St. Patrick's Day Conversation...

Normally, when we text, I'll screen-cap the shit out of our convo and share it. You'd think that'd be less work than typing it out, but it really isn't. Well, in this case, I'm going to type it out because the Disabled Guy's texts were full of misspellings and in between our discussion, we had a few random things and I just don't feel like editing out those random things. But, the conversation that follows is the actual conversation with his misspellings and text-speak corrected because even though it's great that he can text, his text-speak annoys the hell out of me. (actually, anybody's text speak annoys me).

This all started with him sending me a text, wishing me a Happy St. Patrick's Day. And if you know him, you know he doesn't even like the real holidays- like Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, family birthdays, our anniversary.

DG: "Have a good Saint Patrick Day."

Me: "I don't drink. Or have anything green to wear. DEAR GOD! I'M GONNA DIE IF I GO OUTSIDE!! Saint Pats celebrators are like zombies. "Green. GREEEEN!"..."

DG: "I don't have a green shirt either. Of course, I don't have brains either."

Me: "You have a green t-shirt. I can see it from here. And St Pat's people don't want your brains. THEY WANT YOUR GREENS!"

DG: "Well, I don't have it here. But you can wear it."

Me: "I wear 3XL, I can't wear it."

DG: "Ok."

Me: "We're gonna die! St Pats are coming to get us!"

DG: "Not me."

Me: "Oh, they'll find you. THEY ALWAYS FIND YOU!"

DG: "But I'm blessed."

Me: "No one is! SAINT Patrick's Day. We're all gonna die!"

DG: "You're so negative."

Me: "No, I'm just realistic about the green zombies."

DG: "Yes, you so are."

Me: "GREEN ZOMBIE!!" and I sent that with this picture (I Googled "green zombie" on my phone).

DG: "Good God. You are going to die!"

Me: "He's on his way there. I gave him directions to your parents' house. It'll take a few weeks, he bought a ticket on Greyhound."

DG: "Good to know."

Then he sent me a photo of himself, wearing a towel, and said: "Watch out. The one-eyed monster will get you."

Me: "Not here. I'm safer from that than you are from the zombie."

DG: "Ok, but it's out there."

Me: "Not any that are interested in me. Those don't exist anymore."

DG: "You keep thinking that way and then it's going to eat you up."

Me: "Are you talking about zombies or your dick?"

DG: "Both."

Me: "Well, your dick is too far away and the green zombie is on a Greyhound bus."

His reply to that was a photo of him wearing a "Bazinga!" T-shirt with green lettering on it. He said: "I'm saved!"

I sent him a photo of a closeup of my eye and said that I have green flecks in my eye. He then informed me that I might be saved.

And just as quickly as the story escalated, it ended.

Textually Speaking 2015

I'm sorry I haven't updated in quite a while. It isn't because we haven't had conversations. We have, but they're not always memorable or sometimes I just plain old forget them. The new pain meds for my fibro sort of scatter my brain cells into different realms and if I don't write something down, I'll forget it.

I have posted a few things in the Facebook Group. It's a public group, so you don't really even have to be a member of it to see the posts.

I've been meaning to post this conversation for a couple days, but I kept procrastinating myself out of it. Well, here it is- Textually Speaking 2015 edition. (he's yellow, I'm blue; in case you didn't know)

This is just as random as it seems. We were talking about something related to finances just about an hour and a half before this (as you can see in the time-stamp above his first text). So I was literally cooking dinner when he just texted that word to me. And this happened.

Piranha, it comes from below.

Today is that all-American holiday and USA network is using that as another excuse for all-day NCIS episodes. I had the TV on while I was blowdrying my hair and the Disabled Guy came into the room. There was a platoon of Marines running on the beach and chanting their cadence. I asked DG if he was having flashbacks (He wasn't a Marine, he was in the Army, but they all do the cadence thing when they're in boot camp). He said he wasn't... and then the half-decomposed corpse of the episode made its appearance.

I said: "Well, that's enough to make you break formation."

DG: "He's had better days."

Ducky (the medical examiner, for those of you under 40 who don't watch the show) was explaining the man's injuries and Dinozzo (one of the agents) said the "This was not a boating accident!" line from "JAWS" (even though Ducky's assessment was that a boat prop had sliced off the corpse's arm).

DG: "It was a Piranha. Left him out there to get all ate up."

Me: "In salt water? Piranhas?"

DG: "Yeah. Piranhas. I saw it... [long pause]... On TV."

Me: "Of course you did."

DG: "PIRANHA! It comes from below. [long pause] And it bites you!"

Me: "I don't think I saw the same thing on TV that you did."

DG: "TV doesn't lie!"

Me: "Oh, sure. That's a real corpse."

DG: "Of course it is."

Me: "I hope they paid the corpse well. Being an extra in a TV show is tough."

DG: "He's not an extra, he's a STAR!"

Me: "He didn't have any lines. He's an extra."

DG: "He had lines. You just couldn't hear him. [lowers voice to squeaky whisper] PIRANHAS DID IT!"

Textually Speaking, Photography version

For those who don't know, I'm a freelance photographer. And I don't mean that I'm a bored housewife who takes a photo of a lawnchair, throws a sepia filter on it and calls herself an artist and photographer. I'm totally legit in that I get paid to take photos. I've sold some art photos and I have a semi-regular gig doing product photos for a local clothing designer. Product photos are mostly technical and very little art. Now, originally, I'd get a call or email every few months and I'd take photos of three or four shoes. And a few times, I took photos of a few totally wonderful leather jackets. One thing- the shoes are hard to photograph because this designer uses amazing leather that is so soft and beautiful that it doesn't stand up on its own. And the jackets? Oh, my... if I could just wrap up in one forever, I'd be happy, they're that soft.

But I digress...

A couple weeks ago, the call came in for me to drive to Rockford and take photos of "some shoes". That turned out to be 11 products. Six photos per product. This is my usual set up, my makeshift "light box". A roll of "bright white" artist paper, a couple of lights and a table. When I was shooting just a few sandals of darker colors, it was fine. But this last shoot involved not just brown and black, but blue, gold, and several different white sandals.




With all the varying colors, the background changed shades from whitest-white to dark grey. So, I invested in a light tent (just like a "real" photographer would use!). This with three lights should work great...

One light on each side, one over the top, and you get a stark white background and very little Photoshopping is needed.




So, I still had a little bit of an issue with shadows on the bottom, which is no biggie, really... but I decided to see if I could get that floating white background without having to Photoshop (that's referred to as: "in camera"). I found a link that tells how to do it easily with what I've got already (the light tent is a plus) and a sheet of Plexiglas. Now, the person who wrote the blog kept referring to it as "Plexiglas" and "bendable Plexiglas". So, I was wondering if they were thinking of something else and just CALLING it Plexiglas (which is a brand name, like Kleenex and Xerox).

So, I texted the Disabled Guy with: "Is Plexiglas bendy?"

DG: "No. Why?"

Me: "Is there a clear plastic thing that's bendy? Slightly bendy, not fold-in-half bendy. "

DG: "No. What do u need it 4?" (look how good he is with the text speak!)

Me: "I found a way to get the background I need for the product pics & they kept calling it Plexiglass, but it's bendy."

DG: "It does bend."

Me: "You just told me Plexiglas doesn't bend."

DG: "No I didn't."

Me: [forwarded his text back to him with my original question]

DG: "Well, look at that. I guess I did."

Me: "So... can I get this at Home Depot or something?"

DG: "I thought you was asking if I had any. No, I don't. Yes, you can."

So, I need to make a run to Home Depot to get a piece of bendy Plexiglas because apparently, we don't have any at the house.

Precision drops...

Our oldest daughter is moving this week. Well, today, actually. (for those not keeping track, we have three kids- Kat, 23; Jason, 21; and Christine, 19). Kat is moving from where she's lived the last two or so years with her boyfriend, Tyler. They've moved to a town that's actually closer to home than they were before because of Tyler's job. (he's an EMT/firefighter/paramedic/MacGyver/chess prodigy/acrobat/juggler/fire-eater... some of his occupation may be fictionalized for fun). Kat is in college and had no problem transferring (within the University of Wisconsin schools, they have several of them. My other daughter is at a UW school in another town).

Anyway, Kat calls the Disabled Guy this morning and informs him that they didn't get a big enough U-Haul truck and could he please come over with his trailer and truck and help them out. Of course he can. She lived an hour and a half away. So, DG gets dressed and has to unload his trailer so he can then go help her. I was in our room, blowdrying my hair when he came in to tell me about it and change clothes.

Among the explanation of what he was going to do and me sending texts to the girls (because Christine was helping Kat move) about meeting DG at the highway exit so he wouldn't get lost in town, DG tells me he needs to find the lid to his coffee cup. He has a HUGE insulated cup. I mean huge. It holds half a pot of coffee. He's had it for more than ten years, there is no way we can even think about the lid much less find it. So, I logically suggest he needs to use one of the insulated travel mugs we have that are of normal size.

Me: "Just use the one Christine uses for tea."

DG: "It ain't big enough."

Me: "Yours is too big to fit in your truck."

DG: "I don't need it for my truck. I just want to take it outside with me."

Me: "Why do you need a lid for that? Just take it outside with you."

DG: "What about birds?"

Me: "What about them? They're not going to drink- oh, you think they'll poo in your coffee?"

DG: "Shuh-yeah. You don't?"

Me: "I doubt they can fire with that amount of accuracy to land inside a coffee cup, even one as big as yours."

DG: "I had it happen! They done flew right through my window, crapped on the seat and flew out the other side!"

That's allegedly what happened. When we were stationed in Kansas, we had an El Camino (I'm going to skip the discussion that we had where I told him to get a car with a back seat, because eventually we'd have kids, but he got an El Camino. Google it, Kids) and he left the windows open while he was home for lunch. He thinks a bird flew in through the window and out through the other. I think it was more of a gravity plus flight trajectory that resulted in the errant poo on the seat, but whatever...

Me: "You think they can just drop with precision?"

DG: "Don't you know? They're like those Japanese Zeros. They fly down- [he makes a hand gesture to indicate that it is a Japanese fighter jet] and zzcchoooooooom! They drop their load and fly away, laughing at us. It's what they do."

Me: "You think a bird can fly down, drop a load in your coffee cup and fly away?"

DG: "Don't you? Yeah, it could happen."

Me: "No, it couldn't. Unless it was an accident."

DG: "That's what they WANT you to think! But they're always thinkin'. Planning..."

Birds... you can't trust them with an open cup of coffee. Apparently.

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."

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.

ARE YOU VACCINATED!?

Against cooties, duh.

First, before I dive right into the conversation about cooties and "the shot", I want to apologize for going over a month without any kind of update. You see, DG has been just as verbose as usual, but he's been sharing it in short snippets. And if the conversation is only a few lines, I don't feel that it warrants an entire blog post. But, I share the short ones on the Facebook group wall. You see, back when I started that page, it was a "like" or "join now" thing. But FB has changed the way they do groups and you can't just simply "join", you have to request to join then be approved. But, the Official Conversations with the Disabled Guy Group is open and anyone can add anyone else. Even non-admins.

Now, onto the cooties conversation.

As you may know- or not know, I'm not sure how much I've shared- Shawn is visiting again. You might remember Shawn from such blog posts as AUS-SOME! (Yeah, I just said that) and Patty is a Double-NASCAR Widow Today. He's been taking it easy, watching A LOT of movies and TV that he doesn't watch at home because he has a job and let's face it, he's also a gamer. Shockingly enough, he hasn't joined the boy (that'd be the almost-20 year old who lives here and pretends to be my son, but I don't see how that's possible since I'm far too young to have a 20-year-old son or even a 22-year-old daughter who lives in another town with a live-in boyfriend or even that 18-year-old college freshman. What? I am. I swear).

Well, I don't know why, but Shawn decided to leave the TV on the channel showing a marathon of "NCIS". I had it on when I was alone in the room because if I turn off the TV (or radio, whatever electronic noise-maker happens to be on), the dogs can hear and then react loudly to every single outside noise. And by "react loudly", I mean they bark their fool heads off. And they'd have woken up Shawn, who was taking a nap. Hey, vacations are tough, man.

So, in this episode of "NCIS", some dude is talking to Mark Harmon's character while they're in the basement of his house. Harmon tells the guy that there's a bottle of bourbon on his workbench and proceeds to take the only available cup. "Hey, I drink out of my coffee cup, you go upstairs and get a glass... or drink out of the bottle."

DG said, quietly and calmly: "Oh, he's got the cooties now."

Me: "The cooties? Really?"

DG (again, quietly): "Yeah."

Me: "You don't think the bourbon in the bottle will kill any remaining cooties?"

DG: "No."

Me: "What do you think he needs to stave off the cooties?"

DG: "A shot."

This whole time, his voice is quiet and calm, as if he's giving a testimony in a boring court case.

Me: "A cootie shot. When's the last time you had a cootie shot? Were you what? Twelve?"

DG: "No. I was... six. Maybe I was seven. But I had one."

Me: "Well, you're long overdue for another. I don't think they last forever."

DG: "They might."

Me: "You have three kids, I think your cootie shot failed."

DG: "Accidents. All of them."

Me: "You had accidents with your cootie shot?"

DG: "Because of the cootie shot."

Me: "Really? So, what you're saying is that a cootie shot is essentially useless because you're still going to get cootied-up by a girl?"

DG: "Yeah."

A couple of episodes later, someone got touched by one of the female characters. Out of the blue, DG said- calmly and quietly- "Oh, he's got the cooties now."

So, ARE YOU VACCINATED? HAVE YOU HAD A COOTIE SHOT LATELY?

Don't you DARE say "Time-traveler" because that's not what it is!

I've said it before and I'm gonna say it again- I go to the renaissance faire. I dress up, I talk with a fake accent, I drink from a tankard (water and Gatorade because I don't drink alcohol; I'm the one who has to drive home). So does our 18 year old daughter. Except for the driving part, because she rides with me.

Last weekend was another excellent time at the faire. Saturday was "Day of Wrong" where you're "allowed" to wear anachronistic items with your period garb. I didn't exactly participate, because I'm old and fat and pretty much had no ideas on what I could do. I did wear my shiny red Doc Martens instead of the black Docs that I usually wear (I bought them specifically because they looked like ren faire shoes).

Ceej, on the other hand, looked fabulous, mixing modern clothing with ren faire garb and adding modern accessories (sunglasses and MP3 player). This is her before the gates opened (yes, we get there before opening and stay till closing. Stop laughing, you're a nerd too. Everyone is a nerd for something. DG is a nerd for NASCAR).



And Ceej with our lovely friend, Loki (we love him, he's so cool). He's a merchant at the faire, so he's not allowed to dress for the Day of Wrong.



And, Ceej after the last joust of the day-



Also on the Day of Wrong, we found this woman...



Now, I'm not saying Xena, Warrior Princess is "wrong". But you know, she's not exactly what you'd expect to see at a Renaissance Faire. And this is the story that followed when I showed DG this photo:

Jase: "What was Xena doing at a ren faire?"

Me: "I don't know. I guess she was there for the Day of Wrong or something." (there was brief discussion on whether or not Xena was from the renaissance time period or not).

DG: "Maybe she was one- those people- she was a person who traveled back into the future to come from the past."

Me: "You mean Xena's a time traveler?"

DG: "Not that. No. But she goes through time. From her time to another time."

Me: "A time traveler."

DG: "That's not it. She has a machine... and she can move through time..."

Me: "A time machine?"

DG: "Not that. But she goes through time-"

Me: "A time traveler with a time machine."

DG: "That's not what it is!"

Jase: "Dad, is she hoping that with each leap, it will be the leap home?"

DG: "Don't be ridiculous!"

Me: "So, she's a time traveler with a time machine?"

DG: "No! Its wizard-y. A wizard did it. He put a CURSE ON HER!" (and he widened his eyes as far as he could). "SHE'S CURSED!"

Me: "Let me get this straight... Xena is a person who travels from one time period to another, but she's not a time traveler and she does so in a machine that was cursed upon her by a wizard?"

DG: "He's a wizard like Merlin, except he's way worse."

Me: "How is he 'way worse' than Merlin?"

DG: "Merlin was just awful! So anyone worse than him would be more awfuler."

Awfuler?

Me: "Okay, there we have it, Xena is a time traveler in a time machine given to her by a horribly untalented wizard. Anything else?"

DG: *thinking for a moment* "Nope. That's it."

And he walked away.

And, because this is my favorite photo from this weekend, I'm sharing it here even though it has nothing to do with the story.



(the caption from the photo on Flickr):

Oh, that's right. He loves me. Okay, maybe "love" is too strong a word. He enjoys vexing me. I told him, after the Joust to the Death, that I got a great shot of his killing of Sir Gregory. A few moments later, he was signing a pennant for a kid and I called out: "Sir Amadeo!" he replied and I said, "Will you be in my 365-days-self-portrait-project photo with me?" And he said, "Absolutely."

He came over, I said, "Self-portrait, I have to be in the photo and I have to take the photo" (it isn't a hard concept, obviously). So, we stepped up and this is what he did. He actually licked my sweaty cheek.

I said, "I have jouster's spit on me!"

He said, "I can do more than that!" and embraced me long enough to rub his sweaty, dirty cheek all over my cheek.

And he got blood on the boobshelf.

So, today, along with buckets of rain (which was fun and awesome, seriously), I got Sir Amadeo's spit, sweat, tilt yard dirt, AND his death blood (he's recovered nicely).

I have one person left- Sir Gregory, who keeps avoiding the 365-days photo. After this, I showed Gregory his death photo and then he and Amadeo got into an extremely hilarious and childish kicking match- seriously, kicking at each other's armored shins. Amadeo declared: "the next time we joust, it will be FOR REAL!". I had to threaten to separate them.

I love these guys so much.

You just never know what will set off a little story. Oh, speaking of stories- Ceej and I have told the story of the Rats with Little Nike shoes at the faire. In our ren faire voices. Its hilarious.

The Disabled Guy is going to have a conversation with the mouse...

Spoiler alert- he never did catch the damn thing. But, here's the almost-nine-minute long video of the discussion about the mouse. There are special appearances by Ceej, several of the dogs, including Gregg the girl dog with a boy name.

Enjoy the weirdness that is our family.

Apparently, I'm a nerd and DG is wearing underwear

It's no secret. I go to the renaissance faire. I even dress up. So does my 18 year old daughter. We both have season passes. Most of you reading this already know that fact. Some might not believe it. So, here's some photographic evidence from an awesome photographer named Tom George Davison. That's his work. You should go see it.







Quite obviously, that's me on the left and our daughter on the right. Well, today is Saturday and I'm not at faire. Sadly, I'm missing today. Ceej, the daughter, is at her college right now for "preview days". She's double-checking some things, meeting her roommate (who she has been talking to for a couple weeks now) and other college kid stuff. I could go without her- and I have- but I also had to drive her to her college on Wednesday. It happens to be about the same distance away as the faire (90 minutes, give or take) and with gas prices the way they are, I can only make that trip twice.

Oh, that's something- she would have driven herself, except last week, some golfer sliced a ball and smashed her windshield. Sadly, we only have liability on that car and we can't get it fixed right now. (Hopefully we can next week). Public golf courses are not liable for damage caused by the golfers. We would have to take it up with the golfer himself, but we have no idea who that was. A new windshield will cost us about $275, installed. That's cheaper than I thought it would be. We're hoping that when the house refinancing goes through, we'll have some extra cash leftover to get the windshield fixed. (the refinancing is a whole other issue that is more rant than entertaining).

So, I'm stuck here while she's off at her college and my friends are enjoying the faire without me. My older daughter (who lives in the same town where Ceej will be in college) is with her now and sent me a text. "Her roommate and her family are nice. Her mom really likes to talk. lol". I read that to the Disabled Guy. He gave me a knowing, slightly mocking look.

He said: "Oh. Wow. Yeah. Nerd."

Me: "What?"

DG: "You're a nerd. NERD!"

Me: "What does that have to do with her roommate's mom?"

DG: "Because you're a nerd and you like to talk to people. NERD!"

Me: "How does me talking have anything to do with being a nerd?"

DG: "You're a nerd and you talk to anyone."

Me: "Nerds are usually antisocial."

DG: "NERD!"

I know he was trying to make the connection between my going to the ren faire (where I've been known to talk myself hoarse) and my enjoyment of talking to strangers. Which I do. A lot. I had a conversation the other day at the grocery store with a woman from Tennessee who said she didn't know about the ren faire.

He kept calling me a nerd. Loudly.

Then he said, "I think I'm going to wear underwear today."

Me: "And that means what to me?"

He stood there, at the edge of the bed (I was getting ready to blow-dry my hair) and said, "I'm rounding them up. Puttin' them in a corral. Where they'll be safe. SAFE!" (he used the same loud voice for "safe" as he did for "nerd").

Me: "Putting what in the corral? What the hell are you talking about?"

He turned toward me and said, "Take a look... they're going away. Oooh-doo-doo-dooo-dooodle!" He did what I refer to as "the doodle dance" and said, "One last time! They're going AH-WAAAY-HAAAAY!"

He finally pulled up his underwear (green boxer briefs, just so you know) and declared: "My ass is HUGE!"

Me: "You weighed yourself last night and said you lost 20 pounds." (he did, actually).

DG: "It came back. It was jealous. Green with ENVY! Like my drawers! GREEN!"

I shook my head and asked: "What the hell are you going on about now?"

DG: "You're a nerd!"

Me: "You're telling me that you're going to 'put them in the corral' and 'them' means your junk and 'corral' means underwear. And I'm the nerd?"

DG: "NERD!"

So there you go. I'm a nerd, he's wearing green boxer briefs and our daughter's college roommate's mother likes to talk. Also, I'm missing today at the faire. I'm not really all that happy about that. The faire thing, the rest of it is cool with me.

Wrong words, Extra words, Words!

The whole point to the "Conversations" thing is that I'm sharing the humor with you. Sometimes, DG's disability makes him say the goofiest shit. Sometimes he's so funny, we drag it out by asking followup questions ("Rats with little Nike shoes") and sometimes, he just randomly inserts words that make no sense to the situation. That's all part of his disability. And, I only post the conversations and videos that he approves of. I would never make fun of him unless he was in on the joke.

Sometimes his disability makes him say the absolute wrong words- like the time the kids were running around and making noise (they were much younger). He was trying to get them to sit down and watch a movie. So, instead of coming out as a stern: "Sit down and be quiet!", in the same stern-father voice, he declared there was a steering wheel in the coffee table. We didn't have a coffee table at the time.

And sometimes, the disability makes him say extra words that eventually get to the point, when anyone else would have simply gotten to the point. ("You know that guy...")

Years ago, I had a Rottweiler puppy. He was the greatest dog in the world. I read several Rottie books before I brought him home, because I never owned a dog like that before. His name was Kodiak. I still miss him. I shouldn't have worried about training him. That dog was so brilliantly smart that he balanced my checkbook when he was just four months old. (that might not be a true story). So, I trained him with simple, one-word commands. "Sit", "stay", "down", "up"... easy.

Then came the time to train the disabled guy. Sit became: "Sit down". Stay became: "Stay there". "Lay down", "get up"... Luckily, the dog was killer smart and figured it out pretty quickly. But, even with simple one-word commands, the disabled guy's brain just added on extra words.

Today, he's outside fixing a bird feeder. Its a round one, with a plastic tube and a rounded wood-shingled topper on it. Well, it has seen better days. The bottom was almost completely rotted off. So he cut up some scrap wood and made a new round bottom for it. Except now he can't get the top to thread the cable back through. He asked me for help. While were standing there, trying to cram that cable back through the opening that was now half-blocked with rotting wood from the rounded topper, I asked why couldn't he just make a new topper that wasn't all rotted.

With what, he wondered. I threw around suggestions- how about that broken plastic plant pot? Take that bottom thing off, run that cable through, bam, done! No? Then how about you make a roof like on that other birdhouse, run the cable through, bam, done! That other bird feeder is rectangle-shaped and has a straight peaked roof. Can't do it, he says. Its round, that's rectangle. So, I said, you made this (the round bottom), make another one, drill two holes in it for the cable to feed through into the bird feeder frame below and bam, done!

DG: "Huh... that might actually work."

Me: "I know. Tell me I'm smart."

DG: "You're smart."

Me: "Tell me I'm inventive."

DG: "You're so inventive."

Me: "Tell me I'm pretty."

DG: "You're pretty enough." and there was a split second where he paused and then burst out laughing.

Me: "You couldn't say that again if you tried."

DG: "No, I can't!"

At least I didn't have to traipse through a maze of words to figure out what he was saying.

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.

Broken toe...

It seems that the Disabled Guy broke his big toe.

Yesterday (Tuesday for all you later readers), he went to Home Depot to get the wood he'll need to rebuild the deck. And he was gone for over six hours- no exaggeration. Now, it's about a half our to forty-five minute drive to Home Depot (depending on traffic), so if we say it took an hour for the driving, we still have five hours of time AT the Home Depot.

He got home around seven and he was limping. I asked what happened- he's got some just plain old "I'm getting older" arthritis in his knees but won't admit it, so I figured he just overdid it. He said he dropped a piece of Plexiglas on his foot. I asked why he bought a piece of Plexiglas but he didn't- his dad gave it to him last October for some reason. We don't know why. His parents do that a lot, just give him junk they don't want or have no use for anymore.

After he ate dinner (chicken casserole, he had thirds), he took off his shoe and showed me his foot. His big toe is swollen and has a blue-green bruise under the nail. I said he probably broke his toe. He denies it. We had this conversation that I posted on the Facebook page- about the Home Depot employees and why he didn't ask for help.

I asked: "Why didn't you ask for help? That's their JOB!"

He said: "They offered, I said no." I told him he was crazy and normal people would have taken the help. He replied (slightly jokingly): "I didn't want to seem needy."

Yeah, needy. By having employees do what they're paid to do.

So this morning, he's limping bad. Real bad. I told him if it swells more or gets worse, we'll go in to the ER. A trip to his ER involves a sixty-mile one-way drive. And all they'll really do is X-ray it, tell him to stay off it, and give him Ibuprofen. (can you tell I've broken my toe before?).

He says his toe is not broken. But he's in pain. He won't take anything for it, because *wince, groan* It isn't broken.

I said: "You don't know that."

DG: "Yes, I do, it's my toe!"

Me: "True, but I know what a broken toe feels like and you're walking and acting like you have a broken toe."

DG: "I am not!" (cue limping and wincing)

Me: "That's the broken toe walk."

DG: "I'm not dancing."

Me: "I said walk."

DG: "I didn't go on my walk."

I did a real life "facepalm" then. Sometimes, talking to him is a real life "Who's on first" conversation.

He keeps insisting that his toe is not broken. I keep asking how would he know. "You don't have X-ray vision."

DG: "You don't know that! Maybe I do!"

Me: "Except that you don't."

DG: "Yeah..."

When I say it's broken, he replies that it's just "really badly bruised."

Me: "So bruised that you broke it."

DG: "I DID NOT! It was the Plexiglas."

Me: "So you admit you broke your toe."

DG: "NO! Wait, did I? I didn't mean to! I was tricked! THERE'S TRICKERY AFOOT!"

Me: "Yeah, trickery broke the toe on your foot."

DG: "That's not funny!"

Me: "Yes, it is. You broke your funny toe."

DG: "My toe is not funny!"

I told Jase: "Ask your dad about his broken toe."

Jase: "What about your broken-ass toe?"

DG: "I didn't break it."

Ceej: "But he's limping around on it and making pain-faces."

DG: "My face don't hurt!"

So, Who's on first, what's on second and I don't know is on third.

Just now-

Me: "Why don't you think you broke your toe?"

DG: "The toe didn't swell."

Me: "But it is swollen."

DG: "The toe didn't turn black."

Me: "It doesn't have to turn black!"

DG: "It's just really bruised. There's blood up under the toe, that's why it's all black there."

Me: "You broke your toe."

DG: "I didn't break my got-damned toe! I can move it!"

Me: "You can move a broken toe. It just hurts like a sonavbitch."

DG: "Well, it hurts. But I didn't break it."