tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-493450878148741872024-03-13T21:30:17.077-07:00Do I Really Live in This Sitcom?Playing with words is fun. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do writing them!Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.comBlogger298125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-22807312695426488322023-06-29T09:33:00.000-07:002023-06-29T09:33:24.637-07:00Artificial Illumination and the Serial Killers<p> Did you ever walk outside to take out the garbage in the still of the night, and clouds were just right so that the street was colored an eerie shade of ethereal blue? You naturally stop and look around to be sure there's nobody looking at you from behind a bush. You know the kind of night I'm talking about. If you saw a scene like this on a TV show you'd be saying, "Oooh, something's going to happen! Why does he just keep standing there? Doesn't he hear that suspenseful music?!" If you know this scene, then congratulations, đť…ˇdun dunđť…ˇ, you have probably watched as many crime shows as I have. (Although, probably not.)</p><p>Luckily Sylvia and I didn't experience any of this mysterious blue lighting on our recent getaway. In fact, we experienced no lighting at all! (Dun Dun!)</p><p>We plotted and planned and prioritized a week away in-between teaching, girls' getaways, and convention. It was a much needed trip to anywhere but we decided that the scenery in the wine country was much better than "anywhere" so we went to Windsor, CA. It's close enough that we could drive and far enough away that we had to get the kids to take care of the dogs. Honestly, I have been looking forward to this trip ever since we started planning it. "We" is a relative term when talking about the specifics of trip planning. It typically goes like this: </p><p>Sylvia: There's a place we could stay at in Windsor!</p><p>Me: Sounds great!</p><p>S: Let's see if there's a place in Monterey, that's nice too.</p><p>J: Yup!</p><p>S: Oh, they're booked. What's this next place? Where is that? They've got a room for some of the time.</p><p>J: Just checked. It's down near San Diego.</p><p>S: That's too far. Let's look at....</p><p>And so on, and so forth, for a while...until.</p><p>S: What about that place we could stay at in Windsor! Should I book it?</p><p>J: Yes! Great! Thanks!</p><p>Trust me, I am not complaining! I just know how she likes to look at all the possibilities and try to find the very best for us. I appreciate it sincerely and, honestly, if Sylvia is there, it's my favorite place to be.</p><p>So we took the relatively short drive to Windsor and started our getaway. It took a lot less time to type that than the actual event because we have a habit of setting several ambitious departure times and then watching helplessly as they each gently slide by in activity-filled succession. 12 o'clock. Begin packing and oh I just want to spruce up the kitchen before we go. 1 o'clock. Phone call from family. 2 o'clock. Text from Krisi asking if it's OK to bring over someone she'd like us to meet. 4 o'clock. Finalize packing. 4:45 Make sure the dogs are OK since they never like it when we get out a suitcase. 5 o'clock. Leave the house.</p><p>I said all that so you would get the idea that it was beginning to get dark when we got checked in. We got our keys, and these cool little bracelets that are keys that you wear, and set off to find our building. </p><p>We parked, got out, and followed the sketched out pen drawing of the map to the elevator since lugging a few suitcases up to the third floor was not my idea of a great start to a relaxing vacation. When the elevator door opened it looked a little darker than the inside of a typical elevator but we could just make out the number three button and the doors began to close. As they did, it got darker, and darker and then there was absolutely no light. It was a little disconcerting. We knew we were alone and we knew that we were only two 'ding's away from our final destination. Well, hopefully not our <i>final </i>destination but you know what I mean. The doors opened and we were greeted by an empty walkway. No large man in a hockey mask. Nobody with sharpened knives where fingers should have been. Not even a mild-mannered accountant looking gentleman who, inexplicably, was wearing a clear plastic coverall over his pocket protector and white button up shirt. There was nobody there, and we got to our room without a problem. (I'd like to add that we were able to open the door at a normal pace and not by frantically fumbling with the key in an effort to get in and slam the door just before the lumbering dark figure reached the threshold as the music quickened and the cymbal crashed!)</p><p>We set down our things, unpacked the suitcase into the dresser in the bedroom, (yes, we are those type of people...are you?), and then called the front desk to tell them that there was a situation in the elevator in building number 3. After a bit we left the room to go grab something to eat and we talked about how someone could have broken the light in an effort to make criminal activity easier to achieve and how she was glad I was with her when we encountered the spooky elevator because she knew, with me being a large guy...it would take a while for the madman to finish me off and she'd have time to run away to safety! (that's not even close to her reason, but I've seen these kinds of shows and I know that Sylvia is definitely leading lady material! They are always fine.) As we walked toward the maniac-free stairs I suggested that we try the elevator to see if they had already fixed the light. No such luck...but I got out the flashlight on my phone and noticed that there wasn't one large fluorescent light fixture but 6 individual bulbs.</p><p>I figured the odds of six lights going out simultaneously were astronomical. I thought about how well-regulated and inspected elevators generally are and how unlikely it would be to have an entire system broken in a well-maintained facility so I reached up and twisted a bulb. Immediately there was light! I reached for the others and, in no time, the elevator was back to its fully illuminated serial killer-free self. Sylvia remarked about how my brain just doesn't work the same way as others do and how it would never occur to her to try the light bulbs to see if they were unscrewed. I'm used to it. At least I am using my powers for good and not evil.</p><p>And that, officer, is how my fingerprints got onto all of the lightbulbs in the elevator! I'm innocent I tell you! Dun dun dunnnnnn...</p>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-80067585034920726122023-06-14T09:17:00.001-07:002023-06-14T09:17:11.960-07:00Hurt Me!<p>I wrote this title about half a year ago. I jotted down a few sentences but got interrupted by life so I never finished it. While the original beginning to this particular blog post doesn't apply, the general principle does. I woke early this morning and, since I love to write, took the extra time as permission to try to make people laugh.</p><p>I started to think what could I write about? Most of the time I just sit and start plunking at the keys. (Think: a million monkeys banging on a million typewriters...I know I've used this analogy in the past but I have never tried it. Mostly because the cost of feeding a million monkeys would be prohibitive, but also, think of the smell!) Today felt different. I needed a reason to write. What's been happening? What's been on my mind? Honestly, lately, I've been thinking about my knees. </p><p>I'm guessing that the most astute among you have already figured out that the only reason a reasonable rational person would think about knees at all is because there was a problem. Even though very few people have called me reasonable or rational...they would be correct. There is a problem. I suppose, rather, more accurately, there <i>was</i> a problem. It's almost the year anniversary of when I tumbled down the cement steps in front of the house. Really I fell off the step-stool on the porch, and then I tumbled down the cement steps in front of my house. Here's the breakdown: (1 middle aged out of shape guy + one rickety 4 foot tall step-stool + 6 cement steps) 32 feet per second/per second = OUCH! And they said I'd never use math again once I got out of school! The correct answer is actually OUCH to the second power since I wrenched the heck out of both knees in the span of a few seconds. It hurt! Each of my big toes was pointing in completely different directions! And different elevations! My core even hurt because I tried to. I don't know, hold myself up by sheer will. I was probably trying to stifle yelling out too. I'd hate to bother the neighbors you know. </p><p>Our kitty-corner back yard neighbor was out walking the dog about 50 feet from my impromptu gymnastic routine. As I struggled to get to a position that would alleviate the pain I caught her eye. It's hard to describe really, but she never moved a muscle to help. She didn't take the slow beginning steps toward our house to see if she could help. She didn't yell out, "Are you OK? Want me to call 911? Nice one!" Nothing! She didn't even raise an eyebrow or nod to say she was another human being in the same vicinity of another human being. She just slowly turned and walked away. She's moved away now. I'll just say that I didn't contribute to her going away present through a haze of tears.</p><p>Now I can finally get to the point. I know I have a problem finally doing that. I apologize.</p><p>After the initial pain, through trips to the ER and MRI and more medication than I've taken in the last few years combined, I started physical therapy. What a miracle! Here I was getting ready to begin teaching kindergarten again and I was effectively immobile. I don't know if you know anything about kindergarteners, but if they sense weakness they pounce! Just kidding, but it is physically demanding. This is what I told my physical therapist. "HURT ME!" Don't take it easy on me because it looks like I'm in pain...get me to walk without a cane in 4 weeks! As I struggled to get up from repairing the hardwood floor last night, looking like a newborn baby giraffe struggling to get to his feet, I thought about how lucky I am to be able to still do work and, mostly pain free, get up.</p><p>Now if you'll excuse me I need to go finish fitting the last few boards into place. I fully understand why those guys earn so much money! Wish me luck!</p>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-63143496793109463242023-06-06T07:04:00.000-07:002023-06-06T07:04:17.398-07:00Air Quotes and the Modern Reader: A Study in Foolishness<p> I am <i>officially</i> on summer vacation starting now. Teachers use different methods of determining when their vacation officially begins. For some it is precisely when the kids leave the door on the last day. For others, it is when they go to the after work gathering and finally get hold of that adult beverage that's been calling to them since March. Still others say that vacation begins when keys are turned in to the office and they are no longer required to maintain the classroom. (As a teacher who is notoriously likely to stay in the classroom rearranging, reorganizing, and reevaluating why I have so many items in my room, I would say that I turn in my keys so I am no longer <i>allowed</i> to maintain my classroom.) For many teachers the vacation officially begins the moment they turn off the school-year alarm. For me, the vacation is officially begun the first time I wake up at the time I would normally get up and get ready and do something else instead. Sitting down to write has made it official. Summer break is a go! When do you consider your vacation started?</p><p>Today I sat down to write but I could have just as easily sat down to 'read'. If you were here watching me sit alone in the living room, in the dark of the morning, wearing the tuxedo I always wear to write my blog (I feel it gives my writing an air of sophistication) you would wonder why my first activity wasn't sleeping in later than normal. For that you'd have to have a conversation with the hairy beast with no opposable thumbs and therefore cannot open the door to the back yard to go to the bathroom. Our chocolate lab, Bosco (too cute right) is a creature of habit and once he's settled in on a routine, it's pretty much set in stone. That's why I am up at a little after 5 on a day when my responsibilities are my own. "A little after 5!?!" you shout into your computer screen as you decide that I am crazy for letting the dog dictate my timeline. Well, I've tried, on several occasions, to force Bosco to wait a while longer and to just go lay down for a while longer. Let's just say that the results were unpleasant, and required copious amounts of disinfectant and paper towels. It's OK. I can get up and talk to you lovely people. Besides, if I jump up and do something right away for an extra hour each day for a month and a half, it's like I've squeezed another 4 days into my summer vacation! That's not my idea. That's an idea from a book I just 'read' about getting yourself moving and getting things done.</p><p>This brings me to what I actually wanted to talk to you about today. I'm guessing that many of you, dear readers, have noticed that I included added little bits of punctuation on the word 'read' both times I've written it. Bravo if you noticed. If you only noticed because you were making a mental note to yell at me for using incorrect grammar, well, <i>your gonna haight dis neckst part uv da sentins</i>. (Writing that caused me physical pain.) The real reason I added the sky commas was because there is no punctuation, that I'm aware of. that denotes 'air quotes'. So here's the question: Does anyone else feel the need to use air quotes when telling a friend that you have just finished 'reading' an audiobook?</p><p>Here's my thinking. Listening to an audiobook feels a little like cheating. If someone tells me that they read a book, I imagine them sitting outside their perfectly kept house, in a lounge chair, with all of their responsibilities neatly managed and time-organized giving them the ability to enjoy a book. Several parts of that sentence rarely apply to me, personally. In the age of self-care I still find it difficult and guilt inducing to take several hours out of future weeks to sit and read a book...even if my dog and I have added 4 days to our summer. When do I feel it's ok to 'read' a book? How about while I'm mowing the lawn? Pop on the noise canceling headphones over my blue-tooth enabled hearing aids and suddenly my menial task is much less unpleasant! I know there are many people who claim that taking care of the yard and garden takes them to their happy place...we'll discuss these crazy people in a later blog. Other 'reading' opportunities? While I'm checking to see if my kindergarten students have colored within the lines. While deciding which of my CD's to take to the Half Price book store. (spoiler alert: all of them.) Doing the dishes, folding clothes, sweeping the floor, driving to and from work (lest you picture me as a modern-day Cinderfella who only does chores around the house...which reminds me, while cleaning the fireplace and chimney!)</p><p>The point is, I've found so many times and activities where I can 'read' the books in my digital library without totally checking out and without isolating myself from the family. Although, If I were to sit and actually read on a lounge chair outside, I would get to interact with the family as they each took turns bringing me peeled grapes and glasses of lemonade. I think I need to start 'reading' more non-fiction books. I'm starting to hallucinate about the family!</p>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-84178519686705204572023-04-11T08:41:00.004-07:002023-04-11T09:39:15.091-07:00Hire this person!<p> When a colleague asked me to write her a letter of recommendation it brought out a few interesting thoughts. First, why the heck would anyone want to stop working with me? I'm a delight! (Just kidding, I know that neighboring districts pay a lot more money than ours. What're ya gonna do.) The second thought was, who, other than my mommy, gives a baboon's butt about my opinion? And finally, and perhaps most importantly, if I write her an awesome recommendation, she may actually get the job! And then where would I be!? The other kindergarten teacher and I would need to train a new coworker. Woe is me. (Actually, Woe is us, but I'm not in the mood right now to coin new phrases so I'll just go with it.)</p><p>I know, I'll write a horrible review! I think I'll probably use her real name here, because it's funnier that way! Well, it's funnier to me. Here goes! </p><p><br /></p><p>To Whom it may concern,</p><p>I would like to say that I have had the pleasure of working with Jay this year. I would <i>like</i> to. She is a brave young woman who almost never smells of alcohol and almost never gets angry when the students wake her from her numerous morning naps. Worry not, the students are always otherwise engaged while she is "resting" from the night before. She has an extensive library of movies that the kids have been trained to cycle through. Don't worry, she won't allow them to watch any movies rated NC-17 unless they sign a waiver. (well, scribble a crayon mark on a waiver...none of them can write anything yet.)</p><p>She has a lot of energy, especially when cornering and executing the various woodland creatures that wander across the playground. I wouldn't say that she's got homicidal tendencies...but I wouldn't <i>not</i> say it. Her students gain loads of life experience and real practical knowledge by helping her clean, dress, and barbecue these animals. She is very encouraging in these endeavors and always forgiving when they make mistakes. She helps them adapt to their new realities by handing out clever nicknames. "Lefty" is now completely comfortable handling the knives and "Smoky" knows exactly how much lighter fluid is just a bit <i>too</i> much.</p><p>Inclusion and acceptance is important in her classroom as well. The students are almost completely tolerant of her excessive flatulence and colorful tourettes-like outbursts. </p><p>Outdoor education is also an important part of her curriculum. She is averaging a nearly 80% successful return rate for students who go on field trips with her. And if you count the students who are carrying her container of cigarettes and romance novels, that percentage jumps to 90%!</p><p>In conclusion, I think it would be a great idea to let her "work" for you. You shouldn't let fact that her alleged connections to organized crime are a serious arson risk. You have insurance, right?</p><p>Jeff Garrett</p><p><br /></p>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-26740064883180716292022-01-29T10:46:00.001-08:002022-01-29T10:46:31.490-08:00Wednesday! Thursday! Friday!<p>So, we sent out Christmas cards this year! Not terribly Earth shattering I know, but in the midst of these crazy times we're counting this as a win! Several of these cards even made it to their recipients before New Year's Day (which is in the top 10 personal best in even the sanest of times). I sat down at the computer and banged out a collection of syllables to create a family letter as well. You know that saying that if you gave a million monkeys a million typewriters for a million years, eventually they would bang out the complete works of Shakespeare? It turns out it only takes this monkey about an hour to bang out a Christmas letter. </p><p>After we printed our picture and folded the letter and stuffed the envelopes, we were all set to address them. Problem is, we didn't <i>exactly</i> know where the address book was. We've been rearranging things in the house, remodeling, painting, organizing, and disheveling. We're finding out two things. First, there are many things that we obviously don't need since they've been in boxes for a while, and we haven't missed them. Second, even though certain rooms have been done for months, we will still go back to where things used to be stored to look for them. Luckily Sylvia is much more talented in the "remembering where we moved things to" department, and we were able to find the book. I also found the paper-clipped stack of address labels we've torn off of cards that had been sent to us. (Those are always kept in the front of the junk drawer, and we all know that nothing ever changes in that thing.) And now we were on a roll! We had the letters, the pictures, the envelopes, the addresses, and we were ready to finish it up! (Almost)</p><p>I got the bright idea to put everyone's address into our new computer so we could print them out easily and be ready to go. Never mind the fact that I had never done this before. Computers make things easier, right? Several hours later we had collected and organized and sorted and <i>eventually </i>printed our address labels. </p><p>Getting to the finish line involved a little thoughtful reflection. "Oh, she passed this past year, and she always sent us nice cards." There was some investigative work. "I have two addresses written here. Peachtree Drive and Seafoam Way. Did they move from the orchard to the beach or vice versa?" There was also a little bit of dredging up bits of data to try to piece together a scenario that made sense. "There're just two first names and I don't recognize either of them. Are these the newlyweds who we met on our honeymoon and our only communication from then on was a Christmas card back and forth for a few years? I think we can cross them off the list." It was a project and we got them mailed in a reasonable amount of time...well before Groundhog Day!</p><p>What happened after we mailed them is what I wanted to write about today. Right away we started getting notes from friends that they had gotten our card. "Really? We just mailed it yesterday! Oh, Jeff's letter was so funny and original and insightful and powerful and awe-inspiring and well-written...Yeah, I'm not going to mention it to him since we don't want him to get a big head." (Well, I assume that's what happened) Anyway, something else happened as well. We got two envelopes back.</p><p>Normally we get a couple cards returned to us. Usually, it's because we transposed a couple numbers on the address, or we hadn't heard that someone had moved, but this year was a little different. We got one back that had three letters written boldly across the front. "WTF" I realize that these letters, in certain circumstances, mean something other than Wednesday Thursday Friday. It's rude. It's well beyond my self-appointed PG13 writing limit. And I won't be explaining the full meaning of this abbreviation here. I have to admit that my first thought upon seeing this written on an officially stamped and federally protected correspondence was, "What The ........heck?" I couldn't fathom why someone in the United States Postal Service would brazenly scratch this onto an envelope. No, that's not what happened. I shifted my focus. Maybe we had gotten the address so horribly wrong that they couldn't comprehend how these letters and numbers were supposed to be arranged. No. Then I thought, maybe the people at this address had finally reached their limit during this particular holiday season and when they got a Christmas card for the former occupant of their house it sent them over the edge! Instead of politely inscribing, <i>"The intended recipient of this particular missive is no longer residing in this locale. Please amend your records accordingly. Have a pleasant day."</i> as I always do...this person angrily scratched out "WTF" as a way to signal that I had better not make this mistake again...EVER! </p><p>By now you're invested.... right!?! You've got to hear how I handled this massive insult!?! Did I call my state representative? Did I relay this insult to my dozens of followers on Instabook or Facegram causing it to go viral and earn me a guest spot on a national news show? Did I stomp into the local post office and demand to speak to Ben Franklin!?! (The original Postmaster General in 1775) No! I did none of that! I looked for more clues as to who would be so ill-mannered and brash as to write almost swear words onto our mail...and that's when I saw it. The yellow label that signals it's time for a letter to go back to its source because there was a problem. In tiny writing on the corner of the sticker it said, "Unable To Forward." It turns out that someone in the post office needs penmanship lessons in order to make his U's not look like W's. I hear there's a three-day penmanship course at the local adult school. It's this next week on <b>W</b>ednesday <b>T</b>hursday <b>F</b>riday.</p>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-52464140759792189522021-12-31T14:29:00.000-08:002021-12-31T14:29:07.297-08:00I'm Absolutely Full (From Gladly Eating All My Words)<p>There I was, minding my own business, being a goofball with the family (if you can believe it) when I flippantly called out, <b><span style="font-size: medium;">"That's it! I'll never write again!" </span></b></p><p>Emily, Jake's girlfriend and the newest member of the blog reading community, blurts out, "You're going to eat those words." I could have thought: What did she mean by that? or, That's an interesting thing to say. or even, Does she have a relative who's in the publishing business who wants to offer me the standard "Rich and Famous" contract? Like I said, I could have thought any or all of those things, instead I probably thought: 'I wonder if pigs know that they are one of the few animals that can get sunburned?' or something equally ridiculous. </p><p>By not thinking anything even close to logical I set myself up to be completely gob smacked! That is what happened! I'm not exactly sure where my gob is precisely, but I do know that it has been thoroughly and completely smacked! </p><p>I'm not sure how long ago, but certainly before last August, I mentioned to Emily that I had written in a blog in the past. I was telling her a story and teased her with something like, "You'd know all this if you read my blog." She genuinely wanted to read it and I gave her the address. A few days later she told me that she enjoyed my little corner of the internet and that she liked my writing style. (10 points for Emilydor!) I enjoyed the compliment and moved on with my life.</p><p>Jump rapidly ahead to just before my birthday last month. Emily brought over a uniquely wrapped present and set it over in the slowly growing wrapped Christmas present staging area. This gift had all sorts of folds and pockets and a card with a little sprig of decoration tucked in and she showed me that it had my name on it written in very fancy writing. Nothing unusual. Emily is quite artistic. Moving on.</p><p>The night of my birthday we ate dinner, they sang to me (I'm not sure which song...in my head the family all perfectly performed a rendition of "The Lonely Goatherd" from the Sound of Music...but I may be mistaken), and then they brought me my presents. I noticed two things. My family has completely embraced and enabled my Dr Pepper addiction, and I am a clueless human being. After opening an unplanned and uncoordinated string of Dr Pepper related products Emily handed me her nicely wrapped gift. It was a parallelepiped which, of course, is a 6 faced polyhedron all of whose faces are parallelograms lying in pairs of parallel planes (in other words, a box)...but I digress. So, this box was about the size of a large book and I read the nice card while taking note that Jacob was setting his camera on a tripod. </p><p>Confession time. I saw the size of her present and added that together with my many hints about how cool it would be to have one of those very fancy and highly professional knife sharpening systems they've been advertising online for a few months I thought I had guessed it. I'm not a snooper and I am perfectly happy being surprised, so I never went over and picked up the fancy gift to see if it weighed about what I thought a knife sharpener would weigh. Had I picked it up, heard little stainless steel bars clank together inside of a fairly lightweight box I would have spoiled the surprise! Little did I know that they do not make those knife sharpeners with Dr Pepper logos on them so it was never going to happen anyway. </p><p>Jake started recording. I opened the box. I saw a familiar picture emblazoned on the cover of a very large book! A picture of the family! My Family! From my Facebook page! </p><p>I know words. I like to think I can string them together into meaningful sentences. I try to be precise in my language and with my speaking or writing. I choose to use certain words because of the connotations associated with them and I choose not to say other words because they just don't have the correct feelings I'm going for. I have even been known to interpret others' miscommunications at times and create understanding where there was none. I'm not bragging, just explaining. I know words.</p><p>And then I saw the picture...read the title:</p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Do I Really Live In This Sitcom? </span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;">Volume 1, </p><p style="text-align: center;">Jeff Garrett, </p><p style="text-align: center;">An Autobiography</p><p>...slowly realized what the heck was going on...and I gathered all of my word-working skills together and started speaking as eloquently as I could:</p><p>"Wha...." "Wha...." "How...." "Wha...." "WHA....!" "HUH!?!" "WHAT? HOW?! THIS...! WHAT!"</p><p>It's not Shakespeare but it's all I could muster. I could have been knocked over by a slight breeze, I was so surprised and then I opened the very stylish cover....and I got a second shock! It turns out that Emily had not only gathered all of my ramblings into an edited collection, painted the art for the cover and designed the title typeface from distinctive sitcom shows' lettering, ordered it to be published into book form, but then she told a lot of the family so they could write thoughtful little notes to me about the book! Do you realize what that means!?! Everybody knew about it! THE FINKS! </p><p>Nobody even gave me a clue that I should wear my gob protector. (You know, because it was about to be smacked) It was quite honestly one of the most humbling moments of my life as I realized what Emily had undertaken. She started this project in August and was able to complete it in enough time to have family sign it for me before she wrapped it! I would love to say that I was moved to tears because that is the most common question I get whenever I tell someone about the gift. Alas, I am not really a crier...to my eternal shame...but that is not a comment on how much I appreciate the gift.</p><p><br /></p><p>So here we are. I am now a published author. Emily has told me that she was ready to order more for anyone who wants one. I'm not sure of all of the particulars but I think it will be in the $50 range since, apparently, I have written A LOT! I suppose if you'd like to have a physical representation of my little corner of the internet, you could let me know.</p><p>Pay attention and I will let you know who they choose to play me in the movie they make from my book...I'm thinking that Kurt Russell is a good choice. ;-)</p><p><br /></p><p>Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go buy <i>myself</i> a knife sharpening kit...while drinking a Dr Pepper!</p><p> Truly, Thank you again Emily, Unbelievably Awesome!</p>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-77113796190256979502021-11-27T10:06:00.000-08:002021-11-27T10:06:54.917-08:00Late Bloomer?<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I've got a serious question for everyone. </span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Well, maybe not everyone. If I had to wait until the "everyone" responded the question would be moot. (yes, that's how you spell that. I looked it up.) Also, "serious" sounds very important and weighty and that's definitely not the vibe I'm going for. Vibe? Really Jeff...vibe? I don't think I've ever actually said the word vibe in my life before this. It's just not something I'd do. These 4 times notwithstanding. </span><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Let me start again. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I've got a moderately weighty question that I'd like to ask a handful of people. Although, come to think of it, a handful of people might not be a large enough sample size. I mean if my parents and my sister chime in that would really <strike>sque</strike>, <strike>scew</strike>, <strike>scue</strike>, change the data. </span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Third time's a charm! </span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Well, possibly not if I say it that way. I'm a big movie buff. I almost said Take Three! but I wasn't sure enough of the people I wanted to answer this question would understand the reference since it may be an outdated way for movie companies to identify how many times they've tried to get the scene correct. I mean they probably don't have someone stand in front of the camera with that black and white board with the hinged paint-stick looking thing slapping down while they shout, "Take seventeen...Take 42...Take 153...." I'm sure it's all done on computers now. HEY! Did I mention that we got a new computer last night!? Yeah, I thought I'd come out and take it for a test drive to ask everyone a question....oh, oops.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Take Four!</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Time for the really real question. I've got a birthday coming up and I would love to know people's opinions. How old do you have to be before it becomes really impressive to start something? For instance, Grandma Moses was in her 70's before she started painting. Nice. I'm pretty sure some other people started things later in life. Let me Google something really quick. Hang on.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">OK, I'm back.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Apparently Ray Kroc was 53 when he started McDonald's. Susan Boyle was 47 when she wowed the internet with her singing. Alan Rickman was 42 when he terrorized Nakatomi Tower. But honestly, I don't think I want to start a restaurant, subject anyone to my singing, or act like a terrorist. Besides, I am already older than all of these people were.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I want to be an author. Let me look up authors who are considered late bloomers. Here's one, J.K. Rowling, </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;">when she published Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;">...um hmm. Ok, well crap. It says she was 32.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;">So much for that. New plan.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I'd like someone to put me in touch with David from My Lottery Dream Home from HGTV. If you are unfamiliar with the show, David takes lottery winners to the places that they've always wanted to live to make sure they get the perfect house of their dreams. Sylvia and I have been watching a lot of his shows recently and think it would be exciting to have him find us a home! Of course, before we contact him, it would probably be wise to have someone put me in touch with a winning lottery ticket. Another thing to add to my list. Great.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Right now the only houses we might be able to afford would be a run down fixer-upper in Arkansas...but that wouldn't be a problem as long as someone could put me in touch with Dave and Jenny Marrs, also from HGTV and a show called Fixer to Fabulous. They do a spectacular job fixing up older houses and making them into dream homes-minus the lottery pre-requisite. Come to think of it though, those home buyers do give Dave and Jenny a substantial budget in order to make those fixer uppers into fixed ups. I'm afraid the only way we could give them a budget is if they let me pay with my good looks. Honestly though, with that size of a budget I could maybe get Dave to wipe the dust off the front door knob while Jenny sprayed water on my glasses so I wouldn't notice that nothing had changed on the house. (and then Dave would sprinkle dust back onto the door knob)</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I suppose that's not the best way to meet our new best friends, Dave and Jenny. Sylvia and I have already decided that they will love us when we have them fix our house up in the future. Nothing against Lottery David. He seems like a hoot! It's just that he is always jet setting around the country and we need a little more geographical stability in people who are considering vying for the position of best friends. As for our current best friends, no offense, but you haven't steered us toward any HGTV personalities...or winning lottery tickets...so let's work on that.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">But I digress....</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The other night I woke up with a book idea clearly defined in my head. I jumped out of bed, grabbed a notebook, and scribbled and scratched for three hours, and got the outline down. It'll take some time before I get all of it worked out but it's exciting nonetheless. Thanks for listening. Also, I think I may have asked this 'How old...' question before, but I'm getting so old that I've forgotten. Now, if you'll excuse me I need to let David, Dave and Jenny know that I'll be needing a writing room in our new house.</span></div>Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-89835569584740735422018-08-19T16:44:00.001-07:002018-08-19T16:47:01.439-07:00Shifts!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I have mentioned before that I always have an imaginary audience in my brain whenever I sit down to write at the keyboard. It has been quite a while since I thought about it so last night I decided to take roll. I was a little surprised to find all of these people in my brain, and I am a little worried about how crowded it's getting up there.<br />
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I've made no secret that the main person I write for is Ray Orrock. The more seasoned locals know exactly who that is. The newly transplanted among us may have only heard of him or have no idea that he was a humor columnist for our local paper while I was growing up. After I finished school, and writing assignments where you could be told that your ideas were inferior if you didn't conform, I found my voice. Of course it's a written sort of voice since I am absolutely crippled by being an introvert, but it's still a voice. I wanted to <i><b>be</b></i> Mr. Orrock and make a living making observations and jotting them down for the public to read. I didn't imagine that anyone would care about my musings until a teacher wrote me a note in college. I took a liberty with an assignment and wrote about something that had happened to me and how it made me feel. I included a little note apologizing for not sticking strictly to what she asked, and telling her that if she read it to the class I would move out of the country. She wrote back that feelings were important and powerful things to write about and that I had done a wonderful job with my paper. She encouraged me to continue along this track. For this reason Mrs. Lynn Passek has a seat of honor next to Ray.<br />
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Additionally Dave Barry, another well known humorist and the only person I have ever written a fan letter to, stops by my cranial observatory from time to time. I have his simple response to my fan mail on the wall next to my side of the bed, next to Sylvia's picture. I'm not kidding, you can ask her. Seriously, go ahead, you're not going to make her think I am any more weird than she thought before. Imaginary Dave started coming to sit in when people started comparing my writing to his. I mostly invited him to stay because I brazenly stole a bit he does about fantastic names for his bands in high school. I just don't want people to get the idea that I thought of it all on my own. It's sort of a kleptomaniacal homage to this wonderful writer. Coincidentally, "Kleptomaniacal Homage" was the name of my band in high school!<br />
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Another person who is always present is my wife Sylvia. If I start to write something and think that she wouldn't like it, be disappointed by it, or consider it to be just too far over the edge...it comes right out. She always keeps me from getting into trouble, in writing and in life. I mentioned the other day on Facebook that my main goals in life were as follows: a) Find a very pretty girl who's got a smile that makes me melt. and b) try to get her to show it to me as often as possible! Having her shake her head and say that my mind just doesn't work the same way as other people's is just fine and dandy as long as she is smiling when she says it! It's almost as good as getting paid...almost. You people are welcome to start paying me to read this you know. I'll give you my address if you like.<br />
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Other people who happen to come by my noggin nook are in my family. Mostly they shout things like, "You can't tell THAT story!" or "Really? You should be embarrassed!" My mom keeps reminding me to wear clean underwear in case I get into an accident, but I think she wandered in from another room. There are friends, neighbors, and acquaintances who I write for but I can't always tell who they are since most of the time they are covering their faces with their hands, looking down, and shaking their heads.<br />
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My old Pastor Paul McKowen gets to sit in from time to time. He was a wonderful storyteller and he used to talk about how, in the middle of the sermon, he would hear coughs, sniffles, sneezes, and all sorts of fidgeting become silent whenever he would utter the words, "That reminds me of a story..." He was a brilliant man and I was always ready to hear one of his stories. There was one time when....well, maybe I should stay on track.<br />
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A recent visitor, and unwitting editor, is an education consultant who came to our school site for a number of years. Miss Julie, as my students called her, would guide students toward well-developed sentences. She would push my groups of 2nd graders to add 'finishers' to their sentences, (in my classroom)<span style="font-size: xx-small;">where</span>(through guided practice)<span style="font-size: xx-small;">how</span>(because they make sentences better)<span style="font-size: xx-small;">why</span>(every time she came)<span style="font-size: xx-small;">when</span>. She visits whenever I have a sentence that is just not working for some reason and I need to tweak it a bit.<br />
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Loads of others come walk around on mini tours depending on the subject I'm writing about. When I write about confusing government bureaucracy Abbott and Costello come by with their baseball uniforms on. When I need to write a silly sound or spell out a word that has no business being in a paper written in English, Jerry Lewis. When I want my writing to have an accent, Schwarzenegger. When I write about things that go bump in the night, Dean Koontz. And when I write about 14th century Euclidean geometry who stops by but none other than Carl Friedrich Gauss! I secretly hate when he walks around in my brain, he never remembers to wipe his feet!<br />
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Today I have a new person in the audience. It's a friend from church who was encouraging me to write a book last night. He seems to think it would be worthwhile for me to do it. Let's say that I did write a book and it got published. A lot of people would read it and then they'd start sending me letters about their favorite parts. Well I would be so grateful that I would have to invite them to the literary soiree at the Gray Matter Lounge. I'm not sure I could handle all of those people! I am having to have everyone come by in shifts as it is! No books for the foreseeable future.<br />
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Now if you'll excuse me I think I need to write something about Alice from the Brady Bunch. Gauss just tracked mud all across my brain pan.</div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-70142544076532305232018-08-15T07:34:00.000-07:002018-08-15T07:34:24.703-07:00Whirlpool!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If I were to ask Google how many husbands have compared their wife's business to a dog's water bowl, I hope the answer would come back zero. I mean that's weird right? What kind of a oddball would look at a ceramic dish surrounded by dog slobber and think, "Hmmmm, that reminds me of something that my darling has been working on..." And if anyone did happen to see a comparison, they certainly wouldn't share what they were thinking, unless they maybe wanted to spend some time in the guest room in Fido's house. I mean Wacky right!?! I'm glad we agree.<br />
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So as I was pouring water into the dog's water dish I was reminded of my wife's business. <i>What can I say, I'm a risk taker!</i> I don't want to spend a lot of time on the comparison but I thought you might like to hear how I got the inspiration for what I am going to talk about. I also don't want to spend any time in the dog house so I'll pause for a moment to say to Sylvia, "I love you honey!"<br />
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Anyway, the water I poured in created a tiny little whirlpool and I suppose I had a dog dish sized epiphany. I was reminded of playing in the backyard in our Doughboy pool. In case that's a regional thing I'll tell you that my parents never called our above ground portable pool a 'swimming pool', they always called it the Doughboy. Friends would ask if we had a pool and we would answer, "Well, we have a Doughboy." In the interest of not offending anyone I would like to pause for a moment to say that the only similarity between our pool and our dog's water dish was that it was circular...well that and it was filled with water.<br />
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We splashed around. We hopped from one side to another. We held our breath for as long as we could. Unfortunately, due to size restrictions, there wasn't much else to do and it quickly became a place for us to just bob up and down...until someone said, "Whirlpool!" When one person in the pool started walking around the edge...and just kept going...there might be a little current in the water. When the other people joined in and everyone moved toward a common goal, well it got pretty exciting! I can remember numerous times when my mom would tell us to be careful as we got the water moving so fast that it started spilling out the edges of the pool. Our young experiment-driven minds would test different things. Was it best to all walk together side by side? Should we separate and each take a section? Could we make the slowest participant get swept off their feet by getting it going so fast? We had a lot of fun!<br />
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At first the easiest thing to do would be stand still. No movement. Just stay put. Easy isn't very much fun. We were willing to try something to see if we could add a little excitement. As with anything worthwhile there was a reward. There was a sense of accomplishment. There was reaching the goal. And there was the thrill of riding along on what you had achieved. As we all began the process we felt like we were walking in syrup. I mean nowadays there are whole exercise programs developed around the resistance that water gives you. Just trying to walk in water is tough! But when we kept at it, especially working with others, we found that the water soon started cooperating! After a relatively short amount of time it became apparent that what would have been the easiest thing to do at the beginning is now quite impossible! It became a new game then to see how much momentum we had built up to see if someone could stand still against the tide that we had created. None of us could! Occasionally one person would ride along and "rest" as the others kept working. As long as everyone didn't decide to stop at the same time, the flow would continue forever.<br />
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Now I would be remiss if I didn't mention my cousin Melvin. (not his real name) He was always a spoilsport when he was in the pool. While we were all trying to get the whirlpool moving along he would purposely go against the flow. When he wasn't trying to do that he would just find a place along the wall and hold on to see if he could stop us.<br />
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And this is what reminded me of my Sylvia's business. She started out by just trying to help herself be more healthy. Then the kids and I joined in and we all started to walk together. When we all started to see the benefit we started to let others in. Sylvia did not have the goal of starting a business. She definitely did have a goal of helping people! And as is the case with the pool when see that you are enjoying what you are doing, others want to join in! Without doing anything other than moving in the direction that she wanted to go, she has joined into a exciting current and even created a current of her own! It's so enjoyable to watch and see the good that she is doing while helping others. And like the pool, when she needed to take a step back for a month to care for her mother when she fell and broke a bone, the rest of her team kept moving along and she was able to ride the current while her main focus needed to be elsewhere.<br />
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It's truly been exciting to be a part of this whirlpool we're in and it all started with a kit of Young Living essential oils. She bought one for herself and started wading into the pool. She essentially said, "I am just going to stand here and splash around while I watch you all play." She started walking along using the kit and showing them to her friends. They decided to join her in the pool and walk alongside. Pretty soon she achieved ranks, got recognition, and started getting a paycheck. The current that she said she definitely did not want and looked scary from the outside turned out to be quite enjoyable! My hesitant wife began to start inviting people along for the ride. She sees people who these oils could help and tells them her story. She started all alone in her little Doughboy and now has over 500 friends helping her move this current along! The water is really moving and the blessings are overflowing!<br />
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I want to let you know that if you want to find out more about this and become blessed yourself, Sylvia would be happy to help you. Here is the link to <a href="http://hello-essentials.com/sgarrett">Sylvia's Website</a> for more information. All it takes is to step in and keep going along with the flow. There is, I assure you, always room for more. The only way to not succeed is to hold onto the side while watching everyone else go by. Don't be like Melvin!<br />
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Now there is a tremendous amount more to the story and the analogy isn't a perfect fit, (mostly because we are doing the exact opposite of staying in one place going around in circles) but all it took was a single step. She got into the pool.<br />
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Come on in...the water's fine!<br />
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Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-59237999856410078702018-08-11T21:59:00.000-07:002018-08-12T11:25:29.857-07:00Buttectomy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was going to title today's post "How I Spent My Summer Vacation" <u><i><b>but</b></i></u> I didn't think it had that wow factor! I was hoping that I was coining a term <u style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">but</u> I Googled the word buttectomy and there were loads of medical descriptions so that set me back down on my chair...gently. I know I am being a bit descriptive in my wording <u style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">but</u> I felt "Buttectomy" got right down to the seat of the matter. We are all adults here and I thought you would be ok without my explaining that I had an owie on my tushy <u style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">but</u> that's exactly what happened.<br />
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OK, I'm done. Just by writing today's post I risk alienating myself from my family as they already roll their eyes and walk the other direction whenever someone comes to tell me they think I am funny. I wish I got paid by the number of times someone in my immediate family said, "Don't tell him that! It only encourages him!" Actually, I wish I got paid period...<u style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">but</u> that's another story.<br />
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OK, now I'm really done. Here's what happened.<br />
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I have been walking around with (and sitting on) a problem for months. Yes, months. I am a guy...sue me. I had been in and out of the doctor for a few tests when I finally mentioned it to my doctor. See the hierarchy? Months to tell the doctor, my readers get to hear it the next day. The least indelicate way I can describe it is that my body tried to help me out by creating a shelf for my wallet to rest on. I didn't want a wallet shelf. I'm pretty sure I didn't need a wallet shelf. I didn't even ask for a wallet shelf for my birthday...but I got one. The trouble is when you are not designed for a wallet shelf and one is installed, it isn't the most comfortable thing in the world. Imagine the feeling of sitting on a wallet in your back pocket for a long time. Now imagine sitting on that wallet 24 hours a day! Even when you are standing up! The doc didn't like that description either...hello surgery!<br />
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Surgery is bad enough. To think of a scalpel is bad enough but the thought of needles is just unbearable. I was "lucky" enough to have the doctor announce, "We're taking care of that tomorrow!" so I didn't have to stew over it for a long time. Also, being a teacher I am still without a class for a week or so. (Some people are thinking that I am without class for simply writing this particular post...I'm gonna save that for another day.) The surgery department called me to let me know what I needed to do. I was secretly hoping for, "don't eat or drink after 10 PM" all I got was, "show up 15 minutes early" which meant one thing to me...I'm going to be awake. Why is the room spinning all of a sudden.<br />
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My lovely bride took me to the appointment and we got called into the operating room fairly quickly. Two things: I didn't have time to plot my escape, they let Sylvia come in too. While the nurses got me all settled in they took my blood pressure. It was elevated, to say the least. They had me do some deep breathing with my eyes closed and took it again. It was elevated still, but slightly less. When I explained that I knew I was about to get a shot they said they understood. Sylvia stood up for me, "No, he really doesn't like shots! Since he was little!" I told them the whole story of when I stepped in a bee hive and my brother and I were attacked mercilessly. I don't "do" bees. Then, years later a doctor about to give me stitches said, "Just a little bee sting" as he jammed a needle into my hand. So now those two things are linked. When the doctor came in to check me out now he said, "It'll just be like a really bad bee sting." Both the nurses shouted, "No!" He kept on, "Yeah, eventually it'll feel better but to get there it'll be like a really big bee sting." The nurse commented on how I changed color and started to sweat while I wondered why in the world they would install a rotating room in a hospital. I almost called it off. I would have but for two things; He said I would need to take care of it eventually while it hurt until I did, and I kinda wanted Sylvia to think I was something other than a big chicken. "Ok, let's do it."<br />
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The nurses went to work. I got to lay down while the one nurse said, "I'm going to put this on you since the doctor is going to use cauterization and you need to be grounded." "This" turned out to be a giant sticker on my other leg that was hooked up to wires. "Need to be grounded" means, if you don't have this you could be electrocuted like that Webber kid last year. Remember him? Ooh, the smell. The entire time I was thinking, "Crap, she just plastered that on my very hairy calf. I'm going to have fun getting that off! Now at least I'll know what it's like to have my leg waxed."<br />
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There I am in a very vulnerable position, looking very much like a little boy having a splinter taken out of his tushy, while grounded, and the doctor said, "This will be a little pinch." The nurses thankfully clued him in to stopping the 'bee sting' crap. I felt a little uncomfortable coldness and a lot of pressure but I was ok. I was thinking maybe that part of the body doesn't have too many nerve endings. Maybe I am getting tougher as I get older. Maybe the doctor is like an acupuncturist and he is really good at doing things gently for his more sensitive patients. A few seconds later I learned, maybe he was describing the sterilizing scrub that he did as a 'pinch' and when he got around to using the needle he said, "The pinch is over, this next thing is going to feel like some sort of radioactive otherworldly spear!" I, of course, didn't hear anything since I was shouting, "Dear Mother of God and all things holy! Son of a blue nosed gopher!" I'm not sure but I think I heard Sylvia snickering. (I'm so embarrassed.)<br />
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After a minute or so of stabbing me in different places to make sure the entire left side of my body was numb enough to be in a Tim Conway skit on the Carol Burnett show, he started removing my shelf. I could feel pushing and pulling and the occasional bit of pain but if I mentioned it I would have gotten the needle. He said, "I can give you more if you need." Yeah right, just back away from the needle Dr. DeSade. One nurse got me water since she thought I looked like I was going to lose it, the other said, "He's already cutting. It's not that bad right?" Little bit of advice dears, if one nurse is sure the patient is going to lose it even when he can't see what's going on, for obvious reasons, don't describe the operation to him. And then the shelf was gone. I couldn't tell, they told me. They asked if I wanted to see it or take a selfie. Ummmm, unless it's a little silver laser thing that shows me the secret bank account number so I can go and gather all my money and different passports out of the safety deposit box, I think I'll pass. As they were closing up one thought to ask Sylvia, "Oh, are you OK with all this?" She laughed, "Yes! I am fine! He would already be on the floor!"<br />
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I asked for the stitches to be in a lightning bolt pattern, he didn't seem to know how to do that with just four, so...it's a line. He told me to take it easy for a while and let the stitches heal. When I asked how long Sylvia was supposed to wait on my hand and foot he said, "Five years!" I am not even kidding about that! You can ask her! After the nurses felt that I had a color normally seen in humans back in my face, and they were able to unground me while leaving some of my calf hair, they had me slowly slide off the table. As I hobbled out the door I asked if I wasn't supposed to get a sticker or a lollipop or something. I guess they reserve those for brave boys and I'll just have to try to get one when I go back in to get my stitches out.<br />
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So now I am wallet shelf-less. It no longer feels like I am sitting on an extra wallet all of the time. It does, however, feel like I have been stabbed, burned, pulled, pushed, and bee-stung! In the interest of full disclosure I feel I must say that the actual operation took place, technically, on my left leg. It hurt a little further north but the actual non-lightning bolt scar will be on my leg. I just felt it was far funnier to say, butt-ectomy! For those of you who are upset that I chose to write about such a sensitive subject, and decide to be mean to me while leaving inappropriate comments, I have, obviously, only one recourse...I'm going to turn the other cheek.<br />
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Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-63877996040825781192018-08-03T11:02:00.000-07:002018-08-03T11:02:22.437-07:00The Colonel and The Parson<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
First I want to tell you that I am writing this from home, we are well, and we are unharmed. There is no reason to be alarmed....anymore. I need to include these little foreshadowy "Everything is OK" disclaimers in some of my blogs because my mom is an avid reader and if I talk about the possibility of doom and/or gloom I don't want her to be upset. She's kind of a worrier.<div>
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All right let's see if I can work in some suspense now....</div>
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There we were. In the middle of the forest. Sounds that Sylvia had never heard before were coming from behind us and getting closer. I stopped to take a picture of something that very literally could have killed us...but it didn't. (I already understand that you know I am ok. Not just because I told you. Who do you think is writing this?) </div>
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Major exaggeration aside, we had a very nice time walking around the Armstrong Woods State preserve in Guerneville, CA. It was a pleasant day and the weather was not hot enough to really complain about, especially since we were in shade almost the entire time. Oh wait, I was trying to be suspenseful...I'll just tell you, <b><i><u>something</u></i></b> did happen! (this is when the soundtrack guy would play "dun dun DUNNNNNN" on the organ. Unless he was dead! <i>DUN DUN DUNNNNNNN</i>!! And <i>that</i> is why you should always keep a spare soundtrack guy.)</div>
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The day started at a winery in Healdsburg because the Groupon deal we got included a complimentary wine tasting. We're not huge wine drinkers, recent blog posts to the contrary, but we enjoy a tasting here and there. We have been on making decision overload recently so Sylvia put me in charge of the decision making for the trip. (dun dun DUNNNNNN!) [Yes, very funny soundtrack guy. Thank you. </div>
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I planned on going to the tasting about lunchtime and then we would go exploring the woods that our hotel manager suggested for something else to do in the area. But seriously, if wine tasting is your thing, the Healdsburg area is a fine place to go. The map has a dot for each winery on it. The map looked like it had a very bad case of chicken pox! I couldn't get us the Groupon near the beach, Sylvia's favorite happy spot, so the woods was a close second. If I ever find the guy who bought that beach deal out from under me...(dun dun DU...) OK Soundtrack guy. Take a break.</div>
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At the winery we met a very nice couple, Kris and Bruce, who were celebrating their 35 anniversary and we decided to enjoy the patio while having a relaxing conversation. It was funny how much we had in common with them and we enjoyed talking to them for an hour or so while Sylvia and I drank water and ate the very trendy breadsticks the winery provided. I only mention the water so that the next part doesn't get blamed on the wine. </div>
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We said goodbye to our new friends, made the obligatory comment about maybe bumping into them again since we had similar plans for the evening, and went on our way. Kris and Bruce went to another winery to meet their kids and I made the fateful decision to drive to the woods. (ooh "fateful!" This is getting good!) I got directions on my phone and we started on what it said would be a fifteen minute trip. We started out well but it turns out that the woods, as is generally the case, are reached through winding roads. That, in addition to Sylvia trying to take care of some business on her phone while we drove, added up to a little car-sickness. Ordinarily she'd get out her bottle of <a href="http://hello-essentials.com/sgarrett" target="_blank">peppermint</a>, take a whiff, and we'd be off as if nothing happened. Good plan. Unless you give your bottle of peppermint to a friend who was worried about their upcoming trip and you forget to replace it in your purse. With the combination of careful slow driving, fresh air, and a Gatorade from an angel, we got to the woods.</div>
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The guy at the entrance to the woods was pretty helpful. He said, "So I could charge you $7 or you could see if there is parking at the visitor center you just passed and walk in. You might find a space." Word to the wise. Park at the visitor center. We are used to state and national parks. The kind of parks that take a half a day to drive through. The kind that have multiple entrances. The kind that don't have employees that tell you how to get away without paying to get in. We parked in one of the dozens of empty spaces and walked in. The ranger said there were generally two places to go as people hike through the park. We found the trail head and we were off. Almost as soon as you start walking in, you see the Parson Jones tree. It's about 310 feet tall! Huge and impressive sure but California is known for our big trees. Moving on. We veered (this veering is integral to the story and the intrigue...dun dun Dun) away from that tree and headed to the next. The Colonel Armstrong tree is only 308 feet tall but it has a better publicist so they named the park after it. From there we discovered that there was another tree to see! We veered again on the new trail and we went to see the icicle tree. They don't tell us how tall it is since the interesting thing about it is all the burl that used to be around the base of the tree. Yes, "used to be." Vandals have taken away most of what made this poor tree spectacular. There's a sign that explains it...and if you read between the lines it also explains why people say there are two trees to see in the woods.</div>
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Thanks for sticking with me, this is the part of the story where the magic happens! We started to walk away from the tree and head back toward the front of the park and Sylvia started to head to the left while I headed to the right. Did you hear me!?! Sylvia wanted to go left and I was sure we needed to go right! Come on soundtrack guy! Do Your Stuff! (<span style="font-size: xx-small;">dun dun dun</span>) Uh huh, very funny. We're all amused. It turns out that I was right! Sylvia, my lovely bride, my literal guidepost, the human GPS, was confused about which way to go. I have said numerous times that if it weren't for Sylvia I would have died long ago while circling the freeways around Chicago...while on a trip to the store for milk. Sylvia, on the other hand, enjoys wandering in the woods with no discernible plan or path because, "It's fun to find my way back." On this day, the 31st day of July in the year of our Lord 2018, Jeff knew the correct direction to go (which also happened to be right) and Sylvia did not. I think it was the curvy road, the earlier wine tasting, the loop we made as we turned back to the parking lot, and the barometric pressure that added to her GPS glitch. Whatever it was, I realize that it was a one-time thing. Whenever the GPS on my phone glitches I grab it and swing it around in the air in a figure eight pattern. I think we'll take a different approach with Sylvia.</div>
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So we made it out of the woods. We made it back to the hotel. We altered our evening plans a tiny bit because Sylvia wasn't feeling 100%. Consequently we did not bump into Kris and Bruce that night and we never saw them again. Gee, I hope they're OK.</div>
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{Dun Dun <i><b>DUNNNNN!!!!</b></i>}</div>
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Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-15100472668475372752018-08-01T09:00:00.000-07:002018-08-01T09:00:09.174-07:00I Beg Your Pardon...What?!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sylvia and I got away for a few days to go hiking, swimming, and other healthy endeavors.<br />
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Ok, enough, stop, you win. Wine tasting. We went wine tasting. Lots and lots of wine tasting.<br />
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I realize that the mere mention of wine tasting might elicit a response from a lot of people and bring up images of people in sweater-vests holding their oversized wine glass in the air. While looking through the moving liquid in the glass they say things like "ah.....legs" and "this really is a fruit forward varietal." All around the room there are people <u><i><b>S</b></i></u>ipping and <u><i><b>S</b></i></u>ucking and <u><i><b>S</b></i></u>wirling and there's one more <u style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">S</u> but I forget what that is. There's a spittoon on the counter that everyone knows is for spitting out but nobody is spitting it out because that's just gross. Oh hey! <u style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">S</u>pitting! That's the last <u style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">S</u>! Not to be indelicate but I peeked and the center drain was wet so <i>someone</i> was spitting...it just wasn't us. Everywhere people are saying "full bodied," "Ah nodes of hazelnut," and "I believe this one came from a French barrel since they are fond of using balsa wood and this reminds me of my kite when I was 10." How did I do? If you've ever gone wine tasting, did I capture the experience? Well I will tell you that this was definitely NOT us. (We don't even own sweater vests!)<br />
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So anyway, since we are staying away from home for a couple days we are unable to eat home prepared organic gourmet cuisine like we do every night of the week. (Jake if you see anyone rummaging through our trash cans just tell them the pizza roll packages are from next door.) Sylvia and I were hungry. We aren't from around here so we asked the youngins at the last winery where to go. (The last winery of the two we went to...we're not lushes.) Both of the kids doing the pouring said, in unison, Bravas Tapas! And that reminded me of a story....<br />
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I was new to my school but had worked there part time for a few months a decade earlier. I was popping in and out of rooms getting to know people one Friday and was getting the usual, "Any plans for the weekend?" My final stop was usually Mr. Mitchell since I work in an elementary school full of women and every once in a while you gotta talk to a guy. It's a testosterone thing. I told John that Sylvia and I were probably going to go out to dinner but we hadn't decided where yet. And that's when he told me about a teacher he mentored and the restaurant that she suggested.<br />
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He said that she and her new husband were going to this new topless bar that had opened up in Berkeley. She proceeded to tell him that it was supposed to be really good and a fun place to eat. It was a trendy new idea, these topless bars, but the food was amazing! She explained that she first took her husband to this topless bar for his birthday but they have gone back multiple times since then. She said that the topless place isn't your usual way to eat but it all works out and everyone enjoys themselves. Then she suggested that he should go to this topless bar and maybe they could double date with their significant others.<br />
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Mr. Mitchell told me, right off the bat, that there was no way he was going to talk his way into going to a topless bar...and going with the female teacher from work was just out of the question. He thought, I am a very understanding person. I honestly believe in live and let live. I cannot for the life of me understand, however, how this fairly conservative seeming young lady would actually enjoy going to a topless bar! More than once even!!! He told me that he pondered it all weekend wondering what other secrets were hiding behind the innocent school teacher facade.<br />
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When she came in on Monday he waited until after school and then asked her if she enjoyed the topless bar. She got this strange look on her face, "What?" You said you were going to the Topless bar this weekend. "Umm, I said Tapas. Tapas. It's like little appetizers that you order and then everyone shares as a meal. YOU THOUGHT I'D GO TO A TOPLESS BAR!?! NO WAY!" Laughter! Laughter! Laughter! And we all had a story to hear in the staff room for the next week. The moral of the story, I guess, is listen carefully! Oh yeah, and ask questions if something just doesn't sound quite right.<br />
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Well last night, Mr. Mitchell, Sylvia and I went to a "topless" bar here in Healdsburg and the food was great. They relied a little too much on bleu cheese in the salad for my liking but everyone kept their clothes on...so that was good.<br />
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Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-105093608850511332018-07-31T09:00:00.000-07:002018-07-31T09:00:05.239-07:00It Ripped...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Sylvia was a little upset with me for teasing her about the gingerbread a while back, and even though something is happening to Sylvia <i>right now</i> that is terribly funny, I think I will pick on someone else today. Of course when I say she was upset I mean that she said she was upset, then she hit me on my shoulder, then she smiled that adorable smile that I just love to stare at. She either wants me to continue teasing her or she doesn't quite understand what would get me to stop. If she was really upset this would be a full retraction where I claimed, as they do at the end of movies, the scenarios depicted here are false and bear no intentional similarity to persons living or dead (or undead if I started writing about zombies). Also, you would be able to tell that I was writing this while sitting in the dog house in the backyard.<br />
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I'm not...let's start talking about Craig.<br />
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This is actually a summer memory from a hot northern California camping trip many years ago. Did I say hot? Scalding, would be a little more honest. Scalding? Ok, if I dropped a steel bar on the ground it would have melted into a tiny little puddle of silver. This was the temperature of the campground that Craig's parents took us to. I didn't mind. It meant that Craig and I had an excuse to walk to the snack bar window at the main entrance and get soft serve ice cream cones...every day. Of course we could have gotten them every hour and still not been cool enough. Did I mention that it was hot?<br />
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Enough of that. Craig's family was nice enough to take me camping with them a few years. They would always go to Burney Falls and I loved it! I did! I really did! But one year they weren't so convinced. Our story happened that year.<br />
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We were camping like always and it was as hot as it had ever been, but this year I wasn't feeling 100%. I forget what it was but I remember that I was a little more quiet than my normally introverted self. I'm pretty sure Craig's parents were sure that I was having a miserable time and were a little worried about me. Let me take care of this right now:<br />
<br />Mr. and Mrs. Kaul, I thoroughly enjoyed all the times we were together and I was thrilled to be included in your family.<br />
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So anyway, we were about halfway into the week-long trip when we were all sitting around the campfire. (I know I said it was hot. It's a camping thing. Try it, you'll like it.) Unlike most of my stories I have no idea about the details surrounding the main event. We were probably talking. Most likely there were marshmallows. Decisions were being made about when to fish Hat Creek and when to fish Lake Britton. We probably saw a tiny nearly see-through scorpion or two in the waning light. And then out of no where Craig said, "It ripped."<br />
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Everyone looked at him wondering where that came from. While I don't remember the conversation, I do remember that it had nothing to do with things that might rip; not now, or ever. Since he didn't provide any context, the conversation continued. Back to the similarity of Crystal Lake and how we didn't really want to fish there since the last scene of the original "Friday the 13th" had taken place on a lake like that. More marshmallows....then Craig.<br />
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"It ripped some more..."<br />
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Now he, and his cryptic sentences, had our complete attention. Everyone turned to see what on Earth he was talking about. I grew up watching Quincy, Columbo, and Ellory Queen. I was as ready as the next guy to solve a riddle. It didn't help. There was no time. As soon as everyone looked Craig's way he went from sitting on a stool to sitting on the dirt as fast as gravity could take him. It was like he was the Coyote just outwitted by the Road Runner but he wanted to announce to all of us that he only just realized there was no longer a solid ground under him. Poooooomf! Down he went! The canvas on the director chair style stool he sat on had officially seen its last camping trip.<br />
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And I started laughing. Not, tee hee, oh my wasn't that amusing. (in a British accent for some reason) I erupted with laughter on top of laughter. I could only stop long enough to repeat, "It ripped! It ripped some more!" and then start all over again like it was happening over and over just for my own personal instant replay! I forgot about not feeling well. Mr. and Mrs. were now certain that I wasn't going to try to hitchhike home. And I had a new memory to access whenever I want to just really bring a smile to my face. I also have a story to tell every time I see a camper bring a director chair stool to the campfire.</div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-24429945365678995342018-07-30T10:00:00.000-07:002018-07-30T10:00:17.313-07:00How much will it cost to make her happy?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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How much will it cost to make her happy?</div>
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That's the question I asked myself about four years ago when Sylvia, my wife, talked to me about this new "stuff" that Yvonne had given her. Sylvia had been sick for quite a while and our friend Yvonne gave her some of this stuff called "Thieves" to help her feel better while they were away together at a retreat. Yvonne, like Sylvia, can't stand to see someone not feeling their best. Sylvia breathed in the Thieves... She rubbed it on her chest... She rubbed it on her feet.... She felt better... And then she came home.</div>
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Growing up part time in Europe Sylvia used to get herbs and tinctures and drinks (even one made from 'stinging nettle') whenever she was sick. Her great aunt Tante Mali would see her sniffle, cough, or sneeze and she was off to the scary basement to concoct something to help. This Thieves stuff made her feel like she was doing things the European way. She explained all this to me when she was explaining that she wanted to buy some of it from Yvonne. "Yeah mmhmmm sure. Makes you feel like home? Sounds good. Get it." So she bought Thieves.</div>
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And then the hammer dropped. "You know...Yvonne said that this Thieves stuff is not the only stuff they have." Ok, uh oh, you now have my attention...and the attention of our checkbook. Just exactly how many other things do they have? That one bottle of Thieves wasn't exactly expensive but I wouldn't say that the tiny bottle was cheap. Even if you do only use a drop at a time. I braced myself, "Ok, let's hear it."</div>
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Well, there's this one for this, and that one for that. Some of them are singles and some of them are blends. There's a drink you can get. I've always been interested in doing things like they did in Germany and I think these things would let me do some of that. </div>
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I could tell that she was sold. In my head I was thinking something along the lines of, "How much will it cost us to make her happy?" That really is my goal. Making her happy. I can't get you a 3 carat diamond tennis bracelet, but I can make your coffee the right way. I can't take you on an Alaskan cruise, but I can open your car door for you. So I asked, "Which ones were you thinking about getting?" </div>
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Well, I wanted to get this and that and also that...and all that would cost about $100. (Yikes!) But they have a kit that's got the three I want and eight more and it would only cost about $160 dollars, AND it comes with a diffuser that lets you put them into the air so it gets to the whole room. </div>
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After the "SpRoInG!!!" sound subsided in my brain I told her that we would need to plan for a few months to make that happen. We were pretty stretched at the time. I agreed to set a little aside every month for three months and then we'd get it. After all, I had been hearing about her German 'potions' for our entire marriage. A little piece of my immature and wildly imaginative brain had visions of her standing in a laboratory on a stormy night shouting, "He's alive! Alive!"</div>
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We saved, we bought, and we have never been happier! If we have a sniffle, a cough, a sneeze or anything else, Sylvia is off to her little corner of the kitchen (we don't have a scary basement) where she comes up with something that will help us all feel better. She has taken to helping people outside the family as well. Tante Mali would be very proud. In fact that $160 investment has helped us not only with our health but with our finances as well. </div>
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I'll explain more later...but if you don't want to wait you can send me a message. I'd be more than happy to talk to you. Sylvia's website is also available if you want to explore for yourself. Here's the link: <a href="http://hello-essentials.com/sgarrett">Sylvia's Site</a></div>
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Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-74365354848309351942018-04-29T08:30:00.002-07:002018-04-29T08:30:39.533-07:00Told You I Was Hurt<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When I last wrote I told you about my impending MRI. It happened. The good news is that there was no preparation for the procedure, unlike the unpleasant week's worth of prep for "The Procedure Which Must Not Be Named." Yes, the MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging) is a marvelous machine that is designed to turn exceptionally brave people into quivering shells of their former selves...but at least you don't have to spend the night before it in the bathroom. I survived and now I am on the other side.<br />
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Let me start at the beginning....maybe. My shoulder hurts. I don't know why my shoulder hurts. It just hurts. It has hurt for a long time. A really long time. It has felt this bad for about a year. I know what some of you are thinking, and as my son would say, "You know they have people trained to help you when you're hurt." At the risk of having to turn in my "I Don't Need To Go To The Doctor" badge from my Man Meetings, I have been to the doctor...lots of them! (Well three is a lot for a guy)<br />
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I admit that I let it go for a long time. I thought it was just sore. I slept on it wrong. I bumped it somehow. Or possibly worse, "I just won't move it that way." I honestly couldn't remember an event that would have made it hurt like this and I have been to doctors enough to know that if you don't tell them why something hurts they'll most likely tell you that it is just a sprain/strain/pain and you should ice it then put heat on it and it will most likely get better in a few weeks. So I waited a few weeks.<br />
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And a few more....<br />
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And a few more.......<br />
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And a lot more..............<br />
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The list of things I was choosing not to do got a little bigger every week or so. Volunteering to the the end-zone referee in a PeeWee football game was first to go. One raising both arms for a touchdown and I would have been incapacitated for hours. Getting things off of high shelves was next to go. This one hurt my pride. I was once the go to guy in the top shelf game! No longer would people seek me out because what good is having the big crock pot, the Christmas decorations, or the turkey platter if you had to suffer through whimpering and wincing to get them. Jake, who is still shorter than me (depending on shoe selection and hair style) is top (shelf) dog around here now.<br />
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The 'cannot do' list was getting longer until finally I was adding things to it like turning on the light switch and sleeping. Off to the doctor I went. In my mind I'm ready to take care of this. I have done the wait and see method to healing and it's not working. The doctor should see that I do not come in for any old thing. Let's move! I walked out with the advice to ice, then heat, then rest....then in two weeks...call for physical therapy. OK, that's at least something. I've had good results from PT before on other issues so I was all in.<br />
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I went in weekly for a while. He measured how far my arm could move and recorded the pained faces I made when he made me go too far so they could all have a laugh watching it at the Physical Therapist Christmas party. (all right, not really, but still) I remember one week I had a break from school and he wanted to see me three days in a row. I went in and he was able to get me to move a whole 3 degrees past where I started. He thought progress! I thought I was just getting able to handle the pain better and that I really wasn't seeing improvement.<br />
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Enter the specialist! I had heard of these guys before. Hooray! They have the good stuff. Boo! The good stuff comes from a needle. I hate needles. Another problem is that I have heard of this stuff, cortisone, for years and the people who described it to me didn't do it any favors. I knew one person who vividly described her experience of getting the shot while laying down and saying that she would have done anything to crawl away from it. I heard adjectives like burning, uncomfortable, and stinging...but I also heard adjectives like magic. All right let's try it. I psyched myself up for the worst thing in the world and was treated to a whole lot of nothing. He said, "I'm done" before I even thought he got started. Then he said, "Don't use it for a week." Ha! You don't know me doc! I'm tough! I can handle anything! Have I told you how I have put up with this pain for so long!? Hit me with your best shot! So I went home and decided to make the bed...using my newly shot arm. Oh that's what you meant doc! Unimaginable pain by just moving a little? I understand now.<br />
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So I spent the week walking around with my left arm very much like a salami in a nylon. It just swung willy nilly this way and that and it felt fine, as long as I didn't use a single muscle in it. After a week I decided to take it out for a test drive. I raised it a bit. So far so good. A bit higher. Still good. I even did some wild and crazy things like sleeping and washing my hair with both hands! I was healed! Healed I say! Something in the back of my mind reminded me of another adjective that EVERYONE used when describing the cortisone shots...<i>temporary. </i>Nah, I can see that this is the ticket! I just needed a week of doing nothing with the head start of the shot. I'm good to go! For precisely one week. I was back to square one...and I still had no idea why I was hurting so bad.<br />
<br />
This was not like me. I used to be able to use both arms. I remember being able to do actual physical labor. Then it hit me...I think I know. In Mexico we helped build a roof on a church. To build this roof we needed to place beams across two walls. They were gigantic! Without describing the entire process they leaned them onto one wall and pushed one end. The other end went straight into the air and then started falling down. Two of us needed to stand arms outstretched to catch these 20 foot long 6X8 beams that were falling toward them while standing on folding chairs...about 25 times! When I called the doc and told him that a) the shot stopped working ridiculously quickly, and b) I knew what caused it, he scheduled an MRI.<br />
<br />
"Do you work with metal?" No<br />
"Do you have any implants?" No<br />
"Are you gonna be ok if we stuff your XXL body into a tube made for L?" I beg your pardon?<br />
Well, maybe the questionnaire didn't say that exactly but it should have.<br />
I was able to fit my broad shoulders into this tube only by reaching my good arm across my body and holding the "I can't take it anymore" button on the other side of my body. I got to stay stuffed in this machine for about 45 very noisy minutes. I never squeezed the panic button but completely understood why people would. And a few days later I found out, I have a tear that will probably require surgery. That should be fun. I can't wait to write about it...using only my right arm.<br />
<br /></div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-79782385670893658382018-04-15T09:42:00.000-07:002018-04-15T09:42:11.459-07:00It Only Hurts When I Don't Laugh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've noticed that, among the people who read my musings, the most popular and the most reacted to are the ones where I am describing how terribly uncomfortable I am, or when I have been in significant pain. Apparently, I have the ability to see humor in places others don't and the more nervous and upset I am, the more I try to mask it with laughter. No, no, it's healthy...I think. Anyway, I usually try to write on troubling days to see if I can capture the hilarity. Be warned, today's should be a doozy!<br />
<br />
First, in the interest of full disclosure, I should explain that I am now two days past the event that caused my discomfort so I know the outcome. I'll be talking as if my world may be ending in a swirl of disorientation and pain...but I actually turn out ok. I know, I know, I alluded to unpleasantness on a grand scale, the ruthless among you will just have to make do.<br />
<br />
I think I'll start with a scene from a movie. (I do that...you'll get used to it) In the buddy cop movie Lethal Weapon 3 the cops, Riggs and Murtaugh, are picking up an informant, Leo, from the hospital. Leo is upset and complaining that they do all sorts of unnecessary things at the hospital just to make money.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white;">Leo: <span style="color: #231f20;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Where does it say that a gunshot wound requires a rectal exam, huh? Yeah, with a telescope big enough to see Venus!</span></span> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #231f20;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Riggs: I guess all he saw was Uranus, huh?</span></span></blockquote>
I remembered this scene because of its humor but more importantly because I needed to go to the hospital...and I hadn't been shot.<br />
<br />
Yes, as half of the people reading this are clicking the little "X" up in the top right corner as fast as their little fingers can fly, I'll explain to the rest of you that I shall not be describing anything gross. Personally, I think it's important to get these things out there so others know that they are not alone. No, I did not feel all alone. I felt like I had joined a great big room full of people like me...old men. When I called to make the appointment I told the person who answered the phone that I needed to make an old man appointment. She laughed, but she made the correct appointment without any further explanation.<br />
<br />
Ok, deep breath now, I'm just gonna say it...colonoscopy. Yes, you heard that right. Pretty sure the doc was a Star Trek fan because he seemed ready to "boldly go where no man has gone before." I want to make sure everyone knows that I am talking about a colon-oscopy and not a Colin-oscopy because frankly, I have no interest in what happened with the NFL this year.<br />
<br />
The thing about this particular test is that there are steps leading up to it. <i>EIGHT PAGES</i> of steps to be exact! 2 sided! The first step takes place 7 days before the procedure. You read that correctly, 7 full days before the exam I needed to think about what I was supposed to eat, drink, what medicines to take and what to discontinue. The details get more and more restrictive as C-day (as opposed to D-day) gets closer. It started with cutting out foods that were high in fiber. This seemed counter-intuitive to me since years of television commercials extolled the virtue of fiber being the whisk broom of the digestive set. When I asked for clarification on what exactly that meant, I was told that I was to start eating white bread, white rice, no fruits or vegetables, you know "all the bad stuff." Little did she know that I had been getting ready for this test since I was 17! Actually, I'm kidding. I am a fruit-aholic and I haven't eaten a slice of white bread since my mom, decades ago, dropped a piece camping and the ants on the ground walked <i>around</i> it. Although, the thought of a Krispy-Kreme and pizza diet seemed like something I could get behind...you know, for science.<br />
<br />
A couple days before the event I was required to start taking a bag full of digestive aids. I walked out of the CVS with three items that I have never purchased before...and a six-and-a-half-foot long receipt! When your wife is a big deal in the Essential Oil game, trips to the pharmacy are few and far between. You know you're in for it when the people telling you about their experiences with these powders, pills, and drinks start with phrases like, "It's not <i>that</i> bad." The problem was that I needed to do all of this while drinking an ocean of water! It states in the doctor's instructions that I am to drink 8 ounces of clear liquid every hour I am awake. Let me remind you...I am an elementary school teacher. I don't have the luxury of stepping out to visit the facilities whenever I need to, especially since a significant portion of my day is taken explaining that recess and lunch are the correct times to go to the bathroom. We don't want to miss class time! I made it <i>without being called a hypocrite!</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
After work, the night before, things start to get interesting. "Interesting" is the polite word I use to describe what happens when you take more than two full weeks worth of laxatives in the span of about 12 hours. As Forrest Gump would say, "That's all I'm gonna say about that." I will add, however, that I was motivated to live to the letter of the law written on these eight pages because of one sentence. Paraphrasing: 'Failure to adhere to these rules will result in a less than ideal view and you will need to start over." Uh, no thanks. No fiber, lots of water, drink all this...yes ma'am!<br />
<br />
Then it's the morning of the exam. This is when the nervousness hits. I'm not a giant wimp. I can handle some discomfort. I once had a doctor ask me how I was able to still be walking around since I should have been in disabling pain. Meh, you gotta do what you gotta do. And then someone gets out a needle...and I am a whimpering little child calling out for his mommy. This procedure called for sedatives and those are administered via I.V. This was in the back of my mind ever since they told me I needed this test, but now Sylvia had dropped me off, I was wearing 60% of a gown, and the nurse was holding a stabbing device. Because of the vibe I give out I'm sure, I was given the nurse with a sense of humor. She started in saying things like, "I hate needles" and alluding to not having done this before...all while I was hyperventilating and explaining the virtues of an old rag and a bottle of ether. Poke. Done. It's never as bad as I expect it to be. But I did nearly die.<br />
<br />
Anyway she rolled me into the room while I took a selfie that I can't show you since I didn't ask her permission to publish it. I met the doctor, a different nurse, another person who I forget what they were going to do (but I knew they weren't going to be giving me another shot so it didn't matter), and everyone kept saying my name and the reason I was there. There's a poster on the wall that had a list of all the things they were all supposed to say to make sure I was the right person in the right room for the right procedure. They all followed the rules. I suppose it's a good thing. I would have hated to get a hysterectomy! Then I met the person who told me she was going to be taking care of my sedation...and then they told me I was all done. I really liked that sedation person!<br />
<br />
And just like My Big Fat Greek Wedding I now have to wait for the results from the <i>bibopsy</i>. Maybe they'll prescribe some Windex. With the Windex I would have been a shoe-in for the "Cleanest Colon of the Day" award.<br />
<br />
Finally, looking ahead for some of my more sadistic readers who really get a kick out of reading about my pain and suffering and were disappointed that things went so smoothly. I'm going in for an MRI on my shoulder soon where some are telling me it might require surgery. Cross your fingers!</div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-60216797213610400412018-04-08T09:35:00.002-07:002018-04-08T09:35:43.060-07:00My Princess Bride<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Allow me to set the scene. It's spring break and Sylvia and I are watching something on the Hallmark channel (Ok, so I like the Hallmark channel...), everything has been building to this formal wedding, and the music begins to fade so they can start the ceremony. I'm sure it's exactly like the director wants it to be...<br />
<br />
From out of nowhere Sylvia pipes up....(Hold on...I'll tell you in a bit)<br />
<br />
Did you ever have one of those moments that perfectly intersects the incongruous and the expected? This was it for me. I laughed so hard I couldn't breathe! But I think I need to explain...<br />
<br />
First, in case one of the 8 people who read my ramblings also happen to be one of the 4 people on the planet who have never seen this movie...in other words, my mom, (hi mom!) I am talking about The Princess Bride. It is often quoted in innumerable settings, the quotes are easily recognizable, and almost everyone who has seen the movie thinks it is just great! And why wouldn't they? The movie, in my humble opinion, is wonderful! As the Grandpa explains to his grandson while trying to talk him into listening to the story in the beginning of the movie, it's got<span style="background-color: #fcfae7; color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>"fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles..." </i>What's not to love!?! Right?</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, let me tell you, I can attest to the fact that this movie is not everyone's cup of tea. In fact, I have it on good authority that there are people who think, perish the thought, that this movie is, and I'm quoting, "stupid." {{shudder}} I live with one...and she let's me know her opinion whenever it happens to be on the TV. I can see her point. It's fantasy, it could never happen, some of the characters have really silly voices...(ok, I'm just kidding. I love it and can quote it over and over...try me!) but to each their own. Honestly, when Jake is leaving the house and tells us goodbye (we have a very polite son) odds are about even that after I say "Bye" I will add, <i>"Have fun storming the castle!"</i> Sylvia just rolls her eyes. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Yes, Sylvia and I are one example of when opposites attract. When we were doing our pre-marriage counseling appointments the subject of how we were going to raise the kids, loving Princess Bride or not, never came up. Was it a risk? Sure. We decided to let the kids decide when they were old enough. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">We are making it work.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">So the other night when the marriage scene was playing out on the Hallmark channel (where everything is down to earth and events happen just like in real life) you could have knocked me over with a feather or the tail of an R.O.U.S. (Rodent Of Unusual Size) when she belted out, in perfect cadence and tone:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #333333; font-size: x-large;"><span style="background-color: white;">"<i>MAWAGE....</i>"</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: white;">I just about fell off the couch! I burst out laughing and couldn't stop! Poor Sylvia, who was laughing at how hard I was laughing, looked at me as if to ask, "Isn't that right!?" </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br />"Yes, Yes....that is right! In fact it is perfect! Wow! I can't breathe! My sides hurt!"</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: white;">It's things like this that remind me I made the right choice when I proposed to her...with a ring from a Cracker Jacks box. (true story)</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">I am one step closer to hearing this when we renew our vows in the future, "</span><i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;">Mawage. Mawage is wot bwings us togeder today. Mawage, that bwessed awangment, that dweam wifin a dweam..."</i><br />
<i style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><br /></i>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="background-color: white;">Don't look at me like that...It could happen!</span></span></div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-54322353900639470452018-04-07T15:47:00.000-07:002018-04-07T15:47:17.631-07:00Pop in the Sack?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
We've all seen it in movies. The lights are low, soft music playing, things are moving just a little slower than usual....maybe there's a candle lit.<br />
<br />
That's not what I am talking about.<br />
<br />
No, I am talking about middle of the day, unnaturally bright, unseasonably hot, a sheen of sweat on bodies because of the humidity, middle of a camping store, buying a Dr Pepper...in Tennessee.<br />
<br />
I'll back up. Sylvia and I had some friends over about a week ago. We started talking about how words were different in different languages. We talked about how German was wildly different than other languages and we all roared with laughter at the stark contrast between lyrical Spanish's butterfly (<i>mariposa</i>) and German's hard edged and highly exaggerated, by me, (<b>SCHMETTERLING!</b>). We started talking about different dialects within different regions of the country and different ways of talking. The whole exchange got me to thinking about that time, in Tennessee, when I bought a Dr Pepper...really.<br />
<br />
It was 1982, I was 16, and the family was camping across the country so we could go to the World's Fair in Knoxville. We had already had "The night of a million mosquitoes" and I had already saved a drowning boy. I was a world traveler in my eyes. I was not, however, ready for what happened next.<br />
<br />
I went into the campground store and grabbed a couple snacks, looked at the comic books to see if I needed any, and grabbed a Dr Pepper from the refrigerator. I brought the whole collection up to the cashier who was about the same age as me. She rang up my snacks, told me it was $1.61 (I don't really remember how much it was...I'm just trying to use details so you think I have an amazing memory), and then she asked me a question in that quick southern twang that I remember to this day. "Youwanpopinthesack?"<br />
<br />
Let me remind you that I am, at this point, 16. I have to admit that while my upbringing had me immediately rejecting the notion that I had actually heard what I thought I heard, it took me back. My hormone addled brain, for a split second, translated her question into, "You wanna pop in the sack?"<br />
<br />
Did I really say that I was a world traveler? Ha! I was as naive as the day is long. I was afraid of my own shadow. Shy didn't even begin to describe me. Late bloomer is how I describe myself now but let's face it....I was a doofus. I had seen enough coming-of-age movies to imagine, even for an instant, that this was the start of something. In fact, did she just take off her glasses? Did she undo her ponytail and start shaking her hair from side to side? Did she turn her head to the side and grin as she looked at me with one eye? It's weird how so many thoughts can cross your hyperactive immature brain in the span of about a two seconds. As if my entire future depended on it, I decided to act! As smoothly as I could, with a bright red face, I managed to squeak out, "Wha...?"<br />
<br />
Back to reality in a flash while I see that she never moved, hair and glasses still in place, and her "grin" was more like an annoyed exasperation as she held up the glass bottle of Dr Pepper she said slowly, "Do you want the POP" slight shake for emphasis, "...in the SACK" now she shook the paper bag that now held my snacks. Ohhhhhhh, my brain processed, she thinks I'm a moron. That makes so much more sense than what I was thinking. From somewhere deep inside I was able to belt out proudly, "<span style="font-size: xx-small;">No thank you.</span>" and I was on my way.<br />
<br />
Aren't dialects fun!</div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-11255097010658069442017-11-20T10:48:00.000-08:002017-11-20T10:48:16.589-08:00Motivated!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
For the regular readers of my blog, I apologize for abandoning it for so long. For the irregular readers of my blog, might I suggest getting more fiber in your diet. But I digress...let me just jump right in lest I lose my motivation to write again.<br />
<br />
Sylvia got back from Vegas yesterday morning. She was there because Eric Worre (known around here as "The GoPro guy") was hosting a seminar for entrepreneurs that was stuffed full of motivational speakers. If I truly did live in a Sitcom, her character would have gone to Vegas because her best friend heard of a way to sneak away from the families and pretend to go to a seminar. There would be a scheme where when you checked into the hotel they would give you a binder full of notes that made it look like you sat through a bunch of lectures as proof to show the unsuspecting husband. The plan would fall apart when the money for the new dishwasher would be missing from the bank account and when he checked it out at the bank the teller would have wondered aloud why wife would have withdrawn the dishwasher money in singles. It would have worked out because, well....sitcom, and then the credits would roll. But now I <i>really</i> digress....<br />
<br />
I can assure you that Sylvia actually went to the conference and, true to their purpose, she came back <i>motivated!</i> (...but it did sound like they were playing the soundtrack to Magic Mike every time she called me to check in. <i>Kidding!</i>)<br />
<br />
The first indication that she was part of something different than other seminars she's gone to was when she sent me a picture of Rob Dyrdek. For the many people in my circle who might not have heard of him, he is the host/creator of a show called "Ridiculousness" and it is not Sylvia's favorite show. It's sort of like America's Funniest Videos with extra pain. When Jake watches the show, laughing endlessly, Sylvia will walk by and comment on how stupid it is. She sees no redeeming value in the show, cannot believe people would tape themselves being so, well, ridiculous, and always manages to find something else to do when it is on. When she sent me his picture, our text exchange went something like this:<br />
<br />
Sylvia: It's Rob Dyrdek.<br />
Me: He does that show Ridiculousness.<br />
S: Yes. That's him.<br />
M: You kinda hate him. LOL<br />
S: I know. He is not like he is on that show at all. He's actually very smart!<br />
M: <i> Cool! Are they playing the soundtrack to Magic Mike? I can hear it through your text!</i><br />
<br />
OK, so the last line didn't happen, but the others did! To have that guy be able to sway Sylvia away from her opinion that he was a moron who enjoyed it when people hurt themselves, he must be more than very smart, he's gotta be a bona fide genius! (My computer seems to not be a genius since it is trying to tell me that "bona fide" is not a real phrase and it wants me to change it to "boa fife" or I have to live with the little autocorrect squiggles under those words. Sigh...)<br />
<br />
Back to Magic Mike....I mean the seminar....<br />
<br />
Sylvia came home and immediately during the ride from the airport she was telling me about all the jewels of wisdom that the speakers shared. She was impressed with the lot of them and she was sorry I wasn't able to attend. That's the life of a teacher during conference week. Getting away 3 out of the 5 days scheduled isn't easy.<br />
<br />
I am not going to share all the things she learned because I don't want to infringe on the copyright that these speakers have on their content. One of the speakers was Tony Robbins and I'm worried that he would hypnotize me in an elevator as revenge for giving away his secrets. (Shallow Hal is a universal reference right?) I also don't want to give away all the secrets that Sylvia will share when <i>she</i> is on the stage being motivational to thousands of others! If you think I am kidding then you don't know Sylvia very well. I'd say check back in three years. I <i>will</i> be going to that one. After all, I will be retired from teaching and traveling the world with her by then.<br />
<br />
When we got home from the airport she talked about some habits that people have to move them forward, as well as habits that hold them back. I particularly liked the one about not mowing your lawn yourself since your time is too valuable to be wasted on trivial things like that. Pardon me while I visualize never having to garden again...ahhhhhhh. Let's just say that gardening not really my cup of tea. Although tea is not really my cup of tea either. Maybe I should say that it's not really my cup of Dr Pepper. There I go digressing again...<br />
<br />
Can you imagine! When I retire I will have so much more time to write! Just think how many rambling random posts I could write! It boggles the mind! (Technically, it would BLOGgle the mind...but let's not quibble over made up words.)<br />
<br />
At the house while Sylvia was following me around unpacking and giving a recap of the most important points from some of the more inspirational speakers I washed the dishes, made the bed, went to the ever-growing pile of junk mail, and never turned on the TV once. (That was one of the suggestions. I'll give you that one for free.) Talk about motivated! Actually the overarching theme was to prioritize what was valuable to you and don't let distractions get in the way of the most important things in your life. I took stock of things and decided that writing was something that was important to me, I enjoy doing it, and I hadn't put it anywhere near the top of my priority list in recent times. I decided to change that today.<br />
<br />
I will make a "boa fife" effort to write more often starting now.<br />
<br />
Thanks for reading.</div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-31698896233530371732017-07-24T08:58:00.001-07:002017-07-24T08:58:40.974-07:00I Nearly Died! (well maybe not)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A while back I went in for a "procedure" at my doctor's office. There was much weeping and gnashing of teeth...but enough about my trying to find a parking spot. Let's go back to the beginning....<br />
<br />
I have had, for years now, a dark spot on my temple. I'm guessing people didn't notice it for two reasons. 1) It's small. It's about the size of the mark a pencil eraser would leave if you used it like a rubber stamp with brown paint. 2) It's hidden. It was fairly well concealed just under the hairline of my right temple. I'm lucky enough to still have a hairline there but as it gets increasingly whiter, the brown eraser dot showed through a little more. It was enough for Sylvia to notice. Since she noticed, and she wants to keep me around for a while longer, she thought I should get it checked out. That was about 5 years ago. It was nothing. The doc essentially said, "if it changes, let me know."<br />
<br />
Fast forward to just a few months ago, just before I went to Mexico. Sylvia again said, "It looks different. I think you should get that thing checked out." We looked on WebMD. It's bad...It's either heart disease or I've been exposed to radiation. In the interest of marital harmony, I will say that she also mentioned that I should put frankincense on it a couple times a day to keep it in check. Had I done that I'm sure my story would've ended here. You'll know that I followed her advice if this is the last paragraph.<br />
<br />
Anyway...I'm in Mexico, not putting frankincense on this thing, and I got a little more sun than I'm used to. I don't know if the sun is what did it, if I was bitten by a Mexican Mole Spider, or if my warranty was nearing its end, but my little melanin based hitchhiker started to become bothersome. It started to itch. It started to have an occasional sharp pain. And worst of all, it absolutely refused to silence its cell phone so it would not bother other moviegoers. When I came back to the United States it had become more than a smudge...it was now a full-fledged bump. Did you hear me?! A Bump! To make matters worse, while I was running my fingers through my hair practicing for when Fabio calls in sick and they need a hair double, I happened to catch the edge of Moley McWarterson with my fingernail. That's when I knew it was different than before...it bled. Not a lot, but it took upwards of 45 seconds before I could control the bleeding. (No paramedics were called)<br />
<br />
In to the doctor I went. As it turns out I was really sick on a Monday and, always one to get a bargain, I figured if I went in for my cough AND had them take a look at my temple I could save a trip and a co-pay. Bonus! My sickness was just a virus so I should rest and drink lots of water. Never mind that all I had been doing was do my impression of a sack of potatoes while drinking enough water to develop an aquarium behind my sternum. Didn't help. I'll press on. When I mentioned "the spot" the doc got on the phone to see if there was a dermatologist on hand. There was. He was on his way.<br />
<br />
He came in, looked at it, checked out my entire scalp (to find out if this was just the scouting party for a full blown cystic assault) and then he said the word that rings in my brain to this day. Biopsy. Not "Bibopsy" as in My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Not "a procedure" as described in City Slickers. An honest to goodness biopsy. Thing is, he said it like Ham in Sandlot said "Forrrr Evvv Errrr". I know what a biopsy is...he's gonna cut my head! And then the room started swimming like I was Mel Brooks in High Anxiety. I suppose I'll have to write one day about my movie analogy addiction. But it is not this day, as they say Lord of the Rings.<br />
<br />
Where was I? Oh yeah, they're gonna cut me. Cutting something off of my head is bad enough, but they will have to numb it first and that means shots! Getting shot in the head is not something I enjoy and I try to avoid it as often as I can. Not a big fan of needles. In the week or so that passed from the initial appointment to when I went in I mentally prepared myself and I, of course, updated my will. The day came, I dragged Sylvia in to the doctor with me.<br />
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This thing that the doc said he'd done thousands of times before and would only take a minute was an ordeal. Apparently I am a "fast metabolizer" of anesthetics. This means that it takes more than the usual patient to where I can't feel anything. Of course this also means more shots! What's the way to determine that one is a fast metabolizer? Have someone start cutting something off your head so that you can say, "OW!!" I am not exaggerating...FOUR shots later, I finally don't feel anything and he was able to run me over the deli slicer. Ok, so he didn't do that, but it was pretty bad! When I was able to sit up, I turned a little pale and they wouldn't let me up right away, Sylvia looked at the spot on my head and grimaced. She tried to hide it but I could tell. She was a little horrified. I finally got out of her that there was a good sized lump on my head where he took it off. I said, "Of course there's a lump! That's what happens when you pump a quart and a half of Novocaine into someone's head!"<br />
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The excess pain meds absorbed pretty quickly and I didn't notice any adverse effects. Sylvia says I repeat myself more lately but I think that isn't true. Sylvia says I repeat myself more lately but I think that isn't true.<br />
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So there you have it. I survived a trip to the doctor. After the two weeks of hiding in the basement of the opera house and finally throwing away the mask that covered half my face, I was able to rejoin society. (But I do miss the serenading) My hairline has recovered and I rarely think about this incident anymore.<br />
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And yet, Sylvia was just running her hand through my hair and she noticed something on the other side of my head just at the temple. We looked it up on WebMD and I only have fifteen minutes to live...I'd better type fast.</div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-13603286963363698032017-07-03T17:33:00.000-07:002017-07-03T17:33:59.892-07:00A Peek Inside<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As I sit here this morning getting ready to write I have several very important things swirling around in my increasingly jumbled brain. First and foremost, my daughter just left to go live on another continent for a year. Second, We are about 7 days behind on beginning my summer vacation house de-clutter titled "Operation Deep Clean". (Never mind that I've only been obligation free for about 7 days) We adopted an energetic three-legged Pit Bull/Great Dane puppy who thinks the world is his chew toy! Next, I am at the tail end of a 16 week weight loss program. Additionally it is the day before our country's Independence Day and I am a huge fan of all things related to patriotism. Also, we have a 2000 piece puzzle that has been hibernating in a secured location for a year. Only recently we have uncovered it in its 85% completed condition and, through hard work and dedication have moved on to being 90% complete!<br />
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With all these pressing concerns I think it's become extremely obvious to anyone who knows me what the first topic of the summer must be. Let's say it together....Hat Face. What? That's not what you were thinking? Allow me to explain.<br />
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I come from a group of people, now confirmed through Ancestry DNA, whose skin turns that painful shade of red from the least exposure to the sun. I haven't confirmed it scientifically yet, but I think I could get a second degree burn from standing in front of a painting of the sun. Without extreme measures my skin would go from pale, to red, to peel, to pale. It's not <i>that </i>bad really...and I may be exaggerating a tiny bit...but I cannot even begin to count how many burns I have had in my lifetime. Because of that I avoid the sun like a vampire, I choose to sit in the shade, I prefer the woods to the beach, and I try to wear a wide brimmed hat to protect my head. This is where the trouble starts.<br />
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I, like all red-blooded American males, have a special set of eyes that distort images bouncing back from mirrors. When I look in the mirror I am pretty pleased with what I see. My distortion doesn't show me six-pack abs and hair that is "on fleek." (apparently millenials say that is a good thing even though it sounds to me like what you'd call that stream of spit that shoots out of your mouth when you laugh) No, my mirror distortion involves hats. Whenever I try on a wide brimmed masterpiece I think I got it going on! My criteria is simple: Does it fit? and Does it cover my solar sensitive ears? If the answer to both of those is yes, I have a winner! When I go over to the little mirror my suspicions are always confirmed! It's astonishing really. I look and I see Indiana Jones fleeing from danger! I see Frank Sinatra looking defiant as he looks back over his shoulder under the slightly askew brim of his chapeau. I see Sam Elliot smirking in a western just before he saves the town. (As an aside...I also hear Sam Elliot talk when I hear my voice back on a recording) Nearly every hat I try on is "the one!" In my excitement I show my treasures to Sylvia and that's when I see it. Hat face.<br />
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Hat face is the unvarnished truth. Hat face is my touchstone to reality. Hat face is what keeps me from being the American hat equivalent of Imelda Marcos and her collection of thousands of shoes. It's hard to describe hat face but I'll give it a shot. It's really a mix of amusement, disappointment, and pity. You might see something similar as a mom looks at the kitchen mess after the kids have surprised her with breakfast but substituted orange juice for milk in the cereal and baking soda for sugar in the coffee. In an instant I can see that I have not only chosen poorly, but I have brought shame upon the household. I see Clint Eastwood, Sylvia sees Pee Wee Herman. I'm not complaining. I'm really not. I'd rather know when something doesn't look good than not. I'm obviously not to be trusted when making decisions about hats. Occasionally I will test Sylvia's limits. I think my favorite is when I put on the beanie with the propeller. With that one I got hat face with the added bonus of an eye roll.<br />
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I have, on occasion, come across a real hat which Sylvia thinks actually looks good on me. In Kansas I found a cowboy hat that everyone in the store agreed was just right for me. It fits, it looks good, it keeps the sun off my head, it's perfect! One problem though is that whenever I wear it, since I am a teacher, my students ask if today is "cowboy day" and then they are sad that I didn't tell them they could wear <i>their </i>cowboy stuff. One summer, when we were camping 12 feet from the sun, I found a camping hat that was ugly but it fit all the other criteria. This was even better than most since it had the added fun involved with being able to scrunch up and stuff into my pocket and it was completely ok in the water. It was great...until I left it on the dashboard one day and it shrank and faded beyond all recognition. I buried it next to my broken leg lamp in the back yard in a private ceremony.<br />
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So here I sit at the precipice of summer, hatless, ready to venture outside. I hope to find a suitable hat before I go back to school. Wish me luck.</div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-61640023366096146322017-04-14T09:17:00.003-07:002017-04-14T09:38:36.740-07:00Et Tu Pancakes?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I work with the awesome youth at my church. Saying that is nearly synonymous with saying, "I have worked at a pancake breakfast!" Church youth groups and pancake breakfasts go together like youth pastors and facial hair. (Trust me...it's a thing.) Anyway, I can't even begin to recall all the breakfasts that I have helped put on. But I can remember, in great detail, the two I was part of where I wasn't allowed to eat anything myself. The first was a number of years ago and it was for a good cause. The second was about 2 weeks ago, and I did it to myself.<br />
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Like I said, the first was for a really good cause. Our youth group raises money by doing "The 30 Hour Famine" just about every year. It is a very good program where everyone involved gives up food for 30 hours to help you reflect on those who don't have enough to eat. It raises awareness among the kids about the affluence that we are accustomed to and we get donations to help programs all over the world feed the hungry. The famine is developed by World Vision. It is a great organization and they help with suggestions for what to do to keep the kids, who are essentially locked into the church's gymnasium for a day and a half, busy and their minds off of food. It could be work projects or raising awareness games and activities or you could just sit around and listen to everyone grumble about how hungry they are. Well our old youth pastor Matt, who does have facial hair, had a bit of a mean streak. He decided that it would be a great idea (ha ha) to hold a pancake breakfast as one of our community service projects to raise money for the organization. It was tough. We survived. We were all in it together. All you had to do was look to your left or right and you could see anguished hunger on the face of the person working next to you. It was manageable.<br />
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This year I did not have similar support. Since I agreed to join this weight loss program, I was going to give it my all and get back to a body that could fit into places like airplane seats, movie theater seats, and occasional outdoor arena (not the seats...the whole arena). I was not going to sabotage myself this early in the process and undo the small but emotionally satisfying progress I had made. I showed up wearing my bravest face.<br />
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There was a hum of activity and it already smelled delicious (darn it) so I jumped right in. I was hoping to get assigned a job that wouldn't tempt me. Cutting cantaloupe? No temptation there. Pretty sure if I were stranded somewhere, desperate for food, I would crawl past a field of cantaloupe to see if there was anything left on the questionable zebra carcass that the lions were finished with. Nope, somebody already there. (good thing...the smell...yuck) My son was on scrambled egg duty and doing a fine job of it. Tables were being set. Pancake Bob was in his element. Not too much to do. "Here Jeff...you can take care of the sausages." (insert sound effect of cartoon cars crashing)<br />
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Sausage are a weakness of mine. Next to bacon cooking, the smell of sausage cooking is maybe number three. Anything cooking with garlic is number one...I am Italian after all. So here I am hungry, having eaten a healthy smoothie for breakfast, and I have to cook a favorite that I will not be allowed to eat. Press on! It's for a good cause!<br />
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As pancake breakfasts at churches go it was pretty standard. Lull, lull, lull, lull, UNBELIEVEABLE CROWDS, slowdown, lull, lull... In all that time, while having multiple opportunities to "sample" the sausages I was making, I never tried one. It was ridiculously difficult at times. The main problem is that they are so easily grabbed and treated as finger food. We had enough to feed our church as well as the next three closest churches. Nobody would miss it. Nope. I didn't want to write it in my food log.<br />
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Then came the clean up. There was another group using our dining room about a half hour after we were done so time was of the essence. I ran in and grabbed the first thing that I thought would make a significant cleaning impact. I grabbed all the syrup containers from the tables. You know the type. Glass jars with a silver handle and a thumb button that allows the sugary liquid heaven to pour seductively all over the pancakes. (OK, so I've got a thing for syrup too...sue me) Anyway, I grabbed about six in each hand trying to get as many handles in my grips as possible. I looked like a waiter at Octoberfest...if it was being held in Canada. The syrup had to be emptied from the containers back into the bottles and I took on that job. There's something satisfying about watching that rich, thick, artificially flavored and colored treasury of high-fructose corn syrup ooze from one container to another. True confession time: If I were stranded on an island surrounded by a maple syrup sea, not that stuff from trees...the good fake stuff. Then imagine that the trees were made of sausages. I would fashion a raft out of the "logs" to escape...and then promptly drown before getting out of the lagoon. But I would go under with a full belly and a smile on my face.<br />
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The breakfast was a success! We did make a significant amount of money. We did, we did, we did. But I didn't. I didn't eat any sausage. I didn't eat any pancakes. I didn't pour myself a cup of syrup. I didn't eat any eggs, toast, or butter. And I especially didn't eat any cantaloupe. I was good. I continue to be good. And I am happy to say that I am currently down a little over 16 pounds from my starting point. I'll just keep plugging away.<br />
Far far away....from IHOP.</div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-22076283784031609612017-04-02T16:58:00.001-07:002017-04-02T16:58:20.620-07:00Heavy Hair!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I've probably said about a dozen times that I was going to try to lose weight...by going to get a haircut. I know. It's as dumb as when I say that the room we just painted seems smaller or the Grand Canyon seems a tiny bit deeper than the last time I was there....but I say it anyway.<br />
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I've been cranking along losing weight for a little over a week now and I was feeling pretty good. Maybe it's the extra energy I have from the better food I'm eating. Maybe it's the focus on a goal that keeps my mind occupied. Maybe it's even the placebo effect. I don't care. But with feeling good in so many areas of life I started taking stock in another often forgotten one; my hair.<br />
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Whether or not you think it's unfair, I have a thick head of hair. My brother lost his hair while he was still in high school. Many people I went to school with have become follicly challenged. I, am not. Personally I think it was God's blessing through a natural sunblock otherwise I'd look like I had been sitting too close to the toxic waste section of the local dump. You see, I once got a 2nd degree burn from a picture of the sun!<br />
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Whatever the reason, I've always been the envy of any hairdresser I use. If I had a dollar for every time someone said, "I wish I had this thick head of hair!" I would be a very rich man. And just like the woman with curly hair who always wishes she had straight...and vice versa....I really am unimpressed with my hair. It's not that I hate it or that I even wish that it was curly I just wish it wouldn't grow so darn fast! I honestly feel like one of those ancient dolls my cousin had that had hair that could be different lengths. If you wrapped your hand around the base of the ponytail at the top of it's head and yanked, out came more hair! It was the most terrifying thing I'd ever seen! Who thinks of these things! I am unaware of any people who are yanking on my hair so I don't think that's what happens to me, but still it comes. Yes, it's unfair, I know. I should appreciate the gift that has been given to me. I do. I really do. I suppose what it boils down to is that I wish I didn't have to keep paying someone to tame it. I'm generally really cheap.<br />
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And another thing! Rarely do I get the hairdresser who actually listens to what I say! I have never been satisfied with the first round of snips on my hair. I haven't found the magic words to say yet...but I keep searching. They ask, "How do you want your hair cut?" and I say, "I want it short! I was just here a few weeks ago and it's already in my eyes. It grows so fast you can't even believe it! I want the number 2 on the sides (unless it's been especially warm and then I'll get the number 1) and the rest just shorten to match. Someone once called it a 'fade' but I have no idea. Short. Don't be afraid. Really really short!" They act like they're able to understand and start spraying my hair. "Wow your hair is really thick!" (cha-CHING$!) And then she'll grab the hair between her fingers and let it slide all the way to the end so about a half inch is left to snip..."Is this enough?" I even had one person, after I said, "No. That is not nearly short enough. Keep cutting. If you cut too much you can just yank on it and it'll get longer!" say "But it will look better like this." Excuse me!?! I seriously think that next time I'll just tell them to pretend I am ex-military and I really miss the haircut. If anyone has anything I could say that would help me...I'd appreciate it.<br />
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Anyway, back to my weight loss. Feeling good. Weather is getting warmer. I need to get steps tracked for my program. My hair is once again hanging in my eyes. Something deep inside triggers that little part of my imagination that thinks, even for an instant, "Hey, if you cut your thick hair...you'll weigh less!" I laughed it off as a silly joke I could maybe tell someone in the future...if I get desperate. Then I hear myself say, "Hon! I'm gonna walk up to go get my hair cut!" Here's hoping!</div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-36354479059409897662017-03-30T12:03:00.000-07:002017-03-30T12:03:29.913-07:00The Food Log<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Now it's time for something that is as exciting as it sounds. The Food Log.<br />
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Apparently the proverbial "they" are at it again. "They" say if you write down everything you eat you will lose a significant amount more weight than if you just watch what you eat. Well who in my shoes wouldn't want to lose significantly more weight? Nobody! That's who! It was also proven that you would lose even more weight if you needed to carve into an actual oak log to record your food choices...but I suppose that wouldn't be practical.<br />
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I started logging in my food right away. It helps that I am a guy and they offer an app that lets you keep track of your food on an electronic device. Did you hear me? I get to use a gadget! That in itself is worth the price of admission! I can actually see what the reasoning is behind the food log. At the risk of canceling the near magic that "they" talk about, I think I've got it. When I am reaching for a half of a mini bell pepper for a snack after walking 4 miles...I think, "Do I really want to have to log this in?" Ok, you got me. It also works when I am daydreaming about Cheez-Its while grading papers, sitting at my desk. It is really interesting how many times I think about food. Interesting...sad...toMAYto...toMAHto. The point is it is effective so far.<br />
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Another component that is becoming part of my thinking is that I have a coach who is going to read that I really chose to consume a mini pack of Skittles leftover from Valentine's Day 2015 because my brain/stomach are used to getting my mouth moving while I am bored. I'd like to think that I can make a better choice than that on my own.<br />
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At this point in the program I have a perfect record of recording meals. I am being completely honest about the things I eat and am looking forward to any insight that my coach can offer me about my food choices. Better stated, the food choices that I make when I am certain that Big Brother is watching me...but isn't close enough to smack the Butterfingers out of my hand.<br />
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Here's to being honest!</div>
Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49345087814874187.post-48554483225574361402017-03-28T23:20:00.000-07:002017-03-28T23:20:22.708-07:00So it begins....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Four score and twenty five thousand cheeseburgers ago...<br />
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It's a little embarrassing to admit but I just got smacked in the back of the head... with a digital scale. About three weeks ago I got an email from my insurance company. I thought it was just another email that said things like, "Did you know that by cutting down on soda you can be an easy way to blah blah blah...?" This one was different in a couple of ways. First, it didn't say anything about soda. Second, it said they were going to send me stuff...for free! Never one to shy away from free stuff I read on.</div>
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Turns out I was a candidate for a program that I had never heard about due to the numbers that come up on my medical record. All I had to do was answer a few questions and hit send and they would evaluate whether or not I would be a good candidate for the program. The more I read the more I liked. There would be a group of people going through the program with me. There would be a coach to help me find delicious alternatives to pizza and bacon cheeseburgers. (hopefully) Finally, as I mentioned before, they are going to send me stuff! I decided to give it a try.<br />
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About ten minutes later, I was sending in the answers to my questionnaire and promising to use the computer to log in a bit every day. "Thank you for your interest. We will get back to you soon if you qualify." I had no sooner hit send than I got a reply saying that I was not only "in" but they were going to send my welcome kit and a digital scale that will transmit my weight cellularly to weight-loss headquarters, my computer, my cell phone, my fourth grade English teacher, that weird TV on the top of those new gas pumps, and the jumbo-tron in Times Square. It's too late now. I said I'd do it. I'm still in! You can't scare me! (although you notice I haven't mentioned what my weight is, here....yet) Baby steps. I can't help but think that there was a team of nutritionists back at Kaiser high-fiving and fist-bumping each other exclaiming, "We got him! Maybe now we won't have to include the percentage of country gravy present in his next blood-work results!"<br />
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Regardless of how it happened, I have agreed to abide by the requirements of the program and I am happy to have support all around me. I'll talk about the amount of support and how it shows at some of the more unfortunate times as we get further along in the program. I haven't quite figured out how I will report my progress. As I get closer to weights that resemble the stats of people and not barrels of pickles or mid sized SUV's I will surely divulge. It'll be nice to shock people with my starting numbers as I move along on this trek.<br />
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So here it begins. I have my shiny new scale (you can almost make out the head-shaped dent from where it smacked me) and a winning attitude that will carry me through this journey. I also hope to hang onto my self-deprecating sense of humor to take some of the edge off of rice cakes infused with a hint of honey and cinnamon. The program is 16 weeks long and I am just starting. I'm going to blog my way through this. No promises of daily updates, unless you live near the jumbotron, but I will try to be mostly on top of this particular activity to hold myself accountable. If nothing else it will be a good accounting of what caused me to lose my mind and wander the streets muttering, "Dr Pepper...I want a Dr Pepper!"<br />
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Jeffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05962853896227266554noreply@blogger.com1