A Christmas Dirge

It's that time of year again...Christmas.

I used to actually enjoy it. I would go to bed early and sleep well and then get up as soon (the moment!) I was sure Santa had finished overstuffing my stocking full of small toys and candy and other knickknacks.

A bit later there were the presents themselves, divided into tidy piles for each of our attendees. Up until the age of eighteen, this consisted of my grandparents from both sides (minus the grandpa on one who had died the year before I was born), my parents, and us two kids. Of course, the two kids got the largest piles. We would go round and round in a circle, each person reading a card saying who loved them and opening a present that proved their love. People were allowed to skip if their pile got too small and they wanted to stay in the game.

At the age of, I dunno, sixteen I woke up to find my stocking crammed full of...Clearisil? This is when Christmas stopped being funnish, per se. Apparently "Santa" had neglected taking care of this small task when the stores were open and had gone out in a late night pique to 7-11 to purchase whatever he could: the result Clearisil, Bic pens, a mini-stapler, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, etcetera, and probably the strangest Christmas meal ever laid out on a table, everything but the Slurpee and microwavable burrito. The year after that the stockings were abandoned in full and, at least for me, the holidays never seemed the same. It was like a small (but huge) part of my childhood had died.

Fast forward a few years and it's entirely dead. Santa's laid out in a fat casket in the backyard and you can hear the reindeer mewling their reindeer dirges well into the night. My mom died, and she was really the one who who into this shit anyway, so Christmas really just went with her. Two of the last three years, I've spent alone by myself just trying to sleep through the day, depression countering the joyous season with its blacklight charm.

Ah, but there's always New Years'. This year is finally going to be different. I'm going to get my shit together, because those 2015 resolutions are stickier than years past. I'm going to shed my hoarder's home, meet a cool chick, learn some new schtick, and by 2016 I'll be a new man, resolute to not need resolutions anymore. Ahem, sure.

Anyhoo, enjoy your seasons, everyone!

Steroid Bandwagon

I know I'm a bit late, but I'm finally on steroids.

Yes, I realize it took awhile, but I'm finally on par with such fine/disgraced athletes as Barry Bonds, Lance Armstrong, and Rafael Nadal (reveal forthcoming).

The reason for this, and I hate to dedicate yet another post to the matter, but my broken ribs. Apparently the ribs themselves have healed fully, as evidenced during my latest doctor's appointment in which the Korean bastard kneaded, twisted, lifted, pulled, pushed, and tested every square inch of my theretofore cracked ivory. I squealed not a once.

I'm on a ten day course of Prednisone and this is day numero dos. So far, I feel great. I woke up yesterday after a five hour mini sleep and played three hours of bangball tennis in the morning, cleaned house like a Molly Maid, and then looked for supplementary/new employment. Today I woke up after a three hour mini sleep and went to work, transferring a two hundred-plus pound MS patient as if she were nothing more substantial than a bag of rice to be heaved onto a pallet.

My observations so far: steroids are really amazing. Of course I realize at some point the penis shrinkage will kick in, but thus far I'm still hung like a garden gnome as opposed to a sea horse. I have the energy of a six year old (well, a six year old that wasn't me, because I was a lethargic little guy). It seems to, oddly, make me more outgoing (or is that aggressive?). I spearheaded a trip to a local pizza joint last night with my tennis crew to watch the Giants epic win last night, passed a homeless person and initiated a money exchange, and have been smiling at every passing passably attractive woman below sixty and/or without a walking device.

So, it's five days at two pills apiece, three days at a pill apiece, and then two days on halfsies. Does this mean I'll feel half as Superman in three more days? I dunno, maybe like The Wolverine instead of The Man of Steel. Will I be able to snap those last two pills with my meager human strength or will I have to resort to the trusty plastic pill guillotine?

And I just noticed this, but even my writing seems to me more fluid and enjoyable, although I'm not sure whether it's increased brain mass or what. Could steroids possibly turn Sammy Sosa into Faulkner? Stuff to think about, for sure.

Broken Rib (Cont'd)

So, if you follow my blog, or at least stumbled across the last post, you'll know that I broke a rib some weeks ago.

Long story short, it hurt and still does, this after the doctor promised (or at least hinted) that the rib could be on the mend in three weeks. Alas, this does not seem to be the case. Even now, doped to the gills with Pharmecol, I'm still likely to whine to anybody that will listen. I'm so sorry Twist, so so sorry that you have to listen to your pitiful master, but it really hurts!

Of course, I"m not exactly helping matters. A tennis addict, I've tried to sneak in a few hits. I can't serve, hit a backhand, or move any faster than the man-turtles at the beginning of Biggest Loser, but I can't help myself. I must go to Chi Chi Bu and take some cuts with my boys. A lot of this is the camaraderie experienced with my buds that I can't do without, but I truly love the sport as well. And each time I've pushed the limits of what my broken body can do, I've come out the worse for it.

Heading into week four with this thing, I'm hoping (dare I say it as an atheist, praying!) that my rib will fill in with some kind of calcium epoxy bridge and I'll be good as new. Unlikely, I know, but for once I'm gonna don my pinstriped optimism suit and think happy thoughts.

Ow, My Stinkin' Broken Rib!

I've always been extremely risk adverse.

When I played youth baseball I was the kid that would stand at the very back corner of the box. My foremost goal, above even getting a base hit, was not to get hit by the ball. From the very moment I sat behind the wheel of a car, I've always been the safest driver you could possibly imagine. I make sure that my meat is always properly cooked, my vegetables properly washed, and that the lint trap is cleaned out every time I dry a load.

In other words, I'm a complete and utter bore. My obituary will read It's not because he wasn't careful.

That's why in high school it should come as no surprise that I chose the safest sport imaginable to partake in. Well, since my high school didn't have a rowing program and I missed the golf team orientation (straight up got on the yellow bus home), I chose the next best thing: tennis. As it turns out, minus my serve which looks like part of an Indian tribal dance and is drilled down lines and into corners by even the most rudimentary type players, I'm quite good at it. Best of all, it is a sport that you can play all your life and in which, except for the occasional flare up of tennis elbow, that you won't get injured in.

Or so I thought until two weeks ago.

I was playing dubs at the local park and me and my partner had opened up a can and we're dishing out its whoop ass contents when the unthinkable happened. Our opponents weakly shoveled a ball over the net and I sprinted forward to retrieve it. At the last moment my partner cut in front of me to get it and whamo!--when 135 pounds meets 250 pounds the result is never good, and I was quickly in a ton of hurt. I went a few days without visiting the doctor, but when I could no longer sleep or walk or run or breathe or talk or stand upright or sit down I decided it was time to go in. An X-ray revealed a broken rib and torn cartilage in my back nearest that cracked-est of bones. Three weeks for the bone to heal, said the doc, and maybe six months for the cartilage!

In the meantime, there's nothing they can do and I'm in a lot of pain. Did I mention I'm in a LOT of pain? And since I can't exercise and have compensated with an additional two hours of eating each day, I'm starting to pack on pounds. Gulp, I'm starting to look like my dad, which sucks mostly because I can't toss offhand whale jokes at him. Also, I'm becoming one of those pear shaped skinny fat guys. I'm starting to look into MeetUp profiles for shuffleboard and bocce and stamp collecting and stuff, just so I can do something.

I just want to crawl into a creche and hibernate, my ribs banded with high-tech fix-me-up tape, and crawl out when the pain has subsided and I'm me again. Sigh.

crash.com

A couple days ago while on the way to work I was the bendee in a fender bender.

Out of nowhere, a bumper car jolt propelled me a few feet further than I otherwise would have been. Impact reverberated from head to toe.

We were on the freeway and because of the hour and sheer volume of commuters it about a mile for both of us to make our way from the next-to-farthest left lane to the emergency shoulder on the right.

I was going to be late to work, and I work at a job where I absolutely cannot be late. I was furious! and ready to give this guy all the hell my one hundred thirty five frame can produce.

Unfortunately, this "guy" turned out to be a five-foot-nothing one hundred pound cutie with the countenance of an angel.

"I'm so sorry," she said, and I could tell she meant it. She was so sorry.

My fists which had been rolled into tight ballbearings unrolled into relaxed dorsal fins at my side.

"It's okay," I assured her. "It happens."

It had never happened to me in seventeen years of driving, but I supposed she was right: It did happen. I saw it on my Google traffic updates daily.

Of course, it was more likely to happen if you were texting one of your equally cute friends (or perhaps a boyfriend??), which I assume she was given her degree of bubbly twenty-something-ness.

"So, like, what do we do?" I inquired sheepishly. "I've never been in an accident before. Do we have to call the police or anything?"

"Not unless there's an injury or major damage," and considering we were both standing close enough for a lover's embrace and the only damage to my bumper were a few barely perceptible scratches, I agreed that calling the police was unneccesary. "All we have to do is exchange information."

What followed was a microcosm of an epistolary relationship, all the pertinent salable details of our life exchanged in the span of a minute.

While she was thorough in jotting down my info, I somehow managed to exclude her driver's license and address.

Basically, I retrieved just enough information to ask her out on a date, which should be your main objective when an attractive twenty-something rear ends you on the freeway

"I'd prefer to handle this without getting our insurance involved," she said, looking up at me with her beautiful green eyes. "I already had another one of these a couple months ago and I don't want my insurance to get too jacked up."

"Absolutely," I said, transfixed. Were her eyes actually green...or were they blue?

Then she stuck out her hand out and we shook on the promise of doing this under the table, off the books.

It was only later when my employer told me that, because of the heavy roadwork nature of my job, I would have to file with my insurance and do everything official-like that I reneged on my promise via text.

Even then she was as sweet as pie, and we've continued texting regarding nit-picky insurance details--our adjusters names, claim numbers, etc.

If I had any balls (or more of a penis) I'd go all Brett Favre and send her a dick pic.

In the meantime, I have a $700 damage estimate, which seems outrageous given the minuscule nature of my Camry's boo-boos, and will start the repair process either Monday or Tuesday.

I'll have to make sure to keep her updated...

Tangles

Sorry. Been forever since I posted. Lots of work.

Apparently attempting Hemingway staccato sentences today.

I just wanted to take a minute to address the horror that is Alzheimer's.

I've been working with a client who has the late middle stage of the disease. It's pretty much the "Terrible Two's" of Alzheimer's. Lots of noise, most of it nonsensical.

My entire day is spent responding to queries such as, "Are we going down there to where the green moon is?" If this were a simple declaration I could simply ignore it and go about blogging on my laptop. Unfortunately, my client phrases these things as questions, so being the good guy that I am I attempt to answer them. I say, "I don't know" when and where I can. For those occasions where the questions are tinged with paranoia or about his still-alive mother who must be 124 years old, I respond with "uh.." and hope the question will extinguish itself with no more need of response on my end.

The thing is, no matter how often you answer a question or how you answer it, it will invariably be asked again within a few minutes. Pretty soon, you wonder if he's more batshit crazy for asking or you more for answering.

He likes to wander also, straight out of his own apartment and into other people's cars, apartments, and lives, so I have to be constantly vigilant, serving as the human equivalent as a lock on the cabinet door.

He'll get angry (and occasionally violent) at the most benign remarks and requests, too,

Anyway, take my word for it, Alzheimer's is a terrible disease that deserves to go the way of Polio and the dodo. Please visit http://www.alzfdn.org/ContributetoAFA/makeadonation.html  and give a few bucks if you can. Junk Coffee will send you a photo of your own Alhzeimer's patient and let you know how your contribution is making a difference in his or her life (okay, we won't :)

Hornblower Wedding

I attended another wedding this weekend (yeah, I know, crayzay).

This one was for my brother's best friend, Raj, and his awesome fiance, Margaret. My brother was the officiant and did a fine job, somehow managing to work the Biebs into his do-you-take-so-and-so spiel.

The wedding itself was on a boat called The Hornblower that debarked from Pier 3. Actually, she was more like the Titanic, minus the iceberg ending. The tables were covered in white linen. The tableware was the finest china. The ornate was commonplace. The view from both overhead decks was stunning, especially as the ship approached the Golden Gate Bridge

I had a blast. At least I think I had a blast.

I definitely took advantage of the free bar, ordering margarita after margarita. (If this had been New Orleans during Mardi Gras season, I undoubtedly would have had six or seven pearl necklaces weighing me down). This, and many many Anchor Steams.

Of particular note: One of my brother's more infamous exes was one of Margaret's bridesmaids (awkward); One of Raj's bestmen gave a speech that eerily echoed my own from a few weeks before in Tahoe (oh well, mimicry is flattery :); The food was Indian and decadent; The couple's "history" slideshow was phenomenal, literally edited on the spot to include their vows and nuptials and my brother quoting the Biebs; The clash of Indian and American wedding culture was fascinating, and I literally could not get past a few of the high caste attendees who looked straight out of a Bollywood production.

This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I enjoyed it immensely. Thank you to the young couple for considering my impoverished soul and taking me aboard the S.S. Margeneesh.

Here a few pictures (all taken from the outside deck) for your viewing pleasure.