smelly and dirty and hairy, he is
actually very nice to have around--he may not be the sharpest knife in the
drawer but he always looks after me when I go to and from the building, always
taking the time to make sure I am safe.<br />
<br />
He reminds me of Hagrid in Harry Potter, but oilier and
dirtier.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">Now, Harry
Scary doesn't have any keys but I know he might be able to get me to a phone
book and phone so I can find someone who does have keys. </span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;">I am just about to start my search for him (heck,
I don't know his last name and I don't know what floor he lives on), when I run
right into him. I explain to him I have locked myself and am hoping he can find
a phone book I can use. (Side note: I can't remember the last time I used an
actual phone book--I just go on line.) This was not a simple ordeal, but I'll
spare the details. Once armed with the white pages, I ask if I can borrow his
cell phone....which unfortunately he hands to me. Um, it is grease-coated,
dirty and slippery. I didn't even want to touch it, let alone put it to my head
and use it. I look at his black finger nails and his mess of a phone....ah, but
desperate times call for desperate measures, so I take the phone and dial the
one co-worker phone number I can find in the book.<br />
<br />
No answer.<br />
<br />
You didn't think anyone was going to answer, did you?<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">I then ask
if I can make another call. </span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;">Harry Scary obliges, even though he has a
"Trac" phone and pays per minute. Greasy and scary or not, he is
chivalrous. I call the wife, hoping she can bring me car keys and that she can
find my list of employees on the kitchen table. You can imagine how excited she
is about this. As she is not at home, she offers to help once she returns home
and gets the car keys. I remind her I don't have a cell phone so calling or
texting me will be of no use.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">Harry and I
go outside so he can smoke and so I can stand there and stare at the open
windows, because that's really going to help me--not. </span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;">I'm babbling about how I can't leave them open
overnight and that I will have to find someone with keys and how stupid I feel
and how this is what I get for coming to work on a Saturday, and.....<br />
<br />
........Harry takes a big drag on his cigarette, points at
one of the open windows and says, </span></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="color: #000099; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">"I bet you could
fit through there."</span></span></i></b><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="line-height: 107%;">I politely
tell Harry he's crazy and that there is no way I am going to fit through one of
those little windows, especially with the crank thingies in the way. </span><span style="line-height: 107%;">He bends over (full moon!) and ponders the options
we have. Harry announces that if he can get those hinges un-attached and if I
can push in the screen, I will be able to get into my office through the window.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">Despite how
crazy this seems to me, I agree to at least try and help Harry Scary unhinge
the hinge-crank things. </span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;">He uses those black, scary fingers and pushes on
the various points, muttering (but not swearing--I'm the one who is swearing)
about how to get the metal bars out of the way. Incredibly to me, Harry Scary
is indeed able to unhinge the thing and the window is now free to open parallel
to the ground.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">I then go
forth and break the screen.</span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;"> I had intended to just push it out but the frame
cracked and the whole thing crumbled. I was all good with that. Hell, I can
replace the screen.<br />
<br /></span><span style="line-height: 107%;">Before I go further, let me clarify: the
picture of the window doesn't exactly illustrate what the window looked like when
the hinge crank things were loosened--even without the metal hinge crank
things, there is space over the window and under the window--the actual window
pane ends up being in the middle. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">This means I have to pick over or under the window and I
know I am not going to fit. There is literally no way. I'm not sure even
Freckles could fit through that opening. Also, the window is at ground
level--meaning, that not only would I have to squeeze myself like a sausage
through a tiny opening, I'd have to do it from the cement.</span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">Harry
insists I can make it.</span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;"> He decides I should go under the window pane, not over,
as he believes this will be easier. He repeatedly assures me it will work and I
will fit. In sheer desperation and because I truly have nothing to lose and
because I want to prove him wrong, I bend over to see what kind of clearance I
will (or won't) have.<br />
<br />
No. <br />Way. <br />No. <br />Way. <br />NO WAY!<br />
<b><br />
</b></span><span style="line-height: 107%;">I look at
Harry Scary and he points at the window.<b style="color: #2b00fe;"> </b></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><b>"Just stick your head in here." </b></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">For some
unknown reason, I do this.<br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><span style="line-height: 107%;">Harry adds,
"if you can get your head and your shoulders in the window, you can make
it."</span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">This sounds strangely like something the obstetrician
says as a baby is trying to exit the birth canal--"just get those
shoulders out and it's smooth sailing from there." </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">I shake my head, bend
over and envision myself getting stuck. I yell out, "Harry! WHAT IF I GET
STUCK!" We are on a very busy street--what if someone calls the cops
because it looks like I am trying to break in? (Well, I AM trying to break in.)
I assure him my ass will not make clearance even if my head and shoulders make
it in.<br />
<br />
</span><b><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">I bend
over, contort myself and stick my head through the window. </span></b><span style="line-height: 107%;">I twist in an effort to get one shoulder through
the opening and hear Harry Scary repeating himself, "just get those
shoulders through and you're in."<br />
<br />
</span><b><i><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">I
get one shoulder in...</span></span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="line-height: 107%;">I get the other shoulder......</span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="line-height: 107%;">almost in...</span></i></b></span></div><div><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="line-height: 107%;">almost in.</span></i></b><b><span style="line-height: 107%;">...</span></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="color: #000099; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">My butt is stuck, </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">my
stomach is smashing against the window frame, </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">I can't breathe and </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">I can't go
forward and </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">I can't go backward. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">I'm flailing, yelling at Harry Scary that
I am stuck and that......</span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b><i><span style="line-height: 107%;">Harry
picks up my feet and SHOVES me through the window.</span></i></b><i><span style="line-height: 107%;"> </span></i></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">SHOVES.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">ME.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">THROUGH.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">THE.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">WINDOW.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Literally.</b> Just picks up those legs and SHOVES me
in to my office. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Picture a sausage being STUFFED to the brim. That's me--call
me the sausage. Forget my stomach bruising, forget my juicy booty, forget my
no-longer-skin-covered knees (which, by the way, no no longer feel like they
are attached to my legs)--he shoves me in with brute force.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;">
<br />
I land ungracefully on my office floor, face first.<br />
<br />
</span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: medium;">Harry, who
is now outside, calls out, "You still in there?"</span></span></b><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;"><br />
</span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="line-height: 107%;"><br /><span style="color: red;">
WHERE THE HELL DOES HE THINK I AM?</span></span></i></b><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: red;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He just shoved me through the window! It's not a
portal into another dimension!</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">
I feel all my parts to ensure nothing is really damaged. I am
thankful my pants are still on. I call out to him, "I'm right here!"
He's going on and on about something but I can't hear him. </span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span style="line-height: 107%;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">For </span>Pete's<span style="font-family: inherit;"> sake, I
was just birthed through a window canal!</span></span></b><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 107%;">Although
covered with window grease, dirt and god knows what else, I am no longer locked
out.</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
Suffice it to say, I grabbed my keys, called the wife, told
her to stay home, put a screen from another window into my now-missing-a-screen
window, thanked Harry profusely and put my keys on my belt loop.<br />
<br />
</span><b style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="color: red; line-height: 107%;">Wait a
minute, belt loop?</span></i></b><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<br />
Sure enough, the work out pants that I was wearing did indeed
have belt loops. All this time, I could have been wearing those stupid keys
like I always do.....the Universe is a cruel, cruel place.<br />
<br />No, I didn't finish cleaning; no, I didn't put anything out
for tenants to take for free; no, I didn't go anywhere without wearing the
keys.<br />
<br />
I'm at home now, knees aching (how will I explain this injury
to my beloved lady chiropractor?), my stomach bruised, my pride slightly
damaged. But, at least Harry Scary didn't have to call the fire department to
get me un-wedged from the window....and, the wife had one piece of that Lemon
Cake left, so I am good to go.<br />
<br />
Today's assignments:<br /><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;">Get extra set of work keys made.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;">Give said extra set of keys to the wife.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;">Get Harry a phone card.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;">Ice body parts.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;">Ice bruised ego.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;">Honor every single woman who has shot a baby out her girl parts, knowing those shoulders make all the difference in successful launching of a new life.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;">Get therapy for trauma of being birthed.</span></li></ul></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%;">
**********************************************************************</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p><i><br /></i></p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-2941587556109939732021-11-07T07:51:00.001-06:002021-11-07T07:51:32.473-06:00Education of the Professor Boomer<p><i>You might be worried that I've been kidnapped by Willie, but never fear. Here I am, safe from further stalking by Mr. Wonka. We did happen to see two owls while walking the dogs in the neighborhood this morning, but Willie was nowhere to be found.</i></p><p><b>To be honest, I've been watching YouTube videos. Hundreds of them. </b>When you're an end-of-the-boomers baby boomer, it's vital to TRY and stay current when teaching Gen Z college students. It means my old school brain needs to keep up with the ever-evolving way of the world... and ever-evolving brains of the younger generations. </p><p><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Hundreds.of.videos.</span> </b>This is no exaggeration. My eyes are blurry and my floaters are floating at warp speed. From the environment to healthcare, stress to relationships, I am desperate to stay relevant.<br /></p><p><b>As I'm watching these videos</b>--this round humorously enough about aging--I realize how old school writing and blogging really is. Gen Z is making TikToks, not whining in writing. So, I have to think in a much different fashion when creating the assignments. (I'm always relieved when there are a few "non-traditional" students in the class, because I feel like at least one or two people understand my humor.)</p><p><b>During the video search, I have to keep in mind is the date the video was created. </b>If a video was created before 2018, I don't even look at it. It's too old. All the fabulous videos I currently use were created between 2015-2020. You would think that'd be fine. That's only a few years ago....</p><p><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Oh, how dated I look. </span></b></p><p><b>I also have to keep in mind the length of the video. </b>Three to five minutes is perfect. Anything longer, I've lost my audience. Every once in awhile I throw a TedTalk in, with the disclaimer that "this is a 14 minute video" and that I hope they try to watch the entire thing. <br /></p><p><b>Gen Z has its own memes </b>(of which I do not understand), its own sense of humor, its very different means of social media use, its foreign-to-me set of concerns and beliefs. Old school teaching is just that. Old school. We're trying to teach people who have NEVER in their life been without a tablet or smartphone in their hands and we're asking them not to have a tablet or smartphone in their hands during class. </p><p><b>I'm pretty sure Gen-X Educators are in the same boat.</b> Dated, getting further out of touch, pining for the days of the overhead projector and days without active shooter drills.</p><p>I love that the current students are all good with gender-neutral pronouns, embrace diversity in general, ooze their skepticism about the US being the leader of the free world and crush use of the electronic world without missing a beat. </p><p>I'm proud that I use the social media platform that they use the most (YouTube) but kinda sad that I've never TikTok'ed even once. (Don't tell them.) I don't have the app nor am I going to get it. </p><p>I worry about their feeling of depression and stress. I can't tell you how many posts I've read about these two topics. It borders on heart-breaking when they talk about how stressed they are. (I don't tell them stress is going to follow them wherever they go, lest they implode into a little pile of dust.)</p><p><b>For the record, looking for appropriate, relevant, educational-yet-interesting videos is a fast track down the rabbit hole. </b>I start out looking for one thing and then see twelve other things that are of interest to me and have NOTHING to do with making class assignments. I've watched many fabulous videos, all of which I enjoyed and non of which I can share. Willie Wonka is certainly ashamed of me.</p><p><b>Videos on the environment are especially difficult. </b>Old white men screaming how climate change isn't real is a whole lot different than what the majority of Gen-Z students believe. I'm quite tired of watching supposed environmental videos of no redeeming value.</p><p>Thankfully, I found enough relevant, woke AF videos that throw shade on those non-climate believers. </p><p><b>God help me when Gen A gets to college-</b>-I best be long gone before they get to the college classroom. I can't even imagine showing them a PowerPoint lesson....</p><p><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">...that would be Power Pointless.</span></b></p><p><span>***************************************************************</span></p><p><span><i>I'm off to watch a few videos for my own enjoyment. Longer than five minutes and as old as ten years old. Then, I'm going to find a blog to read and some old-person social media to peruse, followed by a search for Willie Wonka..... </i></span></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-57689636614772486002021-10-10T08:52:00.002-05:002021-10-10T08:52:29.438-05:00The Willies<p><b><i> I wasn't going to write about this, but now that there have been TWO sightings,</i></b> I cannot ignore the topic. The second sighting was this morning at 5:15 AM..... </p><p><b>The other night the wife and I were walking the dogs at 7:20 PM<i>.</i></b><i>.</i>. it's already pretty dark at that time of day, seeing as we are now into October. We were walking our little half-mile circle with the dogs, just long enough that they'll poop but not long enough that we are out of our safety bubble. We'd just begun our walk, with the wife and dog walking in front of us. For no reason of which I can identify, I stopped... looked down at the dog... and then, looked behind me... when I notice....</p><p><b><span style="color: red;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpSKXgoLatfpZ4iWGxPiBGyhovFraXi3WFZGeU8_0_ZOMUbQsgi38MfZS4bNtQvFwHNtuzZjzenIplMEFQ251vmD3fCVnAXyfPfr-Zg1_BEj0k0QvyAWq1QpqRRB7loUHZmq1FA/s960/WILLY.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="960" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpSKXgoLatfpZ4iWGxPiBGyhovFraXi3WFZGeU8_0_ZOMUbQsgi38MfZS4bNtQvFwHNtuzZjzenIplMEFQ251vmD3fCVnAXyfPfr-Zg1_BEj0k0QvyAWq1QpqRRB7loUHZmq1FA/w210-h210/WILLY.jpg" width="210" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="color: red;">.....WILLY WONKA IS STANDING TWO FEET BEHIND ME.<span> </span></span></b><p></p><p>Some guy, who looked like what I can only describe as Willy Wonka (the Gene version, not the Johnny version), is literally within two feet of me. Most definitely in my space bubble. </p><p>To illustrate what I saw when I turned around, here's a photo of the Gene Willy. I swear to god, this is what the guy looked like.</p><p><span style="color: red;"><b>I exclaimed "JESUS H. CHRIST!"</b> </span>He should be thankful I didn't pop him in the face or kick him in the privates. I have no idea why Willy was walking so closely behind me, but there he was. It was a stare down. I moved to the side. The dog was of no help and paid no interest. Thanks for nothing, Rosita. </p><p><b><i>The wife and other dog are strolling down the sidewalk, none the wiser I was almost killed or kidnapped by Willy Wonka.</i></b></p><p>I think I was more shook up that I had NO idea this guy was behind me, that someone was that close to me without my hackles going up than I was that it was Willy Wonka. Seriously. I had NO inkling. I was freaked out by his proximity and my failure to recognize his presence. </p><p>I'm staring at him, he's staring at me and he says, while smiling, in some weird accent of which I didn't recognize, </p><p><b>"I didn't mean to scare you." </b></p><p>I stared at Willy, still stunned, all the while my brain is thinking:</p><p><span style="color: red;"><b>LISTEN, ASSHOLE. YOU'RE STALKING ME AND ALMOST RAN ME OVER. YOU LOOK LIKE WILLY WONKA. YOU SCARED THE SHIT OUT OF ME. YOU'RE A TOP-HAT WEARING NINJA SNEAKING UP ON ME IN THE DARK. YOU'RE A FREAKING NIGHTMARE!</b></span></p><p>But, my mouth didn't say anything. I just kept staring. </p><p>I couldn't tell if he was old or young, if he was kidding or not, if it was a Halloween costume or a prank, if he had purposefully snuck up on me or honestly had no understanding of personal space.</p><p><b>He then silently passed me and the dog.</b> No "excuse me." No "I'm sorry." Nothing but silently continuing his stroll.</p><p><b><span style="color: red;">A top hat! </span></b></p><p>I watched him walk silently down the sidewalk. No sound. Total silence. I keep mentioning it because it made no sense. How do you walk without making at least some semblance of sound? </p><p>I'm not sure what the wife thought but the dog with her certainly didn't like him. I caught up to the wife who thankfully had been waiting for me. We stood together, watching Willy walk down the street, headed to some unknown destination. He didn't seem to be in a hurry or like he had a care in the world. We watched until we could no longer see him. It was if he disappeared into the night.<br /><br /><b><i>I'm glad the wife was there because there is NO WAY anyone would've believed this transpired. </i></b>Having a witness helped me feel a whole lot better. </p><p>Hell, I'm not sure I would've believed it if I didn't have the wife to confirm this transpired.</p><p>If you want to give yourself the willies, worry about Willy sneaking up on you: it has been questioned whether Willy Wonka was a child serial killer or a man with a serious mental illness. Neither of these theories is helpful when worrying Willy is looking to get back in your space bubble.</p><p>For the next many days, I would turn around and say aloud, "Willy?" Thankfully, Willy was not there. I decided this had to be a one time event. I mean, we had never seen this guy before and we've lived her for 25 years. He certainly wasn't a neighbor. And, no one was talking about Willy Wonka sightings in the neighborhood....</p><p><b><i>Imagine my surprise this morning... 5:15 AM... walking the dogs with the wife.... when she says,</i></b></p><p><b><span style="color: red;">"There's a person over there."</span></b></p><p>It's someone walking down the street, alone, silent.....</p><p>I kiddingly said, "Willy?"</p><p>When she doesn't answer, I ask again, "Is it Willy?" </p><p><b><i><span style="color: red;">I was being silly but then I realize.... it IS Willy!</span></i></b></p><p><b>The wife is quietly trying to get me to shut up.</b> I motion for her to cross the street, as Willy is heading right toward us. He doesn't look up. He doesn't make a sound. It's almost as if he hasn't seen us (which is impossible, seeing as I wear a construction worker glow in the dark vest when walking--you can see me for miles). Maybe he was thinking up a new chocolate candy bar recipe. Maybe he was thinking about naughty children turning into blueberries. Maybe he was looking for a long lost Oompa Loompa. Whatever. He made no motion that suggested he saw us. </p><p>We weren't in our walking safety bubble; we take a different route on weekend mornings. Willy must've smelled the chocolate on my breath and came looking for us. </p><p><b>At least this time I got a better look at him. </b>That's because he passed right under a streetlight as he walked by. He was wearing jeans, was a bit younger than I previously thought, still had his blazer-coat-jacket thing on. Instead of a top hat, it seemed he was wearing something more like a fedora-type hat. His saunter and ninja-silent way of moving definitely confirmed his identity. </p><p><b>I'm convinced another Willy sighting is only a matter of time. </b>I'm going to focus on how he is not a serial child killer. If he is mentally ill, we'll be fine as those are my people. But, I need Willy to make a little noise so I can hear him coming....</p><p>Perhaps it's fitting with a Willy Wonka quote. Well, a famous author quote used by Willy:</p><p><i>"The suspense is terrible, I hope it will last."</i></p><p>Will he or won't he, Willy? The suspense is terrible....</p><p>....I hope it lasts and I hope it involves chocolate.</p><p>****************************************************************</p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-26559651439559075202021-09-26T07:46:00.004-05:002021-09-26T07:46:33.155-05:00Decidedly Deciduous<p><b><span style="color: #38761d;"> You know I love trees.</span> </b>They are alive--sentient beings. So, the thought of cutting one down pains me to my very core. </p><p><span style="color: #38761d;"><b>Many years ago, we had to cut down our blossoming cherry trees</b>,</span> done in by a brutal cold snap and ravaged by the dreaded Japanese Beetle. The trees made it easy: full of blossoms in the sprint to decidedly dead that winter. A vibrant core was nary to be found. We thanked them for their beauty and sent them on their way. (Piss on you, Japanese Beetles. I do not thank you for your beauty.)</p><p><b><span style="color: #38761d;">Next came my beloved Green Ash tree. </span></b>We planted it immediately upon moving in to our house, so it had sentimental value as well as life. After twenty years, it was a huge tree--I was surprised at how quickly it grew. It brought us a ton of shade and the perfect place for us to hunker down on a hot summer day, laughing with the neighbors and our dogs. Since it was placed between our houses, it was a fabulous place to meet and hang out. I can't tell you how many evenings were spent under that tree. </p><p><b><span style="color: #38761d;">Enter the Green Ash borer. </span></b>I've never seen one in "real" life, but I have seen the proof of their existence. I noticed the tree was starting to get bare but I tried to ignore that telltale sign. I noticed the holes in the trunk, obvious of the residents trying to take hold of my tree. I talked to the tree and asked it to be strong, but I knew what was coming. We talked to a tree guy, who said he could treat the tree but it would only be a matter of time. I apologized profusely to the tree for what was about to happen. I sat under it one last time, albeit with over half its leaves missing. I said quite hateful things to that bug destroying my beautiful Green Ash. Tree Number Three was cut down, quite to my dismay. </p><p>Duty to warn: If I EVER see a Green Ash Borer, I'm going to SMOOSH it until it can be smooshed no more.</p><p><b><span style="color: #38761d;">Say hello to the Curly Willow</span></b>. I purchased it for the wife as a birthday present, right after we moved in. It was small enough that I was able to bring it home in the trunk of my car, sticking out as I drove the few miles home. What started out as a twig grew into a majestic being, towering over everything else in the yard. It was (by far) the wife's favorite tree. It was a beauty. Twenty five years later, I noticed that something was amiss. I didn't want to tell the wife, but I did. She denied anything was wrong. I pointed out how dead it looked but she continued her stay in denial. When the tree guy came out to trim our trees, he confirmed that it was 70% dead. We could leave it but, as was true with the Green Ash, it would only be a matter of time. I said thank you to the tree, acknowledged the joy it had brought the wife and bid it a sad farewell. (I may have noted how expensive it was going to be to have it cut down but that was muttered under my breath, so I'm hoping it was not heard.)</p><p><b><span style="color: #38761d;">Now, the River Birch....</span></b> </p><p>Can I just say.... I thought trees were supposed to have long lives. I'm learning this is not always the case. The River Birch, another billowing tree, had been getting sadder and sadder with time. Last year, when they cut down the Curly Willow, we had two clumps removed. I could see two of the remaining three clumps already thinning out but I chose to stick with two of five being cut down, with hopes of saving the tree. We probably should have had the tree removed, but I couldn't do it. Losing the Curly Willow and the River Birch at the same time hurt my being. Tomorrow, one year later, the River Birch will be removed. Two days ago, it dropped a huge branch on our lawn, big enough that it would've killed our dogs had it fallen on them and definitely done some major damage if it plopped on top a human. I took this as an omen. If I couldn't do it, the tree was going to tell me: It's time for me to move along. </p><p><b><span style="color: #38761d;">This time, it'll be a project. </span></b>All the other trees were basically straight forward to cut down. Ol' River Birch is going to take time and money to remove. The Tree Guy did a lot of staring at the tree yesterday, trying to figure out how he and his team were going to tackle this project. If you saw the tree, you'd see why. The goal is to not take out the neighbor's mailbox or driveway, as she will sue us to high heaven if even a leaf lands in her yard. </p><p><b style="color: #38761d;">He made no promises for the status of our mailbox. </b>In fact, I'd guess he was giving us a big hint that our mailbox is gonna end up a pile of matchsticks. </p><p><b><span style="color: #38761d;">The removal of this tree pains me. </span></b>I'm glad it threw a branch at me so I'd do what I need to do. The wife has been irritated with me about this tree for the entire time its lived without its two clumps. I sigh whenever I see the tree because I can see it's dying. The wife then sighs at my sighing, asking why I can't see the beauty in the yard instead of focusing on a dying tree. </p><p><b><span style="color: #38761d;">I see the beauty just fine. </span></b>It's that I also see the waning of a life. It pains me. I can't ignore it. How do you ignore the obvious loss of vitality? </p><p>I cannot believe how much it cost to cut a tree down. I understand why but dang, I'd rather go on that trip to Hawaii, as it would the same cost. Aloha, dear tree. </p><p>We replaced one of the blossoming cherry trees with a Redbud. The Curly Willow was replaced with three hydrangea bushes. The Green Ash and other blossoming cherry were never replaced, giving us a little less shade, which was okay in the long run. The River Birch? We're going to HAVE to do something. It's currently the perfect means of keeping the neighbor from staring (glaring) at us. Putting another tree there doesn't seem the "right" answer. We'll see. All I can tell you is that something will be planted pronto for our privacy. </p><p><b><span style="color: #38761d;">Suggestions for a replacement welcome. </span></b>I thought about a flagpole but that's not wide enough and the wife seemed to think that was a cheesy idea. Perhaps a bush of some sort. Whatever, it needs to be in place within the week. </p><p><b><span style="color: #38761d;">I know the White Birch is next.</span></b> We have some time before that happens but one of the clumps is already giving hints. I've had a few talking to that tree. That poor thing never did take root, both figuratively and literally. It's a hot mess of a tree. We could probably cut that one down ourselves, that's how much it hasn't grown over the 26 years it has been there. The Japanese Beetle ravaged that poor tree, too. From the looks of the dead clumps, I say it won the battle but lost the war. </p><p><span style="color: #38761d;"><b>Trees. </b></span>There is no doubt in my mind that they are sentient beings. I feel badly that I will be at work tomorrow when the River Birch is taken down. I feel the least I can do is be there when the event transpires... but, I'm not sure my boss would be too keen on me taking a sick day because my tree is getting cut down. I'll say good bye in the morning and head to work. There is a chance the tree will still be there when I get home, but the chances are very slim. I will thank the tree today for its beauty, wonderful shade, safe place for the Blue Jay to perch and strength to hold a home for the squirrel nest. I'll apologize for what will happen tomorrow. The wife won't wonder what the heck I'm doing, talking to a tree, as she's used to it by now. The neighbor will wonder, but not the wife. </p><p>Flagpole, shrub, tree, billboard... can't wait to see what takes the place of the tree. All I know is that it won't fully replace what was once there. </p><p><b><span style="color: #38761d;">Do me a favor. Go outside and look at a tree in your yard or near your house.</span></b> Really look at it. Go talk to it. Thank it. Praise it. Put your hand on the trunk and just be. Feel the life which pulses within. Even if you can't feel it, I know the tree feels it. Just be.</p><p> Let your neighbors wonder what the hell you're doing. If they ask, say you are talking to the tree. </p><p><b style="color: #38761d;">They should be so lucky to be talking to a tree. </b></p><p>**********************************************************<br /><i><span style="color: #38761d;"><b>Thank you, River Birch. You will be missed--by blue jay, squirrel and me. </b></span></i></p><p>**********************************************************</p><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-63656778290984833582021-09-06T09:29:00.002-05:002021-09-06T10:01:50.871-05:00One Score. Two Decades. Twenty Years.Abe Lincoln would have said, "one score ago..."<div><br /></div><div>Someone else might say, "two decades ago..."</div><div>I'd start with, "twenty years ago..."</div><div>And, the students in my college classes would say, "Huh?" because...</div><div><b>...they were not alive when the Twin Towers fell on 9/11.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>I was creating an assignment for my college classes in regards to the 20th "anniversary" of 9/11 and began to wonder why I was doing that because 9/11 honestly means nothing to these students. </div><div>Not good or bad. Just a fact. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>It honestly means nothing. </b></div><div>It's a history lesson.</div><div>It's a bunch of stories or maybe a few news videos.<br />It's what old people talk about. </div><div>It's not emotional. </div><div>It's factual. </div><div>Unless someone in the student's direct family was killed or harmed or sent to war... </div><div>there is no real life reference.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>I found myself wondering if the assignment would be anything more than students regurgitating Wikipedia. </b>The students might listen to our recollections, but beyond that... it's a shoulder shrug. In today's weird day and age, they get to decide IF they believe the stories, WHAT stories to believe and which 30-second tik-tok video best captures the event.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>I decided that would hurt my heart. </b>The assignment I will give my college students is to watch a three minute video, couched within the current topic on the syllabus. </div><div><br /></div><div>In all fairness, lamenting about this is no different than my elders shaking their heads at me because I can't fully comprehend WWII, the Holocaust or even JFK's assassination. I was alive for the assassination but I have no memory of it, seeing as I was a baby. Much respect to you, elders. Good news is that I believe all those things happened and that I have listened to the stories told. I have much respect. </div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>For all you "old people" reading this blog, I hope we never forget that day. </b>I highly doubt we will. I hope we never lose the feeling of shock or horror or fear or pain or or disbelief or whatever we were feeling when hearing the news, watching the television, calling friends and family. I hope we hold the day sacred for those who lost their lives. I hope we always remember those who lost family and friends. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Perhaps I am delusional thinking we can come together as a nation for this 20th "anniversary,"</b> like we did the weeks after that terrible event. There was no us and them. There was only unity. Maybe in honor of this 20th year, we can stop arguing and hating and finger-pointing, even if it's just for a week. Hell, even for a day. Let's fly a flag on our house or our car. Let's just be one nation.</div><div><br /></div><div>You know, maybe I<i> will </i>post something on Instagram or TikTok for my students, those who weren't alive when this transpired. And I'll post something on Facebook for us, because that's where the old people hang out. </div><div><br /></div><div>One Score.</div><div>Two Decades.<br />Twenty Years.</div><div>Something to remember.</div><div>Something to never forget.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/gPHnadJ-0hE" width="320" youtube-src-id="gPHnadJ-0hE"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/eRVUvgJpi50" width="320" youtube-src-id="eRVUvgJpi50"></iframe></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-12914665907617563822021-08-29T18:39:00.005-05:002021-08-29T18:40:52.544-05:00Maska-medical-licious<p> Just another week in COVID hell. </p><p>Not the disease. The people. Arguing, bickering, shaming, name-calling, pointing. Sigh. It's exhausting. The news has no balance. Posts are outlandish. The political slant to everything is painful.</p><p>And now, the mask mandate is "back." Masks are required indoors. Not that masks were ever really gone. I never stopped wearing one, so I have nothing much to say about the return of the mandate. The mask mandate has people FREAKING OUT and claiming their rights are being violated or chanting how masks are killing their children and I'm over here, cheering. Loudly. </p><p>Why? Why do I cheer from behind my mask? Chin hairs. Jowls. Boogers. Poppy seeds. Acne. That's why.</p><p>So, while others are busy proving how science is right or wrong, I'm over hear smiling about the ten chin hairs I no longer worry about. I'm happy that my jowls are safely tucked behind the mask, making me look years younger. I never worry if there is a bat in the batcave. I have nary a care after eating something with a poppy seed as even if it's stuck in my teeth, no one is the wiser. I can have a big, inflamed pimple and it's hidden from sight. Happy jowls, hidden flaws, happy life. </p><p>Bonus points for my oxygen level being fine despite all this mask-wearing. I was at the doctor's office the other day and they checked my oxygen as well as my pulse. My oxygen was as normal, even though I had been wearing a mask for hours. Shoo! I was worried. (No, I was not worried about my oxygen level. The only thing I was worried about was my weight. God knows THAT is something to worry about. I didn't poop before my office visit. That's gotta be worth five pounds, minimum.)</p><p>Let's talk my doctor visit. I went only because my doctor's office called and said I hadn't been there in years and I needed to come in for a physical. When my turn arrived, the nurse did her nursing thing and asked me questions:</p><p>Nurse: So, why are you here?</p><p>Me: (shrugs shoulders) I dunno. A physical, I guess?</p><p>Nurse: You're funny! Are you having any problems?</p><p>Me: No.</p><p>Nurse: Have you been sick?<br /></p><p>Me: No.</p><p>Nurse: Do we prescribe any of your medication?</p><p>Me: No.</p><p>Nurse: So, why are you here?</p><p>Me: Because the office called me and told me I needed to come in for a physical and so here I am.</p><p>Nurse: Like a pap?</p><p>Me: OH GOD NO. Not that. Just a.... a wellness check, maybe?</p><p>Nurse: You're so funny. Maybe the doctor will order some lab work.</p><p>Me: Okay. (WHY does she keep saying I'm funny?)</p><p>The doctor enters.</p><p>Doctor: Why are you here?</p><p>Me: Because the office called and said I needed to come in for a physical.</p><p>Doctor: Do we prescribe your meds?</p><p>Me: No.</p><p>Doctor: Have you been sick?</p><p>Me: No.</p><p>Doctor: Have you had a mammogram?</p><p>Me: This morning, one hour ago.</p><p>Doctor: Huh. Let me order some bloodwork. </p><p>Me: Okay.</p><p>I'm sitting there, wondering if an insurance thing or a doctor's office thing or something else, but it seems no one finds a wellness check to be of the norm. Thankfully, the doctor adds, "if we don't see you for three or more years, you have to start over as a new patient. You're no longer considered an established patient.</p><p>Me: So, even though I've been coming to this office since the 1980's, if I don't visit, I'm no longer a patient and have to start over.</p><p>Doctor: You are correct.</p><p>Me: That makes no sense.</p><p>Doctor: Have you had your shingles shot?</p><p>Me: So, I should come here, even if there is nothing wrong?</p><p>Doctor: You can come in for a physical. Check your insurance. Most don't pay for the shingles shot.</p><p>Me: Sigh. At least she can't see my chin hairs.</p><p>So, I had my bloodwork done and, as was true with my oxygen, everything was fabulous. I am scientific proof that you can wear a mask for 1.5 years and not be a total medical disaster. In fact, I might be healthier than I was before I started wearing a mask.</p><p>I'm mask..a...medical...licious! </p><p>I am going to keep wearing a mask for the rest of my life. The pros are just too good to give up. No common cold, no flu, no zits scaring other people, no boogers hanging around, unsuspected. I will still be wearing a mask when I return to the doctor in three years for my next physical. My guess? I'll show up and the nurse will say, "you're funny." </p><p>So, if my mask fires you up about your freedom being ripped from your very being, just ignore me. Don't wear a mask. You can say whatever you want but I'm going to wear my mask. </p><p>I might... just might... tell you there is something in your teeth as rebuttal, even though your pearly whites are just fine. </p><p>Happy jowls, hidden flaws, happy life. </p><p>****************************************************</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20207055.post-85298987718029499732021-08-01T06:01:00.004-05:002021-08-01T06:01:31.872-05:00Ode to the Mask-less Ass on the Airplane<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>What. Is. So. Hard?</b></span></p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">This is a sincere question.<br /><br />I need to know.</span><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">What is so hard about wearing a mask on an airplane? </span><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I want to understand because you are holding up our flight.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /></b><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Is it your machismo? </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">“Patriotism?”</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The rebelliousness of “no one’s gonna tell me what to do” stance?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Power and control?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Fear of being mistaken as a liberal sheep?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Basic assholeness?</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><b><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /></b><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>It’s not a secret you have to wear a mask on the plane.</b> You’re told in writing, electronically, on signs, announcements long before you enter an airport. It’s on your ticket that you are to comply with the mask mandate.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Do I want to wear a mask? No. But, it’s required, it's science and it’s respectful to my fellow human beings.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>I have a hard time understanding your boldness to hold up a flight because of a mask.</b></span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I find it quite self-centered to refuse such a simple request. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It’s definitely not pro-life. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It’s a few hours of your life. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">You can wear a mask for a few hours on a plane.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Don’t start with the you “know too much.” </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">What is it that you know about mask-wearing on an airplane? </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Let's face it. You don’t know too much. You’re probably just regurgitating what you’ve heard. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Fine. I won't bring up science.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>You can wear a mask for a few hours even if you’re wiser and know so much more than me.</b> I’m not arguing with that. I just want you to put on your mask for a few hours so we can get this flight going.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Selfish. It’s selfish. Yes, you are selfish.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">You sat down in the assigned seat. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">You didn't bitch about it is your right to sit wherever you want.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">You put your seatbelt on.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">You didn't declare it your right to ride without a seatbelt.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">You--hopefully--won't jump up while in flight and determine you can open an exit door because it's your right, nor will you light up a cigarette.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Hell, you'll even keep your tray table in an upright position.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">But, you won't wear a mask.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Your leader, Mr. Orange, has VERY quietly announced you should consider wearing a mask (followed by a deafening it's your right not to), so I thought that might help you comply with the simple requirement.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sigh. I am disappointed in human beings.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;" /></div></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I may wear a mask every day for the rest of my life just because of people like you. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Put your mask on for the flight.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">No one is going to take your masked-face photo and post it on social media.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">No one is going to taunt you for being a libtard while seated in 39B.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">No one is going to announce your manhood has been destroyed.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">No one is going to ask you to pledge your life to science.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">They are just asking you to do one simple thing for a few short hours.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It's not even a surprising thing they have asked you to do for the duration of the flight.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Perhaps you are in your glory.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Perhaps I'll be in my glory if you are arrested for breaking a federal law. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Ode to the Mask-less Ass.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I'm judging you. </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I bet you are one of those people... </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">...who shoves carry-on luggage bigger than their ego into the overhead compartment</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">...who butts people out of the way instead of politely waiting their turn to exit the plane</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">...who farts while we're on the tarmac.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Be a hero.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Be a sheep.</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Boldly exclaim your rights and your patriotism</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">But, do it from behind a mask. </span></div><div><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white;">**********************************</span></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Is it wrong to have thoughts that this person get COVID and end up on a ventilator for a few days and then recover but then end up a long-hauler? Asking for a friend.</span></div><div>**********************</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">addiverse 2005-2022.</div>datsus2http://www.blogger.com/profile/12853819719632696558noreply@blogger.com0