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.

The Pardoning of Mittens the Rat

First of all, DG changed the rat's name from "Cibo" to Mittens. And here is why...

This morning, he was playing with the rat and talking to it and all and I made a comment about how it would be difficult to find Nike shoes small enough for a rat's feet. They have tiny feet.

DG informed me: "They only wear shoes on their back feet."

Me: "What do they wear on their front feet?"

Without any sarcasm or humor, he said: "Well, mittens, of course."

So there you go. And now you know where the name "Mittens" came from.

During that conversation, he revealed that he gave the rat a pardon. The poor rat has been pardoned from a death sentence of Consumption by Snake. And in telling us about "The Pardon", he made a hand gesture. You may remember, a while ago, he also told us about The Shun. And the hand gesture that goes with "The Pardon" is palm up, hand open, and a downward motion from the elbow- sort of like you've said: "Ta-dah!"

Mittens the Rat has gotten The Pardon from the Disabled Guy.

Ta-dah!

Aww, rats! Er, I mean, Rat!

Our son has a pet snake. A really big pet snake. He named him "Raizo" and he's a ball python. I wasn't too thrilled about him getting a snake. He's had many different kinds of lizards, so it isn't like he doesn't know what he's doing. He stays in his cage- the snake, that is- and he hasn't eaten any family members yet, so its all good for now.

For some reason, the snake hasn't been eating lately. It eats live rats. I feel bad about that- and I know, circle of life and all- but till now, the live items being eaten by critters in this house have been crickets and pinkie mice (which are newborn mice viciously taken from their mothers to be used as food! What the hell!). But, Raizo the python eats rats. Live, sentient, furry, and somewhat cute rats. I asked Jase how a feeder rat differs from a pet rat and turns out, that's just luck of the draw for the rat. Lucky rat goes in the display cage for someone to buy as a pet, not-so-lucky rat wishes he had little Nike shoes so he could escape.

When Raizo doesn't eat the rat, Jase puts it into the old gerbil cage in the girls' room. They both live away from home now- Ceej in the dorm at college and Kat has an apartment with her boyfriend- so having a random rat for a day or two isn't such a hassle. Except we've had this rat now for almost two months. Jase has offered it up to Raizo once a week for several weeks. What a hellish existence that must be, don't you think?

DG has been going into the room and talking to the rat and making sure it has food and water. The other day, he decided to clean the cage and in the process of getting the right bedding (Aspen, not cedar), he decided to put it in a bigger cage so it would have more room. It went from a smallish, ten-gallon-sized cage to a twenty-gallon-long with a mesh top and lots of room. There are toys in there for it to play with and the water bottle is now "properly" hung on the side. It took him hours to get this whole thing set up for the rat. He talked to it almost the whole time. He pets it. He hands it treats and it takes them from him. Its a very friendly rat.

So it looks like we have a pet rat now. (Jase has had pet rats before) I asked DG what he was going to name it and he said he couldn't name it or he'd get attached to it. I told him: "You're already attached to it! You just spent more time setting up its home than you ever did getting your cats ready for anything!"

We named it "Cibo" (chee-boh). According to Google Translate, Cibo is Italian for "Food". Cibo's cage has been moved to a part of the house where it will get to interact with humans more often. And I can hear DG when he goes upstairs and walks past the cage. He talks to the rat.

This morning, I said, "Did you notice how small the rat's feet are? Where in the world can it find little Nike shoes that small?"

DG looked at me with squinted eyes. "What?"

I said, "Duh? Rats with the Little Nike Shoes? You know the story."

DG: "Ohhh, yeah. You should go tell the rat that story."

Me: "Shouldn't the rat already know it? Its a rat."

DG: "Yeah, but they still like to hear the story!"

Here is a terrible mobile phone photo of Cibo.

And, because I mentioned him, here is a photo of Raizo.

We've covered this before- The Brain Damage

Part of a stroke is the brain damage- I mean, that's what a stroke is, basically. In DG's case, a blood clot got through the filtering systems of the body (the lungs, the heart) and made its way to his brain and killed many, many brain cells. This, of course, rendered him disabled and if we fast-forward, here we are, on this blog, talking about the Disabled Guy.

Edited to add: This sounds awful, as if I'm being mean to him. But, we were laughing through the whole thing. And the expressions he was making were not one of anguish or anger. He was laughing with me and our son. Like I've said before, if the Disabled Guy isn't laughing, he doesn't realize it and I don't share it. I only share what he's aware of and he knows what I say before I post it.

I'm not even sure, now, how we got on the topic of disability again. I mean, obviously, the topic is always right here- in the room, wherever DG is, but this particular day, I don't recall what led us to discussing the speech and communication disorders DG has and that led him to say: "I'm not disassem- dissss-asssembl- disabsembled. I'm not neither!"

Me: "You're not disabled?"

DG: "No. I'm not."

Me: "Clap."

DG, eyes narrowed: "I don't want to."

Me: "Then say- Rubber baby buggy bumpers."

DG: "What?!"

Me: "Rubber baby buggy bumpers." *no response* "Tikki Tikki Tembo No Sa Rembo Chari Bari Ruchi Pip Peri Pembo."

DG: "What the hell are you saying?"

Me: "Tongue-twisters. Except for the second one, that's a name in a book I read as a kid."

DG: "I can say that, I just choose not to."

Me: "I slit a sheet, a sheet I slit, upon a slitted sheet I sit."

DG: "I.... I sheet- No, I didn't. I what now?"

I repeated it. Slower. I also repeated "rubber baby buggy bumpers", slower. And DG stumbled along, trying to say them. I gotta give him credit, he tried. And then, he asked me to say it again. So I did. Along with "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious."

Jase looked at me and said, "I can't even say that!"

I repeated them again, in rapid succession. DG looked at me, his eyes narrowed, his mouth opened slightly, like he was going to repeat them and he said in a hushed tone: "Shut up."

Another edit- here's the video I did of myself saying the tongue-twisters after a comment on the Facebook group. Enjoy!