The 1930s Just Weren't Ready for Me

-3 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

Hoopty update!!

All right, so I'm not the world's best photographer, especially by camera phone from a moving (nonhoopty) vehicle. Check this beauty out, though.That right there is the mother of all hoopties, my friend. Look in awe.

Two Weeks in Texas

So, two weeks ago last Tuesday (July 1 for the math challenged), I received a call from my parents telling me that tests showed that my 93-year-old grandfather's carotid artery was 95% blocked. He also had at least one mild stroke about a month ago. His doctor recommended surgery despite the risks and told my family that a decision needed to be made immediately and that they needed to call his office first thing in the morning to let him know what was decided. My folks told me that the decision was made to go ahead with surgery and they expected it to happen within the week. I got off the phone with them and immediately bought an open-ended plane ticket home to Texas for the very next day.

That Thursday (July 3), we took PaDad in for an arteriogram and waited all day to get the results. Apparently, the doc usually calls them around 5:30, but when 5:00 rolled around on the day before a holiday, I suggested that my dad go ahead and call the doc's office before everyone took off early. Too late. The receptionist was still there, but the doc and the surgeon had both left early to enjoy their 4th of July holidays, leaving my family swaying in the wind with zero information over the long weekend.

On Monday (July 7), when we finally managed to reach someone at the doc's office, they told us that the arteriogram confirmed the 95% blockage but that the surgeon could not see PaDad until July 14. It was at this point that it dawned on all of us that maybe I should not have rushed home based on the doctor's say-so since he doesn't get to dictate the surgeon's schedule. However, the doctor thought this was too long of a delay and they tried to get our appointment moved up. No luck.

So, finally, this past Monday (July 14), the surgeon assessed my grandfather's mental acuity and quality of life and scheduled the surgery for Friday, July 18 at 1:00 p.m.

[insert standard rant about health care system here]

So, I've been cooling my heels in Tejas for the last two weeks. Although cool is not really an appropriate adjective to use to describe anything about Texas in July. Fortuitously, I developed some kind of blockage in my right ear the second day I was here and have not yet managed to clear it, despite 10 days and $120 worth of medication, so it's not like I can fly anyway. And I can't hear a blessed thing either.

But it's not been a vacation. My job is portable and I brought plenty of work with me and have had to scramble several times to make deadlines. There's been a lot going on around here and focusing has been a challenge. Plus, my mom wanted to take me shopping. Who am I to disappoint her? And, drumroll please, I now present the newest selection of my OMG-aren't-they-just-the-cutest-things-you've-ever-seen-in-your-life shoes. Envy me.

You know you wanna be me. But you can't. The position is filled. That's it, yeah, let your envy flow in my direction, let it wash over me, I bathe in it, I glory-- *ahem*. Sorry. Got a little carried away there.

Anyhoo, despite the situation that brought and has kept me here, and despite the workload that has kept me plenty busy, we have managed to get out and do a few fun things and this has given me ample opportunities for observation. And ok, here's the thing: Texas and Texans, I love ya. I really do. I spent the first thirty years of my life here and I wouldn't change that for the world. Well, I'd omit a few of you, but I'm not going to get into that right now. In any case, even though I love you--nay, because I love you, I have to say that in my absence over the last eight years, y'all have all done gone and lost your minds. Now, Texas has always been a bit different and prides itself on it: It's a whole other country and all that jazz. I'm pretty sure no other state in the nation sells bathroom accessories imprinted with the image of its flag--everything from shower curtains to soap dishes to toothbrush holders. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But that's not what I'm talking about. No, I'm talking about the hoopties and the deranged lizard mascots and the Julius Caesar cast costumed as 1950s engineering nerds.

The little corner of Texas that I call home has always had its share of tricked-out trucks and souped-up cars and general attempts at oozing machismo out from under the hood. And oh, by the way, fellas, I refer to any sort of oversized, lift-kit fitted, ginormous-tire sporting, obvious attempt at stating your manhood sort of vehicle as a teeny weeny peeny machine. We all know you're compensating, but consider not advertising your shortcomings in such an obvious way, mmkay? But to get back on track, what got my attention this time was the new (to me) phenomenon of putting tiny little tires with great big wheels on cars, trucks, and SUVs.Yes, that's a Cadillac. An older model, admittedly, but I've seen these ridiculous-looking things on every kind of car you can imagine, from pickup trucks to compact cars to my personal favorite, a brand new Lincoln Navigator. I don't even know what to say about this. It's nuts. It's ugly. Stop the madness.

On a positive note, Kilgore has a new baseball team, the Kilgore Pump Jacks, and they play in the Texas Collegiate League. For those of you not up on your oilfield terminology, a pump jack is one of those old-timey mechanical devices for drawing oil out of a well . They kinda look like a hammer balancing on a triangle and rocking up and down. If that awe-inspiring descriptive imagery isn't doing it for ya, Google Image Search is your friend. A fitting name for a team in an old oil boomtown. But what to do about a mascot? Well, a pump jack is also sometimes called a nodding donkey. So there you go: Boomer, the donkey. Makes perfect sense. Until some nimrod decides that there should be two mascots. Now Boomer is joined by Derrick the dinosaur. Because of fossil fuels, ya know. Right. Whatevs. The only trouble is that a dinosaur mascot costume is a little tough to pull off. And if you're not careful, he might just end up looking like. . .. . . a deranged lizard. Um, creepy. And I'm not even a masklophobe. At least I didn't use to be.

Another good thing that Kilgore has going for it is the annual Texas Shakespeare Festival. According to TSF's promotional materials, it has been referred to by the Austin American Statesman as "indisputably the best Shakespeare festival in Texas." My parents don't usually attend, but my mom was willing to go with me, and to my utter amazement, my dad agreed to accompany us after some initial hesitation. Come to find out, he was mainly interested in seeing the elaborate sets and costumes. Whoops.Somehow, I don't think that's what Dad had in mind. It really wasn't that big of a deal although it threw me at first. But I got used to it and ceased to notice after a while. What was much more distracting were my parents giggling like schoolkids every time one of the actors sprayed a little spit. I wanted to smack them--in a loving way, of course. The weirdest thing about the production for me were the dance numbers that opened and closed the show. The opener featured the nerd chorus (costumes complete with black-rimmed glasses) running in place and then striking a pose, running in place and then striking a pose, ad nauseum. Strange. And the closer was a little rythmic jig where they all chanted several times, "Caesar Augustus, Caesar Augustus, Caesar Augustus, unh, unh, unh!" I don't know. I actually came home and looked up the ending to see how Shakespeare treated the Octavius becomes Augustus bit because I couldn't remember. He didn't. So, uh, I don't know. But, it was a good show and I enjoyed it and am glad we went. Kudos especially to the actor who played Brutus. My playbill's all the way across the room right now so I can't tell you his name. But he did a fine job. Look him up and send him a telegram of congratulation, why don't you?

So, Texicans, in conclusion, I think I have effectively proven that you're all a little bit whacko. However, as we all know, I heart crazy. So do me a favor and don't ever change. Unless you want to get a little bit nuttier.

Down the Rabbit Hole

I'm feeling quite guilty for being ever-so-neglectful of my poor little bloggy for the last couple of months. But I've been crazy busy and chasing my ass in circles and, oh yeah, I'm still sick. Color me not happy. But I do have two new coloring books. Yay!!!

I don't have any fresh ideas or anything I particularly care to rant about right now, at least not in a public forum where people who I am not terribly fond of at the moment might recognize themselves. Ahem. So, instead, I shall regale you with the tale of the most bizarre dream I have had in quite some time.

In this dream, my lifelong friend and former schoolmate, Dee (Hi, Dee!), was pimping a hookup with a mutual friend--let's call him X (because I will not be sharing that identity here, un-uh, no way, forget it). Now X is not someone I've ever thought about in a sexual way. I mean, I'm sure he's perfectly capable, or a dynamo, or dear God, what horrible road have I wandered down? Never mind. Argh. Anyway, purely platonic. Period.

I'm not quite sure what my marital status was within the dream because Jason was neither seen nor directly referred to, but judging from the furtive, illicit nature of the liaison, I'm guessing my troth was indeed plighted. But the secrecy surrounding the assignation could also have been attributed to my parents staying in the same hotel (in Dallas--apparently, this was an integral detail of the dream because that was, unlike my wedded state, quite clear). Luckily, they were on the 5th floor and I was on the 8th. Whew. Crisis averted.

However, the course of true hookups never did run smooth. Power outage in the hotel. Oh dear. Confounded by the accidental release of some of the caged wild animals also resident in our hotel. This made navigating the hallways quite an adventure. Luckily, the lions and tigers (no bears, oh my) were agitated and you could hear them growling in the dark corridors well before they got near you. To avoid them, you simply climbed up the wall and perched high up out of their reach until they passed by. Yep. What? You were expecting something logical?

After a long and arduous trek through darkened hallways populated by prowling wild beasts, I make it to my 8th-floor room to prepare for the tryst. The power has returned and as I am getting ready, I notice and hazily recall that my goddai friends had all signed my boobs the night before in celebration of my 6-month boobiversary (which really was Friday--happy boobday to me!), clearly accompanied by vast quantities of margaritas, hence the hazy recall. Naturally, the ink will not come off and I am obviously quite discomfited and embarrassed by this because I'm going to have to explain to X why 20 or so of my closest friends have autographed my breasts. Oh well, onward and upward. Winners never quit and oh, never mind.

I would now like to take a moment to thank Jesus, Mary, Joseph, all the saints, Buddha, Hanuman, Krishna, and whomever or whatever else might have contributed to the filter that cut the next scene either from my dream, or blessedly, from my memory. The next thing I remember is clearly after the deed had been done. There was some cuddling (aww, an extramarital sex dream with cuddling--how sweet!) and then I simply kissed him and said goodbye. And that was that. As far as you know.

THE END

A Banner Health Day

Or not, as the case may be. I woke up yesterday morning with a raging respiratory infection that seemed to have morphed overnight from the sore throat I'd had since Tuesday. I conveniently already had a doctor's appointment scheduled for midmorning due to the abscess on my scar from surgery six months ago. I know I shouldn't be getting abscesses this long after the surgery, but someone forgot to tell my body. Apparently, I'm stitch-absorbing challenged.

Anyhoo, so doc appointment goes fine and he writes me a prescription for cough syrup with codeine so I'm not up all night coughing. The wound has pretty much self-healed (I'll spare you the gory details and you're welcome), so we're just going to keep an eye on it and forego the antibiotics for now. Ok, fine, sure. So, I spend the day pretty much feeling like shit-on-a-stick and popping ibuprofen left, right, and center and a generic dayquil thingy at about 3:00 or 4:00. Typical sick day, right? Ah, a hasty conclusion, my friend.

It gets on toward evening and I'm planning on hitting the sack soon, so I spoon myself up some cough syrup. About an hour later, around 9:30, I get hit with an esophageal spasm the likes of which I have not felt in years. Now, for those of you unfamiliar, an esophageal spasm causes a "squeezing type of chest pain that feels just like heart pain (angina)," to put it mildly. I end up kneeling on the floor with my forehead pressed against the floorboards, whimpering, and endlessly repeating, "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God." Poor Jason has never actually witnessed one of these attacks before but luckily, by the time he heard me and came to check on me, I had enough of my breath back to at least give him an idea of what was going on. Unfortunately, the spasms just kept coming. I managed to get back in bed for the rest of them but this just leads to me flopping around like a fish out of water trying to find some position, any position, that might alleviate the nigh unbearable pain. I tend to curl up in a ball around a pillow and try to get my chest higher than my head--I don't know why, it's just what instinct leads me to do. And I endlessly repeat either the "Oh God" phrase above or "No, no, no" or "Why, why, why?" or some such inane idiocy. I did have the presence of mind to avoid "Help me" and "Make it stop" because I knew poor Jason could do neither.

I think I must have had about five episodes within the space of an hour and because of that damned codeine in the cough syrup, I couldn't take a muscle relaxer and didn't know if I could take a painkiller or not. Jason was starting to freak and I was as wrung out as a dishrag, so we called the hospital to see if there was anything I could safely take. They were unwilling to suggest anything on the phone because of the possibility of an allergic reaction (and also a liability issue, I'm guessing) and recommended that we come in to the E/R. Several hours, an EKG, a chest X-ray, a couple of valium, and a late-night episode of What Not to Wear later, I was released on my own recognizance and into the care of Bossy McBosserson, the alter ego of my mild-mannered husband. One, ok two, little sedatives for me and my, but doesn't he feel awfully superior all of a sudden. I think he's just envious that he doesn't share the same strength of character (read: mind-altering drugs) that enables me to happily be seen in Safeway in the middle of the night in my pink Supergirl pajamas while still wearing my hospital ID bracelet. Party on, Wayne. And a happy Friday the 13th to you all.

Things Learned and Not Learned

Things I Have Learned

That you should not eat applesauce with a fork. It'll work but you just might burst something vital in the frustration of attempting it. (This I just learned today.)

That you should not set a full bottle of Coca-Cola on the edge of a tub you are currently bathing in. Unless, of course, you like the sticky.

That you really should be careful what you wish for. Case in point, first I wished to get a part in the play, then I wished I didn't have to rehearse for 20 hours on the weekend in said play. I got both of those mutually exclusive wishes. You do the math.

Why the sky is blue. It's not actually; it all has to do with light and refractions and the way our eyes see light waves. Or something like that.

How to accept a compliment gracefully. Simply smile and say, "Thank you." Although this can backfire, can't it, Jason?

That I don't actually hate to cook. I actually hate the prep. The cooking part doesn't bother me at all.

How to make the best pecan pie you'll ever hope to eat in your life. (I do like to bake. No, it's not the same as cooking. Ask a chef.)

That for every cliché, there is an equal and opposite cliché. For example, does absence make the heart grow fonder or is out of sight really out of mind?

That if you act confident, you will feel confident, and people will believe that you are confident. And people like confidence. And I like to be liked.


Things I Have Not Learned

Why I have this insatiable need to be liked. And why some people are fully and completely exempted from this need. (See preceding post regarding Pilates poseurs. Ms. Newbie has never returned, btw, guess hubby's gonna have to see those flabby abs, after all.)

To keep my big mouth shut. See entire life history.

Why a singular year is plural in the following construction: "1987 called. They want their mullet back."

Why Yellow Freight Lines trucks are orange. This drives me in-freaking-sane. Seriously, are they trying to give me an aneurysm?

Why I continue to read Family Circus even though I know I don't find it even remotely amusing.

On a related note, why I am so enthralled by the adventures of Prince Valiant.

Why Jason likes to infuriate himself by watching/reading/lurking political extremists with a polar opposite viewpoint from his own.

How to finish a project. So far, I've begun but never finished knitting; mosaic making; sewing; learning Latin, Spanish, French, Danish, and Dutch; and the mini-remodel of this house.

How to wrap this post up with some witty remark or hilarious observation. Sorry kids, I got nothin'.

You're Not Doing That Right

Why do certain people in yoga and Pilates classes always seem to think they are so much more advanced than they actually are? And why does it cheese me off so badly? And why do they never think the instructor is talking to them, despite the fact that they are doing the very thing the instructor is cautioning us not to do?

In my observation, there are two types of these posers and they are almost always women. Men are a minority in these classes and seem to realize their limitations pretty quickly, often staring in disbelief (as am I) when a new pose or movement is introduced.

First is Ms. Yoga/Pilates Queen. She feels she looks the part. She's got long, stringy hair and dresses in retro ironic t-shirts and yoga pants (and she really needs to shop for a looser fit). She's been doing these moves since she was born and really needs no further instruction. In fact, she'd prefer a more loosely structured pick-your-own-moves kind of class where she could strut around and swing her hair about and show off her superiority and elegance of movement. She is invariably late for class.

The other is Ms. Newbie. She could be wearing anything, but chances are it won't be good. She freely admits she has never so much as seen a yoga pose before. She acts all giggly and intimidated before class starts but immediately dives into and sticks with the most intense options, despite the instructor's repeated pleas for beginners to go with the less intense options and the constant call of corrections. She is taking the class because she has an event (possibly her wedding) in three weeks and wants to get her abs in shape (I am not making this up). She has something to prove. What and to whom is anyone's guess.

Mind you, these observations are coming from the ungainly, chubby chick in the middle of the room who always looks like she's judging you. I am.