Easy Peasy

Here's something to do if you feel like wasting time at work: http://quiz.history.com/

But the questions are ridiculously easy. Reminds me of how I won my "2010 Census" coffee mug at Merry Main Street (our town's Christmas "doing"). I saw they had swag and walked up and said, "I want a mug. What do I have to do to get it?" So they asked me a trivia question.

"Not counting this year's, when was the last U.S. census?"

"2000." They handed me the mug.

"That's IT? That's all I have to answer? I don't even have to say it's mandated by the Constitution? Or that a bunch of the data ends up in Statistical Abstracts of the United States? Which is a GREAT book, by the way, and a huge bargain."

They interrupted me. "Um, no ma'am. Just the year."

"Oh, okay! Thanks."

I am a total weirdo, but I LOVE Statistical Abstracts of the United States. It's published annually by the Government Printing Office (www.gpo.gov) and compiles a gracious plenty of data about the US. When I was running a library (Ericsson, Siemens' Wireless) I used to drive to the GPO bookstore in downtown Dallas on the release date every year to buy my new copy. You could say that StatAbstracts was my Harry Potter. Except cheaper. And no one has to camp out in tents ahead of time.

Folk medicine

Currently I have a cold. Or really bad allergies.

On top of that, I had a migrane yesterday. It's been a while since I've had one--a couple of years, at least. Therefore, I don't have any handy-dandy migrane narcotics on hand like Midrin or Tylenol-3 or whatever.

I was doing okay at home in the deep, cool, quiet of my tv room, but when it was time to take SassyZAF (no longer Stick Girl) to her piano lesson, it got bad. Here's a tip: if you have a migrane, do NOT go to a music store. Just sayin'.

About 30 seconds away from calling my doctor and asking if I could come in for a shot of Imitrex, I realized it would be cheaper to take one last shot at a home cure: 7-Eleven coffee.

People look at you weird when you buy coffee at 5pm. Not that I care. I mean, I KNOW it's been sitting there for hours, and that the pot is probably a combo of five different brews. As long as they're not decaf, I don't care. Thicker the better. Consistency of tar. Properties of paint thinner. Aroma of dog breath. That's the stuff.

It had a small effect over the next 90 minutes, which was enough for me to get supper [nominally] planned.

Then it happened. My head, I swear, actually felt lighter. The pain simply lifted and my scalp got all tingly.

There is no feeling so wonderful as being in pain, and then NOT. Ah, clarity! Joy! Euphoria!

All yours, available for $1.50 at America's favorite convenience store!

*And I know you're thinking this, but I'm actually not addicted to caffene. I don't drink it daily. Surprised, aren't you? So, no, my headache wasn't due to caffene withdrawl. I've had that headache. That's an entirely different headache. But thank you for your concern.

Hilights

Today I:

Saw the hole in my back yard become something that looks like a pool.

Sprained my ankle taking pictures of it.

Finally fit into the bridesmaid dress.

Embarrassed my daughter.

Was confused by Lost.

Bought yet another pair of cheap sunglasses.

Was extremely impressed that the garbage trucks, who were prevented from collecting in my alley due to our pool construction, actually came back and got it later.

So my neighbors won't hate me. That's always a good thing.

Hypochondriocity

This one's really boring, and only mildly funny in one or two spots. Don't say you weren't warned that this will be a total waste of your time. Anyway--

I'm one of those people who will some day have on my gravestone: "I TOLD you I was sick!"

I'm not always right, but here's the problem: sometimes I am. This does nothing to discourage a hypochondriac like myself.

I first got the reputation for being a hypochondriac in my teens, when I constantly had a headache. Have you ever had to PROVE you had a headache? Try. Think about it.

The thing is, I DID have a headache. And my shoulders were so tense my earrings generally rested on my clavicles. When I was a little older, people I worked with thought I drank a lot because I never looked well-rested, along with the headache thing, and so on.

I had doctor-hopped, trying to find out what was wrong, when I finally got lucky and found a dentist who told me the artificial implant in my jaw that was supposed to fix things actually fucked them up more, was probably shedding bits of teflon in my body, and had to be removed ASAP. I have the pathology report on the surgery. It's icky.

Point is: I was right.

Then there was the time, 8 years ago, when I had this tiny yet horribly itchy rash on my back. I went to the doctor and said, hey, I know that a little information gleaned from the Interwebs is usually a bad thing, so PLEASE tell me this isn't shingles.

He said sorry, I can't. It IS shingles and this has been a weird morning, because the first patient of the day was a brand new case of tuberculosis and I had to call the CDC, so sorry you had to wait. Shingles at age 34? Effed up.

Then, of course, is the constant battle with depression, and my years of working with my doctor to get the right medicine and dosage. It sucks, but at least the medicine helped me quit smoking. Then last year, Doc finally gave me Cymbalta, which has not only lifted my issues with depression, but also alleviated all those aches and pains I've been living with all my life, which are quite like fibromyalgia pain, even though for once I never self-diagnosed fibromyalgia. Okay, maybe once or twice in my head, but never asked the doctor about it.

So I was feeling GREAT!

Then, as you probably know, my Dad's illness which had already gone from bad to worse, went from worse to critical, then worse to casket. It exhausted me.

I expected the exhaustion to lift, but it only got worse, and the damn trees around me were blocking my view of the forest. Not that I could keep my eyes open to see it. I was sleeping up to 20 hours a day. Then I started craving, and I mean CRAVING anything with salt, that crunched. It was all I would eat: potato chips, bagel chips, saltines, anything. In restaurants, I wouldn't even need a to-go box, except maybe for my steak.

When I went to visit Mother at BeerHound's house in March, the 'Hound stared in awe as I ate an entire bag of potato chips (WITH dip) by myself, as I sat and complained about how swollen my ankles were.

Really, they looked like Stretch Armstrong's buddy He-Man: when poked, the dent from my finger would stay for a minute or two.

That's when the BeerHound said quietly, yeah, that's weird. Go to the doctor.

Now, BeerHound and I theorize on health issues on a daily basis. Due to her past and present professions, nutritionist and lab tech, respectively, she can spout diagnostic data prolificly. But since she's not a doctor, she can't and won't give out medical advice.

That's why, when she had NO other comments on my behavior and symptoms, I took her very seriously and went to the doctor the day after I got back.

At which time, of course, the swelling had dissappeared. So I guess I wasn't having heart failure, or kidney failure, or any other major organ failure. So that was nice.

Good hypochondriac I am, I'd already diagnosed myself with Hashimoto's. It's a type of underactive thyroid condition.

The doctor agreed to do some blood tests, and gave me a diuretic for my now non-existent edema. Then a week and a lot of frustration later, I learned that I was NOT suffereing from a thyroid malady; however, I was severely low in vitamins B12 and D. Now I get to take oral supplements of each, plus sit in the sun for 15 minutes a day, and get monthly B12 shots.

I have no idea why I was so anemic, but it feels really good to be awake again.

Thanks for reading this far. Now go sit in the sun.

Who ARE the people in your neighborhood?

12:47 PM

me: i saw the funniest thing!

12:48 PM

David: ?

me: getting out of a car going into a house over on j*#&* street

a drag queen. skinny.

in a snow leopard print chiffon halter dress

12:49 PM

wearing a platinum Marilyn Monroe wig

and heels of course.

carrying..

A WHIP!

David: uhhh wha?

me: :-O

just re-read what i wrote.

;-)

12:50 PM

David: is it drag queen day at school today?

me: must be

12:51 PM

David: wonder what that was about? I mean I know there are lots of republicans living in Texas, but in our neighborhood?

me: i love you.

12:52 PM

David: :>

12:55 PM

Lance: gotta do a craigslist search to find who put in that ad

me: lol

I was bad.

The last time I flew, I did something illegal.

You know when they ask, has anyone else handled your bags? Asked you to carry something, etc?

You say "No," and you really believe it, don't you?

This is from my (handwritten) journal entry:

This guy who has been sitting in front of me for about an hour, working on his computer, got a phone call 10 minutes ago. He started out talking while sitting in his seat but quickly got up. Can NO ONE in this country speak on the phone any more without the urge to multitask, even if it's only a facade? Guess not.

People used to have to stand still or sit to speak on the phone, since it was anchored to the wall.

The guy came back. I wonder if the guy to my right noticed what I did. Which was: I tore a blank page out of my journal and wrote: "You left your bag unattended! Bar Patron, DFW, beerpup (at) gmail (dot) com," and put it in his backpack. Wonder what the outcome will be?

The guy just took another call. Geez.

Non-sequiter: I'm really glad I haven't seen anyone in flip-flops yet today.

Man, that guy just dug thru his bag. I guess I put that note practically on top of his wallet. Let's just call him Mr. "O" for Oblivious.

Two lines, no thoughts, sorta drunk. Nachos sucked, just like last time I was here!

This is where we are before we're up in the air.

Watch this.

Hey lady! Yeah, you!

Confidential to the lady at the grocery store: Yah, you, bitch. You, the one who whined "Escuse me" to me as you manuvered your cart around me because I was looking for something. I wasn't blocking the whole aisle, and the store wasn't busy. Your "Excuse me" was totally unnecessary but once said, I was happy to give an obsequeous "No problem!" in reply.

But that look you gave me. Really. Not necessary. I mean, it would have made sense if you were a lesbian or something, but it was kind of obvious you're not.

How do I know? Well, you looked at me as if I should actually CARE what you think about how I look!

Which today, I've got to admit, did not adhere to the "Texas in March after dark" standard. Then again I decided long ago that such standards don't apply to me. I decided that about the time that I tried to figure out why everyone around me was wearing their shower shoes. I wondered if there was a rampant fungus going around which I hadn't heard about. Then, by my favorite method of research--also known as "eavesdropping"--I discovered they're called "flip-flops" and it is, for some reason, acceptible for anyone to wear them anywhere in Texas in the summer, though they are highly encouraged on airplanes, and probably frowned upon by the higher-ups at the Mary Kay Corporation.*

Shower shoes. Something people wear when they are otherwise completely naked. You know, like a condom or something. I just think it's weird, plus they're nearly impossible to keep on one's feet while walking, unless one curls one's toes, and that's just not good for your feet. Plus, I tend to feel that the curling of one's toes should be inspired by one's beloved, and not one's poor choice in footwear.

I have a very low standard when it comes to every-day dressing. It is: beat-up old tennis shoes, socks, standard underwear, a tank top in any color except that beige that washes me out, and either jeans or shorts.

It's after March 1, and the temperature was WELL above freezing today, so I was wearing shorts.

Herein I have strayed from what is acceptible in Texas, in March, after dark.

I was wearing a jacket, at least. Not necessarily an attractive jacket, but sorta cute. And sorta short-sleeved.

Really, I was only wearing that particular jacket because I still had it on from picking up the kids when it was sunny AND almost "warm" AND it covered up the fact that I'm wearing a tank top.

It's not really a good idea, when picking up one's children at school and when seen by school faculty and staff, to not dress in accordance with the school dress code. Believe it or not, I don't wear short-shorts or tank tops when I go there. I make sure to wear a jacket over the tank tops anyway. I also, and this is really difficult for me, do NOT wear anything that makes any reference to beer. I have tons of beer shirts and bar shirts and several shirts with my nickname on them, which means that if choose poorly when dressing in the morning, I will end up wearing a jacket at carpool when it's 80 degrees out because I don't need anyone asking me what "BeerPup" is and where this "TreyFools Roofing" company is located.

But a tank top WITH a jacket is totally acceptable, because the school dress code makes no reference whatsoever to clevage. And I can't hide my boobs anyway, and why would I want to? As I've said before: "THEY'RE REAL, AND THEY'RE MAGNIFICANT."

Even in this day and age, people make assumptions about women in regard to the size of their breasts.

So, then, lady from the store: I don't care. Thank you for amusing me, though.

Oh, and also: now you can go and tell your friends that now you know what hookers do on their day off.

Have a nice day!

*I know this for a fact. Also, it's not a good idea, if you work at Mary Kay, to change your pantyhose in the parking garage. They'd rather see a run in your hose. Want to change those hose so you don't get in trouble? Look for security cameras first.

Grana's Grits Casserole

Grits Casserole

1 cup plain instant grits

3 cups boiling water

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 cup butter

4 eggs

1 cup milk

1/4 cup grated cheese

Pour grits into boiling, salted water; mix and cook until thick (do not follow directions/measurements on grits box). Add butter, beaten eggs, milk, and cheese. Bake at 350 for 30 minutes. Serves 4.

The Dave's grandmother used to make this for us at the ranch.

The Airplane Story

I had totally forgotten that Northwest and Delta are now one airline that simply can't afford to re-paint their fleet yet. So when I got on my flight to Minneapolis--the first time I went up North--I was at a NW gate but had no idea the plane said "Delta" on the side. No big. Whatever.

My row was maybe 2/3 back. I had paid an extra $20 to have a more comfortable seat, because when I booked my ticket, all that was available were the emergency exit row seats and the ones in front of them which don't recline, and the roomier but more costly one(s) which I had booked.

The flight was progressing as normal. I was reading, the beverages were served and I had coffee, since it was still 0-dark:30 in the morning. I can tell you beyond a doubt that coffee is also what the woman behind me ordered.

I had taken my time drinking my coffee, as in 30-40 minutes at least to drink luke-warm stuff that I'm fairly sure was brewed by tying a string on a coffee bean and dipping it into my cup. Yes, it was a little on the weak side. The flight attendants had been up and back twice picking up garbage and my cup was long gone.

Then I did what everyone does at this point. I leaned my seat back.

From the sounds that emitted from behind me, you'd think I had pulled down my pants and shit in the woman's lap. First there was a splash, then a squak, then whining and yelping, then several beeps (the flight attendant button--did you know you can push it more than once?) and then…the bitching.

"Could I have a towel or rag or something? SHE leaned her seat back and SPILLED MY COFFEE ALL OVER.!"

In between her comments, she made many.pointed.exhales.of.EXASPERATION.

Then she stood directly next to me and told the person across the aisle from me that I had leaned my seat back and SPILLED HER COFFEE ALL OVER! I'm pretty sure she told the person in front of me, too. I'm not really sure, because I was trying to read my book, which was pretty good.

She finally sat down, but didn't shut up. She told the person across the aisle from her, which as you can imagine was totally unnecessary because I'm fairly sure they had actually witnessed the incident (when I had leaned my seat back and SPILLED HER COFFEE ALL OVER!) At this point, she was telling anyone who would pay attention, starting and stopping again every couple of minutes. A full half hour later, she finally remembered to thank the guy next to her for catching something or other.

That guy was the only person, aside from the flight attendant, who actually answered her. He said "You're welcome," and nothing else.

Once I finished my chapter and was wishing for the flight to end, I wondered what, exactly, did this woman think I, personally, had done wrong? How, exactly, was I to blame? Where the hell had her coffee cup been, that I was able to knock it over with my seat? Was I personally responsible for the tray table design for Delta airlines? Is there some rule out there that says I have to ask permission before leaning back? (Because, if there is, please tell me, and I'll pass that info along next time someone leans their seat back in front of me without warning, which would be, oh, EVERYONE who is ever going to sit in front of me on an airplane, ever. Maybe I should have little laminated instruction cards printed up and just hand them out. But I digress.)

So she put coffee in a stupid place and it spilled, and then bitches about it for the rest of the flight? Since I handn't looked at the woman when she wanted me to, I tried to imagine her. She had to be over 50, hair dyed and not very well, print button-up shirt, impractical shoes, and white pants. And she just HAD to be the kind of person who wears white pants on an airplane--in December on the way to Minnesota, no less.

My suspisions were confirmed as we de-planed. The guy who had been stuck next to her looked at me as he went past, glanced at her and rolled his eyes. I smirked and glanced at the woman next to me who was wearing a hijab, lifting part of it up to cover her mouth so her smile couldn't be seen, and then she rolled her eyes, too.

The woman in the coffee-stained white pants hurried up the jetway in front of me, eager to tell her story to people who hadn't witnessed it, so she could get some REAL sympathy.

Good luck with that.

Pharoh

In the hospital, at the end, I was talking to my friend Jami's daughter Avi. She's 10. I was trying to prepare her for what it was like to see my dad the way he was. He'd lost a lot of weight, and dammit, he was BALD. It had been a shock to me, and I can only imagine what it would be like for her.

"He looks like…well, a mummy. Do you watch the Discovery channel?"

"No."

"Never?"

"Never."

I looked at Jami. She confirmed it. No Discovery channel, EVER! Such a travesty.

"Okay. Well, some day in school, you'll study ancient Egypt, or you'll get to watch the Discovery channel," I paused and glared at Jami. "They'll show mummies, upwrapped. Their bones are there, and their skin is there, but there's no…" I had to stop and think. "They've lost tissue. Some of themselves. And when they were buried, they did all kinds of other things to preserve the pharohs and stuff. It's really cool. But it's kind of shocking, how much they look like themselves, but they don't.

"So that's how Marvin looks right now. Himself, but not. It's okay to be a little shocked."

I'll admit I was rocked to the bottoms of my stupid pink tennies, the first time I saw him in that hospital bed.

"Dad! Look who came to see you!"

He opened his eyes--both of them, for once and said, "Toby! Jami!" and then, "Avi!"

They stayed breifly, talked breifly, and the the nurse had to do something without us in the room. Outside, I talked to Avi a little more.

I had never met Avi before that day. She was due to be born the same week as my first baby--the one I miscarried. Being determinded to have a baby that year, I got pregnant with Zoe and had her with an easy margin; she was born in November. Avi had been born the June before. I won't even pretend that Avi wasn't my parents' substitute for the grandchild who didn't arrive as expected. For a while, once I was definitely pregnant again, Mom--and Dad--were all, Avi this and Avi that, and I know that most of this was second and third hand information, but what can you do? They're Grandma and Grandpa. They were just doing what they do.

Avi was definitely uncomfortable, after seeing Dad.

"You don't remember him, do you?" I asked. She admitted she didn't.

"Well, at least now you know what a mummy looks like. Some day you'll see a picture of one and say, hey, that look just like Marvin did! It's okay that you don't remember him. You were only a baby. He doesn't have to be important to you. You're important to him."

The Pharoh had spoken.

Aunt

My Dad had only one sister, Leona. This was in a time when farmers had as many kids as possible. I guess two was grandma's limit.

Leona ran as fast and as far as she could from the farm. I don't think she ever got over being stigmatized and terrorized by the "urban" kids from my home town. Way back then, they were unbelievabley cruel to "country kids," a practice which still hadn't entirely ended in my own time.

She never knocked that chip off her shoulder, but then again, she never bothered to look to far outside herself either. When I was young she was my favorite aunt, but as I realized just how self-absorbed she was, she became my least favorite. I could tell many stories about her self-absorption, but I'll just summarize it this way: She never bothered to learn her only brother's children's names. Oh, she could pronounce them, but every Christmas, our presents came addressed to : Sarah, Darrin, and Janis. EVERY FUCKING YEAR. FOR DECADES. Don't bother asking if we politely corrected her. We did.

For the record, they are spelled Sara, Darren, and Janice.

Bitch.

Unsuccessful

It's been a rocky Fall and Winter for me. As most (or all) of y'all know, my dad died earlier this month from cancer.

Thus far I've been unsuccessful at writing, let alone posting, an entire cohesive piece about it. I just can't put it all together yet. Therefore, I've decided to post breif thoughts about my dad: his life in general, his illness, the funny bits, the sad bits, the surreality of it all. It won't all be in one post. I can't do that yet. Maybe in the end it will all make sense.

This will be very random--84 years' worth of life rarely ties itself up neatly.

(PS: Each thought will be an individual post. It's the only "order" I seem to be able to impose on these thoughts.)