TEMBLOR!

Some would take earthquakes the morning you were leaving for your bachelor party as an omen. I didn't, mainly because I slept right through the first one. The first indication that something was amiss was when Darcy asked me if I felt the quake in the middle of the night.

I flipped on the TV to see what was up, and I was instantly sorry.

Our local Fox station had completely given in to their worst impulses, so I opened my morning watching the anchors interview a producer who was at the station during the quake. The anchors were trying to get her to talk about the fear, the panic, the sheer terror of standing around as the earth rocked itself apart. Apparently, all they did was stood around looking at each other. The only fear came in when they saw the light fixtures were shaking a lot. So they moved.

Fortunately, they were able to cut away to the scene of a house fire in North St. Louis. The reporter opened by saying the fire started, ironically right around the time of the earthquake. Now, I'm no expert, but I don't think there was anything ironic about that - coincidental, perhaps, but ironic, not so much.

The reporter moved on to talk about how seated behind her was the woman who risked her own life to save her seven children trapped in the house. Now that's heroic, and I'm pretty sure it's also news; however, we never got to hear from her, because the reporter was talking to a firefighter. Here's the gist of the exchange:

Reporter: "Was the fire caused by a gas line that ruptured in the earthquake?"

Firefighter: "No. We think it was faulty wiring in the basement."

Reporter: "Could the quake have caused the wires to break open and start the fire."

Firefighter: "No. That's very unlikely. It would be impossible to prove."

Reporter: "Are you sure the earthquake didn't cause the fire?"

Firefighter: "Yes."

At this point, rather than recover what was left of her dignity and professional pride and either leave or talk to the woman who saved her family, the reporter went on to a charming story of how they heard meowing as they arrived and after looking around, they found THIS - as the camera swung up to show a cat lounging in a window.

Having seen enough, I changed the channel. I could see that the local CBS affiliate meant business - Larry Conners was in studio sans tie - and with his top two buttons undone. He must have breathlessly raced into the studio to make it for the broadcast, and he was waxing poetic about earthquakes in history. Why bother with a geologist when you can find a professional news anchor?

I moved on to breakfast.

After running a few errands, I was goofing off in the sunroom addition to my house. That's when the aftershock hit. At first, I thought it was wind. Then I realized that it was another quake. Then I realized that the sunroom on the back of my house has the structural integrity of a box of kleenex, and perhaps I should get out.

So yes, I survived Quake 2008 and moved on to more important things, like a bachelor party weekend in Chicago.

In Honor of Cloverfield

Forget this new-fangled johnny-come-lately I'm-gonna-eat-Manhattan wannabe. Here's a real monster facing his greatest foe:

Yikes

One thing about reading history: you get to see just how close we repeatedly come to accidentally blowing ourselves and others up.

Wow

I'm not sure whether to laugh, groan, or write the newspaper (granted, it's the New York Post - I doubt they'd care, especially considering that most New Yorkers probably don't even realize that there actually is a state called Missouri - it's one of those 49 other states that isn't New York, and someone writing a letter from there isn't high on their list of concerns) at this headline.

Waking Up

At least when I came home, my new MacBook Pro was waiting for me. Ooh. Shiny.

Night Terrors

Boss runs in 20 minutes before I'm ready to leave, declaring a drop everything emergency. A piece of documentation HAS to make it in the next build. Crap.

After running around for 40 minutes and nearly finishing, I learn that this piece of documentation is not required to fix the bug after all, so I didn't have to do anything. Crap.

Nightmare Continues

I was halfway to work this morning when I realized that I left my headphones at home.

Nightmare Begins

The bed collapsed in the middle of the night . . . again.

It's a Weekend Post . . .

. . . meaning it's a little rambling and too short (except for both of you who read this and wonder if there's something better to occupy your time - like changing the furnace filter or cleaning the gutters).

Well, the A/C is back up and running. My farewell to the old system was nearly as tearful as I figured it would be: I started kicking it and screaming uncontrollably until I tore open my hand on the unit's rusty exterior and bled all over the place, bringing a few tears to my eyes. Fortunately, the contractor is a very capable medic, and he stopped the bleeding in short order. I probably should have gone to the hospital, but so far fighting lockjaw has proven to be a good workout.

Okay, maybe I embellished the last paragraph a bit. I did trip over the unit and scraped my hand on the concrete, but I did tear up a bit. The contractor just shook his head sadly and went about his work.

However, as I sat at my desk at work and pretended to actually do something, I realized that this has not been a relaxing summer - far from it. Fortunately, my awesome fiance agreed to my logical, well-reasoned request to do nothing this weekend (replace "logical, well-reasoned request" with "pathetic cries and whining" and you get a clearer picture of the dynamic in my household). So we're going to hit Borders on Saturday morning for my Harry Potter fix (I'd go tonight but that damn restraining order is still in place) and head up to the pool for a day of swimming and doing little. And yes, I already told Darcy she's going to be a Harry Potter widow until I finish the book sometime on Sunday or Monday.

The only drawback to this plan is the pool frowns on alcohol consumption. I'll have to hold off until Sunday, when the housework begins.

Perverse and Twisted, It Is

My house has a twisted sense of humor. Take this weekend as an example:

The plumbers and carpenters cleared out Friday, leaving behind a patched up ceiling, a mostly-new plumbing stack and thin layer of dust over the house.

We spent much of Saturday cleaning up and setting the kitchen up again. The house was getting dangerously close to livable again, a state of affairs that the house was simply NOT going to tolerate.

After completing our labors for the day, we headed out to catch the new Harry Potter movie (review coming soon; short version: meh) and returned home. As I walked into the back yard, I thought the air conditioner sounded kind of funny.

After going inside and feeling warm air blowing from the vents that it WAS making a funny noise, only not funny HA HA, just . . . funny.

The second sign of trouble was when I walked out and felt the heat radiating off the air conditioning unit. The third sign? The unit was running but the fan wasn't turning. That's bad.

A contractor who came out Sunday confirmed my worst fears: it was fixable, but would dropping $800 into a 17-year-old A/C unit make a lot of sense, especially when the compressor was probably damaged due to the fan not turning for a couple of hours?

So suffice to say, we're getting a new air conditioner and furnace tomorrow. Whoever buys this house in the next year or two is going to sing my praises. I probably won't be alive, since the house, sensing that I've replaced most everything that can fail, will either spontaneously combust or drag itself outside the time/space continuum, a la the end of Poltergeist.

Hopefully, I'll be out when it finally happens, but I don't think the house is going to let me get away that easily.

Seven Things

I was memed by Otis, so without further ado here are seven things you may not know about me:

1. I've been in the circus
When I was eight or so, my parents took us to the circus. As I recall, we had great seats - right on the floor level, and Mike and I showed our appreciation by bouncing off the walls, fueled to greater heights by the approximately six tons of cotton candy flowing through our veins.

A woman walked up and asked if we'd like to participate in the circus. Mom and Dad said yes. (I'm not sure whether this was a sign of a time long gone or if it showed just how desperate my parents were that we'd disappear - I'll take the former). They took Mike and I down to the access tunnels, where we boarded a big car shaped like a bubble with open sides. The bubble car drove out on to the floor of the circus, where we drove a lap around the acts, waving like mad the whole time. Rather than keep us in a life of taking care of the animals, they handed us back to our parents with certificates thanking us.

2. My dishes are hot
A year or so out of college, I spent a summer bartending at a local pops festival. Our customers were either suburban families or retirees, so while the hours sucked, the lousy tips made up for it. My boss was a complete horses ass who hated the summer bar staff. He was on the cusp of 30, and his sole ambition in life was to smoke pot and hook up with his high-school/early college age kitchen staff. He made sure to criticize everything about us.

My future roommate and I were sick of him and in need of dishes for our new apartment, so we went into the storage closet and helped ourselves. The place was closing soon anyway, and with a little luck, they would tag the discrepancy on our jackass boss. No such luck - the owners really didn't care. Last I heard, the jackass was working as a male stripper in New Orleans. I'm still eating off those dishes today.

3. I can play three musical instruments
In grade school, I started learning the violin. Not being loud or obnoxious enough, I traded it in for the baritone (sort of a baby tuba) and the valve trombone (a trombone for brass players too lazy to learn the slide positions). I had to give it all up in high school.

4. I've played golf once in my life
It nearly ended in a brawl.

5. I threw my hat at a kickball umpire in a fit of rage
We were getting our asses handed to us, and the ump kept blowing calls against us all day. After talking to her about it once, I went up to kick. She called it foul, and as I started to return to the batter's box, she suddenly changed her mind and called it fair, and I was out. I snapped, threw my hat at her and started cussing her out. The amazing part: she didn't toss me. In fact, she let me kick the ball again. For the record, I would have tossed me.

6. In crowds, I become claustrophobic
I start becoming unglued in big, densely-packed crowds.

7. I am the next step in human evolution
I have no wisdom teeth. None. Nor have I ever had a cavity. And I shall pass these traits along to my offspring, and eventually, my descendents will drive dentists out of work, ending the years and years of oppression and pain they have caused humanity with their drills, funny mirrors, blinding lights and novocaine. Mmm. Novocaine.

Tagging:
Chilly
Farrell
Mikala
Tracie
Gordon

Taxing Back

I woke up with little desire to actually climb out of bed this morning. However, there was plenty to do, and so there but for the grace of God went I.

After a quick trip to the gym, I returned home to discover that one of my freelance clients is continuing his run of not paying me for services rendered. So after filing away my plan to ruin his Monday, we headed to Soulard's Farmer's Market. Loaded with produce, we headed to the grocery store. After that, we returned home.

For house projects, I had two simple tasks this afternoon:

1. Plant grass in the bald spot in the center of the back yard
2. Fix the clothesline I hung for Darcy

However, I stopped at 1 when my back gave out.

Sadly, this is the second time something like this has happened. The first was a few years ago, when I twinged my back playing in a softball double header. I spend the next day cooped up in a plane circling over the state of Florida waiting for the weather to clear. After landing, my brothers and I went to Dave and Buster's, where I wowed them with my McGuire-esque power on the batting simulator.

Let me tell you, people turn and look when you go from saying "THERE IT GOES! ANOTHER DINGER!" to "AIIIEEEEE!!!" and then fall over clutching your back. In a way, I was kind of like McGuire towards the end - except for the millions of dollars and the steroid probes. C'est la vie, I guess.

The next morning was worse - back spasms. While the rest of the family took a boat ride through the Everglades, I spent the afternoon passed out on the couch, unable to move. Apparently, I have little tolerance for muscle relaxants. Fortunately, my brother's 60-lb. Boxer, Allie, decided to keep me company - by climbing into my lap. I didn't even have the strength to ask her to move.

So today, after lugging bags of soil across the yard, I began feeling the first twinge, I figured I'd relax for a few minutes, and then go back and fix the clothesline. Nope. Pain shot down my back and into my legs as I stood in the back yard. Stiff breezes hurt. The sun hurt. Everything hurt. I (slowly) retreated back into the house.

One darvocet later, I can at least function. But this sucks. I can't move. All I can do is sit here and type. From a work productivity standpoint, it would be gold, but I have tickets to tonight's Son Volt concert, and I don't see any way I'm going to make it, at least without loading up on alcohol and pain medication.

Who knows? Maybe I'd enjoy the show more, propped up against the back wall with my head lolling into my chest and drool dripping down my chin, listening to Jay and the boys. But that drive home might be kind of rough. I kid! I kid! I wouldn't drive my car under the influence. Stealing one - perhaps, but my own? No.

Oh well. This should hopefully clear up by tomorrow. I probably will put myself on the DL for kickball, since I want to be healthy for the -ahem- playoff run. (At this point in the season, with our record, the odds of us making the playoffs are about as good as Kim Basinger and Alec Baldwin appearing on the cover of Parenting magazine).

But that's alright. I have a computer, pain pills, a freelance assignment (different client), television, and a sympathetic fiance who rules. I should pull through this okay. And I'm sure the freelance client will enjoy what I come up with while on the darvocet. Good times, good times.

Unsinkable

The old standards flowed from the duet as the lights from the skyline filtered in through the window. Outside, the bitter cold kept all but the hardiest (or craziest) souls indoors.

I sat across the table from Darcy, smiling. Looking at her. Enjoying our time together as we traveled up the river. Around us, couples sat at their own tables, enjoying quiet conversation, dinner or dancing, celebrating Valentine's Day with a dinner cruise up the Mississippi.

BUMP.

The boat shuddered lightly.

THUD.

We glanced out the window to see an impressive chunk of ice spinning away from the side of the boat. I opened my mouth to speak.

SSSCCRRRUNCH.

More ice scraped the side of the boat. Looking out the window, I tried judging how far it was to swim to the nearest shore. They did warn us that the cruise may end up being dockside if ice on the river was too thick, but the captain seemed to think all was well, and who am I to argue with the captain. And we wanted to scope the boat out to see how appropriate it would be to hold our wedding there next year.

BOOM. More ice off the hull.

We continued talking, dancing, trying not to worry as a crewman carried an armload of life preservers across the dance floor to some hidden locker. I began to wonder if they'd renamed the Becky Thatcher to Titanic recently.

"Darcy, I love you. But if this boat goes down and we find a door or piece of flotsam for you to float on, I'm making you scoot over. I refuse to freeze to death when there's a perfectly good door nearby."

She laughed. And then I'm pretty sure she was judging how hard it would be to keep me in the water while she sat high and dry on the wreckage.

The riverboat turned around and eventually made its way back to the mooring, safe, sound and afloat. So while we spent the rest of the evening dockside, it was much easier to enjoy ourselves while not wondering if we'd have to swim for it.

Choices

The situation finally came to a head two weeks before Christmas. Trudy, while always a little shaky on the housebreaking thing, was treating the house like her own personal commode. When you fear to tread inside your own house without shoes, it's time to do something.

So I packed her up on a rainy Monday evening, where the vet told me I had a few options remaining:

• Running MRIs, CTs and other mega-expensive tests on her so they might - might - be able to determine what's wrong. This doesn't mean a cure - just an explanation.
• Try giving her new drugs, which if history is any indication, would only help for a few months at the outside.
  
• Grin and bear it.
  
• Have Trudy put down, because she's nearly 15 and this situation is not going to get better.
  

Realistically, it's what I expected to hear, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with.

I can't really afford to run the tests on her, and really, they'd be useless; I know what's "wrong" with her - she's old. At times, she stares off into space for several minutes at a stretch, and she goes through stretches when she acts completely confused by the world around her. It's during these stretches that my dining room, sunroom and landing become minefields.

Giving her the new drugs is simply putting off the inevitable. See the whole "nearly 15" thing.

Grinning and bearing it is becoming less of an option. Darcy is moving in this Spring, and it's not fair to her to have to put up with this. Nor is it fair to me or Trudy; I have to take the time to clean the floors, and I can't help but feeling like it's a little unusual to spend several minutes after work every day trying to figure out where she relieved herself in the house.

So there we are. I could have done it then and there, but I didn't want to have her put down going into the holidays. (Of course, as we stood in the parking lot as rain soaked us through and she refused to get into the car, I wondered how the vet would react to me dragging her back in and saying "it's time!" I held off.)

The hell of it is that she's been great the last week, but we go through this - she'll be great for several days or a couple of weeks and then she follows up with two weeks of constant crapping. And the bad days are starting to outnumber the good ones.

I'm going to miss my little friend. Over the past two-plus years, she's alternated between complete pain in the ass and the best friend I could want. But she's always been good-natured, very sweet and protective. At this point, I've been trying to make her last week as enjoyable as possible.

I called and made the appointment for Monday; I'll leave work early, pick Trudy up, take her to the park for the afternoon, then we'll say goodbye.

Engagement Party

"You look like the perfect couple. How you doin'?"

Yellow is a relaxing color, or maybe it's blue. I wasn't too sure. The maroon chairs offered a nice contrast. Plus, they were the most uncomfortable chairs I can remember sitting in for some time. And it's kind of ironic if you think about it. They want you to wait in these chairs. You're supposed to sit in them for a long time. Wouldn't it make more sense if they were easier on your posterior?

"Man, I was shouting 'Yaaaa! AAAAAH!' They had to hold me down."

Darryl was still talking. To us, to everyone around us. People were nodding, trying to be polite. I was trying to figure out exactly how we'd landed in Hell's Waiting Room. But, I realized, that was an inapt analogy. We weren't in Hell's Waiting Room -- we were in Hell itself.

He'd sat down across from us earlier, carrying what looked like a clear plastic cornucopia of gauze and pharmaceuticals. Out in the lobby, a weathered and angry looking old man kept doing laps in his wheelchair and barking at the receptionist from time to time.

"They took one of those sticks, you know - with the cotton on the end - and had it in my stomach. They was rooting around trying to find the pus."

Welcome to the ER Waiting Room on Thursday night.

Welcome to my engagement party.

The day began ordinarily enough - a sunny yet cool start to winter. I followed the routine to the letter: wake, shower, walk dog, eat and head to work. But this day wasn't going to be ordinary; it was going to be special. It was The Day.

Work passed in something of a fog. Basically, I was more useless than usual. Despite my best efforts, I may have actually accomplished something, but it's entirely possible I dreamed that part of it up. I was excited to get through the day. Ready to hit the kitchen to start cooking. I had an exciting menu lined up, great ingredients and new knives. Oh, and there was that whole ring thing too.

I left the office early, met a friend for lunch and hit the gym for a quick workout. Upon returning home, it was time to start cooking.

After a little goofing off, it was time to get my cook on. I started getting my mise into place - using my new chef's knife, I minced garlic, chopped apricots, sliced scallions, trimmed french beans and julienned carrots. It was fun having a really sharp knife to work with, and things were coming together nicely. Cooking relaxes me; I wasn't sweating bullets or fretting. Everything worked according to plan.

One hour out, I browned the lamb, spread the mustard, garlic and bread crumbs to it, and dropped it in the oven. The couscous was soaking up the chicken stock. The table was set, the wine chilled and the ring concealed somewhere handy. Darcy walked in from work as dinner hit the table.

After dinner, I swallowed hard, pulled the ring from it's hiding spot and asked the question.

OK - she said yes.

As Darcy was calling her friends and family, I decided to finish straightening up the kitchen. I scraped the plates, scrubbed the pans and picked up the knife and wiped it down with the sponge. And I was amazed when it cut through the sponge. Wow, I thought - be careful with this - it could hurt. A lot.

I was putting the knife in the dish drainer when it slipped out of my hand.

Darcy knew there was a problem when I shouted a few choice words. One of them starts with "M" and rhymes with otherfucker. We bandaged up the finger.

And bandaged it again after blood soaked through it.

And again.

Two hours and my finger was still bleeding. That's a bad sign. I may not be a doctor, but I hear that when blood seeps out of you for a couple of hours, you may have a problem. So we hit the emergency room -- just in time for their fast track service for minor injuries to close.

So we waited. And met Darryl, who I later saw passed out in the center of the quieter waiting room. Security was getting ready to remove him to somewhere.

We waited some more. And watched the impromptu family reunion as four generations of the James family gathered to find out more about their grandmother who had a stroke. Angry wheelchair man continued stalking the waiting room. I'd lost count, but I think he was nearing his 200th lap. Apparently, this rendered him effectively invisible to the hospital staff, because no matter what he said or did, they just looked past him and moved on to the next person.

More waiting. Darcy nodded off in the seat next to me as Jerry Seinfeld became Hank Hill became the news became Bernie Mac. And still we waited. Finally they took me in for treatment, and decided not to do anything with it other than put the finger in a gauze splint for a day or two - something we could have picked up at Walgreens.

Deep down, I think I was jealous that Darcy got to wear something on her finger but I didn't - well now we were even. While she got to bear a sparkling diamond on her ring finger, I got to wear a sheath of gauze over my middle finger. And I'll get a cool scar. Maybe.

So there you have it. Some people celebrate their engagement by spending time quietly with one another. Others surround themselves with friends and family. Me? I eschew such conventionalities. Give me posture-busting plastic chairs and human misery any day.

Welcome to the family Darcy. Wait 'til you see what I have planned for our wedding day . . .

Election Day Jitters

The butterflies in my stomach have been turning cartwheels all afternoon. At first, I thought I might be suffering from election-related nerves, but I believe I've stumbled on the real truth:

When re-heating leftover chicken, make damned sure it's hot enough. Because food poisoning? Not fun. At least my old friends el Kaopectate and el Pepto Bismol are here to to celebrate the election returns.

Now if I suffer a round of vomiting after a particularly odious election outcome, I'll have an excuse.