Tag: satire

Cry Baby

I am a crier. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a big sissy or a baby. I don’t let the little things get me down. I don’t whine and pout when I don’t get my way, which happens often in this world. I’m not even a super emotional person. I can watch the evening news and see the horrors that “man” wreaks on innocent victims and I usually just shake my head and wonder at the senseless acts. Maybe it’s because it is man doing it to man that I don’t get that emotional about it. Maybe it’s because I’ve been lucky to not have witnessed any random violence first hand or maybe there is something missing in me, the empathy gene.

But watch something on the news about acts of cruelty to animals and the tears just roll. I get so angry that someone could hurt a creature that trusts and loves us; it’s probably a good thing I don’t get to face the offender. It would not be pretty.

See a sad scene in a movie and I’m a basket case. I cried through the whole movie “War Horse”. I didn’t even want to go, but Mitch did so we went. I love the sappy chick flicks, maybe that’s where I show all of my emotions. It’s not real so it’s okay to let loose and feel the moment. No one is there to mock me for my tears, but Mitch, and he doesn’t count.

Watch a sappy or cute animal video and I can’t even talk after. My voice gets husky and breaks. So what is wrong with me? I cry for puppies and love stories, but not for the horrors of real life. Maybe it’s because there is too much horror today and not enough puppy videos. Or maybe that is the only way to not succumb to the wretchedness of man and sink into a deep depression. Who knows maybe I’m just a heartless woman. I can ask Mitch, but he says he’s afraid of me. I don’t know why.

Whoa What a Ride!

Everybody has lived through one of those “I can’t believe I survived that” moments, in fact I’ve had a few. Sometimes I marvel at the fact I’m still here. Mitch and I have more than our share together. I think together we have done some really stupid things. Of course you don’t think about that while you’re in the midst of your adventure.

One of our many dumbest moves was years ago, when I was going through my Divemaster training. It was my first open water work weekend at Table Rock Lake, about four hours south of here. The plan was that I would ride down with another divemaster-in-training student on Friday, do my water work on Saturday and Mitch would buzz down after he closed the dive shop on Saturday evening. Then we would drive back together on Sunday.

Well no one told Mother Nature that we wanted a nice weekend, so instead we got cold wet rain on Saturday. Someone would say, “Well you’re in the water anyway, what’s the big deal?” When you get out of the chilly water you want to get dry and warm, but that didn’t happen for us all day. I couldn’t wait to get back to my hotel room and take a long hot shower. Mitch showed up soaked to the bone about midnight, after closing up shop. Of course he had ridden his motorcycle.

Sunday morning Mother Nature decided to help up out. The morning dawned sunny and much warmer. Training was more pleasant but we had a lot to catch up on that didn’t get done the day before. By the time we wrapped everything up, if was about two in the afternoon and we had to get back to KC in order to check in the dive gear that other students had checked out. It was decided that a friend would drag my gear back for me and I would ride back with Mitch on the back of the motorcycle.

Mitch trying to make up for lost time, was flying down a two lane highway at breakneck speeds, passing cars like a madman, doing around one hundred miles an hour. Me, I was so tired after being in the water for two days, fell asleep behind him. That’s not entirely true, I always fall asleep riding in a car, and riding back seat on a motorcycle isn’t much different, right? He only figured out that I was asleep when my helmet banged into the back of his helmet. Can you imagine the jarring effect of getting whacked on the back of your helmet when trying to maintain control of your motorcycle at a hundred miles an hour? Mitch jerked and banged his helmet back at me and yelled for me to wake up. Easier said than done, I tried, but kept dozing off whacking Mitch in the back of the head for the next three hours. I finally woke up about the time we hit Kansas City. Luckily we survived the ride mainly due to light traffic, Mitch’s skill and in spite of me.

We beat the other divers back and Mitch finally relaxed about an hour after we checked in all of the rented gear.

I’m Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

It’s been almost four weeks since my surgery and according to my doctor, I’m healing nicely.  He said that I’m to continue doing what I’ve been doing.  Keep walking to a minimum, elevation and ice in the afternoon.  I still can’t make my normal ten hour work days, but I hang in there for eight hours.  I figure that’s pretty good, longer than some.

Bonus – I haven’t fallen for two weeks since I had a twofer in two days.  That’s what I’m worried about.  I know me too well.  Grace is not my middle name.  I can find more unique ways to cause injury to my body than the average person.

The dogs are getting more comfortable around my crutches too and that is a big cause for concern.  Both have decided that the gap between the crutch and my body offers a great pass through, kind of like walking under a ladder.  The only bad luck is mine, they won’t get hurt, but I will.  They don’t care, they’ve seen me fall down before and it’s a great source of entertainment for them.  I’ve seen them laughing at me.

The doctor has given me a monster sized black walking boot to try to minimize my use of the crutches.  It took me four days to be able to shed the crutches and just use the Frankenstein boot.  It’s big and clunky but now I can walk and carry a cup of coffee at the same time.  WooHoo!

Things are looking optimistic, I can maneuver around better, help Mitch more and have a lot more freedom.  So what’s the problem?  I know me well.  Now that I have more mobility, I know that it’s just a matter of time before I do something stupid, reach for something too high, turn too fast or get tripped up by the dogs and then it’s CRASH!  I’m not being a pessimist, I’m actually being a realist, I just know me too well.

If you don’t believe me, ask Mitch, he’s walking around watching my every move, car keys close at hand waiting for the trip to the emergency room.

My Hooligans

What is up with these two?  Orso and Charlie are at it again.  Once again they lulled me into a false sense of security thinking that they could be trusted to have the run of the house while home alone.  I was sure that since AJ was gone that these two hooligans would behave without AJ to instigate raiding the pantry.  And once again I was wrong.  I should be used to being wrong.

I know that with my foot surgery things have been thrown off.  Their routine has changed drastically.  But it’s not like they are getting no exercise.  We have our best friend coming over every day and walking the dogs, giving them lots of work and exercise.  So what happened?

I came home from work and was greeted by Mitch telling me to go check the kitchen and see the gift that the two had left for us.  Knowing that was not a good omen, I hobbled into the kitchen to find a mangled jar of my favorite local honey on the counter.  Evidently someone, my guess, Orso jumped up on the table and snatched the bottle of honey off the table and chewed the top off to enjoy my honey.  There was more than half gone.  I hope he gets sick, but not in the house.  But he won’t, he’s a Labrador retriever.

At dinner though we discovered another surprise.  Mitch went to butter his baked potato and looked at me and asked where the butter was.  Not on the table.  We went on a butter tub hunt throughout the house, kind of like an Easter egg hunt.  We searched under tables and dressers, under the bed and in the corners.  No luck.  The tub of butter has disappeared.  No slimy smears, no bits of plastic about.  Nothing, no clue, just no butter.  It was as though a master cat burglar had come into the house stole the butter and disappeared without a trace.

Now comes the fun part, watching the dogs closely to make sure they don’t get sick.  Poop watch, checking for bits of plastic, is so much fun and something I thought we were beyond now that AJ is not here.  Wrong again.

Growing up Without a Helmet

Today’s world has changed so much from the fifty plus years ago that I grew up in.  I’m lucky I survived.  Or maybe today’s world would not have survived fifty years ago.

How we survived is a miracle in itself.  Bicycle helmets were unheard of in the sixties.  Elbow and knee pads, are you kidding me?  We took our chances and actually showed off every skinned knee and elbow like a badge of honor.  We relished the retelling of our accidents with great animation and embellishment.  Of course after shedding huge tears and getting swabbed down with iodine, which stung much worse than the scrape.

My first trip to the emergency room was when I was three years old.  I was hot rodding on my tricycle and fell forward splitting my chin wide open requiring three stitches.  After that was when I grabbed a knife by the blade, of course, at four and sliced open my left hand.  I didn’t go back to the emergency room until I was eleven when at a huge family get together, I was showing my uncle how good I was at walking on my stilts.  My cousin sprayed me with a hose, causing me to lose my balance and the right stilt slipped and stabbed my left leg below the knee, leaving a huge gash.  That required thirteen stitches, three of which I promptly broke.  I didn’t have any more bleeding accidents after that, but suffered two broken toes and twisted ankles too many times too count.  I was not any more graceful growing up than I am now.

Today you get a ticket if your kids are not in safety seats or strapped in with seatbelts.  When I grew we sat on our parents laps or even stood up in the front seat while driving down the road.  Cars didn’t even come with seat belts.  We rode around in the back of pickup trucks and even sat on the tailgate while the truck was moving.  Granted I’m not advocating that, but we survived.  Today, no way, not with all of the lunatics on the road that are doing everything behind the wheel but driving.

Our parents would send us outside first thing in the morning and tell us not to come back inside until lunch.  There was no adult supervision while we played guns and war, had hideouts and forts in the woods.  We played on swing sets, swinging as high as we could then jumped off the swing just to taste the brief moment of flight.  There was also no predators (the human kind) either.  Today children are not allowed outside without adult supervision and rightfully so, because of the evil that lurks everywhere.

Today our parents would be arrested for child endangerment if we were allowed to live and play as we did fifty years ago.  We survived in spite of ourselves.  I know that a lot of the safe guards in place today are needed, but I also believe that some are too intrusive.  I for one am glad that I grew up when I did.  I don’t think I would do as well growing up today.

The Spa Vacation is Over

Well today is the day.  This luxurious spa vacation is over.  Today I go back to work.  This is going to be fun, I keep telling myself.  I’m going to go back to a mountain of unread emails and scribbled notes left on my keyboard, saying “Welcome back I need this done before 8am” (I usually get there about 6:15am) or “Glad you are back, please look into this and explain how this could have happened” (the fact that walking is a going to be a challenge is beside the point).

Friends are worried and don’t want me to go in quite as early because no one else is there, that’s the reason I go in early, no one else is there.  I get more done in the early morning quiet.  But my new biggest challenge will be trying to get in the doors at work.  Early birds have to scan a badge against an electronic reader on the side of the entry wall wedged behind a concrete standing ashtray about five feet from the first set of doors.  The doors are unlocked for about three to five seconds, so I have to hobble from behind the giant ashtray to the doors in under four seconds.  No hill for a stepper.  Then if I’m successful there I have to enter a passcode on the keypad against the sidewall again about five feet from the second set of doors.  The floor is clear of obstacles here so I have a better chance of getting to the doors before they re-lock leaving me stuck in the entryway waiting for someone to come rescue me.

If I am successful there, then the rest will be a cakewalk.  Hobble through the building, open the first fire door, crutch myself up two flights of stairs and open the second fire door at the top of the stairs without knocking myself down one of the flights of stairs.  Easy peasy.

Once I’m through the door chaos awaits.  Maybe I should take my drugs with me.  Mitch assures me that this will be an adventure.  I think he secretly wants me to stay home.

The Calm Before the Storm

It’s too quiet here.  It’s been almost two months since Mitch finished installing the dishwasher.  He has been busy with work and local city demands and hasn’t had a chance to cut the cabinet that will install next to the dishwasher filling the gaping hole left when we removed the existing cabinet to install the dishwasher.  I have not bugged him about filling the space because I know how busy he has been

I think part of his reticence to start the project is that there will be multiple “Mitch Fit” watches that can quickly go to “Mitch Fit” warnings and even “Mitch Fit” imminent crises.   Cutting down a thirty-six inch cabinet to a twelve inch cabinet is probably a bit of a challenge, especially shrinking the cabinet door, but I have faith that Mitch will figure it out.  (If not, I know where I can buy a twelve inch cabinet brand new in the box.)  That’s what scares him the most.  If I buy a new cabinet, I will have to re-stain or paint all of the cabinets so all will match and look the same.   Painting wood is sacrilege to him.  Wood only comes in stained colors if you ask him.

Finally this afternoon after a consultation with a seasoned cabinetmaker Mitch is finally de-constructing the cabinet and preparing it to become a third of its’ original size.  WooHoo.  What’s the worst that can happen?  It looks really sad and we go buy a new one.  Mitch doesn’t look at it that way, though.  He thinks it has to be perfect.

The de-constructing is the easy part; it’s the reconstructing part that will be tricky.  But it’s okay, I have my ear plugs.  I am definitely a glutton for punishment.

Call 911 Are You Kidding Me?

Real men don’t call 911.  Lacerations, contusions or amputations are only emergencies for mere mortals.  Men will refuse to call or seek help for any illness, accident or even heart attack unless forced to do so by an outside party, such as a spouse or partner.    The only reason a man will willingly seek out emergency help or call 911 is if he needs help finding a missing appendage in case of an amputation.  Then he will try to shake off any help by the paramedics except to maybe reattach the amputated limb.

Believe me I know this from experience.  Mitch has refused to seek medical attention even under threat of physical force to drag him to the hospital.  I came home from work one day and no one was waiting at the door to greet me, which was very odd.  I walked into the house and still no dog or man came to say hi, getting weirder.  As I walked into the bedroom there was Mitch laying on the bed, his right thumb and forefinger wrapped in blood soaked bandages.  I asked what happened and he just pointed skyward.  I looked at the ceiling and saw a hole about the size of a silver dollar with more pellets imbedded around the main hole.

There were bloodstains on his jeans and my first thought was that those are not going to come out.  There were bits of ceiling and insulation on the floor next to the bed.  Again I asked what happened.

His explanation so plausible to another man was just as ludicrous to a woman.  He was working on one of his shotguns by cycling a single shotgun shell in the chamber when the gun went off.  Of course the shell had to be live.  What was I thinking?  Obviously a stupid question.  His thumb and forefinger were wrapped around the end of the barrel of the gun holding it steady.  Once he realized that he had not blown off his thumb and forefinger, then it became just another cut, no big deal.   The shot caused a nickel sized laceration on his thumb and forefinger that looked like someone had taken a grapefruit spoon and scooped out a section of flesh.  Needless to say both fingers bled profusely.

I told him that I wanted to look at the wounds and he said, “No the blood would be too much for you.”  That I couldn’t take it.  Me – who has raised two boys through broken bones, broken noses and visits to the ER for stitches.  After examining the wounds and re-dressing them, I asked why he didn’t call 911.

“Call 911 are you kidding me?  It’s just a small cut almost a scratch.

Living with a Serial Killer

I live with a serial killer.  Although I’m not afraid for myself, others should be terrified.  I’ve watched enough episodes of Criminal Minds to know how to profile this serial killer.  Serial killers torture and kill small animals.  That fits him to a tee. He is remorseless.  He lives for the kill.  He loves to stalk, capture and murder squirrels, rabbits and moles, killing them with a viciousness only a true murderer can master.  This killer especially loves to hunt and kill lizards and snakes.  Charlie will stand motionless for minutes listening and staring intently at one spot waiting for some slight noise or movement.  As soon as the victim makes any sound or movement Charlie strikes with lightning speed and deadly accuracy, snatching the hapless reptile up, shaking the life out of the snake then slamming it to the ground for good measure.  How he does that always surprises me, those lizards are fast.  Who would think a dog would enjoy catching and killing snakes? Most snakes move pretty fast and disappear in the rocks.  His speed of execution is poetry in motion.  Deadly fluid poetry none the less.

Charlie will run down squirrels and rabbits, snatching them up on the fly, shaking and slamming the animal to the ground.  He will do this repeatedly until the poor creature is dead or wishes he was.  The mark of a true killer.  Moles are a particularly favorite victim of his.  I’m not sure if he hears the moles in the ground or smells them, but he will stand stock still for a moment, then start digging and without fail pull a mole out of the ground to torture and kill.  Charlie feels that it’s his purpose in life to rid the world of moles, snakes and lizards.  The moles I don’t care about, because of the damage done to our yard.  We even have friends that want us to rent him out to them.

I can see the ads now, “Serial Killer for Rent” “Mole Assassin for Hire” or “You Got Varmints – We Got Charlie, The Serial Killer”.

April Fool

This is probably the one day of the year I hate.  This is the day that glorifies all infantile people.   I don’t like pranksters and people that can only have fun at the expense of others.  Pranksters either have never had a prank pulled on them or feel that they have to continually one up the previous “joke”.  They don’t understand how humiliating and hurtful practical jokes can and are to the recipient of the practical joke.

I love to have fun as much as the next person, but mostly I only poke fun at myself.  Mitch and the dogs get a small dose of poking, but I would never intentionally hurt someone’s feelings for my pleasure.  I know too many people that have no sense of humor and the consequences of being the butt of the joke could be quote dire to the protagonist.  Now that might be funny.

I am holding out hope that I don’t get caught in an April Fool’s joke today, but I probably will.  Thank goodness it’s only one day long.

April Fool jokesters don’t realize that the biggest Fool is them.