Textualization

All my friends know that I do a 365 self-portrait project. The kids taking notes for the test later will know that I'm about a month into my fourth year (and haven't missed a day yet).

DG doesn't care about my 365. It has become just something I do. He doesn't even acknowledge me when I say: "I gotta do my 365" and then disappear from the room for about a half hour while I take random photos of myself till I get one I like or fits with a theme. He has been in a few, very reluctantly.

Day 65 of Year One

Day 216 of Year Two

Day 238 of Year Three

There are a few others that have him in the background or just his hand in the shot. But the amount of cajoling and nagging it took to get him into those photos was ridiculous. Even now, I say to him: "I need you for my 365- JUST YOUR HAND..." because if I don't say it fast enough, he will whine. Literally whine out: "Oh, man! Why!?"

I've been doing some creative self-portraits in the last few months (Link to Facebook album of the Creative Self-portraits). Some requiring Photoshop special effects. But even when I say: "Hey, look at my 365...", he almost always glances and says, "Okay." and that's that. No feedback, no compliments. I don't talk about the negative stuff related to his disability much, because that's not what this blog is about. But most of the time, we're more like roommates. There's a line between "spouse" and "nurse" that I've had to cross more often than I'd like and there's pretty much no romance. Definitely no passion. Day-to-day, he acts mostly like I'm a piece of furniture till he needs me to do something for him.

Last night, I got a text out of the blue.

"Why don't you wear lipstick? That 365 was hot."

I wasn't sure it was him. He doesn't compliment my photography and he damn sure hasn't called me "hot" in years. So, I told him that lipstick tastes terrible and is messy. And the particular lipstick I wear in my creative 365s is black-red, so it even stains things (all things, actually). It isn't something I'd wear every day even if I did wear lipstick.

We proceeded to have a conversation through text about my 365s, the Photoshop techniques I use to get the color-select effect, "sexy" poses for my 365, and makeup. I had to explain the 365 rules to him because he didn't get the whole "rejected" shot thing. The rules are simple, take a photo of yourself, once a day, every day, for a year. You can only submit one photo a day. But once in a while, my "reject" shots are just as cool or I just like them, so I keep them. I'll use them on Facebook or upload them to Flickr for a different group.

I really don't know why I didn't give up on him when it came to my 365. I don't get feedback around the house. Just online. But in the past year, I've been saying: "Come here and look at this photo" because I've impressed myself and want to share it. Not just 365 photos, but all photos. He begrudgingly gets up and comes to look at the monitor. He'd mutter an "okay" and a few times, he's said "whatever" when I told him how I got the shot or what I did to it in Photoshop.

But last week, I sent him a text and asked if he'd like to see my 365. He said sure. He replied with: "Cool."

And then that random text last night.

"Why don't you wear lipstick. That 365 was hot."

The end of our text conversation last night:

DG: "What's a sexy pose you can do for a 365?"

Me: "I dunno. Anything, really. The one you liked was an accident."

DG: "You should do that. I bet people like that."

Me: "I'm sure some do." There was a long break, so I said: "Did you just ask me to do a sexy 365 for tomorrow?"

DG: "Did I? Okay. I did."

I don't know what the hell is going on, but I'm gonna do 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."

"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.

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!

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?

You'll have to forgive me while I get serious a little.

One of my friends on Facebook- and I count this person as a real friend because we've met in real life then "friended" on Facebook- posted this video of Jill Bolte Taylor. The summary of the video is this: "Jill Bolte Taylor got a research opportunity few brain scientists would wish for: She had a massive stroke, and watched as her brain functions -- motion, speech, self-awareness -- shut down one by one. An astonishing story."

Its about 19ish minutes long, but it is well worth watching. I ended up crying more than once- because I was pissed off at her for making it sound so wonderful and because some of what she said is so true, even for Jerry now. Yes, yes, I know I usually call him the Disabled Guy, but up till that day in 1995, he was Jerry and that's what I'm going to call him right now.

Jerry didn't have any kind of enlightenment or any kind of amazing recovery. He doesn't remember our kids' births. He only knows we're married because he's seen the photos but doesn't remember our wedding, and has very little memory from the few months leading up to the stroke itself and doesn't even remember the two weeks he spent in the ICU in the hospital in Maryland (we lived in Georgia, after the Army, he became an over-the-road trucker).

The only reason I know what happened to him when he had the stroke was because I had to go to the company where he was when he had it to unload his personal belongings from his semi-truck. The guy who was with him told me that they were unloading the trailer together, talking about normal, every day stuff when Jerry staggered, dropped the box he was holding and started to fall. And this guy- who had just met him an hour or two before- caught him and kept him from hitting the metal floor of the trailer. They thought he was maybe diabetic or even a drug addict, they didn't know. And I got a call from the trucking company that no wife ever wants to get. (believe me, when I met that man and spoke with him, I thanked him. By catching him, he saved Jerry from further and serious injury).

I made the trip from Savannah, Georgia to a suburb of DC called Laurel, Maryland in two hours less time than the trucking company told me it would take. When we got there, he was in and out of consciousness, unable to talk, unable to express himself, and he looked absolutely shocked every time I walked into the room.

He has no memory of any of this. He doesn’t remember unloading that truck, he doesn’t remember collapsing or even having that big guy with the weight belt catch him. He doesn’t remember the doctors asking him questions that he obviously could not answer. All he knew was that they needed to call me and I needed to be there. Except he didn’t know he was nine hours away from where we lived at the time and he didn’t know that they HAD called me or that I’d stopped twice along the way to call them and get an update (this was in the day before everyone had a cell phone).

I’ve already shared with you the very first conversation we had. And I always try to keep this blog light and funny, because some of the stuff he does say is quite funny. But there was nothing he could do about what happened to him. And there’s nothing he can tell me about what happened to him. All we know is that he had a plain, old-fashioned stroke that should have killed him. But it didn’t. He didn’t have any sense of euphoria. All he can remember from that time is fear. And during his recovery, all he can remember is frustration. In that video, Jill Bolte Taylor talks about all the noise and not being able to pick one voice out of all of it. That’s how it still is for him. Too much noise, too many people, and he cannot discern one from another. So, mostly he doesn’t listen. And that's why he'll never go to a ren faire with me and meet my friends. That's why he never went to a parent/teacher conference for the entire time our kids were in school. Too much activity and noise frustrates him and he doesn't enjoy it. He doesn't outwardly show his dislike, he saves it up and then acts out at home like a spoiled child.

He isn’t ever going to recover. This is it. He’s paralyzed on his right side and he’s got speech and communication problems that will never go away. The blood clot wasn’t just pressing on his brain; it destroyed that part of it. He had to re-learn how to walk and talk and feed and dress himself.

Interestingly, Jill Bolte Taylor says it took her about eight years to recover fully. I think it took eight years for him to figure out he could still work with wood. I don’t remember exactly when he started building things again, but I do remember that I was both relieved and tense. Relieved that he found something to do that would occupy him, but tense in that he was working with power tools and is on blood thinners.

And as you all know, he can do amazing things with wood. Linky-link to photos. And another, and there's the deck he built.

Just now, while I was getting the links for his woodworking photos, he just got all goofy about the theatrical trailer for "Star Trek IV, the Voyage Home" (you know, the one with the whales). "Oh, that's AWESOME! I can't wait till it comes out in theaters! Whew!" and then he laughed so hard he had to sit down. Now he's walking around in the kitchen, "I can't believe it. That movie is gonna be so awesome! Just awesome, man!" and then giggling. He walked by me just now with a bag of fun-size candy bars. "I'm gonna go watch 'Star Trek' and go through some Milky Ways!"

I told him he's not allowed to talk to me anymore today. Then he giggled again.

So yeah, I don't think I'll have him watch the video today. He's in a good mood right now and I don't need to dredge up those feelings of frustrations he gets when he's reminded of what he's lost. Instead, I'll let him sit in the living room, covered in Chis (say it out loud), and watch his nerd movies while eating candy.

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.

Doodle Dance, without the Dance, special guest appearance- Bruno

There was talk in the Facebook group about the Disabled Guy and his "Doodle Dance". He said he'd do it, got up, did it, but stopped when I picked up the camera. I posted this in the Facebook group, but I know some of you aren't in that group.

What follows is the discussion. Please ignore the loud TV in the background, I have no clue why it is so loud.

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 Deck is finished and a pre-blog story about construction and the Disabled Guy

So, the deck is done.

But first... the pre-blog story...

When we first moved into this house, it had a three-season porch on the back of the house. It was added on to the house decades after it was built. There was a door at the end and one would have to walk all the way into the porch to get into the house through the kitchen. Because of the whackadoo who built this place, there was no room for our fridge in the kitchen. And since the disabled guy lives here, we put our laundry appliances on this enclosed porch instead of down the narrow and harrowing basement steps.

Eventually, somewhere between the shelves and clothes dresser he built, DG decided to cover all but two of the windows (the walls were all windows) and put a wall up in that porch. He'd have to turn a window on the house into a doorway, but that was his plan.

If you've followed this whole deckscapade (see what I did there?), you know that DG uses vise grips and other clamp-like things to hold stuff in place. Well, back then, he didn't have as many of those things as he has now (which is dozens). So, he used to hammer a scrap piece of wood and use that for his bracing/holder/whatnot and then he'd just fix the hole it left after he was done. No problem.

A quick bit of background about me- for those who don't know... I have pain issues (I bitch about them liberally on my fibro blog). Back in those days, my pain problems were limited to Carpal Tunnel syndrome and I would randomly lose the strength in my hand grip. When I worked nights as a security guard (aka: uniformed receptionist that walked a pre-determined route twice a night), I was in charge of a rather large switchboard. During the day, the office lady wore a headset because she fielded thousands of calls. We didn't get that many, so our switchboard had the handset. But, being that it was a switchboard, we didn't have to literally hang it up. We had to hit the "disconnect" button and we could set the handset down on the desk. Well, my carpal tunnel problems- I was known to be in mid-disconnect and I'd lose my grip on the handset and it would scuttle across the desk and off the end. All because of my hands.

So, DG gets all up on this little stepladder to try and drill a block of wood in place. But he can't do it. He gets me to come out there and hands me the drill. He tells me to use the drill to drive this long screw into the block of wood and into the wall behind it. He'd hold the block of wood in place for me.

I held the drill in both hands, poised over the Phillips-head screw. I said, "Do you really think this is a good idea?"

He replied something like: "It has to be done, might as well be you."

I actually did put the drillbit into the screw, but I stopped before pulling the trigger. No, I said. I wasn't comfortable doing it. What if I lost my grip on the heavy drill and dropped it, breaking it? Or what if the drill started spinning and I lost control of it and it slipped off and hit the disabled guy's hand? He's on blood thinners. If you've ever tried to stop someone from bleeding while they're on blood thinners, you'd know that's not all fun and games. Even if it isn't serious. And I told him so. "You take the drill and I'll hold the block of wood." He said fine and we switched places.

Now, another factoid about me- I'm short. I'm actually perfectly average for a woman (five foot, four and a half inches). DG is around five-ten. And he was standing on a stepladder. I'm standing on my tiptoes, arm stretched as far as it can go and I'm holding onto the block of wood. I can't look up because I'm pressed against the wall (between the stepladder and the wall, actually). DG is behind me, getting ready to drill the long screw into the block of wood.

"Hey," I recall saying, "Don't drill into my fingers. I can't see what you're doing to move out of the way."

He replied, "I won't." And we both chuckled.

The drill fired up. I could feel the block of wood vibrating with the impact. Now, this all happened fairly simultaneously.

DG said: "Oh shit!"

The wood made a strange sound (of the drill smacking into it and skipping off it).

And I felt a searing pain in my index finger.

Then I let out a shriek.

That's right. The disabled guy jammed a Phillips head drillbit, which was spinning under the force of a power drill, into the tip of my index finger. I had a flat wart on my finger too, right on the smushy pad- when they fingerprinted me for the security guard job, it looked like a smudged snowflake.

Blood gushed from my finger and I let out the appropriate amount of swear words and I did that automatic "hand shake" one does when they hurt their finger. Blood arced up against the wall and onto the ceiling. I was swearing, crying and laughing. DG was apologizing and laughing.

And we discovered a new and rather effective way to remove simple warts.

Why did I bore you with all this?

Because today, he finished the deck. And it is glorious. He's just got to put fencing along the bottom so our over-excited Chihuahuas don't run right off the edge. I know, that was a tad redundant- "over-excited" and "Chihuahuas".

I was outside with the dogs and didn't take my camera, so there are mobile phone photos of the completed deck. If you're in the Facebook group, you've seen these photos.







Then, it poured down rain for about an hour. The sun came out and he went outside to put one of the porch swings together. He said he'd need my help, but I had just gotten home from the store. About a half hour later, he came in to tell me he was ready. When I got outside, the entire A-frame was already put together. It turns out that he can use those clamps and such to hold the frame up while he was able to put everything together. So, all I had to do was help him move it to where we wanted it and then put the bench on the frame.

He of the gimpy leg, me of the "wide-spread pain"- we lifted the frame and shuffled along a few feet to put into place. Then we took the bench and lifted it up. That's right, him with one arm, me with my "grip losing" hands lifted up the solid wood bench. Now, if you've seen his photos or the videos, you know his arm is fairly muscular and strong. There isn't much he can't do, even with only one arm.

I was holding the bench with one hand and I lifted it up so I could slip the chain-link over the hook thingy (it isn't a hook, I don't know what its real name is). Just as I got the link up, DG lost his grip on his chain. He didn't drop it, but it slipped. I didn't drop my end either, because I'd just gotten the link up over the hook thingy, but it did drop a bit. My left hand was suddenly and searingly painfully twisted into the chain. (it splits into a Y). I let out a string of swear words and lifted up the bench. I got my hand loose, still swearing, and shook it (no blood!). Then I quickly lifted the chain up over the hook thingy for DG so he could let go of his end.

I immediately iced my hand. Currently, there are three odd-shaped bruises forming. The part that caught the chain-tangle is that smushy, fleshy bit in between the thumb and index finger. You know, right where the utensil sits when you eat. Or the spine of a book while you read. Or the key chain when you pick up your car keys. And in my case, where the mouse for my computer rests against my hand when I'm mousing on the computer.

If the bruises darken to a lovely shade of black and/or blue, I'll take photos.

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.

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.

Rebuilding the deck and such...

Years ago... years and years... I'd say, 2003? I'm not sure exactly, but it was before Shawn came to visit in 2004... but back then, DG built the deck on the back of the house. A few years later (after 2006- I know this because I have photos), he added an extension to the deck because "the swing was tearing up" the grass. It wasn't the swing, it was the kids' feet, but back to the moment at hand.

I must warn you now. I'm going to show some photos. In a few of these photos, DG is shirtless. Please, contain yourselves.

Here are some photos of DG building the deck. These were mostly taken with a webcam, because that's all I had back then. So it HAD to be around 2003.







And here, he's almost done.



The finished deck.



And, after a few years, he built the swing. And that's when he had to put the extension onto the deck. I asked him why he didn't just make the second part of the deck the same height and he can't answer me. Seriously, I just asked him. He said, "I dunno... the deck with the two levels... *mumble-mumble*... kinda cool... I wasn't thinking..." and he trailed off (see, NASCAR is on, he's distracted).

Some of these were done with a better-than-webcam camera, because by then, one of my online friends had given me a Polaroid digital camera.











So, you see the deck and how he built it all by himself. It's a damn fine deck too. Great place for photo set-ups and we don't use it nearly enough. Well, it's old now. Almost ten years old. And he never treated it with anything, so he's just going to rebuild the whole thing. And he decided he would build the whole deck, all one height. So I had some questions.

Obviously, I wanted to know why he was going to leave the steps in the same spot.

He said because he didn't want to build a new brick walkway, and he'd have to move a bunch of shrubbery.

Very well then.

If you look at the photo of the deck, you can see how only a small corner matches up to a small corner of the other part of the deck. Why not just extend the upper deck a little and make the whole thing one big deck at that end?

He said because he'd have to dig up six or seven shrubs and "find new places" for them. He doesn't want to do this. He just now tried to tell me he'd have to get more shrubs. Or he'd need less and would have leftover shrubs. So, I used an Australian Cadbury bar to represent the deck against the house and a greeting card to represent the extended part and explained it to him. But for you, I'll show you in MS Paint. The black part represents the deck (for the most part, I didn't add the part that goes around the corner to our door). The green part- those are the shrubs... the number is approximate. The red square indicates what I think he should do for the deck, moving those shrubs to the outer edge of it.



So, I asked him- why not do this? I showed him several times, using my props and explaining how it would just be all one open deck at the end instead of a whole separate room-like thing. And he can keep the steps where they are (his original plan).

He said, "But it won't work." And I showed him again. "I'd need more shrubs!" then it was, "I'd have extra shrubs."

So I said, "You don't want to do it that way because it'd be more work?"

DG: "Yes! NO! Stop it!"

Me: "Stop what?"

DG: "Making sense. We'll have to talk about it later!" and he was quiet for a moment. "Stop trying to fuse me with logic."

Me: "Fuse you?"

DG: "Yeah. Stop trying to infuse your logic on me! It won't work!"

But it looks like when he rebuilds the deck, he's going to extend it about five feet and join the two levels into one deck. Now, the reason he's not just going to make one giant deck, in one huge rectangle is- we have that shrubbery, but also, some flowers. AND, he parks his truck at an angle there. A full rectangle in that size would make us lose one of our parking spaces.

Speaking of parking spaces, before this discussion of the extension and such, I asked him why he didn't put the steps by the door, actually by the door. They're sort of off-center. His excuse was because of how we park our vehicles now. We have a single-wide driveway and six years ago, we put gravel up to the house so we could park there too. His excuse for the steps was because of this. I said, "But we didn't all drive back then. In fact, till two years ago, it was just you and me."

So he said, "I didn't want to walk out the door and BOOM right into the steps!"

Except that's how it was before. Literally. We opened the door and the three steps down were RIGHT there.

He told me I needed to stop showing my brain and using all this logic on him. Because it's a bad thing.

In completely unrelated news, I opened an etsy shop to continue to sell my photos. We still have thirteen birdhouses leftover from the etsy shop for the NYC trip. If you want one, let me know, we can do a paypal kind of thing without the etsy involvement. Here's the link to "Pahz Photography" on etsy.

Disaster Movies and Mouses

I was supposed to do this blog a few days ago, but I got sidetracked by things like "real life" and an actual gig this weekend where I had to do some maintenance before I set out for it. (the "gig" is one of my hobbies- I used to try and make money at it, but turns out, there's not much of a market for it around here unless you're able to network in the real live world and for four years, I wasn't able. But I do it whenever this place calls me and they called. I'm doing it again next month at the local two-day ren faire. What is it? I do psychic and tarot card readings).

But, I didn't get around to doing a blog post, so this will be spotty. I took notes, but I also take lots of pain killers and well, memory and bad handwriting are even worse on pain killers. I don't recall exactly how this discussion started, but our son was involved.

I came downstairs on this particular morning and saw that DG was watching "Airport '75" on cable. For you kids who don't know what it is, it's a disaster movie with Charlton Heston and George Kennedy- oh, you don't know who those guys are? Well, in the Seventies, there were a lot of disaster movies made and there was some kind of contractual obligation that the actor named George Kennedy had to be in as many of them as possible.

The gist of the story (for those who don't know) is that a passenger airliner is clipped by a small airplane and the person left at the controls is a stewardess. Heston and his gang of save-the-day-ers do some amazing feats of engineering and air travel to land the plane. His character gets on this jetliner and is trying to determine the amount of damage before he attempts to land it. He says something like, "[complicated-looking shit with a button] is destroyed! I can't tell if it's working or not!"

DG said, "I'll tell you how you know: You push the button and if it works, it works; if it don't, then you'll know!"

Good advice. If you don't know if something will work, just push the button. Then you'll know.

Now about the mouses. I'm not sure exactly how this one got rolling. I get the feeling it had something to do with our son's snake and his feeding of the snake. He feeds it live feeder mice (called "pinks" or "pinkies"). I posted a snippet of video the other day. Apparently, had those mice been wearing shoes, like the rats, they could have gotten away. I asked how he knew this. He said they talked to him.

I asked, "Those little bitty mice talked to you?"

DG: "Not them. Don't be ridiculous. The mouse- the mouses in charge. They told me because they know these things."

Me: "Wouldn't a mouse need two pairs of shoes?"

DG: "No. Why would they?"

Me: "Because they have four feet."

DG: "Not when they put on the shoes they don't! Gawd! They got feet and hands. With hands, you don't need shoes."

Jase started in on something with the mice and two pairs of shoes and asked if they'd have some kind of fundraiser (because sometimes, to keep his stories going, we bring up an older story). Apparently, the "mouses will wear T-shirts" and something with their names being on the shirt. When I asked him why, he exclaimed, "You guys don't you understand!?"

No... not really.

DG: "Mouses ain't got no money so they don't buy shoes anyway."

I asked how they got shoes in the first place (and reminded him of those dear, sad, flea-infested plague rats) and he said, "They evolved!"

Mouses evolved into wearing shoes. And T-shirts. But they ain't got no money to buy shoes. So from what I understand, they distract us by wearing T-shirts and steal our shoes.

For some reason, I have the words "frog's ass-end" on my paper with the conversation notes. None of us can remember what it was about. We know DG said it and he denies saying it. Then he said, "That sounds like something I'd say."