Well, At Least I Know the Brakes Work . . .

While the recent increase in productivity at the Peterbilt plant next to my office is doubtless good for the economy, it's not so great for the traffic around the area.

As I was heading to lunch today, I noticed a semi truck that had started to exit the plant, only to stop barely out of the gate so that the driver could do . . . something.  Not quite sure what.  But whatever it was required him to get out of the cab of the truck.  As I was getting close to the entrance, he was climbing back into the cab, closing the door, staring the engine -- and pulling right out into the road without ever bothering to glance my way. It was at this point that my car's brakes got quite a work-out, and I skidded to a stop a couple of feet away from the side of his cab.

I was, of course, a bit perturbed.  I mean, yes, I have come to expect that most cars and trucks exiting Peterbilt are in a constant state of denial that anything exists down the road past their entrance, and so am usually pretty cautious as I drive past if i see someone at the gate.  But, silly me, I assumed that because this man was actually standing outside of his truck as I was driving up he might have noticed me.

Guess I know better now.

At some point during my skid, the driver had realized I was there and had stopped the truck; as he glanced through his window at the air turning blue around me, he hastily began to gesture at me, trying to convey . . . something.  I'm afraid I'm not well versed on Careless Truck Driver Sign Language.  Anyway, he backed up enough that I could drive past, and as I pulled onto the main road, something dawned on me:  this was the third semi in as many days to leave me with an incredibly negative impression -- although this was the first to move from " taking up both lanes roadhogging" to "tire-skidding danger" -- and not a single one of them had a "How's My Driving?" sticker on their back.

Arctic Blast!

Last night TopGun and I had a lot of fun mocking one of the local news channels because of their panic-mongering "Arctic Blast!" coverage; TopGun, having lived in Colorado for over a decade, was highly amused by the people going crazy over a drop in temperature with next to no precipitation forecast. However, it appears we mocked a little too soon, as his early morning drive to work found him encountering a lot of black ice, and my not-quite-as-early morning drive was non-existent as I got an Eagle Alert text message around 7:15 this morning letting me know that UNT was closed for the day. Which was followed about 10 minutes later by an Eagle Alert phone call with the same message. Which was followed by anohter Eagle Alert text about 20 minutes later. Which was then followed by a third and final Eagle Alert text another 15 minutes later. Someone needs to let UNT know that not all of us have unlimited texting. Still, better to get multiple notifications than none at all, I suppose. I feel bad for any of my co-workers who went in before the notification went out; they missed out on getting to sleep in some more.

So how did I spend my impromptu day off work? Well, after I finally got up, I spent the next several hours playing one of the games I rented for my new Wii which I got for Christmas. Yes, that's right; after 34 years my parents finally gave me a video game system. According to my mother, they had to wait to make sure I was mature enough first.

Neither Snow, Nor Rain, Nor Heat, Nor Gloom of Night . . .

Yesterday evening, as I was coming home from work, I decided that it was raining lightly enough that I would go ahead and stop at the corner mailbox to pick up the mail, which was to include at least a couple of Netflix. So you can imagine my surprise when I started to pull over to the curb and realized that the mailboxes serving all of Benjiman Street were there no more. All that was left was the concrete slab with holes in it to indicate where the mailboxes had been.

I was, to say the least, nonplussed.

My perplexity soon turned to frustration when I got to the house and tried to contact the post office, only to find that there were no phone numbers available in the local phone book other than the generic 1-800 number for the US Postal Service, and that the number I finally found online for the Denton office gave me nothing more than a listing of the hours and address. Still, at least that listing reminded me that the Post Office was open until 6, so I hopped in my car and headed over there to find out if anybody knew anything; upon reaching the building and seeing the long line of people waiting to be helped, I quickly regretted not grabbing my copy of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell to read while I waited.

After about 15 minutes, one of the workers who had been helping only people there to pick up packages and certified letters and the like finally ran out of people to help, and so called out "Does anybody have any quick questions?" I indicated that I did and walked up to her saying "So, I got home from work and found that the corner mailbox for our street was gone --"

"Benjiman Street?" she said immediately, which was an instant relief for me, since it meant that I wasn't going to have to wait for someone to track down information. Although, I quickly learned that while she was aware of the problem, she wasn't all that well informed on what was being done about it, quickly scribbling down a number for me to call the next morning and leaving two names that I should ask for. "Call around 8:30" she said. "That's usually a good time to catch them." She started to turn to the next person with a question behind me, but I couldn't let the encounter go without asking "Do you know what happened to the mailbox?" She mumbled something about a city truck crashing into it, but wasn't much more forthcoming, so I headed home, still a bit put out at the inconvenience of it all*, but satisfied at least to know that I had a lead on some answers.

Until this morning, that is, when my call to the number she provided just gave me the same recording about hours of operation. At the end of the message there's a beep, almost like an answering machine, but nowhere in the message does it say "leave a message and we'll get back to you" or anything even remotely close to that, but I went ahead and spoke my name and number into the phone anyway, just in case. But, the end of the day came around, and still no call from anyone from the postal service, so I once again headed to the main post office, this time armed with my book to help pass the time in line. The lady who helped me this time was only slightly more informative -- it was apparently a City of Denton water truck that took out the mailboxes and there was no word on when the boxes would be replaced-- but vastly more helpful, as she actually retrieved my mail for me. Unfortunately, until the boxes are replaced, I'll have to go down to the post office and stand in line to pick stuff up. Pretty sure my trips will be timed to coincide with the arrival of new Netflix.

*Luckily I soon found the cure for my frustrations: two hours of people face-planting and falling in mud and water. Wipeout: the cure for what ails ya!

Thinking-Back Thursday - There's a Reason I Switched My Major to English . . .

I've often heard that smell is the most powerful trigger for memory, and there have been a few times in my life when a certain odor will transport my mind to an earlier time, like how the smell of damp hay and horses at the State Fair took me back to my childhood playing on my Papaw's farm. Well, today while I was on the main campus for a meeting I encountered a scent that took me back to my very first job, a far less pleasant mental journey.

I got my first job right after I graduated high school; up until then mom and dad had told me that doing well in school was my job. But since I was done with that, and already accepted at OSU, they encouraged me to take a job offered by a friend of the family working at his place of employment, a chemical plant. You see, at the time, young and foolish Cap'n Neurotic was actually considering going into Chemistry or Chemical Engineering as his major, and this chemical plant would hire aspiring scientists and put them to work doing grunt work.

My time there was split between the R&D department and the Quality Control department. I much preferred my time over in R&D, both in terms of job duties and co-workers. For in R&D there were just a couple of really nice, soft-spoken people, while Quality Control was run by a crass, gutter-mouthed individual, and his demeanor sort of led the way for the rest of the guys there. From the very beginning the head of QC didn't like me, for one glaringly obvious reason: I was not Rigo.

Rigo, you see, was my predecessor in the position, and in the eyes of Mr. QC, Rigo could Do No Wrong. So, every time I would make a mistake, I would be compared to Rigo, and chastised for not paying better attention to the training Rigo gave me before he left. Of course, what Mr. QC failed to realize was that the bulk of the "training" I got from Rigo came in the form of advice on the best places to go take a nap where you wouldn't get caught. But, Rigo was a guy's guy, willing and able to jump into conversations about sports, beer, and sex, and so he was The Golden Boy and anytime I tried to convince Mr. QC that my lack of knowledge was more Rigo's fault than my own, I was treated like a lying incompetent trying to cover his own butt. So, yeah, I preferred the company at R&D, who largely left me alone to do my job.

And what exactly was my job, you ask? Well, I had a few essential job duties which I performed at both labs, and one which was specific to QC. The QC specific task was what they called "Chemical Retains." In a nutshell, the process was this: I would be provided a container filled with lots of granular pieces of chemical by-product left over from whatever it was the company did* and would have to spoon out a specific amount from the large container and into smaller plastic bottles. I would then squirt in a burst of some preservative gas, slap on the lid, tape it shut, write an identification number on the side in marker, toss it in a big drum, and then repeat the process -- all of this accomplished in a tiny, poorly ventilated and stifling hot closet while wearing a gas mask to keep me from inhaling too much of the byproduct. Oh, and about, I dunno, three, four weeks in, I found out that Rigo had neglected to inform me that for every 5th bottle or so I was supposed to remove a small portion and place it into another bottle, which they referred to as a "black lot"; since I hadn't been doing this at all I had to go and open up the sealed drums with my completed work and dig through them to find the appropriately numbered batches to draw samples from.

Yeah, I hated doing retains.

I was also expected to do some basic cleaning and upkeep at both facilities. The bulk of this involved washing out the lab equipment like beakers, test tubes, cylinders, etc., sometimes with regular soap and water, and sometimes with acetone, which invariably gave me a headache. I also was supposed to clean the bathrooms, take out the trash, sweep the floors, and mow the lawns. It was this last task that gave me one of the more embarrassing moments in my life. One day I was mowing the lawn in front of the QC building, and was making a pass right by a rickety old table covered in old rusted parts near the entrance when I heard something clank to the ground. Looking down, I saw an old rusted piece of metal; figuring it had been vibrated off the table as I went by, I bent down to pick it up and place it back on the table so it wouldn't get in my way on my next pass by. I'm not sure how long after I picked it up that it took me to realize that the rusted piece of metal was actually searing my skin, but it couldn't have been too long before I dropped the scalding hot piece of machinery and headed inside to inform the QC guys that I had somehow injured myself. Turns out, it wasn't a rusted piece of machinery from off of the table, but was instead the rusted-up muffler from the lawn mower which had chosen the most inopportune time to fall off. The burn wasn't too bad, and I got to go back to washing lab equipment after a couple of days. Not one of my prouder moments, but hey, I got a free tetanus shot out of the deal!

Another of my least favorite jobs was connected to the washing of the equipment. You see, when I cleaned stuff with acetone, I had to do it over a special receptacle to contain the acetone and the waste it would remove. And, once the receptacle was filled with what resembled nothing so much as the Hollywood version of toxic waste, I would have to cart it out to some big metal drums outside, pry open a hole in the lid, and pour the waste in, all the while trying not to gag at the incredibly noxious fumes that would pour out.

And it was this very smell that triggered my memory yesterday as I entered the second floor bathroom of the main library; I have no idea what happened in that restroom, nor do I want to know -- think I'll have nightmares enough as it is.

All in all, while the chemical factory job was far from my favorite job, I don't know if I'd go so far as to say it was my most hated job either. Sure, I was stuck doing grunt work, surrounded by people who couldn't stand me and considered me a shiftless layabout, and I was constantly struggling not to lose my lunch from the noxious chemicals I was exposed to, but at least I never get yelled at by an irate widow because I was the umpteenth telemarketer to call and offer new long-distance service to her long-deceased husband. Now, that job nearly gave me an ulcer.


*Maybe the fact that I was never really curious enough to find out what the company's major products were should have been a clue that the exciting world of chemical science was not for me.

In the Battle of "Dude, That Freaks Me the Heck Out" and "Man, I Wish I Could Breathe Unobstructed," Which Will Win?

Well, it's not quite a Neti pot, but I did break down and purchase a similar product, the Ayr Saline Nasal Rinse Kit. And, sure, I've since learned that there are several people who have achieved the same effect using syringes, turkey basters, and table salt, but hey, for the convenience of having my salt pre-measured and packaged, I'll willingly shell out the 10 bucks for 100 doses. Especially since I am now a convert to the Ways of the Saline Nasal Rinse.

Yes, it's still kind of freaky (more on that in a minute), but danged if it doesn't work. In the two weeks that I've been subjecting myself to shooting saltwater in one nostril and out the other I've noticed a remarkable change in my ability to breathe through my nose unimpeded by sinus blockage. In fact, the only time in the past couple of weeks that I've woken up congested was when I went to bed so late that I skipped my nightly rinsing routine.

Now, is it a perfect cure for what ails me? Not quite; this week I have had a bit of a runny nose and some blockage, but it's much, much less than what it was before, especially considering the yo-yo weather which usually knocks me for a loop. So, not perfect, but a danged sight better than what I dealt with before.

What surprises me is that this is something that I, a sufferer of allergy problems for the bulk of my life, have never heard of before the Associate Dean told me about it a few weeks back, but now that I've started extolling its virtues to one and all, I discover that not only are many other people aware of it, its because either they or someone close to them is already a convert; if only they had tried to convert me as well, who knows how many allergy-driven sick days I might have avoided?

There is one strange little drawback to the process which I have discovered, which kind of amps up the "man, that's freaky" nature of the whole thing; in other words, if the general idea of the Neti Pot/nasal rinse weirds you out at all, you might want to think twice before continuing.'

Consider yourself warned.

The first time it happened was late last week when, during my pre-bedtime nasal rinse I had the distinct impression that not all of the water that went into my nose came out again. But, as I didn't exactly feel like there was water sloshing around anywhere inside my head, I assumed it was my mind playing tricks on me, finished up my new nightly ritual, and headed to bed. As I lay there in bed, I turned over onto my left-hand side, felt a strange sensation tickling my sinus cavities, and suddenly had to rush to the bathroom as a trickle of left-over salt water escaped from whatever pocket in my sinuses it had wandered into. Strange, no? After blowing my nose -- gently, as all of the literature orders -- I went back to bed, laid down, turned back onto my side, and then had to rush back to the bathroom as yet more of the salt water decided to make its exodus. This time I stood over the bathroom sink, twisting my head from side to side trying to dislodge whatever might be remaining. When no more trickles were forthcoming, I head back to bed, laid down, and turned onto my opposite side, which prompted the third and final rush to the bathroom. Third and final not because that was the last of the water, but because I didn't leave the bathroom until I was that the every last bit of the surreptitiously placed salt water had been forced from hiding.

How did I manage this? Well, as I stood there, head cranks in increasingly odd angles over the sink, I recalled that on the Neti Pot video, the zed-word-ified/robotic lady doing the demonstration finished up by doing some stretches. Thinking "what could it hurt?" I spread my legs should width apart, bent down and tried to touch my left foot with my right hand; sure enough, the last vestiges of the stubborn salt water was finally flushed from its hiding place, and I was able to go to bed with no further incidents, convinced that the addition of stretched to my routine would prevent any embarrassing spurts of salt water from my nose during the course of my day.

Until, that is, yesterday, when my early morning nasal rinse and its moment of "gee, why isn't more water coming out of my other nostril?" was answered approximately 10 hours later when I was at the gym, bending over to do some concentration curls . . .

Rinse and Repeat?

Last week, when I was dropping off some contracts at the Dean's office and picking up my PAC binder*, the Associate Dean of the library saw me and inquired as to my health, since apparently word has spread that I am an allergy ridden, sickly individual. She then began to wax poetic on the wondrous preventative powers of something called a "Neti Pot." I had never heard of this before, so she pulled up a video to show me what it was. And, while I totally trust her ringing endorsement of the product, and am tempted by her promise that using something like this would help me tremendously, I still have to say that the thought of doing this every morning



freaks me the heck out.

*Remind me sometime to regale you all with stories of the horror that is the PAC Binder, okay, my blog monkeys?

It's Like It's Staring Right Into My Soul

Took a silly little personality quiz on Facebook which asks you to choose the picture which you feel most closely represents a concept. Here's what it came up with for me:

Temperament

Flexible

Nothing seems to bother you - you sail through life crisis free. It's not that your life doesn't have its ups and downs, it's just that you handle everything without unnecessary drama and antics. You approach each day fresh, not worrying about yesterday or tomorrow. You are confident that you can handle anything that comes your way and experience has shown that you are absolutely right about this.

Oh, yeah, that's one accurate test all right. . .

Thankful Thursday 2008

This past year has been a bit of a roller-coaster ride for me. Joy over finally getting back into working out was dampened by multiple injuries; despair over the loss of the Blue Beast was tempered by the acquisition of my new car*; pleasure at finally getting a significant raise was strained by the fact that for several months I was the only one of my roommates getting a steady paycheck, and then I had car payments to worry about, and then medical bills on top of that . . . and then the bulk of the last four months I've been fighting to climb out of the downward spiral that my broken digit, subsequent surgery, and ongoing recovery have plunged me into. Yes, over the past year I've suffered through intense humiliation, rampant paranoia, and senseless depression the likes of which have not been seen since my college days; on at least one occasion I was so overcome with hurt and anger that I lost all capacity for speech and could only stand there, fighting back tears of rage. And yet, despite the pitfalls the befell me throughout the year, I am still thankful for many things, most especially my friends.

I am thankful for Cap'n Peanut who has become a really good friend to me over the last several months, and who is at the forefront of the "motivate Todd to get off his butt and get in shape" movement.

I am thankful for Redneck Diva, who went out of her way to make sure that my birthday spent away from the friends I had planned to be with was not a birthday spent without friends after all.

I am thankful for Zinger, and Poohbear, and Bubblegum Tate, and Kookamama, and Cedric the Destroyer, and all of those whose efforts to keep in touch help remind me that, depsite my paranoia, out of sight does not automatically mean out of mind.

I am thankful for new friends like Cap'n Bubbles and Mei-Mei and Doc Jetson and Blondie Blaarrrgghhh** and the other, still nicknameless ones whose presence has added new energy to the Singles group.

I am thankful for my not-so-new friends (too numerous to name lest I be accused of playing favorites) who have been a source of support through unstable times.

And, last but not least, I am thankful that, for the first time in over a decade***, I have added to the ranks of those I consider my Best Friends; it's hard for me to believe that at this time last year I was still just getting to know PigPen and Cap'n Shack-Fu, and barely knew Li'l Random at all and now they're like family to me. I am thankful for the countless times over the last year that they have suffered through one of my neurotic attacks, have patiently talked me through my black moods, have dragged me kicking and screaming out of the realm of negativity, have responded to my crazy ways with nothing but compassion, understanding, and the occasional metaphoric slap upside the head****. I am thankful that, on occasion, I have been able to offer them help and advice as well, although I can't help but feel they're getting the short end of the stick, here. I am thankful because this only child now has four people who are like brothers to him, and that's four more than he ever thought he'd have growing up.

Happy Thanksgiving, my blog monkeys; don't forget to tell those you care about how thankful you are for their presence in your lives.

*No, Li'l Random, I have not named it yet.
**Look, Blondie, I figure out how to spell it!
***Good grief, was college really that long ago?
****And the slightly less frequent physical slap, such as The Lovable PigPen delivered to me Tuesday night every time I'd apologize needlessly "Stop saying you're sorry!" [slap!] Happy Slapsgiving, indeed.

Guess Which Two of the Seven Dwarves I Am*

You know what I'd like? I'd like for my body to respond to my going to bed an hour earlier than usual as an opportunity to get an hour more rest, instead of just waking me up an hour before my alarm clock goes off. That would be nice.

*And no, PigPen, Dopey is not an option

The Very Definition of "Too Much Free Time"

As most blog monkeys should know by now, I am an avid drinker of Coca-Cola Classic, and a strong avoider of Dr. Pepper, a fact that leads to constant arguments with my roomie PigPen. One of my co-workers has recently joined PigPen's side in The Great Cola War, more as a means to mess with me than anything else. What makes me say that? Well, part of it is the fact that she was already taking great pleasure in messing with me by rearranging the action figures decorating my desk and pinning up a book cover guaranteed to trigger my HyperForce 3000 Pavlovian response so it's only natural to see her siding with PigPen as an outgrowth of such behavior, an idea that was pretty much confirmed after I was presented with the following photo-shopped image from her The Lovable PigPen was highly appreciative, and my good pal Cap'n Shack-Fu congratulated me on turning from the dark side.

Of course, the fun didn't stop there. Drunk on creative power, my co-worker's cubicle desecration, I mean, decoration went into full swing: posting certain words right above my monitor
pasting pictures of me on top of my action figures


presenting a framed version of the libelous photoshop


and, the coup de grâce, placing the framed picture in the middle of my action figure display, and turning every single one of them to face it.


And this is but the tip of the iceberg, according to her. I suppose I should take comfort in the fact that, come Monday, I shall be her immediate supervisor and hold her fate in the palm of my hand. Muah-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Fractured Finger Friday - Visual Aids

You would think that getting out of the cast and being able to type with both hands again would have galvanized me into picking up the blogging slack but alas, that has not proven to be the case. Plus, today I have one blue whale sized headache, so don't expect this to be too long.

On Wednesday I was able to take a shower without a bag over my arm for the first time in a month; what a glorious way to start the day. Of course, this was quickly followed by me learning that my insurance company may not be covering as much of my surgery costs as I had originally thought, so, yeah, a nice way to bring me crashing back down to earth there.

While there are many, many reasons I wish my good pal Cap'n Shack-Fu was back here instead of being stationed in OK, right now the reason that tops my list is that if he were here he'd be dragging my fat butt off of the couch and kicking it all the way to the gym. I desperately need motivation to get started working out again after all of my injury-related down time.

Yesterday at work someone was asking me about how my recovery was going, and I mentioned that I was going to have to start doing some minimal physical therapy for the finger. Another coworker overheard this and decided to make something to help me out with that:

Yes, it's a mini-dumbbell, complete with tape to stick it to my finger.

And as long as we're doing visual aids, here are the only pictures available of the Orange Power cast, courtesy of my cell phone.


Loverly, ain't it?

Fractured Finger Friday - Return of the Bird

Got the Orange Power cast removed on Friday, much to the dismay of everyone who had turned making sport of the thing their primary source of amusement. There were very few additions to the list of jokes about the cast since my last post, although at least two people did refer to my crab hand, my uncle made a crack about not being able to put a finger on what was different about me, and PigPen made a big production about asking me "Hey, can you give me a hand? Get it? A Hand!?!?! Muah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Man, I crack myself up." With the removal of the cast and pins, I am now back to a single finger splint, although one which is a bit more obtrusive in design than my previous splint, which means I will now be flipping people off even more than before.

I did have a bit of a scare when I went in for my appointment. The nurse looked at my chart and said "You're early; this says you don't get that taken off until September 29th." I think my sleep-deprived mind might have snapped if that had been the case.

As happy as I was to lose the cast, my first few days without it have taken some readjustment as I've had to deal with stiff and sore joints as well as painful reminders that I no longer have large quantities of bandages cushioning my recovering finger from my own clumsiness. But at least I can type with both hands again, which is a blessing.

I'm to keep the finger pretty much immobilized for a week, at which point I can start doing minor physical therapy on the joint three times a day for a couple of weeks, at which point I'll go to my next appointment and find out just how successful my healing process has been. Personally, I'm just ready for the time for me to lose my bandages to roll around so I can stop showering with a plastic bag over my hand.

Fractured Finger Friday - Poking Fun

Although my unfortunate injury, subsequent surgery, and long-term recovery have caused a slowdown of blogging, thus plunging you long distance blog monkeys into painful Todd-withdrawal, for those who are in more immediate contact with me my pain and misery have provided endless hours of amusement.

• After my finger was put into a splint to keep the bone from dislocating any more, I was constantly being chastised by Cap’n Peanut, who maintained that as a Sunday School teacher I shouldn’t be flipping people off.
  
  
• Remember how I said that some of the girls had offered to fix me dinner? I should have known there’d be a catch, but I don’t think I would have ever in a million years guessed exactly what that catch would be: my dinner was a meatloaf* in the shape of a finger, complete with crumbled cracker fingernail, aluminum foil stitches, needle and thread, and, the pièce de résistance, red and blue Twizzler veins emerging from a hole at the end. As soon as Cap’n Cluck sends me the pictures she took I’ll be sure to post them.
  
  
• Following my surgery, I had to keep my hand constantly elevated to avoid swelling. That first night as I sat at my computer, arm resting on top of my head, PigPen walked by, stopped, and said “Yes, Todd, you have a question?” He would not be the only one to use this gag; in fact, a week later I would be called on in a meeting at work for the same reason.
  
  
• When it came time to choose a color for my hard cast, I was true to my word to fellow OSU fan PigPen and selected orange. Over the next few days, my friends were glad to inform me of everything my brightly colored burden qualified me for: going hunting without a vest, guiding traffic, guiding airplanes, working in a construction zone, etc. I have also been informed multiple times by co-workers how much it clashes with my work clothes, and every third person to see me asks if it glows in the dark.
  
  
• For reasons I shan’t get into here, last Saturday night I was doing the chicken dance; when it came time to clap my hands, I instead slapped my good hand against my chest which, for some reason, struck PigPen as the funniest thing he’d seen all day, requiring him to then do his impression of me several times at church and lunch the next day.
  
  
• The other day at work one of the student workers walked up, placed his plastic Captain Hook prosthetic on top of the cast, and walked off.
  
  
• Most people are incredulous when they find out that my horribly large and bulky cast is because of a single broken finger, but Zinger’s line is my favorite response so far: “if you’d broken a bone any further down, they probably would have put you in traction.”
  
  
• At the end of church services each week, we are asked to stand and join hands with the person next to us as we sing the closing hymn. This week, Cap’n Shack-Fu was on my right, causing him to exclaim “Great, why do I get the gimp hand?” He then proceeded to grasp me by the thumb.
  
  
• Kookamama’s response to hearing I broke my middle finger: “What, were you flipping too many people off?” Surprisingly, so far she’s the only one to make this particular comment.
  
  
• While my new Orange Power cast leaves my thumb and index finger free, allowing me greater gripping capabilities than the previous arrangement which blocked the index finger off, the bulkiness of the cast still makes certain activities problematic, such as tying my shoes. During my first horribly frustrating attempt to do so, PigPen came to my rescue – of course, as soon as he was done he patted me on the head and started talking to me in the same tone of voice he uses when he talks to his nephews on the phone. “There you go, got your big boy shoes all tied. Who wants a popsicle? Who wants a popsicle?”
  
  There were, of course, no popsicles.
  
  
• While hanging out at Shack-Fu’s house the other night, I had some difficulty getting his recliner to recline, since the lever was on the right side. After helping me with that, my good pal decided to treat me like an invalid, shoving food in my mouth while I was talking to PigPen on the phone**, maniacal and mischievous grin plastered across his sleep-deprived face the whole time***
  
  

Of course, there are numerous examples of times when people ask me if I want to go do something I can’t (“Want to go swimming? Go bowling? Play disc golf”?) or merely laugh heartily at my one handed fumblings (trying to open bottles, trying to sign name, trying to eat, etc.), all of which prompted Cap’n Cluck to thank me heartily on Sunday for breaking my finger and undergoing surgery just to provide them all with ample entertainment.

*When PigPen asked if he could take some with him to work for lunch, I was torn. On the one hand, without him, I wouldn’t have been receiving a home cooked meal from Angel, Cluckity, and others. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure I wanted to support the “if I break one of Todd’s bones I get free food” idea that was sure to result.
**Upon being told that Shack was force feeding me, PigPen began to yell through the phone “Feed him Dr. Pepper! Make him drink Dr. Pepper!” He’s one sick individual, that PigPen.
***The details of why Shack-Fu was back in town and sleep deprived will have to wait until some other time, but suffice it to say that he is beginning to suspect that FEMA is actually just a huge conspiracy calculated to drive him over the edge.

Still Typing One Handed, and It's Still a Pain

Had my post-op check-up on Friday. Good news: everything seems to be healing nicely. Bad news: in order to make sure it keeps healing nicely they put me in a hard cast that reaches almost to my elbow, leaving only my thumb and index finger free. As cumbersome as the cast is, I wouldn't mind it anywhere near as much if it weren't for the metal pins still in my finger which I can often feel getting caught on the gauze under the cast. Kind of hard to concentrate on other things when there's a couple of pieces of metal protruding from your skin, even when you can't see them -- or maybe especially when you can't see them . . . although, actually looking at them while they were changing out casts and removing stitches was more than a bit distracting. Anyone interested in seeing pictures of my mutilated, pin-riddled hand which I quickly took with my camera phone after they took my stitches out can email me; I've opted not to insert them into the blog in deference to the more squeamish blog monkeys out there.

Lots of injury related jokes at my expense to relate, but don't feel like hunt-and-pecking them out right now. With luck I'll be pin-less and cast-less by the middle of next week, and can then resume having to come up with other excuses for not blogging.

Bye Bye, Birdie?

In approximately 4 hours from when I post this I shall be going under the knife to have my broken and dislocated right middle finger repaired; consequently, this may be the last blog post I do for a bit. Granted, Cap'n Bubbles has graciously offered to transcribe my ramblings into blog form for me, but considering how many drafts some of these go through, I can't imagine making anyone suffer through my indecisive proofing.

As part of the surgery preparations, I was instructed multiple times not to eat or drink anything at all after midnight. Then, last night I got a voicemail from the anesthesiologist telling me that since my surgery was in the afternoon, he would let me eat a very light breakfast before 6 AM, and allow me to drink clear liquids up until 7:30. Which was nice, except I didn't wake up until, oh, 7:40 or so, and thus missed out on the generous extension of my food/drink intake timeframe.

And speaking of food, I just got an email from Angel, saying that she and some of the other girls were thinking about me and are planning to bring me dinner tomorrow night, which is cool. Even cooler was the subject line of her email, which is now the subject line of the blog post.

But, although having dinner tomorrow provided tomorrow will be nice, what would be even nicer is actually having food in the house for every other meal for the next few days, so I shall now post this and make a quick run to the store so I can be back home and ready for Squiggly to chauffeur me to the surgeon in Lewisville.

Random Is as Random Does

All righty, this one may be a tad lengthy, but I'm in total stream of consciousness mode here. I blame all the time I spent hanging out with fellow Odd Squodder Li'l Dill the past few days; he's randomized my brain!

• I mentioned recently that I want to change Li'l Dill's nickname into something that fits him better, and reserve the pickle-related nick for those rare occasions when it might seem fitting. Unfortunately, while Li'l Dill is still the Nickname Magnet, most of those nicknames are highly specialized and only brought out when appropriate. Right now, I'm leaning towards something along the lines of Professor Random or the Randomizer or something equally unoriginal utilizing some form of "random."
  
  
• For those of you wondering, I now provide shoddy photographic evidence of my new car
  
  I know it doesn't have quite as much, um, "character" as The Blue Beast
  
  but I'm sure after a few years of my tender neglect, it will. I have yet to come up with a name for the car; my favorite suggestion so far is The Great White Hope, courtesy of The Anti-Cap'n, but somehow that doesn't feel quite right.
  
  
• Speaking of names and The Anti-Cap'n: much like with The Great Randomini, I've long been searching for a more appropriate nick for The A.C., but have long been stymied. As long as I'm shaking things up for Pan's Randomoso, I figured I'd push forward with a new nick for my roomie. Top options are his video game handle (Lord Nykon), his MySpace handle (Gemini), his intended softball handle (Maverick), or a nice combo (Anti-Cap'n Lord Nykon, the Gemini Maverick). I am undecided.
  
  
• Trouble called me from Colorado (where she's currently in training to be a rafting guide for the summer) the day after my surprise party to see how it all went. She asked me if the party-goers had been dressed up as super-heroes; I immediately asked "Was that Random McRandomson or Cap'n Shack-Fu's suggestion?" She confirmed my suspicion that the idea was courtesy of The Random Avenger. It's too bad that they didn't follow through on that idea, because while I might have suspected a party being thrown in my honor, walking into a room filled with caped crusaders would have caught me totally off-guard.
  
  
• Sunday night I had dinner with One of My Favorite Random Generators in the World^tm and his pal B.B., and if my side hadn't already been hurting after my latest grappling match with PigPen* it would have been after B.B. got done regaling me with his tales of how Random McEvil only plays the nice guy at church, when in fact he is the devil. That little piece of performance art is worthy of a blog post in and of itself, but I mention it now in passing just to comment on how cathartic the non-stop laughter was. Trust me; after the last few weeks, I needed pain-inducing laughter.
  
  
• Only a few more days until karate classes start up; I'm hoping that my current injuries and slow-healing nature don't cause me too much of a problem. I don't know if I've really conveyed how big of a deal this is for me; for most people, it's just signing up for a karate class, but for me it's signing up for a class where at times I'm going to be basically put on display and judged for how well I'm doing in a physical activity. Voluntarily putting myself in this position is a major step for me, which is why when people react to the news by snickering, guffawing, or laughing hysterically while they ask "Can I come and watch?", well, it kind of makes me see red, as well as question the wisdom of going through with it. I know it's not meant maliciously, and I know I've brought it on myself with my many years of physical inactivity, but that doesn't make it any easier for my self-doubting and self-loathing nature to take. Regardless, I'm still planning on going through with it; time will tell how wise a decision that really is.
  
  
• Last night Squiggly, her younger sister, Anti-Cap'n Lord Nykon the Maverick Gemini, and I went out to watch PigPen's Monday night softball team finally start their play-offs, but it was difficult to enjoy the game thanks to a swarm of the most aggressive mosquitoes I've ever seen. Squiggly came prepared with pest repellent, but unfortunately the can was practically empty and did little to deter the flying bloodsuckers. Now, I don't know if it's from getting caught in the rain before the game while talking to Captain Random at the gym, standing out in the open air where allergens could assail me, being eaten alive by what Squiggly called Africanized Attack Mosquitoes, or the accidental inhaling and ingestion of the ineffective bug spray, but something in my activities last night has left me feeling a bit sickly.
  
  
• Despite being bruised, battered, bitten, possibly broken, and consumed with overall "blah," I'm actually in a remarkably good mood, all things considered; probably the best mood I've been in since the unfortunate tailbone-busting incident weeks ago. And I have my friends to thank for it; over the last few days I've had a chance to sit down with a few of the guys and work through some of the stuff that's been dragging me down into the dumps that past month or so. Now I've corrected some misunderstandings (on both my part and on others), been slapped upside the head for acting like a self-defeating dumbass (yeah, that was mainly courtesy of PigPen), and in general just had reaffirmed that in the grand scheme of things I am truly a lucky and blessed individual. We'll just have to see how long this positive state lasts this time around; PigPen has already said he couldn't possibly pencil in dealing with another of my neurotic breaks until at least mid-July, so I guess I'll have to hold it together at least until then.
  
  
• How better to end this random ramblings than with our very own Captain Random's theme song**
  

Captain Random
Odd Squodd weirdo
His non sequitur's will
Make your mind blow
Randomness personified
And his twisted mind his only guide


Yeah, one of these days Li’l Random is going to snap, and it’s all going to be my fault; at least I know that when I do push him over the edge, my subsequent death will be committed in a terribly original and surprising way, 'cause that's how the Random Raider rolls.

*Yes, that's right, hurt myself again; think I'm going to change my name to Cap'n Injury Prone.
**Sung to this tune

Fragmented Friday - Bummer Days

• A few days after our mini-high-school reunion, Redneck Diva (who wrote her own account here) informed me that talking with me now is exactly like talking with me in high school; "It was kind of eerie at first" she said, "like I'd slipped into a time warp." Apparently my mannerisms and speech patterns have been set in stone for quite a while, not quite sure what that says about me; either I matured early, or not at all. I think we all know where the safe money goes on that bet . . .
  
  
• Just got word that the annual library "talent and hobby showcase" will be coming up again next month. The last two years I've performed two out of the three competitive speech pieces I still have memorized, but I'm not sure if the library staff is quite ready for #3, "The October Game" by Ray Bradbury. So, if I do decide to do something I'll have to decide if I want to learn a new piece to perform; just read an example of my short stories or blogs; or just finish up the competitive speech trifecta by doing the story about the guy who chops up his daughter and passes her body parts around like party favors.
  
  
• Along similar lines (to the library/performing thing, not chopping up body parts thing), several staff members have now expressed an interest in developing a Book Cart Drill Team to perform at the next Texas Library Association conference; since I had mentioned the Drill Team in my submission to the library newsletter about the TLA conference, and since everyone apparently knows that I have little fear of getting up and making a fool of myself in such situations, I have been persistently pursued to partake because, as one staffer said, "We need a guy." How can I pass up sweet-talk like that?
  
  
• I've been figuring out what my budget is going to be like with the addition of car payments and and increase in car insurance; I am now officially depressed. Bye-bye eating out ever again; bye-bye crazy amount of Netflix movies checked out at once; bye-bye *choke* comic book purchases -- you will be sorely missed.
  
  
• Had a surprise party thrown in my honor last night; unfortunately, I had grown suspicious and wasn't really all that surprised; even more unfortunately, I opened my big mouth and said so and then had to watch all the light and joy drain out of the party-planners' faces. Just call me Cap'n Ingrate.
  
  
• I'm afraid I've been lax in promoting the latest round of the Write in the Thick of It challenge, probably largely due to the fact that I, stressed out and distracted by my personal woes, never was able to find inspiration for Tate's words, and wound up phoning it in. Voting is still open until tomorrow night, after which time Diva is proposing some rule changes for at least the next round to shake things up; I'll be very interested to see how it works out.
  
  
• Several of the Singles are planning on going to Six Flags tomorrow; I, who procrastinated so long in getting my season pass that I can no longer justify the expense, probably wouldn't go even if I did have the money; the tailbone, it is still not healed, and somehow I don't think the massive g-force from my favorite rides would be conducive to its recovery. Very bummed.
  
  
• When I came in to work on Wednesday, I discovered that my coworkers had taken my comment that I only really like one picture of myself -- my profile pic -- and had much fun with it for my birthday, plastering a couple of dozen copies around my monitor. The original plan had been to tape them to the action figures and miscellaneous creatures which adorn my desk, which I think would have been funny, but instead I get to stare at myself all day long, which isn't necessarily improving my mood. And then I wandered into the break room and saw this taped up on the dry erase board:I would say that some people have too much time on their hands, but then I recall the HyperTwins picture and realize I have no room to talk.

Extended but Uneventful

Just a quick post to let y'all know that I made it to Miamuh in one piece*, which is always good, although I would have been happier if my one hour flight hadn't turned into a 3 1/2 hour flight . . . well, technically, the flight itself was only a bit under two hours, thanks to having to detour around storms, while the rest of the time was spent waiting on the tarmac to either load or unload. Normally, it wouldn't have been that big of a deal, but my still-not-quite-healed tailbone made sitting in the not-super-comfortable airplane seat for close to four hours a bit of a chore. By the time they announced our new ETA, I realized that if I had just rented a car, I would have already been in Miamuh by the time we landed in Tulsa, not even factoring in the extra 45 minutes or so to get off the plane and get our luggage since the baggage claim area had no electricity.** But, again, I made it through the flight without crashing onto a mysterious island filled with smoke monsters and secret hatches and underwater stations and mysterious invisible men, so I can't complain too much.


*Although, if we had been allowed to use cell phones during the flight, I so would have texted "getting to know you, getting to know all about you" to PigPen a couple of times
**Poor mom, who got there a little before 10, had to basically sit in the dark wondering where in the world I was, since there were no screens with departure and arrival times working in the terminal

Getting Back on the Blogging Tracks

Apparently my time in San Antonio has totally derailed what little blogging momentum I had built up the previous week. Bummer. Until I can build up steam for full-on ramblings, here are some tidbits to hold you over.

Highlight of the San Antonio trip had to be the Book Cart Drill Team competition. Few things hold as much potential for comedy as a group of library workers dressed up in strange costumes, dancing and pushing heavily decorated book carts around to the driving beats of "Staying Alive" or "The Hustle" or "Space Cowboy" or what-have you.

I wish the video camera on my cell phone could have captured the group dressed up like Tina Turner from the "Proud Mary" days, since they were the height of unintentional comedy, with half of them getting into shaking their grove things, and the other half just bouncing around merrily like they were walking beside a float in a parade.

After a few weeks of little exercise -- outside of walking up and down the convention center hauling around luggage -- I finally got back into the embarrassing-myself-on-the-basketball-court routine on Tuesday, at which point I discovered that my body is a sneaky son of a gun; now that I'm outfitted with ankle and knee braces to avoid damaging those body parts further, other parts of my traitorous body have decided to start rebelling. It's a freaking conspiracy of neurotic proportions! And yet, I still played racquetball last night, and plan to embarrass myself on the basketball court yet again this evening. Glutton for punishment, I am; why else would I still be rooming with PigPen?

Due to the influence of relative newcomer Cap'n Bubbles, several of the Singles have started going swing dancing. A local group has lessons twice a month; they basically have the lesson from 8-9, and then just straight up dancing from 9-midnight. I enjoy the lessons, (the last couple of times we've been working on The Lindy Hop)

but don't feel comfortable enough with my meager skills to really enjoy the regular dance portion yet. A couple of girls have told Peanut and me that swing is just all about "making up the moves as you go along"; neither he nor I agree with that statement, and even if we did, making up dance moves isn't necessarily my forte, especially when I'm dancing with a partner who has to somehow follow along with these supposedly improvisational movements. On a related note, I am entranced by the idea of learning The Shag for some reason.


Another reason for my general lack of blogging is that there are multiple things going on in my life that, for one reason or another, I don't feel comfortable blogging about; of course, these things I can't blog about are at the forefront of my brain, and push everything else to the back of the line. And if you're reading this and thinking "Gee, I wonder if he's talking about situation X," well, odds are good that, yes, situation X is mixed in there, along with three or four others. I mention this merely as a sort of pressure relief measure, so that by acknowledging that there are things I can't write about, I might be able to lessen the desire to write about them. Yes, I know how crazy that sounds. It's also my way of preemptively apologizing to those who deal with me in person if I am moody, distracted, and a drag to be around.*

I have yet to write my story for the Write in the Thick of It challenge; I do have the basic story idea in my head, just haven't written it out yet. And, looks like it's going to be another super-hero story; shocking, I know. Actually, it is a little bit of a shock to me since, while many of my SF stories are strongly influenced by my comic obsession, I have written very little in the way of straight-up super-hero stories over the years.



*"Even more so than usual, I mean" he said, trying to head PigPen off at the pass

Maybe If I Knew More Than the One Line, I Wouldn't Feel So Depressed

I hate rainy days.

It's not just the gloomy and overcast skies which tend to encourage and amplify my more depressive tendencies, although that is a huge factor. But in addition to the way that the dark foreboding weather resonates with the dark foreboding portion of my psyche, there is another horrifying feature: it gets the song "Rainy Days and Mondays" stuck in my head for the bulk of the day.

*shudder*