As “luck” would have it, today is my birthday. I don’t have…to my knowledge…a single drop of Irish blood in me…just happened to be born on St. Patrick’s Day. I take no credit for the event…that was entirely my mom and dad’s doing.
Now, I haven’t enjoyed my birthday for years. Part of it has to do with…I suppose…that age-old quandary of realizing here I am…another year older…and what have I accomplished? Not much time left...better get crackin’. Ever since I was a little girl, I have hated the thoughts of getting old. But mostly I dread the day…as I explained a couple of posts back…because it is a reminder of the circumstances surrounding my mom’s death.
With both my parents gone, one of the things I miss is their annual “argument” or “discussion” as to the time of my arrival. My daddy always said I was born on a cold/crisp, sunny, Monday morning (although “fair of face” is not a description I ever attributed to myself) at 10:30a.m. Mom only disputed the time, saying I arrived a good bit earlier than that.
Now, today I turn…gulp…56. (I swear to God I don’t remember getting this old…just woke up one day, and here I was.) So, I was born wayyyyy back in the day before dads started going into the delivery room with the moms. Suffice it to say that Dad made sure Mom was all settled-in at the hospital then went on downtown to have breakfast at Kresge’s. He said when he got back to the hospital, I’m guessing around 10:30, he had his baby girl. But to my way of thinking, Mom was probably a better judge of the time I was born since she was…you know…actually there doing all the pushing and moaning and groaning, but I always enjoyed hearing my dad tell the story.
Anyway, there was a time when my trepidation of the approaching “day” was relegated to those birthdays that ended in a “zero.” You know 30, 40, 50. (I cannot even begin to imagine how I will react to 60…if I make it.) I used to take off work on the “0” birthdays and go shopping, to a movie, out to eat…you know…make a day of it.
Well, the Christmas before my 30th birthday, I was visiting my cousin, Skip, who was home from Arizona for the holidays, when he started badgering me about my upcoming “milestone” birthday. Now, I am a whopping six months older than he, but to hear Skip tell it, that six months is equivalent to ten doggie years. Anyway, he kept telling me what he was going to do…call me at midnight, send black balloons, etc. I told him to call all he wanted, he wouldn’t find me because I was taking the day off and heading out of town.
Actually, as I recall, I came to Cincinnati (long before I ever moved here) to spend the day shopping. Well, when I returned to work the next day, it was to find a beautiful bouquet of spring flowers on my desk with the following message – yes, I can still recite it verbatim after twenty-six years.
“Too bad you weren’t here yesterday when these flowers were fresh. Now, they’re just like you…one day older…and starting to wilt.”
Skip didn’t sign the card…he didn’t have to. Trust me, I knew who had sent them.
Today, I had a much more civilized present awaiting me at Eliza’s “The Velocity of Vincent” blog…my very own birthday greeting and a splendid “Bobby collage” to boot. Now THAT is a gift that will never, ever wilt. And while I truly enjoyed this totally unexpected surprise, I would dearly love to hear my dad tell the story about the day I was born…just one more time.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Happy St. Patrick's Day
Whether you're Irish by birth or merely Irish "for the day"...like me. Whether you celebrate by drinking a glass of green beer or kissing a "blarney stone," may the "luck of the Irish" be with you on this St. Patrick's Day.
And now for an Irish "blessing"...
...or two.
And now for an Irish "blessing"...
...or two.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
My Mom
Seventeen years ago today, the day before my thirty-ninth birthday, my mom suffered a massive heart attack in my arms, and thus began nine of the worst days of my life. It was a Saturday morning, and I had just helped Mom get her bath and get dressed for the day. We were walking from the bathroom to the living room when she paused, told me she was dizzy, then passed out.
The next few minutes are a blur because everything happened so fast, but I caught Mom as she was falling, laid her on the floor, and ran to the phone to call the EMS. We lived in a rural community that did not have a 911 emergency number at the time, so I had to remember a 10-digit 800 number…not an easy task when one is in the midst of a full-blown crisis. I finally got the emergency operator on the phone, requested an ambulance, and started CPR.
Within moments, two ambulances and paramedics had arrived, along with Harold & Patty, who lived (still do) within a stone’s throw of my parent’s house, and my brother Tom. To this day, I still don’t know how Tom got there so fast because they had to track him down at one of the Little League ball fields in Ironton…a good 10 – 12 miles away…and yet – there he was. Our dad was there, too, of course, but he was 78 and in failing health himself, so there wasn’t much he could do but stand around and watch…and hope…and pray…like the rest of us.
I kept telling the paramedics Mom did not want life support, but they didn’t listen to me and started her on a ventilator. So, for the next nine days, we all sat around the ICU waiting room…doing just that…waiting for the inevitable. Mom never regained consciousness. Tests had revealed the tiniest bit of brain stem activity, therefore, the hospital could not allow the doctors to turn off the life support for fear of a lawsuit. This is when we learned about “living wills.” We all have one now.
I do not mean to sound dispassionate about my mother’s situation; had there been any “hope” of a recovery, we would have fought just as hard for her. There is, however, a significant difference between “prolonging” and “preserving” life. Quite frankly, if I had it to do over again…knowing what I know now…I would have held my mother in my arms and let her slip peacefully away.
I knew in my heart she was “gone” when I laid her on the floor that morning anyway…I could see it in her eyes…literally watched the life slipping from them. In the five years that my mom had been in failing health, we had taken a few trips to the emergency room and had endured several prolonged hospital stays, but this time was different. Like I said…I knew in my heart she was gone, but you just don’t want to let go…you never want to let go…so you do what you have to do and implement life saving measures.
So, for the next nine days, various family members and friends gathered at the hospital ICU waiting room, reminiscing and telling stories about life and growing up with Mom & Dad. (Some of those stories will eventually find there way to this blog.) You know, it wasn’t a particularly “glamorous” life by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a good life…one of which I am not ashamed. Someone from the family was at the hospital round the clock, and the nurses were good about letting us go back to be with Mom whenever we wanted…as long as there was no emergency involving another ICU patient.
I remember late one night, I slipped into the ICU. Mom had always been a fighter and I just kept stroking her face, her hair, and her hands and telling her it was “okay.” She could let go now…she didn’t have to fight anymore. There were no chairs in her room, so I eventually sat down in a corner of the room, quietly weeping, just telling her over and over that it was okay to let go, listening to the sounds of the myriad machines breathing for her, monitoring various bodily functions...heart rate, blood pressure, etc. I still hate the sound of those machines.
Eventually, one of the nurses came in and found me. She gave me a hug and said she thought she heard someone crying, but couldn’t see me. She was getting ready to give Mom a sponge bath and make her more comfortable, so I had to leave. She said she would come and get me when it was okay to come back in, but when she came to find me, I was asleep on the floor of the waiting room. Only time in my life I have ever been able to sleep on a hard, linoleum floor, but I was exhausted. Today, it would take a crane to hoist me off that floor.
A couple of days before Mom passed away, they moved her to a private room. Doctors had told us the only way they could/would remove the ventilator is if Mom was breathing more for herself than was the machine. That is when the countdown began. I mean, I watched that sucker like a hawk…counting each and every breath that my mom breathed on her own vs. those supplied by the ventilator. And when my brother, Tom, arrived on Saturday afternoon to “relieve” me, I told him to tell the doctor when he did his rounds that they could take the “bleepin’” machine away. He did, they...of course...verified that Mom was in fact breathing on her own, and they took the bloody machine away.
That was late Saturday. Mom hung on through Sunday and finally took her last breath on this earth around 3:30a.m. Monday morning. Harold was with her. He called to let me know and to tell me that Tom was on his way to the hospital, so I got dressed and drove down to the house to tell Dad that it was…over. Mom was at peace. We buried her on Thursday, March 28th, the day before her 73rd birthday. So, March isn’t exactly a fun month for me.
One thing that "sort of" haunts me from that cool, March morning as I was driving down to the house to help Mom with her bath and do what other tasks she needed done that day was thinking…no, I actually said it out loud, “I’d like to have just one weekend to myself.” I don’t feel guilty about having the thought or even voicing it out loud because I did everything humanly possible for my parents when they were alive. I have no regrets and would gladly help take care of them again. It just turned out to be one of those “be careful what you wish for” kind of moments because…you see…I have all my weekends to myself these days.
The next few minutes are a blur because everything happened so fast, but I caught Mom as she was falling, laid her on the floor, and ran to the phone to call the EMS. We lived in a rural community that did not have a 911 emergency number at the time, so I had to remember a 10-digit 800 number…not an easy task when one is in the midst of a full-blown crisis. I finally got the emergency operator on the phone, requested an ambulance, and started CPR.
Within moments, two ambulances and paramedics had arrived, along with Harold & Patty, who lived (still do) within a stone’s throw of my parent’s house, and my brother Tom. To this day, I still don’t know how Tom got there so fast because they had to track him down at one of the Little League ball fields in Ironton…a good 10 – 12 miles away…and yet – there he was. Our dad was there, too, of course, but he was 78 and in failing health himself, so there wasn’t much he could do but stand around and watch…and hope…and pray…like the rest of us.
I kept telling the paramedics Mom did not want life support, but they didn’t listen to me and started her on a ventilator. So, for the next nine days, we all sat around the ICU waiting room…doing just that…waiting for the inevitable. Mom never regained consciousness. Tests had revealed the tiniest bit of brain stem activity, therefore, the hospital could not allow the doctors to turn off the life support for fear of a lawsuit. This is when we learned about “living wills.” We all have one now.
I do not mean to sound dispassionate about my mother’s situation; had there been any “hope” of a recovery, we would have fought just as hard for her. There is, however, a significant difference between “prolonging” and “preserving” life. Quite frankly, if I had it to do over again…knowing what I know now…I would have held my mother in my arms and let her slip peacefully away.
I knew in my heart she was “gone” when I laid her on the floor that morning anyway…I could see it in her eyes…literally watched the life slipping from them. In the five years that my mom had been in failing health, we had taken a few trips to the emergency room and had endured several prolonged hospital stays, but this time was different. Like I said…I knew in my heart she was gone, but you just don’t want to let go…you never want to let go…so you do what you have to do and implement life saving measures.
So, for the next nine days, various family members and friends gathered at the hospital ICU waiting room, reminiscing and telling stories about life and growing up with Mom & Dad. (Some of those stories will eventually find there way to this blog.) You know, it wasn’t a particularly “glamorous” life by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a good life…one of which I am not ashamed. Someone from the family was at the hospital round the clock, and the nurses were good about letting us go back to be with Mom whenever we wanted…as long as there was no emergency involving another ICU patient.
I remember late one night, I slipped into the ICU. Mom had always been a fighter and I just kept stroking her face, her hair, and her hands and telling her it was “okay.” She could let go now…she didn’t have to fight anymore. There were no chairs in her room, so I eventually sat down in a corner of the room, quietly weeping, just telling her over and over that it was okay to let go, listening to the sounds of the myriad machines breathing for her, monitoring various bodily functions...heart rate, blood pressure, etc. I still hate the sound of those machines.
Eventually, one of the nurses came in and found me. She gave me a hug and said she thought she heard someone crying, but couldn’t see me. She was getting ready to give Mom a sponge bath and make her more comfortable, so I had to leave. She said she would come and get me when it was okay to come back in, but when she came to find me, I was asleep on the floor of the waiting room. Only time in my life I have ever been able to sleep on a hard, linoleum floor, but I was exhausted. Today, it would take a crane to hoist me off that floor.
A couple of days before Mom passed away, they moved her to a private room. Doctors had told us the only way they could/would remove the ventilator is if Mom was breathing more for herself than was the machine. That is when the countdown began. I mean, I watched that sucker like a hawk…counting each and every breath that my mom breathed on her own vs. those supplied by the ventilator. And when my brother, Tom, arrived on Saturday afternoon to “relieve” me, I told him to tell the doctor when he did his rounds that they could take the “bleepin’” machine away. He did, they...of course...verified that Mom was in fact breathing on her own, and they took the bloody machine away.
That was late Saturday. Mom hung on through Sunday and finally took her last breath on this earth around 3:30a.m. Monday morning. Harold was with her. He called to let me know and to tell me that Tom was on his way to the hospital, so I got dressed and drove down to the house to tell Dad that it was…over. Mom was at peace. We buried her on Thursday, March 28th, the day before her 73rd birthday. So, March isn’t exactly a fun month for me.
One thing that "sort of" haunts me from that cool, March morning as I was driving down to the house to help Mom with her bath and do what other tasks she needed done that day was thinking…no, I actually said it out loud, “I’d like to have just one weekend to myself.” I don’t feel guilty about having the thought or even voicing it out loud because I did everything humanly possible for my parents when they were alive. I have no regrets and would gladly help take care of them again. It just turned out to be one of those “be careful what you wish for” kind of moments because…you see…I have all my weekends to myself these days.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Stupid Men Tricks
This morning, as I’m sitting at my desk, busily working away like the good and faithful employee I am…yeah, right…I kept hearing Kelly laughing away in her tiny cubicle. Finally, I called out the doorway, “What’s so darn funny?” To which, she replied, “Haven’t you read the email I sent you?”
Well, she sent three, but the one that had provoked such a raucous response had no title in the subject line. After reading it, and laughing my considerably large butt off, I came up with the one above. Perhaps you’ll agree with me after you read the following.
Here’s the setup. Evidently, the gentleman who wrote the following story had decided to purchase a Pocket Taser Stun Gun for his wife for their anniversary…the romantic dog. Anyway, after thoroughly “checking out” the purchase, he decided to write about the experience. Not sure where it was published or if it is even true, but it sure makes for a knee slapping good read. I hope you agree.
* * * * * * * *
Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary, and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife…Julie. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser. The effects of the taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety. WAY TOO COOL!
Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two triple-A batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time, I'd get the blue arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs. AWESOME! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that burned spot is on the face of her microwave!
Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-A batteries, right? There I sat in my recliner, my cat…Gracie…looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie…for a fraction of a second…but thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong?
So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, and taser in the other. The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would reportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries. All the while, I'm looking at this little device measuring about 5” long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference...pretty cute really...and loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-A batteries...thinking to myself, “no possible way!”
What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best.
I'm sitting there…alone (Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one side as if to say, “Don't do it, dumb ass!”) reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad. So, I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for the heck of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh...pushed the button...and...
HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!! WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION!!
I'm pretty sure Hulk Hogan ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both onto the carpet over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and a tingling sensation in my legs! The cat was standing over me making meowing sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, “Do it again, stupid, do it again!”
Note: If you ever feel compelled to “mug” yourself with a taser, one note of caution: there is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three-second burst would be considered conservative.
SON-OF-A-*%#... That hurt like **% !!
A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time had become a relative thing at that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. (How did they get up there?) My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. Oh, and I'm still looking for my testicles. I'm offering a significant reward for their safe return.
P. S. My wife loved the gift, and now regularly threatens me with it. If you think Education is difficult, try being stupid.
* * * * * * * *
So that’s it. Hope you had a good chuckle. Some of these emails are just too good to simply “forward” or let languish in an email folder. That’s why I “store” them here, so I can find them when I need a good laugh.
On another note, I have been writing a "Bobby" story...well, it started out as a story and is now a 175 page Novella with no end in sight...and was contemplating a scene in which Bobby and my "heroine" are mugged late at night in NYC. I need Bobby to be momentarily stunned or incapacitated in some way, but didn't want him shot, so was considering having the "bad guy" tase him. Now, I may have to rethink the taser thing.
Well, she sent three, but the one that had provoked such a raucous response had no title in the subject line. After reading it, and laughing my considerably large butt off, I came up with the one above. Perhaps you’ll agree with me after you read the following.
Here’s the setup. Evidently, the gentleman who wrote the following story had decided to purchase a Pocket Taser Stun Gun for his wife for their anniversary…the romantic dog. Anyway, after thoroughly “checking out” the purchase, he decided to write about the experience. Not sure where it was published or if it is even true, but it sure makes for a knee slapping good read. I hope you agree.
* * * * * * * *
Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary, and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife…Julie. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser. The effects of the taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to safety. WAY TOO COOL!
Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two triple-A batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button. Nothing! I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time, I'd get the blue arch of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs. AWESOME! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that burned spot is on the face of her microwave!
Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-A batteries, right? There I sat in my recliner, my cat…Gracie…looking on intently (trusting little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving target. I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie…for a fraction of a second…but thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong?
So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, and taser in the other. The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would reportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries. All the while, I'm looking at this little device measuring about 5” long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference...pretty cute really...and loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-A batteries...thinking to myself, “no possible way!”
What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my best.
I'm sitting there…alone (Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one side as if to say, “Don't do it, dumb ass!”) reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad. So, I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for the heck of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh...pushed the button...and...
HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!! WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION!!
I'm pretty sure Hulk Hogan ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both onto the carpet over and over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and a tingling sensation in my legs! The cat was standing over me making meowing sounds I had never heard before, licking my face, undoubtedly thinking to herself, “Do it again, stupid, do it again!”
Note: If you ever feel compelled to “mug” yourself with a taser, one note of caution: there is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three-second burst would be considered conservative.
SON-OF-A-*%#... That hurt like **% !!
A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time had become a relative thing at that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. (How did they get up there?) My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. Oh, and I'm still looking for my testicles. I'm offering a significant reward for their safe return.
P. S. My wife loved the gift, and now regularly threatens me with it. If you think Education is difficult, try being stupid.
* * * * * * * *
So that’s it. Hope you had a good chuckle. Some of these emails are just too good to simply “forward” or let languish in an email folder. That’s why I “store” them here, so I can find them when I need a good laugh.
On another note, I have been writing a "Bobby" story...well, it started out as a story and is now a 175 page Novella with no end in sight...and was contemplating a scene in which Bobby and my "heroine" are mugged late at night in NYC. I need Bobby to be momentarily stunned or incapacitated in some way, but didn't want him shot, so was considering having the "bad guy" tase him. Now, I may have to rethink the taser thing.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
The Queen's English
Ann, of the “At Home With Ann” blog, mentioned in a recent post that she is planning a trip to Florida in the next couple of weeks. In a follow-up postscript, she added if any of her blog visitors lived in Florida or would be visiting Disney while she was there, she would love to meet up with them.
As much as I would like to be able to take Ann up on her invitation, it is not possible. The thoughts of Disney World and Ann, being British, coming there did, however, spark a particular memory for me…an extremely pleasurable one.
You see, way back in 1982, the very month that Disney opened the Epcot Center, my friends Darryl & Jane invited me to go with them and their kids (Aaron and Kevin) on a trip to “experience” Disney the way it should be. I mean, I had been before, but to them…a trip to Disney World was more than a mere vacation…it was – and still is to this day – a true “event.”
Darryl planned out the itinerary weeks in advance…the Disney hotel where we would stay, where we would eat, which “land” we would visit first, etc., etc. Pretty much, all we talked about in the van during our drive down to Florida was where we were going to eat, “what” we were going to eat, and what we were going to do when we got there. Conversely, pretty much all we talked about on the way back was what we did, what we ate… Well, you get the idea.
Late one afternoon, near the end of our vacation, Darryl & Jane and the kids and I all climbed inside the monorail outside our hotel. My friends were taking their kids to the “Magic Kingdom” for the evening while I had decided to go walk around Epcot for a while. Well, when Darryl & Jane exited the monorail, eight women crammed inside the car to join me.
They were laughing and talking and giggling and having a grand old time. Once they had settled themselves and the monorail had started up again, one of the ladies looked at me and in a booming, cheerful voice said, “We’re eight merry widows from England.” (You need to say that out loud in your best British accent because that is how I always say it whenever I tell this story to anyone.) And that is how it all began…the absolute best two minutes…if that…of my life.
They all started talking to me…almost in unison. Now, it’s been almost twenty-six years, so I do not truly recall the "particulars" of the conversation…merely that…considering we all spoke…supposedly…the same language, these ladies spoke an entirely different version of English than did I…and visa versa. I had the best time in those scant moments, trying to answer their questions…and they likewise…in a manner we could all understand. It was great fun and ended all too soon when the monorail came to a stop at my destination.
It was the briefest of encounters and yet it is a memory that has stayed with me all these years…one I think of with great fondness and one that always makes me smile a bit whimsically. To this day, I wish I had abandoned my own plans and foisted myself on these “eight merry widows from England” for the evening. I can only imagine the stories I would have been able to tell now. That is…if I could have deciphered their particular brand of English…and visa versa.
If I ever build a time machine…that’s one of the first places I want to revisit.
And to Ann, if you happen upon this, I hope your journey to the States is a safe and thoroughly enjoyable one.
As much as I would like to be able to take Ann up on her invitation, it is not possible. The thoughts of Disney World and Ann, being British, coming there did, however, spark a particular memory for me…an extremely pleasurable one.
You see, way back in 1982, the very month that Disney opened the Epcot Center, my friends Darryl & Jane invited me to go with them and their kids (Aaron and Kevin) on a trip to “experience” Disney the way it should be. I mean, I had been before, but to them…a trip to Disney World was more than a mere vacation…it was – and still is to this day – a true “event.”
Darryl planned out the itinerary weeks in advance…the Disney hotel where we would stay, where we would eat, which “land” we would visit first, etc., etc. Pretty much, all we talked about in the van during our drive down to Florida was where we were going to eat, “what” we were going to eat, and what we were going to do when we got there. Conversely, pretty much all we talked about on the way back was what we did, what we ate… Well, you get the idea.
Late one afternoon, near the end of our vacation, Darryl & Jane and the kids and I all climbed inside the monorail outside our hotel. My friends were taking their kids to the “Magic Kingdom” for the evening while I had decided to go walk around Epcot for a while. Well, when Darryl & Jane exited the monorail, eight women crammed inside the car to join me.
They were laughing and talking and giggling and having a grand old time. Once they had settled themselves and the monorail had started up again, one of the ladies looked at me and in a booming, cheerful voice said, “We’re eight merry widows from England.” (You need to say that out loud in your best British accent because that is how I always say it whenever I tell this story to anyone.) And that is how it all began…the absolute best two minutes…if that…of my life.
They all started talking to me…almost in unison. Now, it’s been almost twenty-six years, so I do not truly recall the "particulars" of the conversation…merely that…considering we all spoke…supposedly…the same language, these ladies spoke an entirely different version of English than did I…and visa versa. I had the best time in those scant moments, trying to answer their questions…and they likewise…in a manner we could all understand. It was great fun and ended all too soon when the monorail came to a stop at my destination.
It was the briefest of encounters and yet it is a memory that has stayed with me all these years…one I think of with great fondness and one that always makes me smile a bit whimsically. To this day, I wish I had abandoned my own plans and foisted myself on these “eight merry widows from England” for the evening. I can only imagine the stories I would have been able to tell now. That is…if I could have deciphered their particular brand of English…and visa versa.
If I ever build a time machine…that’s one of the first places I want to revisit.
And to Ann, if you happen upon this, I hope your journey to the States is a safe and thoroughly enjoyable one.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
Snowed-In
The “white plague of death” descended upon us yesterday morning around 9:00a.m. and has been going strong ever since. Depending on where one lives in the Greater Cincinnati area, they’re reporting…at last count…anywhere from eight to twelve inches of the “fluffy” stuff, and it’s not over. We’re in the midst of a “blizzard warning” and a “Level 3” snow emergency. That means only emergency and Department of Transportation vehicles are supposed to be on the roadways. Hey, they don’t have to tell me twice.
Luckily, I heeded the dire predictions the weather prognosticators had been warning about since the first of the week and made a much-needed trip to the grocery store immediately after work on Thursday. So, food-wise…I’m good. Actually, when I think about it, staying in for the weekend is pretty much the norm for me. This time the only difference being…I couldn’t get out if I wanted to…the driveway hasn’t been cleared, the roads are a mess, and a lot of stores and businesses are closed anyway.
However shall I cope? Well, I’ve got a slow cooker full of steak simmering away in homemade barbeque sauce in the kitchen. Shortly, a dish of scalloped potatoes will be shoved into the oven to go with the green beans (freshly canned last summer) I cooked last night. Add some hot bread and homemade brownies and that…my friends…is what I call “good eats.” Yep, when I’m snowed-in…I cook…and eat.
As for entertainment or things to keep me busy while I "ride out" this wintry tempest? Well, Lord knows this apartment is sorely in need of a proper and thorough cleaning. Then there is that mountain of laundry in the bedroom. I have books to read, stories to write, friends & family to call, blogs to read, posts to write, movies galore to watch, and when I tire of all this, I can climb into bed with a "certain" TV detective and wile away the long, cold hours of the night by watching him fight crime. Yes, I believe I shall somehow contrive to survive until we "thaw-out."
Here are a few pictures people have been sending in to local Channel 9 to “document” the “Blizzard of 2008.”
A "view" of the city from Mt. Adams early this morning.
Luckily, I heeded the dire predictions the weather prognosticators had been warning about since the first of the week and made a much-needed trip to the grocery store immediately after work on Thursday. So, food-wise…I’m good. Actually, when I think about it, staying in for the weekend is pretty much the norm for me. This time the only difference being…I couldn’t get out if I wanted to…the driveway hasn’t been cleared, the roads are a mess, and a lot of stores and businesses are closed anyway.
However shall I cope? Well, I’ve got a slow cooker full of steak simmering away in homemade barbeque sauce in the kitchen. Shortly, a dish of scalloped potatoes will be shoved into the oven to go with the green beans (freshly canned last summer) I cooked last night. Add some hot bread and homemade brownies and that…my friends…is what I call “good eats.” Yep, when I’m snowed-in…I cook…and eat.
As for entertainment or things to keep me busy while I "ride out" this wintry tempest? Well, Lord knows this apartment is sorely in need of a proper and thorough cleaning. Then there is that mountain of laundry in the bedroom. I have books to read, stories to write, friends & family to call, blogs to read, posts to write, movies galore to watch, and when I tire of all this, I can climb into bed with a "certain" TV detective and wile away the long, cold hours of the night by watching him fight crime. Yes, I believe I shall somehow contrive to survive until we "thaw-out."
Here are a few pictures people have been sending in to local Channel 9 to “document” the “Blizzard of 2008.”
A "view" of the city from Mt. Adams early this morning.
The John A. Roebling Suspension Bridge. Look familiar? He also designed the Brooklyn Bridge...only ours came first.
Cincinnati...a view from the Kentucky side of the Ohio River.
Perhaps a "plea" to the Almighty above?
And now for the animal lovers...
For the record, I do like animals...well...some of them...I just don't possess the patience or square footage to have a pet of my very own. Here are some puppies...guess cats don't like the snow, huh?
Gracie...what a cute face!
My guess is Baxter's thinking, "Should I be at all concerned that I can't feel my "willie?"
Carson...just sittin' in the snow.
Chloe looks "pissed." "Would you please stop taking stupid pictures and clean this crap off me...NOW?!"
Yes, there is a puppy in that mass of white...another Gracie. Must be a popular doggie name.
Sammy seems to be saying, "Yes, I know I look "absolutely adorable" in the snow, but may I please come inside now?"
My favorite...Max. Granted, one cannot discern the depth of the snow from this photo, but just look at this "face." It's a great face!!
Name That Tune
I don't usually post pictures of "nekked" bums on my blog, but it's a slow day. Anyway, I received this as an email, and you're supposed to "guess" the name of the song this picture represents. Anybody? I'll leave the answer as a "comment." No peeking.
Hmm. Wonder what the view from beneath the water looks like.
Hmm. Wonder what the view from beneath the water looks like.
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