Monthly Archives: December 2011

If I Had A Time Machine…

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364 days ago, I wrote a post that was rather – hmm, how to phrase this? – on the morose side. It was the first day of the new year, and I had spent the previous evening alone in my townhouse save for a cat, a frozen pizza, and a bottle of champagne. This led to a rather out of character self-pitying public diatribe the next day that is embarrassing to look back on now.

As the ball dropped on Times Square in glorious three-hour-tape-delayed fashion and “2011″ came ablaze amidst flashing lights, confetti, and a street-filled chorus of Auld Lang Syne, I just sat there, unsure of whether to cheer the passing year and welcome the unbridled virgin potential of a new one, or to mourn another unfulfilled 365 days and look forward not with jubilation but trepidation toward an uncertain future. In the end, I guess, I felt a mix of both. I am the type of person who always welcomes fresh starts and clean slates and believes that things will work out in the long run. Just once, though, I’d like to look back on a year and think, “Wow, that was a good one. I’m sorry to see it pass.” It’s been awhile since that happened.

Gloomy much, mister? The only reason I’m revisiting these year-old words is because, well, I’ve got something to say in response to this post…

Wow, 2011 was a good one. I’m sorry to see it pass.

I wish I had a time machine that I could step into. I’d zip back to January 1st and sit down with that kinda-depressed guy for a little one-on-one chat, paradigms be damned. And I would say to him,

“Wipe that scowl off your face and quit acting pathetic already! You are about to embark upon an amazing journey, one that will take you to places old and new, far and near. It’s not going to be a perfect year – unemployment will continue to dog you, your tire will suffer a blowout on the freeway, and you’ll spend six nights in the hospital, emerging with one less internal organ – but it’s some testament that, despite these setbacks, you’re still going to look back fondly on this year by the time the last few seconds tick away and bleed into 2012. What’s that? Yes, I’m serious! (And thank you for saying I don’t look any older). Some pretty wonderful events are going to take place in 2011. Like what, you ask? Where’s the joy in being surprised? OK, fine. I’ll tell you, you impatient bastard.

For starters, you’ll take an incredible two-week solo road trip across the United States. You’ve always wanted to revisit some of the places from your childhood, right? Well, buckle up, because you’re going to see them this summer! Fourteen states. You’ll stop by your old high school in South Dakota, and march right up to the front door of the house you lived in during the 1970s in Ohio. You’ll eat your first White Castle slider and tour a museum dedicated entirely to SPAM – no, I’m not making that up! – and you’ll stand in the soybean field where Buddy Holly’s plane crashed 52 years earlier. You’ll see fireflies and thunderstorms and Bob Evans restaurants and you’ll meet up with a long-distance friend and catch fireworks from a parking lot in Boise, Idaho. Yes, I know you’ve never been to Idaho…but you’ll be able to cross that off your list soon! And a few other places, too.

Don't worry, 2011 is going to rock!

You’re also going to self-publish your novel. That’s right – your name will be in print! And you’re going to overcome that e-book bias of yours and offer it on the Kindle and Nook, too. Your friends and family will buy copies, and even some of your blog readers, too. Oh, and guess what? That book is going to receive some very positive reviews! No, not just people being nice to you because you’re related…strangers you don’t even know are going to say things like, ‘Petruska’s future as an author looks bright, indeed.’ Where did that come from? San Francisco Book Review, December 2011. Page 19, to be exact. You’re not going to storm up the bestseller charts or be able to pay off your mortgage, but you will be fulfilling a lifelong dream. Who knows, maybe it’ll be the start of your career as an author!

Sounds like a pretty good year coming up, huh? But it gets even better, my friend…err, myself.

There’s this girl you’ve known for a long time. You haven’t met her in person yet, but you will. And she will knock your proverbial socks off. Your long friendship is going to serve as the framework for a beautiful relationship. She’s going to meet your kids and parents, and you’ll meet her friends and family, and everybody will get along wonderfully. She’ll take you four-wheeling and teach you how to shoot a gun. No, I am not ’making this shit up!’ You’ll try geoduck together and rock out front stage to Built To Spill and her kisses will send shivers down your spine and just thinking about her will make your heart beat faster. In fact, this New Year’s Eve you won’t be sitting home gnawing on a slice of Freschetta while watching the ball drop. You’ll be with her instead, bar hopping in Ely, Nevada. By the way, it’s pronounced E-Lee, not E-Lie – don’t embarrass yourself the first time you say it out loud, kid. A few minutes before the year ends a post is going to appear on your blog talking about all this stuff. No, it’s not magic, dummy – there’s a schedule feature on WordPress you’ll learn about. You won’t be thinking about your blog, though, because you’ll be having the time of your life with the woman you love, and when the clock strikes midnight you’ll usher in the next New Year with an amazing kiss and an indescribable excitement for the next year ahead.

So…feeling better now? Yeah, I thought so. Quit your bitching then, and embrace the future. You’ve got an awful lot to look forward to!

Oh, and by the way…happy new year!!”

 

Airports, Christmas and Breakfast in Bed

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Today’s thankfuls: smart phones and WordPress 2.0 for the Android. It may take forever to write a post from my phone, but I’m a man on a mission today!

Sunday afternoon I arrived at PDX a little bit after 1:00. Going through security felt surreal; actually boarding the airplane was even stranger. I’m used to picking people up or dropping them off at airports – not flying. I managed to grab a window seat near the wing and settled in for takeoff. I was a little
nervous as the engines powered up and we raced down the runway, and then we were airborne. “This isn’t so bad,” I thought as we ascended to our cruising altitude, and I settled back to enjoy the flight.

That’s when it got bumpy.

Turbulence was so bad it felt like we were on a roller coaster for awhile. Worse still, the captain wouldn’t let the flight attendants out of their seats for the beverage service. I wanted my bloody mary!!!

About halfway there things calmed down, and I was able to breathe again. I got my drink – free of charge, even – plus a bag of peanuts and pretzels. Thank you, Southwest. The last hour was completely smooth, and I actually started to enjoy the whole experience. It was dusk as we descended into Vegas, and the lights were just coming on. I saw the Luxor and a few other neon-bathed hotels. And then we were on the ground.

I met Tara in the baggage claim area, and we embraced with our usual fervor. I wished her a Merry Christmas and we kissed for awhile. Stopped for a quick bite to eat and then left Vegas for the long 4-hour drive to Ely. That was uneventful; there were no strange lights in the sky, but we did pull over at one point to look at the stars. There was no moon and the sky was clear; all I can say is, wow.

It was damn cold, too. 13 when we reached her house around 10:30. It felt great to walk through the door again; when I left on September 11th I didn’t even know if we were going to pursue a relationship. Now we’re practically inseparable and I love it! We settled in next to her Christmas tree and exchanged gifts…what a blast that was! It’s so nice having somebody special to share the holiday with. I love everything she got me, but just being there was the greatest gift of all.

Tara didn’t have to work on Monday, so we spent the morning lounging in bed and watching movies. She made us scrambled eggs and green chili gravy (yum!!) with tortillas, which we also ate in bed. Talk about a decadent morning. I didn’t want to leave, but eventually we got up. Took a walk, relaxed at her place some more, and then drove out to visit her grandparents for awhile. They are very nice people, friendly and warm and welcoming. I like them a lot. I also got to meet her sister Maggie. A little after 5 we drove back into town and met up with some people at Racks for Monday Night Football. Maggie was there, along with Tara’s youngest sister Jessie, Jessie’s boyfriend Arturo, and another friend named Taylor. Oh, and then Tara’s dad showed up. We all had a good time and enjoyed delicious greasy bar food. I apologize to my body for that, but whatever. We left about 7:30, made a quick stop at the grocery store, then back to Tara’s place, where we crashed early.

She has to work most of this week, so we kissed goodbye and she left around 7. I’m enjoying coffee and watching a movie and just generally kicking back and relaxing. She’s going to pick up lunch for us, and this evening I’m cooking her dinner: my oughtta-be-famous chicken cacciatore. Role reversals be damned, it all feels pretty domestic and I’m kinda digging it.

This visit is off to a fantastic start, and I’m loving every minute of it. There may not be any snow in the forecast, damn it, but otherwise it’s perfect.

Catch ya later!

Burning Down The House, Part 3

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It’s pushing 11:30, and I’ve had a busy and productive day. I should be curled up in bed – it’s right there, after all, soft and cozy and less than two feet away – but instead I’m writing in the ol’ blog. There is a reason for this, though.

I’m practically choking to death on burned popcorn fumes.

Delicious as popcorn is, the smell is another story. Even when it’s cooked perfectly, that aroma – which hangs around longer than an unwanted houseguest over the holidays – permeates the atmosphere and practically seeps into your pores. Kind of like bacon; delicious on the palate, but boy does it overstay its welcome on the nose. Burned popcorn is twice as nauseating, and the smell lingers four times as long. Admittedly, I’ve had issues with stovetop popcorn in the past, but nowadays I’m an expert at making it. In other words, I am not to blame for this latest fiasco. I was, in fact, upstairs in my bedroom, chatting away with Tara on the phone, when I first noticed that the house smelled like it was on fire. Fortunately this was not the case, but I learned later it nearly was the case; Rusty had decided to make himself popcorn, but had either forgotten about it or had the heat up too high or something or other – the exact details disappeared in a haze of teen-excuse-speak – and it doesn’t really matter anyway; all I know is, at one point he carried a smoking pan of popcorn outside in order to prevent a possible raging inferno. I suppose I ought to thank the boy rather than chastise him for the awful smell that is still here hours later.

The only thing worse than the smell of popcorn is the smell of BURNED popcorn. (Courtesy of thenondairyqueen.com)

You know what, though? It’s Christmas Eve Eve. I should have visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, but instead I close my eyes and see flames creeping up the stairway. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sleep when every inhaled breath fills your nostrils with the acrid odor of scorched popcorn?

It’s going to be a long night, folks.

By the way, this is the second time Rusty almost burned the place down. Just a few days after moving here in 2006, I smelled something burning one morning before work but couldn’t locate the source. After a fruitless search I dismissed it as paranoia and nearly walked out the door, but it was so strong I decided to make one more sweep of the premises. That’s when I found his bedspread, half off the bed and draped over a nightlight that was missing a cover. The bulb had burned a hole in the bedspread. Had I just gone to work that day without double checking the house, I’m convinced at some point I would have received a very unpleasant phone call from the fire department.

In all fairness, I too once nearly set my townhouse afire. I was frying chicken in a cast iron skillet, the oil got too hot, and – woosh! Hello, grease fire. Thankfully, I was smart enough to disregard my first instinct to throw water on the burning pan, and instead covered it with a lid. A close call, but honestly, at the time I was more upset that I had ruined that last batch of chicken. Because it had turned out really good. 

I sure hope my insurance agent isn’t reading this post, by the way. Otherwise my premiums might just skyrocket.

Like I said, today was pretty busy. I hit Target for some last minute Christmas items, mostly stocking stuffers, though in truth I hadn’t gotten my parents gifts yet, and to make matters worse I had no idea what to get them. I figured I would wander the aisles hoping for inspiration. Fortunately, it struck. They are just so damn hard to shop for! And whenever I ask them what they want, it’s always the same response: “You don’t have to get us anything.” I know they think that’s helpful, but it sort of isn’t – of course I’m going to get them something, unemployment be damned! You know what I love? When you hit upon the perfect gift idea for somebody. A week ago, I thought of an incredibly awesome and appropriate present for Tara’s mom, Tracy. The only problem is, I had to do some scrambling to put it all together, and I didn’t get it mailed out until this very afternoon. Too late to make it there by Christmas, but I’m hoping she appreciates the thoughtfulness and – let’s face it, modesty be damned, the sheer, unbridled genius of this present enough to overlook the fact that it’ll arrive a few days late. And yes, I know, I didn’t have to get Tracy a gift either, but you think I’m going to turn down an opportunity to impress my girlfriend’s mother? Not a chance, people. Next week, I’ll be busy trying to impress Tara’s friends and her dad’s side of the family, only I won’t have any cool gifts to rely on – just my charm and wit.

Lord help me.

So, this is it. Christmas Eve is 35 minutes away now, and I’m as ready for the holiday as I’m going to be. All the shopping is done, the presents are wrapped, and we’ve gone through our entire collection of holiday movies save for one or two. Saturday afternoon, we head to my aunt’s house in Oregon for our now-traditional Russian dinner, followed by It’s A Wonderful Life when we get home. Just me and the kids. I’ve already told them there will be no popcorn. Then it’s Sunday. Christmas Day. Up early for presents, breakfast with my parents, drop the kids off at their mom’s house, and a few hours later I’ll be deposited at the airport, ready to embark upon my first airplane ride in more than a decade. In a mere 42 hours, I will be in Las Vegas. In 48 or so, Ely.

Merry Christmas, all!

I Paid $300 for Fake Bark

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I sat down to write a Christmas-themed post and happened to notice that the time is exactly 12:25. Coincidence?

I’ll leave that up to you to decide.

So here we are, a mere five days before the big holiday, a fact that is difficult to swallow. On the one hand, it doesn’t feel as Christmasy as usual this year; thanks to my surgery and hospital stay, I was unable to string up holiday lights outdoors. I didn’t think it wise to crawl on my belly and dangle off the garage roof while trying to staple lights to the eaves. That wouldn’t have been good for my incisions or my psyche, knowing that one miscue could send me right back to Ye Olde County General. Since I didn’t put up outdoor lights, I also chose to skip the indoor lights I normally hang from the banister, but I attribute that more to laziness than a fear of falling. And then there’s the tree. I’ve been buying a freshly-cut Douglas Fir for the past couple of years, having grown tired of the fake plastic tree. Back when I was married, I used to pester the ex for an artificial tree. I always thought it would be more convenient and save us money in the long run, but she was a traditionalist and would have none of that. So naturally, the very month we divorced back in 2006, I ran out and bought myself an artificial tree. Not just any artificial tree, mind you; I bought the best I could find, a top-of-the-line 8′ pre-lit fir that was so detailed it even had fake bark decorating the center poles. And, err, it was sort of pricey. Like, $300 pricey.

Gulp.

The ultimate #%$@ gesture. 'Tis the season!

What can I say? I was freshly single and it was the ultimate F-you gesture (so perfect for this magical time of year). I told myself I was reclaiming my independence, starting fresh, and by god if I wanted an expensive fake tree, then I was going to have an expensive fake tree and there was no nagging wife to stop me. Plus, I reasoned that I spent about $25 on a real tree every year, so in a mere dozen years this artificial baby would pay for itself. Ha! I really showed her!

I loved that tree the first year. Did I miss the scent of fresh pine? Sure, but that’s why they sell evergreen-scented candles, right? So that second marriage-free Christmas I bought a couple of those candles. The problem was, they didn’t really smell like a Christmas tree. Neither did the plug-in Glade dispenser. By year three I was sort of cursing the tree, which was difficult to store because it was so damn big and bulky. Plus, as convenient as having built-in lights was, those lights happened to be clear, and I have always preferred colored lights. Especially ones that flash and strobe and chase and fade in and out. Turns out I like my Christmas to resemble a discotheque. So, by year four I swallowed my pride and bought a real tree again from the corner lot. Last year (year five, if you’re counting) I not only bought a real tree once more, but I finally managed to get rid of the fake tree – which had been taking up residence in Audrey’s bedroom closet during the 11-month offseason – by surprising my parents while they were away on a cruise. The kids and I hauled the tree over to their house and decorated it for them, since they were halfway around the world and weren’t returning until a few days before Christmas. I thought it was a really sweet gesture, though I will admit when it came time to take down the tree I found myself conveniently busy and insisted they hang onto it since it was so much more impressive than the tiny artificial tree they usually put up, one which – I must point out – did not contain so much as an ounce of fake bark…just a green metal pole. Bor-ing. Clearly, I was doing them a favor, upgrading their future holidays with a much more realistic looking phony tree. Plus, Audrey had closet space again. We high-fived each other on the drive home, all the while remarking “free at last!”

And then, a funny thing happened. A few days after putting the real tree up, it fell over, flooding the carpet with water and an inch-deep layer of pine needles. How this happened exactly is a mystery, though I blame my cat Sydney, who had demonstrated a fondness not only for batting balls off the lowest branches, but also took a liking to the water in the stand, which she lapped up eagerly whenever she got the chance, completely ignoring my cries of “gross!” and “eww!”

Hmm. Two problems I never had with a fake tree…

My, that's some realistic looking fake bark.

So this year, because I’m an indecisive bastard, I was sort of looking for an excuse to reclaim that pricey fake tree that I had once loved, then despised, and now missed. I couldn’t very well take it back from my parents, though; that would make me an Indian Giver. Luckily, Fate had my back and dished up the perfect solution. Granted, I wish it hadn’t involved my gall bladder, but whatever works, works. Upon my return from the hospital, I pulled the ol’ surgery card and asked my mom if she would mind if I took the tree back since I was in no position to wrestle a big, heavy real tree into my home this year so soon after a major operation. Plus, there was the fact that I am flying to Nevada on Christmas Day, and leaving a real tree up for nine days after the holiday wouldn’t be prudent. She agreed, and long story short (ha – too late for that!), my pricey fake tree is back this year, standing proudly in the corner.

Naturally, I miss the smell of pine…

Anyway. Whatever. It’s worth the convenience! And in another eight Christmases, it will have paid for itself.

And while I said this year feels less Christmasy than normal, on the other hand, it’s also managing to feel more Christmasy than ever. I feel absolutely inundated with spirit because, for the first time in many years, I will be spending the holidays with a woman who is very special to me, and who I love unconditionally. I may be slightly apprehensive over the idea of flying, but hell, if Santa can get from Point A to Point B relying on nothing more than a team of lighter-than-air venison, I figure a 747 will be a piece of cake. Exchanging gifts next to her fake pre-lit tree as soon as we return to Ely is going to be wonderful. So, while the house may be a little less festive looking this year, it’s a different story inside my heart.

That’s what matters most. Just ask the Grinch.

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How To Write a Farcical Holiday Letter

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Since Christmas is the season for garish Santa ties and getting hammered off eggnog sharing, I am turning my blog over to Lisa Nowak today. Lisa is both a fellow Portlander and writer who specializes in Young Adult fiction. I had the pleasure of meeting her in person at the Wordstock Festival in October, where we were both hobnobbing with our fellow literati. If you hurry over to Amazon, Lisa’s book Running Wide Open is on sale for 99 cents. If I owned a Kindle, I’d probably have three copies by now! Her latest release, Getting Sideways – Book 2 in her Full Throttle series - is available, as well. Lisa is a talented writer and an all around cool person, so pay her a visit! And without further ado, I’ll let her talk about a topic near and dear to her heart this time of year: holiday letters.

How to write a farcical holiday letter

Last year I heard a lot of talk about holiday letters—mostly how tired everyone was of the bragging involved. Devious person that I am, I set out to write one that was so funny and outrageous people would clamor to read it. What my husband and I came up with was a hit, which made me think I should share my thoughts on how to create such a masterpiece. You know, so I could have an excuse to drag ours out again this year in the name of educating the masses.

Courtesy of highlinetimes.com.

The following is my basic formula for a hit holiday letter, with examples provided:

  1. The achievements depicted should contain enough truth, and enough of an individualized flair, that they’ll make your friends and family groan. (In the letter below, Bob is a mechanic who’s not exactly the epitome of physical fitness, and I’m a cat-lover who’s far too “Type A” to ever achieve enlightenment.)
  2. While you should use a personal touch, the ideas and traits should also be universal enough to be funny to a complete stranger. (Hence the men-and-toilet-seats joke and the reference to swimwear for cats.)
  3. If you don’t have a lot of people in your family, include your pets. (All four of our cats got billing in our letter.) If you don’t have pets, consider an inanimate object. For example, a car that’s notorious for being a clunker might have achieved immortality by securing a place in Carhenge.
  4. Use photos to liven it up. If you can pose or Photoshop them to make them ridiculous, that will add to the laughs.
  5. If you’re having trouble coming up with ideas, let the family get involved. (My husband provided a lot of the stuff in our letter.)
  6. Make it outrageous enough that no one can possibly mistake it for fact. If you have any doubts about the gullibility of your friends and relations, include a humorous disclaimer.
  7. Keep it to one page. Really, you’re not THAT funny.

Dear Friends and Family,

Holiday greetings! We have had a truly wondrous year and would like to share news of our good fortune with you.

This summer, Bob hiked the entire length of the Pacific Crest Trail in his Birkenstocks while carrying three Haitian orphans on his back. In September, he invented a fuel injection system that will allow cars to get 500 miles per gallon. But most impressive of all, after years of intensive training, he finally learned how to put down the toilet seat.

Lisa started the year by designing an entire line of swimwear for cats. In March she achieved enlightenment and went to Tibet to have a beer with the Dalai Lama.  In October, movie studios went into a bidding frenzy for the rights to her best-selling, coming-of-age/mystery/fantasy/thriller tome, “Larry Otter: Prisoner Of The Marshy Mallows.”

Margaret received national recognition for watching every program broadcast by the Hallmark Channel in 2010. In addition, she single-handedly saved Barnes and Noble from financial ruin with her online purchases.

As for the cats, Keelan and Loki achieved fame by e‘rat’icating all the vermin from the state of Oregon and chasing them back to California. A special award will be presented by Governor Kitzhaber in January.

Dakota was called to Washington D.C. to spearhead a campaign entitled, “A Mouse in Every Pot And A Cat On Every Lap.” Despite an embarrassing altercation with the First Dog, she received bipartisan support.

Laptop was a bit less ambitious, but none-the-less discovered a cure for depression. She is currently in negotiations with Pfizer. 

In closing, we’d just like to say, if anything in this letter strikes you as the least bit plausible, please go out and stock up on hay. Santa’s bringing you a pony.*

Best wishes,

Bob & Lisa

*(Okay, maybe the part about Laptop was true.)

*********

Lisa Nowak, a certified professional smartass, thinks humor is a plus in almost any circumstance and sprinkles it liberally throughout her books. The first one, Running Wide Open, was published in June. For those of you who might be wondering, she is not, and has never been, a diaper-wearing astronaut. She lives in Milwaukie, Oregon, with her husband, four feline companions, and two giant sequoias.

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ET Phone Home…and Bet on the Packers in ’67

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I came across a news story the other day that talked about how these 47-year old television signals we had beamed into space are suddenly and mysteriously bouncing back to earth now. A group of astronomers in Puerto Rico made the discovery while searching for signs of intelligent life. Pretty cool, huh?

The whole thing got me to thinking. If there are aliens on some distant planet – let’s call it Vega, which happens to be the fifth-brightest star in the sky and is a mere twenty-five light years from earth – then, think of all the fun shows they’re catching on TV right now! The Beatles on Ed Sullivan. Bewitched and The Addams Family are brand new, and they’re showing Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer for the first time (I’m sure it’ll become a holiday classic on Vega, as well). There’s The Andy Griffith Show and Gilligan’s Island and My Three Sons. American Bandstand and Gunsmoke and the last original episodes of The Twilight Zone. Those lucky extraterrestrials are in for a real treat!

Just wait 'til Jerry Springer hits the air. (Courtesy of scifiward.com).

Of course, not everything will be rosy as the years roll by. I feel like we should apologize in advance for The Clapper and Chia pets and Joanie Loves Chachi. On the plus side, they’ll get to see Mean Joe Green and Where’s The Beef? and that really bitchin’ Apple Macintosh commercial from 1984 that only aired once. Sure, they may scoff at the technology (and laugh outright over our cute little moon landing), but they’re sure to admire All In The Family and The Cosby Show and Seinfeld. Someday, there will be a bunch of ETs wandering around debating over Who Shot JR. Plus, all those awesome Super Bowls will be brand new! They have no idea that the Green Bay Packers will come out strong, the Pittsburgh Steelers will dominate for awhile, the 49ers and Cowboys will kick a little ass, and the Buffalo Bills will choke four years in a row. Man, I could make a killing gambling on these games if I could just hitch a ride to Vega.

Come to think of it, Tara did promise me a trip down the Extraterrestrial Highway in January. Hmm. Then again, the guys on their currency might have tentacles and three heads. Might be tough passing off those bills at Target.

On A More Serious But No Less Far-Out Note…

My doctor’s bills have started to roll in.

Keep in mind, I am still unemployed. Which means I’ve got no health insurance. My parents warned me when I lost my job that the one thing I wouldn’t want to do is end up in the hospital. Naturally, being the rebellious sort, I didn’t listen to them.

You know what’s guaranteed to produce a good laugh? Opening up a hospital bill for $47,000. Seriously, I was practically Rolling On The Floor Laughing My Ass Off when I tore into that particular envelope.

The good news is, if I pay it before the due date – twelve days away – they’ll knock off five grand!

Actually, the gooder news is, they had me fill out a charity application while there. Given my (lack of) income and the fact that I claim one dependent on my taxes, there’s a fairly good chance most of my medical bills will be paid by the state. I sure hope so. You can’t get blood from a stone, after all. (Maybe on Vega you can. Could be part of their advanced technology. One more reason to visit).

Speaking of blood, I had a doctor’s appointment last week, and the nursing assistant who drew my blood said it was particularly dark. She joked that I must be descended from royalty. I’m not really sure what the one thing has to do with the other, but I told her my ancestors were all pretty much poor peasants. Sheep and goat herders in Communist block countries. I’m pretty sure there are no kings or queens in the family line, though I am dating a Leo so there’s a chance that has rubbed off on me.

I also had a follow-up surgical visit the other day, and the doctor said everything looked great and I am healing well. I actually feel like I’m pretty much back to normal now, and I celebrated that with a long-overdue Bloody Mary a few nights ago. Believe me when I say that was one tasty beverage.

It’s good that I’m feeling normal again, because in just ten more days I’ll be stepping onto an airplane for the first time in more than a decade! My girlfriend and I have to make up for our last visit, which didn’t go quite as we had anticipated.

It’s going to be a blast!

Thar She Blows!

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I am seriously bored today.

Days – no, weeks – of basically sitting around the house are beginning to drive me a little stir-crazy. I don’t quite feel like Jack Torrance just yet, but a few more days of this and I may be hitting up Lloyd The Bartender for “the hair of the dog that bit me” and plotting ways to get rid of Wendy.

No offense to my friend Wendy in Arizona.

Perhaps Fate, sensing my growing anxiousness over being cooped up, conspired to throw a little excitement my way last Thursday in the form of a blown tire on the freeway. There I was, just a-travelin’ merrily along, minding my own business when I heard a loud BANG. “What the hell?” I said out loud, wondering what I’d hit. The whole car actually shook a little, though I never saw anything in the road. Everything else appeared to be normal, so I kept tooling along, took my exit, merged onto a new thoroughfare, and continued driving for several miles. The first sign of trouble? A steady noise that sounded like a semi was passing me, only there was no semi in sight. It grew louder and louder, and the ride was suddenly bumpy.

Hmm, I thought. The transportation department really needs to do something about this rough stretch of road. 

I remained utterly clueless that anything out of the ordinary might be  affecting my car…up until the  moment smoke began pouring from beneath it. Still I continued to drive, hoping I could make it to my exit a mile away before pulling over to investigate the source of this automotive peculiarity, but suddenly chunks of rubber were flying all over the freeway and I realized that my tire – the front driver’s side – had not only blown out, but was now in the process of shredding itself to bits all over the highway. Now I pulled over to the side of the road as the enormity of the situation sank in. In my defense, this was my first flat tire in 26 years of driving, so I had no idea anything was amiss as I did not recognize the warning signs.

Note to self: smoke pouring from the undercarriage and flying chunks of rubber are one sure sign that your car is not behaving normally. 

My poor disintegrated tire.

I flicked on my hazards and immediately reached for my phone. Back in June, right before my road trip, I signed up for a year’s membership to AAA (the roadside assistance people, not the organization for drunks – three As people, not two!) – on the off chance that something might go wrong far from home. While I didn’t need it then, this turned out to be a Really Good Move that probably paid for itself on Thursday. Half an hour later a tow truck pulled behind me, its flashing amber lights comforting winks in the darkening sky. OK, it was 3:50 in the afternoon and the sun was shining brightly, but my sense of relief was very real. I had already dealt with a friendly cop and a Good Samaritan both offering assistance. The AAA guy, surveying the situation carefully – and nearly having his truck door torn off by a passing vehicle – decided it was much too risky to attempt changing the tire on the shoulder of a busy highway, especially with a steady stream of big rigs sailing by inches to our left, so he hooked the car up instead and loaded it onto the back of his truck, driving me into town and the nearest tire store, muttering the whole way about how scary this particular “rescue” had been. “What was your worst one ever?” I asked.

“This one,” he replied, deadly serious.

That actually made me feel better about not attempting to change the tire myself. I knew I’d hear all kinds of grief about that after the inevitable Facebook post, and sure enough, did have to contend with people questioning my manliness.

Especially my friend Wendy in Arizona.

And while I may have “pulled the surgery card,” as Wendy so blatantly accused me, ’tis true. It had been a mere ten days since I was so ruthlessly violated by a team of doctors who yanked out a vital organ and did countless other acts-that-shall-not-be-spoken-of to me while I was sedated. Shudder. I was still weak and under orders not to lift anything heavier than twenty pounds. I’m pretty sure jacking up an SUV and attempting to wrestle a spare tire on would cause more than 20 lbs.’ worth of exertion. Besides, why go to all that trouble with a AAA membership, anyway?

And what does it matter if Tara knows how to change a tire when I never have, Wendy?!?!

/Wendy rant.

Anyway, two hours later and I was back on my way, a new tire on my car thanks to the wonderful crew of Les Schwab. Total out of pocket cost for this whole incident? Not a penny. AAA covered the tow, and my tire was under warranty from road hazards since I’d just purchased a new set in June. Whew! Not the most fun way to spend an afternoon, but at least it wasn’t expensive.

Or boring. Maybe I should be careful what I wish for, after all…

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Apple Juice With a Bacon Swizzle Stick

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I miss apple juice.

Or maybe it’s the idea of apple juice I miss. I just had a cup last week in the hospital. It was the first beverage I drank that actually had flavor following my surgery. After days of being hooked up to an IV and subsisting on nothing more than ice water, it tasted like a nectar from the gods. Sweet and succulent and oh, so delicious. Paired with chicken broth, I felt like I was dining on lobster and champagne that evening.

Arsenic? Lead? Sugar? Yummy! (Courtesy of inhabitots.com).

But then, the very next day, I started hearing news reports about how apple juice is no good for you. How this study showed that dangerous levels of arsenic were found in samples of apple juice. Damn you, Dr. Oz and FOX News. You’re both nothing but a bunch of killjoys! If I want to ingest poison, I should be able to do so without feeling guilty about it. The FDA is saying hey, relax, arsenic is naturally present in water, air, food and soil, and we need to stop getting our panties in a bunch because the levels found in apple juice are well within accepted safety standards. Consumer Reports says those standards are much too high and need to be lowered, and the whole thing has turned into one big pissing match. The loser? Me! Because now I’m going to think twice before drinking apple juice, and that’s just sad. Even without worrying about arsenic (and lead, too – when it rains, it pours), they say apple juice contains too much sugar, is high in calories, etc. They’re vilifying it like the poor ol’, much-maligned Big Mac.

That ain’t right.

You know what else I miss? Bacon. Ever since I landed in the hospital, I’ve had to contend with well-meaning friends who keep telling me to “lay off the bacon” now. For some reason, over the years I have developed a reputation as a person who loves bacon. Well, okay…I do love bacon. Fair enough. But I don’t eat any more of it than the average person! It’s an occasional treat and nothing more. Boy, you write one blog post about the maple bacon bar at Voodoo Doughnut and you’re branded for life. And okay, I suppose in retrospect buying that bottle of bacon vodka a couple of months ago didn’t help. Nor did posting a picture of the chicken fried bacon Tara, the kids and I enjoyed  at Slappy Cakes the day before Thanksgiving…which, coincidentally, happened to be two days before I ended up in the hospital. In my defense – in all of our defenses – we split two pieces four ways. It was merely a decadent taste. But oh, how everybody latched onto that when I was suddenly near death hooked up to an IV in great pain. The truth is, I first started feeling sick after eating leftover turkey that morning, a food that is generally considered to be healthy. There’s no rhyme or reason for what happened to me. Was it related to diet? Perhaps, or it may have been the trigger, or none of the above. Even the doctors don’t know. Now, I am not complaining about my friends’ admonitions or warnings. It just means they care about me and want to see me healthy, and I appreciate that very much. I intend to take care of myself, and have already made adjustments toward a lower-fat, less-sodium diet. I am also stubborn – that would be the Taurus in me – and maintain a philosophy that life is too short to give up everything that makes you happy, and practicing moderation is key. I believe in long-term goals and short-term indulgences, and intend to partake in both.

At least I didn't cook my turkey like this! (Courtesy of madville.com).

In fact, I’m kinda feeling like a nice, tall glass of apple juice right now. With a crispy strip of bacon for stirring.

And then there’s alcohol. I haven’t had a sip in fourteen days, which is some kind of record for me. Am I a teetotaler now? Ha! Fat chance. I am way too addicted to Bloody Marys to ever give them up, and I’ve even started liking beer now. It’s just that I haven’t felt like having a drink since getting sick. Every doctor and nurse in the hospital asked me if I was a drinker, and I said socially, which by my definition was 1-2 drinks a day, five days a week. Nobody ever looked alarmed when I said that, but the news wasn’t exactly met with approving glances, either. One nurse suggested my sweaty brow might have been a reaction to booze withdrawal, but in reality the thermostat was simply too freakin’ high in the room. I was actually offended by her comment – can’t a guy perspire without getting the second degree?! –  and the moment she left I snuck a few shots of whiskey in order to forget the sting of her words.

I kid, I kid.

And I will be the first to admit that a near-daily Happy Hour was more of a ritual or a habit for me than anything else. Tsk, tsk – I know. I considered it almost a birthright; I’m a writer, after all, and we stereotypically have a long and prosperous association with alcohol. I have come to realize, since returning home, that the slight buzz does not make up for all those empty calories. I will still enjoy the occasional drink – but it’ll be when I feel like it, not because it’s 3:55 5:00. Once again, it’s all about moderation.

Love the concern, appreciate the advice, but don’t you worry – I don’t intend on going anywhere (and by that, I mean dying) anytime soon.

A trip to Ely, on the other hand, is right around the corner. In seventeen more days!

And if you think I’m stepping onto an airplane without a drink or two to calm my nerves, you’re out of your mind.

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MarkIn Time – Chapter 2: One Big Pig

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A/K/A The second installment in my life story. 

Chapter Two: One Big Pig

What is your earliest childhood memory?

I have already mentioned sitting on my grandfather’s lap sharing a thermos of cream of mushroom soup for lunch in the house he built for us in New Jersey. That would have been in 1972 or so, making me three years old. I also recall hanging out in the backyard with my brother and watching a blimp float by overhead. Odd, the memories your brain clings to.

And I very clearly remember the night of December 31, 1973.

We lived on the bottom floor of this house in Salt Lake, Oahu from 1973-1974.

We were back in Hawaii, my dad’s second tour of duty there, and living on the bottom floor of a two-story home owned by a very friendly Filipino family named the Macadangdangs, who resided upstairs. I think I have the spelling right…I checked on Facebook, and there are actually still Macadangdangs living in Honolulu. I wonder if they’re related, or if the name is as common as Smith or Jones in our country?

Yeah, I kinda doubt that.

Mrs. Macadangdang (it’s just so fun to say!) doted over my brother and I. We were a novelty in the Salt Lake neighborhood near Pearl Harbor, a largely Hawaiian and Asian enclave – there weren’t a lot of blond-haired white boys living in the area, and the family took a shining to us. She would make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for me and Scott, serving them to us on a little plastic table on the patio. Most of the Air Force families living off base were confined to high rise apartment buildings in the area; my parents had actually taken the step of renting the bottom portion of their house, and it definitely gave us more of a sense of the local flavor.

Especially that New Year’s Eve. Thanks to the pig.

The Macadangdangs had decided to celebrate the passing of another year in a very befitting Hawaiian fashion – by digging a pit in their backyard and roasting a whole pig. There’s an experience those poor apartment dwellers missed out on! The scent of roasted pig wafting through the air that day was indescribable, and as evening rolled around the house filled with friends and family. The Macadangdangs (still fun!) were kind enough to invite our family upstairs to share in the feast. I remember a living room filled with people, good food and lots of conversation, and as the night wore on, growing sleepy in an armchair. I think I lasted until midnight…I do remember a countdown and party favors and the usual festive “Happy New Year!” cheers erupting from the grownups…though maybe that’s just my mind filling in the obvious blanks. I was four months away from my fifth birthday, though – old enough to trust in my memory.

Eventually we qualified for base housing and moved to Hickam AFB, bidding the Macadangdangs farewell.

The family in 1974.

Growing up on the island of Oahu was a pretty distinctive experience. There were trips to the beach at Waikiki nearly every weekend. Hikes through bamboo forests, visits to Chinese temples, exotic foods like passionfruit and starfruit and the best bananas I have ever eaten, sourced locally from native Hawaiians selling their wares alongside the road. I wrote a post last year about how my brother and I are celebrities in Japan, thanks to all the photos Japanese tourists took of the two of us. I just wish I knew how to leverage that childhood fame into fortune.

Or at least a decent discount on sushi.

These were my formative years, when random scattered memories stitched themselves together into a fully woven tapestry, a background that I clearly recall to this day. My childhood, my past. I became self-aware. I started school. I developed a crush on a girl or two. In other words, I was growing up.

As interesting as island life was, I found it rather boring. Oahu is about 600 square miles, and after a couple of years started to feel rather confining. Once you’ve seen and done everything – multiple times – you start longing for something more. By 1977, I was eight years old and had no recollection of experiencing actual seasons. Christmas in Hawaii was particularly bizarre; Santa arrived every year on an outrigger canoe dressed in swimming trunks. Ho, ho…huh?! The holiday to me had nothing to do with snow and reindeer; it was instead a balmy and humid 82 degrees without fail. I began to feel like I was missing out on a lot, and envied people who lived on the mainland.

Scott and I, splashing in the surf at Bellows Beach, May 1974

So, when my father received orders in 1977 that would take us to Ohio, I was thrilled.

You will recall, of course, my road trip earlier this summer that centered on a return to Dayton. There’s a reason I wanted so badly to go back: I absolutely loved it there.

But that’s another story…

Stepping Through a Time Portal

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Seven days after leaving my house unexpectedly, I return home. It’s like stepping through a time portal, one in which Thanksgiving was yesterday. There is still pumpkin pie in the refrigerator, and gravy. Cranberry sauce. A roasting pan atop the stove, serving platter in the dishwasher. The turkey is gone – no endless leftovers this year, nary a battle over the last remaining slivers of dark meat versus white, all else discarded, but in hindsight I froze the carcass and can resuscitate that into a hearty, steaming turkey soup this weekend. The holiday is not dead.

Not quite yet.

Sydney is happy to see me. She has had visitors – Tara stayed here three nights in my absence, and my mom stopped by occasionally – but it is obvious she is delighted that a human has decided to stick around for a while, finally.

There are stacks of newspapers from last week, flyers advertising canned pumpkin and stuffing mix and Black Friday deals. And, the occasional telltale sign of trouble to come. The bottle of Pepto Bismol on my kitchen counter, the first portent of an unexpected change in the course this holiday would take, regrettably worthless in the end yet for one brief moment my bright, pink beacon of hope.

Those first few days in the hospital, I grieved over the unfortunate turn of events the holiday had taken. The excited countdown leading up to Tara’s visit, the rush as days dwindled to hours, the perfect airport greeting. Five glorious nights together, I had posted on Facebook, chock full of plans including a trip to Seattle and a lot of down time. We were excited to not have to be on the go the entire time this visit; we wanted to take it easy and relax. And while I apologized for ruining this much-anticipated holiday visit, Tara would have none of that. “Everything happens for a reason,” she insisted. “I would much rather be here by your side than three states away, worrying about you.” And in the end, I could not agree more. This will always go down as a bummer of a holiday – but at the same time, I will forever see it as the one defining moment in which our relationship took a newer, stronger turn and our love grew exponentially. You don’t go through something like this together unless there is a real, solid, permanent connection. “We make a great team,” she kept telling me on Thanksgiving Day, and I echo that sentiment wholeheartedly.

I kinda felt like The Terminator after awhile.

There. Maybe that’s what Fate had up her sleeve the whole time. Showing us that, through thick and thin, we will be there for one another. We will persevere, no matter how bad things may get at the time.

I can’t think of a better prescription for a relationship.

My blood pressure was falling steadily into what the doctor deemed an acceptable range yesterday, and with each reading my hopes increased that I would finally be discharged. Sure enough, about 4 PM, it became official. Stepping outside for the first time in almost a week, I was struck by the chill in the air, and how clean it smelled. I wanted to drop to my knees and kiss the ground, but the pain in my incisions would have made that a foolish move. My mom drove me back to their house, and I marveled over all the Christmas decorations that had suddenly popped up since the last time I’d been out. I didn’t even know what day it was. You truly do lose track of time in the sterile environment of a hospital.

My bed for six grueling nights.

Back at their house, I got cozy in a chair with a blanket, and felt more relaxed than I had in ages. My mom made spaghetti, and it tasted absolutely delicious. Here’s the thing about hospital food: it all looked good, and I was impressed with the variety of the menu. I was served, among other things, salisbury steak; macaroni and cheese; pot roast and mashed potatoes; cheese blintzes; a pulled pork sandwich; and a salmon salad. The trouble is, everything tasted bland, and I was never hungry enough to eat very much. A few bites would fill me up. They also went kinda crazy with lemons – lemon bar, lemon custard, lemon yogurt. I’m wondering if the local hospital is somehow in cahoots with the Lemon Grower’s Association of America. So anyway, as good as the meals looked, they were mostly tasteless. The coffee was awful. My best meal there? That first sip of ice water after being on an IV-only fluid drip for 24 hours. I have never craved ice water like that before. That first day there, they gave me a sponge on a stick that I was allowed to dip in water to moisten my lips and tongue. Talk about one big tease. I loved that little implement, though. Any spare drops that happened to trickle down my throat were heavenly.

This sponge, dipped in water, was a huge treat during my first 24 hours.

After dinner – my first real meal with any sort of flavor – I talked to Tara and watched a little TV, then decided to turn into bed early. My six nights in the hospital were constantly marred by interruptions; it’s very annoying to be jolted awake with bright lights and nurses stabbing needles in your stomach, taking your vital signs, and making you swallow pills when all you want to do is sleep – which is, of course, next to impossible in the first place, thanks to the strange atmosphere, the noise, the lights, the pain, the fear. Being able to sleep, uninterrupted, in a soft and cozy bed felt amazing. I probably got a good 9 or 10 hours of rest. And then, this morning after breakfast, my mom finally drove me home.

2011 has been a year of homecomings for me, and this one was no less special or dramatic than the others. Best of all was the card from Tara, reminding me again that we make a great team and that, soon enough, we’ll be together again.

23 more days, to be exact.

I should be nicely healed by then!