Of course I'm sure, I've been trained for this

The Michael Keaton version of "Batman"  is on cable right now. DG walked through the living room.

DG: "Superman..."

Me: "Batman?"

DG: "No, that reporter guy. Superman 2." (he held up two fingers)

Me: "What reporter guy? Clark Kent was a reporter."

DG: "The guy in Superman 2. He was in Superman too."

Me: "This is 'Batman' and the only reporter in it is Vickie Vale."

DG: "Are you sure? I think that guy was in Superman." (every time he'd say "that guy" or point, it was always Jack Nicholson on screen).

Finally he said, "NOT that guy... the other reporter in Superman."

Me: "Lois Lane?"

DG: "THAT GUY! No, wait, that guy... dammit!"

Me: "Jimmy Olson?"

DG: "YES! Is that him?"

Me: "You're talking about that obnoxious dude who is friends with Vickie Vale? His name is Robert Wuhl."

DG: "I am? I am."

Me: "No, that wasn't Jimmy Olson from Superman."

DG: "Are you sure?"

Me: "Of course I'm sure, I've been trained for this kind of situation." 

For your viewing pleasure- 

Jimmy Olson from the "Superman" movies and Robert Wuhl in "Batman".

I can see it, I guess.

Turkey fighting- it isn't what you think.

Our son works nights at a local factory (well-known maker of delicious things). Today, he came home around 645 AM and was carrying a box. Apparently, the factory gave all their employees a frozen ten pound turkey. (the "unclaimed" turkeys go to a local charity).

Jase got the turkey into the freezer and then he went to bed. DG came down just now and I said: "Hey, Jason brought home a turkey."

DG: "What?"

I told him how the factory gave out turkeys to their employees.

DG: "We already have a turkey. Did it fit in the freezer?"

Me: "Apparently."

DG: "I hope it don't fight with the other turkey." [I just looked at him and he continued] "You know, cuz they hate each other."

Me: "Frozen dead turkeys hate each other?"

DG: "Yeah. You know how turkeys are." [no, apparently I don't!]

There was a several moment pause.

DG: "I hope they don't start nothing. We'll end up with little turkeys everywhere."

Me: "You just said they were going to fight."

DG: [scoffing noise] "They gotta have makeup sex..." [with a tone of "duh, how did you not know"]

That's where he left it. He went and got his coffee and when he sat down in the living room, I had to tell him one thing about frozen turkeys.

Me: "Even if they do have makeup sex, I don't think little turkeys would be a problem... most turkeys that are butchered and frozen for eating are boy turkeys."

DG: "Ah, well... they're gonna fight then."

Me: "What if they're gay turkeys? They can still have makeup sex."

DG: "I ain't never heard of gay turkeys."

Me: "Why not? They have gay penguins."

DG: "No they don't."

Me: "They're in the news and I think they raised a baby together."

DG: "These ain't penguins. These are turkeys. And they hate each other." [short pause] "They're gonna fight."

So... frozen turkeys hate each other and are going to fight... but frozen turkeys can't be gay.
SEEMS LEGIT!

Don't Look! (while I stand right here in front of you)

Sorry I haven't updated this in a while. I've been busy and heck and keep forgetting the details of the conversations to share them. I have a bunch of stuff I've put in the group on Facebook (I wish I had made that a fan page instead of a "group"... I suppose I could do that when I think about it... but not now!).
Where was I?

Oh, this conversation. I said on Facebook that this conversation would include anatomy and it would be using a euphemism. Well, it will. And it does. The Euphemism in question comes from an episode of "The Simpsons" where Homer runs outside naked and Flanders calls out: "Hey, Homie! I can see your doodle!"
(go on, click the link. I have it all cued up to that point and you can hear it happen).

We have one bathroom in this house- because the person who designed it was insane, that's what I think- anyway, because of this, we try not to monopolize the bathroom with things that can be done elsewhere. In my case, I blow dry my hair in my bedroom. And having spent all those years in pain, I got in the habit of sitting on the bed and not using a mirror.

DG has been sick (a lovely case of "waaah, I have a cold! Oh now, now it's become a chest cold!") lately and while the mix of Disabled Guyisms and Nyquil has been entertaining, the conversations were short and usually when I was otherwise occupied and couldn't take notes (Yes, I take notes sometimes).

Today, I was blow-drying my hair and he came into the room. He proceeded to whine about being sick briefly and then took off his sweatshirt and PJ pants to go take a shower. As he started to leave, he stopped and took off his boxers too.

He stood in front of the TV (which is where I was looking) and took a Superman stance. "Stop staring at me."

Me: "I can see your doodle."

He turned slightly, still in front of me and said, "No! Stop looking at it!"

Me: "If I keep looking at it, will it do tricks?"

DG put his hand up, thinking he was blocking my view, but he wasn't. "Don't look at it! He's shy."

Me: "Shy? Really?"

DG: "Yeah, he's shy and he doesn't like it when you stare. He feels self-conscious." He turned around more and then blocked his, uh, doodle, with his hand. "There, now he's safe."

Me: "Safe from what?"

DG: "Your eyes with their looking."

Me: "Maybe your doodle should tell you to move the hell outta my way."

DG: "Don't talk about him like he's not here!"

Me: "Maybe he should leave the room if he's so shy and self-conscious."

DG: "He wants to leave, but he can't. He's got rollers and can't even use them." As he walked out of the room, slowly, sideways, he said: "He's got two flats! Two flat rollers and he can't go nowhere!"

He shuffled to the bathroom and I finished blow-drying my hair. When he came back in, he put on new boxers, took the Superman stance again, and informed me: "He's safe now. He feels safe. He's at home."

Oh, and totally random... we have a new pet rat. First we had Mittens- who was pardoned after living here for a month and a half and not being eaten by the snake. Then a while later, we got Boots.

Now we have Tuxedo. Yes. Tuxedo. She's black and white, hence the name. We've got Boots, Mittens, and Tuxedo.

We Revisit the Guy who was in the movie with another guy

This is one of my favorite conversations, because he actually brings it up once in a while and laughs about it still.

You know that movie with that guy who does that thing?

DG is watching "Red Tails". I told him I liked that movie back when it was called "The Tuskeegee Airmen". He said: "Har-har."

But this is what just happened.

DG: "That guy is in this movie."

Me: "What guy?"

DG: "That guy... you know the... that guy... Designing Women?"

Me: "Which one?" (I knew who he was talking about, but I wanted him to say it).

DG: "The one who married that lady." (he sort of stumbled over the word "major" here).

Me: "Major Dad?"

DG: "Yes!"

Me: "Gerald MacRaney. I get it, he's in this." (I have to go because I have stuff to do, so I was trying to walk away and he kept talking).

DG: "He's a colonel in this." He looked at me all smug for some reason and said: "One star."

I stared at him. He stared back. I narrowed my eyes slightly. He repeated: "One star. You know... just one." (He nodded, so sure of himself. I still don't know why, it wasn't like we don't know military rank. We're both Army brats).

I narrowed my eyes a little more. "One star?"

DG: "Yeah, you know [motioned to his shoulder]- one star."

Me: "He's a one-star... Colonel?"

DG: "What?"

Me: "You said he was a colonel and that he had one star."

DG: "I did not. Did I?"

Me: "You did. I was waiting on you to catch it."

DG: "I wasn't listening to myself. [he pointed at his head as he said that]. I must be SPECIAL!" Then he sighed heavily. "I don't know what's wrong with me..."

It's a pretty good movie. You should see it.

Hair talks to Me...

It's no secret that I'm a woman over forty. Forty-three, to be exact (had a birthday 28 days ago). I started having issues with menopause when I was thirty-four. Yeah, sounds fun, doesn't it?

Well, it isn't. But, that's not what I'm here to share. You see, I sleep with a fan blowing on me. I have the fan directed at my head. Mostly because that's where the bedside table is, partly because when you get hot flashes at night, they're called night sweats and they aren't very fun. When I started doing this, my hair was a lot shorter. (by "a lot shorter", I mean I had really short hair, almost a pixie cut). Now my hair almost reaches my waist. So, after I settle into bed, I lift my hair and move it over to the opposite side of my head from the fan. If I choose to lay on my stomach, I do this by flipping my hair to the fan side, then flipping it back the other way quickly.

That's when the fun began last night...

I did the hair flip and DG said: "Whoa! It's a good thing your hair didn't hit me!"

I flipped it again and said, "Did it hit you that time?"

DG: "Almost. I could feel the breeze as it went past my face. Whoooooshhhhhh..."

There was a pause.

Then he said: "Your hair is a part of you and it don't want you no more. It escapes in the shower."

Me: "What?" (I was laying on my good ear)

DG: "Your hair is tired of the abuse. It told me."

Me: "What abuse?"

DG: "The shampooing, the blow dryer. I heard it talking."

Me: "Why can't I hear it talking? It's on my head."

DG: "Because. You can't. It's talking about you behind your head."

That phrase sent him into a giggling fit that he actually "oohed" at because he couldn't stop.

DG: "They whisper. Like the hair whisperer. So quiet you can't hear it. It's a hair thing."

After a short pause he asked: "Am I drinking?"

Me: "I don't know."

DG: "Only drunk people think that. [scoffing noise] Good thing I'm not drunk!"

Me: "Are you talking to yourself?"

DG: "Are you listening? Then NO! You're hair is like a big whip... [he made a whip-crack noise]."

Me: "If I didn't know you, I would think you were drunk."

DG: "You don't know me."

Me: "Yes, I do."

DG: "You just think that, don't you? With your whip hair [whip-crack noise] and your talking head."

Me: "What does that even mean?"

DG: [whispering] "I don't know. Help me... help me! Hhheeellllp meeeeee!"

Me: "Good night, dear."

DG: [heavy sigh] "Good night."

Ducks in Disguise

We had some errands to run on Monday and I had to drive. Even though DG wanted to drive, his truck was blocked in by our son's car. Our son works nights and sleeps in the daytime (you know, because that's what night-shift workers do). DG can't get into the boy's car, its too small and low to the ground for him. And I have difficulty getting into the car for similar reasons, but in his case, its because of his right-side paralysis. In my case, its because I'm overweight and my legs don't enjoy the contortionist act I have to do to get behind the wheel of a small car. At any rate, I was driving my truck and he was looking out the window.

You know what's weird? My parents had two cars for most of my life. My dad had a truck (we used to go camping every weekend from April till October when I was a kid) and my mom had the car. But if we went anywhere, Dad drove. Even if we were in the car. And DG has his full-size pickup truck (because its the only type of vehicle he can drive where he has the room to move his paralyzed leg out of the way). And we have the four-door, mid-size pickup truck. It was always "HIS truck" and "the truck" when we referred to the separate vehicles. But, when we go somewhere in my truck, I'm driving. Even if he's with me. (he CAN drive my truck, but not as comfortably as he can his full-size pickup truck).

Weird.

But back to the conversation. We stopped at stoplight and it turned green almost immediately. DG exclaimed: "Oh, look at that sad tree!"

I just caught a glimpse of a small pine tree that was all drooped over and quite Charlie Brown-esque. I agreed, it was indeed a sad tree.

DG: "It looks like Charlie Brown's tree."

Me: "It sure does."

DG: "Sad, sad tree..."

Me: "You keep saying I'm the weird one and yet you come up with things like 'sad tree'."

DG: "You ARE weird." and without taking a breath he exclaimed: "Look at all those ducks!"

Me: "Those are geese."

DG: "No, they're not."

Me: "Yes, they are! Those are Canadian geese."

DG: "They're ducks. They're just wearing disguises."

Me: "They're ducks? Dressed like geese?"

DG: "Don't you know? They're spies. Nobody will suspect the ducks."

Me: "Not when they're dressed like geese."

DG: "Of course not. Halloween is coming. They're ready."

I brought up the fact that he avoided the "I'm weird, but you say..." topic again. I said: "You say shit like blankets attacked you in your sleep and then you tell me I'm weird."

DG: "Hey, that actually happened. And I taught them a lesson."

Me: "Rats with little Nike shoes."

DG: "THAT is an actual historical fact! They teach that in SCHOOLS!"

Me: "Of course they do."

DG: "Rat schools."

We reached our destination and he went in to do what he had to do and I sent myself an email text with the key parts of this conversation in it. Because, well, Ducks wearing Geese disguises. Because Halloween is coming.

And something completely unrelated- a few weeks ago, my dad asked for a photo of me with DG so he could put it in a frame. The most recent one he had was over ten years old. So, for three weeks, I reminded DG that my dad wanted a photo of the two of us together. He whined about it, made a fuss, and decided that since he needs a haircut, he wouldn't let me give him one, because then I wouldn't want to do the photo. On Monday, October 8th, I gave him no choice. "That's it, we're doing the photo today. I don't care that you need a haircut." DG was uncooperative and it took almost two dozen attempts to get this one photo to turn out. So here you go- a photo of me with the Disabled Guy where neither of us is pulling a face.

My dad liked it, by the way. And the first thing he said was: "Jerry needs a haircut." (because he doesn't call him "the Disabled Guy").

The Absurdity that is US.

It's no secret, I'm not "normal". I like to laugh, I (quite obviously) use humor to help deal with things. When I get together with my daughters (Kat, 23; Christine, 19), we usually end up cackle-laughing like big, goofy doofuses. Even with my son (Jason, 20)- we go off on bizarre tangents that make no sense to other people. He does voices, I do voices back. He has this one voice that I find hilarious and never get tired of hearing.
This was done in one take and completely off-the-cuff.

And my mom was the same way. When she was with her sisters, nobody was safe. The laughter always killed us and we always loved it.

A couple years ago, my mom was on IV antibiotics following a surgery and three times a week, a homecare nurse came over twice a day to give her those antibiotics. And the rest of the time, my dad did it. I was the backup-backup person (being that my dad was the "backup person"), so I had to learn how to do it. I seriously took notes because I didn't want to screw up the steps. One of the steps was to swab one of the doo-hickey thingies with an alcohol pad for a certain amount of time (don't worry yourself, those are technical terms). Anyway, we're sitting there, Mom is looking at me, because where the hell else is she going to look? I was sitting right in front of her. So, I started up with: "So I says to Mable, Mable, I says..." and that was it, we were off... we did an entire conversation about Mable, her husband, some other woman that I think was Mable's sister and "the ladies group from church" (I don't go to church and at that time, Mom wasn't either). We were even doing it in our best Midwestern "Fargo"-esque accents.

The nurse was aghast that we were having such a conversation in front of her. She thought it was real. Of course, soon she was taking part in the absurdity, because what else can you do?

So, today, among other things, I picked up a pair of slipper socks. It turned out to be two pairs of slipper socks, one pair is red, one black. Well, of course I'm wearing one red sock and one black one.

Upon seeing the state of my footwear, DG said in a scoffing way: "Gawd, you're weird."

Me: "You married me, what does that make you?"

DG: "I dunno, but I'm not weird!"

Me: "It makes you lucky. Do you know how BORING 'normal' people are? Yeah, think about THAT!"

Just before I started to type this up, I said: "Hey, you told me I was weird, right?"

DG: "Yeah, you are."

Me: "I'm weird... but you're the one who came up with rats and their little Nike shoes."

DG: "Hey! That's a true story!"

Well, it must be, because you read about it on the Internet.

By the way, wearing one red sock and one black sock isn't even the weirdest thing we've done today. We did the heavy-metal headbanging to a song while driving around and doing our usual payday errands.

Big deal, you say? The song in question was "99 Luftballons". Yeah, the German version. And to prove that we were indeed being badass heavy metal beasts, I texted this photo to my friend, Erik. We were already having a text-conversation, so it wasn't quite as random as it seems. Don't worry about Erik, he gets us. He's pretty much one of us.

While we were shopping at Sam's Club- because who doesn't need 240 pizza rolls- I learned that people live on the Moon. I don't recall what he said, but I said: "On what planet does [whatever he said] happen?"

DG: "On mine."

Me: "What planet do you live on?"

DG: "The Moon."

Me: "The Moon isn't a planet."

DG: "What?! Of course it is!"

Me: "No, the Moon is the 'moon', it isn't classified as a planet." (I was prepared to go into something about Pluto, but I didn't have the chance, he kept talking).

DG: "That's not what they said."

Me: "What 'they'?"

DG: "The Moon People."

Me: "What 'Moon People'?"

DG: "The people who live on the Moon."

Me: "Where, on the Moon, do they live?"

DG: "Places. Probably houses."

Me: "Wait, there are people who live on the Moon, probably in houses, and nobody has ever seen them?"

DG: "They haven't been looking in the right places."

Me: "We went to the Moon. There were people from Earth, ON the Moon, and they didn't see them."

DG: "You went to the Moon? You didn't go to the Moon!" (he was trying to deflect).

Me: "No, not me, WE.  As a nation, you know, went to the Moon. I don't recall learning about Moon People in school."

DG: "Of course not. They wouldn't teach that in school."

Then he broke off for a second, to ask about the price of something in bulk, so I did the math and told him... then we went back to this:

Me: "Don't stop now, finish telling me the story."

DG: "What story?"

Me: "About the Moon People?"

DG: "What about them?"

Me: "Finish telling me about them."

DG: "They don't exist."

Me: "That's not what you said sixteen seconds ago."

DG: "I was mistaken."

Bonus- on the way to Sam's Club, I was trying to take a mobile phone pic for Facebook and he kept making a face by puffing his cheeks out with his breath and making little weird hissing noises. I finally reached over and pushed his puffed up cheek and said, "Stop doing this, I'm trying to take a photo for Facebook."

He replied, "I'm not making any faces!"

I turned back to my phone to take the shot again and he made the exact same hissing sound as before, which made me laugh, hence the cheesy smile.




So, there you have it... there are people on the Moon who probably live in houses and he doesn't make faces or weird hissing sounds. (despite the fact you can see in the photo he appears to be blowing out his breath as opposed to, you know, just breathing).

We work hard for no money...

Sorry. I'm sorry again for the delay in posting. There have been many short conversations (in fact, there was a hilarious one we had today, but I got busy and forgot what the hell we were talking about when we both ended up laughing like idiots), and most of those are in the Facebook Group. I was reminded on Tuesday that it had been a while since I updated this by some random student at our daughter's college (she's a sophomore this year, but she just transferred to that college). So, hi there... welcome to the blog. I know you weren't really just some random student, you've got some kind of title, but I have no idea what it is. Feel free to laugh... one of the most popular posts is Rats with their Little Nike Shoes. Also, thanks for the use of the tools. Did you notice the Disabled Guy organized your socket set? Yeah, he does that.

And, in re-reading my last post, I see that I haven't updated the whole thing with the Queen. I was in the Garden during her second visit during the feast. I took tons of photos of the whole thing, but as I look at my Pahz Photography blog, I see I didn't update there either. Let me assure you, the Queen loves the benches. Jane the Phoole loves the benches. Even the Earl of Leicester loves the benches. EVERYONE loves the benches.

RANDOM UPDATE- as I was adding the above paragraph, DG came inside and had a deep gash in his thumb. It wasn't a bad one, but it was a chunk of skin pulled out, so it bled in the most spectacular fashion. No pics, he wouldn't let me take any. Maybe later. He's quitting work for the day because he'll just bleed through his Band-aids if he continues without letting it properly stop. He'll be back at work again tomorrow.
END OF UPDATE 

You all know that the Disabled Guy builds things out of wood. We've tried selling a few of these things, but it doesn't always happen. So he mostly does it for his own enjoyment and to make things for friends or family.

Most of you know I'm a photographer. I mostly do macro and fine art stuff, but during the summer, between July and Labor Day (September, for those not involved with that holiday), I go to the Bristol Renaissance Faire and take photos there. I'm what's considered a "playtron", in that I pay to get in (season pass this year was a gift) and I dress up and "play"... but I also do photos.

Today, I had a rough night with my pain issues and didn't fall asleep till well after 2 AM, so I got a bit of a late start. DG found me in our room after I'd showered and was blow-drying my hair. He made a big scene about getting his clothes out of his dresser. I asked him what he was doing.

DG: "I gotta go to work."  (building a fancy wooden trunk for one of our kids)

Me: "So do I." (finishing up the last of my Closing Day photos- I had three days worth of photos to get through).

DG: "That's not work!"

Me: "How is it NOT work?"

DG: "You don't get paid!"

Me: "Neither do you!"

DG: "So? I enjoy it."

Me: "So do I!"

DG: "No, you don't!"

Me: "You're telling me that I don't enjoy taking photos? Editing photos? Creating art? Sharing art? You're right... I hate it. I hate it when people tell me I've done a good job and that they like the photos I take of them."

DG: "Yeah... well... I'm building a box."

Me: "Good comeback, Sparky."

I don't get paid by the faire or the people I take photos of, but those people and the powers-that-be at the faire appreciate what I do (I've been told some wonderful things by someone in charge of the media things at the faire). And, by doing what I do, it might help open doors to paying photography gigs. (and, the jousters gave me an awesome gift this year, which I love and DG has to make me a framed plaque so I can hang it up- which he will not be paid for doing. I love those guys and they don't need to give me a gift for what I do, but they always come up with something I would never think of myself). By the way, I also take photos of DG's carpentry projects, but I don't get paid by him to do that either.

And because you know you want to see them- here's the set with most of my ren faire photos. I'm still adding to it. So keep checking back, if you're into that sort of thing.

Whew, it sure has been a long time...

I wholeheartedly apologize for such a long break in posts. There have been short conversations that I've shared in
The Official Conversations with the Disabled Guy Group on Facebook, but nothing I'd call blog-worthy in length.

So, let's dive in, shall we?

You know how DG built some benches for the Friends of Faire Garden at the Bristol Renaissance Faire. I know you do, I told you about it. There were photos. What? You didn't see? You have no idea what I'm talking about? Oh, well, last year, at the faire, I noticed that the Friends of Faire Garden didn't have a lot of sturdy benches. Long-story-short, I asked DG to make a couple benches for us to donate to the Garden. He did. We delivered them, they love him now. He's never been to the faire, aside from that day we delivered the benches.

Last weekend at the faire, the Queen visited the FoF Garden. She sat on his bench. I wasn't there to photograph it, I was probably at the joust. But, a friend of mine- Paul- got a shot of the Queen enjoying her visit at the garden, on a bench.



I showed that photo to DG and said, "That's Queen Elizabeth- well, the actress who plays her... and she's sitting on your bench!"

Then started the questions: "Why was she there?" "Did she like the bench?" "Was she comfortable?" "Why was she there?" I told him that I never speak to her when she's not in character and since she's the Queen, she's unbelievably busy and has a schedule to keep. I'm not going to bother her AT the faire... But he persisted, every so often asking the same questions randomly. "Hey, that lady who plays the queen... did she like my bench?" and so on till I finally sent the lovely woman who plays the Queen a message on Facebook. I told her as briefly as I could about DG and how he's disabled and why and that he builds things one-handed. Not an easy task for someone like me- who likes to talk and likes details- but I managed to get it out. She replied, of course, because she's a wonderful person.

In part, she said: "I loved the benches! They are the perfect depth for farthingales, and very comfortable. Please tell him that they are awesome."

So, I told him what she said. And I had to explain what "farthingales" were (basically- the fancy word for "hoop skirt", but not quite as "hoopy").

The reply from DG?

"What do you mean the Queen liked my bench?"

Me: "You've been asking me for three days about it! I sent her a message on Facebook and she replied."

DG: "I don't remember asking you about that." *narrows eyes* "Are you sure?"

Me: "Yes. I'm sure. You kept asking me if she liked the bench. So I asked."

DG: "You have a Queen at the ren faire?"

I may have face-palmed at this point, I don't recall. So, I broke it down: "Yes, there's an actress who plays the Queen. There are other actors and actresses who play other historical characters. I take photos of all of them. You've seen the photos. If you had come to faire on Sunday, you would have met some of them."

DG: "If they're actors, why are you there?"

Me: "Because I'm a patron. They're acting for a reason and the people who come to faire are that reason."

DG: "But you wear those clothes."

Me: "Yes, but I'm not paid to be there, I pay to go..." and I sort of went into this explanation of what a patron is versus a playtron and he lost interest.

About ten minutes later, DG said, "That's cool that the queen liked my bench."

Yes. Yes, that's it exactly.

This photo was taken pre-season (hence nobody in the background). DG built the two benches that match specifically for the FoF garden. The one in the middle is a bench he built for my dad years ago. My dad called and said that we could take it with us to the Faire because since my mom passed away, "nobody comes over". That sounds terrible, but it isn't really. He just means that the family gatherings are now at a different relative's house (they actually were for a couple years already because of my mom's health). But I digress... here are the benches actually IN the Friends of Faire Garden at the Bristol Renaissance Faire.

"It's a Conspiracy!"

The person who designed our house was psychotic. Its a two-story house, with only one bathroom (and that's upstairs). The bathroom door opens out into the hallway. The "laundry room" was in a dank, limestone basement, prone to flooding. (we moved it upstairs, to the porch off the kitchen- WHICH IS ANOTHER THING!)... that porch was a three-season porch with no insulation and no way to get into the house without walking through the kitchen first.

DG fixed a few of these things. He put a wall up on that porch to make it two sides- the laundry room on one side and the porch, smaller on the other. He took out a window to make a doorway into the house. It was in building that wall that he put a drill bit through my finger. That's not a DG-story and it is kinda gross, so I'll only share it if nobody minds. (that is, if I haven't already shared it).

So, we have a laundry room upstairs now. We've had our kitchen remodeled (by professional contractors, not DG, he knows that was too great a task for him, even as talented as he is). The bathroom is still upstairs and the door still opens out, not much we can do there (opening in would hit the sink).

My chief complaint of weirdness in how our house was designed or remodeled or whatever- we don't have enough outlets. I can hear you now: "But, Patty, none of us have enough outlets!" In my dining room, where my computer is located (because its the biggest room downstairs- yeah, that's another thing...), I have two outlets. Within five feet of each other. The living room has one on two walls and on the third wall (the fourth wall has a staircase on it)- the third wall has three outlets. In my dining room, there are no outlets on the opposite wall. And don't get me started on the kitchen (there are a total of three and two are within three feet of each other).

So...

Ceej plugs in multiple things at one time. She can't do this in her room (don't get me started on room outlets!) because she hasn't gotten around to clearing things up from her move-home-from-college. So, there's an extension cord from the kitchen, around the corner, onto a bookcase where she's got the power cords for her iPod and mobile phone.

Today, DG walked by, caught the extension cord with his foot and pulled down not just her phone, but a couple books and a roll of duct tape. He turned, flailed helplessly for a moment as he untangled his foot from the cord.

I said: "Look what you did!"

DG: "Don't blame me! I didn't put the cord there!" and he looked at me with a bizarre and hilarious intensity.

Me: "You know we had no choice. There's no outlet there!"

DG: "IT'S A CONSPIRACY! *short pause* OF OUTLETS!"

Me: "You mean lack of outlets."

DG: "THAT TOO!" followed by intense staring at the extension cord.

"She's smart! She figured it out!"

We have too many dogs. Gypsy the German Shepherd, Luna the Taco Bell Chihuahua, Jasper the tri-color chocolate, Bruno who was the result of Luna and Jasper, Gregg the Girl Dog with a Boy Name and right now, we have Tempest- the Tasmanian Devil of Chihuahuas (but she's leaving soon). We also have cats. Up till a few months ago, we had four cats but our oldest daughter took two of them to live with her in her apartment (which she moved to a couple years ago, she just had to convince the boyfriend to let her bring two along).

We ended up having to put a gate on the stairs to keep the Chihuahuas from getting into the cat boxes and cat food. The cats used to be able to jump over it and come and go, but they don't anymore and seem to have no interest in the downstairs. Except for tormenting the dogs through the gate. Which they do on a multi-daily basis.

Gregg the Girl Dog is usually the first leading the brigade in Barking.

DG gets irritated (because a lot of Chihuahuas barking, harmonized by a German Shepherd.... little irritating). Among the stuff he shouts at them ("shut up! knock it off! Stop barking!"), he threatens them... ridiculously.

"I'm gonna shoot you!"

Ceej: "Dad. Gregg has no idea what that means."

DG: "She knows I'm gonna get a gun and shoot her!"

Ceej: "She doesn't know what a gun is!"

DG: "Yes, she does! She knows what a gun is!"

Ceej: "She's a dog, Dad. She's never been out of the house- out of the yard. She doesn't know what a gun is or what it means to be shot."

DG: "She's smart! She figured it out!"

Me: "She's smart? What, is she reading books and shit?"

Even DG couldn't keep a straight face... he said: "Didn't you know?" but it was laced with laughter.

For your viewing pleasure- Gregg the Girl Dog with a Boy Name



And, a shot of Gregg the girl Dog with her pup- Tempest.

There was an attack last night...

That's right. The Disabled Guy was attacked last night. Don't worry, he's fine... just a little traumatized.

I was awakened in the middle of the night by some clambering noises and DG violently moving in bed. I sorta looked over and determined he wasn't having a seizure and I promptly went back to sleep. This morning, I was given the grave news.

It seems that the big comforter that he usually keeps on the bed year-round was too much for him. Days ago, he folded it (somewhat) and put it on top of the clothes on a table near his side of the bed. I've been in a state of flux for several years and there are days I can wear clothes and days I can't wear them. So I don't have space to put everything away. So, that giant, thick comforter was on top of the rotation of clothes.

In the middle of the night, it decided it had just about enough of not being on the bed anymore and it came at DG with a pair of scissors and some Scotch tape dispensers (the clambering noise that woke me).

DG: "The damn thing just jumped on my head! I struggled with it, I put up a good fight, but it nearly took me! I almost died!"

Me: "From a comforter sliding onto your head from a few inches away?"

DG: "Yes! Don't you know that those things are deadly!?"

Me: "You're saying your blankets attacked you again?"

DG *somewhat sarcastically*: "No, not my blankets. They didn't even try to help me. The quilt thing. That thing [he pointed at the folded comforter]... the comfer- comfortable- no, that's not it. Comforter! The comfortable attacked me!"

Me: "Wow. If it attacked you, it couldn't have been very comfortable."

DG: "Are you being sarcastic?"

Me: *eyes wide*: "No, of course not."

DG: *squinting his eyes*: "I think you are."

Me: "Watch out, there's a disgruntled blanket behind you."

DG: "Please. Blankets can't be disgruntled."

Me: "Do you know what disgruntled means?"

DG: "Of course I do, but why don't you tell me so I know that you know."

He's nothing if not a smartass.

Say what? (textually speaking 2012)

He doesn't call me. That would be too easy, wouldn't it?

I was doing my usual online activities (photos, Facebook, instant messaging, texting with my kids- because I'm that mom, so cool that my kids text me) when I got the familiar "Ohhh myyyy!" text alert.

That's right. The Disabled Guy's text alert is George Takei saying: "Ohhh myyyy!". It cost a few bucks on some site, but it benefited a theater thing Mr. Takei was involved in, so it was a win-win for everybody.

The text said: "Can you give me that list of orgasms? My mom needs to know."

I speak "stroke speak".

I speak typo.

I speak autocorrect.

And it still made me laugh.

I replied, "Say what?"

He replied: "The orgasms list. I think its on the fridge."

I knew he was talking about a NASCAR thing with a list of organizations, but it didn't stop me from pointing out the word he used. He didn't know what I was talking about, which took the steam out of my laugh-fest.

But still... I don't keep a list of orgasms and I damn sure wouldn't want my mother-in-law to know if I did!

A compilation of what you may have missed

The Disabled Guy went to his parents' house down in North Carolina and I haven't been able to come up with a blog post with anything new. Over on the Facebook group, there have been a few updates, but I'm sorry for not posting anything for you all who aren't in the group.

So, if you're not in that Facebook group, here's a compilation of what you've missed.

This one was shortly before he left on his trip:

January 26:

I'm about to head over to my parents' house to do some photography stuff. I was going to ask my dad if he wanted to help, maybe even do some of it himself, because its fun. But he left for Missouri today on a little RV trip. And the way our weather is going, I'll be out of snow if I wait till he comes back next week.

So I asked DG if he'd go with me. I don't have a DSLR camera, so I have to sort of trick my settings on my Canon Ixus 75. And one of those things is focal point. And in the dark, its just easier to do it with help. All DG would have to do is stand where I'll end up standing, with a flashlight or even just with a mobile phone open, so the camera has something to focus on.

He said: "No, I'm waiting on the VA to call."

It was ten till 5 PM and he was waiting on the VA to call for his blood thinners (he gets his blood checked monthly). Sometimes they call same-day, sometimes they don't.

So, I watched the last ten minutes of an episode of "NCIS" that I missed before and then started to get ready. I changed into an old hoodie (this involves fire) and got all my stuff gathered up. He got up in the middle of me getting my shit together (camera, tripod, etc) and said he was gonna get some dinner (we're doing leftover chili tonight).

I got all my gear and said, "Okay, I'll be back. I'll call and let you know if I set myself on fire."

He said, "Oh, you weren't going to wait?"

I asked: "Did you say you were gonna go?"

DG: "I said I was waiting on the VA."

Me: "Yeah, twenty minutes ago."

DG: "I don't think they're gonna call."

Me: "Yeah, considering its now ten after 5."

DG: "I wanted to eat dinner first."

Me: "Did you say you were gonna go?"

DG: "You aren't gonna wait?"

Me: "I'll wait. I haven't left yet." I set my stuff down, took off my jacket...

Apparently, "No, I don't want to go." means "I don't want to go right now, but I'll watch you gear up and when you pick up your keys, I'll let you know I want to go."

February 10:

Shortly before DG left on his trip to his parents' house, our son had another failed feeding with another rat. (we've checked with some "snake people" we know and searched online and found that it is pretty common for a snake to go many months- sometimes almost a year- between feedings. Especially if the snake is in a cooler area and our house is chilly/drafty in the winter).

Anyway, he tossed her into the big tank with Mittens. They're getting along famously and sleep together and play together and everything. Last night, DG and I were texting about some insurance stuff related to his recent accident and out of the blue he asked how the "ratsies" were doing. I said fine and if he wanted to know, he could just come the fuck home and take care of them himself. He asked about the second rat and I told him that she was still there.

Then he asked: "Has it been long enough? Should I pardon her too?"

Jase replied to me: "I thought he already had. He named it, didn't he?"

I texted that back to DG and he replied: "I didn't know I did. Okay. She's pardoned."

Her name?

Boots.

We have two female "Dumbo" rats now.

February 13:

There was an accident on the drive down to his parents' house. DG is fine, we've been waiting to hear back from the insurance company. His truck- his beautifully-kept, well-maintained 2000 Silverado is "totaled". They're giving us quite a generous check for it and since its been paid off for the past seven years, all that check will go into finding a new-used truck (since we can't afford payments).

So, since DG is at his parents' house, I've been checking various car dealer websites and today I went to Car Soup dot com. Within 50 miles of his parents' zip code, there was ONE Chevy Silverado and it was white (he prefers blue) stick shift. So, I told him so in a text. "The only thing in your price range is a white stick shift."

DG: "What kind?"

Me: "Silverado. But how the fuck are you gonna drive a stick shift?" (his right arm is paralyzed, in case you forgot).

DG: "With my powerful mind."

February 18:

On the phone with DG, he complained that "this got-damned speaker is giving out, I think its shot." I asked if I was on speaker-phone, and asked him to take me off of it when he said I was. Lo and behold, it worked fine (which means he's got the speaker volume up too loud).

He said: "I was like Captain Kirk."

I replied: "You are nothing like Captain Kirk."

He said: "I am too! I was talking like doo-doo-doo Kirk to Enterprise!"

I told him: "You're nothing like Captain Kirk, one- you have all your own hair and two- you don't wear a girdle."

He said, all serious-sounding: "I could wear a girdle."

Me: "Then wear one."

DG: "No."

By the way, he claims he's not a nerd. But this conversation clearly show's his nerdy. (also, I love William Shatner, despite this conversation seeming otherwise.)

Sorry for the month-long break... hey, new post!

I apologize for the month-long break I seemed to have taken. There have been some small conversations that I shared with the Facebook group- but nothing really seemed like it was long enough for a whole blog post. Then, my mom passed away on Christmas night (it was almost midnight, she very nearly made it- she had promised my dad she wouldn't leave him on Christmas). Here's a blog post about that- over on my fibro blog.

So... back to the conversation today...

The Disabled Guy is watching Barrett-Jackson Auto Auction on the SPEED channel. He can- and has- watched this thing for days. Days. Not an exaggeration. Over the weekend, he watched a marathon of "NCIS" on Saturday and on Sunday, he watched one of the two seasons he got on DVD for his birthday from our daughter, Ceej. Then on Monday, he watched the all-day marathon on USA network. Yeah, three straight days of Mark Harmon and the gang. Funny, I finally can look at him without thinking: "That's Mister Shoop from Summer School..." And all it took was almost three solid days of seeing him as Special Agent Jethro Gibbs.

The Barrett-Jackson Auction.

DG: "You know what the bad thing is about this thing?"

Me: "That in this economy, people are laying tens of thousands of dollars on a car they won't drive?"

DG: "No, they can't drive them. They're show cars."

Me: "That's what I said, they won't drive them."

There was a pause. I don't know if he was merely eating or if he was pondering that I had said what he said or just staring at the shiny cars on the TV. Then he said, "You know, the bad thing about this is that I coulda bought some of those cars in the 70s."

Me: [trying not to spawn a debate of how things were better in the old days] "Okay then."

DG: "Really. I coulda bought some of these cars back when I was a teenager in the 70s."

Me: "Uh, you weren't a teenager in the 70s."

DG: [slight pause] "Okay then, the 80s."

And that's where it ended. I tried to get him to see the alternate life of this imaginary classic car that he'd buy as a teen in the mid-80s. We got married at the end of 1986. We had our first child in 1989 (subsequent kids in 1992 and 1993). Even if the imaginary car had a backseat, we would have eventually had to upgrade to something with four-doors. Oh, DG's imaginary car was not a four-door. That's not cool.

In 1994, one week from our youngest's first birthday, I had a car accident. A woman ran a red light and slammed into our car. I was alone, having left the kids home with DG. I had to take the dog to the vet that morning, so he took the morning off work and when the vet didn't take very long, he told me just to go to the store without the kids, he'd stay home (meaning he'd nap on the sofa while they were napping in their rooms). I was on my way back from the grocery store in our 1989 Dodge Spirit when the lady ran that red light. Car was totaled. She not only destroyed the body, she broke the front axle and bent the frame. What was she driving? A little white Toyota. Yeah. Totaled.

Now that I think about it, had I been in a classic car from the early 70s that had been lovingly restored in the middle 80s by a teen-aged boy, I might have gone unhurt. Cars were made of metal back then.

When I said that thought out loud, DG said, "SEE!? I told you!"

I don't know what he thinks he told me, but there you go.