F Bomb

Tags

anger, exercise, fatherhood, God, rage, teen parenting

Sometimes this guy needs to let the cork pop.  It’s healthy for me, my typically serene and jovial exterior often turned on as a shield to keep the rage inside, tearing me up if I don’t find a release.  There are plenty of constructive methods to calm the beast and cleanse the soul –

*exercise that requires an internal focus such as riding a bicycle,  playing softball or basketball  but not golf because it usually adds to the rage (my style of basketball has evolved into a combo of outside shooting and shoving my way under the basket)

*listening to almost any type of music with the volume turned up (give me a dose of Chris Cornell and Soundgarden, PLEASE)

*writing (much of the fiction I write is personal and therapeutic and written selfishly for myself)

*mowing the lawn or digging the garden

*couch time with my Sheltie, Nick, who is the most properly affectionate dog in the entire world and who would sit next to me with his head across my chest all day if I would allow

* time with my daughter, the one person in the entire world who seems to both understand me and accept me as I am (she is also the only one in my family who shares my love for loud music)

And then there is prayer, the type where I go to someplace where I can’t be heard, talk to God out loud, scream at Him as the rage comes to the surface.  There are times when my prayers come close to blasphemy because sometimes I just let God have it.  Like a boy, I take it out on my father who I think has to take it from me.  I know God does, knows the process I need to go through, knows how necessary it is for me to let it out.  Funny thing is that in the middle of my rage I can literally feel the comfort of God’s hand on me.  Call me strange for saying that, there are plenty of agnostics who have mocked me for similar statements, but it’s real.

I am not a person who is prone to cursing.  It’s less about my Christian faith than it is that rough language not being what I am about.  But every once in a while, when that cork needs to pop, when I am alone, I will allow an F or S bomb to drop.  Do I ask God to forgive me for it?  Not usually.  God knows me.  If I direct the bomb at God, I do.   That has happened.

Sunday morning, after church, I had an hour to myself at home.  After two weeks off of work to recover from foot surgery, I had one last day to recuperate before returning to work.  The weekend had been rough, my thirteen year old son as well as my wife testing my patience since Friday evening.  Most of the claims related to the doctors and surgery had come in and I decided to take that free hour to organize, as well as develop a plan for our finances for the next few months.  Rarely do I get peace when I work on the family finances, constant interruptions and demands usually beginning as soon as I start.  That alone is a frustration.  Why I thought that one hour was going to be any different, I don’t know.  My wife and son each have a cell phone.

My work area at the downstairs kitchen table was organized.  I began to dig into the spreadsheet  I have set up for our bills and bank accounts.  The first call was from my wife.  Then my son.  Then my wife again.  Then my son – a tag team match.  They knew what I was trying to do, but they didn’t care.  Were they questions that could wait until they got home.  You bet. 

Nick needed to go outside in between phone calls.  My cork was already straining to hold on.  I hobbled to the door to let him out, went back to the table to answer yet another call from my son, finished the call, went back to the door to call the dog in.  Nick had been distracted, normally not a problem, he was not in my line of sight and did not respond to my calls.  I shut the sliding glass down, turned around, and….

F—!!!!!

Loud.  A sonic boom.  The cork popped and bounced around the empty room.

My son had his hand on the doorknob to come into the kitchen from the garage.  He opened the door, yelled at me for dropping the bomb and kept on going as his mother followed him inside the house.  The boy wants to be king and he was seizing the opportunity to dethrone the current monarch. 

My son has heard a curse word from me twice in his lifetime.  And he has not let me forget that all week.  I simply refuse to acknowledge him as he works on me, tries to gain control by using the F word against me.  I won’t let it happen.

Chris Cornell sure sounded good this morning.

 

 

A Footed Fete

Tags

bunion, bunion surgery, crush, crutches, man talk, men and marriage

There was a left foot sighting today, brief, but enough to have me giddy with excitement.  No, I do not have a foot fetish.  That would be sick.  I am not some sort of pervo, at least not in public.

My two week post op check up was this afternoon.  Yeah.  Two weeks without seeing my foot.  Wow.  It sure didn’t look like the old foot.

Here is the old foot.  (dang.. to be added later.. my pc is creeping)

Bump and bent and furry. No bump. No bend. No fur.

Here is the new, with a fresh bandage that replaced the bulky surgical dressing.  I feel reborn from the left foot up.

(Imagine a rejuvenated body part is pictured right here)

Tootsie spectacular

When is it acceptable for a man my age to have a crush?  The doctor’s assistant was so cute that I couldn’t shut up and about died when she held my foot in her lap, so close to the promised land.  Yikes.  Did I just say that?  I did. Stuck my foot in my mouth.  Now it fits quite nicely.

There were three rather large incisions in the top of the foot, all sutured.  I didn’t mind it when the doctor’s assistant removed them, not a bit.  The conversation was heavenly.  I was walking on sutured air.

I had a great time talking to the doctor, too.  We spent more time talking about bicycles and life than we did about the actual surgery.  He did squeeze in a moment to show the xray to me and where the plate/screws were located.  The bone is going to take around three months to fuse.  Turns out the doctor’s wife is a triathlete who really likes the bike.  I commented on how lucky for him to be able to share that with her.  That is where the talk about life came in.  We had one of those “yeah, every guy goes through the same stuff with his wife” conversations.  Interesting.

Soooo, in between crushing on the physician’s assistant, talking about bicycles, musing on the challenges marriage presents, relating stories about the guy who owns the company I work for, and showing off my mad crutch skills, I actually got really good news about my foot.  It is healing very nicely.  I have a walking boot now and I feel so FREE.

That’s the main toe story.

The Visitors (warning – personal and long)

Tags

camp, dealing with the past, friends, ministry, reminiscing, surprise, visitors, Z24

 

(today’s blog is a little raw and personal, long because it’s a story I wanted to get out, not because I wanted to write a gem.. turn back now if you wish)

Oh geez, my foot hurts.  Either that means the surgery wounds are healing or all that tap dancing I did Saturday night is making me pay the toll.  Call me twinkle toes.

My guess is that the foot hurts because I decided it would be OK going out Saturday night.  There were good reasons.  My wife and son wanted to go hear a band at a local drinking establishment, a good band that a friend of mine just formed with his son as the lead singer.  Those three women pictured above were another.  Only thing is that the last time I saw them before Saturday night, they were teenagers.

Go ahead.  Say so what.  Seeing them did more for me than I am sure they are not aware.

Did I ever mention that I was a church youth minister in another life?  I was.  Already there are people looking at this blog with wide eyes questioning that.  Yes.  I was.  I wasn’t one of those guys who wears robes or drank communion wine or who mowed the lawn in black socks.  Not at all.  I wore Buckbo tee shirts with shorts.. on the subway in New York even.  It felt very daring at the time.  I rode a motorcycle to church and had long hair.  I had a black Chevy Z24.  Appearances did not scream church guy.

Buckbo! Get it?

I was the type of minister who knew that preaching was the least important part of my job.  So I focused on the people around me, tried to be real as much as a minister can be.  Odd to say?  Well, I was a minister.  A single guy in his twenties who you wouldn’t know was a minister until I told you I was, a WWJD type more than a theologian.  Some people responded well to my style, some didn’t like it at all.  That is pretty much the way it goes in life.  But in church life that is not often the best philosophy because you are expected to be able to please everyone.  I called it living in the fish bowl.. and I hated it.  There were a whole lot of people looking at me and expecting me to swim a certain way.  If I started to tilt to the wrong side, then there was always someone ready to flush me down the toilet.

My three blast from the past friends got together for a girls weekend this weekend.  The blonde haired woman, Christa, lives in the Bucktown district of Chicago, a nurse.  The pleather clad woman (yes, she did mix pleather with leather) is Mattie, lives an hour west of Chicago in Rockford.  Becky, the taller woman who looks like she is about ready to hork from laughter in the picture, lives downstate and took the train up from Springfield (my old stomping grounds).  They all grew up in the Springfield area and went to the same church and camp, best friends who just happened to be safely crazy.  Had they been born to different parents, they would be tattooed wild women.  Instead, they were and are fun church girls with a lot of common sense mixed in.  Nothing wrong with that.

Between October 1986 and July 1988, I was the associate minister to youth at a church in Taylorville, Illinois.  I graduated from college in 1984, ministered at a church in Eldon, Missouri for two years and left that church for reasons that are another story.  Taylorville is out in the middle of nowhere, about 20 miles from Rochester (my hometown) and roughly 30 miles from Springfield.  The church hired me based on a lot of high recommendations (no, the board was not high when they hired me although they should have been), a lot I like to think were deserved, with recommendation from the previous associate minister (very highly regarded).  They liked my outgoing personality, comfortable demeanor that I displayed both face to face and from the podium, and the athletic skills I had – Jeff Mayfield, the previous associate, was also a basketball buddy who lauded my court skills. Everything seemed perfect – close to home and to my roots, small town, a program that seemed to have been nurtured by a talented youth minister and his equally charismatic wife.

It wasn’t as it seemed, not at all.  The church had a lot of problems, the senior minister was a bit resentful of the youth programs, the small town was just that in a way that was both good and bad, and the high school kids were a mix of town kids and farm kids who sorely missed the guy who had just left my position.  They never clicked with me.  I became discouraged early on and did a lot to create my own problems, including dating a single mom in the church (and had another single mom stalking me), a terrible decision that the church board was concerned about enough to pull me into a meeting to discuss.  Adding to all of that was the plain fact that I had a lot of growing up to do.   I made a lot of good choices, but I also made bad ones.  Working in a church is rough even for someone who is solidly mature, much less someone who was still naïve and learning about life.  That was me.

Soon after I was hired at Taylorville, the camp director at Lake Springfield Christian Assembly called.  I had been referred to him as someone who would be a good camp dean, something that my education and experience had left me highly qualified for.  Want to dean a week of Junior camp?  Sure.  No problem.  Camp is a good way to get to know my own church kids and also adults/teens who would help.  Want to work as staff at a high school week?  You kidding.  My church had hired me to keep the high school kids interested.  Oh yeah and for the same reasons.  Adding to the motivation was the fact that LSCA was the camp I attended growing up.  Wow.  I would be returning there as a camp dean and as staff.  Cool.

That is where I met the Becky/Mattie/Christa trio.  They were campers at the first week of high school camp and I was on staff, my first time back at LSCA.  The girls were an interest of some of my high school boys as well as hitting it off with me.  Becky also was the daughter of a man who worked at the same company as my dad, so I knew her a little from that.  At least the name was familiar, especially since I had worked there for a summer after high school.  The girls were a ton of fun, something I had really not been able to find with the kids from my own church.  Their ring leader was a woman named Deb Natale, an adult volunteer from their church  who bubbled with enthusiasm, a friend who became one of my best friends by the time my short career in Taylorville ended.  When times began to get tough in Taylorville and later after I moved to the Chicago area, Deb and her husband Frank were there for me.  The friendships and fun I had that week of high school camp carried me through a very rough two years of my life.

The BMC trio looked like sweet little innocent high school girls.  They were, but they also were full of mischief.  When they crossed paths with me, they found a good opponent.  That whole week was filled with pranks.  With the help of their ring leader, my infamous Buckbo tee shirt was stolen, worn around the camp shamelessly by the trio.  I’m pretty sure Buckbo was run up the flagpole and frozen in the camp’s kitchen freezer.. something I had done to at least one of their swimsuits during the week.  We had a blast.

I can remember the girls saying “won’t you come be our youth minister—you’re fun”, an encouragement I sorely needed even that early in my Taylorville ministry.  In a lot of ways I wished I could be.

I spent a lot of time in camp that summer and some of the next summer and enjoyed a lot more time with my friends.  BeckyMattieChrista had successfully adopted me, enough that when my little brother’s prom came up, I did him a little favor.  I asked Christa to the prom for him.  She was so sweet and nice, seemed like such a perfect date for my shy and calm mannered brother.  Paul and I took two days detailing my Z24 for that prom date.  From the report I got, he had a great time and she was worth the time spent getting ready for the date.  As you can see from the picture, she was (still is) a little cutie.  I ain’t gonna say what else my brother said.  Wouldn’t be proper.

Beauty and the dork. I love my brother.

My time as associate minister at the Taylorville Christian Church ended rather harshly and abruptly.  To this day, I am not quite sure of the real reason why I was fired.  Almost appropriately, I returned from a week of camp to find a message on my home answering machine.  It was Greg, an elder on the church board and one that I had a real good relationship with, spent a lot of time with his family.

“Steve, can you give me a call when you get home tonight.  The elders want to meet with you tonight.”

I just stared at the phone.  Not helping me was the absolute exhaustion I was feeling from the rigors of staffing a week of camp.  One does not sleep much during a week of camp.  Staff often sleeps less than the campers, which is not much.  The thing was that I was already prepared for that moment, already had another job in the works and was waiting for an offer.  I was tired in more ways than one.  So making the call to Greg was a bit easier.

“We’re not happy with the job you are doing.  Please write a letter of resignation, give it to Greg by tomorrow afternoon (Saturday) and he will read it for you at Sunday’s services.  It’s your choice but we prefer you not be there.  When can your office be cleared?.”   I gave them a date, asked them if I could leave, and walked out by myself.

The meeting was short and to the point.  I was given two months severance which cut my shame a little bit.  But it still hurt, the shame stinging by not being allowed to read my resignation.  Why had they done that?  I was done with the paid ministry.  Taylorville would be my last.  I spent a few days at my parents while I pulled myself together, then went back to Taylorville to tie up loose ends.  That took about two weeks.  I packed my house, taking my time, spending time with friends who stopped by to say their good byes.  My friend Deb Natale came by on the day I had given to have my office clear, helped me pack my car.  Took me to lunch.

I woke up the next morning, drove my Z24 to the church building, stood in the gravel parking lot for a few moments, drove out to the end of the gravel drive and stopped.

Questions flooded over me, questions I had avoided during the weeks since my forced resignation.  Had I really been called to the ministry?  Is this it, God?  I trusted but didn’t feel real confident about what was ahead.  Chicago was a big place, somewhere I had been twice in my entire life.  I had been effective as a minister in other places, but at the church I knew I was looking at for the last time, there had been very little if anything I felt good about.

Except for my girls.  But they had nothing to do with the building at the end of that driveway.  God had given me a refuge in them.  They were a gift.

My last memory of Taylorville is what I did when I got out of my car at the end of that driveway.  I shook the dust off of my feet.  I am done with you.

I never looked back.  I talked to one member of that church after I left Taylorville – Boyce Dobbins, who had offered me a job with his pest control company and was baffled as to why I had left.  He had two college aged children who I had helped to reconnect with the church through the acting group I had started at the church.  He also had sold my parents a golden retriever puppy, a dog they had named Tank and loved dearly.

My last act as a minister was to attend a going away party at Lake Springfield Christian Assembly camp.  I was supposed to be dean of a week of camp that coincided with my first day at my new job as restaurant manager for Bob Evans Restaurants.  My friend Deb Natale had volunteered to take over leadership of that week of camp for me, knowing I wouldn’t be up to it.  She organized the party, bought a new PA system for the camp, had a plaque put on it with my name inscribed as a dedication, and invited my family and my adopted friends to attend.  It was a fun time for me.  A great send off.

I did see Becky now and then after that.  Of the three, I had probably cherished her friendship the most.  She had a maturity about her that I liked and the most sly sense of humor, a little twisted smile that rivaled my own.  I have a way of picking on the people I like and she took it well, returned it even better.  When I left she made a real effort to write and call, even visited me.  There have been a lot of times over the years where I have missed her and my parents have always made sure to pass on whatever news they have had about her and her family.  When my dad saw her at a funeral wake last year, he made sure Becky knew how to find me on Facebook.  And she did just that, a brief how-are-you-doing, but nice.

Saturday afternoon I found a picture waiting for me on Facebook, a tag from Becky, the picture of my brother and Christa at his prom.  She was waiting for my response and when I did, mentioned that she was visiting Chicago.  Could I come into the city and have dinner with Becky, Mattie, and Christa?  They had been reminiscing, probably needed to settle some curiosity.

“Naaaa, can’t, just had foot surgery plus I am home with Nate tonight.  Mir is out with the girls and we’re meeting her later on to watch some friends perform with their band.  Besides, you aren’t here to see me, you’re here for a girls weekend.”

Eventually, she said they were coming out to see me.  They wanted to meet my family and my wife.  And they did.  Nate and I went to dinner with them, then they went to the bar to hear the band with us.

They had questions that I wasn’t quite sure how to answer.  The girls are in their early forties now, but they still were teenage girls in my mind.  The only true friends I took away from my time in Taylorville, to boot.  That seems strange to say, but I have no desire to hear from any of the children from that church in Taylorville.  But I was so glad to see my friends from Springfield.

We had a blast.  When they pulled up in the car, I could have sworn it was the same teens from 25 years ago.  They had not changed in my eyes.  And it felt like I had left yesterday.  We started laughing immediately, never stopped all night.

It did feel strange talking to three women that I remembered as teenagers.  Christa had the unique ability to fit both fists in her mouth.  I could now joke with the adult Christa about that, told her that was one of the reasons I wanted her to go to prom with my brother.  My son thought Mattie really was a teenager, beamed at the kind attention she gave him.  I smiled when she reminded me that I should have been their youth minister – I was so much fun.  And I started teasing Becky  immediately and continued for the few hours we had.  They were too short.  I wanted to know more, but the night was over quickly.

I’m not sure the girls got what they came for Saturday night.  There are probably still curiosities.  I am very sure they don’t know what their visit meant to me.  What affect their visit had on me.

The next morning I found myself at the end of that gravel drive.  Looking back on a past I had spent some twenty five years burying and hiding away.  So much that there is no way I can tell it all in one blog.  This one is already half a novel.

But I have seen all I want to see again and that was Becky, Christa, and Mattie.  Thanks girls.  In a way, I needed to see that something good came from that time in my life.  You reminded me that God did indeed bless me.  And he blessed me again Saturday.

To Loan or Not to Loan

Tags

friendship, gratitude, loaning, motivation, philanthropy, things

Nice looking trumpet, eh?  The one pictured is not mine, but I have one just like it.  It’s a Conn Connstellation 38B, probably produced around the same time mine was since the trim and features are identical.  The one pictured could be the twin to mine as it was a few years ago.  It is a gorgeous instrument and an excellent horn that plays so well that guys I know who play professionally have offered me a nice sum for it after playing the horn.

My parents sacrificed a great deal to buy the horn for me when I was eleven years old.  My band director shamed them into buying me a decent horn, telling my mother “c’mon cheapskate,  reward the kid for playing his butt off on that piece of crap he is trying to play”.  And they did.  It made a huge difference, one that paid off by allowing me to play very well even now, forty years later.  I made my parents proud by giving them back some nice accomplishments when I was in school and it has helped me pass the torch.

Which is why I couldn’t give up the opportunity to pay it forward a few years ago.  I saw the chance to help a coworker, a woman with several boys who I knew was struggling to support her family.  When she told me her ten year old son may not get the chance to learn the trumpet because she simply could not find the money even to rent a horn, I didn’t hesitate.  I offered to let her son use my horn.

Yes, I should have hesitated a bit more and thought about it more.  The instrument is a valuable item.  The horn is now considered professional quality, a coveted jazz instrument in particular, with a soft easy tone especially for a trumpet.  The offer for my forty year old horn was first $500 and then went up over $800.  A ten year old boy is likely not going to have the maturity to care for an instrument, that is the reason why there are beginner instruments.  Depending on how long he uses the horn, it is likely not going to as valuable or even hold any value at all.

Not to loan reason — Value.

The kid has excelled as a musician.  He has talent.  Reports back are that playing such a quality horn has been a bit of a factor, if only because the boy is going to get a lot more sound out of a better horn than he would from a beginning level instrument.  I know the reports have been for my benefit, but it’s real obvious that playing a good horn has provided extra confidence for the boy.  That was all part of the motivation to pay it forward.  I know what confidence that horn gave to me as soon as I began to play it at his age.

Reason to  loan — Encouragement

Sometimes I wonder if people, including myself, do things for other people because of how it makes the person giving, not receiving, feel.  You get the satisfaction of doing something that is good.  I want to feel that I am good.  That is likely why I am using the term “pay it forward” when I talk about loaning the trumpet.  I knew it would make me feel good about myself, likely the top reason why I didn’t hesitate to make the offer.  Honestly, I do not know if the motivation was a good or bad thing, but it did cause me to make a decision that I should have thought about more.  But I am also not afraid to say that doing something good for someone else can be the proper motivation.  We need to feel good about it.  I also think that can not be the only reason.  My experience in this situation has taught me that there was more I should have considered, that being the other person involved.

Reason to and not to loan — Personal Motivation.

My trumpet has not been mine for over two years now.  I asked to borrow the horn back at Christmas so I could play in a Christmas concert.  The bell from the horn is bent from being dropped.  It has been carried around in a bag with the mouthpiece in the bag, damaging the nickel finish and putting a lot of dents in the horn.  When I loaned the horn, my family was not happy when they found out because they were looking at how good of a horn it is/was, plus they would not be able to learn to  play trumpet on my horn.  They did not like what I did and they knew, as I did too, that I should have said that the boy could use the horn until they could afford a rental or to buy a horn.  I didn’t.  That was my mistake.  The woman leased a new Chevy Traverse, a vehicle a whole lot nicer than I can afford to drive.  The vehicle showed up a few months after I loaned the horn to her.  I had no reason to be upset about that because I did not say that she needed to give it back to me after a few months.  I said keep it as long as you need it.  I wanted it to be that way.  If I had thought about the other person, I would have made sure the rules were set down.  I really did not help her the way I could have had I thought about it more. If I was meeting the real need, I would have done more than just give her something.  I would have helped her provide something for her son that could become his own.

Reason not to loan — Meeting the real need.

The trumpet is just a thing.  I had to tell myself that in order to let it go, to not be concerned about the condition it would be in when I got it back.  The woman, someone who needed a friend, found someone she could trust.  That is good.  It was part of the reason I didn’t set down any conditions besides “just use it”.  It felt like the THING needed to be offered in an unconditional way in order for the gift to be effective.  The real value was the friendship, not the thing.

Reason to loan — Things are just that.  Things.  Whether it’s a stick of gum, a trumpet, a house or a car.  They are things.

My 13 year old son is showing real musical talent.  I say that about pretty much everything he does.  He shows real talent.  His interest is keen enough that he is playing in our high school’s jazz band, saxophone and guitar, as well as in his middle school band.  I still get asked to play in local gigs with bands I used to play for.  I can get Nate involved also if I do it with him. it would be good for us both.

So this morning I emailed my friend and coworker to ask for the trumpet back, gave her the reason why, and asked her to make sure her son has an instrument to play before she give my horn back to me, even if that means that is the end of the school year.  The response I got back was one you receive from a grateful friend.

I did the right thing.

New Story

Tags

story, tami

I started writing a new project last night.  It’s not very well planned, but it’s something I have wanted to try to write for a while.  It’s written first person, much of it taken from my own life.  I am taking the cheap road. 

Any feedback on the rough draft is appreciated.  Should you care to read, it’s a new page on this blog:

http://wp.me/P2Ibcm-b4

Milking It

Tags

couch, Daniel Tosh, Nick, sheltie

(pause for a moment before I start writing this blog — I’m watching Daniel Tosh on Netflix and this guy is so freaking realistically funny that a conservative suburban midwestern middle aged guy like myself should NOT be laughing this hard)

Nick is not giving up the couch.  No way.  There are pillows there.  Steve is sitting next to me and allowing me to have his space because he feels guilty for yelling at me.

Yeah, I did.

My sheltie does not like for anyone to leave the house.  As soon as the shoes, or coat, or keys come out, he goes into freak out mode.  He has separation anxiety, I guess, and from what I read it’s not uncommon for his breed.  Nick has an excuse to be the way he is.  The dog was born that way.

I guess I could make a Lady Gaga reference here.  But I’m conservative midwestern middle aged Christian.  I am supposed to hate Lady Gaga.  I do, but it has nothing with the way she chooses to entertain.  I don’t like having my intelligence insulted.

Back to Nick.

When I decided to venture out into the world outside of my two story home this morning, Nick freaked.  I was sitting on the couch while I put on my shoe.  Nick jumped up next to me, barking, then jumped from the couch right on my surgically repaired foot.

Yes, it hurt.  And I yelped.

Nick was immediately at my feet, apologizing and shivering.  He also is very much a human pleaser and his human was not pleased.  Gone was the separation.  In its place was sorrowful remorse.  HIs ears were flat.  If dogs cried tears, Nick would have been weeping.

“Come on up here, Nick” and I patted the couch next to me.  I cried a few tears with him as I put my cheek next to his muzzle and petted him between the ears for a few minutes.  “It’s OK.”

I waited a few minutes until he calmed down.  Man’s best friend let me leave in silence.  Nick earned a few minutes of comfort on the couch.  I even tossed him a few potato chips.

I Venture Out

Tags

Adidas, Angry Bird, Bedhead, business people, foot surgery, Mary Kay, out, Sick, starbucks, women

Angry Bird Birthday Cakes (Photo credit: KM&G-Morris)

Don’t tell my wife.  Shhhhhhh.  I have nothing to pay you off with, but we can reach some kind of deal.  I promise.

(News flash — WP blogger found bludgeoned to death by crutches.  Traces of Angry Bird fleece pajamas were found at the scene)

I have ventured out of the house, much to the chagrin of Mir, if she should find out.  My plan is to enjoy my fresh cup of dark roast here at one of the many local Starbucks in my area.  It’s the largest one, so I figured I would not make too many people uncomfortable being too close to them in my Angry Bird pajamas, black/orange Adidas (one, of course) and white tee shirt.  Unfortunately, the crowd this time of day is very “professional”, so I am sticking out like a sore angry thumb.

* There is the willowy blonde sitting at the table across the room, sunglasses perched on her head, busily working on her laptop in black and white business dress.  I should admit that I was happy to have found a comfortable seat within glancing room of her.  That’s creepy, I know, but I am totally harmless.

* There is a group of engineering type young people who look to be holding a business meeting here — very much up to today’s practices.  This is the corporate corridor close to where I live, along I-88 west of Chicago, so it’s not surprising to see business types here.  There are several mid to upscale business hotels close by.

*  There are two women at a table with their laptops who must be holding a Mary Kay sales territory meeting.  They both look like they just stepped out from behind a department store makeup counter.  They are working hard, so they must be serious about their cosmetics.

*  A guy is sitting at a table by himself, tie and perched sunglasses in place, spending more time glancing around the room than he is doing whatever he is supposed to be doing.  It was interesting how he tried to ignore one of the cosmetics ladies as she invaded his space.  Apparently her laptop battery was in the wane (ooooo… I said “in the wane”).

*  Three guys will cool eyeglasses are passing around papers to each other and talking about their software.  Sales, apparently.  One guy has really cool glasses, glasses my wife and daughter would make me return to the store if I came home with them, and he is trying to hide his balding with lots of gel that makes his hair stand up.  My hair was doing that by itself this morning, since I spent most of yesterday sleeping, not bathing.  I almost left my hair that way.  Bedhead is cool, right?

*  Business blonde is now talking on her cell phone and leaning into her laptop.  She’s not smiling, so it must be business.  Come to think of it, I haven’t caught her smiling since I began my creepy observation of her.

*  It’s a bright, sunny day, but that guy sure sucked down his cigarette fast.  I caught a toke as he swept by, the cold air thankfully refreshing me enough to forget the cigarette stench.

There were no issues driving my car here.  It greeted me quite nicely as I climbed behind the wheel, starting as soon as the ignition clicked.  That’s pretty good for sitting close to a week, although I did let Alyssa drive it around the block last Sunday.  The PTCruiserToTheAutoPartsStore is defying it’s reputation.  Besides getting out of the house, it just felt good to drive again.

So I stopped off at the bank.  My mom was suffering from pneumonia and couldn’t visit, so she sent me her gas money instead — don’t ask me why.  I’m still her kid, 51 years old or not, and she wants to think she is taking care of me.  It would have been interesting had mom made the three hour trip up to Chicagoland for the surgery.  She and Mir undoubtedly have different philosophies for caring for the ill.  Mir hovers and wakes me to ask if I need anything.  That doesn’t go over too well, although I am trying to do my best to be the good husband, not giving a cranky answer even after she asks “Are you sure?” three or four times after I say no.  Mir did have the smarts to ask my mom about what I would need.  But mom would just bring it, wait for me to be awake before asking me any questions.  But that’s the differences and no intelligent husband (of which I am not) would expect anything different.

My daughter has been the best, coming down to my little couch retreat with her laptop, just spending time with me.  I like that.  Mir doesn’t do that.  She and Nate are the anxious ones, chattering away nervously as if silence will kill them, usually about the problem du jour, and they leave after a minute if I don’t engage.  That’s been hard to do as most of the past few days have been lived in a haze.

By the way, I pooped.  That’s important.

Women have longer business meetings, by the way.  Blondie and Cosmetic Women are still at it.  Cool Glasses Guys are finishing up as is bored tie guy.  Interesting.

More to come, I am sure.  I feeling a turned corner here.

Sick Journey

Tags

dog, foot surgery, nuts, Sick

My little recovery nook. Yes, that’s WP on the PC.

Sleep.

Eat a little.

Pop in on my iPod to catch up on social games.  I kick butt at SongPop.

Sleep a lot more.

Take some pain medicine (which might be worse than dealing with the pain).

Try to poop (dang pain medicine).

Wait for my family to leave the house so I can hobble upstairs and play some online video games.

Read a bit.  A very little bit.  (dang pain medications)

Call mom, let her know my foot is still part of my body.

Sleep.

Pet the dog.  He loves that I am home 24 hours a day.

Wonder if I should shave.

Take a half shower.  At least half of my body doesn’t stink.

Listen to Mir.  She now tells me stuff she would call me or text me about during the day.

Look at that big bandage and wonder what is going on underneath.

It seems like life has been like this forever, only it’s just been a few days.  I don’t think I am going to go nuts.  Maybe.  I could.  That’s something else for me to think about.

Current View From The Steve

Tags

bandages, foot surgery, service

Big honkin’ bandages are kind of  cool.  Impressive, eh?  If I am going to have to wear it, I am going to admire it.  The picture doesn’t lie here.  The toes are barely visible.  Good thing I do not have a yen to play This Little Piggy.

It has been three days since the surgery.  I am resting comfortably with really the most discomfort  coming from the effects of the pain killer medication.  I don’t do alcohol real well and neither do I handle pain medicine very well.  The last few days have been a constant struggle to keep my eyes open.  That is not all bad.  Like sporting a big honkin’ bandage, the best way to deal with couch duty is to sleep it off.  The most concentration I have been able to pull off is playing Words With Friends.  Writing this blog is my first adventure in concentration.  So far, so sort of good.  At least now I have an excuse.

Graciously accepting being served is also not my cup of tea.  I tend to get cranky because I just plain don’t like being asked, especially when a “can I get you anything?” comes just as I have dozed.  I need to do better at that.

OK, I need to get the laptop off of my laptop.  Ugh.

I’m rapt over my wrapped foot after surgery — even with the purple pillow.

To Be Feet-ured

Tags

Male Whining, surgery

English: podiatric surgery (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Tomorrow afternoon I am having surgery on my foot.  It’s no big deal but I do get about two weeks off of work to recover.  Twenty years have passed since my last surgery.  I’m generally a healthy guy.  This surgery is to correct a sports injury, as was the surgery twenty years ago.  So far in my life any bad health has not been due to anything falling off or sickness.  I consider myself fortunate.

If I were totally honest, I would have to admit that I enjoy all the attention I am getting due to the impending surgical procedure.  Family, friends, coworkers have all been lavishing me with well wishes as well as just plain joking with me about my condition, imitating my limp, sending me pictures of screaming feet, things like that.  They give me a chance to solicit pity and incite mayhem by exposing my foot to show off my injury.  I put a picture of the foot on Facebook and even here last week.

I don’t care if there is physical pain.  What hurts already is the notion that I may not be allowed to ride a bicycle for three months.  I am thinking that my other leg is going to be real strong soon.  There is no way I am going three months off of the bike.

The preparation has been fun and I am already nearing spoiled status:

• I have Angry Birds pajamas to wear tomorrow.
• I went out last night to the local outlet mall for two hours and bought myself some cool looking orange/black Adidas running shoes to wear.
• My space on and around the couch is carefully arranged for me to claim it for the next few days.  Chargers for my iPod and laptop battery are already in place.  Pillows and blankets are strategically stashed.
• A friend of mine brought me his collection of the Jack Reacher series of books.
• The dog has been trained to bring me pop from the fridge.  I’m still working on him bringing me fresh glasses and ice.
• My son has received specific instruction to make sure the video game controllers and headset are fully charged before he leaves for school each day.
• I had the doctor write a note for my wife, giving instructions that steak must be served to me every day for dinner.
• There are plans for many blogs, likely to be written in the fog of pain killers.  I will not share.
• Elizabeth Perkins, my longtime celebrity crush, will be visiting me each to administer daily rub downs.  This one has not made it through the spousal approval process as of yet, but I am working on it.
• I am working on my whining skills.  It should come natural.  I am male, after all.

OK.  I’m done.