People want to be our friend... only because we're #7

DG doesn't spend much time online. Even when he did, it was mostly playing online games or reading NASCAR stuff I searched for him. So, when I come across a funny video or an article, I'll show him, or read the pertinent parts out loud. When it comes to article-reading though, I have to translate English into Disabled Guy Stroke-English, which means mostly changing words like "pertinent" to "important".

I was reading this article from Cracked.com and of course, started reading parts of it out loud to him. When I was done, I said, "We're on that list. People want to be our friend because we drive pickup trucks."

DG: "Why?"

Me: "Because, like the article said- everyone has to move sometime..."

He replied: "Ah..." and I figured that was that. But moments later, he said, "How do they know we drive pickup trucks?"

Me: "Who?"

DG: "Those people."

Me: "What people?"

DG: "The ones who wrote the article."

Me: "They don't. I said it. The article-writer has no idea who we are."

DG: "Oh. So he doesn't read your blog?"

Me: "Its your blog and no, probably not."

DG: "Then why would he want to be our friend?"

Me: *sigh* "He doesn't want to be our friend. Number seven on the list of 'friends people need' is the guy with a pickup truck. And that's us. We're guys who drive pickup trucks." (he drives a full-size Chevy Silverado shortbed. I drive a mid-size four-door Chevy Colorado. Plus, he has a utility trailer).

It took him a few moments to process this and then he said, "Fine. I don't want to be his friend either."

In deck-related news, last night at almost 9 PM (it was still light out), I went outside to check on him. He was almost done. He had three railing posts left to put in (then the railings). I asked if he was going to stay out and finish since he was so close. Nope. He was coming in right after he attached the railing to the posts.

He ran out of the screw-in post anchors. Three posts short!

The Disabled Guy doesn't want to hear about our logic

If you're in the group on Facebook, I already posted this there. But, I figured I should post it here for those of you who aren't in the group or on Facebook or even my parents. I know my parents aren't on Facebook.

I had some time to kill before I started dinner (which is cooking as I type this), so I went outside to discuss the deck with DG. I suggested he move his tools from one end of the deck to the other, where it was closer to his work area. Luckily, he was in a good mood and even went on with the video after I went back inside to get my camera.

Enjoy.

The Disabled Guy... HE KNOWS HE'S DISABLED!

I'm a fairly active member over on the Regretsy website. And the regular readers here know that the lovely woman who runs the site helped us when we needed to raise money to send our daughter to New York City with the high school orchestra.

Also, I've been on the Internet now for approximately eight years, give or take a few months. I have called the spouse "The disabled guy" for pretty much that entire time. Now, I don't expect someone to automatically know all this stuff. I mean, if you didn't know me, it wouldn't make much sense, right? But, if you lurk for more than ten minutes anywhere that I'm a regular participant, then you'd know who I am and that I call him "the disabled guy". Big shocker- he knows he's disabled!

Regretsy is "NSFW" (not safe for work) because of the swearing that is not only common, but encouraged. (also, sometimes the day's featured items are mature in content). Today's first post was about a dress that is designed to look like a urinal.

This is a screen cap of my comment-


I thought I'd get a few pity "thumbs up" because when you're a regular, some people just like what you say, even if it sucks. But, an hour or so later, I went back and discovered some replies to my comment. The first one had been "hidden due to low comment rating".



And then some others got involved...


And then I came back and left these two comments (we have a 1000 character limit on comments).




Why did I tell you all this? Why did I make you read all that crap? Because, after all that, I went outside and did a video with the Disabled Guy. This video also shows him working on the deck. MONTHS AGO someone asked me how he does woodworking with only the use of one hand and I said he uses clamps and vise grips. Once in a while, he'll ask for help. In fact, just the other day, he had to get me to come outside and help him move a huge board that had some other boards attached to it. It was one of the support beams for the deck and it was too long for him to maneuver by himself. So I helped. Took me all of forty-five seconds and he was back to work.

But enough of this typing and reading crap. You came for the video. And here it is... since it he was speaking quietly, I added the captions so you could "hear" what he was saying. He was also talking quietly on purpose because I was doing the video.



Bye!

EDITED TO ADD: The Regretsian who originally asked if the disabled thing was relevant is okay and says she's (I'm assuming "she" because of the "Krissy" part of the name) started reading the blog. So, heeeey! Welcome. I hope you enjoy the insanity that is the Disabled Guy.

Disabled guy, holey gloves, hummingbird

Today we received the letter with the results of that doctor visit we had a few weeks ago. Don't you like how I say "we"? Well, I figure that I deserve some acknowledgement because I'm putting up with the bullshit too. Back to the letter.

I stepped outside onto what was left of the deck (he's tearing up the part near the door, which means I don't get to leave the house- unless I go out the other door, but don't tell anyone about that). With great flourish, I opened the envelope. He grabbed the deck for support, his eyes wide with expectation...

SHOCKING NEWS!!

The Disabled Guy... STILL DISABLED!

I KNOW! I was shocked that he hasn't miraculously and suddenly recovered the use of the half of his body that was paralyzed by a stroke that happened sixteen years ago. So was he.

He said, "I saw a hummingbird." and before I could answer, he said, "It was over there, then over there, and then it went by my truck and then... *poof* it went away."

I asked, "What was it doing?"

He replied, "Humming." Then he asked me for a bottle of water.

I said, "You're awfully bossy for a guy who can't get into the house." Then I stepped inside and closed the door.

He merely looked at me, eyes narrowed. "Fine. I don't need your stinkin' water."

I brought back a bottle of water for him because I'm just that nice. I even opened it so he wouldn't have to take off his work glove to do it himself. Then I waited, because he tends to just guzzle the whole bottle. When he was done, I took the bottle and shook out the last remaining drops of water on him.

He exclaimed: "HEY! Stop it!" then he looked down at his arm, where the water hit him and said, "Great, now I have a clean spot."

I replied, "It won't last long."

His jaw dropped, "What's that mean!? Bah! Go back inside." And he waved his gloved hand at me. There are large holes in his glove. "My glove has holes in it. It's a holy glove!" and he laughed, very pleased with himself.

I said: "Oh, you're very clever today."

DG: "I am, I know. My holy glove..." and he waved his hand again, "Begone!"

So now apparently, it isn't just "holy", it is also magic.

"That thing. You know, that thing you do. You go to it..."

"You went last week. That thing. You know that thing... right?"

DG wanted to know: "Why didn't you go to that thing?"

Me: "What thing?"

DG: "That thing. You know, that thing you do. You go to it. You went last week. That thing, you know that thing... right?"

I didn't go anywhere last week. I had an assumption of what he was talking about though, but I wanted to be sure. And since I didn't answer right away, he added: "You know that thing. You dress up for it."

Ah, that thing. My assumption was correct. He was talking about the renaissance faire. So I said, "That was two weeks ago and it was just the small faire." He didn't reply so I continued: "Janesville has a small two-day faire in May. The big faire doesn't start till July 9th." (Bristol)

DG: "Why didn't you go?"

Me: "It hasn't started yet."

DG: "But you have that thing." (I saved up my loose change for six months and made a couple sales in my etsy shop and got myself a season pass- which is the thing he's referring to here).

Me: "I know, but the faire isn't open to the public till July 9th."

DG: "And how long does that last?"

Me: "Every weekend from July 9th to Labor Day. And I plan on going every single day."

DG: "How are you going to do that?"

Me: "Because it's every weekend. Why can't I go every day?"

DG: "Oh. The weekend. Okay."

Then I went on with my photo editing and he went back to his NASCAR (being Saturday, it isn't actual NASCAR, it's Busch. But it isn't even called that anymore. They changed the name a few years ago, but for descriptive purposes in our house, it's still NASCAR and Busch).

A few minutes later he asked: "If it only happens on the weekend, what do those people do all week?"

Me: "What people?"

DG: "The ones you know. Those people... with the pictures." (I have photos on the wall by my desk- people I call friends. One of them, I've known for eight years now- even before I started going to faire. He flies up once a year now for a weekend at Bristol).

Me: "That depends on the people. Some of them are from the area, they have jobs during the week. Some of them travel from faire-to-faire. It depends really. Some of them are touring, but they're also from the area, so I assume they go home now and then. But most of the jousters are from really far away. I have no idea what they do... plus, they have horses they have to take care of, so it isn't like they can just fly home."

DG: "How would they get the horse on the plane?"

Me: "I guess they put them in a carry-on."

DG: "Don't be ridiculous. A horse would need a carrier in the bottom of the plane. Sheesh, woman."

Me: "The guys with the horses have a hard time flying because they also carry swords."

DG: "As long as they don't carry nail files, I guess they're okay."

Then he let it go for a few minutes. Then he asked: "What kind of day job does someone from there have?"

So I told him of the few I knew. A few work in offices. There is one I know who is a student. One of the jousting knights does amazing leather work. Some don't have other jobs, their touring job is their job. He wasn't satisfied. He keeps pondering what they do during the week. I even told him there are rehearsals and training (especially with the acrobats and jousters).

He seems to be calm now. I want him to go to the faire with me just one time. NASCAR has bi-weeks now and then and I think he should go with me at least once. I'd love for him to see some of the shows (Barely Balanced, especially) and see the joust. Meet some of my friends. And, you'd think the ren faire cleavage would be enough to convince him to go. But he's been holding out. Maybe his sudden interest in my friends is the start... maybe he'll go.

Manwich and Meatloaf

For those who don't know, the Disabled Guy almost died. It was in September 2009, which was before I started this blog. It was about six months after my total-knee replacement surgery and if you've never had one, well, they're a bitch to recover from. People recover at different rates and it's a hugely major surgery. At this point, I was walking without a cane, but I had to be careful about how I walked (where I put my feet and such) and I was also slow to stand up- that's important to this little story.

For that do know, you've also read the story in the local newspaper.

So, I had gone to the VA hospital for a regular doctor appointment. That meant, not only was I tired from the hour's drive there and back, I had to traipse all over the damn hospital, because that's how they do things there. DG cooked dinner that night- which I appreciated. He made meatloaf, which none of us appreciated. We're not fans of meatloaf, but it's cheap and easy. The kids really disliked meatloaf and they would always complain about having it. But hey, they don't pay the bills, right?

For some reason, DG had gone to McDonald's that day for lunch, but didn't think it was worth telling us. And when I asked him what he'd had for lunch, he replied: "Soda." *pause* "Cakes and... stuff." I finally got it out of him that he'd gone to McDonald's and we all teased him about "soda. Cakes and stuff." While we were eating dinner, we were still joking, like we tend to do, and laughing about stuff.

DG made a comment, took a forkful of food, and then started to laugh.

About a half-second later, he started to choke. If you've only witnessed choking in the TV/movie sense, let me tell you, it is nothing at all like that. At all. He went from fine, laughing to no sound and purple in a matter of seconds. I know how to do the Heimlich. I used to be certified in the whole CPR stuff when I worked as a security guard (I was a shift supervisor, so I was apparently required to be CPR certified). But you just don't forget it because your card expires, but I digress.

I was sitting right next to DG when this happened. Jase was next to him, but on end of the table. (Jase was 17 then, just so you know). We simultaneously realized that he was choking. I started to stand up, but I wasn't standing up very fast. I had my hand on the back of my chair and I was half-standing and I said: "Jason..." and he was already on his feet.

I still remember what I was trying to say. I was going to say: "Jason, do the Heimlich. I can't." (or "I can't get up"). But, I said, "Jason" and he was already moving. Jase stood behind him, grabbed him and did it, three times. The third time, up came everything.

Yeah, by the way, that's something they don't tell you when they teach this- the person getting the Heimlich almost always will throw up. Everything.

Well, quite obviously, we have not made meatloaf for dinner since. Not once in nearly two years. Not that we're complaining.

Onto the Manwich part of the title. The very second blog post I did here was about Hamburger Sams.

Today is Friday. My youngest daughter works as a hostess in a dinner club and she leaves for work at 330 PM. Jase had his first day at his new job (Gander Mountain!) and I didn't know what time he'd be home. And my oldest daughter is coming home for the weekend (she lives an hour and a half away). So, I decided to make Manwich/Sloppy Joes for dinner and put it in the crock pot so it would be ready to eat any time, for anyone.

I walked downstairs and said to DG: "I'm making Manwich for dinner tonight."

He looked up, a horrified expression on his face. "Why?!"

I glanced around and looked back at him. "Why what?"

His eyes narrowed and he asked: "What did you say?"

I replied: "Manwich... you know... sloppy Joes."

He exclaimed, "Oh! Okay, yeah. Okay."

I had to ask: "What the hell did you think I said?"

"Meatloaf!" and he shuddered. "Uuggh!"

I should have just said Hamburger Sams.

Deck update- Deckdate?

In the most recent "Squirrel Protection Agency" post, I shared photos of the deck's progress. The Disabled Guy had a few days of not working because of rain. And a few just because he "didn't feel like it". Mostly, I think it was because he got a sunburn and he felt like crap for a few days after.

But he's made some progress.

From Ground Level-



Someone once asked me how he does things with only one hand. He uses clamps and such and some of those clamps are visible in this photo.



The other part of the deck, the part that used to be the "lower deck". I hope he finishes soon. I'm getting tired of walking the long way around the whole mess just to take the dogs out.



In case you don't remember the mess and you don't want to click the link to the Squirrel story, here's a photo of that-

I have to come out of the house over by where you can see the red stuff through the railings (that's my truck), then down the steps there, then around the trailer and then through/around that mess of boards and swing frame. I'd rather just walk over to the other side of the deck and open the gate. But with all that crap between me and the rest of the yard, I can't see the dogs. I have to go all the way into the yard with them.

And if you don't think that's something to complain about, then you don't read my fibro blog.