UDDERLY FASCINATING!
For the Daily Cud's initial "Medical Monday," it is only fitting that we consider--what else?--the cud. After all, nobody said "medical" had to be restricted to "human medical."
Just this past week a veterinarian/cowboy poet named Baxter Black had a very informative column in the Amarillo Globe-News explaining, in more detail than most of us care to know, the workings of the bovine cud. According to Baxter, the cud is part of "a magnificent ruminant digestive process" that lets cows digest foods we simple-stomached people can't manage.
Here's how it works: The cow chews up a big mouthful of grass and swallows it. It goes into "a vast fermentation vat" called the rumen, where it gets all soft and nasty. Then the cow burps it back up (along with earlier blobs), chews on it some more, sends it back down for another soak, brings it back up again, etc., etc. Finally it gets so gooey it stays down and passes through and ends up as a cow patty.
[Did I ever tell you I won a cow-patty throwing contest? It is a cross between the shot put and a frisbee throw, and is one of our favorite sports out here in the Beautiful Texas Panhandle. But that's another story.]
From the standpoint of a veterinarian, which Baxter Black is, there are several important precautions to keep in mind regarding the cow and her cud.
Precaution #1--NEVER allow your hand to come into contact with the cud. "It is nasty, green, and when you get it on your hand you have to sleep with your arm hanging off the bed for at least a week"
As part of this digestive process, cows give off enormous amounts of carbon dioxide and methane. The cow's plumbing is such that it can cannot blow this out its rear, as we more civilized creatures do. It must belch it out its mouth. Unfortunately, sometimes a kink develops in the plumbing and the gas gets trapped in the gut and the cow bloats. Enormously. Agonizingly.
Since this is life-threatening for the cow, a prudent cattleman always keeps on hand either (or both) a "bloat hose" and/or a kind of punch called a trocar. To prevent the cow from dying on the spot, he must vent the trapped gas either by running the bloat hose down the cow's throat or by jabbing through the cow's side with the trocar. Generally over the frenzied animal's objections.
Thus, these precautions:
(1) If the bloat hose doesn't seem to be working, remember--BLOW, don't suck.
(2) If it IS working, you will know immediately. Avert your face and see how long you can go without inhaling.
(3) Put out your cigarette. Immediately. Keep the Volunteer Fire Department's number on hand, just in case.
And, finally,
(4) If you are tracking a badly bloated cow and can't find it--look up.
Monday, January 31, 2005
Sunday, January 30, 2005
My New Church
Several years ago, I decided to start going to church. I live in such a small town there were only 3 churches to choose from, Baptist, Methodist, and Assymbly of God. I decided to go to each one and see if any of them were my style.
The Baptist church was too depressing. The preacher might have been having a bad day, but all I remember from the sermon is we are all doomed to go straight to Hell. Unless we go to the Baptist church, follow every rule they ever come up with, and fill that tip jar they pass around in the middle of the service.
The Assymbly of God was the polar opposite. I call them a Woo Woo church, because during the service there was a lot of hands waving in the air and vocal enthusiasm. They were very friendly. In a sort of welcome to our cult sort of way. A little too inviting, if you know what I mean.
Like Goldilocks, I found the Methodist Church just right. The preacher was friendly but not pushy. The congregation had an average age of about 65, and there were only about two men in the place, not counting the preacher. I started going there, and even taught Sunday School for a short time. Eventually my work schedule caused me to quit going. I could go occasionally now, but I hardly ever do.
Anyway, I found a new church I would go to, it if wasn't immaginary. This person just has way too much time on her hands.
OOPS!! The link to the church works now.
Several years ago, I decided to start going to church. I live in such a small town there were only 3 churches to choose from, Baptist, Methodist, and Assymbly of God. I decided to go to each one and see if any of them were my style.
The Baptist church was too depressing. The preacher might have been having a bad day, but all I remember from the sermon is we are all doomed to go straight to Hell. Unless we go to the Baptist church, follow every rule they ever come up with, and fill that tip jar they pass around in the middle of the service.
The Assymbly of God was the polar opposite. I call them a Woo Woo church, because during the service there was a lot of hands waving in the air and vocal enthusiasm. They were very friendly. In a sort of welcome to our cult sort of way. A little too inviting, if you know what I mean.
Like Goldilocks, I found the Methodist Church just right. The preacher was friendly but not pushy. The congregation had an average age of about 65, and there were only about two men in the place, not counting the preacher. I started going there, and even taught Sunday School for a short time. Eventually my work schedule caused me to quit going. I could go occasionally now, but I hardly ever do.
Anyway, I found a new church I would go to, it if wasn't immaginary. This person just has way too much time on her hands.
OOPS!! The link to the church works now.
Saturday, January 29, 2005
The Night My Husband Died
My husband has a condition called Sleep Apnea, not to be confused with other sleep disorders like Insomnia, Narcolepsy, and any other sleep disorders I don't know about. I diagnosed him myself. He used to be sleepy all the time, no matter when we went to bed or how late he got up. He was Mr. Crankypants, and never wanted to do anything. He would fall asleep on the couch within a half hour, no matter what was on TV. There could be screaming, explosions, car chases, shot-outs. It didn't matter, he would sleep right through it. Even if there was company over he would sit there and nod off, snoring right through the movie or news or whatever we were watching.
For a while I didn't really mind, except when company was over. That was kind of embarrassing. But once he fell asleep, I could change the channel to whatever I wanted to watch. Sure, let's watch Missing In Action. Then as soon as he nodded off I would change it to something with a little more class. I could just sit and read a book or go get on the computer. That was before I had my laptop, so I had to get up and go in the office. I could do anything I wanted. But after a while it got kind of boring. He would sleep on the couch all evening, and then go to bed, and in the morning he would still be a zombi.
I started watching him while he slept on the couch. If he was sitting one way, he would sleep fine, but if he moved, all of a sudden everything changed. I could see his abdomen moving like he was trying to breathe , but I could tell there wasn't any air getting into his lungs. It was like he was swallowing his tongue or something. Then he would move a little and gasp a few times and fall back asleep, only to start the whole cycle over again.
I told him I thought he had Sleep Apnea, and needed to go see the doctor, but like the man that he is he denied everything. He didn't have a problem, I had a problem. He was just sleepy, that's all. Finally, he realized he really did have a problem. It took about a half hour to drive home from work, and he said it was getting harder and harder to drive home without falling asleep behind the wheel. He said a couple of times he thinks he did nod off right before he got to the house. He's lucky he didn't run off the road, or into oncoming traffic.
We called our health insurance provider and they said he needed to go to a sleep clinic. He didn't want to go. The closest clinic was in St. Louis, about an hour from our house, and that was way too far to go, even though his mom lived in St. Louis less than 10 minutes from the clinic and he never felt like her house was too far away. Eventually, he agreed to go spend the night like a lab rat. I went down and dropped him off, and this is what he said happened after I left.
First, they hooked him up with so many wires and electrodes he said he looked like Data from Star Trek had turned inside out. He told them they didn't need to bother with all that because he knew he had Sleep Apnea, all they had to do was give him the machine he needed to use when he slept and he could go home right then, but they wouldn't listen. They said they had to observe him for at least 4 hours before they could make an official diagnosis.
So he went into what looked sort of like a crappy little motel room with one of those infrared video cameras pointed right at the bed. Sort of like a weird porn set. He said he was minding his own business, choking his way through the night, when they came in and woke him up. Apparently I was right, he had Sleep Apnea. One of the worse cases they had seen. Usually they just observe all night long, but his blood oxygen level had gone down to like 6 or something. Well, not 6. I think even dead bodies have a higher blood oxygen level than that, but his was way down. They were freaking out about how low his level was. Our neighbor the nurse said in the hospital they start freaking when a patient's blood oxygen level gets to about 80-90, and his was 60, and his blood pressure was 160 over 120 or so, about head exploding level.
They let him get up and walk around while they started setting up the machine he was going to have to start using. He decided, like the rocket scientist he is, that it was a good time to go outside and have a cigarette. He didn't want to waste any time breathing oxygen when he could be sucking in tar, nicotine, and carbon dioxide. For some reason that made him start feeling lightheaded. Of course, the door to the sleep clinic locked after he closed it, so he had to push the intercom button and ask to be let back in. They freaked out some more about him smoking and brought him back inside, hooked him up to the machine and told him to go back to sleep.
The machine he has to use is called a CPAP machine. It's about the size of a shoebox, with a long flexible hose leading to a contraption of straps and velcro that holds it onto your head. On the end is a little piece that fits around your nose. They started it on the lowest setting, 1, and ended up with it set for 14, enough air pressure to knock over a small child, or a really drunk adult. They hooked him up and he went back to sleep for the rest of the night. The first real sleep he had enjoyed in months, maybe years.
He was a changed man. Just those few hours of sleep perked him up like he was on speed. Even our nurse neighbor noticed the change in him. She actually called her husband at work and told him they had new neighbors. They started calling my husband the New Dude. My husband wasn't too thrilled that he was going to have to wear that contraption on his head every night, but it would be worth it to feel awake and alive again.
That night he put the CPAP on and went to sleep. It was nice not having to listen to him snoring, gasping, and choking all night. Later that night I woke up, and wasn't even sure if he was in bed with me or not because it was so quiet. My husband likes to have a fan going while he sleeps, and that was all I could hear. I rolled over and saw that he really was laying there next to me. But he was laying on his stomach, with his face mashed into the pillow. Laying really still. Not moving a muscle. He was sleeping like a dead man. I reached over and touched his back. My husband doesn't wear a shirt when he sleeps, and he not only likes a fan on, it has to be actually blowing on him.
So I touched his back and it was cold. I mean room temperature cold. Dead body cold. I started freaking. I didn't know what to do. I really thought he was dead. Two thoughts went through my mind. First, at least he was actually awake for his last day on earth. And I was going to sue everybody who had anything to do with that CPAP machine. That was obviously what killed him. All that oxygen must have overwhelmed his poor mind. I was going to sue the sleep clinic, the employees at the sleep clinic, the doctor that sent him to the sleep clinic, the company that made the CPAP machine, the employees who put it together, the company that shipped it to the sleep clinic, the guy driving the van who delivered it to the sleep clinic, and maybe some other random people who might have at one time seen a CPAP machine. They were all going down. I was going to be rich.
Then I reached up and felt his neck. Damn, he had a pulse.
My husband has a condition called Sleep Apnea, not to be confused with other sleep disorders like Insomnia, Narcolepsy, and any other sleep disorders I don't know about. I diagnosed him myself. He used to be sleepy all the time, no matter when we went to bed or how late he got up. He was Mr. Crankypants, and never wanted to do anything. He would fall asleep on the couch within a half hour, no matter what was on TV. There could be screaming, explosions, car chases, shot-outs. It didn't matter, he would sleep right through it. Even if there was company over he would sit there and nod off, snoring right through the movie or news or whatever we were watching.
For a while I didn't really mind, except when company was over. That was kind of embarrassing. But once he fell asleep, I could change the channel to whatever I wanted to watch. Sure, let's watch Missing In Action. Then as soon as he nodded off I would change it to something with a little more class. I could just sit and read a book or go get on the computer. That was before I had my laptop, so I had to get up and go in the office. I could do anything I wanted. But after a while it got kind of boring. He would sleep on the couch all evening, and then go to bed, and in the morning he would still be a zombi.
I started watching him while he slept on the couch. If he was sitting one way, he would sleep fine, but if he moved, all of a sudden everything changed. I could see his abdomen moving like he was trying to breathe , but I could tell there wasn't any air getting into his lungs. It was like he was swallowing his tongue or something. Then he would move a little and gasp a few times and fall back asleep, only to start the whole cycle over again.
I told him I thought he had Sleep Apnea, and needed to go see the doctor, but like the man that he is he denied everything. He didn't have a problem, I had a problem. He was just sleepy, that's all. Finally, he realized he really did have a problem. It took about a half hour to drive home from work, and he said it was getting harder and harder to drive home without falling asleep behind the wheel. He said a couple of times he thinks he did nod off right before he got to the house. He's lucky he didn't run off the road, or into oncoming traffic.
We called our health insurance provider and they said he needed to go to a sleep clinic. He didn't want to go. The closest clinic was in St. Louis, about an hour from our house, and that was way too far to go, even though his mom lived in St. Louis less than 10 minutes from the clinic and he never felt like her house was too far away. Eventually, he agreed to go spend the night like a lab rat. I went down and dropped him off, and this is what he said happened after I left.
First, they hooked him up with so many wires and electrodes he said he looked like Data from Star Trek had turned inside out. He told them they didn't need to bother with all that because he knew he had Sleep Apnea, all they had to do was give him the machine he needed to use when he slept and he could go home right then, but they wouldn't listen. They said they had to observe him for at least 4 hours before they could make an official diagnosis.
So he went into what looked sort of like a crappy little motel room with one of those infrared video cameras pointed right at the bed. Sort of like a weird porn set. He said he was minding his own business, choking his way through the night, when they came in and woke him up. Apparently I was right, he had Sleep Apnea. One of the worse cases they had seen. Usually they just observe all night long, but his blood oxygen level had gone down to like 6 or something. Well, not 6. I think even dead bodies have a higher blood oxygen level than that, but his was way down. They were freaking out about how low his level was. Our neighbor the nurse said in the hospital they start freaking when a patient's blood oxygen level gets to about 80-90, and his was 60, and his blood pressure was 160 over 120 or so, about head exploding level.
They let him get up and walk around while they started setting up the machine he was going to have to start using. He decided, like the rocket scientist he is, that it was a good time to go outside and have a cigarette. He didn't want to waste any time breathing oxygen when he could be sucking in tar, nicotine, and carbon dioxide. For some reason that made him start feeling lightheaded. Of course, the door to the sleep clinic locked after he closed it, so he had to push the intercom button and ask to be let back in. They freaked out some more about him smoking and brought him back inside, hooked him up to the machine and told him to go back to sleep.
The machine he has to use is called a CPAP machine. It's about the size of a shoebox, with a long flexible hose leading to a contraption of straps and velcro that holds it onto your head. On the end is a little piece that fits around your nose. They started it on the lowest setting, 1, and ended up with it set for 14, enough air pressure to knock over a small child, or a really drunk adult. They hooked him up and he went back to sleep for the rest of the night. The first real sleep he had enjoyed in months, maybe years.
He was a changed man. Just those few hours of sleep perked him up like he was on speed. Even our nurse neighbor noticed the change in him. She actually called her husband at work and told him they had new neighbors. They started calling my husband the New Dude. My husband wasn't too thrilled that he was going to have to wear that contraption on his head every night, but it would be worth it to feel awake and alive again.
That night he put the CPAP on and went to sleep. It was nice not having to listen to him snoring, gasping, and choking all night. Later that night I woke up, and wasn't even sure if he was in bed with me or not because it was so quiet. My husband likes to have a fan going while he sleeps, and that was all I could hear. I rolled over and saw that he really was laying there next to me. But he was laying on his stomach, with his face mashed into the pillow. Laying really still. Not moving a muscle. He was sleeping like a dead man. I reached over and touched his back. My husband doesn't wear a shirt when he sleeps, and he not only likes a fan on, it has to be actually blowing on him.
So I touched his back and it was cold. I mean room temperature cold. Dead body cold. I started freaking. I didn't know what to do. I really thought he was dead. Two thoughts went through my mind. First, at least he was actually awake for his last day on earth. And I was going to sue everybody who had anything to do with that CPAP machine. That was obviously what killed him. All that oxygen must have overwhelmed his poor mind. I was going to sue the sleep clinic, the employees at the sleep clinic, the doctor that sent him to the sleep clinic, the company that made the CPAP machine, the employees who put it together, the company that shipped it to the sleep clinic, the guy driving the van who delivered it to the sleep clinic, and maybe some other random people who might have at one time seen a CPAP machine. They were all going down. I was going to be rich.
Then I reached up and felt his neck. Damn, he had a pulse.
Countdown To Death Race 2000 Update
Death Race 2000 is going to be on at 4:30 in the morning of Feb. 2, so I'm going to have my husband tape it since he will be getting ready for work about that time. Either Friday or Saturday I'm going to have a Death Race 2000 party, and I have the best idea. I'm going to make it a drinking party. Every time somebody gets run over everybody has to take a drink. By the end of the movie everybody will be completely bombed. I'm going to call it Drink Race 2000. If you get AMC, feel free to enjoy Drink Race 2000 with me. It's going to be awesome!
Death Race 2000 is going to be on at 4:30 in the morning of Feb. 2, so I'm going to have my husband tape it since he will be getting ready for work about that time. Either Friday or Saturday I'm going to have a Death Race 2000 party, and I have the best idea. I'm going to make it a drinking party. Every time somebody gets run over everybody has to take a drink. By the end of the movie everybody will be completely bombed. I'm going to call it Drink Race 2000. If you get AMC, feel free to enjoy Drink Race 2000 with me. It's going to be awesome!
Theme Day
A lot of blogs have theme days. Like MooCow having Question and Answer Friday. Kmart is starting to have Trivia Monday. I used to occasionally answer the Friday 5 questions, but the person posting the questions got tired of it and quit doing it. On a whim, I Googled Friday 5 and someone, I don't know if it is the same person, is doing it again. I think I'll start doing the Friday 5. At least as often as I used to.
But that isn't what I wanted to write about. I am going to start my own thing, the Daily Cud way. I decided since I already gave you important medical information on yogurt and Miracle Whip, Mom enlightened us on the medical uses of teenybopper sweat, and somewhere in the archives is a post I made talking about Chimeras (look it up if you want, I'm too lazy to do it myself.), I thought I would start Medical Monday.
I already have three posts in mind, Smell This, Time To Poop, and Do What With A Lemon? Feel free to post your own Medical Monday information, Mom. And if you're reading this Mary, POST SOMETHING! POST ANYTHING! If you don't, I'll post for you, and I plan on filling the post with lies, lies, and damn lies.
A lot of blogs have theme days. Like MooCow having Question and Answer Friday. Kmart is starting to have Trivia Monday. I used to occasionally answer the Friday 5 questions, but the person posting the questions got tired of it and quit doing it. On a whim, I Googled Friday 5 and someone, I don't know if it is the same person, is doing it again. I think I'll start doing the Friday 5. At least as often as I used to.
But that isn't what I wanted to write about. I am going to start my own thing, the Daily Cud way. I decided since I already gave you important medical information on yogurt and Miracle Whip, Mom enlightened us on the medical uses of teenybopper sweat, and somewhere in the archives is a post I made talking about Chimeras (look it up if you want, I'm too lazy to do it myself.), I thought I would start Medical Monday.
I already have three posts in mind, Smell This, Time To Poop, and Do What With A Lemon? Feel free to post your own Medical Monday information, Mom. And if you're reading this Mary, POST SOMETHING! POST ANYTHING! If you don't, I'll post for you, and I plan on filling the post with lies, lies, and damn lies.
Friday, January 28, 2005
One Dark Night
I found the name of the spookie movie about the chick in the mausoleum, thanks to the movie geeks at Horror View. Part of the reason I had trouble finding the name is probably the fact that it has 7 names, besides One Dark Night:
Also Known As:
Dark Night (UK) (video title)
Entity Force
Mausoleum
Night in the Crypt
Night of Darkness (UK) (video title)
Rest in Peace
Now I just need to find the satelite guide book and see if this movie is also going to be showing next month. Wish me luck.
I found the name of the spookie movie about the chick in the mausoleum, thanks to the movie geeks at Horror View. Part of the reason I had trouble finding the name is probably the fact that it has 7 names, besides One Dark Night:
Also Known As:
Dark Night (UK) (video title)
Entity Force
Mausoleum
Night in the Crypt
Night of Darkness (UK) (video title)
Rest in Peace
Now I just need to find the satelite guide book and see if this movie is also going to be showing next month. Wish me luck.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
HMMM. HOW DO I ASK?
According to a Harvard study (and I'm not making this up, it was on the BBC!), "A mystery chemical signal that young women give off appears to work for post-menopausal women too."
A Harvard researcher applied the chemical to older women, and found it improved their romantic life markedly. In a study of 44 women, half were given regular perfume and half given the same perfume boosted with "Athena Pheromone 10:13," a chemical isolated from younger women's armpit sweat. The older women kept diaries for six weeks, and 41 per cent of the the ones with the chemical reported "more kissing and affection from their partners," compared with 14% of the control sample. In addition, 68% of the pheromone set reported increases in "intimate socio-sexual behaviours." (Exactly what, we can only imagine.)
I have heard of men who would not give you the sweat off their balls. But, hey, girls, this is different.
Hmmm. How do I ask? Ruth? Mary? ANYBODY?
According to a Harvard study (and I'm not making this up, it was on the BBC!), "A mystery chemical signal that young women give off appears to work for post-menopausal women too."
A Harvard researcher applied the chemical to older women, and found it improved their romantic life markedly. In a study of 44 women, half were given regular perfume and half given the same perfume boosted with "Athena Pheromone 10:13," a chemical isolated from younger women's armpit sweat. The older women kept diaries for six weeks, and 41 per cent of the the ones with the chemical reported "more kissing and affection from their partners," compared with 14% of the control sample. In addition, 68% of the pheromone set reported increases in "intimate socio-sexual behaviours." (Exactly what, we can only imagine.)
I have heard of men who would not give you the sweat off their balls. But, hey, girls, this is different.
Hmmm. How do I ask? Ruth? Mary? ANYBODY?
Countdown To Death Race 2000
A real classic is going to be on satellite Feb 2. I have been looking forward to seeing it ever since I turned on the TV one morning about two months ago and found out it had been on for about an hour. I could only watch about 15 minutes of it because I had to go to work, but I didn't worry. It was on satellite, so I figured it would be on again in a day or two. TWO MONTHS later it is finally going to be on again.
For some crazy reason the person who wrote the review I linked to didn't think the movie was any good, but I think it's hilarious. One of those movies that are so bad they are good. Like a scary movie I saw in a theater about 20 years ago where a girl was locked in a mausoleum as a sorority prank or something, and then gets chased all over by the floating corpse of some dead magician, or devil worshiper, or some crazy thing, who shoots electric charges out of his hands, or eyes, or whatever. Man, I wish I could remember the name of that movie, but how could you put a description like that in Google? Ok, I tried, and Google can't find anything matching that description. Damn Google.
So now I have my whole house on Countdown to Death Race 2000. Well, actually, it's only me. Nobody else seems to care. My husband doesn't even remember the movie at all. I think maybe he was in a coma, or a Tibetan monastery, in 1975. At least the Girl has a good excuse for not knowing anything about Death Race 2000, not being born yet and all.
A real classic is going to be on satellite Feb 2. I have been looking forward to seeing it ever since I turned on the TV one morning about two months ago and found out it had been on for about an hour. I could only watch about 15 minutes of it because I had to go to work, but I didn't worry. It was on satellite, so I figured it would be on again in a day or two. TWO MONTHS later it is finally going to be on again.
For some crazy reason the person who wrote the review I linked to didn't think the movie was any good, but I think it's hilarious. One of those movies that are so bad they are good. Like a scary movie I saw in a theater about 20 years ago where a girl was locked in a mausoleum as a sorority prank or something, and then gets chased all over by the floating corpse of some dead magician, or devil worshiper, or some crazy thing, who shoots electric charges out of his hands, or eyes, or whatever. Man, I wish I could remember the name of that movie, but how could you put a description like that in Google? Ok, I tried, and Google can't find anything matching that description. Damn Google.
So now I have my whole house on Countdown to Death Race 2000. Well, actually, it's only me. Nobody else seems to care. My husband doesn't even remember the movie at all. I think maybe he was in a coma, or a Tibetan monastery, in 1975. At least the Girl has a good excuse for not knowing anything about Death Race 2000, not being born yet and all.
Overheard at the Cud Household
Alarm Clock: Yap, yap, yap, crappy music, yap.
Me: Honey, it's time to wake up.
Husband: Not now, I need coffee.
Me: Let me go get you some coffee.
A few minutes later
Me: Here's your coffee, Honey. Now it's time to get up.
Husband: Not now, I need a hug.
Me: It's all about you, isn't it? I need coffee, I need a hug, I need oxygen to breathe.
Alarm Clock: Yap, yap, yap, crappy music, yap.
Me: Honey, it's time to wake up.
Husband: Not now, I need coffee.
Me: Let me go get you some coffee.
A few minutes later
Me: Here's your coffee, Honey. Now it's time to get up.
Husband: Not now, I need a hug.
Me: It's all about you, isn't it? I need coffee, I need a hug, I need oxygen to breathe.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Does This Make Me Look Trashy?
Since I've been working for 411, my fingernails have never looked better. They are long and strong, not the chipped, pathetic stubs I had when I worked in restaurants or that crappy factory. To celebrate I had my nails painted the other night. A real nice pinkish-purple color. With glitter. I think it looks festive. It looks like my fingers are having a party.
But now, when I look at them, I wonder if this is revealing a trashy side of me that I never knew existed. I mean, I know purple glittery fingernail polish isn't exactly sophisticated, but is it trailer trash? Or maybe my inner child is coming out? I guess I should watch for further developments. If it's my trailer trash side, I will start going to the grocery store in Daisy Dukes and sequined flip-flops, eating right out of the grocery cart. If it's my inner child, I will start putting stickers on every flat surface in my house, dressing my dogs up like circus performers, and eating Ding Dongs for breakfast.
I'll keep you updated.
Since I've been working for 411, my fingernails have never looked better. They are long and strong, not the chipped, pathetic stubs I had when I worked in restaurants or that crappy factory. To celebrate I had my nails painted the other night. A real nice pinkish-purple color. With glitter. I think it looks festive. It looks like my fingers are having a party.
But now, when I look at them, I wonder if this is revealing a trashy side of me that I never knew existed. I mean, I know purple glittery fingernail polish isn't exactly sophisticated, but is it trailer trash? Or maybe my inner child is coming out? I guess I should watch for further developments. If it's my trailer trash side, I will start going to the grocery store in Daisy Dukes and sequined flip-flops, eating right out of the grocery cart. If it's my inner child, I will start putting stickers on every flat surface in my house, dressing my dogs up like circus performers, and eating Ding Dongs for breakfast.
I'll keep you updated.
Monday, January 24, 2005
CHUCK BERRY CALLS VERIZON AND GETS THE IDEA FOR "MY DING-A-LING"
CHUCK: [ring]
RUTH: What city and state, please?
CHUCK: Help me, Information, get in touch with my Marie . . .
RUTH: What city and state, sir?
CHUCK: She's the only one who'd phone me here, from Memphis, Tennessee . . .
RUTH: I need a last name and address, please.
CHUCK: Her home is on the south side, high up on a ridge,
Just a half a mile from the Mississippi Bridge.
RUTH: Is Marie a last name? I have several Maries in Memphis,
but I do need a street address.
CHUCK: Help me, Information, more than that I cannot add,
Only that I miss her and all the fun we had.
RUTH: There's a Ron Marie on Beale Street, a Louis Marie on Elm,
a Joseph Marie on Third, a Bernard Marie on Commerce. . .
CHUCK: But we were pulled apart because her Mom did not agree,
And tore apart our happy home in Memphis, Tennessee.
RUTH: A Marie's Wedding Shop on Eleventh, a Marie's Git & Go on Oakley . . .
CHUCK: Help me, Information, get in touch with my Marie . . .
RUTH: A Marie's Tavern on Second, a Marie's Arcade on Jackson . . .
CHUCK: [ring]
RUTH: What city and state, please?
CHUCK: Help me, Information, get in touch with my Marie . . .
RUTH: What city and state, sir?
CHUCK: She's the only one who'd phone me here, from Memphis, Tennessee . . .
RUTH: I need a last name and address, please.
CHUCK: Her home is on the south side, high up on a ridge,
Just a half a mile from the Mississippi Bridge.
RUTH: Is Marie a last name? I have several Maries in Memphis,
but I do need a street address.
CHUCK: Help me, Information, more than that I cannot add,
Only that I miss her and all the fun we had.
RUTH: There's a Ron Marie on Beale Street, a Louis Marie on Elm,
a Joseph Marie on Third, a Bernard Marie on Commerce. . .
CHUCK: But we were pulled apart because her Mom did not agree,
And tore apart our happy home in Memphis, Tennessee.
RUTH: A Marie's Wedding Shop on Eleventh, a Marie's Git & Go on Oakley . . .
CHUCK: Help me, Information, get in touch with my Marie . . .
RUTH: A Marie's Tavern on Second, a Marie's Arcade on Jackson . . .
Sunday, January 23, 2005
GOOD ADVICE
One of my favorite bloggers is Ambra Nykol, who writes at www.nykola.com. (If Ruth knows how to add her to the Cud's blogroll, I wish she would.) "Contrary to popular belief, there are black people in the Pacific Northwest. Quite a few actually," she writes. She happens to be one of them, and has been blogging since January 2004. Although she calls herself simply "a nice little black girl, and aspiring freelance writer," she is one terrific writer. I enjoy her light-hearted pieces and sometimes find some deep thinking among the humor.
The reason I mention her is that she has done all of us newbies a favor by posting, beginning on Jan. 19, an advice piece, "How to Blog Like a Rockstar." You can find it at http://www.nykola.com/archives/000524.html#more, or just go to nykola.com and scroll down until you find it. It is in several pieces, so keep hunting until you have it all--it's worth it!
That's what I like about bloggers. They are the most generous people in the world.
One of my favorite bloggers is Ambra Nykol, who writes at www.nykola.com. (If Ruth knows how to add her to the Cud's blogroll, I wish she would.) "Contrary to popular belief, there are black people in the Pacific Northwest. Quite a few actually," she writes. She happens to be one of them, and has been blogging since January 2004. Although she calls herself simply "a nice little black girl, and aspiring freelance writer," she is one terrific writer. I enjoy her light-hearted pieces and sometimes find some deep thinking among the humor.
The reason I mention her is that she has done all of us newbies a favor by posting, beginning on Jan. 19, an advice piece, "How to Blog Like a Rockstar." You can find it at http://www.nykola.com/archives/000524.html#more, or just go to nykola.com and scroll down until you find it. It is in several pieces, so keep hunting until you have it all--it's worth it!
That's what I like about bloggers. They are the most generous people in the world.
DOG DAYS
When anyone asks me what I've been doing, I usually say, "Walking the dogs." They take that to mean, "Nothing." WRONG!!!
Okay, maybe walking my rat terrier Mickey is close to nothing. We don't do much except mosey around following sniff-trails and peeing on significant landmarks. It's really pretty boring, unless he flushes a rabbit over at the school, so I mostly use our walks as an occasion to listen to books on tape. Sometimes I get so engrossed I forget where I am and have to figure out how to get back to 4901 Andrews from a creaky old mansion on the California coast on a dark and windswept night.
Walking my neighbor's dog Molly is another matter. If you don't remember, Molly is a Lhasa Apso with an attitude. Her attitude is, "I am Tibetan royalty, and you are my devoted lackey." We take about a 30 minute walk every day since, as you may recall, her owner--oops, "honored companion"--is wheelchair bound at home.
Our unvarying route is to go one-half block west, then take a right into a long alley that runs to the next street and go on from there. At the point where we make this turn into the alley, we are joined by a black-and-white border collie named Lady. Lady pretty much has the run of the neighborhood and, being a working dog by ancestry, she is alert for little services she can perform. She has taken on the duty of escorting us through this alley with the pomp and circumstance due a regal personage such as Molly. Rather like the trumpeter who precedes the royal entourage and alerts the loyal subjects.
So there we go on our grand way down the alley. You should know that two out of three houses bordering the alley contain dogs, and that they are usually out in their backyards. Lady rushes ahead barking at the high wooden fences that prevent these dogs from seeing us. She alerts them that we are passing, and they respond in a frenzy. The roar of the crowd rolls down the alley like a great wave as we make our grand way. While Lady rushes from side to side, Molly glides straight ahead at a regal pace, barely acknowledging her subjects with a slight swish of her plumed tail. Like the Queen Mum barely nodding to the commoners from her carriage.
Shortly before Christmas we were going down the alley, accompanied by the usual chorus. BARK! BARK! ARF! YIP! YAP! GRRR! RUFF! RUFF! QUACK! YIP-YIP-YAP!
Wait a minute! QUACK?
I whipped off my earphones and listened. Nothing. I looked up in the sky. No V-flight of ducks headed to the park. Was it a glitch in the book-on-tape? I smacked my Walkman a couple of times just in case, and went on. But I brooded about it the rest of the way home. Had I imagined it? Was I, at last, quacking up?
The next day, same route, same dogs. No quack. This was not good. I HAD imagined it.
Then next day, QUACK! QUACK! I couldn't tell where it was coming from, but it seemed to be one of the last couple of houses before the end of the alley. It was true, someone had a duck!
After that, it got to be a normal occurence, and one day I triangulated the sound and squinted through a crack in the fence and saw a huge black duck swaggering around the back yard. It looked like a cartoonist had drawn Daffy Duck and plopped him down in this back yard.
Why do they have a duck? I ponder this as we take our walk. They are, for this neighborhood, a fairly wealthy family and I guess entitled to their eccentricities. At first I thought Mr. Daffy was intended from Christmas dinner, but the next day he was still there, quacking away. Ditto, New Year's Day. So Molly, Lady, and I have accepted his presence and look forward to his acknowledgment as we pass and are disappointed when he withholds it. Hail to thee, our web-footed friend.
When anyone asks me what I've been doing, I usually say, "Walking the dogs." They take that to mean, "Nothing." WRONG!!!
Okay, maybe walking my rat terrier Mickey is close to nothing. We don't do much except mosey around following sniff-trails and peeing on significant landmarks. It's really pretty boring, unless he flushes a rabbit over at the school, so I mostly use our walks as an occasion to listen to books on tape. Sometimes I get so engrossed I forget where I am and have to figure out how to get back to 4901 Andrews from a creaky old mansion on the California coast on a dark and windswept night.
Walking my neighbor's dog Molly is another matter. If you don't remember, Molly is a Lhasa Apso with an attitude. Her attitude is, "I am Tibetan royalty, and you are my devoted lackey." We take about a 30 minute walk every day since, as you may recall, her owner--oops, "honored companion"--is wheelchair bound at home.
Our unvarying route is to go one-half block west, then take a right into a long alley that runs to the next street and go on from there. At the point where we make this turn into the alley, we are joined by a black-and-white border collie named Lady. Lady pretty much has the run of the neighborhood and, being a working dog by ancestry, she is alert for little services she can perform. She has taken on the duty of escorting us through this alley with the pomp and circumstance due a regal personage such as Molly. Rather like the trumpeter who precedes the royal entourage and alerts the loyal subjects.
So there we go on our grand way down the alley. You should know that two out of three houses bordering the alley contain dogs, and that they are usually out in their backyards. Lady rushes ahead barking at the high wooden fences that prevent these dogs from seeing us. She alerts them that we are passing, and they respond in a frenzy. The roar of the crowd rolls down the alley like a great wave as we make our grand way. While Lady rushes from side to side, Molly glides straight ahead at a regal pace, barely acknowledging her subjects with a slight swish of her plumed tail. Like the Queen Mum barely nodding to the commoners from her carriage.
Shortly before Christmas we were going down the alley, accompanied by the usual chorus. BARK! BARK! ARF! YIP! YAP! GRRR! RUFF! RUFF! QUACK! YIP-YIP-YAP!
Wait a minute! QUACK?
I whipped off my earphones and listened. Nothing. I looked up in the sky. No V-flight of ducks headed to the park. Was it a glitch in the book-on-tape? I smacked my Walkman a couple of times just in case, and went on. But I brooded about it the rest of the way home. Had I imagined it? Was I, at last, quacking up?
The next day, same route, same dogs. No quack. This was not good. I HAD imagined it.
Then next day, QUACK! QUACK! I couldn't tell where it was coming from, but it seemed to be one of the last couple of houses before the end of the alley. It was true, someone had a duck!
After that, it got to be a normal occurence, and one day I triangulated the sound and squinted through a crack in the fence and saw a huge black duck swaggering around the back yard. It looked like a cartoonist had drawn Daffy Duck and plopped him down in this back yard.
Why do they have a duck? I ponder this as we take our walk. They are, for this neighborhood, a fairly wealthy family and I guess entitled to their eccentricities. At first I thought Mr. Daffy was intended from Christmas dinner, but the next day he was still there, quacking away. Ditto, New Year's Day. So Molly, Lady, and I have accepted his presence and look forward to his acknowledgment as we pass and are disappointed when he withholds it. Hail to thee, our web-footed friend.
Saturday, January 22, 2005
On The Roof
It's a sad day at the Cud household. Did you ever hear the joke about the cat on the roof?
~~~~~
Cat On The Roof
A man left his cat with his brother while he went on vacation for a week. When he came back, he called his brother to see when he could pick the cat up. The brother hesitated, then said, "I'm so sorry, but while you were away, the cat died."
The man was very upset and yelled, "You know, you could have broken the news to me better than that. When I called today, you could have said he was on the roof and wouldn't come down. Then when I called the next day, you could have said that he had fallen off and the vet was working on patching him up. Then when I called the third day, you could have said he had passed away."
The brother thought about it and apologized.
"So how's Mom?" asked the man.
"She's on the roof and won't come down."
~~~~~
Can you guess where this is heading? When I came home from work yesterday my husband had bad news for me. No, my mom wasn't up on the roof. It was someone closer to me. It was Fluffy. I barely had a chance to get to know Fluffy, and now Fluffy's gone. I don't know if I can go to work today, what with all the tears and funeral plans to arrange.
It's a sad day at the Cud household. Did you ever hear the joke about the cat on the roof?
~~~~~
Cat On The Roof
A man left his cat with his brother while he went on vacation for a week. When he came back, he called his brother to see when he could pick the cat up. The brother hesitated, then said, "I'm so sorry, but while you were away, the cat died."
The man was very upset and yelled, "You know, you could have broken the news to me better than that. When I called today, you could have said he was on the roof and wouldn't come down. Then when I called the next day, you could have said that he had fallen off and the vet was working on patching him up. Then when I called the third day, you could have said he had passed away."
The brother thought about it and apologized.
"So how's Mom?" asked the man.
"She's on the roof and won't come down."
~~~~~
Can you guess where this is heading? When I came home from work yesterday my husband had bad news for me. No, my mom wasn't up on the roof. It was someone closer to me. It was Fluffy. I barely had a chance to get to know Fluffy, and now Fluffy's gone. I don't know if I can go to work today, what with all the tears and funeral plans to arrange.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Watch It Young Lady
I didn't want to take a chance that my husband or The Girl would throw away Fluffy, so I showed it (Him? Her?) to them. Can you believe The Girl ridiculed Fluffy? She even went so far as poking Fluffy and laughing. You better watch it young missy. Mess with Fluffy and one day you'll open your lunch bag and find a Fluffy sandwich.
I didn't want to take a chance that my husband or The Girl would throw away Fluffy, so I showed it (Him? Her?) to them. Can you believe The Girl ridiculed Fluffy? She even went so far as poking Fluffy and laughing. You better watch it young missy. Mess with Fluffy and one day you'll open your lunch bag and find a Fluffy sandwich.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Pet Bread
I have a new pet. Well, I guess it's an old pet. It's what's left of a loaf of Texas toast, about 3 or 4 slices. I'm not sure how old it is, but it's got the most awesome mold. It looks like it has creamy white icing all over. I like to think of it as sort of a penicillin Chia-pet. I feel better just knowing it's in there if I need penicillin again. I wonder if I leave that half-empty container of milk in the refrigerator will it turn into yogurt, too? I just need to pick a name for it now. Maybe just Fuzzy, since it is, or Snowball, since it's so fluffy and white.
I have a new pet. Well, I guess it's an old pet. It's what's left of a loaf of Texas toast, about 3 or 4 slices. I'm not sure how old it is, but it's got the most awesome mold. It looks like it has creamy white icing all over. I like to think of it as sort of a penicillin Chia-pet. I feel better just knowing it's in there if I need penicillin again. I wonder if I leave that half-empty container of milk in the refrigerator will it turn into yogurt, too? I just need to pick a name for it now. Maybe just Fuzzy, since it is, or Snowball, since it's so fluffy and white.
Fire = Bad + Funny
I never had a problem with fire until I met my husband. Now, I have plenty of experience with fire. My first brush with flames didn't actually involve fire, just lots of smoke. I was cleaning the kitchen once and set the cat food bowl on the counter so I could mop the floor. After I finished in the kitchen my husband and I went to the store. When we came back the house was full of smoke. It turns out I didn't set the cat food bowl on the counter, I set it on the toaster oven that was on the counter. The toaster oven with the little buttons on top that you push to turn it on and pick the heat setting. I didn't want to put the food bowl back on the floor until the floor was dry, but apparently my cats needed a snack while we were gone. They had the toaster oven turned on and their food bowl was melted all across the top and down the sides, pieces of burnt and crispy cat food swimming in the liquid plastic.
I wasn't actually involved in the other fire stories, except as an innocent bystander after the fact. One involved my neighbor 'C' from the cripple junkie fight. He cooked lunch one day and then came over to our house and sat around on the porch with my husband. I think beer might have been involved. They were sitting there, minding their own business, when another neighbor walked over and asked if C was barbecuing at his house. They looked over at his house and smoke is billowing out from the back of the house.
It turns out he left a pan of grease cooking on the stove when he left. His kitchen was totally ruined, plus there was a lot of smoke and heat damage all through the house. His TV melted, just like my cat food bowl. The blades on his ceiling fan were hanging straight down. He ended up living in his garage while his house was repaired. I was driving home and passed a fire truck leaving my subdivision. Interesting, I thought. When I got home I was just thankful that it hadn't been my house. Not yet, at least.
About a month or two later, I'm coming home again. I pull up in front of my house and see the stove laying on it's side in the front yard. That's something you don't see every day. The house reeks, there's smoke everywhere, and my husband is sitting on the porch swing drinking beer. I'm noticing a distinct relationship between fire and beer. What happened was someone (my husband swears it was me, but I'm pleading the 5th) put a plastic tray in the oven. My husband turned the oven on and started fixing dinner, then started smelling something burning. He looked over and there were flames coming out from the edges of the door of the oven. He had a fire extinguisher, so he tried to put out the fire, but of course the fire extinguisher was empty.
Luckily, my husband drinks beer. Why is that lucky, you ask? Did he shake up a beer and drown the fire in sudsy goodness? No, he had a bottle of C02 that he used when we had kegs of beer for the larger parties. Keg parties will have to be an entry of their own. So he took the bottle of C02 and sprayed that all over the fire. Then he decided he needed to get the stove out of the house since it reeked of melted plastic, but the stove wasn't plugged in. When we fixed the house after the flood we put the stove about 2 feet from the fuse box, so instead of running a wire and putting in an outlet, we just wired the stove directly into the fuse box. That slowed him down a little, but he was able to finally get the stove in the yard where it belonged.
The last fire story, surprisingly enough, also involves beer. I was sitting at home, minding my own business, when my husband calls. We were finally moving out of the flood plain into a brand new house on the hill. Cue the Jefferson's theme song. He had been up at the construction site hooking up our camper so we could hang out up there and watch the house be built. Good idea, right? So anyway, he calls up and says "Get up here right now! The camper's on fire! Oh, and on the way stop at the liquor store and get some beer." Right, I think, sure the camper's on fire. He just wants me to bring him some beer. So like the good wife that I am, I get his beer and start driving up to the new house. On the way I pass a fire truck. Hm, where have I seen this before?
I pull up to the new house, and the camper looks fine. No charred pile of rubble, no billowing cloud of smoke. I get out of my car and give my husband the beer. He starts telling me the whole story. He hooked up the electric, and then started turning on the refrigerator. Campers use propane refrigerators so you can use them if you're out in the wilderness. Propane means fire, in case you didn't know. How a fire can keep food cold is beyond my understanding, but somehow it does.
He had problems getting the pilot to light. He tried a couple of times, and then he heard a whoosh sound like something caught fire. Something had. A bunch of birds, or mice or something, had built a nice little house in the flue pipe. Up in flames. So my husband ran over to the construction people, who luckily had a hose they had been using. He was able to put the fire out before the fire department got there.
They were really bummed out about not being able to use their hoses to play firemen. You see, our town is so dinky we have a volunteer fire department. They are sort of like superheroes, mild mannered bank teller on the surface, daring fireman when paged. So now the firemen had to all go back to their boring day-to-day jobs and not hang around in their little helmets and axes.
I never had a problem with fire until I met my husband. Now, I have plenty of experience with fire. My first brush with flames didn't actually involve fire, just lots of smoke. I was cleaning the kitchen once and set the cat food bowl on the counter so I could mop the floor. After I finished in the kitchen my husband and I went to the store. When we came back the house was full of smoke. It turns out I didn't set the cat food bowl on the counter, I set it on the toaster oven that was on the counter. The toaster oven with the little buttons on top that you push to turn it on and pick the heat setting. I didn't want to put the food bowl back on the floor until the floor was dry, but apparently my cats needed a snack while we were gone. They had the toaster oven turned on and their food bowl was melted all across the top and down the sides, pieces of burnt and crispy cat food swimming in the liquid plastic.
I wasn't actually involved in the other fire stories, except as an innocent bystander after the fact. One involved my neighbor 'C' from the cripple junkie fight. He cooked lunch one day and then came over to our house and sat around on the porch with my husband. I think beer might have been involved. They were sitting there, minding their own business, when another neighbor walked over and asked if C was barbecuing at his house. They looked over at his house and smoke is billowing out from the back of the house.
It turns out he left a pan of grease cooking on the stove when he left. His kitchen was totally ruined, plus there was a lot of smoke and heat damage all through the house. His TV melted, just like my cat food bowl. The blades on his ceiling fan were hanging straight down. He ended up living in his garage while his house was repaired. I was driving home and passed a fire truck leaving my subdivision. Interesting, I thought. When I got home I was just thankful that it hadn't been my house. Not yet, at least.
About a month or two later, I'm coming home again. I pull up in front of my house and see the stove laying on it's side in the front yard. That's something you don't see every day. The house reeks, there's smoke everywhere, and my husband is sitting on the porch swing drinking beer. I'm noticing a distinct relationship between fire and beer. What happened was someone (my husband swears it was me, but I'm pleading the 5th) put a plastic tray in the oven. My husband turned the oven on and started fixing dinner, then started smelling something burning. He looked over and there were flames coming out from the edges of the door of the oven. He had a fire extinguisher, so he tried to put out the fire, but of course the fire extinguisher was empty.
Luckily, my husband drinks beer. Why is that lucky, you ask? Did he shake up a beer and drown the fire in sudsy goodness? No, he had a bottle of C02 that he used when we had kegs of beer for the larger parties. Keg parties will have to be an entry of their own. So he took the bottle of C02 and sprayed that all over the fire. Then he decided he needed to get the stove out of the house since it reeked of melted plastic, but the stove wasn't plugged in. When we fixed the house after the flood we put the stove about 2 feet from the fuse box, so instead of running a wire and putting in an outlet, we just wired the stove directly into the fuse box. That slowed him down a little, but he was able to finally get the stove in the yard where it belonged.
The last fire story, surprisingly enough, also involves beer. I was sitting at home, minding my own business, when my husband calls. We were finally moving out of the flood plain into a brand new house on the hill. Cue the Jefferson's theme song. He had been up at the construction site hooking up our camper so we could hang out up there and watch the house be built. Good idea, right? So anyway, he calls up and says "Get up here right now! The camper's on fire! Oh, and on the way stop at the liquor store and get some beer." Right, I think, sure the camper's on fire. He just wants me to bring him some beer. So like the good wife that I am, I get his beer and start driving up to the new house. On the way I pass a fire truck. Hm, where have I seen this before?
I pull up to the new house, and the camper looks fine. No charred pile of rubble, no billowing cloud of smoke. I get out of my car and give my husband the beer. He starts telling me the whole story. He hooked up the electric, and then started turning on the refrigerator. Campers use propane refrigerators so you can use them if you're out in the wilderness. Propane means fire, in case you didn't know. How a fire can keep food cold is beyond my understanding, but somehow it does.
He had problems getting the pilot to light. He tried a couple of times, and then he heard a whoosh sound like something caught fire. Something had. A bunch of birds, or mice or something, had built a nice little house in the flue pipe. Up in flames. So my husband ran over to the construction people, who luckily had a hose they had been using. He was able to put the fire out before the fire department got there.
They were really bummed out about not being able to use their hoses to play firemen. You see, our town is so dinky we have a volunteer fire department. They are sort of like superheroes, mild mannered bank teller on the surface, daring fireman when paged. So now the firemen had to all go back to their boring day-to-day jobs and not hang around in their little helmets and axes.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Big Party
I threw a party in my mouth over the weekend and invited all the good teeth. I had a steak, baked potato, and beans. You don't realize how much you take the little things for granted, like being able to chew on both sides of your mouth, until something happens, like a tooth going bad. I still miss my tooth that got pulled out, but I don't miss having to chew everything on the right side of my mouth. I probably looked like a chipmunk with all my food stuffed over in that cheek when I was eating. Towards the end, before I had the tooth pulled, I could barely chew even on the good side of my mouth. Now I still have to be careful when I chew on the left side, but there isn't any pain shooting straight to my brain like before. Life is good. Pass the butter, please.
A Rose By Any Other Name
My brother used to be the king of nicknames. He gave just about everybody nicknames. I don't know if he had one for me or Mary, but everybody else seemed to get one. He gave nicknames to everybody in a family that lived down the road. The mother drove a school bus, so her name was Bus 4. The daughter was one of those girls who liked black eye-liner. The blacker and thicker the better. So her name was Coon, since she always looked like she had a little black mask like a raccoon. Her brother was one of those annoying people that can't let you say anything without coming up with a better story. Except all his stories were about his dad. If you bought a motorcycle, his dad used to have a better one. If you went deer hunting and killed a deer, his dad killed a bigger one. Ever other sentence he said started with "My dad" so that was his name.
The dad had the best nickname. He had about as much hair as Homer Simpson, so my brother christened him Mellonhead. No problem there. That name fit him perfectly. We all called him Mr. Mellonhead. Then my husband and I moved up here from the city. My husband constantly heard us talking about Mr. Mellonhead. Then one day Mr. Mellonhead stopped at my brother's house to ask him a question about something while we were over there. My husband walked up and introduced himself. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mellonhead," he said. I don't know what Mr. Mellonhead thought. He never said anything about it, just talked to my brother for a minute and then went on home. We all about died laughing. When we explained that Mr. Mellonhead wasn't really his name my husband wasn't amused.
My brother used to be the king of nicknames. He gave just about everybody nicknames. I don't know if he had one for me or Mary, but everybody else seemed to get one. He gave nicknames to everybody in a family that lived down the road. The mother drove a school bus, so her name was Bus 4. The daughter was one of those girls who liked black eye-liner. The blacker and thicker the better. So her name was Coon, since she always looked like she had a little black mask like a raccoon. Her brother was one of those annoying people that can't let you say anything without coming up with a better story. Except all his stories were about his dad. If you bought a motorcycle, his dad used to have a better one. If you went deer hunting and killed a deer, his dad killed a bigger one. Ever other sentence he said started with "My dad" so that was his name.
The dad had the best nickname. He had about as much hair as Homer Simpson, so my brother christened him Mellonhead. No problem there. That name fit him perfectly. We all called him Mr. Mellonhead. Then my husband and I moved up here from the city. My husband constantly heard us talking about Mr. Mellonhead. Then one day Mr. Mellonhead stopped at my brother's house to ask him a question about something while we were over there. My husband walked up and introduced himself. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mellonhead," he said. I don't know what Mr. Mellonhead thought. He never said anything about it, just talked to my brother for a minute and then went on home. We all about died laughing. When we explained that Mr. Mellonhead wasn't really his name my husband wasn't amused.
Monday, January 17, 2005
More Stupid Callers
I had a real genius group of callers over the weekend. I had one guy that called up and just said 'Penis.' I thought maybe he just said Phoenix, so I asked him if he could repeat that. He giggled and said 'Really big penises.' What a moron. That probably cost him $1.50. Oh, the hilarity.
Then it seemed like ever fifth call went like this:
Me: What city and state?
Annoying Caller: St. Blah, CA .
Me: What listing would you like?
AC: Sears
Me: I don't have a listing for Sears in St. Blah, but I see one listed in Rancho Whatever and Snarkywood.
AC: No, the one I want is in Blah Bay.
Me: Let me get that number for you. One moment, please. (While thinking: You stupid ass. You knew what city it was in and wasted my time looking in the wrong city. I should give you the number for STD testing at the free clinic, but no, I'll give you the number for Sears in Blah Bay. The customer is always right, blah blah blah.) Here's your number, have a great day.
Now, I don't mind the callers who honestly thought the store was in the wrong city, or that didn't realize the store was in the next town over. But these people were really pushing my buttons this weekend. I mean come on, if you want a certain store in a certain town, you should ask for that store in that town. How hard is that to understand?
I had a real genius group of callers over the weekend. I had one guy that called up and just said 'Penis.' I thought maybe he just said Phoenix, so I asked him if he could repeat that. He giggled and said 'Really big penises.' What a moron. That probably cost him $1.50. Oh, the hilarity.
Then it seemed like ever fifth call went like this:
Me: What city and state?
Annoying Caller: St. Blah, CA .
Me: What listing would you like?
AC: Sears
Me: I don't have a listing for Sears in St. Blah, but I see one listed in Rancho Whatever and Snarkywood.
AC: No, the one I want is in Blah Bay.
Me: Let me get that number for you. One moment, please. (While thinking: You stupid ass. You knew what city it was in and wasted my time looking in the wrong city. I should give you the number for STD testing at the free clinic, but no, I'll give you the number for Sears in Blah Bay. The customer is always right, blah blah blah.) Here's your number, have a great day.
Now, I don't mind the callers who honestly thought the store was in the wrong city, or that didn't realize the store was in the next town over. But these people were really pushing my buttons this weekend. I mean come on, if you want a certain store in a certain town, you should ask for that store in that town. How hard is that to understand?
Saturday, January 15, 2005
Just A Thought
I don't know if I am just getting picky or what, but it seems to me that if you can't hear maybe you shouldn't be using the telephone. At least not calling 411. At least not while I'm working, because really, if you can't hear me, it doesn't matter if I hang up on you after I try to explain something to you 12 times, does it?
I don't know if I am just getting picky or what, but it seems to me that if you can't hear maybe you shouldn't be using the telephone. At least not calling 411. At least not while I'm working, because really, if you can't hear me, it doesn't matter if I hang up on you after I try to explain something to you 12 times, does it?
I Heart Clark
I know I have a reputation as a CourtTv freak, but there is something I love even better than CourtTv. Old movies. Especially black and white movies. Especially any movie with Clark Gable in it. He was just so hot. He was hot when he was young, he was hot when he was middle aged, and he was still hot when he was old. He was sort of like the original Harrison Ford. He's hot, but just a pale imitation of Gable. Do you think Brad Pitt will still be hot when he's 60? Me neither.
Did you know even Hitler thought he was hot? Hitler thought Gable was hot, not thought he was personally hot. Well, who knows, Hitler was a nut. Maybe he did think he was hot. You know, maybe he grew that mustache because he thought it made him look like Gable. Didn't work. On the Hot-meter, Hitler is a negative gazillion points. Hitler even put out a bounty on Gable to try and get somebody to snatch him and bring him to Germany. That just makes me think maybe Hitler was gay.
If Clark Gable was still alive today he would be over 100. I think he would still be hot, but not stalkable hot. Hot enough to want his autograph, but not hot enough to want him to autograph my boobies or anything. Hot enough to want to take his picture if I saw him, but not hot enough to want to break into his house and paw through his boxer drawer. Hot enough to, well, you get the picture.
Clark Gable was just plain hot. If you don't agree, in the immortal words of Rhett Butler, frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.
I know I have a reputation as a CourtTv freak, but there is something I love even better than CourtTv. Old movies. Especially black and white movies. Especially any movie with Clark Gable in it. He was just so hot. He was hot when he was young, he was hot when he was middle aged, and he was still hot when he was old. He was sort of like the original Harrison Ford. He's hot, but just a pale imitation of Gable. Do you think Brad Pitt will still be hot when he's 60? Me neither.
Did you know even Hitler thought he was hot? Hitler thought Gable was hot, not thought he was personally hot. Well, who knows, Hitler was a nut. Maybe he did think he was hot. You know, maybe he grew that mustache because he thought it made him look like Gable. Didn't work. On the Hot-meter, Hitler is a negative gazillion points. Hitler even put out a bounty on Gable to try and get somebody to snatch him and bring him to Germany. That just makes me think maybe Hitler was gay.
If Clark Gable was still alive today he would be over 100. I think he would still be hot, but not stalkable hot. Hot enough to want his autograph, but not hot enough to want him to autograph my boobies or anything. Hot enough to want to take his picture if I saw him, but not hot enough to want to break into his house and paw through his boxer drawer. Hot enough to, well, you get the picture.
Clark Gable was just plain hot. If you don't agree, in the immortal words of Rhett Butler, frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Important Medical Update
I told my husband that I blogged about using Mayo to bring up blood sugar and he told me I was wrong. It's not Mayo, it's MiracleWhip. Apparently MiracleWhip is chock full of sugary goodness. Now aren't you glad you read the Daily Cud? You never know what kind of groundbreaking medical discoveries you will learn here. Like the medical uses of MiracleWhip, or yogurt.
Speaking of yogurt. I know I said I would keep it to myself if I did the yogurt wipe. No, I didn't do it. I took all my antibiotics, and then I thought I would wait and see if I developed the, well, need for the wipe, let's say. After all, you want me to blog about yeast infections, don't you? Don't you? Wait, where are you going? Wait! Stop! Come back! Come back!
I told my husband that I blogged about using Mayo to bring up blood sugar and he told me I was wrong. It's not Mayo, it's MiracleWhip. Apparently MiracleWhip is chock full of sugary goodness. Now aren't you glad you read the Daily Cud? You never know what kind of groundbreaking medical discoveries you will learn here. Like the medical uses of MiracleWhip, or yogurt.
Speaking of yogurt. I know I said I would keep it to myself if I did the yogurt wipe. No, I didn't do it. I took all my antibiotics, and then I thought I would wait and see if I developed the, well, need for the wipe, let's say. After all, you want me to blog about yeast infections, don't you? Don't you? Wait, where are you going? Wait! Stop! Come back! Come back!
Thanks a Lot, MooCow
I hate you, MooCow. When I saw your blog, I thought 'Great, what better companion for a blog named the Daily Cud than a blog written by someone calling themselves MooCow?' Then I actually read your blog. Oh. My. God. I hate you. With the fire of a thousand suns. Your blog knocked my socks off. Not in the good, lets make the babies way, but more in an I hate you and want to put worms in your bed kind of way. Not the great big nightcrawlers that would be easy to pick out, but those tiny red wrigglers that would be impossible to round up completely so you would still be finding worms crawling around in your sheets for weeks kind of way. (Notice I said worms and not bun(spiders)nies. I don't hate you that much.)
Your blog is so awesome. It makes this pathetic excuse for a blog look like it was written by monkeys on crack. I really love my blog, but I'm not afraid to admit when I have met my match. If blogs were the Little Rascals, my blog would be Alfafa, and your blog would be Spanky. If blogs were talk shows my blog would be Sally Jesse Raphael, and your blog would be Oprah. If blogs were superheros your blog would be Superman, and my blog would be, I don't know, Stapler Boy or something lame like that.
I like finding new, interesting blogs, but your blog is more than just interesting. It's absolutely mesmerizeing. It's your fault I spent my ENTIRE day off yesterday sitting on the couch reading your archives instead of cleaning house and doing laundry. Even your comments are interesting, which really sucks because usually I can just ignore the entire existence of the comment buttons, but no, not on your blog. On your blog I have to actually stop and read all the comments, too. It's your fault Baby Jesus is crying. Oh, wait, that's not your fault, that's President Bush's fault.
Now, where was I? Oh, right, I hate you with the fire of a thousand suns and everything. On the bright side, I was inspired to finally blog about the legendary cripple-junkie fight yesterday. I had been thinking about blogging it for a couple of weeks, but hadn't felt really inspired to actually do it. Maybe next I'll blog about the Great Flood of 93. You haven't lived until you've paddled a canoe through your livingroom.
I hate you, MooCow. When I saw your blog, I thought 'Great, what better companion for a blog named the Daily Cud than a blog written by someone calling themselves MooCow?' Then I actually read your blog. Oh. My. God. I hate you. With the fire of a thousand suns. Your blog knocked my socks off. Not in the good, lets make the babies way, but more in an I hate you and want to put worms in your bed kind of way. Not the great big nightcrawlers that would be easy to pick out, but those tiny red wrigglers that would be impossible to round up completely so you would still be finding worms crawling around in your sheets for weeks kind of way. (Notice I said worms and not bun(spiders)nies. I don't hate you that much.)
Your blog is so awesome. It makes this pathetic excuse for a blog look like it was written by monkeys on crack. I really love my blog, but I'm not afraid to admit when I have met my match. If blogs were the Little Rascals, my blog would be Alfafa, and your blog would be Spanky. If blogs were talk shows my blog would be Sally Jesse Raphael, and your blog would be Oprah. If blogs were superheros your blog would be Superman, and my blog would be, I don't know, Stapler Boy or something lame like that.
I like finding new, interesting blogs, but your blog is more than just interesting. It's absolutely mesmerizeing. It's your fault I spent my ENTIRE day off yesterday sitting on the couch reading your archives instead of cleaning house and doing laundry. Even your comments are interesting, which really sucks because usually I can just ignore the entire existence of the comment buttons, but no, not on your blog. On your blog I have to actually stop and read all the comments, too. It's your fault Baby Jesus is crying. Oh, wait, that's not your fault, that's President Bush's fault.
Now, where was I? Oh, right, I hate you with the fire of a thousand suns and everything. On the bright side, I was inspired to finally blog about the legendary cripple-junkie fight yesterday. I had been thinking about blogging it for a couple of weeks, but hadn't felt really inspired to actually do it. Maybe next I'll blog about the Great Flood of 93. You haven't lived until you've paddled a canoe through your livingroom.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
The Cripple and the Junkie
Sit down and let me tell you the sad, sad story of two of my neighbors. I have a general rule on this blog not to trash talk people I know personally, but since both of these people are dead, I think they're fair game. I'll call them C for the Cripple and J for the Junkie.
First, let me explain the players. I lived on a house on a corner. The house on the other side (actually a trailer, but let's not quibble) was home to a neighbor who was a heroin addicted wife beater. Just coincidentally, J grew up in the same neighborhood as my husband. When my husband recognized J he knew we were going to be entertained.
And he wasn't wrong. There were junkies wandering in and out next door, cops making periodic visits, their three toddlers wandering around the street half-dressed, yelling and screaming from him or his wife or both. At first, I had a lot of sympathy for Mrs. J. I mean, J would drag her around by her hair. Once he got pissed off and beat her car with a hatchet or sledge hammer or something. I'm sure she probably felt trapped and helpless, but if my husband did anything like that to me, one day he just wouldn't wake up. We'll leave it at that.
The story just gets better from there. The street we lived on was actually a T, and the person who lived on the top of the T was an alcoholic, diabetic, paraplegic. He ended up in a wheel chair when he got drunk one day and ran his pickup off the road. He shouldn't drink at all, since he was a diabetic, but that didn't stop him, even after the accident. He just sat around drinking all the time. He took such bad care of himself my husband was constantly going over there because he wouldn't bother eating and then his blood sugar would bottom out. Once he thought he was flying, and sat up on the couch holding his arms up like Superman saying 'Look at me! I'm flying!'
A little helpful hint if you ever need to raise somebody's blood sugar. Mayonnaise. A couple of big spoons of Mayo will pop that blood sugar level right up. Plus it's fun to watch the looks on the person's face. First, they have the crazy look of somebody headed for the nut house. Then they get a confused look when they realize something cold and squishy is in their mouth. It feels like pudding, but it doesn't taste like pudding. What could it be? Then there's the look when they realize they have a mouth full of Mayo. A mixture of shock, horror, and Mayo-drool. Believe me, it's priceless.
Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the big fight. One day my husband and I were minding our own business when there was a knock on the door. It was C's son, about 12 or 14. He wanted to know if we knew what happened to C. We didn't know anything. He said C was on his way to the hospital. We thought he must have had another blood sugar episode, but his son said it looked more like somebody had beaten him up. We had been watching a movie on TV, and my husband had been cutting some vegetables for dinner on the coffee table while we watched the movie. With a great big chef knife like the psycho killers always use in scary movies. Don't forget about the knife.
My husband goes outside to talk to C's son and his mother, who was outside still trying to figure out what was going on. I stayed inside because there really wasn't anything to see. An ambulance had already taken C to the hospital, so we couldn't ask him anything. The next thing I know my husband, C's mom and son all come rushing into the house and shut the door. J had gone all Deliverance. My husband said J came walking out from his trailer with a shotgun saying he was going to kill everybody, or something like that. When he pulled the shotgun down and aimed it at them my husband decided they should all head for cover.
We heard a boom, and the house shook a little. We thought he shot the house with his shotgun, but then there was another boom and the front door came flying open, hitting C's mom in the shoulder. Luckily, he didn't have the shotgun, he had just kicked the door open. My husband told C's mom and son to get out. Meanwhile J is pulling a real pathetic Kung-fu act on my husband. My husband probably weighed 175-200 pounds, and J might have weighed 120. Maybe. And he was a lot shorter than my husband. Plus, my husband used to actually take marshal arts classes, not just watch marshal arts movies. So while J is kicking his legs around like Beavis, or was it Butthead, did in the movie when they were dancing, my husband was trying not to laugh.
Remember the great big chef knife laying right there on the coffee table. So did I. I was afraid Psycho J might see it, too, so while my husband was trying to wrestle J down I grabbed the knife and just tossed it under the couch. Then I noticed my dog. Now, he's half pit bull, and at the time he was about 2 or 3. He had always been a big marshmallow, but I was afraid he might suddenly develop a protective streak. I don't know if I was more worried about my dog getting hurt, or biting my husband on accident, but I hustled him outside. I couldn't think of anything to do with him, since his leash was still inside, so I just put him in the car.
By this time my husband had gotten fed up with J and just picked him up and carried him out to the front porch and body slammed him down onto the ground and basically sat on him. I still remember J telling my husband he was going to count to ten or something and then he was going to kick my husband's ass. My husband said go for it, but J realized he was full of hot air and just went limp. My husband got up and J took off, then my husband went to go check on C's mom and kid.
I went over to C's house, and for some reason his son had climbed up in a tree in their front yard. I don't know if he was just trying to get a better view, or if he was hiding. I started walking down the street to C's mom's house about 3 houses down, when C's son starts yelling that J is trying to burn my house down. See, I told you this was going to be a good story.
Now, I need to stop for a second and give a little more background information. We had a nice screened in front porch, with a porch swing and BBQ pit. Yes, I know, we really shouldn't have had a BBQ pit there in a screened in, covered porch, but we used to do a lot of pretty dumb things. Ok, ok, we still do. We would sit out there and I would swing and my husband would cook and then we would both eat and generally have a good time. It was a real nice porch. I wish we had one on our present house, but that's beside the point.
So, back to the story. Obviously, J was higher than a kite. He decided he was going to burn our house down, so he picked up what he thought was a bottle of lighter fluid and sprayed it all over the carpet inside the front door, and then picked up a box of what he thought were matches and started flicking them onto the carpet. I came running back and started yelling at J that the cops were coming and he better get the hell out of my house. Eventually he did leave and I walked onto the porch to see if he had started a fire or not.
This is where it gets really funny. Sure, we had a BBQ pit on the front porch, but it was a gas pit. We didn't have any lighter fluid. What J thought was lighter fluid was a spray bottle my husband used to baste and tenderize meat. And remember, we used to eat out on the porch, so there was a box of plastic utensils out there. A box about the size of a big box of kitchen matches. So I look in the front door and see the carpet is all wet and there are plastic spoons laying everywhere.
My husband came back and started looking for J. He picked up a broom that was on the porch and snapped it in half to smack J upside the head with if he found him. About then the cops finally show up and find my husband walking around ready to beat some ass. It took a few minutes to convince them he was the victim. J was hiding under our camper over by our garage. They finally drag him out and take him off to jail.
Did I mention we have hick cops out here? Before stun guns became so popular our cops used to actually use cattle prods. Now they are more advanced and have all the fancy cop gear. My husband drove by the ambulance station one afternoon and saw the cops having tazer practice. Apparently, before they are allowed to actually use the tazers on suspects they have to learn how to use them, and what the effects of being tazed are. They do that by tazing each other. So my husband got to kick back and watch a bunch of cops all electrocuting each other. Sweet.
We never did find out why J beat up C. All we know is that, in order to beat up a cripple in a wheelchair, he had to sneak up from behind and slam his head down on a carburetor, or whatever car part C had been working on. It almost took C's left ear completely off. J got convicted, not for beating up a cripple, but for kicking in our door. The cops said since he kicked the door in, instead of just turning the knob and walking inside, that made it a home invasion. Instead of getting the hell out of dodge while J was in prison, Mrs. J stood by her man and waited patiently for him to get out and resume beating her. Eventually he managed to OD on heroin. Rumor has it he had a needle in each arm, but that might just be a local urban legend.
C eventually died, too. I don't know if they ever actually found out what he died from. He was just a pathetic drunk, like you would see in a gutter on Skid Row somewhere. He didn't pay attention to his blood sugar, or his personal hygiene. My husband refused to give him a ride because he smelled so bad it took weeks of daily doses of Fabreeze to get the stink out of his car after the last time he gave him a ride. To quote my husband, he smelled like a dead man's ass. Plus, it wasn't just poor grooming. Sometimes he would loose control of his bowels and just shit all over himself. Nasty. Not sweet at all.
There, I told you it was a sad, sad story. And stinky, too.
Sit down and let me tell you the sad, sad story of two of my neighbors. I have a general rule on this blog not to trash talk people I know personally, but since both of these people are dead, I think they're fair game. I'll call them C for the Cripple and J for the Junkie.
First, let me explain the players. I lived on a house on a corner. The house on the other side (actually a trailer, but let's not quibble) was home to a neighbor who was a heroin addicted wife beater. Just coincidentally, J grew up in the same neighborhood as my husband. When my husband recognized J he knew we were going to be entertained.
And he wasn't wrong. There were junkies wandering in and out next door, cops making periodic visits, their three toddlers wandering around the street half-dressed, yelling and screaming from him or his wife or both. At first, I had a lot of sympathy for Mrs. J. I mean, J would drag her around by her hair. Once he got pissed off and beat her car with a hatchet or sledge hammer or something. I'm sure she probably felt trapped and helpless, but if my husband did anything like that to me, one day he just wouldn't wake up. We'll leave it at that.
The story just gets better from there. The street we lived on was actually a T, and the person who lived on the top of the T was an alcoholic, diabetic, paraplegic. He ended up in a wheel chair when he got drunk one day and ran his pickup off the road. He shouldn't drink at all, since he was a diabetic, but that didn't stop him, even after the accident. He just sat around drinking all the time. He took such bad care of himself my husband was constantly going over there because he wouldn't bother eating and then his blood sugar would bottom out. Once he thought he was flying, and sat up on the couch holding his arms up like Superman saying 'Look at me! I'm flying!'
A little helpful hint if you ever need to raise somebody's blood sugar. Mayonnaise. A couple of big spoons of Mayo will pop that blood sugar level right up. Plus it's fun to watch the looks on the person's face. First, they have the crazy look of somebody headed for the nut house. Then they get a confused look when they realize something cold and squishy is in their mouth. It feels like pudding, but it doesn't taste like pudding. What could it be? Then there's the look when they realize they have a mouth full of Mayo. A mixture of shock, horror, and Mayo-drool. Believe me, it's priceless.
Now, where was I? Oh yeah, the big fight. One day my husband and I were minding our own business when there was a knock on the door. It was C's son, about 12 or 14. He wanted to know if we knew what happened to C. We didn't know anything. He said C was on his way to the hospital. We thought he must have had another blood sugar episode, but his son said it looked more like somebody had beaten him up. We had been watching a movie on TV, and my husband had been cutting some vegetables for dinner on the coffee table while we watched the movie. With a great big chef knife like the psycho killers always use in scary movies. Don't forget about the knife.
My husband goes outside to talk to C's son and his mother, who was outside still trying to figure out what was going on. I stayed inside because there really wasn't anything to see. An ambulance had already taken C to the hospital, so we couldn't ask him anything. The next thing I know my husband, C's mom and son all come rushing into the house and shut the door. J had gone all Deliverance. My husband said J came walking out from his trailer with a shotgun saying he was going to kill everybody, or something like that. When he pulled the shotgun down and aimed it at them my husband decided they should all head for cover.
We heard a boom, and the house shook a little. We thought he shot the house with his shotgun, but then there was another boom and the front door came flying open, hitting C's mom in the shoulder. Luckily, he didn't have the shotgun, he had just kicked the door open. My husband told C's mom and son to get out. Meanwhile J is pulling a real pathetic Kung-fu act on my husband. My husband probably weighed 175-200 pounds, and J might have weighed 120. Maybe. And he was a lot shorter than my husband. Plus, my husband used to actually take marshal arts classes, not just watch marshal arts movies. So while J is kicking his legs around like Beavis, or was it Butthead, did in the movie when they were dancing, my husband was trying not to laugh.
Remember the great big chef knife laying right there on the coffee table. So did I. I was afraid Psycho J might see it, too, so while my husband was trying to wrestle J down I grabbed the knife and just tossed it under the couch. Then I noticed my dog. Now, he's half pit bull, and at the time he was about 2 or 3. He had always been a big marshmallow, but I was afraid he might suddenly develop a protective streak. I don't know if I was more worried about my dog getting hurt, or biting my husband on accident, but I hustled him outside. I couldn't think of anything to do with him, since his leash was still inside, so I just put him in the car.
By this time my husband had gotten fed up with J and just picked him up and carried him out to the front porch and body slammed him down onto the ground and basically sat on him. I still remember J telling my husband he was going to count to ten or something and then he was going to kick my husband's ass. My husband said go for it, but J realized he was full of hot air and just went limp. My husband got up and J took off, then my husband went to go check on C's mom and kid.
I went over to C's house, and for some reason his son had climbed up in a tree in their front yard. I don't know if he was just trying to get a better view, or if he was hiding. I started walking down the street to C's mom's house about 3 houses down, when C's son starts yelling that J is trying to burn my house down. See, I told you this was going to be a good story.
Now, I need to stop for a second and give a little more background information. We had a nice screened in front porch, with a porch swing and BBQ pit. Yes, I know, we really shouldn't have had a BBQ pit there in a screened in, covered porch, but we used to do a lot of pretty dumb things. Ok, ok, we still do. We would sit out there and I would swing and my husband would cook and then we would both eat and generally have a good time. It was a real nice porch. I wish we had one on our present house, but that's beside the point.
So, back to the story. Obviously, J was higher than a kite. He decided he was going to burn our house down, so he picked up what he thought was a bottle of lighter fluid and sprayed it all over the carpet inside the front door, and then picked up a box of what he thought were matches and started flicking them onto the carpet. I came running back and started yelling at J that the cops were coming and he better get the hell out of my house. Eventually he did leave and I walked onto the porch to see if he had started a fire or not.
This is where it gets really funny. Sure, we had a BBQ pit on the front porch, but it was a gas pit. We didn't have any lighter fluid. What J thought was lighter fluid was a spray bottle my husband used to baste and tenderize meat. And remember, we used to eat out on the porch, so there was a box of plastic utensils out there. A box about the size of a big box of kitchen matches. So I look in the front door and see the carpet is all wet and there are plastic spoons laying everywhere.
My husband came back and started looking for J. He picked up a broom that was on the porch and snapped it in half to smack J upside the head with if he found him. About then the cops finally show up and find my husband walking around ready to beat some ass. It took a few minutes to convince them he was the victim. J was hiding under our camper over by our garage. They finally drag him out and take him off to jail.
Did I mention we have hick cops out here? Before stun guns became so popular our cops used to actually use cattle prods. Now they are more advanced and have all the fancy cop gear. My husband drove by the ambulance station one afternoon and saw the cops having tazer practice. Apparently, before they are allowed to actually use the tazers on suspects they have to learn how to use them, and what the effects of being tazed are. They do that by tazing each other. So my husband got to kick back and watch a bunch of cops all electrocuting each other. Sweet.
We never did find out why J beat up C. All we know is that, in order to beat up a cripple in a wheelchair, he had to sneak up from behind and slam his head down on a carburetor, or whatever car part C had been working on. It almost took C's left ear completely off. J got convicted, not for beating up a cripple, but for kicking in our door. The cops said since he kicked the door in, instead of just turning the knob and walking inside, that made it a home invasion. Instead of getting the hell out of dodge while J was in prison, Mrs. J stood by her man and waited patiently for him to get out and resume beating her. Eventually he managed to OD on heroin. Rumor has it he had a needle in each arm, but that might just be a local urban legend.
C eventually died, too. I don't know if they ever actually found out what he died from. He was just a pathetic drunk, like you would see in a gutter on Skid Row somewhere. He didn't pay attention to his blood sugar, or his personal hygiene. My husband refused to give him a ride because he smelled so bad it took weeks of daily doses of Fabreeze to get the stink out of his car after the last time he gave him a ride. To quote my husband, he smelled like a dead man's ass. Plus, it wasn't just poor grooming. Sometimes he would loose control of his bowels and just shit all over himself. Nasty. Not sweet at all.
There, I told you it was a sad, sad story. And stinky, too.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Sunday, January 09, 2005
The World According To Ruth
I have been thinking about the comment someone made about me being too old for tarot cards and Wicca. I don't see how you could be too old for either one. Believe me, learning to read tarot cards isn't childish. It took a long time to really know how to read cards without looking up each card in a book. So I decided to write a post about tarot and Wicca, but first I wanted to explain how I think the world works.
As far as I can tell, people are divided into two general groups. The first is the Worm group. They are the people who believe nothing is real unless you can see it or touch it. The physical world is all there is, and once you die your personality or soul disappears and your body is eaten by worms. The other group is the Lab Rat group. They believe that in addition to the physical world there is another, separate dimension, populated by angels and the spirits of dead people who were smart enough to go to the same church they do. These people see the Earth as some kind of torture chamber designed to separate the good people from the bad people. Good people spend eternity floating around in Heaven with the angels, while the bad people suffer eternal torment in Hell with the Devil and his flunkies. To them, there is a clear boundary between Heaven and Earth. We are just lab rats, God is the head scientist, and all the angels are the lab assistants who clean our cages and feed us.
I don't believe either view is right. I believe I have a physical body, obviously. I also believe I have a soul in addition to my physical body. But I don't think I am either one. I see myself as having 3 layers, body, spirit, and the point of balance between the two extremes. 'Ruth' is just the part of me that is the balance point. Real religious people balance closer to the spirit part, while other people are closer to the physical part. When your body dies your spirit keeps going, and the personality that you think of as 'you' becomes a part of the spirits experience.
I think Shakespeare's quote about the world being a stage is almost right. The only problem is most people assume that we are the actors on the stage, but we're not. We're just the characters the actors are playing. When the movie is over your body dies, and your spirit is finally able to explain everything to your personality. You see, your life is sort of like one of those reality TV shows that are so popular right now. Not the kind where they put 15 people together and everybody fights to be the only one left, but the kind where there is a poor unsuspecting person who doesn't realize everybody else is pulling some kind of prank on them.
The problem is, why don't people realize there is a spiritual dimension? It's because the communication usually only goes one way, from lower level to higher level. Your body can give you messages, like 'I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm about to fart,' but you can't tell your body what's going on. If you go on a diet, your body still wants it's burritos and chocolate cake and bag of Doritos. When you eat a bunch of carrot sticks washed down with skim milk you can't explain why to your body. The same thing goes for your spirit. It can't explain why your father left when you were 12, why your bosses have all been assholes, or that you've been standing next to Mr. Right in the check-out line at the grocery store every Tuesday for a month and never noticed. It has a plan for you, and it can give you subtle nudges in the right direction, but it can't come right out and say 'do this' or 'do that'.
At least not until you die. Once you aren't bound to the physical world you are able to see the truth behind the 'real' world. Why things happen or don't, how your actions affect other people, times when you missed an opportunity to make a difference somewhere. That is what people think of as Judgment Day, except you aren't being judged, you are judging yourself. It's not a question of passing or failing, it's more a matter of learning from your mistakes. Sure, it would be nice to know what is really going on, but that's not how it works.
I know what you're wondering about now. What about all the bad things that happen in the world. The big tsunami, the Holocaust, AIDS, toothaches. Do we really need things like morning breath and hangovers? And what about bad people, like Saddam Hussein, Scott Peterson, whoever invented the mullet? Where were their spiritual advisors? As far as I can tell, there is a mixture of free will and fate responsible for most of that. The mullet I think might be the work of the devil.
Anyway, I see the physical world and the spiritual world as mixed all up together. There can't be one without the other. Just because we can't see or touch something doesn't mean it doesn't exist. You can't see the wind, or touch love, but they both exist. I don't know the answers to life's greatest mysteries, but I'm content just knowing what some of the questions are. I believe there is a plan, and I am part of the plan. Maybe I'm not an important part, maybe I'm just a bit player this time around, but that's ok. Next time I'll be the star of the show. The world will bow before my glory.
I have been thinking about the comment someone made about me being too old for tarot cards and Wicca. I don't see how you could be too old for either one. Believe me, learning to read tarot cards isn't childish. It took a long time to really know how to read cards without looking up each card in a book. So I decided to write a post about tarot and Wicca, but first I wanted to explain how I think the world works.
As far as I can tell, people are divided into two general groups. The first is the Worm group. They are the people who believe nothing is real unless you can see it or touch it. The physical world is all there is, and once you die your personality or soul disappears and your body is eaten by worms. The other group is the Lab Rat group. They believe that in addition to the physical world there is another, separate dimension, populated by angels and the spirits of dead people who were smart enough to go to the same church they do. These people see the Earth as some kind of torture chamber designed to separate the good people from the bad people. Good people spend eternity floating around in Heaven with the angels, while the bad people suffer eternal torment in Hell with the Devil and his flunkies. To them, there is a clear boundary between Heaven and Earth. We are just lab rats, God is the head scientist, and all the angels are the lab assistants who clean our cages and feed us.
I don't believe either view is right. I believe I have a physical body, obviously. I also believe I have a soul in addition to my physical body. But I don't think I am either one. I see myself as having 3 layers, body, spirit, and the point of balance between the two extremes. 'Ruth' is just the part of me that is the balance point. Real religious people balance closer to the spirit part, while other people are closer to the physical part. When your body dies your spirit keeps going, and the personality that you think of as 'you' becomes a part of the spirits experience.
I think Shakespeare's quote about the world being a stage is almost right. The only problem is most people assume that we are the actors on the stage, but we're not. We're just the characters the actors are playing. When the movie is over your body dies, and your spirit is finally able to explain everything to your personality. You see, your life is sort of like one of those reality TV shows that are so popular right now. Not the kind where they put 15 people together and everybody fights to be the only one left, but the kind where there is a poor unsuspecting person who doesn't realize everybody else is pulling some kind of prank on them.
The problem is, why don't people realize there is a spiritual dimension? It's because the communication usually only goes one way, from lower level to higher level. Your body can give you messages, like 'I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm about to fart,' but you can't tell your body what's going on. If you go on a diet, your body still wants it's burritos and chocolate cake and bag of Doritos. When you eat a bunch of carrot sticks washed down with skim milk you can't explain why to your body. The same thing goes for your spirit. It can't explain why your father left when you were 12, why your bosses have all been assholes, or that you've been standing next to Mr. Right in the check-out line at the grocery store every Tuesday for a month and never noticed. It has a plan for you, and it can give you subtle nudges in the right direction, but it can't come right out and say 'do this' or 'do that'.
At least not until you die. Once you aren't bound to the physical world you are able to see the truth behind the 'real' world. Why things happen or don't, how your actions affect other people, times when you missed an opportunity to make a difference somewhere. That is what people think of as Judgment Day, except you aren't being judged, you are judging yourself. It's not a question of passing or failing, it's more a matter of learning from your mistakes. Sure, it would be nice to know what is really going on, but that's not how it works.
I know what you're wondering about now. What about all the bad things that happen in the world. The big tsunami, the Holocaust, AIDS, toothaches. Do we really need things like morning breath and hangovers? And what about bad people, like Saddam Hussein, Scott Peterson, whoever invented the mullet? Where were their spiritual advisors? As far as I can tell, there is a mixture of free will and fate responsible for most of that. The mullet I think might be the work of the devil.
Anyway, I see the physical world and the spiritual world as mixed all up together. There can't be one without the other. Just because we can't see or touch something doesn't mean it doesn't exist. You can't see the wind, or touch love, but they both exist. I don't know the answers to life's greatest mysteries, but I'm content just knowing what some of the questions are. I believe there is a plan, and I am part of the plan. Maybe I'm not an important part, maybe I'm just a bit player this time around, but that's ok. Next time I'll be the star of the show. The world will bow before my glory.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
SOME STRONG CHILI
Ruth is not the only one having dental adventures. Last night I was eating a bowl of chili when suddenly I thought, "That's strange--I don't remember adding any rocks to this." I fished the hard little object out of my mouth and, sure enough, it was a hunk of tooth. This has to be one of life's most dismal feelings. My tongue got busy inventorying all my teeth and reported back, "upper right bicuspid."
Oh, no! One of my favorite chompers. And, as I realized with sorrow, one of my OLD teeth. I no sooner announced this than I realized how absurd it was--ALL my teeth are over 50 years old. But somehow this one seems much older, to have sprouted when I was a pigtailed kid with scabby knees. An elderly, vulnerable tooth. Not some more recently arrived third molar, that is still young and vigorous and--the big thing--repairable.
I called my dentist, Dr. Riddle, first thing this morning. He is a big sweetheart. He is the one who repaired my mother's upper plate after the dog chewed on it. His "girl" said to come in at 10:00 and he would see what he could do. Dear, dear Dr. Riddle. None of this "come in two weeks from next Thursday."
As his name suggests, Dr. Riddle is a big kidder. He got off some good zingers about my chili--it must be really strong if you can break a tooth with it, etc. But then after some poking and tsk-ing and oops-ing, he announced he could crown it and make it as good as new. Did I want a gold crown with a diamond inset, or just plain old boring white? (He has a number of People of Color in his practice.) We settled on white-people white, and then he matched samples from a chart, just like matching paint chips, so it would be sure to match the other teeth. Discussing it all the time with his assistant--"No, not that one, her teeth aren't THAT yellow, try a shade whiter."
So, he did all the gringing and futzing around and making impressions, and I left with a temporary crown and an appointment to come back in two weeks for the Real Deal. Other than having a numb skull the rest of the day, it wasn't so bad.
Ruth is not the only one having dental adventures. Last night I was eating a bowl of chili when suddenly I thought, "That's strange--I don't remember adding any rocks to this." I fished the hard little object out of my mouth and, sure enough, it was a hunk of tooth. This has to be one of life's most dismal feelings. My tongue got busy inventorying all my teeth and reported back, "upper right bicuspid."
Oh, no! One of my favorite chompers. And, as I realized with sorrow, one of my OLD teeth. I no sooner announced this than I realized how absurd it was--ALL my teeth are over 50 years old. But somehow this one seems much older, to have sprouted when I was a pigtailed kid with scabby knees. An elderly, vulnerable tooth. Not some more recently arrived third molar, that is still young and vigorous and--the big thing--repairable.
I called my dentist, Dr. Riddle, first thing this morning. He is a big sweetheart. He is the one who repaired my mother's upper plate after the dog chewed on it. His "girl" said to come in at 10:00 and he would see what he could do. Dear, dear Dr. Riddle. None of this "come in two weeks from next Thursday."
As his name suggests, Dr. Riddle is a big kidder. He got off some good zingers about my chili--it must be really strong if you can break a tooth with it, etc. But then after some poking and tsk-ing and oops-ing, he announced he could crown it and make it as good as new. Did I want a gold crown with a diamond inset, or just plain old boring white? (He has a number of People of Color in his practice.) We settled on white-people white, and then he matched samples from a chart, just like matching paint chips, so it would be sure to match the other teeth. Discussing it all the time with his assistant--"No, not that one, her teeth aren't THAT yellow, try a shade whiter."
So, he did all the gringing and futzing around and making impressions, and I left with a temporary crown and an appointment to come back in two weeks for the Real Deal. Other than having a numb skull the rest of the day, it wasn't so bad.
Sometimes A Blood Clot Is A Good Thing
WARNING: The following blog entry contains details of my last dental visit. If you have a dental phobia stop right now! Here's a site with cute pictures of little puppies. Come back here in a day or two and hopefully there will be an entry not dental related.
Well, the Evil Tooth From Hell is gone. At least, it's out of my jaw. Now it's in a little envelope on the corner table. The dentist showed me why it was hurting. It has a crack going down into the root area. I don't know if it had been there for a while, or if the tooth got cracked when I had my last bunch of fillings put in. All I know is the tooth is out. It didn't hurt very much to get it pulled out. The dentist shot me up real good with novicane. Novicane is a good thing. I like novicane. It makes everything all numb and puffy feeling.
I could feel it when he was pulling it out, but it wasn't a major pain, just a kind of pulling, ripping feeling. I was actually surprised when the dentist said he was done because it didn't hurt nearly as much as I thought it would. He said it was easy to pull out because it was already a little loose. It was really loose last weekend when my jaw swelled all up. I could tell that tooth was popped up higher than normal. I bet he could have pulled it out with a pair of tweezers.
So now I'm sitting on the couch, trying to avoid drooling on my keyboard. I have a list of dos and don'ts. Some of them don't matter, like not smoking, since I don't smoke anyway. I also can't drink alcohol, but I'm not much of a drinker anyway. I don't think I even drank anything on New Year's Eve. The only thing that is bugging me is not being able to drink soda. I think the carbonation would mess with the gaping hole in my jaw. I also can't drink hot tea, which sucks because I really like hot tea. And I can't drink anything out of a straw. The dentist said suction was a bad thing. I think that might be why he said not to smoke.
So anyway, I'm sitting here now with a piece of gauze mashed up where the tooth used to be. I have a pile of little gauze strips that I'm supposed to roll up, soak in water, and mash into the hole. I am supposed to change gauze pieces every 20 minutes. This is supposed to help form a blood clot where the tooth used to be. The dentist said a blood clot is a good thing because if there isn't a blood clot the exposed jaw bone would hurt, and pain is bad. Let me tell you, pain is bad. Trust me, I've felt enough pain in that part of my mouth. I don't want any more.
So I'm doing the gauze thing, sipping a glass of water, and trying to decide if I feel like eating anything. The dentist said I could eat anything I feel like. Well, as long as it isn't too hot or cold, and I'm not supposed to chew on that side of my mouth, which isn't any hardship since I haven't been able to chew on that side of my mouth for about a month it seems. It takes twice as long to eat when you can only use half of your mouth. I planned ahead and had a nice breakfast since I didn't know if I would be up to eating anything after the yankage. I have some pain pills, but right now I'm all numbed up from the novicane so I don't need them.
Of course, I plan on milking all the sympathy out of my husband and The Girl that I can. As far as they are concerned, I plan on being in absolute agony in a couple of hours. I don't know how I am going to convince them that I'm in too much pain to do the laundry, but I plan on trying. Luckily, my husband doesn't read this. I'm not sure about The Girl, but I think by the time she gets around to reading this I'll already be well enough to resume my matronly chores.
WARNING: The following blog entry contains details of my last dental visit. If you have a dental phobia stop right now! Here's a site with cute pictures of little puppies. Come back here in a day or two and hopefully there will be an entry not dental related.
Well, the Evil Tooth From Hell is gone. At least, it's out of my jaw. Now it's in a little envelope on the corner table. The dentist showed me why it was hurting. It has a crack going down into the root area. I don't know if it had been there for a while, or if the tooth got cracked when I had my last bunch of fillings put in. All I know is the tooth is out. It didn't hurt very much to get it pulled out. The dentist shot me up real good with novicane. Novicane is a good thing. I like novicane. It makes everything all numb and puffy feeling.
I could feel it when he was pulling it out, but it wasn't a major pain, just a kind of pulling, ripping feeling. I was actually surprised when the dentist said he was done because it didn't hurt nearly as much as I thought it would. He said it was easy to pull out because it was already a little loose. It was really loose last weekend when my jaw swelled all up. I could tell that tooth was popped up higher than normal. I bet he could have pulled it out with a pair of tweezers.
So now I'm sitting on the couch, trying to avoid drooling on my keyboard. I have a list of dos and don'ts. Some of them don't matter, like not smoking, since I don't smoke anyway. I also can't drink alcohol, but I'm not much of a drinker anyway. I don't think I even drank anything on New Year's Eve. The only thing that is bugging me is not being able to drink soda. I think the carbonation would mess with the gaping hole in my jaw. I also can't drink hot tea, which sucks because I really like hot tea. And I can't drink anything out of a straw. The dentist said suction was a bad thing. I think that might be why he said not to smoke.
So anyway, I'm sitting here now with a piece of gauze mashed up where the tooth used to be. I have a pile of little gauze strips that I'm supposed to roll up, soak in water, and mash into the hole. I am supposed to change gauze pieces every 20 minutes. This is supposed to help form a blood clot where the tooth used to be. The dentist said a blood clot is a good thing because if there isn't a blood clot the exposed jaw bone would hurt, and pain is bad. Let me tell you, pain is bad. Trust me, I've felt enough pain in that part of my mouth. I don't want any more.
So I'm doing the gauze thing, sipping a glass of water, and trying to decide if I feel like eating anything. The dentist said I could eat anything I feel like. Well, as long as it isn't too hot or cold, and I'm not supposed to chew on that side of my mouth, which isn't any hardship since I haven't been able to chew on that side of my mouth for about a month it seems. It takes twice as long to eat when you can only use half of your mouth. I planned ahead and had a nice breakfast since I didn't know if I would be up to eating anything after the yankage. I have some pain pills, but right now I'm all numbed up from the novicane so I don't need them.
Of course, I plan on milking all the sympathy out of my husband and The Girl that I can. As far as they are concerned, I plan on being in absolute agony in a couple of hours. I don't know how I am going to convince them that I'm in too much pain to do the laundry, but I plan on trying. Luckily, my husband doesn't read this. I'm not sure about The Girl, but I think by the time she gets around to reading this I'll already be well enough to resume my matronly chores.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Stupid, Stupid People
Here's an example of one of the many stupid people who call 411.
Stupid Lady: I'd like the number of Staples in X city.
Me: I don't have a listing for Staples in X city, but I have listings in A, B, and C cities.
SL: No, there is one in X on Blah Blah street.
Me: Unfortunatly, I don't show a listing in that city or on that street, just in A, B, and C cities.
SL: Well, do you have a Staples in W city?
Me: No, I only have listing in A, B, and C cities.
SL: Well, maybe it was Office Depot. Do you have one of those in X?
Me: Unfortunatley, I don't show an Office Depot in X either, but I have listings in R, T, and U cities.
SL: I know there is one in X, on Blah bla blah street.
Me: I see one on Blah bla blah street, but it isn't in X, it is in U, would you like that number?
SL: I didn't ask for that number you stupid woman.
Click.
You don't even know what store you are looking for, or what city, and you call me stupid? Look in a mirror, lady.
Here's an example of one of the many stupid people who call 411.
Stupid Lady: I'd like the number of Staples in X city.
Me: I don't have a listing for Staples in X city, but I have listings in A, B, and C cities.
SL: No, there is one in X on Blah Blah street.
Me: Unfortunatly, I don't show a listing in that city or on that street, just in A, B, and C cities.
SL: Well, do you have a Staples in W city?
Me: No, I only have listing in A, B, and C cities.
SL: Well, maybe it was Office Depot. Do you have one of those in X?
Me: Unfortunatley, I don't show an Office Depot in X either, but I have listings in R, T, and U cities.
SL: I know there is one in X, on Blah bla blah street.
Me: I see one on Blah bla blah street, but it isn't in X, it is in U, would you like that number?
SL: I didn't ask for that number you stupid woman.
Click.
You don't even know what store you are looking for, or what city, and you call me stupid? Look in a mirror, lady.
Monday, January 03, 2005
It's Over
The holidays are officially over at the Cud household. Yesterday the tree came down. I am still pissed off because when I went to decorate the tree I couldn't find any of my Christmas ornaments. I have a bunch of really old, fancy glass ornaments. Not family heirlooms or anything. I bought them all at a resale store, but still, they are really beautiful. I haven't been using them because there was always a cat in the house that would have knocked them off and broken them. To display them I would get those giant margarita glasses and fill them with ornaments and arrange them on the mantle. This year there wasn't a cat to contend with, so I was going to really pimp out the tree. Martha Stewart would have been proud. (I still remember the Christmas show of hers where she decorated the cookies with gold foil instead of the standard frosting and sprinkles. Maybe next year.)
Christmas wasn't the total joy you would expect for a family celebrating the arrival their first child. Sure, the child is 17, not exactly a little bundle of joy, but we had been looking forward to having a really spectacular, pull out all the stops celebration. Then The Girl ended up spending Christmas with her father in Arkansas. Of course, the plane trip down there coincided with the big ice storm that stranded her plane in Cincinnati, so the day she left was a total nightmare. My husband was convinced that once she left she wasn't going to be able to come back.
You see, she isn't really our daughter. We didn't kidnap her or anything, but we don't have any kind of legal custody of her. According to the great state of Missouri a 17 year old can decide she doesn't want to live with her parents and they can't do anything about it. The Girl and her step father didn't get along, and her mother seems to parent more in the style of the Wicked Stepmother than anything else. Her father lives in Arkansas, and she didn't want to move down there, plus he has a soap opera of his own going on, so she ended up moving in with us.
My husband was convinced that once The Girl's mother found out she was going to her dad's house she would find a way to transfer custody to the father. You see, the less great state of Arkansas has this crazy idea that children should live with their parents, at least until they turn 18, so if she was in Arkansas and her father got custody he could force her to stay with him. At least until she turned 18, which is only 3 months away. I thought a) her mother couldn't get custody transferred that quickly, b) her father has his hands full already and doesn't have room or time for more than visits from her, and c) he's smart enough to know that if he pulled anything like that she'd hate his guts and never want to see him again.
Luckily, everything turned out fine and she is back home where she belongs. She had a lot of fun and got to spend time with her dad, but now she's mine, all mine. Wait, I mean ours, all ours. Yeah, ours, right. She spends so much time with my husband I get jealous. I am at work when she gets home from school, and when I get home it's just about bedtime, so I don't get to see her nearly as much as he does. Of course, the flip side is he gets to enjoy her taste in music and TV more than I do. Over the holidays he made her pay for making him listen to Marilyn Manson and watch reruns of Clueless by spending as much time on the couch watching James Bond movies as humanly possible without actually being in a coma.
Then there was the big New Year's Eve fiasco. I had to work that night, but got home around 9. My sister and her family, and some friends, came over and we just sat around mingling, eating and drinking, shooting pool and talking trash. After everybody left our house my husband and The Girl decided to go down the street and crash our neighbor's party. I decided I had enough celebration and just went to bed. If I have to say so myself, that was a pretty smart move. I mean, it was about 2am and the people who had been drinking all night were in prime form.
Let me tell you a little about the neighbors I'm talking about. They are the ones who just got married in July. He just turned 21 and I think she's 19. So my husband walked into a house full of drunken teenagers. He said he knew there was trouble when the first thing he heard when he walked in was glass breaking and people yelling. The woman of the house was out back on the deck, so he went out to talk to her. She was having a freak attack because she couldn't find her cat. Imagine, a cat in a house full of yelling drunks not feeling like napping on the couch. She was convinced someone had let the cat outside, so she was in full freak mode.
He was trying to calm her down about the cat when some drunk punk came storming on the deck wanting to know what all the commotion was about. Apparently, the noise was interfering with his attempt to make sweet love with some other drunk young thing. For some reason he fixated on my husband as the cause of all his misery. He recognized my husband as an outsider since my husband was probably the only person over 30 there. Since my husband was so ancient he obviously didn't belong, so this young stud was going to take out the trash, so to speak. He kept calling my husband names and threatening to kick his ass. The Girl went and got the man of the house, who was able to straighten out the young stud. Lucky for the young stud because even though my husband is getting old and grey, and not in exactly the best shape (Ok, he's got a gut. My man likes him some beer.), he could still kick that punks ass from here to next week.
The holidays are officially over at the Cud household. Yesterday the tree came down. I am still pissed off because when I went to decorate the tree I couldn't find any of my Christmas ornaments. I have a bunch of really old, fancy glass ornaments. Not family heirlooms or anything. I bought them all at a resale store, but still, they are really beautiful. I haven't been using them because there was always a cat in the house that would have knocked them off and broken them. To display them I would get those giant margarita glasses and fill them with ornaments and arrange them on the mantle. This year there wasn't a cat to contend with, so I was going to really pimp out the tree. Martha Stewart would have been proud. (I still remember the Christmas show of hers where she decorated the cookies with gold foil instead of the standard frosting and sprinkles. Maybe next year.)
Christmas wasn't the total joy you would expect for a family celebrating the arrival their first child. Sure, the child is 17, not exactly a little bundle of joy, but we had been looking forward to having a really spectacular, pull out all the stops celebration. Then The Girl ended up spending Christmas with her father in Arkansas. Of course, the plane trip down there coincided with the big ice storm that stranded her plane in Cincinnati, so the day she left was a total nightmare. My husband was convinced that once she left she wasn't going to be able to come back.
You see, she isn't really our daughter. We didn't kidnap her or anything, but we don't have any kind of legal custody of her. According to the great state of Missouri a 17 year old can decide she doesn't want to live with her parents and they can't do anything about it. The Girl and her step father didn't get along, and her mother seems to parent more in the style of the Wicked Stepmother than anything else. Her father lives in Arkansas, and she didn't want to move down there, plus he has a soap opera of his own going on, so she ended up moving in with us.
My husband was convinced that once The Girl's mother found out she was going to her dad's house she would find a way to transfer custody to the father. You see, the less great state of Arkansas has this crazy idea that children should live with their parents, at least until they turn 18, so if she was in Arkansas and her father got custody he could force her to stay with him. At least until she turned 18, which is only 3 months away. I thought a) her mother couldn't get custody transferred that quickly, b) her father has his hands full already and doesn't have room or time for more than visits from her, and c) he's smart enough to know that if he pulled anything like that she'd hate his guts and never want to see him again.
Luckily, everything turned out fine and she is back home where she belongs. She had a lot of fun and got to spend time with her dad, but now she's mine, all mine. Wait, I mean ours, all ours. Yeah, ours, right. She spends so much time with my husband I get jealous. I am at work when she gets home from school, and when I get home it's just about bedtime, so I don't get to see her nearly as much as he does. Of course, the flip side is he gets to enjoy her taste in music and TV more than I do. Over the holidays he made her pay for making him listen to Marilyn Manson and watch reruns of Clueless by spending as much time on the couch watching James Bond movies as humanly possible without actually being in a coma.
Then there was the big New Year's Eve fiasco. I had to work that night, but got home around 9. My sister and her family, and some friends, came over and we just sat around mingling, eating and drinking, shooting pool and talking trash. After everybody left our house my husband and The Girl decided to go down the street and crash our neighbor's party. I decided I had enough celebration and just went to bed. If I have to say so myself, that was a pretty smart move. I mean, it was about 2am and the people who had been drinking all night were in prime form.
Let me tell you a little about the neighbors I'm talking about. They are the ones who just got married in July. He just turned 21 and I think she's 19. So my husband walked into a house full of drunken teenagers. He said he knew there was trouble when the first thing he heard when he walked in was glass breaking and people yelling. The woman of the house was out back on the deck, so he went out to talk to her. She was having a freak attack because she couldn't find her cat. Imagine, a cat in a house full of yelling drunks not feeling like napping on the couch. She was convinced someone had let the cat outside, so she was in full freak mode.
He was trying to calm her down about the cat when some drunk punk came storming on the deck wanting to know what all the commotion was about. Apparently, the noise was interfering with his attempt to make sweet love with some other drunk young thing. For some reason he fixated on my husband as the cause of all his misery. He recognized my husband as an outsider since my husband was probably the only person over 30 there. Since my husband was so ancient he obviously didn't belong, so this young stud was going to take out the trash, so to speak. He kept calling my husband names and threatening to kick his ass. The Girl went and got the man of the house, who was able to straighten out the young stud. Lucky for the young stud because even though my husband is getting old and grey, and not in exactly the best shape (Ok, he's got a gut. My man likes him some beer.), he could still kick that punks ass from here to next week.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Percussion Sensitivity
If you liked the birthday present I gave my husband, you will love the Christmas present I gave myself. A great big thumping toothache. I went to the dentist and got some cavities filled a while ago, and ever since then something has been wrong with the left side of my mouth. I went to the dentist and said I was having a problem and he just gave me some of that toothpaste for sensitive teeth. I wasn't sure which tooth was causing the pain because it wasn't a real intense stabbing pain, more like a 'what the hell is wrong over there' pain. I thought it was the tooth with the enormous crater, but last weekend I found out for sure it was the next one down. It started really hurting, and my jaw swelled all up Sunday and Monday.
I went back to the dentist Wednesday and he looked at my tooth. I told him which one it was and he took some little metal thing and tapped the Tooth From Hell a couple of times. 'Oh, the pain, the pain,' as Doctor Smith from Lost in Space would say. In a real professional tone, the dentist told his assistant there was percussion sensitivity in whatever number the Tooth From Hell is. Percussion sensitivity, right. Freaking agony more like it. I wanted to see if his crotch had percussion sensitivity.
So he gave me a prescription for some pain pills and antibiotics. If I do the yogurt wipe I'm keeping it to myself.
Now I'm bumming out about my tooth. The dentist told me I could either spent $1,500 to $2,000 on a root canal and crown, or $300 to $500 on yanking it out of my mouth. I remember the other root canal I got from this dentist. It wasn't until after he gave me the root canal that he even mentioned needing to get a crown. Skinner. I was lucky I could afford it back then, but now I can't, even with the awesome insurance I have. So out comes the Tooth From Hell.
This is the second, or third, tooth I've had pulled. It's hard to decide if I've had one tooth or two teeth pulled already because I had the same tooth pulled twice. How is that possible? I had a cavity when I was really little, and the dentist decided for some reason to just pull the tooth instead of filling it. Maybe Mom can remember what was up, but I was too little to remember the details. I just remember getting it pulled out. It was a baby tooth, and would have fallen out sooner or later, but unfortunately after it got pulled out the rest of my teeth noticed the extra leg-room and spread out a little. Then when the permanent tooth was ready to come in there wasn't any room at the inn, so the tooth came in pointing right into the side of my tongue. The dentist decided to just yank that tooth out, too, instead of getting braces and forcing my teeth back into place. So I had tooth number whatever pulled twice.
I'm not really looking forward to the day of yanking. I'm going to miss that molar. On the other hand I'm not going to miss the pain shooting down my tooth, into my jaw, and down into my shoulder every time I chew on something hot, or cold, or crunchy, or basically anything except maybe pudding or oatmeal, on that side of my mouth.
If you liked the birthday present I gave my husband, you will love the Christmas present I gave myself. A great big thumping toothache. I went to the dentist and got some cavities filled a while ago, and ever since then something has been wrong with the left side of my mouth. I went to the dentist and said I was having a problem and he just gave me some of that toothpaste for sensitive teeth. I wasn't sure which tooth was causing the pain because it wasn't a real intense stabbing pain, more like a 'what the hell is wrong over there' pain. I thought it was the tooth with the enormous crater, but last weekend I found out for sure it was the next one down. It started really hurting, and my jaw swelled all up Sunday and Monday.
I went back to the dentist Wednesday and he looked at my tooth. I told him which one it was and he took some little metal thing and tapped the Tooth From Hell a couple of times. 'Oh, the pain, the pain,' as Doctor Smith from Lost in Space would say. In a real professional tone, the dentist told his assistant there was percussion sensitivity in whatever number the Tooth From Hell is. Percussion sensitivity, right. Freaking agony more like it. I wanted to see if his crotch had percussion sensitivity.
So he gave me a prescription for some pain pills and antibiotics. If I do the yogurt wipe I'm keeping it to myself.
Now I'm bumming out about my tooth. The dentist told me I could either spent $1,500 to $2,000 on a root canal and crown, or $300 to $500 on yanking it out of my mouth. I remember the other root canal I got from this dentist. It wasn't until after he gave me the root canal that he even mentioned needing to get a crown. Skinner. I was lucky I could afford it back then, but now I can't, even with the awesome insurance I have. So out comes the Tooth From Hell.
This is the second, or third, tooth I've had pulled. It's hard to decide if I've had one tooth or two teeth pulled already because I had the same tooth pulled twice. How is that possible? I had a cavity when I was really little, and the dentist decided for some reason to just pull the tooth instead of filling it. Maybe Mom can remember what was up, but I was too little to remember the details. I just remember getting it pulled out. It was a baby tooth, and would have fallen out sooner or later, but unfortunately after it got pulled out the rest of my teeth noticed the extra leg-room and spread out a little. Then when the permanent tooth was ready to come in there wasn't any room at the inn, so the tooth came in pointing right into the side of my tongue. The dentist decided to just yank that tooth out, too, instead of getting braces and forcing my teeth back into place. So I had tooth number whatever pulled twice.
I'm not really looking forward to the day of yanking. I'm going to miss that molar. On the other hand I'm not going to miss the pain shooting down my tooth, into my jaw, and down into my shoulder every time I chew on something hot, or cold, or crunchy, or basically anything except maybe pudding or oatmeal, on that side of my mouth.
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