Her: “My throat hurts, Ben.”
Me: “I know. I’m sorry.”
Her: “It hurts bad.”
Me: “I think we should make an agreement that, for the duration of our relationship, neither of us complains about being sick.”
Her: “You don’t complain about being sick.”
Me: “Oh? Then I guess what I meant to say was ‘Shut the hell up!’”
The conversation might not have ended exactly like that, but it did in my mind…
It has been awhile since I’ve done this, mostly because the speed at which I watch Netflix movies slowed to a crawl once I started dating and partly because I’ve just been slow to write anything at all. It might also have to do with the fact that my Netflix queue was commandeered by Strutter over the course of two years. It started out with a little “Add this” and “Add that” and progressed to a “Why hasn’t this come in yet? Move it to the top!” So the movies for myself have, sadly, all been pushed to the bottom of the list to make way for Strutter picks which, usually sit unwatched for several days until I finally say “Watch this” and “Watch that” so as to get the queue moving again. I make it sound like she’s picking crap I don’t want to see, but that isn’t the case. She just takes her time getting around to watching a DVD of anything. The solution, I’ve found, is to get television programs, which can be doled out in bite-sized portions. Recently we plowed through seasons 1-5 of The Office.
In a Bold Move, I finally put my selections first. I mentioned in my previous post that I recently obtained an Xbox 360 so as to stream Netflix picks. This is an ideal method for queueing up the television programs for Strutter while I start getting my discs in the mail once more. And the most recent discs were the first four episodes of HBO’s series, “True Blood.”
I’d heard a lot of hype about this from friends and co-workers, and was a little wary of it. It’s from the same guy who did “Six Feet Under,” after all, and I vainly watched that show in the hopes that it would finally become something I enjoyed. I actually have to remind myself that the show witht the “light and dark” girl and her crazy-ass brother was actually the same show with the gay undertaker. It was really that non-memorable for me.
True Blood is a series set in Louisiana, in a world where vampires have come into the open because of the invention of a synthetic blood which can sustain them. Of course this leads to some ill will between humans and vampires, which I suppose is realistic. My problems with the show are as follows:
Despite all of that, I’m going to keep watching the show. It’s got enough of a hook to make me want to see the next episode, and I actually like the character of Bill Compton. It’s got it’s own stereotype, too, but it’s one that doesn’t make me grit my teeth. Maybe he’ll convince Sookie to change her name.
It’s that time of year again, where my mother demands a list of my wants and needs and I’m struggling to think of things. Despite having a running Amazon WishList (which has been conveniently listed on the sidebar to the right since before LAST Christmas), I’ve been told by my mother, and by Strutter, that they aren’t looking at that. The biggest challenge for me in making a list is that if something isn’t too expensive and I want it, I’m going to get it myself. If it IS too expensive, I don’t feel comfortable putting it on a gift list and I’m not bold enough to dig further in debt to get it myself. My Amazon Wishlist has always been things that I sort of want, but can live without. (Except God of War 3 for the playstation 3. I’m going to pre-order that one.) I’ve recently bought an Xbox 360 primarily for Strutter’s Netflix streaming in the bedroom and secondarily for me to lie in bed and play Borderlands when I can’t sleep. Although I usually carry it into the game room for that, since it’s loud. So I could start amassing accessories for that now…
Anyway, I suppose I’m going to make a list up right now, before my mother goes to visit my aunt and calls me from Wal-Mart anyway, ignoring this SECOND list completely.
Dear Mr. Claus,
I would like the following items delivered to me on December 25th, in celebration of the birth of our Lord and Savior. One or two of these lower-priced items may be forwarded on to my loved ones so that they may present these gifts to me upon the Winter Solstice in celebration of MY birthday. They are presented in order of my desire to possess them, from highest to lowest.
1) A Mountain Bike – I desire more exercise, and I enjoy riding a bike. This seems to be the most reasonable combination of those two things. I realize that selecting a bicycle for me might be difficult, so I will accept a gift certificate to that bike shop on Broad River (I think it’s called Harold’s or something like that) or a joint trip to said bike store to peruse their goods.
2) A High Definition LCD Flat Panel Television – This is for the bedroom, so the screen size needs to be between 25 and 35 inches so as to fit on the stand. I also require the resolution to be no less than 1080p. Just because it’s in the bedroom is no reason to skimp on quality. The make and model do not matter to me, as long as it doesn’t break easily.
3) A Kindle, from Amazon.com – While I LOVE the idea of this as a gift, along with the leather carrying case, I realize that it negates the necessity for paper-bound books, which make have already been built and stashed away in a storage bin for me. Please talk to me, either in person or via my mother, about this wonderful device and how we might can incorporate it into next year’s list without interfering with pre-built paper-bound books.
4) A Comforter and Bedsheet Set – These are for the master bed, so they would be needed in the king-sized variety. I do not require anything fancy or expensive, as the dogs will accidentally tear them eventually. I only ask that they be in Black, Gray, or Navy Blue, or any other color scheme which will match the wall paint. My mother probably remembers the colors of the walls, so you can ask her.
That concludes the “big-ticket” items which might require a little extra work from the elves. The remainder of the list are the more reasonably-priced items, which could be forwarded to relatives and family, as well as my girlfriend, as possible gift ideas that they could acquire.
Playstation 3 Games:
Music CDs:
DVDs:
Also, Mr. Claus, could you let my mother know that my girlfriend was most nervous about suggesting any type of gift for herself, so I have found one myself that she will enjoy. It is a game for the Nintendo Wii called New Super Mario Bros. As the title suggests, this is the “new” version of the game, and any salesman would be able to point my mother in the right direction to find it.
Thank you for your attention to this letter, sir, and I look forward to your responses in the latter part of December. Please give my regards to the missus and elves, and gives the reindeer an extra pat on the head from me.
Respectfully,
Benjy
I don’t like getting political. No matter what your stance or how carefully you choose your words, someone is going to get fired up about what you say. Someone is about to call me an irresponsible citizen for saying this, but I’ve only voted in two presidential elections out of the four which have occurred since I turned eighteen. The first time I did so was because I was voting against someone who I really didn’t want to see in office for another four years. The second time was because I actually believed that we needed change, and I believed that the man I voted for also believed it.
Maybe it’s because I’m getting older that I’m actually paying attention to political stories now. Last night was the first time I didn’t cuss at the television when my regularly scheduled show was being pushed beneath a presidential speech. (Even though I really wanted to watch WipeOut and Crash Course) Last night was also the first time I didn’t change the channel. Instead I watched the speech. I watched my congressman, who lives less than five miles from my house, call our president a liar.
I don’t give a damn that he apologized for it afterward. An apology isn’t enough.
Not only did you disrespect our Commander-in-Chief, Mr. Wilson, but you called him out as a liar for a statement which has been proven as truth. You do not represent my interests, and your services as my congressmen are no longer desired. Please make way for someone who will help our government move forward instead of stalling it.
Once in awhile, I look over my Internet stats to find out where the the five visitors a day come from, and what might have brought them here. Since I hadn’t done it in awhile, I thought I’d check it out for the past few months… boy was I surprised.
Here are some of the more interesting things, in bold, searched for that brought people to my domain:
nair holy shit my balls hurt
I tried to warn you, brother. That stuff is ACID!
did elaine ever have a horse
That joke is still as funny now as the first time I heard it
what part of body was covered with lard and cooked during spanish inquisition
I don’t know. But I bet it was tasty! Mmmm… lard….
trutv penis weight lifting
I don’t like to brag…
feltching my ex
Now I’m tempted to do a word search on this blog and remove any occurrence of the word “feltching”
i fell back and hit my head on my headrest, it hurts really bad but there is no blood coming out. what should i do?
Go to the doctor.
Taj’s favorite toy happens to be a rainbow volleyball that Strutter brought home from the beach this year. It’s so big that his canine teeth end up wedging it in his mouth and he has to fight to get it out. (And it’s usually a vigorous fight when there’s food or a treat waiting) Part of me wants to deflate the ball a little bit to make this easier, but then he’d be able to bite it and puncture it, and then lose his favorite toy. To anyone that wants to cry “Animal abuse!” let me just say this: Fuck you.
First, allow me to offer an explanation as to why I’ve been quieter than usual lately. A handful of people noticed two posts in July… posts which have since been removed. To those that didn’t read them, I will just say that I had no business posting something that personal about someone else, so I removed them. To those that did, know that things are better. The problem was that the experience left me “gun-shy” about posting again. I think that the best way to proceed is to pretend like it never happened and apologize to the person involved, as well as their family. And so we move on…
Recently, Strutter came up to me and said that her 20s were full of parting and drinking and generally unhealthy behavior, and that she was tired of it. She was going to start watching her diet, jog regularly, and become a bit of a Health Nazi.
For those individual who happen to be dating someone who is incredibly health conscious, it should come as no surprise that this lifestyle ends up being inflicted upon both partners in the relationship. I could stand to lose more weight and get back into shape, so I’m not opposed to focusing on health again, but I think I might just start hoarding some food away in case she gets even more strict.
This new health kick also meant a farewell to smoking and drinking. It’s not easy to quit either cold turkey, and people who do so often have to avoid situations/places/people that promote these activities. So for her 30th birthday, which was last Friday, we were trying to think of something “wholesome” to do. She suggested Frankie’s Fun Park. Go-karts, laser tag, putt-putt, video games, and a super slide? Sounded perfect. She invited four other couples along, all of whom are smokers. Sounded tempting…
Friday night, we got there early and grabbed food from the snack bar for our dinner. Looking at the prices on the menu, I realized that I had not prepared for the financial implications of the evening. Our friends began straggling in and one couple sent a text to say they couldn’t make it, and the party began. First stop: Skee-Ball!
In my late teens, I actually worked at Frankie’s Fun Park, and my biggest pet peeve was the hordes of children who would sprint from game to game with fistfuls of tickets that they could cash in for cheaply-made stuffed animals and worthless little plastic trinkets. My second biggest pet peeve was punk-ass children who would intentionally swerve to ram a go-kart that I happened to be pushing off the rail. (Little fuckers!) Anyway…
When Strutter screamed for Skee-Ball, I knew that the evening would turn into her running from game to game with fistfuls of tickets, and we would probably be driving home with a cheaply-made plush animal. I wasn’t wrong about that, but I was wrong in my expectation that it wouldn’t be fun. It was actually a blast. Even the no-skill games where you just spin a wheel and it lands on the number of tickets it pays out… crazy. We did take a short break from the ticket-hoarding to go outside and play a round of putt-putt. It was dark, so the temperatue had come down to the mid-nineties and the humidity was somewhere around two-hundred percent… so it wasn’t too bad…
Drenched in sweat, we returned to our ticket-gathering frenzy. For a small crowd of grown-ups mostly comprised of drinkers and smokers, I was surprised that everyone seemed to be having fun. I was even more surprised when it was past nine o’clock and people hadn’t left yet.
At the end of the night, we went to the prize counter with just under a thousand tickets, and Strutter got one cheaply-made plush alligator for each couple and a handful of worthless little plastic trinkets. (Although the pirate pouch full of little plastic gems made me think that a friend could use them in a board game he’s designing.) As we left, I totaled up the amount of money I’d spent and realized that it was still less than we would’ve spent if we’d gone to a bar.
So maybe I’ll stick with this healthy living thing…
I think there are few things worse than chewing gum as you walk into a bathroom that smells like someone just took a giant Indian-food-dump at work.
Dear World,
I am writing to ask that you stop being so stupid. Your constant, idiotic shenanigans are causing me to lose my faith in humanity. Every day, I see the mindless masses reacting in the most illogical way to situations which are being sensationalized by the media, and the problem is getting worse. Allow me to use the current situation of this “swine flu pandemic” as an example.
As of 8:00am Eastern this morning, There were 64 confirmed cases of Swine Flu in the United States, and one death. The death was a 22-month old Mexican toddler that had been flown in for treatment, and I offer my most sincere condolences to the family. Now, I am certain that there are more than 64 cases, which have not yet been confirmed, but the reaction to these numbers is far overblown.
There are over 300 MILLION people in the United States. Even if there are as many as 10,000 infected citizens (and that’s not a number based on any statistic from the CDC or World Health Organization. I just made it up as a number grossly over-exaggerated than the factually stated count), that is less than one out of every 30,000 people. Now, for people who get sick, the rate of death can’t be calculated. Logic and Science dictates that the people at highest risk will be the elderly and the young.
According to news reports, “over a hundred” people are dead in Mexico City from this flu. Mexico City reported a population of over 8 Million people last year. Since the media gave us such an abstract number, but didn’t say over TWO hundred, let’s assume the number of deaths is 199. That’s a mortality rate of .002% of the population. (One out of every 5,000 people? My brain is starting to hurt from all this math.) But now stories are leaking out about how Mexico City isn’t responding to this flu correctly. (And, as an American, I can only report on the stereotypes of Mexican health care, not anything factual, so I will leave that aspect of this criticism untouched.)
I’m not saying the swine flu isn’t a threat. I’m just saying you’re more likely to be killed in a car accident than by it. (Odds of that, according to a 2003 survey, is one in 6,500. Over a 78 year lifespan, that’s about one in 83.) The swine flu numbers aren’t really important, however. You can look at the same sort of media coverage over the Bird Flu or a Mad Cow Disease outbreak or anything that can cause fear in the general populace. My point is that the media is sensationalizing the news.
Why would they do that? Because they have to. Today’s viewers don’t want a stodgy old man with a stone face delivering the facts. They want to feel involved. They want to be entertained. They need the magic box to keep their living room interesting, not bore them out of their minds. (If I were an avid conspiracy-theorist, I could even go so far as to say that the media is causing this fear on purpose, because a frightened population is easier to control, less likely to object to soldiers walking their streets in the name of safety. But I’ll leave that sort of speculation to the conspiracy theorists.)
But this letter isn’t addressed to the media. It’s addressed to the world. So, World, I am asking you to calm down and think. When the media starts talking about hundred of deaths, put it in perspective. It’s hundreds of people that you probably didn’t know, that probably didn’t know each other, and that were scattered across a very broad population. When they start talking about how deadly this new threat is, take a deep breath and realize that they aren’t telling you that the majority of these deaths are across elderly people, very young people, and people who didn’t bother going to the hospital over what they thought was just an annoying fever.
If you’ve read this, and agree with what I’m saying, then I ask that you do one last thing. I ask that you turn off your television tonight. The news will still be there in the morning. Eat dinner at the table with your family and talk to each other. If you don’t have family, go out to eat with your friends and talk with them. Stop worrying, and start living. You’ll find that it’s a lot more enjoyable.
Sincerely,
Stuck
Last Saturday, I drove out to a car lot with low expectations. I was planning on looking at a few trucks, getting depressed when I saw how much they’ve changed since my 2003 model, getting more depressed when I saw how much they cost, and driving my grandfather’s truck home in tears. I was also dreading the whole idea of dealing with a Car Salesmen.
I parked in the guest parking area and wasn’t even completely out of my truck before someone swooped in to offer assistance. *sigh* Fine, it was a big lot and I guessed I could use some help finding out which direction the trucks were in. We start walking towards the trucks, and I’m telling him what I had, how much I loved it, and how I wanted something as close to it as possible. I also tell him that I’m looking for something used, since I can’t afford a new one. So, of course, he walks me straight to the brand-new Toyota Tundra.
I drove a Tacoma. It’s a smaller of the Toyota trucks. The Tundra was the big one. I don’t want a big one. Over the past six years, the Tacoma has gradually increased in size until it’s as big as the Tundra was in 2003, and the Tundra is now ridiculously big. I had explained this in our walk, so I have no idea why he walked me straight to a truck that he knew I wasn’t interested in. I pointed this out and asked if we could look at Tacomas, and we started walking again.
We got to the Tacoma area, and my fears were realized. Too expensive. Too big. Too different from my old truck. I also notice that they’re all new. So I suggest we look at some used ones, since I’m looking for an older model that’s as close to my old truck as I can get. We start walking, and out of the corner of my eye I spot a familiar shape. I turn my head to look and gasp. This salesman was about to walk me right past a 2003 Toyota Tacoma PreRunner (which I had very specifically said I was hoping to find when I first spoke to the man) and not look back. I stop and point, “How about that one?”
At first, he acts surprised to see it, as if it magically appeared on the lot. I started circling the beautiful truck, kicking the tires, checking for anything out of place. I press my face against the driver’s window and look inside as he’s stammering about something, but I don’t hear him. I already knew that I’d be buying this one. I don’t even look back at him when I ask, “You have the keys for this one?”
He wanders off to the main building while I sit and whisper to my future truck, petting the sleek metal and telling it how good of a driver I’d be. The salesman returns with the key and puts it in my hand. For a brief second, I swear it glowed with a brilliant blue light. And then I realized something was amiss. “It doesn’t have keyless entry? Was it built by cavemen?”
The salesman assures me that they can add keyless entry for a modest fee. I make eye contact with him for the first time, and see that he wants this sale. I get in the truck, and the seat feels like home. All the controls are where I remember them. The steering wheel is right where I need it to be. The mirrors are already adjusted for my height. It was Fate.
The test drive proved what I already knew. This was my truck. I didn’t want to appear too eager, though. The salesman was as hungry to sell it as I was to buy it. I made an offer, which included them installing keyless entry. His face got all scrunchy for a second, but he regained his composure like a pro and invited me into the building. I patted the truck on the hood and whispered that I’d be back.
One thing I’ll never understand about the buying process is the constant trips that the salesman has to make back and forth between you and some back office. Why can’t they just sit you down in the back office and avoid all that leg work? My offer was accepted. Begin the two hours of paperwork.
At the end of the day, The Replacement Truck was in my driveway, newly washed and ready for a lifetime of adventure with his new partner. All was right with the world. In less than a week, I’d be past all this worry and misery over the accident, and I wouldn’t even have a car payment.
Sunday evening, I picked up a notepad to make a grocery list and saw two little white bugs underneath it, amidst a pile of chewed up notepad. They quickly darted into two little holes in the wooden sill upon which the notepad had previously rested. I’ve got termites in my fucking house.
First and foremost, I’m not dead. The dumbness and the dizziness spells are getting fewer and farther between, so I expect to be back at 100% soon.
Last night I had a dream that I went on The Price is Right with the goal of winning a new car. I don’t know why I’d do this, as they always give away cars that I’d never want. But anyway, in the dream, every freaking game had a brand new pick-up truck as the prize… except the game I played. I got the yodeling-dude-going-up-the-hill game, and my prize was a new washer/dryer. I was so pissed off that I punched Bob Barker in the nose. And now you know the REAL reason he’s not hosting the show anymore.
Why was I dreaming about winning a new car? I got a phone call from my insurance claim adjuster yesterday. My truck is a total loss. I get to go out to the scrapyard today (in the rain yet again, cruel fate) to gather the rest of my personal belongings, strip off the tag, and look for any loose change that might’ve fallen under the seat to put aside for a new truck. I was also informed that my CT Scan and MRI were not covered by my policy, as they were medical expenses incurred AFTER the incident. Had I gone to the hospital straight from the scene of the wreck, I’d be covered. But the fact that I waited 36 hours to see a doctor means I get to pay that $700 out of pocket. (At least Papa Stuckey is letting me use his credit card for them, but HE shouldn’t have to pay for it either!)
When I bought this truck, I was SO excited about. Not only was it the first truck that I was going to buy “all by myself,” I was glad to be rid of the old one. The one that was constantly breaking down. The one that would occasionally choose NOT to start when I wanted it to. (A problem which no mechanic was ever able to fix.) It was a relief as well as an adventure.
This time, though, I’m not excited about it. Not only do I get to enjoy the responsibility of a car payment again (my old one was paid for), but I actually LIKED my old truck. To replace it feels like a betrayal. It’s like getting a new cat when your old cat dies, and naming it something to reflect the fact that you’re getting it just to fill that emotional void…
So I’m looking at buying a truck exactly like it. Well… not EXACTLY. This time around it’ll have Sirius XM Radio, an MP3-capable stereo, and an audio-in jack for my iPod. And maybe a sunroof. Ooooh… and maybe I can get it in blue!
Okay… I guess I’m excited about it on some level. The Replacement Truck will be fun. The thing that I’m dreading, really, is the car payment. I’m going by the bank today to see about refinancing my house in order o lower my monthly payments, and maybe consolidate some other debts, in order to “make room” for a $300 truck payment in my budget. And I can always sell some stocks and dip into the Ring Fund. It’s not the end of the world, but it’s certainly inconvenient.
Sometimes it really sucks being an adult.
Have you ever been in a situation where you felt like you weren’t in control at all? Where it’s more like you’re watching everything unfold around you and nothing you do affects anything at all? Since Saturday, I’ve had this feeling nonstop.
Saturday, after a week of teasing us with small drizzles, it rained like a champ. I honestly don’t know why I voluntarily left my house to drive anywhere. With the wipers on high, visibility was still pretty low. As so, with poor visibility and torrential rains, I got on the interstate to drive out to the mall and return something at Bed, Bath, & Beyond.
The speed limit was 70mph, and it’s not unheard of for me to drive 75, but the conditions were bad enough that I actually slowed down to around 65. A large SUV in front of me was driving about 50, so I changed into the left lane to pass. As I’m passing, the other car starts to drift into my lane. So I drift to the left to avoid getting clipped. I drift far enough to be safe from the other car, but far enough to hit a puddle on the shoulder and hydroplane. There’s a brief instant where I think everything will be fine, and that I’ll get control back in just another few feet. That instant is gone once my left tires hit the soaking wet, slick grass.
I’m off the road, spinning towards the wires that separate me from the oncoming traffic. I remember thinking that I saw an 18-wheeler coming, and if I happened to jump the fence, I’d be a dead man. I hit the wires, while facing backwards, and they grabbed my truck and held it earthward as I slid for what felt like a mile.
I didn’t lose consciousness, but it felt like I was watching a movie of myself, filmed in the first person, calling the highway patrol. They told me to sit tight and remain in my vehicle, so that’s what I did. I called Strutter to tell her what happened and that I was fine and not to worry. Then I sat back to wait. While I was waiting, I took an inventory of my things. I still had two arms. Still had two legs. Ten fingers. Ten toes. No blood. I guess I’m okay. Then I looked around the truck. A lot of things shifted around, but nothing looked broken, except my headrest was smooshed all the way down. I’m 6′1″, so I always have the headrest in the highest position. After playing with it a second, I realized that the clip that holds it in place was broken. My head hit the headrest hard enough to break it. I touched the back of my head to feel for a bruise or, worse, blood. Everything was fine. Odd.
After about ten minutes of sitting, and fifty to sixty cars driving by without stopping, I got out of the truck and surveyed the damage. Everything looked normal until I got to the passenger side, where scrape marks ran the full length of my truck. The back and front corners were shredded from sliding along the fence. But other than some major body work and being tangled in the wires, it actually looked like I could still drive the truck. While I was looking around, getting soaked to the bone, someone finally stopped to ask if I was okay. His dad owned a tow truck, and I asked him to go ahead and call it in for me.
Let me get sidetracked here. I’m just cynical enough to think that it’s possible he stopped because he was trying to drum up some business, but he was a nice enough guy that I don’t believe that. What I’m really disappointed in is that I sat there for TEN MINUTES, INSIDE MY TRUCK, without anyone stopping. If I had been unconscious and bleeding, I could have died in that time. People like to say things like “I’m not going to stop because they could be a rapist or a murderer.” To those people, I’d say that’s a pretty elaborate fucking scam to total a vehicle just to get to rape/kill someone. Now if I see the person on a cell phone, yeah, I’ll probably keep driving. But I was, for most of that time, sitting in my driver’s seat not moving. (It might’ve taken me two of the ten minutes to monkey with the headrest and make sure I wasn’t hurt.) Now…
The highway patrolman arrived shortly after the kid, and he got my information and account of the accident, then wisely went back to his car to sit it out. It was, after all, pouring down rain. I was soaked. My clothes were clinging to me. My wallet had soaked through. I took the time to put my cellphone back in the truck to keep it from getting any wetter, but it was already pretty drenched.
When the tow truck arrived, I stood and watched as he walked around the truck, trying to figure out just how he was going to untangle it from the wires. Eventually, he hooked up some chains and started up the winch. It wouldn’t budge, so he asked me to get in the truck to turn the wheels as he pulled. So here I was, in the driver’s seat with my windows down so I could hear him yelling, pouring down rain coming in through the windows, glasses fogging up because of the humidity, trying my damnedest to steer without power steering and without having any idea which way my wheels were facing. It was funny. It was also the first time I noticed that I felt a little confused. He was shouting “Turn right” and my hands would sit there on the wheel, while my brain tried to recall which way was right. Odd.
Eventually, my truck was on the tow truck and the highway patrolman returned all my stuff along with the green form for insurance. Strutter was on her way to pick me up, and bringing a dry shirt. I was still feeling sort of like a passenger in my body, but less so because the rain was cold, and I was starting to feel it. I made it home safely, and spent the rest of the day… I think I sat on the computer all day after that, but I don’t really remember. Odd.
Sunday, my neck and back were sore as hell. It’s totally expected, so I took some Ibuprofen and wrote it off. My father and I went up to Hartsville to pick up my grandfather’s truck. It sucks to be without a vehicle, but it sucks even more to be a burden on people. So I figured I’d be a burden for one day and then I’d have my own method of getting around. On the trip, I noticed that I was feeling a little dizzy, but again wrote it off. It was nice to spend some time with Dad, and we talked about various things… none of which I can really remember. We arrived at my aunt’s house, and I played a few games on the Wii with my little cousin, but I had to get back in town before too late so that I could gather my things from the truck. So I got in my grandfather’s little teeny truck and drove home. I can’t really remember much of how I spent the rest of the day. Notice a trend?
Monday, I was still sore, but took some Tylenol and went in to work. Our office is moving in a month or so, so my department got to walk around looking at the new building and deciding how many network drops to put in each office and stuff like that. I was feeling dizzy again, but didn’t think too much of it. Somewhere in there, I took a phone call from my insurance agent and gave him the details of the accident. After lunch, I was back in my office and updating some calls in the help desk program, and started to realize that I wasn’t reading very clearly. And then I started thinking back and realized that this had been a trend. I’d been foggy-brained for a couple of days now. I had been shrugging off as a mild concussion, but people had started commenting on it, and mentioning how Liam Neeson’s wife said she felt fine too. So, I went downstairs to get checked out. They sent me to get a CT scan.
I’ve never had a CT scan before. It was kind of neat. Basically, they stuck my head in a UFO and turned it on. I was expecting a light show, or some beeps, anything to make it work the $300 it was about to cost me, but I was disappointed. I was even more disappointed when the doctor informed me that he saw an “artifact” in the scan. Now, to me, artifact is a word that brings to mind some ancient, super powerful magic item like the Ark of the Covenant. So I’m thinking it’s pretty cool for a second. But then I realize that it’s not very likely I’ve got The Sorcerer’s Stone stuck in my brain, and “artifact” could mean something bad.
Basically, it means that I might have moved my head suring the scan. Or it might be a spot where my brain is bleeding. They can’t really tell. So they sent me to get an MRI this morning. I’ve had MRIs before, but both times they were on my knee. This time I was going in the other way and, let me tell you, they do not make those tubes with broad-shouldered men in mind. I had to scruntch in my shoulders, wrap my torso in a tight ball, and not breathe until my chest was completely inside the tube. I felt like a torpedo that was about to be launched. Then the man said, “Okay, don’t move for the next eight minutes.” What the fuck? Is this some sadistic for of rodeo?
But where the CT scan didn’t give me any bang for my buck, the MRI was nothing but noise and shaking. For eight minutes, I sat in that torpedo tube while my submarine went to war. I heard lasers being fired off. Metal scraping against metal. I felt the whole damn thing shaking, which made it very difficult not to move. (Thank God my shoulders and arms were pinned to my body!) And then, it was all over. The man in the booth said something into the intercom that sounded like “Enjoy the rest of your day at Six Flags!” and then the tube ungraciously spit me out.
And now, I’m sitting and waiting for someone to look at the picture of my brain, roll some dice and determine exactly what that artifact is, and call me to let me know. To occupy my brain, I decided to come to work. But since I can’t really focus, I’m not very effective at working. So, to clear my mind, I thought it might be a good idea to write down everything I could remember, which is what I’ve just done. I’m not to worried about the results, since it’s been four days and I haven’t died yet. But in case I do die… thanks for reading. I’m sorry I got so slack in updating all of you in how my life has been going.
Also, in case I do die, I just wanted to say that I’m glad my life turned out the way it did. I thought about this a lot last night, lying in bed and worrying. (Because that’s the only time it’s acceptable for to worry, when no one can see me do it.) I have no regrets. Bad things may have happened in my life, and I’ve done things that I’m not proud of, but they all shaped me into who I am today. And I like that guy. So thanks to all my friends and family who gave me love. Thanks to all the people who wronged me and taught me not to be TOO trusting. Thanks to God for giving me this opportunity to reflect on my life and realize it was pretty keen.
So for Christmas, I wanted to get Strutter a Ninetendo Wii. I really like playing games with her, and wanted to get something that would have more games of the type that she would enjoy. So I placed an order for a Wii at the beginning of December, expecting that it would take a few weeks to become available and ship. Back order after back order, I realized that it simply wasn’t going to make it in time, so Teddy (meaning me, on behalf of Teddy) ended up scribbling out a note in crayon telling her that I would take her out shopping one day to buy something she picked out. (I’d also bought her an external hard drive, which is what she had asked for and was practical, if lacking in sentimentality.) So I canceled my Wii order on December 23rd and forgot about it.
At the beginning of January, I received an email from one of the customer service folks that I’d been in contact with about the back orders, and was informed that they had one Wii in stock and they wanted to know if I still wanted it. With Valentine’s Day around the corner, I figured I’d go ahead and get the present early. I said yes, and three days later, it was on my doorstep.
Now I’m terrible about keeping presents until the day they’re supposed to be given, so I wanted to give it to her right away. But I fought the urge, and hid it away in the garage. Then I thought that I really should test it, just to make sure it worked. (It would suck if she opened it up and couldn’t play it.) So one morning after she left for work, I opened it up, and spent two hours trying to connect everything so that it worked. I got most of it working, but needed to go to work myself, so I just pushed everything back behind the television and stacked DVDs up around it.
The next morning, I got up again and spent an hour trying to get the Internet working on it, and setting up two Mii personas for us. And then it was ready. Bu I had to go to work, so I pushed it behind everything again and left it.
The next morning, I figured if she hadn’t found it by now, it was hidden well enough to leave there, so that’s what I did. For a month, the Wii hid behind the television, with games and controllers stashed away in cabinets and high-up places I knew she couldn’t reach. As Valentine’s Day approached, I wrapped a note saying “Look behind the DVD stack” in a big box, and ordered flowers.
Friday night, since we were having Penguin and the Mumbler over and they have a Wii of their own, I decided to go ahead and give Strutter her present. She opened the box and read the note, and then hurried over to the television and looked behind the DVDs, and looked at the little white box for about 20 seconds, not knowing what the hell it was. When she finally realized what the significance of the word “Nintendo” meant, this happened:
Apparently, I made crazy faces for a camera…
In related news, I like the idea behind her postings of tiny snippets and pictures. I think I might steal it. At least then I’d be posting regularly again….
I had debated writing this post or not, primarily because it’s an embarrassing and gross topic, but I’ve gotten a lot of questions about it, and my everyday friends already know, so there’s no point in hiding it. Besides, I was introduced to a brand new level of humility in the hospital… but I’ll get to that. I’m writing about my surgery. If you don’t want to know, just skip it. 
In high school, all of the football players were required to take weight lifting as a class. This was fine with me, because I wanted to build some muscle and once football season was over, I could cut this class and leave school early. (I was a senior, so they didn’t care if I wasn’t bulking up for next year.) The downside to lifting weights was that there wasn’t a lot of supervision, so our techniques were sloppy, and this led to something that plagues many power lifters: hemorrhoids.
I will wait while you get the “Eeeeew!” out of your system. All better? Good. (There are more to come, so go ahead and get ready.)
It wasn’t a huge deal back then. They would flare up on rare occasions and go away in a day or two. But this year, in mid-June or so, they became terrible. (In fact, I even wrote about it back in June.) The pain was at its worst when I was lying down, so sleeping became a luxury that didn’t come very often. When I went to see the proctologist (which is coming up as a spelling error, but I’ve double-checked it three times) about it they weren’t “too terrible to take out” (his words), so he recommended several hot baths and a colonoscopy which I’d been putting off for a few years.
The hot baths didn’t help, medicine didn’t help, and by October, I was making another appointment with him. This time his reaction was a little different. He said “Wow, those have gotten big.” Big, in case you were wondering, means two of them were the size of a golf ball. Now, I don’t mean to be too graphic about it, but imagine doing your business on the toilet and having to maneuver that business around two golf balls and a marble that hurt like hell when you touch them. Now you know the misery that I was in. He gave me a prescription cream and told me to come back in a month.
A month later, there was no change, and he said it was time to take them out. Because they were mostly “inside”, this would have to be done in the hospital as an outpatient procedure, and I’d need to take at least two weeks off from work to recover. And so, one Friday morning, I was sitting in a hospital waiting room.
Thankfully, I don’t remember the procedure. The IV they gave me didn’t knock me out, but it blurred a lot. The only part I remember is my parents coming by to see me before they wheeled me off and being broken down like a double-barreled shotgun on the operating table. The rest of it is fuzzy. Afterward, though, I have the distinct memory of being in the worst pain I’d ever felt. Like I’d been ass-raped by a chainsaw. So bad, that my doctor admitted me to the hospital and put a morphine drip in my arm.
The first couple of days of the hospital are blurry. I remember my parents and Strutter coming to visit, but I couldn’t tell you what we talked about. I remember nurses coming in all the time to take my temperature and blood pressure, and to roll me on my side to look as my ass and giggle. (They probably didn’t giggle. But this was the beginning of my lesson in humility.) I also remember, quite vividly, getting a catheter. I remember jerking upright and screaming, and scaring the hell out of the nurse. (Just a note to all the men out there: If a woman is holding your penis and pushing a flexible tube into it, do NOT sit bolt upright and scare the hell out of her.)
And so there I was, wearing nothing but a pair of tighty-whitey underwear that they gave me (I’m normally a boxers guy, if I choose to wear underwear.) laying in bed for four days with a tube of piss pouring into a bag at the foot of my bed. The first two days I was fighting off an infection, but by the third day, I was feeling well enough to tell them to take me off the morphine. I didn’t eat too many solid foods during my stay, although there was no restriction on my diet. I was too afraid to take a crap. So I stuck to soup, grits, and noodles.
Once I was home again, I was still eating soft foods out of fear. I knew it was coming, but wanted to make it as painless as possible. When it did come, after six days of waiting and with the help of Milk of Magnesia, it redefined my scale of pain.
You know how when you are describing pain of a medical provider, and they ask you where it is on a scale of one to ten, with ten being the worst pain imaginable? When I tore the meniscus in my knee, and the doctor was bending my knee and asking me what the pain ranked, she bent it one way that hurt like hell. I managed to say “seven” right before I passed out. When I came to, she told me that passing out from pain would be a ten. I replied with “But I can imagine much worse pain, like being burned alive or eaten by a shark.”
Taking a crap for the first time, after six days of not doing so, and after having three piles cut out as well as a fissured sphincter repaired, became the new ten. That little knee injury… that’s a five. I can not describe how awful it was, I will just say that I imagine being burned alive or eaten by a shark would be less painful.
It became my morning ritual. Wake up. Stagger into the bathroom. Grab a big fluffy towel and clutch it my chest. Scream into the towel for five minutes. Take a hot bath and try to push the residual pain aside. On a follow-up visit with the doctor, I joked that I wouldn’t know when I’d recovered because I’d become so used to the pain that I wouldn’t notice when it stopped hurting.
I’m still not fully recovered, a month after the surgery. Two wounds haven’t fully healed, but they’re getting better. I’ve been back at work for a couple of weeks. The only bad spots are my daily crap and the few hours following it. At least now, I’m back to my original level of discomfort, and I feel like it will get better from here.
Through all of this, Strutter has been there for me every step of the way. We may have gotten on each others’ nerves once or twice during the journey, but anytime I wince of groan, she’s by my side quicker than she can say, “Poor Mookie!”
I am the luckiest man alive.