I Don’t Do Sick Well

The adage goes something like “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” Which is of course complete and utter horseshit. At some point between the other day and today my body decided that it was time to act up and see how miserable it could make things for me before I gave up and took to my bed.

The short answer is: too long.

You see I hate being sick. I don’t do sick well. I hate being sick, and when I’m sick I keep going like I’m not sick, which usually results in me making things worse for myself, and not just health wise. You see when I’m sick I tend to exercise really bad judgment.

Take today for instance. I got up and immediately I could tell something wasn’t right in the old body department. I’m not talking the usual cricks, pops and pains a guy my age has to deal until my joints warm up. Nope, this was my bodies early warning system telling me if I was to return to bed and get some rest immediately there was a good chance things would reset themself in short order and I’d be right as rain (another stupid phrase, but I’m limiting myself to one stupid rant per phrase today) in no time at all.

So what did I do?

That’s right, I got up. Intent on rising to the challenge, I was hell bent on trying to seize the day.

Right off the bat my brain was determined to make as many bad choices as possible. What better ammunition than a phone call before my first coffee and a chance to thaw out the noodle? The phone rang, and of course rather than let the call go to voicemail I answered it.

It was a work call.

More to the point it was a call to do work I didn’t want to do – or like to do, or for that matter even have to do, for a person I swore I’d never do work for. Ever. What’s the point in being your own boss if you give yourself shitty work you don’t like doing, for people you don’t want to interact with? Well, I must hate myself because before I knew it I’d said I’d be over later in the week to take a look and see what I could do.

Crap.

On the plus side the job wasn’t very far away, and I’d never built a koi pond before. Besides, this was a job I’d get Norton to help with … after all it was for his mother, and if I played my cards right I wouldn’t have to pay him.

Even though I felt like shit on a hot sidewalk I wasn’t feeling bad about taking the job – which I’m sure was due to being sick, because I’m sure I’ll regret it later. However for now I feel like all is right with the world.

I’m going to bed to sleep the sleep of the righteous … thanks in part to cold medicine, and the hot buttered rum. Who knows I may just wake up and this will have just been a bad dream.

Carpe diem as they say … or in this case it’s just carp.

And for the final groaner: I’m trying not to be koi.

With that I’m off to bed.

Cut me a break, I’m sick.

Backwards Jesus with Bacon and Eggs

I still can’t quite settle on a church that feels like home. I stopped going all together for several months, and I have to say that Norton was pretty irritating about it, although to his credit he stopped short of calling me a hell bound backslider.

Sometimes it’s the little things that seem to connect everything together. I’ve tried imagining how those farmers know how to carve out the pictures in the cornfields when they’re at ground level. I mean it’s not like they have a spotter in the air giving them directions.

Spirituality is kind of like that for me most of the time. I’m stuck at ground level, and it doesn’t feel like I’m getting anywhere, or making a difference. The difference between me and the farmer in the tractor is that I believe I have a spotter somewhere up there, and although I’m not getting the clearest of directions, if I can get a decent vantage point I can see what I’ve been doing.

Ooh, this is deep shit huh?

So this morning Norton and I are sitting at the kitchen table having a chat while the cats had their morning snack. Norton was reading the label on one of the empty tins. “Hey, did you know that cat backwards is tac?”

Normally I try to ignore Norton until I’ve had a coffee, but he managed to catch me before my guard was up. “Norton, say ‘focus’ backwards, but instead of starting with the “s” use the “f” life you would if you were saying it normally.”

It took him a few moments as he mumbled it out, and when he finally blurted it out, he looked shocked and then blushed. It shut him up for a couple of minutes. “John, you coming to church today?”

Rather than respond I tried to distract him. “Norton did I ever tell you about my buddy Tony? When we were kids he was the cleverest guy I’d ever met. Funniest guy I’ve ever known, and more curious than all the Clarence’s put together. Did you know he could actually speak backwards? When he first did it I thought it was gibberish, you know the kind you hear on that TBN network you like to watch when you think I’m not home. I actually recorded him once and when I played it backwards it made sense.”

He seemed to be paying attention so I thought I’d be clever. “Tell you what, if you can make me think going to church is better than staying at home and making a nice breakfast for me and the cats I’ll go with you today. What do you say?”

Norton sat there quietly. He was turning the can around in his hand. After a couple of minutes he put the can down. He looked me in the eye (only one, as Norton had an inability to focus on both eyes. He’d either look at my nose, or one of my eyes). “John, you sure love your breakfast don’t you?”

I nodded.

“and you know that Jesus loves you, right?”

I nodded again.

“Did you know that if you say Jesus backwards it sounds like sausage? If you love breakfast, and Jesus loves you, and if Jesus is part of your breakfast don’t you think he’d appreciate you coming to church after you’d had breakfast to say thank you?”

To be honest, I was kind of struck dumb. Norton wasn’t finished though. “It’s still pretty early, you have time to make a nice breakfast for both of us and we can still be on time for the service.”

And that’s how Norton got me to church today. I have to say it was nice to go, and as usual their coffee was excellent.

To Dream the Impassable Dream

There’s nothing like a sense of urgency to convince oneself that normally irrational behavior is acceptable because you need to get it done, and chances are you’d end up making the same decision more or less anyway – so just cut out all the unnecessary planning and preparation and just make a decision and stick to it. No regrets, no remorse, just a sense of accomplishment at being a man of action.

That was the plan.

I now own a minivan.

Let me go back a little and fill in some of the blanks.

Jimmy is a bit of a car whore. Which is an understatement, but despite our many years of acrimonious exchanges (these are the ones where money leaves my pocket and goes into his) I have to say that Jimmy was there for me.

After the death of the Pulsar, Jimmy gave me fifty bucks and towed it around back of his shop and put it with the other neighborhood derelicts. Jimmy was looking pretty proud of himself, and put a hand on my shoulder. “How you plan on getting around Johnny? Bus?”

I’ll stop here and set the record straight. I am not Johnny, or Jonathan, or Jon, or Jack – if someone can tell me how in the hell Jack is short for John please let me know. I especially hate it when Jimmy calls me Johnny.

“I’ll be using the Fargo I ‘spose.”

Jimmy tapped my shoulder and turned me around so that I was looking at the open bay door to his shop where my beloved Fargo was up on the hoist looking a bit like a small beached whale. “About that, I’ve been meaning to call you. The tranny is shot on the beast, and I’m pretty sure I can get my hands on something that’ll fix it up, but it’s going to take me about a week to put the guts back in and get ‘er back on the road.

Oh lord the bus. There was no way I was going to be stuck trying to lug my tools around on the bus. I suppose I could call Margaret and we could go car shopping. It had been years since I’d been car shopping. It’s not that I was afraid of car shopping – I was afraid of the salesmen, and I was more afraid of the hidden manager guy behind the curtain who held the fate of my purchase in his hands.

Jimmy then said an odd thing. “You need a new car. What say you and me go out and take a look see and see what’s out there? Who knows it could be fun.”

Now I have to be honest, the last couple of years have kicked the shit out of my wallet what with the down turn and all, and people have been holding on to their cash. So it wasn’t like I was going to be shelling out for something off the showroom floor. Anyway Jimmy and I hashed out a few things over a coffee. What was I looking for, what was I using it for, how long did I want it to last (apparently forever isn’t a viable option).

So we spent the day wandering from dealership to dealership kicking tires, and test driving everything in my price range. Jimmy was having a blast, and I was actually enjoying myself. But nothing was really tickling my fancy. Then near the end of the day we found the van. I laughed and said there was no way I was going to get a minivan. Minivans were for soccer mom's and pussy whipped men. But Jimmy winked at the salesman, which I found very unsettling, and the two of them proceeded to show me the features. There was a lot of space – as much as the Fargo. There was seating, more than the old Pulsar. It was up high like the truck, and it had decent power, and it had a nice stereo. After a bit of cajoling the salesman handed me the keys and we took it for a drive.

I hate to say it, but I was hooked. Jimmy could tell too, because he was grinning. “Who’d a thunk huh Johnny? A minivan. Okay, let’s take it to the shop I want to take a look at this thing and see what’s under the under bits.”

So we did and Jimmy poked and prodded and looked in the weird dark places and pronounced it good enough for Johnny. So we drove back to the dealership where the salesman was waiting and when he saw us pull in he looked relieved. I suppose we were gone a while.

He met me at the door before I could get out. “So what do you think?”

“I think we’re going to have to sit down and see what your manager thinks about what I’m going to offer."

On Top of Old Smokey

I love my old truck. God bless a country that can make a truck that can go for just about ever. By the same token there is a curse for the country who made my old Datsun. Now to be fair, I loved my old Pulsar. Back in 1983 when I first got that little black beauty I thought I was the cat's pajamas (don't ask, but in case you do - I do know what cat's pajamas look like). Those little pop up headlights, and purring little engine that put out 70 horsepower was a hoot to drive. Heck even after the the thing started to smoke, and the lights stopped popping up consistently - the little thing kept on motoring. Just about 600,000 kilometers on it too - then fate that most cruel of mistresses reared her ugly head and put a final stake through the heart of my daytime Datsun (yes I know its a Nissan, but I got it just around the time of the name change and the decal on the trunk says DATSUN so cut me a break, I'm in lament mode here).

Now it isn't like I hate change. I love change. I buy my coffee from Cindi most of the time with change. However in life I kind of like things the way they are. Which explains why I still have the Fargo despite Jimmy's attempts to take it off my hands. Speaking of the devil, it was Jimmy who pronounced the car dead. Which for him must have been hard, because he's been milking me dry over that car for the last 15 years. I think it was the letter from the police that convinced him that it's timing belt was up (oh look, I made a car funny).

I'm losing you aren't I? That's the problem with letting your fingers type while your brain is trying to organize what's supposed to come out. I don't type that fast, but apparently I type faster than I can think. Please don't tell Margaret. I'd never hear the end of it.

Now where was I? Right - the car.

Is there a point to this? Sure there is, and I'm working my way to it as sure as a rat eventually finds the cheese at the end of the maze. You just have to bear (I'm not changing animals, I'm sticking with the rat thing) with me while I bump into some dead ends along the way.

I think I mentioned my car smoked. It didn't just smoke a little it smoked a lot. I mean people who drove behind me put on their lights, in the day, it was that smokey. It would settle down after a couple of miles to just chimney smoke type smoking, but when I first fired up the car (a pun, but not intended) it was pretty unbelievable. Over the years Jimmy suggested a head gasket job, which I passed on. Then a ring job, which I passed on. He actually had a motor for it, but I passed on that - then reconsidered, but the motor was gone. His nephew had taken it and put it in a go kart. So I did the next best thing - Jimmy had me use the thickest oil, and every month did an oil change and put in a bunch of stuff intended to reduce the amount of oil the car burned through ... I wonder how bad it would have been if Jimmy hadn't done all that stuff?

Anyways, to cut a long story somewhat shorter last week I was going to drive over to see Vernon about some stuff. I had hardly pulled away from the house when I heard the siren. I looked in the rear view mirror but couldn't see anything - literally. It got louder so I pulled over to the right, and the siren sort of followed me. Now in my heart of hearts I'd been expecting this for a long long time, but always figured it was a problem for the future John, not the now John or as Margaret says when I'm feeling frisky "Not now John". I stopped and as the smoke dissipated could see the tell tale blue and red flashing lights. I could also see a rather large officer of the law walking toward the car.

He tapped on my window. He had a sheaf of paper in his hand. "Is your car on fire?"

"No officer." I replied.

"Your car isn't on fire?" he repeated and turn the paper over in his hand and looked at it, and then at the back of the car, and then at me.

"Um, no - not on fire" and then I quickly added "Sir." I could sense the jig was up, and more to the point I caught a glimpse of a beaming Mrs. McCleary in the mirror as she stood at the end of her driveway. "My car smokes a little when I first fire it up." In my mind I knew that totally came out wrong.

"Sir, you can no longer drive this vehicle." He handed me the notice which had obviously been prepared in advance basically summarizing what he'd just said.

I took the paper, and went to start the car to drive home. But the nice policeman was still standing there. "Perhaps I wasn't clear. You ... cannot ... drive ... this ... car."

Mrs. McCleary had actually made her way down the sidewalk, and was close enough to be able to hear what was going on. I looked over and made a face I hoped was menacing. Sadly the cop thought it was for him, and before I knew what was going on I was outside the car with my legs spread and my head on the hood.

All in all it was a pretty shitty way to say goodbye to my car. I pushed the car home, and as I was just about to the top of the driveway Norton popped his head out the front door, "Hey John, need a hand?"

Next I'll tell you about my new car. But not now, you could say that the memory is too fresh and I'm fuming just thinking about it.

Dutch Ovens and White Linen

I make no apologies for liking to sleep. Depending on how you average it out, in my life I will spend about two hundred thousand hours looking at the back of my eye lids and dreaming happy dreams where I am the king of the world, and as a side job get paid to be a breast softness tester.

Before you get on me about wasting my life away sleeping, I'll defend my love of the pillow by stating my firm belief that I'm not wasting my life at all, I'm merely allowing myself more time in my alternate reality.

I digress (which is nothing new ... I am after all easily distracted) Ask Margaret ... "oooh shiny thing" ... what was I saying?)

Margaret doesn't stay over that often. I'm not sure how much of this is due to Norton's tendency to flush the toilet when he pees in the middle of the night, or the fact that night time is farty time. Margaret is one of those rare women who can burp like a bull frog, and laughs at knock knock jokes - one thing she doesn't do is fart.

I'll amend that, she farts. I'm sure she farts. One time at lunch, she stifled a sneeze and I'm sure I heard something that sounded like a balloon squeak - but I'm not sure. I would also bet a quarter that when she's sitting making doodie she farts ... but she doesn't fart for pleasure.

Me on the other hand, I enjoy a nice toot now and then. Heck, Norton who usually irritates the shit out of me just by being in the house while I'm home is an exceptionally fine farter. I'm not sure I've mentioned it, but his all time hero is Joseph Pujol. Norton may not have his skill, but the other day at dinner he pulled off the opening to Beethoven's 5th Symphony. I was really impressed but the lingering after burn hinted there was a little more substance to the last note than either of us was expecting. Margaret who was there was totally unimpressed, and she put to rest Norton's claim that she hits like a girl. The bruise on his shoulder lasted a good week.

I truly digress.

Margaret was over for the night, and we were having a nice cuddle and chatting about silly nonsense. I think the phrase I'm looking for is spooning. Yup, spooning. We were spooning, and to be honest I was doing a little grinding and making growly noises. I really thought I was turning her on. Because she was pushing back against me.

Turns out what she was doing was positioning.

In the history of great farts, what happened next wouldn't even qualify as a footnote. It was fairly unremarkable, except for the source. Margaret farted. It wasn't a girly thing. It reminded me of Norton's nefarious Beethoven movement.

What sealed the deal was Margaret flopping over onto her back grabbing the covers and pulling them over my head. She held them there for a long time.

A really long time.

Then she punched me in the arm, and dang it, it wasn't one of those girly hits. It'll leave a mark for sure. Then she rolled onto her side and resumed the cuddle.

The last thing she said before falling asleep was, "You tell anyone I'll deny it. And then I'll kill you."

In the morning I had to do the laundry.

Catching Up on What's Left Behind

Life gets weird if you let it. Life also gets weird when you least expect it. In general life can be weird.

I can almost hear you, "Shit John, where you been? Two years and nothing, and you come back and you start with this?"

Well, it's true. Life is weird. Life has been weird. These last couple of years have been extremely weird (note the use of italics?). I promise to fill in the blanks as best as I can, but to be honest I just want to think of the last couple of years as my "lost weekend period" without the drugs and May Pang, although Margaret has been righteously solid.

Now before you think I'm all peaches and gravy I'll be up front and break some bad news up front. Norton is still hanging around, and he has a girlfriend who spends an inordinate amount of time in my house (again I have to point out the italics). Her only redeeming quality is her near insatiable appetite for zombie movies. I cannot begin to tell you how many movies there are out there. Norton and Margaret can't stand them, and frankly next to watching Bruce Campbell movies it's a close second.

I've got to knock off, but I'll be back.

Really.