I don’t talk much about politics, but just to show I’ve always paid attention, I uncovered this piece from way back in 2012. I think you’ll find me on the cutting edge of activism:

 

News has come that New York City Mayor Bloomberg wants to ban supersized sugary drinks, as a way to combat malnutrition.

He also signed a proclamation for NYC Donut Day.

Sometimes it just writes itself.

(Oh, another note of irony: I brought up several internet articles to familiarize myself with the Bloomberg Big Belly Ban, and the very first one was preceded by one of those annoying internet ads – for Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.)

The BBBB would apply to any bottled soda or fountain drink over 16 ounces that contains more than 25 calories per eight ounces, which is pretty much all of them. They’d be outlawed at restaurants, sports venues, street vendors, and – brace yourselves – movie theaters. Gasp! Next they’ll be taking my large buttered popcorn.

But those goobers won’t get it without a fight.

No word on whether the 17 ounce Big Gulp will be available in government offices, but grocery stores and convenience stores would be exempt. Apparently large soft drinks sold there are not dangerous.

The good news is, banning things that are bad for us is always effective, and always, always works. Just ask the people who pushed Prohibition.

Well, they can have my Slurpee when they pry it from my cold, sticky hands.

If they criminalize supersized Cokes, only criminals will be truly refreshed.

Family reunions are a great place to exercise my right to choose.

When Bloomberg came for cigarettes, nobody spoke (because they were busy coughing). When he came for trans fats, nobody stood up (because they were too heavy to get to their feet). Now they come for sugary drinks, and who will stand up for Mr. Pibbs? Has the medical field even debated this? Did anyone ask Dr. Pepper?

Give me Mountain Dew, or give me death! And not Diet Mountain Dew, either. It tastes like artificially sweetened sheep dip.

The Founding Fathers would be horrified. The whole reason they settled in the New World is because the British wouldn’t let us sweeten our tea.

“One lump or two?”

“How dare they alter our national beverage? Off with their heads!”

Then we formed an independent country, so we could have southern style sweet tea. Thomas Jefferson wrote that right into the Declaration of Independence, along with a clause about fried chicken and gravy. Both were removed by a rather grumpy New York delegate named Samuel Chase, whose wife had just put him on a diet.

Say, do you suppose that’s it? Maybe Bloomberg’s just steamed because his wife has him eating fish and asparagus.

The Founding Fathers really would be horrified, as this kind of nanny state thinking is exactly what the Constitution was meant to prevent. It demonstrates that their written guide for the country is more relevant now than ever, despite the food stains.

Rumor has it the Founding Fathers fueled their revolutionary ardor with God’s snack: S’Mores.

Benjamin Franklin would be especially upset, as he’s been known to upturn an extra-large mug of mead himself, from time to time. Franklin, who famously said wine is proof that God loves us, and wants to see us happy, would have loved one of those fountain drinks that you need to haul around in a cart. Ben Franklin would have punched Bloomberg right in the nose. Well, maybe not … Ben would probably have slept with Bloomberg’s wife. He was into all sorts of excesses.

I’m not so sure about Thomas Jefferson’s reaction. He believed in personal freedoms (unless you were one of his slaves), but also had a huge vegetable garden that he took great pride in. He grew over 250 varieties of more than 70 different vegetable species, in a garden 1,000 feet long. His children hated him.

Once, Jefferson sent John Adams a sampling of twenty different types of lettuce. Adams wrote back: “Tom, would you relax and have a friggin’ donut? I’ll bet you can’t find twenty different varieties of donuts.” (This was before Krispy Kreme.)

Still, they would have agreed that no mayor of York, old or new, had the right to come over and tell them how many lumps they could put in their tea. Should you stop drinking huge sugary drinks? Of course. Should we bow to a government telling us we have to? Hell, no.

We can’t have true freedom without independence. A nanny state, by definition, is a lack of independence. I may disapprove of what you eat, but I will defend to the early death your right to pork rinds.

Yes, there have to be some limits in an orderly society, but we must draw a jittery line in the sand, with one of those big soda straws. Our voices, strengthened by a sugar rush, should shout out that we can be convinced to be healthier, but not be force fed. And, to paraphrase Franklin Delano Roosevelt, we would rather die on our Frostie than live on our salads.

Now. If you’ll excuse me, it’s time for a little non-violent protest. Supersize me.

Is this a great country, or what?





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 We lost one of our past firefighters this month, and a present long-time member is fighting a deadly disease.

Joe Meyer was one of my trainees when I was an Albion Fire Department instructor, and he remained a member for ten years, alongside his brother. 

That's Joe second from left, beside me. I particularly liked this group of trainees, only partially because they came in a group--it can be hard to train one or two firefighters to do a job that requires a team. They were a great bunch.

Here's Joe's obituary:

https://www.harperfuneralhomes.com/obituary/Joe-Meyer

 

Joe was a character, and not just because he could pull off a cowboy hat with his turnout gear. (I don't remember the circumstances behind this photo ... maybe he just got cold easily, like I do. That's probably not it.)


Mitch Fiandt remains a member of the AFD, after transferring from the Orange Township Fire Department when he moved many years ago. He has, I think, six or eight years on me in the longevity department.

Now Mitch is fighting cancer, which is sadly not an unusual thing for firefighters. I've had a couple of scares myself, but Mitch is pretty sick--treatment is ongoing. Chemo, as anyone who has experienced it themselves or through loved ones knows, is rough by any standards.

So say a prayer for Mitch, Joe, and their families, and if you don't pray send good thoughts their way. I expect it's not going to be a fun holiday season for anyone involved.





 

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 I have this ongoing fantasy that whenever I have to recover from an illness or injury it will give me plenty of time to write, or at least read. I'm always behind on both, so it seems like the perfect opportunity.

Then there's reality.

I applied for three sick days for after my sinus surgery, which I thought was overkill. Added to my normal days off, that gave me five days after a minimally invasive, outpatient procedure that would straighten a thing up here and unclog another thing there. The result, hopefully, would be fewer sinus infections and headaches.

Truth is, I was very close to being in a good mood, going in. Sure, we were at the hospital from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m., but I slept through half of it. Emily had two books, a cell phone, and a charger cord.

I woke up feeling no pain, which is really not a good sign one way or another. But the surgeon told Emily that, while the passages to my upper sinuses would always be unusually narrow, they were now clear and I was a model patient. Sadly, he found neither the loose change nor the Matchbox car I thought may have been lost up there in childhood.

It would have looked like this, only ickier.

It all went downhill from there.

For pain they put me on Norco, which made me think the Feds would burst in any moment, and I'd end up bleeding in a jail cell whether they hit me or not. Turns out the stuff's also called Vicodin, which isn't better, but gives you an idea of how much pain they expected. I have something of an addictive personality, so I decided to get off it as soon as humanly possible. Two days should do it.

Two days didn't do it. I was able to cut the dose in half from the maximum, then in half again, but my head and sinuses still throb as of when I'm pecking away at this, the next Thursday morning.

(I've been working on this column for three days. I keep falling asleep or just losing focus. London's got nothin' on my brain fog.)

So I looked up the exact term for my surgery, which no way am I well enough to type here, and researched the recovery time. How soon a patient could be expected to return to work was not a few days, but a week. It also said symptoms could continue for a month or two before all the aftereffects stop effecting. Until then: Dizziness, nausea, pain, minor bleeding, brain fog, confusion, dizziness--did I say confusion? But enough about my typical mornings.

Then we have the three times a day nasal saline irrigation.

There's no way to make this procedure more fun, but there is a way to make it less fun: Have it produce a large amount of blood and clotting. You know, my stomach isn't quite ready for me to discuss that.

So ... I'm not sure where I was going with this. Basically I just wanted to check in and let everyone know that I really am feeling better, it's just that "better" can be relative. I'm a little frustrated that I'm a week behind in my Haunted Noble County writing, but we spent some time listening to audio books (Wayward Pines), which I can do reclined with my eyes closed. I predict that when we talk to the surgeon he'll say I'm well on my way to recovery. I'm going to check him for my spare change.

Also, I'll take a nap. Or two.

 

 


Remember, when you don't buy one of our books ... I don't know, something happens.


 

I'd planned reruns and pre-written blogs until the Haunted History project was finished, but I popped in to tell everyone the source of my constant head pain and sinus infections has finally been isolated.

It was in my sinuses.

Maybe I should be more specific. Various allergy/sinus/head doctors have poked and prodded me for years. A sleep study revealed I do, in fact, sleep. My allergy tests showed I was, indeed, allergic. To everything. I even had surgery to unclog a lower part of my sinuses that seemed to be causing the trouble. Still, in recent months the pain became sometimes debilitating, although I think I did a pretty good job of hiding it. Witnesses may disagree.

While typing this I realized I should have taken a medical leave from the fire department, for all the good I've done the last couple of years. What a headache.

"You expect me to sleep with this thing on?"

 

I found out after we got Beowulf that I was allergic to dogs, but refused to give him up. Now that he's passed you'd think maybe it would get a little better, but instead my sinus infections kept on coming and the headaches got worse and worse. The truth is, many days in recent months the headaches were so bad I was incapable of doing much of anything ... but I could still write, so I told myself it was all good.

It wasn't.

So the allergy doctor suggested a CAT scan. I patiently (because I'm the patient) explained to him that would be bad, as one of my worst allergies was to cats. I hugged Beowulf every day, but if I came within a block of a cat I ended up looking like patient zero in a zombie outbreak.

A brave photographer caught this assassination attempt.

 

Turns out I got my dander up for nothing: CAT is an acronym, which stands for ... um ... something medical. Not only that, but it took all of five minutes, and the doctor would be waiting to show me the results right after.

Only the doctor was called away to unplanned surgery, and I had to wait a week and a half. Just to let the imagination simmer a bit.

When I finally saw him, Doctor Herr, who's a he, didn't even bother poking and prodding much. "Your two uppermost sinuses," he explained, "are completely blocked. Nothing can get out, and that's where your sinus infections have been hiding."

My sinuses were constipated.

Dr. Herr (who's a he) didn't explain to me how the infection itself got out, but maybe it has a special pass. In any case, we could try another course of the same antibiotics that didn't work last time, or he could go down to Doc's Hardware, rent a roto-rooter, and dig that sucker out.

That's not exactly the way he described it.

"Dude, I may be a doggie angel now, but I can't protect you from a mad doctor with a post hole digger."

So at the end of September I'm going under the knife, and also under the needle and the drill, and possibly the hammer and chisel. It's more major than my other sinus surgery, but Dr. Herr (who may be a her, I didn't ask) told me if he drills through to my brain, he'll just switch to reverse. Maybe I'll come out of surgery able to speak Latin, or play the violin. Or play Latin violin music.

Hope to see you at my first concert.

 

 


Remember, whenever you don't buy one of our books I get a nosebleed. Save the Kleenex.

 


 

 Someday, someone will invent time travel. Then the government will get hold of it, and the first thing they'll do is over-regulate it. "All forms must be completed in triplicate--and no, you can't fill them out ahead of time."

One of those regulations will state, quite explicitly, that you CANNOT go back to any point in the 2020s.

No, not because of COVID: because the insanity might be contagious.

We've gone through way worse times, as a country and as a world. The American Civil War was awful. The Great Depression kinda sucked. The 40s could have been better. The 50s were okay but, as with most times, it depended on who you were.

I don't know bout the 1820s, but the 1920s were roaring. The 2020s? Just ... weird.

And I thought that before the Chinese spy balloon came over.

Honestly, I was convinced the thing was from North Korea. The Chinese have satellites, for crying out loud. Maybe the North Koreans were just trying to dip down and steal some grain.

 


I mean, have you seen Kim Jong-un? He's the only person in the country who's not starving. They have to keep bread on his table, or he'll start eating his subjects.

 

The Chinese, in the interest of spreading conspiracy theories, have solved that problem by cutting into the population with viruses. It seemed like a good idea at the time. (Kidding! Just in case their balloon managed to land spy technology on my roof.)

It's probably worth mentioning that in 2020 Iran launched their own military satellite.

Then Russia's very own dictator saw what Kim Jong-un was doing and said, "Here: Hold my vodka"

What Putin didn't realize was that the Russian Army's warranty ran out in 2019.

 

What else could possibly go wrong?

 

 

Meanwhile we had only the 3rd Presidential impeachment in history, and naturally the whole thing ran along party lines, because aren't the parties more important than the people? Sure they are.

In 2020 oil prices tanked. Remember that? No? Now gas is so expensive that instead of a fast food place attached to gas stations, they're teaming up with those payday loan places. "I just need a cash advance so I can get to work so I can earn the money to get to work."

Want to know the fun part? Most of that stuff happened, or at least started, in 2020. Just the first year of the decade that time travelers will someday cancel.

The rest of the decade actually gives a sense of dejas vus, which is a Latin term meaning "what, again?" Recession, shortages, racial tensions, crazy storms, nuclear threats, government bloat, inflation ...

Holy crap. Three years into this decade, and we're in the 70s again. That explains the Déjà vu, anyway.

And we've got seven more 20s years to go.

Remember, every time you learn something from a book it makes Kim Jong-un cry. And that's a good thing.


 

 I'm not okay.

Sometimes we have to admit that. Not to others, although that's fine--but to ourselves. Pretending you're okay is not okay. Being not okay is okay, which doesn't mean you should want to stay that way.

On April Fourth my teenage nephew killed himself. My post about it is here:

https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/2023/04/rest-in-peace-christian.html

There, now I don't have to go through writing that again. (Meanwhile, about a week later an apartment complex in a neighboring town was shot up by a man who used to be married to my ex-wife. I never particularly cared for him, but my daughters are good friends of his kids, and they're wonderful people. This helped no one's stress level.)

Christian's. A 16 year old with a lot going for him.

I didn't see Christian as often as I would have liked, which is no one's fault but my own. Still, it hit me as hard as my brother's death two years ago. Has it been two years? I'm not over that, either, although I told myself I was.

The reason I'm writing this is because my next blog--unless something else happens--will likely be another humor attempt to cheer up everyone's lives a little, as I'm wont to do. Yes, I did use that word correctly, look it up. I do this because so many of us are going through difficult times, and could use the cheering up. Making people laugh, or at least smile, lightens my own day. Since I suffer from depression and anxiety myself, what helps others helps me.

But that doesn't mean I'm all right.

 

 

Remember Robin Williams? Funniest guy alive, everything to live for. Killed himself.

Please try to remember that even if someone seems fine--even if they insist they're fine--you don't know what's going on underneath. You don't know what the person next to you is going through. Maybe they don't know. My wife always figures out I'm having a bad day before I do.

So support mental health awareness, fight the stigma, and ... laugh a lot. Keep your spirits up. Get help if needed. The world may seem a hard and depressing place, but it does you no good to dwell on it. Worst case scenario, I'll be there to make you smile ... or at least try to.

 

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 This has been the hardest blog I've tried to write since my brother passed away two years ago. So I didn't write it. This is my sister's original post about my nephew's death:

It is with broken hearts that our family is announcing that early this morning we found our son and brother Christian had committed suicide last night/early this morning, by swallowing a massive amount of prescription pills. We had a call from one of his teachers at approximately 9am, who had been alerted by some of his classmates that he had left some posts on Instagram at around 4am. We went to check on him, and unfortunately he was already gone. The only good thing is we were told by the coroner he went peacefully in his sleep. We aren't saying suicide is the way. Just that he went peacefully. We love him with all our hearts and will always miss him. Please pray for him to be at peace in heaven with Christ. One of the last things he posted was that only Christ could save him now. You are with Christ now. Be at peace. We love you! Fly high Squirt!!!

https://scontent-ord5-2.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t39.30808-6/339798705_775157437281461_7254252405866453686_n.jpg?stp=dst-jpg_p370x247&_nc_cat=105&ccb=1-7&_nc_sid=8bfeb9&_nc_ohc=kZACC8oNYj4AX-_I0IU&_nc_ht=scontent-ord5-2.xx&oh=00_AfBBHJSD_hT9XlcnOgFk7MjGRbSx0ZwKHNV11krkBTHKWA&oe=6432C219

Here's the obituary:

 

https://memorials.fairhavenfortwayne.com/christian-rog-ers/5170272/index.php?fbclid=IwAR2974qglEKWpPEwQzfFnBMd0LLZnZxeRRPKK0tiTwWdZU_EFgc_HdL_E7k
 

 

I think I'm having more trouble dealing with this than I did with Jeff's passing because my brother had a six decade life, while Christian's life was just beginning. Also because I DO understand, to an extent: My teenage years were more horrible than not, for a variety of reasons. That time of our life is difficult for many of us. And that's why it's all the more important that we do our best to keep this tragedy from happening to others.

https://scontent-ord5-2.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t39.30808-6/339797367_1159349758795208_1190124680028152376_n.jpg?stp=c0.4.526.526a_dst-jpg_p526x296&_nc_cat=100&ccb=1-7&_nc_sid=09cbfe&_nc_ohc=c7TxN97HwDUAX8WnlGU&_nc_ht=scontent-ord5-2.xx&oh=00_AfBANdHmzCpAvEDvMDijXe7NF_G9KkEr3s0HVipkOq2bqw&oe=6433D78A

There are many resources available for suicide prevention. Here are just a few of them:

www.in.gov/issp/

 

 

https://youth.gov/youth-topics/youth-suicide-prevention

 

https://www.healthychildren.org/English/health-issues/conditions/emotional-problems/Pages/Ten-Things-Parents-Can-Do-to-Prevent-Suicide.aspx

 

Rest in peace, Christian.

I spent a lot of time in medical facilities, usually as a visitor, occasionally as a patient. And yet--this will come as a surprise to my fourteen regular readers--I've never had an MRI. Until a few years ago.

Oh, plenty of X-rays, and a biopsy. The MRI was oh, so much more fun, in a world where "fun" is relative.

 The Magnetic Resonance Imaging test was to find whether there might be cancer in my prostate, and also, I suppose, to confirm my head wasn't up there. As I said earlier, there was no cancer, which doesn't mean there were no surprises.

We were told by various armchair testing experts that the MRI would take around twenty minutes. luckily, my wife brought a book with her anyway. It would take an hour, the med people said as they presented me with the only good surprise of the day: scrubs to wear, instead of one of those weird back exposing half-shirts you couldn't tie shut with duct tape and Superglue.

The people there (who were very nice, by the way), asked a laundry list of questions designed to make sure I had no metal on me. There was a pause when I told them I had a piece of metal in my upper chest. Where was it from? I told them "Nam", with a fairly straight face, because the truth is just too mundane.

"Well," one replied, "if your Viet Cong shrapnel starts to heat up, or if any other area catches fire, let us know."

I've seen metal fly into the air before, and it's always very exciting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

(FYI, I was thirteen when the Vietnam War ended. I really need to update that particular lame joke.)

I was also told not to touch my hands to each other, or I might look like one of those movie superheroes generating lightning between their fingers.

As you slide into the little tube, they give you a bulb to hold in one hand. Squeezing it sets of an alarm. One reason for this is because you're packed into that thing so tightly even people with no fear of enclosed spaces feel like the lowest sardine in the pack.

They put headphones on me, because the MRI machine makes more noise than a reelected Congressman on his third drink. I was looking forward to some nice music, or any music, but these were just regular headphones--the music ones were on back order. Instead I was serenaded by the grinding and buzzing of a machine so loud I heard it plainly even with headphones and earplugs. It was like trying to sleep in a jet engine.

And every once in awhile the thing suddenly moved, which no one warned me about. I thought some giant was squeezing me out onto his toothbrush.

But the weirdest thing that happened was right after they turned it on, when someone started tugging on that bulb in my hand. I was startled, because no one was in the room. My hand was floating into the air, as if the Force was trying to get me to lift my car to a closer parking spot.

Then I realized it wasn't my hand lifting into the air--it was my ring. It was trying to float away and take my finger with it, which feels just as weird as it sounds.

 

This very ring, which, yes, could have come from Uranus.
 

It turns out rings are usually not of a material affected, so Magneto can't try to make you dance from one arm. MRI technicians often don't bother with them.

But my wife, knowing my interest in astronomy, got me a wedding ring made from a meteorite--an iron meteorite. Magneto could go to town on me. 

 

After that all went well. The sliver of steel is still in my chest--Gulf War?--and I passed the time by plotting out a new novel. It's going to be about a guy who gets transported to another world through an MRI machine.

Or Magneto.


 

https://media.allauthor.com/images/bookbanner/img/39121-6.jpg

 

 

Remember: Every time you buy a book, a Terminator gets stuck to an MRI machine. Save John Conner.

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I want to start out by saying I do not have cancer, and this story actually happened some time ago. So not to worry.

But the docs thought I might ... for several years. Specifically, I had high prostate specific antigen readings, otherwise known as PSA. That's why I kept having to visit my urologist, Doctor Finger. What a pain in the ass.

But it could be worse. I always thought a urologist dealt with urine issues, and I don't want anyone's finger going up that way.

So they tested, and probed (!) and tested again, during which time I was told I might have cancer ... or not. So then they went in with a needle and took about a dozen samples, something called a biopsy. Do you want to know where they go in with a needles to get those samples?

No. No, you do not.
 
A James Webb Space Telescope image of my prostate.



It came up, um, clean, but the PSA count stayed high. Way high. Too high. Something was wrong.

(Some men go for years with high PSA ratings, without ever getting cancer. Women rarely have high PSA readings, what with them not having prostates. But men don't often have to get mammograms, so never mind.)

And so, in desperation, Doctor Finger sent me to get an MRI. That stands for Magnetic Resonance Imaging, and costs about a hundred dollars a letter. That's $600 just for the magnet. (Buying and installing one MRI machine can cost more than three million dollars.)

I'll be writing separately about the MRI ... it was an experience. Honestly, I'd much rather go through it again than have a physical exam by my urologist, who's a really nice guy but has big hands. The MRI took an hour, and the digital exam a few minutes, but it felt the opposite.

I know you're anxious to see the results ... um, hear--hear the results. Well, there was no immediate sign of cancer. Yay!

But my prostate was, quoting Doctor Finger, "as big as my head". And his head is even bigger than his hands.
 
If the prostate was a balloon, mine would be the Hindenburg.
 
 

Now, here's the fun part: My prostate is two and a half times its normal size. He explained that PSA readings are like harvesting crops: The bigger the field, the more crops you harvest. So, since my prostate was bigger, my PSA count was naturally bigger, too.

See where I'm going with this?

Yeah. For ten years when I might have had cancer because of unusually high PSA counts, my PSA counts were NORMAL.

So.

You know, I lead a fairly stressful life already; I don't need any help. Just sayin'.
 
 
Remember: Whenever you don't buy a book, an author has to have a colonoscopy. Save their ass.

 
 

 One stressful thing about being a dispatcher is that when the phone rings it could be anything. Many of us play Dispatch Bingo. A UFO report? A herd of cattle blocking the roadway? Lunch, interrupted? A couple arguing over who gets custody of their dog? That's a row--bingo!

For some dispatchers this is one of the perks of the job: the challenge and variety. For others, not so much.

Years ago the business line rang and, in a calm voice, a man gave me his name and home address, so we could notify his family. Then he gave me the location where we could find his body. Then he hung up.

Often, when a suicidal person reaches out, it's a cry for help. Not this time. When our units arrived they could only confirm my certainty: Immediately after hanging up the phone, he shot himself. I was the last person he ever spoke to.

It messed me up.

Word got around, and my boss called to check on me. I told him I would be okay, which was true in the long run. I don't know if I told him that in the short run I wasn't okay at all, but my wife was with me, and I hung in there.

I've served in three branches of the emergency services: EMS, Fire, and 911 Dispatch. If anyone mentions PTSD or critical incident stress, I immediately flash back to one particular call in each of those three areas. But a lot of time has passed since those incidents, and although they still dwell in the dark corners of my brain, they don't control my life.

Usually.


Earlier this year we received a report of a person threatening to kill themself with a gun. I didn't take that call, but the moment I heard the details my body chilled, I could barely breath, and my mind went numb. That suicide from so long ago crashed out of the cage I'd trapped it in and rampaged through my head.

It turns out the person in this case did not have a gun, and the whole thing ended peacefully. Still, it was a wake up call. A jangling alarm that took about five years off my life ... and after three decades at this job, I've already lost enough. It's one of the reasons why I've been pushing my writing career: Not only because I have a lot of stories to tell, but because I'd like to spend my time writing them instead of screaming into a pillow after work every morning.


(This is one time in this blog when I exaggerate: No, I don't scream into a pillow after work. I kiss my wife, hug the dog, and hit the bed, where I usually get a good eight hours of sleep in between the weird dreams.)

I'm not writing this to get sympathy for me. I just wanted to remind everyone that the person you think is strong and "normal" may be battling monsters inside. In fact, they may be the most cheerful people you know, always with a smile and a joke. But the effects of stress are real, and the challenge of maintaining our mental health is a stigma that still remains, even today.


Look after yourself. Look after your friends. And if someone says they're having a problem with their emotions or their mental state, take them seriously. Sometimes we make it look way easier than it is.

Now, I'm off to write some humor ... we all have our ways to cope.

 

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ozma914: mustache Firefly (mustache)
( Jan. 6th, 2023 08:10 pm)

As mentioned before, I don't usually write about bad stuff unless it can somehow be made funny. Well, funny to me. That's why I haven't said much about Emily and I both being sick through the entire month of December, and now into January.

I mean, it's winter, I'm sick, it's moved into my sinuses--not exactly breaking news. Everybody's sick. People buried for five years have set off local seismographs with their coughing. You may think I'm joking, but remember: Many of those same dead people voted in the last several elections.

I got so sick I was unable to do any writing work for over a week. No editing, no submitting ... a little promoting, but that's the un-fun part, anyway. I started going into withdrawals. I also had to take time off from my full time job, but I had about fifty sick days saved up. In this one case, that's not an exaggeration.

 

"I could take a sick day, but I prefer to wait until I turn green."

 

 

At the rate this winter's been going, I'll be down to zero in no time.

It's led to certain things being said around the house that I'd just as soon not have said:

 "I talked to the doctor: She wants us to stop talking to her."

"Why do we still live in a house with one bathroom?"

"Siri, how many cases of Kleenex can fit in a Ford Escape?"

"Dr. Fauci's at the door, he's coming out of retirement just for us."

And my favorite: "My mucus is fluorescent green. Could this be Kryptonite poisoning?"

Hm. It occurs to me that this bug makes us feel exactly like having a hangover, but without any of the fun parts from the night before.

 We still don't know what it is, although Emily got a two for one case of croup. She coughed so much that at first our worried dog hovered over her. Now he curls up in the room furthest away. (He was sick half of last year. Now he's fine, except everyone keeps waking up in the wee hours to make ramen and tea.)

"Good news! They want a few gallons of my blood for a study!"

 

 

They tested us for flu a. through f., Covid, mono, strep, plague, rabies, mad cow disease, and something called M-Pox, which is apparently transmitted by monkeys, but for some reason we can't say so. The CDC set up a tube passage that ran directly from our back door to their tent. "Have you figured out the problem?" I asked the Doc while he was doing a preliminary check of my wallet.

"Yes, you don't pick up the dog poops enough. It'll take hours to clean up our clean room boots."

"No, I mean about what's wrong with us."

"You're trying to earn enough money writing to retire."

"No, I mean medically."

"Oh. Uh, you have an upper respiratory illness."

"Thanks. I figured that out when I started sounding like Elmer Fudd."

 

 

 

"Well ... it's a bad upper respiratory illness."

At that point he prescribed a controlled substance to Emily to quiet her cough, because people who haven't slept for three days have been known to throw kitchen implements at doctors, not that it happened here.

No pharmacy in northeast Indiana had that medicine. Apparently we're not the only people with a cough.

 But it's okay, because after a few weeks of insomnia I was able to sleep right through the coughs. As for me, the crap moved--as usual--into my sinuses. Sinus infections are like my old friends, who stop by twice a year to visit for a month. That, I know how to deal with.

Oh, and don't worry: I'm taking care of Emily. Nothing ever goes wrong with anything I'm trying to fix.

 

 

 

You can find our decontaminated books here:

 

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Remember: Whenever a book doesn't sell, a doctor loses his patience.

 

Let's face it: 2022 sucked.

Don't get me wrong: In no way am I suggesting 2023 will be any better. That's the mistake a lot of people made at the end of 2020 and 2021. Just the same, 2022 seems to have been, overall, the worst year of the 2020s (so far), and that's going some.

I'm sure some people had a great 2022. Arms dealers, for instance. No matter how bad a time period is, there's someone who was happy--as an example, Hitler had an awesome 1939.

 On the other hand, Vladamir Putin thought he was going to have an incredible 2022 but, like many of us, he'll hit the New Year shaking his head and saying, "What the heck just happened?"

I don't want to turn this into a Rodney Dangerfield routine. Or maybe I do--Rodney understood the value of comedic complaining. But it wasn't the best year in the world from a personal standpoint. Emily and I have been sick so much the CDC pitched a tent in our back yard. In twenty-five years, I've only had the flu once--this time came a few weeks after our flu shot.

 

 

 The above is a picture of downtown Fort Wayne I took from Lutheran Hospital. You know what that means? Yep--visiting my Dad in the hospital. Worse, then we got sick and couldn't visit him.

 

As I write this Emily has lost her voice. At first it was cool, because I walked around the house telling puns and singing Christmas songs loudly. Then she summoned enough strength to start throwing things at me. On a related note, I suffered a head injury this year.

Even the dog kept getting sick. He's 98 in dog years now, and as a result of old age he doesn't know if has to, um, drop a deuce until it's already happening. I mean, you can't get mad at him, and I'm all set for a future career in carpet cleaning.

"Watch your step."

 

My knee going bad from early arthritis, that I expected. Getting a case of Trigger Thumb? Did not expect. (What is it? Well, it's like trigger finger, except in the thumb.) I spent most of 2022 in one of two braces.

We also seem to have started our next round of having to replace stuff. The couch broke, and the toilet broke. We could have managed without the couch. Also, the car's now running rough because the service people are unable to remove an old spark plug, which is stuck because radiator fluid is leaking around it.

I had no idea that could happen. It used to be I'd call my brother for help with these things, but, well ... the 2020s suck.

Rodney Dangerfield could have done all this better, but you get the point.

In 2022 the world population reached eight billion, and two out of three got one of the three pandemics that hit this year. The third got trigger thumb.

Inflation hit its highest level since the early 80s, a time I remember as being as bad as ... well, the early 2020s. Come to think of it, so far this winter reminds me of the early 80s. Oh, and get this: Russia's invasion of Ukraine is the biggest European war since WWII. Also, the Queen of England died, after being in that position for so long nobody remembers who she replaced. (I think it was "King Something".) So far as I'm aware, none of these are related.

There's lots of other stuff, but I'll just end with: Monkey Pox.

Rodney would have had a blast with Monkey Pox. "My doctor said I should get vaccinated. I told him I wanted a second opinion, and he said 'Okay: You're ugly, too'."

 
"My parents took me to a dog show--and I won."

I miss Rodney. He'd know how to face 2023.



You can find all our books here:

 

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 This week has been so hot, "so hot" jokes have been trending.

There's only so much you can do with them, of course--they've been around a long time. One of the original European settlers, in the Roanoke Colony of Virginia, left a note that said "it's so hot we're moving to Plymouth". The settlers were never heard from again, after apparently getting lost on the Washington, D.C. beltway.

Just the same, it's been so hot even I've been uncomfortable, not that I'd admit it. I'd still take a heat wave over a cold snap, but that doesn't mean I like either one. I went out to mow the lawn at 9 a.m. the other day, and ended up going through five water bottles: Three in me and two over me. It was so hot the lawn mower started flashing an error light that said "water me".

 

"You think I'm leaving the shade without a drink, first? You just filled me with gasoline!"

 

 

I didn't know it even had error lights.

Fun fact: In order to clean my mower you have to connect a garden hose, which sprays water all over the inside of the mower deck while it runs, to clean the grass off. So, you DO have to water it.

Naturally, it's not just the heat up here. This week the relative humidity was relatively low, but last week was so humid that, after I mowed, I had to step into the shower to dry off. Relax, I'm not posting any photos of that.

Anything that was in full sunlight started to glow red, unless it was already red, in which case it started to glow orange. The fire hydrant down the street called me over and begged me to let my dog pee on it. I refused, being worried about steam burns.


"Don't worry about me peeing back at you, I can hold my water."

 

You'd think the humidity would satisfy it. At one point the humidity level was 140%, which translated to a heat index of, and I quote, "broil". Jim Cantore came over from The Weather Channel to investigate how the humidity can actually be higher than 100%, and his cameraman drowned. Meanwhile, three people were blinded when the sun shone of Cantore's head. He was heard to say, "I'd rather have thundersnow". Speak for yourself, fella.

But I took advantage of it by letting the air conditioner drain its water into a bucket outside, then using the bucket to water my plants. By the way, if anyone needs any planters, I, uh, killed all my flowers with scalding water.

It's been especially rough for people who don't have air conditioners--or for people who had no power at all, including the ones south and west of my home who were hit by the latest derecho. (It is too a real word--shut up, spell check.)

I tried to honor their crisis by going outside, at least long enough to mow the lawn. Their general response was that I was crazy, and could they stop by for several hours?

Anyway, eventually I had to go out again, to let the dog water that hydrant. The dog's response? "Um, no thanks ... I'll hold it."

"Nope. Uh-uh, not until the next cold snap hits in July."

 
 

 

I don't talk much about politics, but just to show I've always paid attention, I uncovered this piece from way back in 2012. I think you'll find me on the cutting edge of activism:

 --------------------------------------

          New York City Mayor Bloomberg wants to ban supersized sugary drinks, as a way to combat malnutrition.

            He also signed a proclamation for NYC Donut Day.

            (Oh, another note of irony: I brought up several internet articles to familiarize myself with the Bloomberg Big Belly Ban, and the very first one was preceded by one of those annoying internet ads – for Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.)

            The BBBB would apply to any bottled soda or fountain drink over 16 ounces that contains more than 25 calories per eight ounces, which is pretty much all of them. They’d be outlawed at restaurants, sports venues, street vendors, and – brace yourselves – movie theaters. Gasp! Next they’ll be taking my large buttered popcorn.

            But those goobers won’t get it without a fight.

            No word on whether the 17 ounce Big Gulp will be available in government offices, but grocery stores and convenience stores would be exempt. Apparently large soft drinks sold there are not dangerous.

            The good news is, banning things that are bad for us is always effective, and always, always works. Just ask the people who pushed Prohibition.

            Well, they can have my Slurpee when they pry it from my cold, sticky hands.

            If they criminalize supersized Cokes, only criminals will be truly refreshed.

Family reunions are a great place to exercise my right to choose.


            When Bloomberg came for cigarettes, nobody spoke (because they were busy coughing). When he came for trans fats, nobody stood up (because they were too heavy to get to their feet). Now they come for sugary drinks, and who will stand up for Mr. Pibbs? Has the medical field even debated this? Did anyone ask Dr. Pepper?

            Give me Mountain Dew, or give me death! And not Diet Mountain Dew, either. It tastes like artificially sweetened sheep dip.

            The Founding Fathers would be horrified. The whole reason they settled in the New World is because the British wouldn’t let us sweeten our tea.

            “One lump or two?”

            “How dare they alter our national beverage? Off with their heads!”

            Then we formed an independent country, so we could have southern style sweet tea. Thomas Jefferson wrote that right into the Declaration of Independence, along with a clause about fried chicken and gravy. Both were removed by a rather grumpy New York delegate named Samuel Chase, whose wife had just put him on a diet.

            Say, do you suppose that’s it? Maybe Bloomberg’s just steamed because his wife has him eating fish and asparagus.

            The Founding Fathers really would be horrified, as this kind of nanny state thinking is exactly what the Constitution was meant to prevent. It demonstrates that their written guide for the country is more relevant now than ever, despite the food stains.

 Rumor has it the Founding Fathers fueled their revolutionary ardor with Heaven's snack: S'Mores.


            Benjamin Franklin would be especially upset, as he was known to upturn an extra-large mug of mead himself, from time to time. Franklin, who famously said that wine is proof that God loves us, and wants to see us happy, would have loved one of those fountain drinks you need to haul around in a cart. Ben Franklin would have punched Bloomberg right in the nose. Well, maybe not … Ben would probably have slept with Bloomberg’s wife. He was into all sorts of excesses.

            I’m not so sure about Thomas Jefferson’s reaction. He believed in personal freedoms (unless you were one of his slaves), but also had a huge vegetable garden that he took great pride in. He grew over 250 varieties of more than 70 different vegetable species, in a garden 1,000 feet long. His children hated him.

            Once, Jefferson sent John Adams a sampling of twenty different types of lettuce. Adams wrote back: “Tom, would you relax and have a friggin’ donut? I’ll bet you can’t find twenty different varieties of donuts.” (This was before Krispy Kreme.)

            Still, they would have agreed that no mayor of York, old or new, had the right to come over and tell them how many lumps they could put in their tea. Should you stop drinking huge sugary drinks? Of course. Should we bow to a government telling us we have to? Hell, no.

We can’t have true freedom without independence. A nanny state, by definition, is a lack of independence. I may disapprove of what you eat, but I will defend to the early death your right to pork rinds.

            Yes, there have to be some limits in an orderly society, but we must draw a jittery line in the sand, with one of those big soda straws. Our voices, strengthened by a sugar rush, should shout out that we can be convinced to be healthier, but not be force fed. And, to paraphrase Franklin Delano Roosevelt, we would rather die on our Frostie than live on our salads.

            Now. If you’ll excuse me, it’s time for a little non-violent protest. Supersize me.
 Is this a great country, or what?

 

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 The other day I sneezed my head off, and I'd like to thank my wife, Emily, for not only retrieving it but helping me get my head on straight.

It was a challenge. I sneezed so hard my head bounced from the living room into the kitchen, where our dog got his hands--um, mouth--on it, thinking it was a new toy. Emily ran after him and got it back, but now I have tooth marks on my forehead and a chewed up ear. The staples I won't complain about--we didn't have thread.

She had to tackle him. It wasn't pretty.

Okay, it's possible I'm exaggerating. Slightly. Certainly my sneezes did startle Beowulf several times, and he'd come running to make sure I was okay. Or possibly he came running to see if I'd overturned a plate of food. It was all because we made a foolish mask error, and two days after we did Emily came down with a bad head cold. When I got it a few days later it was worse, of course, because I'm a man.

You may have heard the term "man flu", but it really was only a cold, and since it wasn't the coronavirus I don't have much room to complain. Just the same, Emily and I agreed that this was "just" a cold the way the Federal government does a "little" overspending. We were down for a week, much of which I don't remember because NyQuil is wonderful.

They way I measure my illnesses: I know it's bad when I take a sick day from work. In my job, if I call in sick somebody else has to work the shift, and I don't need any new enemies. At the same time, I've often lectured coworkers that if they might be contagious they should stay the heck home, and either I was contagious or my wife and I take this sharing thing way too far.

A rare photo of me pre-sneeze. The camera was recovered days later, but the photographer remains missing.
 The next levels of illness involve what I do if I stay home. If I can get some writing done, I'm in fairly good shape. If I don't feel up to writing, then that's quality reading time. If all I can do is sit in a lump and catch up on TV, call the coroner.

If I lose my appetite, I'm on death's doorstep. I did lose a few pounds over that period, but it's not a diet I'd recommend.

Meanwhile I really did have some impressive sneezes, although the only damage they did was crack windows and shatter nerves. The US Geological Survey says the worst of them only registered as a 4.7 in Chicago, which is barely higher than the sound of cell doors slamming on indicted Illinois governors.

Anyway, we got by with the help of chicken noodle soup, vitamin C, and modern pharmaceuticals. Wait. Pharma ... p ... h ... a ...

Um, drugs.

NyQuil is coma-inducing manna from Heaven. Did I mention that? On one day I slept for ten hours straight. But I have the same question about it that I have about Benadryl: Does it really do anything about my symptoms? Or does it make me sleep so deeply I just don't notice them? I don't remember.

Oh, I almost forgot one other indispensable thing: Kleenex.

The guy who invented Kleenex deserved a Noble Prize in Awesome.

The trick is to position so many boxes around the house that you could step from one to another. We had 2.4 boxes of Kleenex per room on average, with fewer in the basement and one by every chair in the living room. Fourteen trees died for our noses, in just one week. Always have plenty of Kleenex.

And NyQuil. Did I mention it's awesome?

 

A recent photo of my upper respiratory system.

 


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 I sat in shock as the doctor, his face somber, informed me that I had Acute Eustachian Salpingitis.

Worse, it was accompanied by Labyrinthitis.

You can imagine my reaction. Why me? Why now? What is it?

Okay, the now was because I'd just started vacation. I have a lot of sick days saved up, because I only get sick when I was already scheduled off, anyway. That's Hunter's Law of Vacations #2. (#1 is: If you plan a vacation outdoors, the weather will be terrible. It's a bit more obvious than rule #2.)

In a quavering voice, I asked, "Am I gonna die, Doc?"

"Yes, he said. Yes, you will. I'd give you maybe twenty to thirty years if you take care of yourself, and maybe late 2022 if you keep going the way you have been."

Wait. three words I can't pronounce, and it's not fatal?

This is how Dr. Google defines it: lymphoid hyperplasia in or about the eustachian tube. You'd take that seriously too, wouldn't you? I didn't start making out a will right away, but only because I've always known my wife would outlive me, so she gets the house anyway. And there's nothing she can do about it.

"I want you," the Doctor intoned, "to perform the Valsalva Maneuver several times a day."

"Whoa! That's kinda personal, Doc--and I'm getting older. I'm not sure I could manage that more than twice a week."

 

At least I don't have to do another sleep study.


After translating all that Latin into Lower Middle Class American, I discovered a sinus infection had spread into my ear.

Yeah. I had to cancel the fund raiser, the film crew stalked away in disgust, and all those people who spent the day wearing chartreuse in my honor were really upset.

 

Turns out others have had worse days than I have.

 

 

A few years ago I had sinus surgery. It reduced my sinus infections from two or three a year, to one every year and a half or so ... but the ones I do get seem to be worse. This time around I decided to treat it myself; it's not as though I didn't know what was happening.

As you know, there are two kinds of men: The ones who retreat to their death beds at every sniffle, and the ones who cut off an arm, tie it off with a belt, and go back to work. I lean a little more toward that last kind, especially since my belt is old and needs replaced, anyway. So I didn't go to the doctor until my balance was so affected I had to walk sideways to go anywhere at all. The room wasn't spinning, exactly ... it was doing more of a roller coaster thing.

 

Say hello to my little "friend".
 

And that worked out just fine, because my plan had been to stay inside and edit my new novel manuscript, anyway. Other than those times when I felt too bad even to do that, the week went pretty much the way I expected it to, not including the awful neti pot. Where did that idea come from, anyway? North Korean torture chambers?

Oh, and the Valsalva Maneuver? You just pinch off your nose, blow in a little pressure, then swallow. Easy ... although if it was a cooking recipe, that would have been one too many steps for me.

So the good news: I didn't end up in the hospital as so many have this year, and I got to experience being drunk without actually drinking.


 

Remember, every time you don't buy a book, a reality TV show is born. Save our brains.

 I started out last week in something of a good mood, because I finished the third draft of Smoke Showing and then took the preliminary steps toward writing a novel involving the Land of Oz--a project close to my heart that I've been planning in my head for years.

Then the week turned into one of those Medical Weeks. You know the ones I mean: When for a certain period of time everything that happens seems to be health related, usually in a bad way.

Starting from worst, my uncle and my grandmother both fell and broke their hips, and as I write this both are scheduled for surgery today. For my grandmother it was supposed to be yesterday, but they couldn't transfer her to the hospital where the operation will be done because all their beds were full.

You knew the coronavirus was going to pop up here, somewhere.

So everything after that is pretty minor. In fact, very minor, and begging to be made fun of, although sometimes even I'm not in a fun-making mood. It's just that it all happened at the same time.

I got poked by needles four times, for instance, but that doesn't really count because I get two regular allergy shots, anyway. The third was a routine flu shot, so only the fourth--my annual blood draw--led to anything worse than a little soreness.

Besides, one needle was a withdrawal and three were deposits, so doesn't that count as a net gain?

The first day saw the two allergy shots and the blood draw, which my employer has done so they can shake judgemental fingers at me. I had a feeling about the results, so I downed a half gallon of ice cream between then and the follow up ... I figured it was likely to be my last guilt-free food treat ever.

Two days later, we took our dog Beowulf to the vet to get his ear infection looked at, so that counts as one. He's been walking sideways with one ear drooped over, and no, I don't share booze with him. Last time I walked that way was after two strawberry daquiris. (I'm a lightweight. Well, in that way, I am.)

Left ear, the one under the dump trunk.

He's doing a lot better.  Yesterday he had enough energy to dig his nails into my left big toe, so for awhile I was walking just like him.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the chiropractor. As usual, my vertebrae were trying to pass each other on a curve, but she pounded them back into submission.

Then came the flu shot, which was entirely uneventful as shots go. My wife and I were together for those last two, because it's important to experience pain as a family.

We closed out the week with a follow up at the doctor's office, where I mentioned two strange little bumps on my left hand that didn't really seem worth mentioning. Turns out they might be the beginning of a condition that can lead to the inability to use that hand without surgical intervention and GAH! I've always had a fear of not being able to type. Talk to text just isn't the same, because the whole reason I started typing to begin with is because I can't speak.

 Oh, and also I'm fat.

But you already knew that, and thanks for being polite. The doc didn't actually say so, in so many words. She said my cholesterol was going through the roof, I had a fatty liver, and my PSA levels took a huge jump. Since two out of three of those things mean I'm fat, I took it that way. The third had to do with my prostate, so I guess another visit to Doctor Finger is in my future.

Prostate cancer is one of the cancers that's more common in firefighters, so of course I'm going to have it checked, but I'm not too worried ... and there's nothing I can do about it, anyway. Doctor finger will poke around until he digs out the problem.

Weighing 233 pounds is whatI can do something about.

First I took all the stuff out of my pants pockets, then I cut my hair, and finally I bought a cheaper pair of shoes, so I'm already down to 232.

No. Just--NO.
 
Other than that, it's the same old story: Eat less, exercise more, make better food choices. My goal is to lose around five pounds a month, then maintain it somewhere below 200. The timing couldn't be worse, as I've gained weight during winter all my life, and the holidays don't exactly help. But losing weight might also help my back problems, and I'm starting to think my chiropractor enjoys causing me pain.

Anyway, that was my medical week. If I read back through this I'd probably feel ashamed of myself for whining, and delete most of it. Then I'd have to find something else to blog about, so hang the edits! I'm going back to my story outlining.

Maybe a trip down the Yellow Brick Road will shave off some pounds.

Oh, you'll heard more about my new project later.

 

When I had my newspaper column, I regularly wrote about two things: My family, and things I screwed up.

My family asked that I stopped writing about them. Luckily, I screw up plenty.

But there are times when I do something so stupid that I hesitate to admit it to anyone. (This is what I don't like about the proliferation of cell phone cameras. I'd rather have some control over which embarrassment I share.)
 
So it was recently, when I made a bowl of oatmeal.

The simplest things can go horribly wrong, especially for me. Remember, I've been a volunteer firefighter for four decades, and was never seriously injured in that position, depending on your definition of "seriously" (not counting my original back injury, which didn't seem serious at the time). Yet I once pulled a muscle jumping over a mud puddle. As a teen, I gouged out a piece of my ankle while hauling trash to the curb. There's a reason why my wife doesn't let me use power tools.

So it's no surprise that oatmeal almost did me in.

In my quest to be healthy--yes, there is some irony here--I've been eating food that's supposed to help lower my cholesterol. So it was one morning when I came downstairs, in my usual post-sleep stupor, and decided to make a nice bowl of healthy oatmeal, to which I always add brown sugar because, hey--I've got an unhealthy reputation to maintain.
 
Cholesterol or not, no. Just ... no.
 
The brown sugar, to my surprise, had hardened. Annoyed and half asleep, I chipped out enough to throw into the food, where it softened and mixed just fine. Then I ate while watching a documentary about the first Americans: I'm one of those people who has to read or watch something while eating. I haven't eaten at the table since 1989, except at holidays.

(In fairness, I've been researching for a story that involves the first Americans, so there. Spoiler: They didn't call themselves Americans.)

Then I took my bowl into the kitchen, started to put the brown sugar away, and noticed it was white.

Brown sugar is supposed to be brown. That's why they call it brown.

At first I thought my wife must have spilled some powdered sugar in there while making something, which is dumb because both packages were sealed up. Then I looked more carefully. I'd never seen it on brown sugar, but I've seen it plenty of other places: Mold.

I'd eaten a bowl of mold.

Oh, and by the way: I'm allergic to mold.

It didn't really seem that bad at first. I had a bit of a gut ache, which is to be expected, I suppose. I'm allergic to almost everything else, but I've never had an allergic reaction to food or medicine, so I figured maybe my body had just harmlessly digested it. And I guess it partially did, because my mold meal made it all the way into my lower digestive tract before the trouble kicked in.

I see no reason to give you the details. For all I know, you're reading this while eating.

What I can say is that my intestine is no friend of mold, and that the only real advantage of the whole thing is that I caught up on some of my reading while stuck in the bathroom. Also, I lost six pounds in a day. I would not recommend this as a diet, because once I got some 7 Up and soda crackers into me, I gained most of it back.

The stupid part, of course, is that I didn't look into the bag and spot the mold before I put it into the oatmeal. It wasn't the oatmeal's fault, obviously. Just the same, for safety's sake, maybe with future breakfasts I should change over to donuts, or pancakes, or bacon. Or all of the above.

After all, we must take care of our health.


I could just eat eggs. Nobody ever died from eating too many eggs.

 
 

 

I lost my temper the other day. It was over something I considered to be childish actions, which made me act childish, which I suppose is the way it usually happens.

Now, I get frustrated a lot; impatient fairly frequently; grouchy all the time. But I only "lose it" as the term goes, infrequently--maybe just every five years or so. I saw red, lost control. You can tell when I'm that angry, because I start shaking. I don't even shake when I'm scared, or maybe in those cases I'm too frightened to notice.

I didn't like it.

In fact, I wasn't able to sleep the next night, and it bothered me for days. I don't want to be the guy who upsets other people, unless its with bad jokes and silly antics.

I'd like to be the fun guy. I'm not, but I'd like to be. I am seen, by many people, as the funny guy, although maybe not as many people as I think. Funny is good. It makes other people feel good, so maybe they won't lose their temper.

And so I make a lot of jokes, and I write humor. I've been the complainer, and after being around other complainers I learned that being around complainers sucks. So I accentuate the positive, and stuff down the complaints, or try to make them funny.

But have you noticed the funny people are often messed up?

The funniest person I knew of was Robin Williams. He killed himself.  In the entertainment world, it seems like the funniest people all too often end up immersed in drugs, alcohol, overeating (that would be me), and other self-destructive behavior. Why?

Well, I'm not a professional funny guy, but I play one on the internet. I think the problem is that we use humor as a defense, which means we often make fun of our problems instead of facing them. While young we learn to either put on a happy face, or show no emotion at all.

I dunno, I'm no shrink. In fact, at the moment I'm just associating freely.

The point is that sometimes the quiet ones aren't calm and well adjusted at all--they may just be the people who are shoving their anger down deeper and deeper, until every, oh, five years or so it bursts out, leaving people to say "Wow--where'd that come from?"

Again--I don't like it. Anxiety, man, it's real. I used to make fun of this stuff.

I recognize some of the causes, things as varied as my writing career, politics, and work burnout, but dealing with them isn't so easy. Maybe that whole primal scream thing isn't such a bad idea, after all. Maybe people who get mad and scream at others all the time are more emotionally healthy than I am. Or maybe I simply am one of those guys, heavily filtered.

But I'll tell you this: I'm not going to go around yelling at people just because I'm having a bad day. That just makes things worse for everyone. No, something else is in order; and I'm thinking of something in the basement, which I've had for several years but never set up.

A punching bag.

And if that doesn't work, there's a pizza place right down the street.

 

Sometimes things bug me.

 

(Note: This was written before I pulled a back muscle at the beginning of a recent vacation week, leading to several days curled on the couch in a fetal position. That and my annual winter sickness are all unrelated, unless you count them toward proof that, at some point, I unknowingly broke a mirror.

 

---------------------------------------------------------- 

 

All I wanted to do was pee.

When you get to be middle aged, that kind of thing becomes very important. Some people wake up at night thinking, "Did I leave the oven on?" or "Will my career ever take off?" or "Did I hear a clown in the closet?" Men over fifty wake up thinking, "Great, my bladder is full. Again."

This can be dangerous, especially if you're in that deep sleep mode. Luckily I've worked third shift for years, and gained experience in ... well, let's call it "sleep-pee". Sleep-pee people can do what I've done hundreds of times: Get out of bed, navigate the stairs, go to the bathroom, climb back up, and get into bed again, all without really waking up. It's ingrained, like a kidney stone.

But sometimes mindless habit can get you into trouble.

I was particularly sleep-pee this time, but somehow managed to make it downstairs. Yes, I hit the toilet: Despite my incompetence at sports, this is one area where I have good aim. I made it back up the stairs, or so I assume, since I really don't remember--but chances are I didn't climb up the side of the house and go through a window.

Now, my bed has been in the same spot for over twenty years. It's an air mattress, but it's set inside a frame made to hold the weight of a waterbed. The side board is very, very solid.

Sometimes I forget that.

What happened next, I'll never know for sure. Maybe my balance was effected by the sinus  medication I'd been taking. Maybe I was just more asleep then usual, even for me. Maybe the dog was on the floor, and I unconsciously tried to maneuver around him. He does that.

Whatever it was, I didn't just climb into bed. Instead I drew back my right foot and slammed it forward, like Charlie Brown trying to kick that elusive football. My sleep-pee brain apparently thought I was two feet further from the bed than I was.

This, incidentally, was my right foot. Arthritis showed up there a few years ago, and my right big toe is already in pain more often than not.

This new pain was not addition: It was multiplication.

The kind of pain that comes from an attempted karate kick by someone with no knowledge of martial arts.

And my toenail ... well, you don't need to know all the details.

Emily was sound asleep, having not developed a middle-aged bladder. As I crumpled over onto the bed, I heard her murmur, "That sounds like it hurt--are you okay?"

I tried to answer, but from face down on the pillow could only make a high, wheezing sound. After about twenty minutes I was able to roll over, by which time she'd gone right back to sleep and only vaguely remembered hearing a noise.

The dog came to check on me, but didn't volunteer to help.

The next day, after seeing the black and blueness of my sleep-pee slip, I did an inventory. In addition to my foot, I'd put my hip out and pulled my lower back muscles. (Say--come to think of it, maybe there was a delayed relation.) My left shoulder and upper arm ached, probably because of windmilling on my way down. I could walk, kind of, while making a little whining sound, but I didn't really want to.

And then I healed. Okay, I'm fast forwarding, but there was some prescription pain medicine in the cabinet and, as a result, I don't remember some of the healing process.

All because my bladder was full. Again.

I know you're looking for some kind of moral to this story, but all I have is "get a bedroom on the same floor as the bathroom"--and even that didn't help me here. I suppose I could also advise you not to be middle aged.

But it beats the alternative.

"So, how close did Mark get to major injury?"
 

"About a foot!"


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