Well, Heaven is going to be crowded enough the way it is. I don’t really want to be bunking with some hairy, nose-picking, 8th Century goniff.
Ever been the victim of an over-booked flight? I’m not taking any chances.
“We Had Joy,–“ and the posts that followed.
He thought I had a death fixation.
Maybe I did, but I am so over that.
I mean, that was days ago. I am so over that, except for this final
(ironic, huh?), finishing touch.
I haven’t thought this through very well, which is probably
for the best, but here is what I got so far:
I fully intend to outlive my wife. I may not, but I intend to. She is slightly older, has many bad habits,
and creaks like an outhouse in the winter.
While I am not in the best health, I am pretty damn healthy, comparatively,
and I have been actively working on getting healthier. More on that in a later post. My point is this. I feel underappreciated by her (a typical lament, I’m sure), especially
where humor is concerned. After almost
18 years, she just doesn’t think I am funny anymore. That hurts.
That hurts a lot. I think one of
the few talents I have, aside from my awesome nunchuck skills, is humor.
So I have a plan. If
I die before her, I want to remind her—and everyone else, too—of my skewed
sense of humor. I want to be remembered
I need two female volunteers to show up at my funeral and
pretend to be my grieving widows.
Listen, it’ll be great.
I already have someone who can be the contact person, and he has agreed
to do it. I’m sure it may be difficult,
but well worth it. Has anyone else every
played a practical joke from beyond the grave?
I expect the widows to take it as far as they can, possibly only caving
after the burial, and then letting everyone in on it. I will work out the details of that
And, also, since I am dead, I won’t be there to see it, so I
need someone to digitally record it, and then email it to me. I’ll be at:
I mean, this is like a final wish. I am pretty serious about this. This is how I want to be remembered. I am eternally an asshole.
I can sleep ANYWHERE.
I flirt with every female I come in contact with.
I have never EVER finished a project –scratch that- I have finished ONE project in my adult life. —20 years
I am terrified of bees and wasps.
I like to put cereal on ice cream
I dont know if I know if other people to tag who have blogs. (is that another one? is that 6?)
Tags: 2000s, friends, life and death
She looked right at me. “What’s wrong?” I hesitated, then pointed to her office, which is where all private conversations take place. I think it is amazing, and wonderful, that we know each other that well, that she can tell–or maybe I just wasn’t concealing it well. Nevertheless, I told her what I had found.
I don’t remember the exact conversation, but she told me the things necessary to calm me down and make me feel better. She told me about her lump, which turned to to be just a cyst, and about her spastic reaction, thinking about wearing wigs (because of the chemo) and whatnot. I had been thinking the whole time about dying, and she was talking about the survivability. It was coming at me pretty fast, it seemed like. I was overwhelmed. Then she said, “Have you called your doctor?”
Well, no. I mean, I meant to. I was going to, as soon as I was done freaking out enough to pick up the receiver. “Call your doctor. Tell them what’s going on, and they will see you today. You may need an MRI or CAT scan, but get in today so they can take care of it. You caught it real soon, it can be taken care of.”
So I called. They said this morning, or this afternoon. I went with afternoon, still don’t know why. But I left early enough to go by school and register (late) for the class that started that night, made sure the bookstore would be open later, then went to my appointment. I held onto the idea that, if I’m dying, I’m going to get my money back for this damn class. I am not going to waste my time on this. I would take an art class, instead.
When I saw him, we talked about a few different things, my diet, my weight, was I exercising, was I taking my meds. Yes, yeah, and yea. “Okay, good. When do we need to see you again–” and he headed for the door.
I said, “That’s not why I came in.”
He raised an eyebrow, the way doctors do. I explained, he grabbed the gloves and said, go ahead and drop your drawers. Apparently, the equipment down there is more complicated than I thought. It is definitely big. –Shut up. Just–shut up. He was feeling towards the back, and I was directing him towards the front. Finally, he finds it.
He straightens up. “I gotcha. That is not in the testicle, it’s in the skin. It’s an oily cyst. Nothing to worry about. We can take it out if you like. Local anesthetic and two stitches–” he saw the expression on my face “–your choice. I want to see you again in three weeks to make sure there’s no change. It’s harmless, but like I said I can take it out.”
3. I want to write. I have easily 30-50 story ideas in my head, screaming at me to get out and get on paper. Some of them might be good.
Tags: 2000s, life and death
Whatever, dudes. It’s down in the city (about a fifty mile drive for me), in the worst part of the city, it’s scary to get to and even scarier to go into. A place where you can be offered drugs or sex for sale in between the rows of cars, where people will ask for 2 dollars to buy the part they need, where you better not need anything out of the trunk of a car, because those are urinals now. Junk yard may not be a strong enough term.
So I took care of that, and it was good to have a sense of accomplishment. Monday, I was off, and paid for it, which was nice. I bought a heavy workout bag from someone at work a few days ago, something I have wanted my entire adult life, and I finally got one. My son and I built a support and hung it in the basement, and cleared some space near the weights. We have an actual workout place now.
Oh, but I did work Monday night, at my second job. Starting this week my schedule changes because school starts. For the next 16 weeks, it’s going to be Monday night, work, Tuesday night, school, Wednesday night, school, Thursday night, work. And Friday night, I’ll probably go to bed early. But at least I still have my weekends free. Which, I have been on this job almost a year, and I am just starting to get used to having the weekends off.
But I like working Monday, because it’s generally slower and easier, and my good friend Karl works on Monday night. Since I switched up jobs, I haven’t been able to hang out with him as much. So this is a good change.
Let’s see–what else happened? Well, I went home Monday night, took a shower, went to bed, and woke up about 4 am, for no apparent reason, with my hand on my nuts.
"We had Joy, we had fun.
"We had seasons in the sun,
"but the hills that we climbed
"were just seasons out of time."
Good Lord. I remember this song. With a vengeance.
My wife got up and got ready for work, I said not a word. This is not something you lay on somebody early in the morning. I got the kids up and got them ready for school, and wondered who would make my daughter cereal in the morning–and quickly pushed the thought out of my head. I don’t want to cry, not right now, not to have them ask questions, not in front of my young daughter and jaded teenage son.
I got them out the door and to their stops, and settled into the car for quite possibly the longest drive to work, subjectively, that I have ever had. I turned the radio on, turned it off, turned it on, put in a cd, changed tracks 8 or 9 times, put it back on the radio, and left it, but didn’t really listen.
"Goodbye Michele it’s hard to die
"When all the birds are singing in the sky"
I was thinking about my life, and all the things I wanted to do, and all the things I wouldn’t get to do, because now I was going to die. I thought about leaving my children, and it made me sad. I thought about the fact that I figured I would last longer than my wife, and this was God playing the irony game with me. –Your roll.
"But the sun and the fun
"like the seasons have all gone"
(It’s even worse when you have the melody and some of the words but not all of them. It keeps playing over and over, trying to get it right. Stupid brain.)
And then I thought about my wife’s older brother, diagnosed over a year ago, and given a year to live. He was a normal, quiet guy, now living with my older daughter. He seems adjusted, and mostly happy, and at peace. And he does what he wants.
"Goodbye Pa-pa it’s hard to die–"
Arrgh. What is the next line? Make it stop!
But he also let it go when he got sick, and didnt go to the doctor for, well, a few years, and that’s how it got bad. Maybe–maybe, this doesnt have to kill me. Maybe I can be one of those brave cancer survivors, and write a book, and be on Oprah, and be inspirational. Didn’t that bike guy–Lance Armstrong–he had it, and he’s okay. Plus he has a hot wife.
"We had joy, we had fun–"
Christ. Does that mean I’m going to have to take up some kind of dangerouse hobby, or adventurous sport, or travel the world, or some live-changing thing like that, to prove something?
"But the hills that we climbed
"Were just seasons out of time"
To prove what? And to whom? I’ve already had my live changing moment. It was this morning, about 4 am. It was when I realized, dully, not fully awake, but the thought fully formed, although not completely put into words. Just the sense that I realized very clearly, how little I wanted to die.
And how little I wanted to die with that fucking song stuck in my head.
Hell, I don’t know. It’s just a reaction. Scared to know, scared to not know.
Recalling what my wife had told me about her wild past and what-have-you, I picked one up and was going to buy it for her, a piece of nostalgia. I said,"What do you think, Hon? You want a mood ring?"
She snorted,"No. Those things are crap. I had one before when I was younger. It never worked. It was always black."
I just looked at her.
"No, it was working."
But now that I am back, I can more easily provide the lengthy obloviation (thanks, Bill O’Reilly, for the use of the word!) that you have all come to expect. I will still, on occasion, have the shorter musings throughout, but I feel when I do that, I am cheating you, the reader. And I don’t want to do that–I want you to feel like you are getting your money’s worth.