by Phyllis
I mentioned in the previous post that I had trouble stopping the bleeding in my nose after the stents were taken out.
I even tried to rush back to work while this was still an issue. I had received the assignment to support a new site for the upcoming school year, and I wanted to be there for the meeting where I could meet and introduce myself to everyone. And I think they were all curious about their new IT guy as well. The principal gave me a few minutes to speak in front of the staff. I spent it constantly sniffing and nervously dabbing the blood dripping from my nose. I am sure they were very impressed.
After a couple more days, the bleeding had not improved and we decided we had to call the doctor. I was a little scared, because it was a Saturday, and I wondered if we would get a hold of him. To my complete surprise Dr. Bester returned our call, listened to our concerns and...dramatic pause required here...told us to come down and meet us at his office! On a Saturday! What?!?? But thanks, Dr. Bester. I'm impressed.
MLB and I jumped in our car and drove downtown to his office. We parked in the back in compliance with his instructions, as he would let us in the back door. As we started to get out, we could see one car in the parking garage below us--a woman smoking in the passenger seat with an older gentleman in the driver's seat. We soon realized we recognized the woman: it was Susie, Dr. Bester's gravelly-voiced assistant. And sure enough, the man was the doctor himself. It is important to know, however, that neither one of them saw us.
We got to the rear door of his office and soon he showed up (by himself) to let us in. Up the stairs and down the hall and we were soon in his office, sitting in the same little room we had once occupied before. Dr. Bester examined me for a minute, gave me a bunch of gauze and tape, and we stepped in to the hall while he looked through some cabinets for something.
While we stood there, me looking at MLB, and MLB looking at him, he suddenly asked her, "Who is THAT?" as he looked past us both down the hall. We turned to look. "It's Susie," MLB responded.
"Well, what is SHE doing here?" he asked. A confused MLB answered "I dont know," and the two of us looked at each other, wondering at the situation. I mean, it was clear now he was a little nervous, trying to confuse us or throw us off, but of course he didn't know we had already seen them together. It didn't work. I thought to myself, 'Seriously, Doc? That's how you're going to play that? Pretend you don't know who it is?'
Maybe he could tell it wasn't working, because now he was in full crisis mode, and he began to speak quickly and shove armfuls of medicine samples of various kinds from his cabinet into a bag for me. Decongestants, antihistamines, allergy medicines, whatever he could find. And into the bag it went.
As we walked out, he stayed at the cabinet to organize it and close up. We said hello to Susie as she was opening drawers in the main office. We told her what he had said. She looked at us and laughed. "He knows why I'm here. I came with him! We stopped by to get some money. We are going to the rodeo."
We smiled and continued out, but heard her ask him one last question before we left.
"Do you want me to just get this out of petty cash?"
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Dr. Bester, part 6
by Phyllis
Okay, so the stents were out and I was home again recovering, both physically and mentally.
On the mental side, the scars are still there, as evidenced by my previous post. But physically I had concerns, and they were four-fold. Let me attack them one at a time.
1. My nose and sinuses still felt congested and I still couldn't breathe through my nose like I wanted to. I knew there was still some swelling and drainage (a horrible word, by the way), and an awful lot of mucus. One day after about a half hour of snorting, hawking, and gagging, I expelled a massive green mass from my right nostril. I was so impressed with its size, I summoned MLB to come have a look. Against her better judgment, she did, and I got to see a little color drain out of her face. (Please don't ask me about the time in college MLB was talking to me on the phone and overheard an embarrassing [somehow similar?] event.)
In later visits to Dr. Bester's office, he did tests to measure the air flow through my new nasal airway. The measurements proved I had adequate air flow. Fine, I thought, but I still can hardly breathe.
2. I had trouble keeping my nose from bleeding. It may have been wise to mention this last as I will not discuss everything that came of it until my next post, but it was my secondary concern at the time. But stay tuned for a delicious tale. And now on to...
3. Some people might not have the balls to share something like this, but my next concern was that my testicles were quite swollen. I couldn't figure it out. I knew all I had been operated on was my nose, and I checked the drugs I was taking for possible side-effects, but I found nothing. Yet there they were, big as Dallas. Definitely swollen and tender. I didn't like it. When I went to the emergency room for issue number 4, I mentioned this new problem of mine, and the doctor ordered an ultrasound.
The tech came and performed it, and I couldn't shake the feeling he was laughing at me silently the whole time. I bet he thought I was nuts. And sure enough, the results came back and there were no problems. And I bet I know how it was written up on the report: "Nothing remarkable."
Dr. Bester, in one of my post-surgery appointments, had an idea. He told MLB, who had come with me, I was "a little backed up." He advised MLB to go ahead and help me out. You know, marital responsibilities and all. Good old Dr. Bester. What a guy!
4. As you may know, I take blood thinners due to a PE I had when I was 29. I had to stop for the surgery, but several days after, even though I had started taking them again, I felt an unmistakable pain in my Schwarzeneggar-like calf. Soon I was limping around the house so noticeably that MLB knew what was wrong, too.
So off to the ER we went, where I had an ultrasound (yes I had two that day) which revealed another clot in my leg. But the blood thinners I was now back on were starting to do their job again, and I was sent home with a large bill and a diagnosis I could have made myself.
Seriously, stick around for part 7.
Okay, so the stents were out and I was home again recovering, both physically and mentally.
On the mental side, the scars are still there, as evidenced by my previous post. But physically I had concerns, and they were four-fold. Let me attack them one at a time.
1. My nose and sinuses still felt congested and I still couldn't breathe through my nose like I wanted to. I knew there was still some swelling and drainage (a horrible word, by the way), and an awful lot of mucus. One day after about a half hour of snorting, hawking, and gagging, I expelled a massive green mass from my right nostril. I was so impressed with its size, I summoned MLB to come have a look. Against her better judgment, she did, and I got to see a little color drain out of her face. (Please don't ask me about the time in college MLB was talking to me on the phone and overheard an embarrassing [somehow similar?] event.)
In later visits to Dr. Bester's office, he did tests to measure the air flow through my new nasal airway. The measurements proved I had adequate air flow. Fine, I thought, but I still can hardly breathe.
2. I had trouble keeping my nose from bleeding. It may have been wise to mention this last as I will not discuss everything that came of it until my next post, but it was my secondary concern at the time. But stay tuned for a delicious tale. And now on to...
3. Some people might not have the balls to share something like this, but my next concern was that my testicles were quite swollen. I couldn't figure it out. I knew all I had been operated on was my nose, and I checked the drugs I was taking for possible side-effects, but I found nothing. Yet there they were, big as Dallas. Definitely swollen and tender. I didn't like it. When I went to the emergency room for issue number 4, I mentioned this new problem of mine, and the doctor ordered an ultrasound.
The tech came and performed it, and I couldn't shake the feeling he was laughing at me silently the whole time. I bet he thought I was nuts. And sure enough, the results came back and there were no problems. And I bet I know how it was written up on the report: "Nothing remarkable."
Dr. Bester, in one of my post-surgery appointments, had an idea. He told MLB, who had come with me, I was "a little backed up." He advised MLB to go ahead and help me out. You know, marital responsibilities and all. Good old Dr. Bester. What a guy!
4. As you may know, I take blood thinners due to a PE I had when I was 29. I had to stop for the surgery, but several days after, even though I had started taking them again, I felt an unmistakable pain in my Schwarzeneggar-like calf. Soon I was limping around the house so noticeably that MLB knew what was wrong, too.
So off to the ER we went, where I had an ultrasound (yes I had two that day) which revealed another clot in my leg. But the blood thinners I was now back on were starting to do their job again, and I was sent home with a large bill and a diagnosis I could have made myself.
Seriously, stick around for part 7.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Dr. Bester, part 5
by Phyllis
I continued to recover at home, and even though I felt like crud, I had reason to enjoy this time. My three boys have never been so kind, caring, and loving as they were every time they came in the room and looked at my gauze-covered nose which nicely accented the miserable look on my face. Good times.
Dr. Bester had placed stents in my nose during the surgery. These were to stay in for seven days. The ironic result was that, inasmuch as they entirely filled my nostrils and extended upward to my sinuses, I could not breathe out of my nose AT ALL. I certainly looked forward eagerly to the day Dr. Bester would remove them, and I knew this would be done during an office visit, so I figured it was not a big deal. Dr. Bester sure talked like it wasn't.
So I went with MLB (a good girl, that) to my appointment and she came to the room where Dr. Bester would meet us to remove the stents. It was an exciting time anticipating my first few breaths through my newly-repaired nose. Quite casually, and only a few seconds after he came in the room, Dr. Bester grabbed the end of one of the stents and started to tug. It would not budge. He twisted it and tugged some more and anchored himself and began to bear down. It was becoming evident this was a little more than not a big deal.
As Dr. Bester began to pull harder and harder, and as I worked harder and harder to stifle the urge to scream out, my eyes began to tear up and flow heavily down my cheeks. I was still not making much more than a couple swallowed groans and grunts as Dr. Bester was in full tug-of-war mode. As he was just winning this round and the stent (how could something stuffed up my nose be more than 6 inches long?) was finally leaving my nose, I broke out in an intense sweat from the top of my head and it began to flow down and drench my face.
At or about this time MLB witnessed the manifestation of something she had only ever heard of before: all the color draining from one's face. She told me afterward it was instantaneous, very creepy, and, coupled with the deluge of tears and sweat, quite frightening to observe. But you will have to take her word for that.
Or if you can find Dr. Bester, I bet you could ask him, too. Because as disoriented and woozy as I was, I saw him a little agitated and concerned about my present state, and, with the calm reserve of a professional, he quickly and emphatically instructed me to begin an exercise with my feet: I was to continually press alternately with each foot toward the floor (like flooring the gas pedal in a car) and then release upward. I didn't and still don't know what this does, but he told me later he was certain I was about to pass out. I didn't.
So there it was folks, that day in his little examination room. The single most excruciating pain I have ever consciously endured in my life had just passed. And this without anesthesia, a sedative, or time to mentally prepare myself (if that kind of thing works). He had said nothing to me about what it would be like, perhaps because he didn't know himself. Is that possible?
And having gone through this terrible experience, panting now, mopping my head and face, feeling my racing heart slow a little, and receiving tender touches and looks from MLB, I was lucid enough to come to a terrible realization: Dr. Bester still needed to take the other stent out!
How about a sedative now, or a little time, or some laughing gas? No. As he moved in to latch on to the other stent, I tried to steel myself for what I knew was coming.
I continued to recover at home, and even though I felt like crud, I had reason to enjoy this time. My three boys have never been so kind, caring, and loving as they were every time they came in the room and looked at my gauze-covered nose which nicely accented the miserable look on my face. Good times.
Dr. Bester had placed stents in my nose during the surgery. These were to stay in for seven days. The ironic result was that, inasmuch as they entirely filled my nostrils and extended upward to my sinuses, I could not breathe out of my nose AT ALL. I certainly looked forward eagerly to the day Dr. Bester would remove them, and I knew this would be done during an office visit, so I figured it was not a big deal. Dr. Bester sure talked like it wasn't.
So I went with MLB (a good girl, that) to my appointment and she came to the room where Dr. Bester would meet us to remove the stents. It was an exciting time anticipating my first few breaths through my newly-repaired nose. Quite casually, and only a few seconds after he came in the room, Dr. Bester grabbed the end of one of the stents and started to tug. It would not budge. He twisted it and tugged some more and anchored himself and began to bear down. It was becoming evident this was a little more than not a big deal.
As Dr. Bester began to pull harder and harder, and as I worked harder and harder to stifle the urge to scream out, my eyes began to tear up and flow heavily down my cheeks. I was still not making much more than a couple swallowed groans and grunts as Dr. Bester was in full tug-of-war mode. As he was just winning this round and the stent (how could something stuffed up my nose be more than 6 inches long?) was finally leaving my nose, I broke out in an intense sweat from the top of my head and it began to flow down and drench my face.
At or about this time MLB witnessed the manifestation of something she had only ever heard of before: all the color draining from one's face. She told me afterward it was instantaneous, very creepy, and, coupled with the deluge of tears and sweat, quite frightening to observe. But you will have to take her word for that.
Or if you can find Dr. Bester, I bet you could ask him, too. Because as disoriented and woozy as I was, I saw him a little agitated and concerned about my present state, and, with the calm reserve of a professional, he quickly and emphatically instructed me to begin an exercise with my feet: I was to continually press alternately with each foot toward the floor (like flooring the gas pedal in a car) and then release upward. I didn't and still don't know what this does, but he told me later he was certain I was about to pass out. I didn't.
So there it was folks, that day in his little examination room. The single most excruciating pain I have ever consciously endured in my life had just passed. And this without anesthesia, a sedative, or time to mentally prepare myself (if that kind of thing works). He had said nothing to me about what it would be like, perhaps because he didn't know himself. Is that possible?
And having gone through this terrible experience, panting now, mopping my head and face, feeling my racing heart slow a little, and receiving tender touches and looks from MLB, I was lucid enough to come to a terrible realization: Dr. Bester still needed to take the other stent out!
How about a sedative now, or a little time, or some laughing gas? No. As he moved in to latch on to the other stent, I tried to steel myself for what I knew was coming.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Dr. Bester, part 4
by Phyllis
Dr. Bester finally condescended to appear for one my appointments with him before surgery, and most (and if not most, then at the very least none) of my fears and concerns were allayed. I asked him too how my body would know to breathe through my newly-functional nose instead of my mouth as it had my whole life. His answer was so impressive I cannot now remember what he said.
Little should be said of the actual procedure in that I clearly was present but not aware of its progress and ultimate completion. My first recollection was in the first recovery room where, still a little loopy from anesthesia, I told jokes and in other ways attempted to be funny for the nurse attending to me. I can't recall clearly, but if you know me, you will agree it must have been hilarity itself.
Then came the recovery room where two dear sisters were the first to visit me. And I am not saying one of them asked me about the pain medication I was given and received a prescription for, but about the time people started visiting me this was a constant concern for everyone.
"How are you doing, Phyllis?"
"How are you feeling, man?"
"Everything go okay?"
"Hey, what did they give you for pain?"
Evidently a necessary piece of information, judging by how quickly it was always asked. And by the reaction when I told them what it was.
"Oh, sweet, dude. That stuff is awesome!"
"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about."
"Cool, I had that one time and I still have some left. It rocks."
So people like pain pills apparently. But I don't.
Whatever they gave me (and sorry, all you drooling pain pill fiends out there, because I can't remember what it was) just made me feel weird. As I sat on my couch staring at the wall, I felt like I was sitting there and also hovering about two feet to the right and above me. And I didn't care about anything. I may not have known about anything. In any case, I hated how it made me feel, so I stopped taking it and dealt with the pain. Remember I told you I have a decent tolerance for pain.
And trust me, it hurt. Try breaking your nose sometime (I was told that, in essence, this had been done in order to perform the surgery) and see how you like it.
And so my recovery went.
(I recognize this post does not deal a great deal with our beloved doctor. More on him in the next post as I continue my recovery.)
Dr. Bester finally condescended to appear for one my appointments with him before surgery, and most (and if not most, then at the very least none) of my fears and concerns were allayed. I asked him too how my body would know to breathe through my newly-functional nose instead of my mouth as it had my whole life. His answer was so impressive I cannot now remember what he said.
Little should be said of the actual procedure in that I clearly was present but not aware of its progress and ultimate completion. My first recollection was in the first recovery room where, still a little loopy from anesthesia, I told jokes and in other ways attempted to be funny for the nurse attending to me. I can't recall clearly, but if you know me, you will agree it must have been hilarity itself.
Then came the recovery room where two dear sisters were the first to visit me. And I am not saying one of them asked me about the pain medication I was given and received a prescription for, but about the time people started visiting me this was a constant concern for everyone.
"How are you doing, Phyllis?"
"How are you feeling, man?"
"Everything go okay?"
"Hey, what did they give you for pain?"
Evidently a necessary piece of information, judging by how quickly it was always asked. And by the reaction when I told them what it was.
"Oh, sweet, dude. That stuff is awesome!"
"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about."
"Cool, I had that one time and I still have some left. It rocks."
So people like pain pills apparently. But I don't.
Whatever they gave me (and sorry, all you drooling pain pill fiends out there, because I can't remember what it was) just made me feel weird. As I sat on my couch staring at the wall, I felt like I was sitting there and also hovering about two feet to the right and above me. And I didn't care about anything. I may not have known about anything. In any case, I hated how it made me feel, so I stopped taking it and dealt with the pain. Remember I told you I have a decent tolerance for pain.
And trust me, it hurt. Try breaking your nose sometime (I was told that, in essence, this had been done in order to perform the surgery) and see how you like it.
And so my recovery went.
(I recognize this post does not deal a great deal with our beloved doctor. More on him in the next post as I continue my recovery.)
Monday, September 28, 2009
Dr. Bester, part 3
by Phyllis
I mentioned before that inasmuch as my workspace was in downtown Boise, it was sort of nice Dr. Bester's office was down there too, so I could "shoot over for a quick appointment and get back to work." But it never happened that way. Dr. Bester's office, in fact, helped me set personal records for time waiting in a doctor's office.
I know part of going to the doctor is waiting. I have blogged previously about it and how precious a doctor's time is when you finally see him. Dr. Bester, however, took the cake (if ever there were a cake to take). I never once waited for less than an hour to get in that little room with all the brochures. And once I waited a full two hours. No lie.
Let me digress for a minute to ask you an important question: have you ever known a meathead? Think about it. What is a meathead you ask? I think you have a good idea, but you could use as a template some of those mouth-breathers (can I of all people use that term?) you see on weekends offering witty insight and commentary about football games. Yes, like Howie Long. Ok, back to the story.
Once I got in that little room, most of the time a meathead would come to see me instead of Dr. Bester. It was Dr. Bester's physician's assistant. And seriously, the first word that came to my mind when he first burst through the door was meat. And then head. With his baseball glove hands and torso exploding out from his overly tight lab coat, he blabbered and I pretended to listen. I was waiting for Dr. Bester so I could ask some questions. The date for the surgery was fast approaching, I knew, and I had never done anything like this before. But no. "All right!" Meathead burped. "See you in a couple weeks!"
After two or three appointments like this, I mentioned to the nurse on my way out that the surgery was in 10 days and I still didn't know what Dr. Bester wanted me to do about the prescription blood thinner I take every day, and had several questions still. I had by then asked them all of Meatface but was not satisfied with the answers.
"I have breathed through my mouth all my life. How will my body know to start breathing through my nose?" I wondered.
"It just will."
"And will this help my snoring?"
"Oh, man!" Beefsteak said. "This will be so awesome. Think about it. No more snoring, no more waking up with your mouth all dry and tasting awful. Waking up refreshed. This is gonna be great!"
I seasoned everything this rump roast told me with a healthy amount of salt.
I mentioned before that inasmuch as my workspace was in downtown Boise, it was sort of nice Dr. Bester's office was down there too, so I could "shoot over for a quick appointment and get back to work." But it never happened that way. Dr. Bester's office, in fact, helped me set personal records for time waiting in a doctor's office.
I know part of going to the doctor is waiting. I have blogged previously about it and how precious a doctor's time is when you finally see him. Dr. Bester, however, took the cake (if ever there were a cake to take). I never once waited for less than an hour to get in that little room with all the brochures. And once I waited a full two hours. No lie.
Let me digress for a minute to ask you an important question: have you ever known a meathead? Think about it. What is a meathead you ask? I think you have a good idea, but you could use as a template some of those mouth-breathers (can I of all people use that term?) you see on weekends offering witty insight and commentary about football games. Yes, like Howie Long. Ok, back to the story.
Once I got in that little room, most of the time a meathead would come to see me instead of Dr. Bester. It was Dr. Bester's physician's assistant. And seriously, the first word that came to my mind when he first burst through the door was meat. And then head. With his baseball glove hands and torso exploding out from his overly tight lab coat, he blabbered and I pretended to listen. I was waiting for Dr. Bester so I could ask some questions. The date for the surgery was fast approaching, I knew, and I had never done anything like this before. But no. "All right!" Meathead burped. "See you in a couple weeks!"
After two or three appointments like this, I mentioned to the nurse on my way out that the surgery was in 10 days and I still didn't know what Dr. Bester wanted me to do about the prescription blood thinner I take every day, and had several questions still. I had by then asked them all of Meatface but was not satisfied with the answers.
"I have breathed through my mouth all my life. How will my body know to start breathing through my nose?" I wondered.
"It just will."
"And will this help my snoring?"
"Oh, man!" Beefsteak said. "This will be so awesome. Think about it. No more snoring, no more waking up with your mouth all dry and tasting awful. Waking up refreshed. This is gonna be great!"
I seasoned everything this rump roast told me with a healthy amount of salt.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Dr. Bester, part 2
by Phyllis
Trust me, it is a real drag not to be able to breathe properly through your nose.
I can breathe through my nose, sure, but if I close my mouth and try to focus on breathing ONLY through my nose, I feel claustrophobic and panicky and scared like I'm drowning within about a minute or so. It is NOT cool.
It used to be this was no big deal. You know, back when I didn't know any better, wasn't paying attention to how I was breathing, back when I was a kid. For a while I didn't get it when fellow classmates would tease me for sitting there with my mouth gaping open. I knew even then it wasn't gaping, but it was open, as it was a much more successful vehicle for the intake of my precious oxygen.
But as I got older and learned nearly everyone else breathes through the nose, it started to bother me. Why can't I do this? What's wrong with me? So I finally decided to do something about it when Dr. Bester said he could fix my deviated septum and that this would help me breathe through my nose. I thought the whole idea was pretty awesome.
I started making plans and appointments with Dr. Bester now in preparation for surgery. He sent me off to get some tests done and they showed that my sinuses were all very full, congested, loaded, whatever you want. (That part I believe, by the by, since it possibly provides answers to years of congestion, ear infections, lots of boogers and earwax, and all that glamorous stuff.) So while he was fixing my deviated septum, he would be performing what he called a "roto rooter job" on my sinuses. Great, let's get it all done, I thought.
Trust me, it is a real drag not to be able to breathe properly through your nose.
I can breathe through my nose, sure, but if I close my mouth and try to focus on breathing ONLY through my nose, I feel claustrophobic and panicky and scared like I'm drowning within about a minute or so. It is NOT cool.
It used to be this was no big deal. You know, back when I didn't know any better, wasn't paying attention to how I was breathing, back when I was a kid. For a while I didn't get it when fellow classmates would tease me for sitting there with my mouth gaping open. I knew even then it wasn't gaping, but it was open, as it was a much more successful vehicle for the intake of my precious oxygen.
But as I got older and learned nearly everyone else breathes through the nose, it started to bother me. Why can't I do this? What's wrong with me? So I finally decided to do something about it when Dr. Bester said he could fix my deviated septum and that this would help me breathe through my nose. I thought the whole idea was pretty awesome.
I started making plans and appointments with Dr. Bester now in preparation for surgery. He sent me off to get some tests done and they showed that my sinuses were all very full, congested, loaded, whatever you want. (That part I believe, by the by, since it possibly provides answers to years of congestion, ear infections, lots of boogers and earwax, and all that glamorous stuff.) So while he was fixing my deviated septum, he would be performing what he called a "roto rooter job" on my sinuses. Great, let's get it all done, I thought.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Dr. Bester, part 1
by Phyllis
I admit I am copying someone a little in writing a post of this sort, but that should be okay with everyone. After all, I wouldn't have made it through junior high, high school, and college without cheating consistently. Others spent their time and effort reading and studying; I spent mine getting better at passing off the work of others as my own. Very rewarding stuff.
Anyway...Dr. Bester, yeah. That isn't his real name, you know, although you could figure out what it is if you know some of my tricks for the names I give people. Maybe you don't know my tricks, and I certainly can't reveal them. But a few seem to me a little transparent. In any case, let's talk about Dr. Bester.
Dr. Bester was (is?) an ear/nose/throat/cosmetic surgery/whatever-procedure-he-wants-to-do doctor. Of course I didn't know that many years ago when I had a slight pain in my ears and looked up an otolaryngologist with an office close to my work space in downtown Boise. I wanted to be able to shoot over for a quick appointment and get back to work.
So, as I said, after several days of what I thought was moderate pain in my ears, I set up the appointment. Dr. Bester came in, asked me a few questions, and then peered in my ears. I could tell he stifled a reaction, and looked at him quizzingly. "You aren't in pain?" he asked. I said it hurt a little. "Because you have quite an infection in there. I am amazed you are so stoic about it." I always knew I was tough.
He wrote a prescription, and wondered if I had any other questions. "Yes. How come I have never been able to breathe out of my nose?" Dr. Bester took a quick look up my nose and at my palate and told me I had a deviated septum. He could fix that.
I thought about that as I left.
I admit I am copying someone a little in writing a post of this sort, but that should be okay with everyone. After all, I wouldn't have made it through junior high, high school, and college without cheating consistently. Others spent their time and effort reading and studying; I spent mine getting better at passing off the work of others as my own. Very rewarding stuff.
Anyway...Dr. Bester, yeah. That isn't his real name, you know, although you could figure out what it is if you know some of my tricks for the names I give people. Maybe you don't know my tricks, and I certainly can't reveal them. But a few seem to me a little transparent. In any case, let's talk about Dr. Bester.
Dr. Bester was (is?) an ear/nose/throat/cosmetic surgery/whatever-procedure-he-wants-to-do doctor. Of course I didn't know that many years ago when I had a slight pain in my ears and looked up an otolaryngologist with an office close to my work space in downtown Boise. I wanted to be able to shoot over for a quick appointment and get back to work.
So, as I said, after several days of what I thought was moderate pain in my ears, I set up the appointment. Dr. Bester came in, asked me a few questions, and then peered in my ears. I could tell he stifled a reaction, and looked at him quizzingly. "You aren't in pain?" he asked. I said it hurt a little. "Because you have quite an infection in there. I am amazed you are so stoic about it." I always knew I was tough.
He wrote a prescription, and wondered if I had any other questions. "Yes. How come I have never been able to breathe out of my nose?" Dr. Bester took a quick look up my nose and at my palate and told me I had a deviated septum. He could fix that.
I thought about that as I left.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Long Time, No Blog
By Phyllis
And I am going to break this silence by sharing my view on Brett Favre and his coming out of retirement to sign with the Minnesota Vikings. So here's my view: who cares about this? Not me. I never liked the Packers, Favre, the Vikings, or people who repeatedly retire and unretire. Maybe I will be interested at the end of the year when we see the results of this signing: 20 TDs, 18 INTs, and mediocrity in the NFC North.
I'd rather spend more time on this story. Seriously, a gender test? As the story says, there are "concerns she does not meet the requirements to compete as a woman." What, pray, are those requirements? The story does not say exactly, but apparently it is an "extremely complex, difficult" process. Apparently I missed a few days in Biology class.
And, no, we are not dealing with a Jarmila Kratochvilova situation here. Remember her? I do. That awesome year my parents got me a Sports Illustrated subscription for Christmas (including the swimsuit issue I snuck out of the garbage) I read all about her. And saw the pictures. The first thing I thought as a naive youngster was, "Hey, that's a dude!" Turns out it wasn't--just a woman roiding it up to break world records.
But I don't think dude when I see Caster Semenya. At least not for a couple seconds. And even if I do, it isn't because of roids or HGH or something like that. I mean, what is going on here? Protandry? A Pseudohermaphrodite? A sequential or simultaneous hermaphrodite? None of the above?
In any case, I don't envy Caster or those performing the tests or those reporting the results, either to us or to Caster. If Caster has cheated (however it was done) that is one thing. But as International Association of Athletics Federations spokesman Nick Davies says, "If it's a natural thing and the athlete has always thought she's a woman or been a woman, it's not exactly cheating."
No kidding, but have fun breaking the news to her.
And I am going to break this silence by sharing my view on Brett Favre and his coming out of retirement to sign with the Minnesota Vikings. So here's my view: who cares about this? Not me. I never liked the Packers, Favre, the Vikings, or people who repeatedly retire and unretire. Maybe I will be interested at the end of the year when we see the results of this signing: 20 TDs, 18 INTs, and mediocrity in the NFC North.
I'd rather spend more time on this story. Seriously, a gender test? As the story says, there are "concerns she does not meet the requirements to compete as a woman." What, pray, are those requirements? The story does not say exactly, but apparently it is an "extremely complex, difficult" process. Apparently I missed a few days in Biology class.
And, no, we are not dealing with a Jarmila Kratochvilova situation here. Remember her? I do. That awesome year my parents got me a Sports Illustrated subscription for Christmas (including the swimsuit issue I snuck out of the garbage) I read all about her. And saw the pictures. The first thing I thought as a naive youngster was, "Hey, that's a dude!" Turns out it wasn't--just a woman roiding it up to break world records.
But I don't think dude when I see Caster Semenya. At least not for a couple seconds. And even if I do, it isn't because of roids or HGH or something like that. I mean, what is going on here? Protandry? A Pseudohermaphrodite? A sequential or simultaneous hermaphrodite? None of the above?
In any case, I don't envy Caster or those performing the tests or those reporting the results, either to us or to Caster. If Caster has cheated (however it was done) that is one thing. But as International Association of Athletics Federations spokesman Nick Davies says, "If it's a natural thing and the athlete has always thought she's a woman or been a woman, it's not exactly cheating."
No kidding, but have fun breaking the news to her.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
See Hiccus
by Phyllis
Look, lady, don't get upset with me because I mispronounced your daughter's name.
You will get no sympathy from me. I have had my name mispronounced my whole life. And even though any primate with half a brain could take three seconds looking at my name and realize there are only TWO possible pronunciations, somehow every person I have ever known has gone with either the incorrect of the two possibilities, or some off the board bastardization.
Plus, ma'am, keep in mind, this is my surname. You know, handed down from generation to generation? So it may look funny or foreign but I had no choice. Neither did my parents. They just gave me what they already had.
You, however, chose one of those clever, cool, alternative spellings of a common English name. What were your hopes or expectations in doing this? I couldn't possibly guess. But please calm yourself, hunker down, and prepare yourself for a lifetime of people botching your sweet girl's name. It really is your fault.
Look, lady, don't get upset with me because I mispronounced your daughter's name.
You will get no sympathy from me. I have had my name mispronounced my whole life. And even though any primate with half a brain could take three seconds looking at my name and realize there are only TWO possible pronunciations, somehow every person I have ever known has gone with either the incorrect of the two possibilities, or some off the board bastardization.
Plus, ma'am, keep in mind, this is my surname. You know, handed down from generation to generation? So it may look funny or foreign but I had no choice. Neither did my parents. They just gave me what they already had.
You, however, chose one of those clever, cool, alternative spellings of a common English name. What were your hopes or expectations in doing this? I couldn't possibly guess. But please calm yourself, hunker down, and prepare yourself for a lifetime of people botching your sweet girl's name. It really is your fault.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
What to Make of It?
by Phyllis
It's a little like having your favorite Pandora station play something really stupid all of a sudden, only this happened in reverse.
I am no stranger to Adventure's First Stop. Mostly because there is a store fairly close to my home, I buy a lot of fuel for my cars there. My sons also can go through milk like no person's business, so I have made many a jaunt up to store 211 to get a couple of gallons to tide us over. (And so long as they have the 'buy one liter of Diet Mtn. Dew get one for 50 cents' promotion going on, I will wear out a path to their door.)
While either outside filling up my tank or inside browsing the many jerky selections and deciding not to buy the refillable 100 ounce soda vat, I have heard not a few good ol' songs from some of country music's "best." I can recall Garth Brooks and his Papa Loved Mama ditty and George Strait and his Give it Away (not a RHCP cover, in case you wondered). Rascal Flatts gets some love there as well. I don't know if this is because they are tuned to a country station or what. Who cares, right?
But the other day as I topped off the car, I heard "You Take Me Up" by Thompson Twins.
Should I report this to management?
It's a little like having your favorite Pandora station play something really stupid all of a sudden, only this happened in reverse.
I am no stranger to Adventure's First Stop. Mostly because there is a store fairly close to my home, I buy a lot of fuel for my cars there. My sons also can go through milk like no person's business, so I have made many a jaunt up to store 211 to get a couple of gallons to tide us over. (And so long as they have the 'buy one liter of Diet Mtn. Dew get one for 50 cents' promotion going on, I will wear out a path to their door.)
While either outside filling up my tank or inside browsing the many jerky selections and deciding not to buy the refillable 100 ounce soda vat, I have heard not a few good ol' songs from some of country music's "best." I can recall Garth Brooks and his Papa Loved Mama ditty and George Strait and his Give it Away (not a RHCP cover, in case you wondered). Rascal Flatts gets some love there as well. I don't know if this is because they are tuned to a country station or what. Who cares, right?
But the other day as I topped off the car, I heard "You Take Me Up" by Thompson Twins.
Should I report this to management?
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Smalltalk
by Phyllis
I am not a fan (although I expect it will be suggested to me soon).
I don't like to make it. I don't like to participate in it. That is not to say I haven't done it--just that I have always hated it. I know it sounds negative (in a good way) to say it, but I don't really like talking to people in the first place. Well, actually, the part I don't like is listening. I can talk to you all day if you like, and will act like I am listening (not an oscar-worthy performance, I must admit), but I don't really want to hear what most people have to say.
[I wonder if someone will steal my idea for a T-shirt that says "Pretend I have my earbuds in." Great idea, right?]
So for someone who doesn't like to talk to people, smalltalk is nearly insufferable. And I had three whoppers laid on me recently and I nearly lost my cool each time.
#1 - Walking through the empty halls during classtime at one of the elementary schools I work at, I see a remotely familiar person (I have worked at this school several years now) coming my direction. I make no eye contact but soon hear her say, "You working on those computers?" "Yep," I say. Not a lot of thought went into that one, though, ma'am, I think to myself. But I realize I prefer it that way. Nowhere really to take the "conversation" and it ends there as we pass each other.
#2 - This time I am working at our district's alternative High School (you figure out what that means) removing spyware some genius has installed on his PC. (Yes, I am an IT snob.) I leave the room for a minute to go check on something else, and when I return, two students are in there working with the librarian on a paper. I seat myself at the PC again and continue working on it. After nearly five minutes, the librarian offers, "So, you're in here with us?" I scarcely know how to respond to such a question without laughing hysterically, so I compose myself for a few seconds and come back with "I'm just working on the computer." End of conversation again.
#3 - The good fellers who came and installed the fence in my backyard recently had plenty to say. My favorite had to be when one had returned from retrieving a tool from his truck ("Yeah, the bed's a little high for me but hell no I wouldn't put a lift gate on it. I'd love to lower it, though.") and gave me this gem: "Hey, man, that blonde neighbor of yours?" He tailed off as he grinned and gave me a look I can only describe as disgustingly lecherous.
Admittedly, I didn't know how to respond to this, so I gave him the best conversation stopper I could think of. "Hmmph."
It didn't work.
I am not a fan (although I expect it will be suggested to me soon).
I don't like to make it. I don't like to participate in it. That is not to say I haven't done it--just that I have always hated it. I know it sounds negative (in a good way) to say it, but I don't really like talking to people in the first place. Well, actually, the part I don't like is listening. I can talk to you all day if you like, and will act like I am listening (not an oscar-worthy performance, I must admit), but I don't really want to hear what most people have to say.
[I wonder if someone will steal my idea for a T-shirt that says "Pretend I have my earbuds in." Great idea, right?]
So for someone who doesn't like to talk to people, smalltalk is nearly insufferable. And I had three whoppers laid on me recently and I nearly lost my cool each time.
#1 - Walking through the empty halls during classtime at one of the elementary schools I work at, I see a remotely familiar person (I have worked at this school several years now) coming my direction. I make no eye contact but soon hear her say, "You working on those computers?" "Yep," I say. Not a lot of thought went into that one, though, ma'am, I think to myself. But I realize I prefer it that way. Nowhere really to take the "conversation" and it ends there as we pass each other.
#2 - This time I am working at our district's alternative High School (you figure out what that means) removing spyware some genius has installed on his PC. (Yes, I am an IT snob.) I leave the room for a minute to go check on something else, and when I return, two students are in there working with the librarian on a paper. I seat myself at the PC again and continue working on it. After nearly five minutes, the librarian offers, "So, you're in here with us?" I scarcely know how to respond to such a question without laughing hysterically, so I compose myself for a few seconds and come back with "I'm just working on the computer." End of conversation again.
#3 - The good fellers who came and installed the fence in my backyard recently had plenty to say. My favorite had to be when one had returned from retrieving a tool from his truck ("Yeah, the bed's a little high for me but hell no I wouldn't put a lift gate on it. I'd love to lower it, though.") and gave me this gem: "Hey, man, that blonde neighbor of yours?" He tailed off as he grinned and gave me a look I can only describe as disgustingly lecherous.
Admittedly, I didn't know how to respond to this, so I gave him the best conversation stopper I could think of. "Hmmph."
It didn't work.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Bad News
by Sue
Yes, it is me, Sue. I promised Phyllis once upon a time I would contribute to his blog, and then only wrote one post. So I guess it is time again. Plus, Phyllis and I were talking the other day about something, and he had plenty to say about it, but claimed he could not post a blog about it. He said at least one person he likes quite a bit might get a little sore.
And, yes, it is bad news for all you inkophiles out there. It is my contention that tattoos are not cool anymore.
Yes, I think they were at some point. It was a practice on the fringe, very cutting edge, very daring. But we have crossed over to a new era. And by my crude calculations more people have them now than don't. I am only going by what I see.
Any trip to your local WalMart will give you all the proof you need. In order to enjoy the savings and convenience of the world's most evil store, you have to sport some ink. A butterfly or other gentle creature on your ankle is fine if you are female, but you can also follow the example of every other 21-year-old girl in the world, and get the good old tramp stamp. If you are a man, go with the Kanji on the calf, bicep, or neck, or go all out and get sleeves.
I can hear tat-nation squawking already. They are telling me how cool people don't get tats like that and how they had their tattoos long ago when it was still cool. Fine, I say, but you make my point: with the WalMart riff-raff clouding the issue, you can see the practice is no longer cool; it is far too common, and, as they say, played.
If that's not enough for you, please consider my next-door neighbors: Their teenage son--the one wearing shorts so low his whole butt would be showing were it not for his colorful underpants, who buzzes around to high school and back in his Nissan Z-something listening to profanity-filled hip-hop or (c)rap or whatever it is called these days--is, like, dude, totally tatted up. So are all his buddies.
Do I need to say anything else?
Yes, it is me, Sue. I promised Phyllis once upon a time I would contribute to his blog, and then only wrote one post. So I guess it is time again. Plus, Phyllis and I were talking the other day about something, and he had plenty to say about it, but claimed he could not post a blog about it. He said at least one person he likes quite a bit might get a little sore.
And, yes, it is bad news for all you inkophiles out there. It is my contention that tattoos are not cool anymore.
Yes, I think they were at some point. It was a practice on the fringe, very cutting edge, very daring. But we have crossed over to a new era. And by my crude calculations more people have them now than don't. I am only going by what I see.
Any trip to your local WalMart will give you all the proof you need. In order to enjoy the savings and convenience of the world's most evil store, you have to sport some ink. A butterfly or other gentle creature on your ankle is fine if you are female, but you can also follow the example of every other 21-year-old girl in the world, and get the good old tramp stamp. If you are a man, go with the Kanji on the calf, bicep, or neck, or go all out and get sleeves.
I can hear tat-nation squawking already. They are telling me how cool people don't get tats like that and how they had their tattoos long ago when it was still cool. Fine, I say, but you make my point: with the WalMart riff-raff clouding the issue, you can see the practice is no longer cool; it is far too common, and, as they say, played.
If that's not enough for you, please consider my next-door neighbors: Their teenage son--the one wearing shorts so low his whole butt would be showing were it not for his colorful underpants, who buzzes around to high school and back in his Nissan Z-something listening to profanity-filled hip-hop or (c)rap or whatever it is called these days--is, like, dude, totally tatted up. So are all his buddies.
Do I need to say anything else?
Monday, May 18, 2009
TV Shows I Have Never Watched
by Phyllis
I hear people all the time talking at work about what was on TV last night. And it is not uncommon to see facebook 'friends' let me (and hundreds of other interested people) know they are working hard now so they can get home and catch Desperate Chuck's Bones or Dancing With Grey's Anatomy or How I Met Your Prison Nanny or something like that.
So I started to pay a little attention and keep track. I watch some network television (and I don't have cable), so I began to jot down shows networks are unsuccessfully pushing at me but apparently successfully getting everyone else to watch. So below is a list of shows I have never seen. And, yes, I have seen few seconds of some as I flip through hoping ESPN magically shows up somehow, but never have I seen an entire episode of any that follow. And I have never seen a second of most of them:
24
Lost
Grey's Anatomy
Desperate Housewives
How I Met Your Mother
Chuck
Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Numb3rs
Fringe
The Mentalist
Bones
NCIS
Gossip Girl
Supernatural
Cold Case
Without a Trace
Prison Break
Heroes
Friday Night Lights
The Bachelor
The Bachelorette
Brothers and Sisters
Dancing With the Stars
Super Nanny
Ugly Betty
Wife Swap
The Big Bang Theory
Criminal Minds
Rules of Engagement
The Unit
Survivor
American Dad
Dollhouse
Family Guy
Lie To Me
So You Think You Can Dance
'til Death
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
CSI: NY
CSI: Miami
CSI: Nampa
I hear people all the time talking at work about what was on TV last night. And it is not uncommon to see facebook 'friends' let me (and hundreds of other interested people) know they are working hard now so they can get home and catch Desperate Chuck's Bones or Dancing With Grey's Anatomy or How I Met Your Prison Nanny or something like that.
So I started to pay a little attention and keep track. I watch some network television (and I don't have cable), so I began to jot down shows networks are unsuccessfully pushing at me but apparently successfully getting everyone else to watch. So below is a list of shows I have never seen. And, yes, I have seen few seconds of some as I flip through hoping ESPN magically shows up somehow, but never have I seen an entire episode of any that follow. And I have never seen a second of most of them:
24
Lost
Grey's Anatomy
Desperate Housewives
How I Met Your Mother
Chuck
Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Numb3rs
Fringe
The Mentalist
Bones
NCIS
Gossip Girl
Supernatural
Cold Case
Without a Trace
Prison Break
Heroes
Friday Night Lights
The Bachelor
The Bachelorette
Brothers and Sisters
Dancing With the Stars
Super Nanny
Ugly Betty
Wife Swap
The Big Bang Theory
Criminal Minds
Rules of Engagement
The Unit
Survivor
American Dad
Dollhouse
Family Guy
Lie To Me
So You Think You Can Dance
'til Death
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
CSI: NY
CSI: Miami
CSI: Nampa
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Web Fun, Part 2
by Phyllis
On to Web Fun, Part 2, but I must revisit Web Fun, Part 1 for a second. As it turns out, Darryl is desirous to make one thing clear: she who hated Prince's Batdance and made the Ada County arrests page is NOT his half-sister, but his STEP-sister. His desire to correct this error screams out clearly: "This person does not share my blood!"
Oddly, an argument could be made that she is of MY blood. How? Well, there was once a young girl (a beautiful and talented sister of mine, as it turns out) who completed that binding and sacred transaction of becoming Batdancehater's "blood-sister". To my knowledge, this bond has not been dissolved or annulled through official channels. So there you have it.
And now, a little more fun on the web. The other website which used to occupy hours of my idle time (when through a huge effort I could find idle time) was right here. From this website, you can look up various information regarding houses in our dear county. I will admit it was a little more fun when one of the pieces of information included was the last time the house was purchased and how much it was sold for. But there is still some good stuff: assessed value, square footage, tax districts, pictures. Yeah, I know--only good stuff if you are curious about stupid things like that.
A weird thing, though: if you were to look up my house on the website you would see that as far as Ada County is concerned my house is 2598 square feet. This is grossly wrong. There are over 600 square feet (I ballparked it) that are not counted for some strange reason. The report does show 664 sq. ft. that are counted as something called "Car Storage," but I am not clear on what that means.
It is all quite confusing. I remember looking at houses in my neighborhood, and each was advertised as having bedrooms, bathrooms, living rooms, etc. But all of them were also said to have a 2- or 3-car garage. I don't know what this is. These areas are clearly meant to be part of the house, and should be counted in calculation of square footage. They are ideal for putting all the gross, disgusting, broken-down, and useless items we don't want dirtying and cluttering up the bedroom, family room, or kitchen. Right?
Adding to the confusion is another misnomer used to describe the paved part of one's property that leads directly to this "car garage" thing. Why is it called a driveway when it is obviously a location for storing one's automobiles? The unfortunate use of "driveway" falsely leads some people to think of driving across this area and into the garage. But why on earth would you do that?
And names like "road" or "street" or "avenue" don't help either. Many of these near my home should be renamed to "driveway" or "lot" for it is clear this is another place to store vehicles. Looking out my front window it looks like that area right outside Bronco Stadium, and I believe it is called a "lot." How about some consistency here?
Alas! I must confess I am adding to the confusion. Upon first driving to our new home, I drove our cars into this poorly named 3-car garage thing and left them there. I found it highly convenient to have them there and have been flouting convention ever since. I know I am wasting several hundred square feet of space by choosing to keep the vehicles cooler in summer and warmer in winter, and I am grossly negligent in helping my "street" look like the parking lot it should be.
Sorry about that.
On to Web Fun, Part 2, but I must revisit Web Fun, Part 1 for a second. As it turns out, Darryl is desirous to make one thing clear: she who hated Prince's Batdance and made the Ada County arrests page is NOT his half-sister, but his STEP-sister. His desire to correct this error screams out clearly: "This person does not share my blood!"
Oddly, an argument could be made that she is of MY blood. How? Well, there was once a young girl (a beautiful and talented sister of mine, as it turns out) who completed that binding and sacred transaction of becoming Batdancehater's "blood-sister". To my knowledge, this bond has not been dissolved or annulled through official channels. So there you have it.
And now, a little more fun on the web. The other website which used to occupy hours of my idle time (when through a huge effort I could find idle time) was right here. From this website, you can look up various information regarding houses in our dear county. I will admit it was a little more fun when one of the pieces of information included was the last time the house was purchased and how much it was sold for. But there is still some good stuff: assessed value, square footage, tax districts, pictures. Yeah, I know--only good stuff if you are curious about stupid things like that.
A weird thing, though: if you were to look up my house on the website you would see that as far as Ada County is concerned my house is 2598 square feet. This is grossly wrong. There are over 600 square feet (I ballparked it) that are not counted for some strange reason. The report does show 664 sq. ft. that are counted as something called "Car Storage," but I am not clear on what that means.
It is all quite confusing. I remember looking at houses in my neighborhood, and each was advertised as having bedrooms, bathrooms, living rooms, etc. But all of them were also said to have a 2- or 3-car garage. I don't know what this is. These areas are clearly meant to be part of the house, and should be counted in calculation of square footage. They are ideal for putting all the gross, disgusting, broken-down, and useless items we don't want dirtying and cluttering up the bedroom, family room, or kitchen. Right?
Adding to the confusion is another misnomer used to describe the paved part of one's property that leads directly to this "car garage" thing. Why is it called a driveway when it is obviously a location for storing one's automobiles? The unfortunate use of "driveway" falsely leads some people to think of driving across this area and into the garage. But why on earth would you do that?
And names like "road" or "street" or "avenue" don't help either. Many of these near my home should be renamed to "driveway" or "lot" for it is clear this is another place to store vehicles. Looking out my front window it looks like that area right outside Bronco Stadium, and I believe it is called a "lot." How about some consistency here?
Alas! I must confess I am adding to the confusion. Upon first driving to our new home, I drove our cars into this poorly named 3-car garage thing and left them there. I found it highly convenient to have them there and have been flouting convention ever since. I know I am wasting several hundred square feet of space by choosing to keep the vehicles cooler in summer and warmer in winter, and I am grossly negligent in helping my "street" look like the parking lot it should be.
Sorry about that.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Not Even Close
by Phyllis
It might not seem like a big deal, but I will admit I spent more than a couple minutes in 1993 thinking about music as I thought about my impending nuptials with MLB. No, I was not concerned about what we would hear playing in the background or who might perform at the reception. (This was decided for me, and as it turns out, although I have a musically talented family, some girl I didn't know played the piano and and another unknown sang a song.)
But I was thinking about the kind of music I like, and what MLB's tastes were. Trust me, people. It's an important issue. Seriously, what if she had been a devotee of Rush, or Def Leppard, or Phil Collins? Suppose she really liked Vanilla Ice, had been to several Exposé concerts, or had all the Garth Brooks CDs? Honestly, how is such a person to be worked upon?
Fortunately we had no huge issues and found we had similar tastes--truly a key ingredient in the recipe for wedded bliss. Even some of the slight differences in our musical tastes have been reconciled over the years. MLB has begun to like some music I like, and I have followed her lead, as well.
There is one band I like, however, that was a source of confusion for MLB: The Icicle Works. She never had an interest when I would listen to them, and didn't put forth much effort to understand who they were. As a matter of fact, she repeatedly referred to them as Icehouse, a travesty and disgusting untruth which made me as angry as Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Each time MLB said it I would set out 'at once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.'
"How could you confuse those two bands?" I would bellow, and soon we would be discussing Icehouse's ridiculous "Crazy" video. (Go ahead and watch it all, if you want some good laughs. A few key items to enjoy: the woman's utter ecstasy after making her song request, the hat, the worthy and powerful mullet, the pants--wow, it's all nearly too much!) But, alas! a hilarious video and the king of all mullets do not a good band make.
So I would play a song for MLB by Icicle Works, "The Cauldron of Love" for example. What a great song! So I would ask her: "Do you want to hear more? A Factory in the Desert, Little Girl Lost, Walking With a Mountain, Evangeline, Hollow Horse, Who Do You Want For Your Love? Clearly there is no comparison." Surely MLB would remember from now on, right. I sure hoped so.
Last week a horrible thing happened. I was enjoying the Icicle Works station I created on Pandora. It was cycling through some good stuff, you know, New Order, Echo & the Bunnymen, Tears for Fears, Aztec Camera. Then one sweet tune ended and a terrible cacophony began to assault my ears. I quickly maximized the Pandora window and stared in amazement: it had queued up "Crazy" by Icehouse!
Bad job, Pandora! Are you confused, too? Thumbs down!
It might not seem like a big deal, but I will admit I spent more than a couple minutes in 1993 thinking about music as I thought about my impending nuptials with MLB. No, I was not concerned about what we would hear playing in the background or who might perform at the reception. (This was decided for me, and as it turns out, although I have a musically talented family, some girl I didn't know played the piano and and another unknown sang a song.)
But I was thinking about the kind of music I like, and what MLB's tastes were. Trust me, people. It's an important issue. Seriously, what if she had been a devotee of Rush, or Def Leppard, or Phil Collins? Suppose she really liked Vanilla Ice, had been to several Exposé concerts, or had all the Garth Brooks CDs? Honestly, how is such a person to be worked upon?
Fortunately we had no huge issues and found we had similar tastes--truly a key ingredient in the recipe for wedded bliss. Even some of the slight differences in our musical tastes have been reconciled over the years. MLB has begun to like some music I like, and I have followed her lead, as well.
There is one band I like, however, that was a source of confusion for MLB: The Icicle Works. She never had an interest when I would listen to them, and didn't put forth much effort to understand who they were. As a matter of fact, she repeatedly referred to them as Icehouse, a travesty and disgusting untruth which made me as angry as Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Each time MLB said it I would set out 'at once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.'
"How could you confuse those two bands?" I would bellow, and soon we would be discussing Icehouse's ridiculous "Crazy" video. (Go ahead and watch it all, if you want some good laughs. A few key items to enjoy: the woman's utter ecstasy after making her song request, the hat, the worthy and powerful mullet, the pants--wow, it's all nearly too much!) But, alas! a hilarious video and the king of all mullets do not a good band make.
So I would play a song for MLB by Icicle Works, "The Cauldron of Love" for example. What a great song! So I would ask her: "Do you want to hear more? A Factory in the Desert, Little Girl Lost, Walking With a Mountain, Evangeline, Hollow Horse, Who Do You Want For Your Love? Clearly there is no comparison." Surely MLB would remember from now on, right. I sure hoped so.
Last week a horrible thing happened. I was enjoying the Icicle Works station I created on Pandora. It was cycling through some good stuff, you know, New Order, Echo & the Bunnymen, Tears for Fears, Aztec Camera. Then one sweet tune ended and a terrible cacophony began to assault my ears. I quickly maximized the Pandora window and stared in amazement: it had queued up "Crazy" by Icehouse!
Bad job, Pandora! Are you confused, too? Thumbs down!
Friday, April 3, 2009
Unacceptable
by Phyllis
Forgive my digression from Web Fun for a moment, but I must speak. The following is a portion of an e-mail that was forwarded to me recently. (The name has been changed.):
"As per our convo, Betsy Warner is not able to see her computer displayed thru the projector. The DVD works and everything looks like it is hooked up correctly. Can you please ask the IT folks to check it out. Keith"
No.
I am aware that "combo" is used as a shortened form of combination. And I can accept that. But give me a break with "convo" already. Do you mean to tell me "o" is now an acceptable shortening for the last three syllables of all words that end in "-tion"? Try again. Or let me make an obso about this. It would bring many complos to our language. People would find themselves needing to give an explo or even a defo of what was just said. Frankly I think it is an abomo, so please let's take this practice and give it a good defeno.
The only appropriate use of ridiculous shortenings of this type is for humor. Any of you who saw the 30 Rock episode where Josh's agent helps him with his contract know what I mean. That was hilar.
Other unacceptable shortenings:
sitch
vacay
And many others. What have I forgotten?
Forgive my digression from Web Fun for a moment, but I must speak. The following is a portion of an e-mail that was forwarded to me recently. (The name has been changed.):
"As per our convo, Betsy Warner is not able to see her computer displayed thru the projector. The DVD works and everything looks like it is hooked up correctly. Can you please ask the IT folks to check it out. Keith"
No.
I am aware that "combo" is used as a shortened form of combination. And I can accept that. But give me a break with "convo" already. Do you mean to tell me "o" is now an acceptable shortening for the last three syllables of all words that end in "-tion"? Try again. Or let me make an obso about this. It would bring many complos to our language. People would find themselves needing to give an explo or even a defo of what was just said. Frankly I think it is an abomo, so please let's take this practice and give it a good defeno.
The only appropriate use of ridiculous shortenings of this type is for humor. Any of you who saw the 30 Rock episode where Josh's agent helps him with his contract know what I mean. That was hilar.
Other unacceptable shortenings:
sitch
vacay
And many others. What have I forgotten?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Web Fun, Part 1
by Phyllis
Several years ago, before such colossal time-wasters as blogs, youtube, and facebook were popular, I occupied some of my interweb time surfing up some pretty splendid netpages and such. At least I thought so.
I used to look daily at Ada County arrest reports, a five day report of which can always be found here. Every so often I would hit the jackpot and see someone I knew or knew of. I saw mugshots of an old business associate my dad used to have, a waitress at a local sushi joint we all know, and even Darryl's half-sister (she was not a fan of Prince's Batdance, in case you were wondering). I saw lots more people, of course, but it was best when I saw someone I knew.
But I had to stop visiting the site. For one, MLB started to get on my case. "Why do you get on that website every day?" she would say, and I couldn't answer honestly. What could I say? "Too see my fellow man at his worst, his most bummed out, his lowest. You know, to feel better about myself." I don't know if that was entirely true anyway.
I also stopped because I started to recognize repeat offenders, know their weaknesses, and probably why they were arrested. One time at work I saw some co-workers visiting the site and they called me over. "Dude. Check out THIS guy!" They almost fell over when I came back with "Oh, Steven Richard Archambeau is in jail again? What is it this time, possession of drug paraphernalia?"
Several years ago, before such colossal time-wasters as blogs, youtube, and facebook were popular, I occupied some of my interweb time surfing up some pretty splendid netpages and such. At least I thought so.
I used to look daily at Ada County arrest reports, a five day report of which can always be found here. Every so often I would hit the jackpot and see someone I knew or knew of. I saw mugshots of an old business associate my dad used to have, a waitress at a local sushi joint we all know, and even Darryl's half-sister (she was not a fan of Prince's Batdance, in case you were wondering). I saw lots more people, of course, but it was best when I saw someone I knew.
But I had to stop visiting the site. For one, MLB started to get on my case. "Why do you get on that website every day?" she would say, and I couldn't answer honestly. What could I say? "Too see my fellow man at his worst, his most bummed out, his lowest. You know, to feel better about myself." I don't know if that was entirely true anyway.
I also stopped because I started to recognize repeat offenders, know their weaknesses, and probably why they were arrested. One time at work I saw some co-workers visiting the site and they called me over. "Dude. Check out THIS guy!" They almost fell over when I came back with "Oh, Steven Richard Archambeau is in jail again? What is it this time, possession of drug paraphernalia?"
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Confession
by Phyllis
This is very difficult. I mean, I have done many things in my life I am not proud of. It's just that I get angry at myself when I repeat the same mistake. I know I shouldn't do it, but I cave in. Yes, I know I am human, but it still sucks.
And the thing I am talking about is something I promised myself I would never do again. It made me feel bad. I mean really physically ill, know what I mean? I can't take it back now and it has had devastating results. Aside from feeling sick inside, my self esteem has taken a huge hit. I struggle with self esteem anyway, so this just made me feel worthless.
Okay, enough of the cryptic prelude: last Tuesday, I went somewhere I shouldn't have gone. This place is like my own personal Mos Eisley, because I really believe, like Obi-Wan said, "you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy." Okay, so the people there aren't villains, I guess, but what they are doing is wrong. It is NOT healthy, and they need to stop. But when I look at them, I can see they are not as disappointed with themselves for being there as I am. The smiles on their faces tell me otherwise. And that adds to how bad I feel. It is just SO wrong.
But I need to let this out, so I am no longer hiding a painful secret, so someone will reach out to me and help. Please don't hate me and DO see this as a cry for help. And here it is:
Last Tuesday, I went and had lunch at The Great Wall Restaurant.
This is very difficult. I mean, I have done many things in my life I am not proud of. It's just that I get angry at myself when I repeat the same mistake. I know I shouldn't do it, but I cave in. Yes, I know I am human, but it still sucks.
And the thing I am talking about is something I promised myself I would never do again. It made me feel bad. I mean really physically ill, know what I mean? I can't take it back now and it has had devastating results. Aside from feeling sick inside, my self esteem has taken a huge hit. I struggle with self esteem anyway, so this just made me feel worthless.
Okay, enough of the cryptic prelude: last Tuesday, I went somewhere I shouldn't have gone. This place is like my own personal Mos Eisley, because I really believe, like Obi-Wan said, "you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy." Okay, so the people there aren't villains, I guess, but what they are doing is wrong. It is NOT healthy, and they need to stop. But when I look at them, I can see they are not as disappointed with themselves for being there as I am. The smiles on their faces tell me otherwise. And that adds to how bad I feel. It is just SO wrong.
But I need to let this out, so I am no longer hiding a painful secret, so someone will reach out to me and help. Please don't hate me and DO see this as a cry for help. And here it is:
Last Tuesday, I went and had lunch at The Great Wall Restaurant.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Something's Wrong
by Phyllis
There's something wrong with me. Seriously.
I don't care how to get Michelle Obama's toned arms, I don't need a running commentary on Chris Brown and Rihanna, I am not interested in whatever Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt, and Angelina Jolie are or are not doing or saying to each other.
I have never watched "The Bachelor" or "Wife Swap" or "Dancing With the Stars" or really anything of that ilk. I get no pleasure from looking at outfits or reactions from The Oscars. And yet it seems millions of Americans do all these things.
Me? I am quite tired today because I stayed up last night and watched a semi-grainy re-broadcast that started at 11pm of a basketball game played in Las Cruces, New Mexico, of which I already knew the outcome!
There's something wrong with me. Seriously.
I don't care how to get Michelle Obama's toned arms, I don't need a running commentary on Chris Brown and Rihanna, I am not interested in whatever Jennifer Aniston, Brad Pitt, and Angelina Jolie are or are not doing or saying to each other.
I have never watched "The Bachelor" or "Wife Swap" or "Dancing With the Stars" or really anything of that ilk. I get no pleasure from looking at outfits or reactions from The Oscars. And yet it seems millions of Americans do all these things.
Me? I am quite tired today because I stayed up last night and watched a semi-grainy re-broadcast that started at 11pm of a basketball game played in Las Cruces, New Mexico, of which I already knew the outcome!
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Hubbub
by Phyllis
This story is completely made-up:
A local elementary school was turned upside down yesterday. Word has it a former star football player from the local university worked for part of the day at the school. This had the result of creating erratic, silly, and juvenile behavior by many people there. There was gossiping, running in the halls, and nervous giggling. Still others were just resentful and bitter. And none of this was done by students.
Upon his checking in at the front office to start the day, Hal O. Fane (as I will call him) was recognized, but not by MLB. (How MLB and her husband could be so far away from each other when it comes to sports, caring about sports, knowing anything about sports, or even caring whether sports exist or not, is perhaps a discussion for another time.) Hal was recognized, yes, and even as he left the office, word began to seep through the school. Many a "Really?" or "Omigosh!" or "Teehee" could be heard in all parts. Then came the silliness.
Teachers were seen stealthily peering around corners and creeping down the halls to the classroom where Hal was, in order to sneak a peak. Others merely strolled by the room, "discreetly" peering in as they passed. Still others called the front office, requesting from MLB such necessary information as "Is he single?" and "Is he cute?" and "No, seriously, give me a number between 1 and 10!"
MLB soon knew who Hal was. She had consulted with the writer of this post, and then with Koozown, who claims a familiarity with Hal. MLB realized she had sampled some of Hal's work (not from the playing field) and Koozown then got word to Hal who MLB was. They made the connection, and it appeared now to everyone else that they were tight. MLB even fed the mania, giving anyone who cared to see the sign language letter 'r' with both hands.
There was resentment, too. Some were heard to say "Hal who?" and "Fane Shmane!" The writer of this post, upon hearing of the tumult caused by this appearance, had a hard time, as well. "Tell them I come there all the time," he told MLB to remind the staff. "And I dunked it once in an intramural basketball game in college!"
This story is completely made-up:
A local elementary school was turned upside down yesterday. Word has it a former star football player from the local university worked for part of the day at the school. This had the result of creating erratic, silly, and juvenile behavior by many people there. There was gossiping, running in the halls, and nervous giggling. Still others were just resentful and bitter. And none of this was done by students.
Upon his checking in at the front office to start the day, Hal O. Fane (as I will call him) was recognized, but not by MLB. (How MLB and her husband could be so far away from each other when it comes to sports, caring about sports, knowing anything about sports, or even caring whether sports exist or not, is perhaps a discussion for another time.) Hal was recognized, yes, and even as he left the office, word began to seep through the school. Many a "Really?" or "Omigosh!" or "Teehee" could be heard in all parts. Then came the silliness.
Teachers were seen stealthily peering around corners and creeping down the halls to the classroom where Hal was, in order to sneak a peak. Others merely strolled by the room, "discreetly" peering in as they passed. Still others called the front office, requesting from MLB such necessary information as "Is he single?" and "Is he cute?" and "No, seriously, give me a number between 1 and 10!"
MLB soon knew who Hal was. She had consulted with the writer of this post, and then with Koozown, who claims a familiarity with Hal. MLB realized she had sampled some of Hal's work (not from the playing field) and Koozown then got word to Hal who MLB was. They made the connection, and it appeared now to everyone else that they were tight. MLB even fed the mania, giving anyone who cared to see the sign language letter 'r' with both hands.
There was resentment, too. Some were heard to say "Hal who?" and "Fane Shmane!" The writer of this post, upon hearing of the tumult caused by this appearance, had a hard time, as well. "Tell them I come there all the time," he told MLB to remind the staff. "And I dunked it once in an intramural basketball game in college!"
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Nice Work, Andy!
by Phyllis
You may be aware that I wrote recently (don't split verb phrases, you know) about Andy Pettitte and his rejection of a one year, $10 million offer from the New York Yankees. I wondered how it was that a man could do that. And I didn't get into many numbers, but now I will. Because Andy Pettitte, people, has earned over $100 million dollars in his career, and his salary last season was $16 million. So this is what he had to say about the pay cut he was offered:
"Heck, the bottom line is I'm a man, and I guess it does take a shot at your pride a little bit."
Yeah, Andy, I get you. Totally. Those cheap bastards! How dare they make you feel like less of a man! How dare they chip at your self esteem like that! Make them pay for it. Surely there are some other teams out there lining up for your services. Drive the price up by flirting with them, and then come back to the Yankees and cash in!
On a related note, I read in an article today that Andy Pettitte signed a one year deal with the New York Yankees. One year, $5.5 million. There are bonus clauses in his contract, so if he doesn't get injured, pitches enough innings, and isn't lousy enough for them to give up on him, he can earn another $6.5 million.
Hmmm. Turns out there weren't other teams interested. Pettitte on the contract talks: "It just got to the point where Randy [his agent] called me and said, 'I think this is it, buddy.' It didn't take me long to decide because I knew that was where I was going to play."
Well played, Andy. Really. Great maneuvering.
And seriously, Andy, good luck this year. Break a leg!
Wait, no, don't do that. If you do, you'll only earn $5.5 million, and I don't know if you could feel like a man earning that.
You may be aware that I wrote recently (don't split verb phrases, you know) about Andy Pettitte and his rejection of a one year, $10 million offer from the New York Yankees. I wondered how it was that a man could do that. And I didn't get into many numbers, but now I will. Because Andy Pettitte, people, has earned over $100 million dollars in his career, and his salary last season was $16 million. So this is what he had to say about the pay cut he was offered:
"Heck, the bottom line is I'm a man, and I guess it does take a shot at your pride a little bit."
Yeah, Andy, I get you. Totally. Those cheap bastards! How dare they make you feel like less of a man! How dare they chip at your self esteem like that! Make them pay for it. Surely there are some other teams out there lining up for your services. Drive the price up by flirting with them, and then come back to the Yankees and cash in!
On a related note, I read in an article today that Andy Pettitte signed a one year deal with the New York Yankees. One year, $5.5 million. There are bonus clauses in his contract, so if he doesn't get injured, pitches enough innings, and isn't lousy enough for them to give up on him, he can earn another $6.5 million.
Hmmm. Turns out there weren't other teams interested. Pettitte on the contract talks: "It just got to the point where Randy [his agent] called me and said, 'I think this is it, buddy.' It didn't take me long to decide because I knew that was where I was going to play."
Well played, Andy. Really. Great maneuvering.
And seriously, Andy, good luck this year. Break a leg!
Wait, no, don't do that. If you do, you'll only earn $5.5 million, and I don't know if you could feel like a man earning that.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Rules
by Phyllis
I made these up:
Don't open the front door without looking out of the windows (we have no peephole) to see who it is. I love to follow it. And although I try to be discreet when I look, you know, so the knocker or ringer doesn't see me, it doesn't deter me from following another rule I made if they do:
Don't answer the front door if you don't recognize the person. So, yes, I have looked straight in the eyes of a stranger knocking on my door and then turned and left without answering. It is my house, I say, so I answer the door if I feel like it. If you are a stranger and are offended that I didn't answer the door when it was clear I was at home (we did share a meaningful glance, after all), please don't knock on my door. Or get to know me first. But I don't know how you are going to do that.
Another rule related to answering the door (which I had to create one day when a friend of MLB called and said she would be right over so when the doorbell rang minutes later I opened it without looking first): Don't buy anything that is sold door to door. So, no, I don't have a 'no soliciting' sign on the door. I hate solicitors but I simply say (sometimes after they have made their nice little pitch), "I'm sorry, I don't buy anything that is sold door to door. You know, it's just a rule I have." They don't often get it, but I have found that if you repeat the phrase up to seven times, they get the hint.
I will admit that the number of telemarketing calls I get has gone down over the past few years. But when they sneak through I use a strikingly similar rule to the last one I mentioned: Don't buy anything (or contribute to anything [or agree to anything]) that is offered over the phone. And use the same repeating techniques if necessary.
Another rule: Do not give your business to someone who has misspelled a word or used incorrect grammar in a flyer or coupon or something. Or if they just said something that annoyed you, marginally qualified grammar and spelling snob that you are. For example, I don't need to refinance my home loan, but rest assured when I do I will not be using the company whose commercial on the radio claimed they would "shoot straight from the hip" with me. They used this phrase to compare themselves to some of the other local lenders who might not be totally honest with me. So while I would indeed like my lender to "shoot straight" with me, I struggle with the connotation of "shooting straight from the hip." I infer it means you will be honest with me, but will do it quickly without considering the possible effects. And honestly, Clearwater Mortgage, I don't know if that will serve our best interests. And please take the food out of your mouth while you read the commercial.
Because I follow the previous rule, I will not use Lifelock to make sure my identity is safe. You see, their radio ad tells me that "At Lifelock, we work to prevent identity theft BEFORE it happens." (And, yes, the emphasis is theirs.) You work to prevent identity theft before it happens, eh? You mean you won't prevent it if my identity has already been stolen? Fine then. Forget you. You should have known the rules before you made your commercial.
I made these up:
Don't open the front door without looking out of the windows (we have no peephole) to see who it is. I love to follow it. And although I try to be discreet when I look, you know, so the knocker or ringer doesn't see me, it doesn't deter me from following another rule I made if they do:
Don't answer the front door if you don't recognize the person. So, yes, I have looked straight in the eyes of a stranger knocking on my door and then turned and left without answering. It is my house, I say, so I answer the door if I feel like it. If you are a stranger and are offended that I didn't answer the door when it was clear I was at home (we did share a meaningful glance, after all), please don't knock on my door. Or get to know me first. But I don't know how you are going to do that.
Another rule related to answering the door (which I had to create one day when a friend of MLB called and said she would be right over so when the doorbell rang minutes later I opened it without looking first): Don't buy anything that is sold door to door. So, no, I don't have a 'no soliciting' sign on the door. I hate solicitors but I simply say (sometimes after they have made their nice little pitch), "I'm sorry, I don't buy anything that is sold door to door. You know, it's just a rule I have." They don't often get it, but I have found that if you repeat the phrase up to seven times, they get the hint.
I will admit that the number of telemarketing calls I get has gone down over the past few years. But when they sneak through I use a strikingly similar rule to the last one I mentioned: Don't buy anything (or contribute to anything [or agree to anything]) that is offered over the phone. And use the same repeating techniques if necessary.
Another rule: Do not give your business to someone who has misspelled a word or used incorrect grammar in a flyer or coupon or something. Or if they just said something that annoyed you, marginally qualified grammar and spelling snob that you are. For example, I don't need to refinance my home loan, but rest assured when I do I will not be using the company whose commercial on the radio claimed they would "shoot straight from the hip" with me. They used this phrase to compare themselves to some of the other local lenders who might not be totally honest with me. So while I would indeed like my lender to "shoot straight" with me, I struggle with the connotation of "shooting straight from the hip." I infer it means you will be honest with me, but will do it quickly without considering the possible effects. And honestly, Clearwater Mortgage, I don't know if that will serve our best interests. And please take the food out of your mouth while you read the commercial.
Because I follow the previous rule, I will not use Lifelock to make sure my identity is safe. You see, their radio ad tells me that "At Lifelock, we work to prevent identity theft BEFORE it happens." (And, yes, the emphasis is theirs.) You work to prevent identity theft before it happens, eh? You mean you won't prevent it if my identity has already been stolen? Fine then. Forget you. You should have known the rules before you made your commercial.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Some Cheer-you-up News!
by Phyllis
Obviously I am aware of the free agent signings in Major League Baseball this off-season. I have previously blogged about a couple. So I know the amount of money that is being thrown around. But I wanted to write a little about one little news story today in the abstract. Or at least somewhat in the abstract.
Andy Pettitte today rejected a one-year, ten million dollar contract offer from the New York Yankees. Take a minute to digest that. Don't look up what he made last year, don't think about what other players make. Just reflect.
What? Someone offered him $10,000,000 for one year's salary. He (well, actually his agent) said no. How can this be? What kind of a world do we live in where a man can be offered that kind of money and refuse it? The only explanation that will make me feel better inside, and that only slightly, is that he is planning to retire, he is not up to the rigors of next season, he can't do it anymore. (He is 36, you know. And by the way, he does plan to play next year.)
Forget it. Even assuming that, it all makes me ill. It really does. Sick to my stomach. Depressed. Dissatisfied. And disappointed in my fellow man.
Not just at Andy, either. How have we as a society enabled this kind of thing to be? Can't we make this stop somehow? Yeah, I don't think so either. And it makes me ill. Have I said that already?
In all seriousness, what would you NOT do in order to earn ten million dollars over the REST OF YOUR LIFE? It's a pretty short list for me.
"Hey, Phyllis, money's not everything."
Reading a story like that sure makes me want to believe you.
Obviously I am aware of the free agent signings in Major League Baseball this off-season. I have previously blogged about a couple. So I know the amount of money that is being thrown around. But I wanted to write a little about one little news story today in the abstract. Or at least somewhat in the abstract.
Andy Pettitte today rejected a one-year, ten million dollar contract offer from the New York Yankees. Take a minute to digest that. Don't look up what he made last year, don't think about what other players make. Just reflect.
What? Someone offered him $10,000,000 for one year's salary. He (well, actually his agent) said no. How can this be? What kind of a world do we live in where a man can be offered that kind of money and refuse it? The only explanation that will make me feel better inside, and that only slightly, is that he is planning to retire, he is not up to the rigors of next season, he can't do it anymore. (He is 36, you know. And by the way, he does plan to play next year.)
Forget it. Even assuming that, it all makes me ill. It really does. Sick to my stomach. Depressed. Dissatisfied. And disappointed in my fellow man.
Not just at Andy, either. How have we as a society enabled this kind of thing to be? Can't we make this stop somehow? Yeah, I don't think so either. And it makes me ill. Have I said that already?
In all seriousness, what would you NOT do in order to earn ten million dollars over the REST OF YOUR LIFE? It's a pretty short list for me.
"Hey, Phyllis, money's not everything."
Reading a story like that sure makes me want to believe you.
Monday, January 5, 2009
That's Quite Enough, Thanks
by Phyllis
I like college football. I may even love it. But there are certainly a few things I could do without.
1. The running, jumping chest bump (or 180 spin back bump). Seriously. Find another way to celebrate. Go back to the good old high five.
2. The DB who gets up and waves his hand across the front of his helmet (like a windshield wiper or something) after he has just broken up a pass. (Most of the time he really had nothing to do with it; the ball was overthrown or dropped.)
3. The book, chapter, and verse from the Bible written in the eye black of every member on the team. Just write the whole verse on there, please. We all have HD.
3a. The offensive lineman with his whole face painted black or like Putty's face on Seinfeld. If it doesn't scare me, it is not scaring that freak across the line.
And lots of other stuff. Honestly, I just want to see these guys play football. Oh, and another thing. Keep showing Colt McCoy's family. That's very interesting.
I like college football. I may even love it. But there are certainly a few things I could do without.
1. The running, jumping chest bump (or 180 spin back bump). Seriously. Find another way to celebrate. Go back to the good old high five.
2. The DB who gets up and waves his hand across the front of his helmet (like a windshield wiper or something) after he has just broken up a pass. (Most of the time he really had nothing to do with it; the ball was overthrown or dropped.)
3. The book, chapter, and verse from the Bible written in the eye black of every member on the team. Just write the whole verse on there, please. We all have HD.
3a. The offensive lineman with his whole face painted black or like Putty's face on Seinfeld. If it doesn't scare me, it is not scaring that freak across the line.
And lots of other stuff. Honestly, I just want to see these guys play football. Oh, and another thing. Keep showing Colt McCoy's family. That's very interesting.
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