Water, Beer & the Nectar of the Gods

Since the countdown to Italy or Bust 2009 has begun, I made a decision. What better way to prepare for an extended vacation than to ignore responsibility and go on a mini-vacation? So this weekend I and some friends went whitewater rafting in Colorado.

The bulk of my vacation time has already been decimated by the upcoming flight to the land of vino, so I had to leave after work Friday night. What's a 7 hr drive in the grand scheme of things? I rolled into Loveland about 12:30 a.m., and we rolled out of bed at 6:30 to hit the river.

Now, there were those who had cautioned me about our trip, implying that it may be difficult to traverse Italy while sporting a body cast. But I was confident that after my years of canoeing and kayaking, I could handle myself on a puny raft. Then I read the hold harmless agreement.

Guides are not infallible?! Are you kidding me? Possibility of severe head injuries? Uhh, about this part here on likelihood of death...

After signing away our lives, the guide gave us strict instructions as to how to stay alive in the event that we became a "swimmer." That didn't exactly up the confidence level either. However, once we were on the river, we realized our guide was highly experienced and gave great instructions. At no time were we ever in a situation where I would be planning changes to my will. It was actually a blast, not too incredibly dangerous, but not so tame that I could catch up on knitting or anything.

At one point, our guide Matt gave us instructions as to our next Level III drop, which they called Deliverance. I made it clear right then that if I heard banjo music, all bets were off. If Ned Beatty isn't safe, I don't stand a chance.

We were pretty awesome for our first time. In fact, our guide told us that if we come again next year, he would recommend we advance to Level IV. We are thinking about rafting Royal Gorge next year, and we will request Matt. After all, not all guides can be taken seriously while sporting a Nazi helmet.

Here is one of their overpriced pictures of our adventure. For the record, the helmets reeked of head sweat and I'm pretty sure the splash jackets had been previously worn by wet dogs. Next time, I'm so going without. It was nowhere near cold enough to need the jacket. Those pansies need to tube the Niobrara River once, and maybe they'll stop whining about "cold" water.

When we got off the river, it seemed high time for a cold one, but we're all incredibly cheap. The solution? A tour of the Coors Brewery. While I'm well aware that most Coors beer tastes like variations of refrigerated horse urine, it was free. We got to wander around with about a hundred other alcoholics, listening to the history of Coors, (now Miller Coors) all with one purpose: free samples. I was expecting the samples to be little shot glasses of beer, so imagine my delight when it was actually a dixie cup of plain Coors, and then THREE glasses of the Coors product of our choice.

I tested out the Pale Moon, and I can now say without question that I prefer beer that doesn't taste like a donkey relieved himself after eating pepper plants. What is up with spicy beer? Sick. However, the Killian's Red helped me to wash that nasty taste out of my mouth. And after the third beer on an empty stomach, even Coors Banquet starts to taste drinkable.

HOLY CRAP!

(Sorry about that. There was a bat in a paper bag under my desk, and when I heard it rattling, I thought it was a bug and opened it. Excuse me while I go have a heart attack.)

Anyhoo, obviously risking life and limb on the river was not enough for us, so the next day we went hiking. Yeah, you heard me. I hiked. Yes, I know that on an ordinary day I don't walk unless I'm broke down, but this was about communing with nature and all that crap. Of course, at the beginning of our little sojourn, someone forgot to mention that it was 14 MILES roundtrip. Nice.

But we got to see some beautiful scenery, scare up a few critters, and do a little impromptu rock climbing. It was pretty cool up there, and we checked out several old homesteads along the way.


I'm pretty sure I had my life threatened by a barking squirrel.


On our way back down the mountain, we got caught in a heavy rainstorm, so we hung out in one of the old homestead cabins along the way.


When we got back from hiking, we took a quick trip over to Estes Park and did the touristy thing. The prices are outrageous, but it is really pretty, and I got to see several freaky people that made me feel better about myself. And really, isn't that what it's all about?

I now have all the fun out of my system, so procrastination time is over. Now it's going to be all about planning and stressing and freaking out, just so I can go on vacation. Something doesn't seem right about that.
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Only two weeks left til I'm eating Italian food that doesn't come from Olive Garden!

Hugh Hefner Seeking Nurse For Sponge Bath

Old Man River is not doing well. Over the last few months, his health has deteriorated considerably, prompting his doctor to give him a six month expiration date. His heart isn't pumping hard enough to keep the fluid off, so it's building up in his lungs, around his heart, and in his tissues. They give him water pills to help shed the fluid, and then he spends all day wheeling to and from the bathroom down the hall. Of course, that flushes all the potassium out of his system, and his heart goes wonky yet again. Meanwhile the fluid returns, and he is now 306 lbs. Before long, he's going to need to be borrowing manzieres from Beth Chapman. Because of the issues with his breathing, he aspirates food into his lungs, which leads to infection and a constant state of pneumonia. The docs shoot him full of antibiotics, which work about three weeks, and the process begins again.

This weekend, the doctor informed him that he has infection once again. And Old Man River has decided this is it. He's tired of fighting the inevitable. He has refused any more antibiotics, and everything has been put in place to keep him from being put on life support should he get to that point. He has agreed to continue the water pills, and the hospice nurse promised him morphine if he gets to the point that he can't breathe, so he won't feel that he is suffocating. They can make him comfortable, but beyond that he's not interested. Enough is enough.

We had gone to see him on Saturday, and he was appropriately crotchety and belligerent. Were it not for his size, you wouldn't know anything was wrong with him. He told stories, informed my mother she'd make a rotten nurse, told me to stop rolling my chair over his oxygen hose ("Are you trying to kill me, you round head?!"), and announced he would not be buying a new pair of moccasins since it would be a waste of money at this point. He demanded I take money to pay for his death certificates and gas for traveling back when he "buys the farm", which I prompted returned to him and told him where he could put it (back in his Bible - what did you think?).

He asked me to go pick up a housecoat for him while we were out shopping, because in his words, "I might be fat, but I still have enough dignity not to wear sweat pants." I told him I would gladly get him a robe if he promised never to use the word housecoat again. All I could picture was him wheeling down the halls in some lacy coverup from Victoria's Secret. Yeesh.

I stopped at several places, only to find that apparently people only wear robes during the week of Christmas. Finally, I walked into Sears, only to discover that the man behind the counter was as wide as a Wal-Mart sign and looked like a Ballchinian. He politely directed us to the robes, where we discovered the only one available was a One Size Fits Most. Yeah, well, most of us aren't tipping the scales that far, but we'll give it a try. If it doesn't work, we'll come back and get another one he can wear backwards like a straightjacket.

But when I got up to the counter to pay, my mother said to the clerk, "I have a question." Oh crap, this is not going to end well. "We're buying this for my father and there's only one size. But he's over 300 lbs." Picture that last portion being said in the horrified, hushed tones usually reserved for describing John Merrick or discussing biracial marriage in the 50's. As I willed the floor to open up and consume me, the clerk reared back and said, "Well, I'm over 300 lbs. Would you like me to try it on?" My mother says, "Really?," and I wonder if she is expressing wonder that he is offering to be her little model or if she is trying to pretend that she didn't notice that he's only missing a big blue ox. Nice try, but Meryl Streep she is not.

The guy proceeds to try on the robe, which comes nowhere near meeting in the middle. I figure we're still safe, since that fella is easy rounding the bend of the big 4-0-0. We purchase the robe, thank John Popper for his assistance, and race out of the store. I then repeat the request I have made so often over the years, that my mother just once engage her mouth filter when in public. She repeats the statement she has made so often over the years: "Oh, he knew I didn't mean it like that!" Great googly moogly.

The robe did, in fact, fit Old Man River, and he proudly modeled it for us, while my mother attempted to justify her part in the day's saga. OMR agreed with me that, just once, I should be allowed to bring along a muzzle. He shooed us out of his room and told us it was time to give him a break.

We got a call from my aunt yesterday while we were at the lake. She was in tears, saying he was refusing all treatment and we needed to come back to Grand Island. He was getting his heart spells, where he feels sick all over and short of breath, more often and they were lasting longer. His fingernails were blue from lack of oxygen, wasn't going to the bathroom and she didn't think he would make it through the night. Envisioning a long night of watching him slowly suffocate, Sister Cripple told Mom she could stay down and SC would bring her home later in the week if I needed to be back for work. We made the plans and headed back to GI.

We walked into Old Man River's room, dreading what we would see. There he sat in his wheelchair, a surprised look on his face. "What are you doing here?", he demanded. We explained that we decided to come back since he wasn't doing too well. Mom asked him if he wanted her to stay. The response? "For God's sakes, no, I don't want you to stay! What have they been telling you?" It seems there had been some miscommunication. Yes, he was low on oxygen, but he was breathing as well as ever. He'd been using a urinal and wasn't broadcasting it to the world. He was having bad spells, but he has them all the time. He was no worse than the day before, but he had just clarified his wishes. We were ordered home, and after belligerently staying longer than we should have, I finally crawled into my bed at 1:30 this morning.

He lives another day. But the clock is ticking. I leave for Italy in three weeks. He'd better be here when I get back.

That's Not Gonna Heal

So this friend of mine, Portly Patty, has always been a bit of a hypochondriac. Now, with the help of the internet, she is also a cybercondriac. Who knew one person could have every disease on WebMD? Uhh, Patty, I don't know how to tell you this, but you don't have a prostate.

That's not to say she hasn't had her fair share of poor health over the years that didn't start in the gray matter between her ears. PP has ulcerative colitis, so she's spent the last 20 years or so on prednizone, which has been the culprit behind that portly part. There's a reason her jowls look like she's smuggling peanut butter sandwiches everywhere she goes. Because of the prednizone, her immune system is riding the short bus, which leads to problems if she does get sick. But it is still difficult to be sympathetic when a 50+ yo woman starts to hyperventilate over a paper cut.

It wouldn't be so bad if there wasn't a never-ending list of ailments and tragedies befalling her at any given time. First, she got bit by a brown recluse. Naturally, her case was the worst the doctors had ever seen. Months later, she was still in therapy and shaking at the sight of a spiderweb. Then she fell down the stairs (about 3 steps) and banged her leg. Next thing ya know, she's in the hospital with cellulitis and her leg is split open like an overcooked weiner, oozing matter that should only be that color if it's inside a bavarian creme-filled donut. I've heard her story about the perils of getting her lady parts ripped out her bunghole (or a simple hysterectomy to the lay person) more times than I care to count. She's had more black eyes than Tina Turner, more surgeries than Joan Rivers, and to hear her tell it, John Merrick had it easy in comparison to her.

So imagine my utter lack of surprise when I was informed that, once again, Portly Patty was in the hospital. I may have even utter something completely uncaringfriendlike along the lines of, "What is it this time? Rabies, scabies, or emphysema?" Not this time! It turns out that an abcess burst in her stomach, shooting poison throughout her body, not unlike a friend's mom, who recently died of a burst abcess in her brain. Maybe mocking was the wrong way to go.

The doctors had her taken by ambulance to Norfolk, where surgery was done to repair the damage. But a few days later, her condition was not improving and she had major pain, so they flew her to Omaha. The GI specialist took one look at her incision, reached his fingers into it, and HIS FINGERS WENT INTO HER INTESTINES. She was rushed back into surgery, and the specialist fixed the hole that should have been taken care of the first time around.

But within a few days, she was getting worse again, and she had been put on a ventilator. It was discovered that her flesh was tearing away from the stitches, and her colostomy bag had been put in on the wrong side. The bag was moved to her other side, and stitches were repaired, and the Bride of Humpty Dumpty was back together again. Things started to look up, and her family was told they could go home.

Her husband had just pulled in the drive of their home, 6 hrs from the hospital, when he received the call that yet again, PP had taken a turn for the worse. Infection was spreading faster than STDs at a Motley Crue concert, and it was time to wheel her in for another surgery. This time, they cleaned out all the infection they could, shot her full of mega loads of antibiotics and steroids, and made the decision not to close her up. Her massive incision would now be left open and she would have to heal from the inside out. Her hospital room is draped with plastic, and only her husband is allowed in after gowning up and wearing a mask.

That was a month ago. She is no longer on a ventilator, and she is now being allowed to see semi-solid food. The doctors said yesterday that she will have to be in the hospital for the rest of the summer. And she has no insurance.

Probably means I shouldn't whine about the two days I spent praying to the porcelain god and begging someone to kill me, huh? Yeah, didn't think so.

Best Laid Plans Of Mice and Idiots

Thought for the day:

The grass is always greener on the other side, unless Chuck Norris has been there. In that case the grass is most likely soaked in blood and tears.


It started out like any other plan for a free weekend - lots of high-minded intentions, plenty of beer in the cooler, gas in the tank, friends to meet. If only I could have remembered where that road led that was paved with best intentions...

Memorial Day weekend was going to be outstanding. I could feel it in my bones. First, I would head out to my mother's hometown for the annual Circle C celebration. I would sit around with my cousins and their fellow cowboy degenerates, drink beer, eat hamburgers, and generally mock those who are not adept at riding a hide behind a galloping horse. From there, I would borrow a trailer, load up my horse, head to a buddy's place in the country for a weekend of canyon riding, food, and general laziness. Monday morning would see us on the Niobrara River for a day of canoeing, sunburning, and stuffing our faces. Notice a common theme here? Yeah, I don't leave home without the grub.

I awoke Saturday morning to gray skies and drizzle. Ok, I can live with that. A little sprinkling from the skies never kept me away from a rodeo. I loaded up the coolers, made my kitty litter cake for the afternoon (yes, it's in a litter box and it was excellent), and ran out to my mom's to grab my saddle. Only now, it was no longer drizzle. It was full-on showers from the heavens and the temperature had dropped about 15 degrees. This day was not going to go well.

I decided that spending the morning sitting on soaking wet tailgates and sludging around like a pig in slop wasn't my cup o' tea, so I scrapped the rodeo idea and decided to head to my buddy's house early. He lives about an hour away, so I could get in a little riding time, and surely the weather would be wonderful at his house. The sun would be shining, the bluebird would be perched on my shoulder, and all would be magical.

Yeah, so the bluebird crapped on my shoulder and then made out with my grandma. It poured the entire way to his house, I had to wait for almost an hour at road construction, the horse was pissed, I almost got the trailer stuck on the muddy country roads, and there was no way any of us wanted to ride after the lightning knocked out the power in the house.

We made the best of being stuck inside, and we all spent the day playing games, watching movies, and making chocolate fondue. The weather cleared up just long enough for us to ride about four miles on Sunday, which was better than a jab in the butt with a carrot. The highlight of the ride? When the know-it-all Wisconsin girl next to me was giving me advice on how to handle the horse I was riding, then her horse shied and she fell off. My innards did the happy dance at the sound of her 35-lbs-crammed-in-a-5-lb-pair-of-jeans arse smacking the mud. The leprechauns in my head giggled with evil laughter when they heard, "I think I broke a rib. I think I broke a rib!" No worries, honey. Those ribs have plenty of padding to protect them. We had just put the horses away, Ms. All Hat and No Cattle had limped to the house, moaning in dramatic fashion, and the storms hit again. Back inside for beer and kitty litter cake.

And then Monday rolled around. Once again, there was an 80% chance of rain, and all those cornfed sissies were afraid to go out on the water. No canoe trip for us. I was in full-on scoffing mode when the thunder cracked and the skies opened yet again. In no time at all, it was raining, hailing, and the wind was about 50 mi/hr. Ok, ok, so maybe it would have been a little chilly on the river. The day was shot, and I'd pretty much had my fill of Pictionary and Guesstures by that time. I decided to load up the horse and head for home as soon as the storm lessened a little.

But the moment we started loading Kismet for the trek home, we nearly became extras in Twister. Funnel tails started dipping in and out of the clouds, and ole Noah started herding critters two by two. We scrambled to get everything hooked up, only to discover the lights on the trailer weren't working. My buddy monkeyed with the wiring and repaired the trailer lights, just about the time I discovered the blown fuse on the truck that knocked out my brake lights. We jimmy-rigged the fuses to get me home, and I set out for greener pastures.

It was raining so hard, I could hardly see to drive. I made it about 30 miles when the trailer started pulling in directions I didn't want to go. I was right at the turnoff for a little podunk town, so I whipped 'er on in to confirm my suspicions. Sure enough, I'd blown a tire on the trailer. I started muttering vows to murder the trailer's owner, who had assured me the tires were just fine, and climbed out into the still pouring rain. I then discovered not only does my mother not carry a four-way lug wrench (or any other kind) in her truck, she only had a baby jack that comes under the back seat of a Dodge Dakota.

I unloaded my saddle, flung it into the front seat, and was lying on the floor in the back seat to remove the cursed jack when a guy pulled up. Mind you, I was soaked to the skin, looked like I'd been set on fire and beaten with a track shoe, and my patience level had been hurtled past about 20 minutes before. He took one look at my pathetic jack and just grinned. He had a handyman jack, a four-way, and few words. He changed the tire without me having to unload the horse, and was done in about 10 minutes. AND he refused payment, as any self-respecting cowboy in these parts would do. Of course, as any self-respecting appreciative unprepared fool would do, I figured out who he was, where he hung out with his buddies in that nowhere town, and returned a few days later with a case of beer.

From this point on, there is now a four-way wrench under the seat. There will soon be a decent jack in the back. And the next time someone asks me what I'm doing over a three day weekend, the answer will be, "I'm staying home."

Firemen Know How to Handle Their Hose

The bank next door to my office is on fire. I guess it's in the attic, so let's hope it stays there. The wind is about 30 mi/hr, so if it gets out, my hair is going to smell like smoke for days.

Needless to say, it's quite the bit of excitement here in Hickville. I think the entire fire department is on the street right now, which includes 3/4 of the males over 18 in town. Two ambulances drove by my house at about 60 mi/hr, despite the fact that there are no injuries. I guess if you mow down a pedestrian on the way to a fire you at least have someone to transport back to the hospital. Hate to make a wasted trip.

Half the town is standing out on Main Street watching the goings-on. Most importantly, the streets are blocked off, so I had to hoof it a block back to work in the wind, in heels, and through a crowd of firemen. Lemme tell ya, that's only a treat in a Diet Coke commercial. In RL, the firemen are the same overweight dorks you went to high school with that spend more time peeing off the back of a fire truck than fighting blazes. And since they're all volunteer, this gets them out of their boring jobs for the afternoon, and they get to go play hero for a few hours. That guarantees them an evening of drinking beer at the fire hall and telling tales of how they barely made it out alive.

Our cute chief of police is standing in the middle of the street directing traffic. He seems confident and capable, and all the young ladies are swooning. And now he just shot his chew spit farther than any other sandbilly on the block. Golly gee, I sure is glad we got one of them there high-class po-licemen protecting us. Great googly-moogly.

Years ago, the building next to our office had a fire that totaled the building. The lackeys in our office spent their time hauling file cabinets out the back door, while everything else in the building got hosed down. That better not happen today. I have a bad back and a light-colored shirt.

Bits and Bytes

Quote of the day:

Boy, I can tell I'm getting old. Instead of having romantic fantasies when I sleep, now I dream about getting wood. - my mom

(Isn't that the same thing? Just sayin'...)


Since I keep getting nagged about coming out of my head-shaving, naked-bongo-playing, beard-and-sunglasses retirement, I thought I'd throw you a token post today. Not that I don't delight in dramatizing the small details of my life to help me forget that I'm living in the middle of soul-sucking nowhere, but the sad fact is that things have been pretty dull lately here in Hickville. Without the daily exploits of the Wonky-Eyed Beast to set my eye a-twitching, I fear I may have to resort to telling you what I had for breakfast or describing the color of the fecal deposit I discovered on the sidewalk in front of my gate this morning (pretty sure it was not human).

Indeed, life in these parts has been slower than a stutterer at a spelling bee, and it's getting a little tiresome. It's not that I long for someone to go on a killing spree next door or anything, but at this point, I'd be giddy if I saw that fat guy across the street riding a minibike. That, my friends, is not a good sign.

So here are the highlights of the last few months:

My wife beater neighbor and his dumbed down enabler moved out in the dead of night, leaving behind a random child's toy and a planter that I'm pretty sure housed a marijuana plant on the front porch. I no longer feel prying eyes leering over a beer bottle at me, which will eliminate the need for this flannel burka.

Our speechies did amazing this year, becoming District Champions, with 11 making it to State yesterday. Of course, once there, they got all excited, then fearful, nauseous, and wild-eyed. None progressed to finals. However, that is the most we've ever had advance to State, so it staved off the vein explosion in the coach's forehead for one more season. And if she ever found out I had been planning to quit this year, she'd crap in a sock.

The dad of one of my former classmates was recently discovered to have a second family in South Dakota. He was found out because his wife, who just happened to work for the sheriff's office, saw a petition for child support come across her desk. Being the wonderful person she is, she forgave him and they stayed together. But when they went to CA to see their daughter and new grandchild, he received a call from ANOTHER woman (who is only 2 years older than his daughter) to tell him THEIR son was sick, and he abandoned his wife to return home to family #3. The wife decided this was the proverbial straw, and filed for divorce. About a week later, her neighbor saw him in the bushes outside her house, wearing only a banana hammock and carrying a gun. When the cops arrived, he had a gun barrel in his estranged wife's mouth, and had told her there was going to be a murder-suicide. Now sitting in jail, he can't understand what she is so mad about, because she should be happy that he couldn't go through with it after all. That man is crazy all day.

Beavis recently took a job as an irrigation hand, and he's been enjoying it much more than I expected, considering it forces him to remove his butt from the bean bag chair and lay down his Guitar Hero toys. However, he was standing in the back of the truck the other day, and the driver pushed the wrong lever, swinging the large hook right at Beavis' head. It caught him in the side of his face so hard that it knocked him out of the back of the truck. And since he's about 6'1", 250 lbs, that's some serious force. Other than sounding like this now, there seems to be no ill effects.

I have now switched degree paths, after suddenly discovering that Ihatefixingcomputerswiththefireofathousandsuns and Ihopeallhackersandspammersgetnutcanceranddie. I am currently working toward a paralegal degree and I quickly realized that for the last nine years, I've been doing the work of a paralegal anyway. Things are going smoothly so far, and I'm hoping to have most of it finished before I leave for Italy.

Speaking of which, does anyone have any brilliant info they would like to share regarding traveling from Newark airport to New York/Jersey City/Wallkill? We are flying out of Newark when we go to Italy, but we will have a day to screw around before we leave. I refuse to rent a car to travel to New York or Jersey City, but I would consider it for Wallkill. I know nothing of the transit system or crap like that, so I'd be loving any suggestions you could pass along. Also, what sights can we not miss? We will have about 5 hrs to kill in NY on the return trip before our flight back to Omaha. Bear in mind that I will have a 60 year old mother in tow who is always 30 seconds from full-on schizophrenic meltdown, so anything that will force her out of her comfort zone and into fetal position on public transportation will be greatly appreciated.

Oh, and I'm currently attempting to learn ASL. My mom is getting almost stone deaf, but that has nothing to do with the price of tea in China. I rather enjoy that, because I can sit 20 feet from her and confess to every dirty rotten deed I've ever committed and she still knows nothing of them. Either that, or she's been faking it all along and I'm now officially written out of her will. But a friend of mine in Rapid City has been learning sign language, and it seems like there isa shortage of interpreters for the deaf. Not that there are many in my area, but it would open up some opportunities if I ever move elsewhere. Plus, she's going to Italy with me, so it will be fun to entertain ourselves with on the plane when the batteries in my electronic toys die. So far, I can spell my name and do the sign for lesbian. For the record, those two things are completely unconnected, but the boys on the speech team were looking through my ASL dictionary, and that was the first sign they went to. I guess I also know how to say, "What up, cracker?", so I'm pretty sure I now have enough knowledge to get thrown out of a bar or beaten soundly by a deaf person. I now only need to get a job as a bullfighter at a midget rodeo, and my lifelong goals will have finally been met. Anyone know where I can get a job application?

The Fungus Among Us

Someone sent me this e-mail, and I thought it was interesting.

http://www.familywatchdog.us/

When you visit this site you can enter your address and a map will pop up with your house as a small icon of a house. There will be red, blue and green dots surrounding your entire neighborhood. When you click on these dots a picture of a criminal will appear with his or her home address and the description of the crime he or she has committed. The best thing is that you can show your children these pictures and see how close these people live to your home or school. This site was developed by John Walsh from Americas Most Wanted. This is another tool we can use to help us keep our kids safe.

Of course, in a small town like Hicksville, I already know the perverts - heck, we've represented half of them. But it's still good to know where they live, especially since I didn't see any of my neighbors on there. Now I can go to bed without wearing the hockey gear and holding on to the Uzi.