Hair talks to Me...

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a pause.

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

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

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

Me: "What abuse?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: "I don't know."

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

Me: "Are you talking to yourself?"

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

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

DG: "You don't know me."

Me: "Yes, I do."

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

Me: "What does that even mean?"

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

Me: "Good night, dear."

DG: [heavy sigh] "Good night."

Ducks in Disguise

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

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

Weird.

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

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

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

Me: "It sure does."

DG: "Sad, sad tree..."

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

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

Me: "Those are geese."

DG: "No, they're not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: "Rats with little Nike shoes."

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

Me: "Of course they do."

DG: "Rat schools."

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

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

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

The Absurdity that is US.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DG: "Yeah, you are."

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

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

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

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

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

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

DG: "On mine."

Me: "What planet do you live on?"

DG: "The Moon."

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

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

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

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

Me: "What 'they'?"

DG: "The Moon People."

Me: "What 'Moon People'?"

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

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

DG: "Places. Probably houses."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DG: "What story?"

Me: "About the Moon People?"

DG: "What about them?"

Me: "Finish telling me about them."

DG: "They don't exist."

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

DG: "I was mistaken."

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

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

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




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

We work hard for no money...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DG: "That's not work!"

Me: "How is it NOT work?"

DG: "You don't get paid!"

Me: "Neither do you!"

DG: "So? I enjoy it."

Me: "So do I!"

DG: "No, you don't!"

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

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

Me: "Good comeback, Sparky."

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

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

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

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

So, let's dive in, shall we?

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

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



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

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

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

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

The reply from DG?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DG: "But you wear those clothes."

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

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

Yes. Yes, that's it exactly.

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

"It's a Conspiracy!"

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

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

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

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

So...

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

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

I said: "Look what you did!"

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

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

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

Me: "You mean lack of outlets."

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