#3 of #16: The Wife

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. I know what the final one will be. But #3 and #2.... still chewing on it. I will take requests.
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.

Let's see how well you know the sophomoric land of which I wallow: let's talk about the wife. 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!

We officially first met in the college cafeteria. 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.

We didn't speak again until many weeks later. 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, "You're a woman after my own heart." The need for food-related punctuality and respect of all things alcohol became the basis of true friendship.

As we got to know each other, I learned the wife worked for the Catholic Priest on campus. 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. 

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.

Of course, we needed something to wash down that bread. 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.

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.

That bread consumption came back to haunt me. Jesus sees all and knows all. But first, we must get through Saturday night to get to Sunday Mass.

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.

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 ssss-s-s-s-s-s-ssssss 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...

...and see a thin stream of golden liquid shooting out of her coat pocket. 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.

Sunday morning arrives. 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. 

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 unimaginable happens:

The BODY OF CHRIST JUMPS OUT OF MY BOWL AND ONTO THE FLOOR. This is worse than death to a Catholic.

JESUS HAS JUST JUMPED OUT OF THE BOWL AND HE'S ON THE FLOOR!!!! 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. 

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.
I look at the person I was about to provide Communion.
I look at Jesus on the floor.
I look at my bowl.
Jesus ain't getting off the floor and the priest isn't noticing the Catholic Chaos going on next to him.
The line is getting longer, people are waiting for their transubstantiated piece of bread....

There is nothing I can do but bend over, pick up the Body of Christ and shove him into my mouth.
I'LL SAVE YOU, JESUS!

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.

I shove the wad to the left cheek and mutter out "Bolly of Cliste, Bolly of Cliste."

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.

Flash forward several decades. It had been a tough day. 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.

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. 

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. 

She then said, "At LEAST you could RECYCLE it." 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.

That. THAT is true love.
No questions.
No judgment.
Just acceptance and a nod to the environment.

And so, this third of 16 final blogs comes to a close. 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. 

She's the person who takes the Bible out of the garbage so it can be recycled. 

No questions.
No judgment.
Just a good buffet, another concert, a green and gold victory, a love of carbohydrates. 

A woman after my own heart.

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Godspeed, Harvey (#4 of 16)

Wow, we approach the final countdown, already to #4 on this farewell tour. 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! 

 Let's recap, shan't we? 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:

 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)

15. Jesus, Upside Down (I'd do this again)

14. Turkey Trot (seriously--you had to be there to fully grasp the fun and fear)

13. Can You Hear me NOW? (I've decided this one shouldn't have made the list)

12. Shooting the Poop (there had to be at least one poop post in the final countdown)

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)

10. Friendly Neighbor, Snow-blowing Style (one of the most requested stories I am asked to verbally share with others during the holidays)

9.  Happy Capers (Another day at my adored job)

8. Let them eat cake (Because Ice Cream Cake is vital in this thing called life)

7. Of Car Keys and Dog Puke (Uh oh--keys)

6. Great California Car Trunk Incident of 1988 (Uh oh--more keys)

 5. Live Like a Dog (Because we should ALL live like a dog).

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. 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.

 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.

Preface.
Sometimes, people are put in our lives to teach us lessons. 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.

 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.

 Her formal name is “Harvey the one-boob-wonder.” 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.

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.

 One.
It's late on a warm June night. 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.

Walking from the hospital to my car, I stop to make a call. 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. 

 Harvey, the One-Boob Wonder" died tonight. 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.

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.

 And sad.

 Two.
Harvey was “my” client from the day I started working at the agency. 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.

 Harvey also lived with breast cancer… not just once… not just twice… but, three times. I ask the Universe: Is Schizophrenia not “enough?”

Is it not enough to spend your life hearing voices of which are relentless, hate-fueled, distracting, loud and angry?

Is it not enough to spend life swimming through paranoia, not knowing what is true and what is not true?

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?

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?

Is it not enough to be judged, day in and day out?

Harvey didn’t give a shit about those questions. She was “fine, just fine,” as she’d say.

Harvey, dealing with Schizophrenia and breast cancer for the third time, had two words when it was suggested she have chemotherapy for the third time. Those two words were not “yes, please.”

 It’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.

 This is so very unfair. 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.

 her body is failing her while her mind is waking up. I am less than entertained by the Universe.

Three.
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…

Everyone should have full access to a Wendy’s Frosty when desired. 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.

 Four.
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.

 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.

 The fact that she didn’t have a hysterectomy pissed her off.  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.

 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.

 Five.
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.

 But even terminal stubbornness cannot stop terminal cancer.

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.”

She was not fine but I smiled anyway.

Six.
Harvey started complaining of pain. 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.

 Harvey and I went to the emergency room. 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.

 I know she is dying. 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.

 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.

 The surgeon came in and tells Harvey she needed surgery. 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.

No more cutting.

No more pain.

No more surgery.

She swore at us in a most determined fashion.
NO.
MORE.
SURGERY.

 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.

Seven.
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.

 I stood there silently for the final moments of life. She had earned some peace and quite.

 Suffice it to say she died a true champion.

One.
It's late on a warm June night. 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.

Epilogue.
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:
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.

Give him a kick for me.

Heck, give him two kicks.

 After you are done kicking him, enjoy having two boobs and no pain.

Enjoy being free of the voices that tormented you for so long.

Enjoy thoughts of your cutie-patootie oncologist.

Enjoy being free of all this nonsense.

Thank you for all the laughs. You really did crack me up.

Thank you for dying so calmly, so quietly, so nicely, so peacefully for me, for your father.

I’m sorry your life was cut so short but I’m glad you had those three extra years.

Gave you three more years to teach me things, and for that I am very grateful.

Godspeed, Harvey, double-breasted wonder.

Live Like a Dog (#5 of 16)

The official ending of this blog creeps closer and closer. 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 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.

[Preface: 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.)

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... 

Or, maybe she just wanted two weeks to sleep in the bed. Knowing Lucy, it was probably a little of both.]
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Live Like a Dog, as told by Lucy Bark of Poteidaia. 

• Start each day with an obnoxious squeaky toy. 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.
  
  
• If someone takes your squeaky toy, don't let it get you down. Wait until the squeaky toy is put back in the toy pile...wait....wait...go get it and start squeaking again. Pure bliss.
  
  
• Never miss the opportunity to give a kiss. Heck, kiss them twice. Kiss them when they are not looking. Kiss with reckless abandon.
  
  
• Never say "no" to a treat. 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.
  
  
• Tolerate your human friends when they do stupid things 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.
  
  
• Run. 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.
  
  
• Stick with the underdog. 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.
  
  
• Eat waffles. 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.
  
  
• Say hi to everyone you meet while on a walk. You might be the bright spot of someone's day. Say hi enthusiastically!
  
  
• Behave as much as you can....progress, not perfection. 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.

• Ask for forgiveness, not permission. 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. 
  
  
• Remember that ice cream and whipped cream are the food of the gods. 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.
  
  
• Use your cute face, sparkling personality and/or your under bite to get your way. Don't be relegated to the floor--sparkle that personality and get your place on the couch.
  
  
• If you throw up, it is best not to eat your own vomit. 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.
  
  
• When offered a ride, take it. 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.
  
  
• Keep it simple. Smile, wink, squeak, kiss, eat, pee, poop.
  
  
• Celebrate life. 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.
  
  
• Live like a dog. Keep it simple. Stay in the here and now. Love the one you're with.
  

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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.
*******************************************************************

The Great Californian Car Trunk Incident of 1989 (#6 of 16)

The countdown to the final blog post continues. 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....

Let's set the stage, shan't we? 1989....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.

The wife and I are on vacation, basking in the California sun. 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. Travelers Checks!

We are given a Geo Prism for our rental car. It's basically a plastic box with some wheels. 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.

As we end our vacation, we head toward Huntington beach to do some laundry and hang out by the ocean. 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.

It's a beautiful day, warm and sunny. 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. 

Let me clarify: I slam the trunk shut. It. Is. Slammed. Shut.

Immediately upon slamming the trunk shut, I have a moment of terror: I'm not holding the car key. 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. 

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...

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. 

A trickle of sweat sneaks down my temple.
No, there is no trunk latch.
No, there is no back seat access. 

God Bless America, I have locked the keys in the trunk.

We are in our swimsuits.
We are in California.

We are 3000 miles from home.
We have no one to call to help and I've locked the keys in the trunk.

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...

I find that the plastic key thing.
It is indeed in the glove box but it has never been cut.
It's just a big blob of uncut plastic with a key-shaped top. 

More sweat. 

I have to think. What to do, what to do, what to do. "We'll call the car rental company!" 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:

ME: "I locked the keys of our rental car in the trunk."

CAR GUY: Where?

ME: "Huntington Beach."

CAR GUY: [asks questions about my name, car, reservation]

ME: "Can you send someone here to help us, bring us the spare key?"

CAR GUY: We don't do that. Nothing I can do.

ME:  (So much for customer service.) "What am I supposed to do?"

CAR GUY: You'll have to go get a key cut at a local car dealer. 

ME: "Where's the a car dealer that will do this?"

CAR GUY: I don't know. You'll have to find one. 

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. 

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.

ME: "Hey, do you make car keys for Geo Prisms?"

CAR DEALER: Sure. 

ME: "Can you make one for a rental car? I locked the keys of our rental car in the trunk."

CAR DEALER: Yeah, we can do that. Where are you?

ME: "I'm standing in front of a laundromat on [street name]."

CAR DEALER: We're  about a mile from where we are standing. 

ME: "Thanks, we're on our way."

Since we don't have a car, we have to walk. 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.

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.

ME: "Hi. I'm here to get a spare key made."

CAR GUY-NOT-DEALER: [Looks at me, looks at key-cutting machine on the counter, which is pieces and is definitely not in operation]

ME: "I just called!"

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. 

ME: "How long will it be?"

CAR GUY: [looks at the pieces, shrugs] Not today. 

The wife and I are much more testy at each other now. 

ME: "Is there is another dealer in the area?"

CAR GUY: Yeah, down the road. 

ME: "Can you tell me where?"

CAR GUY: [Verbally gives me the address]

ME: "Thanks."

CAR GUY: Hang on. [Calls the other dealer to ensure they can make the key; this is confirmed.] Yeah, they are on their way.  

The wife and I go out the door and start hoofing our way to the next dealer. 
I didn't ask any questions.
I didn't think about anything except getting to the next dealer to get a key made. 

(Words of wisdom: always ask questions. Always ask HOW FAR it is to the next place, especially when you are walking.)

We walk and walk and walk.
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.
We walk and walk.
I'm now a block ahead of the wife.
We aren't speaking to each other.
I'm angry she's so slow. She's angry that I'm so fast.
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.
I'm angry that I've locked the key in the trunk.
She's angry that I locked the key in the trunk.
We're both angry that we are spending our last day on vacation walking to get a spare key made for the rental car.

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.

Three hours later, three bloody feet, no-longer-speaking-to-each-other hours later, three hot with no water hours later, we arrive at the dealership. 

THREE.
FRIGGIN'.
HOURS. 

I walk in to the dealer, hot, sweat and really pissy. The wife follows a few seconds later.
Our feet are bleeding and covered with blisters.
We are parched.
We are sweaty.
We are are suicidal.
Maybe homicidal. 

I'm teetering on the brink of insanity. 
I do my best to gain some composure as I walk up to the counter.

ME: "I'm here to get a key made." 

CAR DEALER: [looks at me like I'm from Mars]

ME: "The dealer of such and such called, confirmed you can make a key?" 

CAR DEALER: [He looks at me, still looking very confused]

ME: "They called about making a key for the rental car."

DEALER: Ummmm.... [pause] 

ME: [staring]

DEALER [really surprised] They called three hours ago.

ME: [I can feel my eyes starting to well up] "Yes, it was." 

DEALER: [pause] What took you so long to get here?

ME: [I scream-and I do mean SCREAM):

 
"WE WALKED!" 

I burst into tears. 

I've completely lost any semblance of composure.
I'm not even sure where the wife is, let alone if she is okay.
I'm exhausted, I'm hot, I'm pissed and I'm done.
I keep crying.

Panicked, he gets us some water, makes the key pronto and doesn't charge us. 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.

Trunk opened, with the rental key indeed in the trunk, he scoots off as fast as he can. After all, it is very evident that the wife and I are NOT speaking and NOT happy and we are NOT rational.

We didn't go to the beach. 

We didn't do our laundry. 

We didn't talk to each other for the rest of the day. 

We definitely didn't walk anywhere.

We go to our hotel room and sit in silence.

Our adult vacation is coming to a very silent ending.

(I think I might have thrown those shoes in the garbage. I know the wife threw out her surf socks.)

In the morning, we drive to the airport to take the rental car back and catch our flight. I 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.

We get home, barely able to walk for the next week. 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. 

Ignorance truly is bliss.
Adulting is overrated.

***************************************************

Fast forward to today.
We have cell phones and real printers.
We have mobile apps with all sorts of maps and information.
We have Uber and Lyft and all sorts of ways to get from here to there.
Floppy disks and pagers are nowhere to be seen.

There is automated customer service.  
We have that extra car rental key.

I hang that extra key on the Christmas tree every year. 
Yes, three-plus decades later, I still hang that key on the tree. 
Now we can laugh.
I'm gonna hang that key on the tree every damn year until kingdom come.

Today, there is 24-hour customer service,
cars with foldout seats with access to the trunk,
satellite services that can unlock your car from anywhere.

Today, no one drives Geo Prisms
or has stupid plastic keys in the glove box
or wears cheap huarache sandals. 
Dirty undies in your luggage doesn't matter.

I know why.
The wife knows why.
1989 knows why.
Now you know why, too.

Next Christmas, don't forget to look for the car key hanging on the tree. 
*********************************

And no, in case you're wondering: I've never rented a car from the company ever again. 

*********************************

1989. First adult vacation. 
I'm glad to see we've had some excellent vacations since then.
We've had plenty of clean undies.
We've had plenty of car rentals. 

I've yet to lock the keys in the rental car again.

Knock on wood.
********************************

Of Car Keys and Dog Puke (#7 of 16)

The countdown to the final blog post continues. 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

The dogs and I are in the doghouse....

Again.

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.)

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....

....you know where this is going, right?  

....I shoved the Saturn key into the Mazda ignition. 

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.

Two words: Death grip.

Now, if this had been the first time 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.

If it had been the second time 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.

If it had been the third time 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. 

How do I know this to be true?

Because I have experienced those things. I am humiliated to tell you this is the fourth time I have done this. 

FOURTH.TIME.

I pounded my hands angrily and repeatedly on the steering wheel. 
This, of course, does not help the key come out.
No, it is in there, as if there is cement in the ignition.
Super-Glued in place. 
I don't want to tell the wife. 
I don't want to tell her at all. 
Fourth time!

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. 

Again.

The first two times I had both car keys on the same ring, so that was a little more understandable. 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.

Or, maybe Saturn is in retrograde. It is a Saturn key, after all.

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.

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.

We left the family party early.

I sink lower on the shit list. 
It is a SILENT trip home.
Not a word, not the radio, nothing.

Worse, I drive to Home Depot instead of Home Home. 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.

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.

I find some guy in an orange apron. 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.

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.

Maybe he is afraid of me because I do look a little frenzied. Okay, I look a lot frenzied. Deliriously frenzied.

Empty handed, we head home. Silent. No radio. No nothing.

So, we get home and I greet the dogs and....I noticed Lucy smells like puke. 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.

I sniff her and know--she has puked while we were gone.

It's then I realize this is really bad. Not now. Not today. I'm afraid to look. Don't look. Oh, I have to look.

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? 

I look, pit in my stomach... ....and there it is, in all its glory, almost glowing with pride...

...two large red stains of old puke.

Red, dark red, see from a mile away dark red puke stains from the luscious treats she has eaten.

Red, crusty puke that has had time to set into the new carpeting. 

I start shoveling Girl Scout cookies into my mouth. 
We are all is so much trouble.
More cookies.
More sweating.
Why the new carpet?
Why today?
I need more cookies. 

The wife is silently livid. 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.

While she is cleaning puke, 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.

It is about to be a long, cold, silent night. The dogs and I will huddle together for safety and warmth.

It is time for drastic measures. 

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.

It doesn't budge. Of course it doesn't. It's not that kind of day.

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.

It's beginning to feel like the pulling that sword out of the rock story.

I say a quick prayer to the Baby Jesus and take the tool from Ceramics class in hand. 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.

 I shove that puppy in there like there's no tomorrow, give a yank....

....both the key and the tool come flying out! 

I just about weep in glory. 
I proudly hold the key above my head as if I have just won the Nobel Peace Prize,
a gold in the Olympics,
the Disco Ball trophy for Dancing with the Stars.
I run quickly up the stairs and dangle the keys in the wife's face.

I am saved! (Or, so I foolishly hope.)

Thankfully, the wife does not slap the keys out of my hands. Thankfully, all I get is a scowl and a nod of acknowledgement.

Good enough for me. 

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.

As for Lucy, I gave her a bath so she no longer stank of dog puke. It appears I am forgiven. Life is good. Mars is out of Uranus and my anus, retrograde be damned.

For the record: once Lucy's bath was done, I marked my Mazda key with bright silver paint. LOTS of silver paint. 

A fifth time is not an option. I can't keep Lucy from puking but I can try and keep myself from doing stupid things.....

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. 

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. 
********************
The next day, I ate the remaining Girl Scout Cookies and put another coat of silver paint on the key.
St. Jude is proud. 
I'm proud.
Saturn in Retrograde is proud.
My car ignition is proud.
The wife? I didn't ask.
I may be stupid but I'm not dumb.
********************

Let Them Eat [ice cream] Cake (#8 in the countdown)

The count down of the final blog entries continues. 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.

This entry is about my favorite substance on the planet: Ice cream. Let it be known that I eat ice cream at least 340 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.

********************
Let's set the stage, shan't we? 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....

I eat ice cream like it's going out of style. 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 conscious decision to ice cream every day of my life.

I once had a health professional suggest I give up dairy. 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.)

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?"

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.

After regaining consciousness, my reaction? "Thanks. I'll think about it."

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."

**********************

 One of my "work children" scored a new job in the suburbs. For that, I am very proud. It's like watching a baby bird fly the coop.

 

What, don't you have work children? If people can have a "work wife," I can have work children.

 

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.

 

While setting up the taco bar, I noticed there was an ice cream cake in the garbage. I was standing at the counter, slicing olives for the taco bar when I looked down and...there it was. 

I took a closer look.

 

Yup, that's half a DQ Ice Cream cake in the garbage.

In. The. Garbage!!!

 

I yelled out to my work daughter, "HEY! IS THAT A DQ CAKE IN THE GARBAGE?"

 

From her office down the hall, I hear my work daughter yell, "What? Hang on."

 

Me: [audible gasp]. I look down at the garbage can. I felt a bit woozy.  

Me: [Quite indignant] "What the hell is half a DQ Ice cream cake doing in the garbage? 

Work daughter: [enters kitchen, stares at me, looks down at the garbage and then looks at me again]

Me: "Is that an ice cream cake in the garbage?"

Work daughter: [stares at me, definitely confused] "Yes?"

Me: That's sacrilegious!" 

 

It still looked pretty frozen, so I knew it hadn't been there very long.

Me: "Why is there a DQ cake in the garbage?" 

Work daughter: "I cleaned out the office freezer before leaving today." [shrugs shoulders]

Me: [looking at other food products in the garbage, only to be drawn back to the ice cream cake. I am not amused. This is just plain wrong. WRONG!]

 

Me:  "How old is this ice cream cake?"

 

Work daughter: "Um, I dunno. A month?"

 

Me: [that's not very old] "But, why is there a half-eaten ice cream cake in the garbage? I don't understand. Why is it in the garbage?"

 

Work daughter: "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."

 

Me:  [I have failed my work children. Why would they throw away part of a DQ cake?]

 

Me: "Is there anything wrong with it?"

 

Work daughter: [tentative] "Ummmm.. I don't think so. Maybe a bit freezer-burned."

 

Me:  [waiting, tapping foot]

 

Work daughter:"Nothing's wrong with it…. Well, besides being old and freezer burned and in the garbage, if that's what you're asking."

 

Work daughter: [eyes widen]

 

Me: [Speechless. This is wrong, unjustified, shameful! I need to put her up for adoption. She has done the unthinkable.]

 

Work daughter: [looks at the ground, appropriately chastised]

 

I took a really close look. Hmmm.

Just a little freezer burn.

Nope, not too melted.

Yes, looks perfectly good.

Has some plastic covering on it…

Hmmmm….

 

You know what I did. 

 

You have no question about what I did.

 

I took that ice cream cake out of the garbage...

put it on the counter...

knocked the garbage sticking to the plastic cover off the cover...

removed the plastic cover and…

 

...I ate it.

 

OF COURSE I DID! 

 

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.

 

My work daughter was mortified but not surprised.

 

In walks a co-worker....

 

Co-worker: "Hey! Is that a DQ ice cream cake?"

 

Me: "Yeah, I dug it out of the garbage and now I'm eating it."

 

Co-worker: "Is there anything wrong with it?"

 

Me: "Not that I can tell. It tastes great, it's still kinda frozen and I didn't see any garbage on it."

 

Co-worker: "It was in the garbage?" She looked a bit surprised.

 

Me: "Yeah, but I dug it out and it's great! God, I love DQ ice cream cakes!"

 

I know she is wrestling with her brain, as she love ice cream almost as much as I do.

 

Co-worker: "Can I have some?"

 

I can't tell you how pleased I was to hear this question. I now hold this person in higher esteem.

 

Me: "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.

 

I looked around for another spoon but she indicated I should just use the friggin' spoon in my hand.

 

I suppose when one is eating an ice cream cake out of the garbage, a used spoon is the least of your concerns. So, I shoveled a big blob of that cake into her mouth. I daresay she enjoyed that cake as much as I did.

 

A few minutes later, 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.

 

He asked, "Is that a DQ Ice cream cake?"

 

I nodded in a most affirmative manner, adding how I had dug it out of the garbage.

 

He didn't seem one bit concerned. "Can I have a piece?"

 

I knew I liked him.

 

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."

 

See? There are still good people in the world. 

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.

 

As you can imagine, the wife was mortified 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.

 

She OBVIOUSLY doesn't love DQ ice cream cakes like we do. 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:

 

Life is short. Eat the cake.

...Even if you have to dig it out of the garbage.