The new job is going well. No, really, it's going decently. I have very few complaints, with the exception of the heat. It's traditionally women who complain about the temperature being too cold, so I thought they were responsible for the eighty-degree temps in our humongous office. Where I work is a bit of a cliche, so I asked if we had to fill out a form 8753 in order to get the temperature down below roasting. Even the women were complaining.
Speaking of women, I work near three women or so, who have apparently been sick off and on for months. I told them if I got typhoid, it would be their fault. Little did I realize that they had been playing Pass the Germs for way longer than I have been there.
Sure enough, my throat began to feel icky. This was followed, in short order, by my head ringing and being in a vise. It is difficult to concentrate on your job when you're desperately attempting to fail at falling off your chair. This all happened in one day. So I chose to stay at work and irradiate the rest of my coworkers who had not yet become sick. I'm a giver.
You'll be surprised to learn that I don't get sick like normal people. Being a man, I had to ask my wife if I had a temperature, which she verified. The joke is somewhat on me because whenever I ask if I have a temp, my wife tells me yes. Why we do Fever Theater<tm>, I'm not sure. One day when I'm well, I am going to ask her to feel my forehead, just for fun. And then maybe I'll tell her that's not where my forehead is. I figured the smart thing to do, aside from consuming copious amounts of ibuprofen, would be to take some Nyquil equivalent to help me sleep. It kept waking me up at hourly intervals, like a seriously snoring spouse with a chainsaw.
By the next morning, I was on our Natural Cocktail: zinc, echinacea and vitamin C. You start taking this the moment you feel sick and it will either help you to ward it off or shorten its duration. If you don't have trouble swallowing pills, you will when you see echinacea. It looks kinda like a clear capsule of oregano, only it's the size of a small football (deflated, of course). And it's a good thing I dumped all this crap down my throat because the relatively simple act of sitting on the couch made my skin hurt. When the phone rang, my head exploded. When my wife spoke, the hair follicles on my arm contracted and sent pain shooting to my brain (what was left of it). Even innocent email checking rendered my eyebrows non-functional. My nose does not run but my stomach does: right to the fridge. When I get sick, my appetite goes through the roof. Keep your hands and feet away from my mouth.
SNOW
We're about to get a noreaster, whatever that means. It means PANIC. It means clean out the stores of milk and bread in mass PANIC. Depending on who you listen to, we're getting two or three snow storms. This includes between one and twelve inches of snow, depending on which attractive weather woman you prefer to watch. At least this time they came right out and admitted that there was no way to accurately predict the amount of snowfall, instead offering four different scenarios. This happened on three different networks, as if they were colluding.
The news is calling this the storm of the century. This indicates that total snowfall will be somewhere in the area of an inch to an inch and a half. Mind you, the news also features shots at grocery stores, where the shelves are literally picked clean. You'd think they weren't going to get out to the store for three weeks. They're now calling it Snowmageddon. This is why I get my news online.
The real mess is going to happen tomorrow, so naturally my wife asked me to stop at the store and pick a few things up. She is the one who goes shopping, so it's a crapshoot when I have to enter that dark place. Let's start with walking in: most people have no trouble - not me. I walk up to the door and it won't open. I strongly suspect it is refusing on purpose, perhaps on principle. I'd have the store manager come out and explain it to me but as it is, he's busy plowing the lot (or one of his cashiers).
In front of me at the deli counter is an old lady who is apparently feeding a small battleship's complement. She requires a pound and a half of swiss but it has to be in three packages for some unknown reason. Then some turkey. No, that's not thick enough. Then a half a pound of ham. That's too thick. I held on well, managing not to strangle her with her own turkey pastrami and half an hour later, it was my turn. Mind you, they didn't have what my wife sent me to purchase. It's friggin' cheese - what's so difficult?
Just to make things more interesting, the Deli Lady wound up in front of me at the cashier. It turned out she had a husband, who kinda popped up when the bags were in the cart. I have no idea where he was the whole time; perhaps he was off trying to convince them to sell him three gallons of milk, but in seven plastic containers.
Once outside of the store, I tried carrying the packages to the car. Fortunately for me, it remained in the place where I parked it. My wife's creamer took a leap right out of the bag, while I had four plastic bags on me. When I got home, the creamer, which obviously had something against me, had once again removed itself from its confines. This was made more amusing by the fact that I keep confusing the trunk release with the gas release. This won't be a serious problem until I start filling up the trunk with gasoline.
The cherry on top of the ice cream sundae has to be the mayor of Philthydelphia's press conference. It's fun to watch because we like to laugh (we're outside of Philly). He emphasized that they're serious about snow removal. If so, this would be the first time. There will be 375 people and 800 pieces of equipment deployed. Two days later, people will be wondering why there's snow all over the place, as if they had no idea it was going to snow. Furthermore, do not throw snow back in the street - it's disrespectful. Disrespectful is promising to clear the streets and failing completely. It would be a fair bet that it's been snowing here for longer than there has been a city of Philadelphia, yet they have consistenly failed to do an even passable job of cleaning up. There are actually cities all over the country that manage to clean up way more snow way more frequently. Driving in Philly is a nightmare with no snow.
I have to go now. The dog is doing us a favor, protecting us from the last bag of Cheese Jax (by eating them). After it gets done snowing, the Abominable Snow Span will grace the freshly-washed blanket on the couch, which was washed yesterday because he was out in the rain and mud.
Monday, January 26, 2015
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Good Thing I Have a Job
I'm going to try something new today. You know how they say you should never go food shopping when you're hungry? 'They' also say you should never blog when pissed. Well here I goooooooooo......
I have to tell you, I have absolutely NO IDEA how you single people get stuff done. We have a very equitable distribution of duties at our house but with my wife taking the week off 'elsewhere', I am the lone biped. As such, I am in charge of the house and the two quadrupeds. Let me describe my day...
YESTERDAY:
Off to work by eight.
Off to home at four.
Stop by credit union to deposit last week's paycheck.
Credit union, which my wife told me closes at six, closes at four thirty. I got there at four thirty five. Mind you, this is the mortgage payment.
Spitting blood, I go home.
Once home, I am greeted by all sorts of Cat Detritus. For reasons known only to Beelzebub, the cat has taken to peeing on puppy pads. Then he wraps them up around a small rug in a knot and I get to untangle them and deposit them in the trash, replacing with a new one for him to foul. Later, while cleaning the cat box, I find a pair of gloves. I have no idea why.
The dog is so happy to see me, he runs to the door because he wants to go out. But of course he wants to go out - he's been in the house all day, you are thinking. It's no big emergency as he has already shit on the kitchen floor. While carrying it to the toilet, some leaps out onto the floor.
"This isn't turning out well," I say to myself; in quite different words, at a ridiculously high volume.
Dog comes in and runs to the cat bowl, to lick out every last quantum molecule of cat food. The cat, meanwhile, is eating the dog's food. Funny as Cat Foot Ballet is, the cat shouldn't be eating the dog's food because he's f-ing diabetic. So I tell him to get out of the dog food. Absolutely no effect. GET OUT OF THE DOG FOOD. He doesn't even twitch. GET OUT OF THE F-ING DOG FOOD OR I WILL KILL YOU, combined with rapid motion toward the dog food bowl does the trick.
Speaking of diabetes, the cat needs shots twice a day. This is something I cannot do so a very kind niece helps (although she didn't help last night). When he misses shots, the peeing all over the house starts.
Undaunted, the cat jumps up on the couch next to me and starts pawing and pricking me, wanting attention. This cat is obviously lacking in empathy. At this point, I'd rather play Feline Aviation than pet him. I gently pick him up and move him to the other side of the couch. Undaunted a second time, he immediately comes back, purring as loudly as he can, trying to get up my butt. I move him again. He comes back again. I move him a third time and he comes most of the way back, sneaking over half an inch or less, til he can touch me. And purr loudly. So loudly I can't concentrate (ok, let's face it, I can't concentrate too well to begin with). The dog, with his best I wasn't doing anything Dad look, leaps up on the couch and does not purr.
An hour later, I'm off to the Happy Place<tm>, for our single hour visit.
Then home to cook, straighten, and yell some more.
TODAY:
I lefty work early to make sure I could get to the credit union before closing. In spite of the fact that no one stops for stop signs, I made it(!). I deposited my check, which my wife told me goes in as cash, and the teller tellers me that it will take two days to clear. I asked why paychecks didn't go in as cash. She looked confused for a bit then asked me where the check tearoff was. Out in the car, of course. So I ran to the car (it's snowing at this point), only to find it's back at home, where I left it. Back to the counter, it goes in as a check, to clear in two days. Have I mentioned this is my mortgage payment? Spitting bullets AND blood, I go home.
I'm surprised they didn't call the police at that point. When I hit the parking lot, I gave the entire neighborhood a lesson in Screamonics. I continued all the way home, questioning the credit union's parentage and noting that the check will clear for them immediately but I have to wait two days. This is why I stopped going to banks.
When I get home, I am greeted by all sorts of Cat Detritus. There is a puppy pad, wrapped around a small rug. And in the cat box is the pair of gloves. I continue to have no idea why. Does he wipe with them? Do they make him feel more comfortable while he's excreting?
The dog then runs to the door again. And once again, he has shit on the floor. This is the weirdest deja vu I have ever had.
Then the cat jumps up on the sofa, purring, and tries to physically attach himself to me. This horrid rerun is brought to you by the Philly Credit Union, where no cats are ever hurt via banking. The dog is smart enough to make himself scarce when I go off. The cat, not so much.
LAST NIGHT:
Things are lovely at the Happy Place<tm>. Walking in the door was not a smart idea in the first place, considering my mood. Where is my wife's hoagie from the previous day? Some idiot threw it out (probably after eating it). Why is my wife tired? Her first roommate spent her entire time coughing up a lung. When she left, they moved the Sandwich Stealer in, whose other hobby is snoring. Loudly and constantly. They had to give out earplugs (I am not kidding). Later that night, the idiot threw out someone else's sandwich.
Where is the staff? I sure see them a lot. They suggest to keep sandwiches in their fridge. Do they discipline the Sandwich Stealer? No. When Nina Jesus'd everyone to death and threw liquid at someone, did they move her? No. Pardon my math and lack of psychological experience but why are the malcontents allowed to destabilize the entire unit? Where is the accountability? Over with Obama's accountability. I informed my wife that sometimes people trip. Perhaps the Sandwich Stealer tripped and hit her head on the wall three or four times. These things happen.
So here I am, ready to go visit for that generous hour and I'm in quite a Mood. Worse than yesterday. I sure hope they don't keep me.
Then it's shopping and dinner and lunch for tomorrow. Only three more days of this heaven.
You betcha I'm pissed.
P.S. And just as I'm finishing this up, the f-ing BROWSER CRASHES. I am being pushed too far.
EDIT: I found out some High Mucketymuck at the hospital came down personally to badger and intimidate my wife for copays. Someone will answer for this.
I have to tell you, I have absolutely NO IDEA how you single people get stuff done. We have a very equitable distribution of duties at our house but with my wife taking the week off 'elsewhere', I am the lone biped. As such, I am in charge of the house and the two quadrupeds. Let me describe my day...
YESTERDAY:
Off to work by eight.
Off to home at four.
Stop by credit union to deposit last week's paycheck.
Credit union, which my wife told me closes at six, closes at four thirty. I got there at four thirty five. Mind you, this is the mortgage payment.
Spitting blood, I go home.
Once home, I am greeted by all sorts of Cat Detritus. For reasons known only to Beelzebub, the cat has taken to peeing on puppy pads. Then he wraps them up around a small rug in a knot and I get to untangle them and deposit them in the trash, replacing with a new one for him to foul. Later, while cleaning the cat box, I find a pair of gloves. I have no idea why.
The dog is so happy to see me, he runs to the door because he wants to go out. But of course he wants to go out - he's been in the house all day, you are thinking. It's no big emergency as he has already shit on the kitchen floor. While carrying it to the toilet, some leaps out onto the floor.
"This isn't turning out well," I say to myself; in quite different words, at a ridiculously high volume.
Dog comes in and runs to the cat bowl, to lick out every last quantum molecule of cat food. The cat, meanwhile, is eating the dog's food. Funny as Cat Foot Ballet is, the cat shouldn't be eating the dog's food because he's f-ing diabetic. So I tell him to get out of the dog food. Absolutely no effect. GET OUT OF THE DOG FOOD. He doesn't even twitch. GET OUT OF THE F-ING DOG FOOD OR I WILL KILL YOU, combined with rapid motion toward the dog food bowl does the trick.
Speaking of diabetes, the cat needs shots twice a day. This is something I cannot do so a very kind niece helps (although she didn't help last night). When he misses shots, the peeing all over the house starts.
Undaunted, the cat jumps up on the couch next to me and starts pawing and pricking me, wanting attention. This cat is obviously lacking in empathy. At this point, I'd rather play Feline Aviation than pet him. I gently pick him up and move him to the other side of the couch. Undaunted a second time, he immediately comes back, purring as loudly as he can, trying to get up my butt. I move him again. He comes back again. I move him a third time and he comes most of the way back, sneaking over half an inch or less, til he can touch me. And purr loudly. So loudly I can't concentrate (ok, let's face it, I can't concentrate too well to begin with). The dog, with his best I wasn't doing anything Dad look, leaps up on the couch and does not purr.
An hour later, I'm off to the Happy Place<tm>, for our single hour visit.
Then home to cook, straighten, and yell some more.
TODAY:
I lefty work early to make sure I could get to the credit union before closing. In spite of the fact that no one stops for stop signs, I made it(!). I deposited my check, which my wife told me goes in as cash, and the teller tellers me that it will take two days to clear. I asked why paychecks didn't go in as cash. She looked confused for a bit then asked me where the check tearoff was. Out in the car, of course. So I ran to the car (it's snowing at this point), only to find it's back at home, where I left it. Back to the counter, it goes in as a check, to clear in two days. Have I mentioned this is my mortgage payment? Spitting bullets AND blood, I go home.
I'm surprised they didn't call the police at that point. When I hit the parking lot, I gave the entire neighborhood a lesson in Screamonics. I continued all the way home, questioning the credit union's parentage and noting that the check will clear for them immediately but I have to wait two days. This is why I stopped going to banks.
When I get home, I am greeted by all sorts of Cat Detritus. There is a puppy pad, wrapped around a small rug. And in the cat box is the pair of gloves. I continue to have no idea why. Does he wipe with them? Do they make him feel more comfortable while he's excreting?
The dog then runs to the door again. And once again, he has shit on the floor. This is the weirdest deja vu I have ever had.
Then the cat jumps up on the sofa, purring, and tries to physically attach himself to me. This horrid rerun is brought to you by the Philly Credit Union, where no cats are ever hurt via banking. The dog is smart enough to make himself scarce when I go off. The cat, not so much.
LAST NIGHT:
Things are lovely at the Happy Place<tm>. Walking in the door was not a smart idea in the first place, considering my mood. Where is my wife's hoagie from the previous day? Some idiot threw it out (probably after eating it). Why is my wife tired? Her first roommate spent her entire time coughing up a lung. When she left, they moved the Sandwich Stealer in, whose other hobby is snoring. Loudly and constantly. They had to give out earplugs (I am not kidding). Later that night, the idiot threw out someone else's sandwich.
Where is the staff? I sure see them a lot. They suggest to keep sandwiches in their fridge. Do they discipline the Sandwich Stealer? No. When Nina Jesus'd everyone to death and threw liquid at someone, did they move her? No. Pardon my math and lack of psychological experience but why are the malcontents allowed to destabilize the entire unit? Where is the accountability? Over with Obama's accountability. I informed my wife that sometimes people trip. Perhaps the Sandwich Stealer tripped and hit her head on the wall three or four times. These things happen.
So here I am, ready to go visit for that generous hour and I'm in quite a Mood. Worse than yesterday. I sure hope they don't keep me.
Then it's shopping and dinner and lunch for tomorrow. Only three more days of this heaven.
You betcha I'm pissed.
P.S. And just as I'm finishing this up, the f-ing BROWSER CRASHES. I am being pushed too far.
EDIT: I found out some High Mucketymuck at the hospital came down personally to badger and intimidate my wife for copays. Someone will answer for this.
Monday, January 19, 2015
What's Black and Scrubs Your Back?
Martin Loofa.
[timely, no?]
So I have a new job. More on that later.
The real excitement is depression. Let me rephrase that... two solid months of depression. Let me embellish. My dear wife has gone through two solid months of depression. Folks with bipolar disorder tend to swing from manic to depressed (Manic Depression - Jimi Hendrix). Two months of depression is really rather a lot. For anyone. In fact, it's unprecedented here. After a brief conversation with the psychiatrist, it was time to take a trip to....
THE HAPPY PLACE
Yes, the Happy Place<tm>. Otherwise known as The Booby Hatch. Funny Farm. Loony Bin. Madhouse. Laughing Academy. Etc. I'm kinda shocked at all the synonyms for this. I'm kinda unhappy too, as I like to refer to our house as The Madhouse.
It's not what you think it is. Or maybe it is, depending on what you think. Over the years, there have been a few trips there, little with any real comedy potential. Generally, things are pretty calm. This time we hit the jackpot.
There are many units there, for people with different disorders and capabilities. This one seemed fairly nice. I was allowed two one-hour visitations per day (this would have worked better when I was unemployed, not that I'm nostalgic or anything). When I got there, I was introduced to Nina, a very nice girl. Ten minutes later, Nina handed us a note. It said we were a great couple and that Jesus loved us. We should play the lottery precisely because Jesus loves us.
Uh-oh.
Then there was Sara, an eighty year old lady with one of those diseases that makes you shake. She would get so angry at her hands for shaking that she'd yell horrible things at them. Anatomically impossible things. As a result, she scared the poop out of most people (except for my wife, of course). There was also Julio, the Manic Hispanic. Julio is a great kid but apparently under-medicated. They were watching DVDs and Julio was reciting the lines along with the characters. Loudly. Mania and noise have a negative effect on me so we moved to the next room.
In the next room, we were serenaded by Vicky the Snorer. We'd get a word or two out and then [SNORE] and a few more words [SNORE]. A nurse interrupted her slumber to let her know that this was not good behavior. She agreed and quickly resumed snoring.
Nina came back and asked if we had read the letter. Apparently Nina had written a letter to everybody, including the staff and visitors, about Jesus. I think most of them knew already, so it got to be annoying. I told my wife that they had better explain that this was not acceptable before someone with less understanding than me (really?) popped her in the nose.
Today's visit started with Nina asking if she could sit with me until my wife returned. With all of the goodness I could muster, I said yes. She actually got an entire sentence out before she mentioned Jesus. If we weren't at the Happy Place<tm>, I would have brought out my inner Satan. She was good enough to leave when my wife came back.
Shortly before I arrived, Nina flipped out on her group, which upset everyone. I suspect they finally decided to send her to the Jesus Ward. A further person debated me on how great a president Obama is. I had to keep reminding myself to behave. Of course she was arguing this point - the lady was in the mental ward.
If you're still following this, you probably have one question: how did they allow me to leave?
No, the other question: how is my wife.
Thanks for asking - she's pretty good, all things considered.
FALLOUT
You're probably asking yourself what's been going on at the house while Mom's in the hospital.
Glad you asked.
The real loony bin is the house. The pets have taken full advantage of the situation. Marshall has taken to waking me at obscene hours of the morning to go outside. Mind you, this only happens when Mommy goes away. So far he's gotten me up at 5, 3 and 7 on alternating days. Here I am, all set to sleep late (job starts at 8am) and the little monster decides to play Fun with Daddy.
I thought I got away with ignoring him the first time but he showed me: he got into something and had diarrhea. The other times were just for fun. Ever have to keep watch on a dog at 3am, so he doesn't run around the side of the house and bark? In the freezing cold? Naked?
As I mentioned a while back, the cat is diabetic, so he needs insulin shots. Unfortunately his daddy doesn't do needles, so a brave family member stops by to Dart the Cat. Unfortunately the brave family member lost my keys, so the cat missed a day or two. As a result, he's been rewarding me by peeing all over the house. Naturally I found this out the hard way. We actually have puppy pee pads two feet from his litter box because he likes going there for some reason. This is by his Southern Litter Box. The Northern Litter Box is near the kitchen. He avoids that one by peeing on the rug near the sink, which is how I discovered there was a problem. Ever do dishes and wonder if you spilled water, only to discover that it wasn't water? Yeah, that.
Marshall won't eat his food when nobody's home, although he will dive right for cat food, so I know he's not sick. He also goes Fishing for Treasure in the Cat Box, a game nobody wants to watch. To change things up, he 'helped' me clean the rug yesterday. I had to clean the rug because every time I clean the rug, he magically makes tissues appear, then shreds them all over the rug. So he helped me clean by continually sticking his nose in the bag I used for picking up the detritus from the last time he shredded. He really seemed to enjoy that bag. After I got home later that evening, he had gotten into my work bag and consumed three fruit bars, shredding the silver wrappers all over the rug. Mind you, there was not a single crumb of fruit bar - only wrapper.
KMART
On the way to the Happy Place<tm>, I was ordered to stop at KMart and pick up a few games and puzzles for the folks. Happy to contribute, I unhappily stopped at KMart. Unhappily because KMart is a hell hole. Every time I go there, there are unbelievable lines at the cashier. Apparently putting more than one or two cashiers at registers physically hurts management, so they make sure there aren't enough cashiers at any single time.
The parking lot had so few cars in it, I wondered if they were even open. After locating everything I was ordered to procure (coloring books are with office supplies and puzzles are with toys), I made my way to pay for them, with just enough time to get to the hospital.
Heh heh heh.
I had forgotten where I was.
There were exactly two lanes open, one of which had customers bailing out. The register must have started spitting out lungs or bullets or whatever KMart registers spit out (anything but register tape or change). People were fleeing the aisle with arms full of boxes and bags.
I was in the other lane, which had inexplicably ground to a halt, for no apparent reason. Ah, I thought to myself.. I'm at KMart. This is precisely why I don't go there, not even with my wife. Several millenia later, there was only one person in front of me. By this point, I had given up on seeing my wife on time. The lady in front of me had one tiny little box (of fiber bars, don't ask), so this was a slam dunk.
Not so fast, Coloring Book Boy.
The register had stopped spitting out register tape, so the guy allegedly operating the register called a halt to operations (how could one tell?) and threaded the paper into the machine. Or rather, he tried to thread the tape through the machine. He seemed to be a fairly competent cashier, which should have made me suspicious in the first place, so I figured I was in the right line for once. However, the simple act of putting new paper in the register was obviously beyond his meager capabilities. He kept jamming it in, folding it, ripping it and completely failing to get the paper through the slot. I suggested if perhaps he hit it, REALLY HARD, that might help. After a few more failed tries, I told him that I was going to hit it REALLY HARD. I even reached out to help him.
A small cheer went through the line as the cashier finally succeeded in putting more paper in the blasted machine. Fiber Lady paid with some sort of loyalty card and, as a result, somehow wound up getting fourteen receipts (I was terrified the paper would run out again) AND a whole lot of change that required meticulous counting out.
Sweaty and nervous, I stepped up to the plate (my only sports metaphor for the year). Register D00d got me checked out in record time, although he bagged stuff up and never exactly told me how much I owed. Having eventually gotten that out of the way, I ran to the car and took off.
When I got to the hospital, I noticed something was missing. Yes, Register D00d had somehow managed to keep one of the coloring books for himself and I somehow managed to not notice it til an hour later. WHY DID I EVER GO TO KMART?
So yeah, I have a new job.
I'll tell you about it next time.
[timely, no?]
So I have a new job. More on that later.
The real excitement is depression. Let me rephrase that... two solid months of depression. Let me embellish. My dear wife has gone through two solid months of depression. Folks with bipolar disorder tend to swing from manic to depressed (Manic Depression - Jimi Hendrix). Two months of depression is really rather a lot. For anyone. In fact, it's unprecedented here. After a brief conversation with the psychiatrist, it was time to take a trip to....
THE HAPPY PLACE
Yes, the Happy Place<tm>. Otherwise known as The Booby Hatch. Funny Farm. Loony Bin. Madhouse. Laughing Academy. Etc. I'm kinda shocked at all the synonyms for this. I'm kinda unhappy too, as I like to refer to our house as The Madhouse.
It's not what you think it is. Or maybe it is, depending on what you think. Over the years, there have been a few trips there, little with any real comedy potential. Generally, things are pretty calm. This time we hit the jackpot.
There are many units there, for people with different disorders and capabilities. This one seemed fairly nice. I was allowed two one-hour visitations per day (this would have worked better when I was unemployed, not that I'm nostalgic or anything). When I got there, I was introduced to Nina, a very nice girl. Ten minutes later, Nina handed us a note. It said we were a great couple and that Jesus loved us. We should play the lottery precisely because Jesus loves us.
Uh-oh.
Then there was Sara, an eighty year old lady with one of those diseases that makes you shake. She would get so angry at her hands for shaking that she'd yell horrible things at them. Anatomically impossible things. As a result, she scared the poop out of most people (except for my wife, of course). There was also Julio, the Manic Hispanic. Julio is a great kid but apparently under-medicated. They were watching DVDs and Julio was reciting the lines along with the characters. Loudly. Mania and noise have a negative effect on me so we moved to the next room.
In the next room, we were serenaded by Vicky the Snorer. We'd get a word or two out and then [SNORE] and a few more words [SNORE]. A nurse interrupted her slumber to let her know that this was not good behavior. She agreed and quickly resumed snoring.
Nina came back and asked if we had read the letter. Apparently Nina had written a letter to everybody, including the staff and visitors, about Jesus. I think most of them knew already, so it got to be annoying. I told my wife that they had better explain that this was not acceptable before someone with less understanding than me (really?) popped her in the nose.
Today's visit started with Nina asking if she could sit with me until my wife returned. With all of the goodness I could muster, I said yes. She actually got an entire sentence out before she mentioned Jesus. If we weren't at the Happy Place<tm>, I would have brought out my inner Satan. She was good enough to leave when my wife came back.
Shortly before I arrived, Nina flipped out on her group, which upset everyone. I suspect they finally decided to send her to the Jesus Ward. A further person debated me on how great a president Obama is. I had to keep reminding myself to behave. Of course she was arguing this point - the lady was in the mental ward.
If you're still following this, you probably have one question: how did they allow me to leave?
No, the other question: how is my wife.
Thanks for asking - she's pretty good, all things considered.
FALLOUT
You're probably asking yourself what's been going on at the house while Mom's in the hospital.
Glad you asked.
The real loony bin is the house. The pets have taken full advantage of the situation. Marshall has taken to waking me at obscene hours of the morning to go outside. Mind you, this only happens when Mommy goes away. So far he's gotten me up at 5, 3 and 7 on alternating days. Here I am, all set to sleep late (job starts at 8am) and the little monster decides to play Fun with Daddy.
I thought I got away with ignoring him the first time but he showed me: he got into something and had diarrhea. The other times were just for fun. Ever have to keep watch on a dog at 3am, so he doesn't run around the side of the house and bark? In the freezing cold? Naked?
As I mentioned a while back, the cat is diabetic, so he needs insulin shots. Unfortunately his daddy doesn't do needles, so a brave family member stops by to Dart the Cat. Unfortunately the brave family member lost my keys, so the cat missed a day or two. As a result, he's been rewarding me by peeing all over the house. Naturally I found this out the hard way. We actually have puppy pee pads two feet from his litter box because he likes going there for some reason. This is by his Southern Litter Box. The Northern Litter Box is near the kitchen. He avoids that one by peeing on the rug near the sink, which is how I discovered there was a problem. Ever do dishes and wonder if you spilled water, only to discover that it wasn't water? Yeah, that.
Marshall won't eat his food when nobody's home, although he will dive right for cat food, so I know he's not sick. He also goes Fishing for Treasure in the Cat Box, a game nobody wants to watch. To change things up, he 'helped' me clean the rug yesterday. I had to clean the rug because every time I clean the rug, he magically makes tissues appear, then shreds them all over the rug. So he helped me clean by continually sticking his nose in the bag I used for picking up the detritus from the last time he shredded. He really seemed to enjoy that bag. After I got home later that evening, he had gotten into my work bag and consumed three fruit bars, shredding the silver wrappers all over the rug. Mind you, there was not a single crumb of fruit bar - only wrapper.
KMART
On the way to the Happy Place<tm>, I was ordered to stop at KMart and pick up a few games and puzzles for the folks. Happy to contribute, I unhappily stopped at KMart. Unhappily because KMart is a hell hole. Every time I go there, there are unbelievable lines at the cashier. Apparently putting more than one or two cashiers at registers physically hurts management, so they make sure there aren't enough cashiers at any single time.
The parking lot had so few cars in it, I wondered if they were even open. After locating everything I was ordered to procure (coloring books are with office supplies and puzzles are with toys), I made my way to pay for them, with just enough time to get to the hospital.
Heh heh heh.
I had forgotten where I was.
There were exactly two lanes open, one of which had customers bailing out. The register must have started spitting out lungs or bullets or whatever KMart registers spit out (anything but register tape or change). People were fleeing the aisle with arms full of boxes and bags.
I was in the other lane, which had inexplicably ground to a halt, for no apparent reason. Ah, I thought to myself.. I'm at KMart. This is precisely why I don't go there, not even with my wife. Several millenia later, there was only one person in front of me. By this point, I had given up on seeing my wife on time. The lady in front of me had one tiny little box (of fiber bars, don't ask), so this was a slam dunk.
Not so fast, Coloring Book Boy.
The register had stopped spitting out register tape, so the guy allegedly operating the register called a halt to operations (how could one tell?) and threaded the paper into the machine. Or rather, he tried to thread the tape through the machine. He seemed to be a fairly competent cashier, which should have made me suspicious in the first place, so I figured I was in the right line for once. However, the simple act of putting new paper in the register was obviously beyond his meager capabilities. He kept jamming it in, folding it, ripping it and completely failing to get the paper through the slot. I suggested if perhaps he hit it, REALLY HARD, that might help. After a few more failed tries, I told him that I was going to hit it REALLY HARD. I even reached out to help him.
A small cheer went through the line as the cashier finally succeeded in putting more paper in the blasted machine. Fiber Lady paid with some sort of loyalty card and, as a result, somehow wound up getting fourteen receipts (I was terrified the paper would run out again) AND a whole lot of change that required meticulous counting out.
Sweaty and nervous, I stepped up to the plate (my only sports metaphor for the year). Register D00d got me checked out in record time, although he bagged stuff up and never exactly told me how much I owed. Having eventually gotten that out of the way, I ran to the car and took off.
When I got to the hospital, I noticed something was missing. Yes, Register D00d had somehow managed to keep one of the coloring books for himself and I somehow managed to not notice it til an hour later. WHY DID I EVER GO TO KMART?
So yeah, I have a new job.
I'll tell you about it next time.
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