My Own Personal Cell

I’m slow to embrace new technology if it requires ANY tutorial on proper usage. If it’s ‘plug it in and go’, I’m all for it. If it requires a user’s manual, my interest fades. Some people comment on the items in my house by saying, “Oh! That’s so retro!” In reality, I’m simply not interested in an upgrade because replacements often include a lengthy phone call to customer support.

But my cell phone was dying. It would freeze up in a conversation and, although no buttons would respond and I couldn’t power off, the timer would keep clicking. It had done that a few time before I was willing to admit that I needed a replacement. The last time my phone suspended animation, I was talking with Kevin, but waiting on another friend to call. The other friend is going through a low point. He’s been very depressed. We needed to talk. My phone wasn’t working. It looked like I had abandoned him in his hour of need. It was time to phone up.

Ah. My Motorola flip phone- the one that has been with me for no less than 3 years. I like it because all my numbers are stored in it. But here was an opportunity, out of necessity, to upgrade. I went on line and shopped and explored. I settled on the Motorola Razor- in pink. A snazzy little number with a screeen that is clear and beautiful. My old phone is dingy from makeup and worn from use. The Razor arrived in two days. It’s metallic. I love metallic. Some assembly required. I hate assembly.

This Razor is sleek and shiny and clean. I spent all evening plugging in numbers and reading the owner’s manual. I paid extra attention to the section “How to Care For Your Phone”. After-all, I do not take 2-year service contracts lightly. I started identifying special rings for special people.

But I couldn’t hear the rings. Then I noted that the speaker phone didn’t work. Then I discovered that the ringer didn’t work at all.

I hate customer care. HATE. You’re always on hold and you can expect to kill no less than 90 minutes trying to resolve your issue. The issue resolution in this case was, “Mam, you need a new phone”. You know that won’t be easy. A new phone requires a visit to a local store, which is going to tell me that I have to mail the phone back, which isn’t what the customer service guy said but will be all they know to say. Which will require another call to service so that they can send me the mailing label, which will arrive in 4 or 5 days, which will take me a few days pack back up and to get to the post office, by which time my 30 day trial will have expired, which will require another call to customer service which will mean a 90 minute phone call, 45 of which will be on hold listening to advertisements, which will… well, you get the idea.

My toaster oven, which I’ve had for about 6 years, caught on fire the other night. I discovered that I remain calm, but rather clueless, in emergencies. I didn’t freak out because the inside of the oven was in flames. I also, however, couldn’t think of what to do. I have a fire extinguisher, which probably doesn’t even work any more, but at that moment, I couldn’t remember where I keep it. So I unplugged the device and I stopped, dropped, and rolled. While laying on the kitchen floor, I realized that’s what you do when YOU are on fire. Since I wasn’t on fire, I got back up and watched the flames growing inside the oven. Eventually, I opened the oven door and removed the flaming cheese toast. I blew and blew on the toast and in the oven. The room filled with smoke. I thought, “maybe I should call someone” then I remembered that my new phone isn’t reliable, so I threw flour inside the oven to douse the flames.

I know I should probably get a new toaster oven, as the inside is now charred black and I’m not really sure I trust my current toaster oven to not burst into flames again. But a new oven would require a new user’s manual. I’m not sure I can go through that again.

NaBloPoMo Weekend Edition 2

The second weekend of the NaBloPoMo month of November.  As I stated last weekend edition, I don’t usually post on weekends.  The reason is my reader-ship drops to near nothing on weekends.  I don’t think anyone in their right mind reads blogs on the weekends.  If you do, I offer you my condolences.

This weekend I am going to dedicate the posting to telling some jokes that no one should have to hear.  It is not that they are bad, just in poor taste...and they are bad.

A father and son are playing golf on a picturesque day.  The birds are singing in the trees and there seems to be no crappy golfers clogging up the links. 
The son steps up and sets up his ball.  He hits, but it heads toward the water hazard.  The ball lands in the water and the son calmly walks down to the water and, without hesitation, walks out onto the water and hits the ball off the top of the water and onto the green.  “Look Dad, on the green in two, beat that.”
The father steps up and hits his ball.  It also veers towards the water hazard.  Right before reaching the water however, a large fish jumps up and grabs the ball in his mouth.  As the fish heads back toward the water a majestic eagle swoops down and snatches the fish within his talons.  The eagle flies to the green, drops the fish, and the ball pops out of it’s mouth and rolls swiftly into the cup.  The father turns to his son and says, “Well, I guess that is another hole in one for me.”
Jesus looks at God and says, “I hate playing golf with you.”

World’s Ugliest Wife

In my new nursing position I take care of patients as they awaken from anesthesia.  At first it seems like a relatively boring field, but there are always exceptions.

Today they rolled in a large, muscular 34 year old guy.  He had a minor back surgery.  By minor I mean he was expected to go home the same day, but he decided he wanted to get all crazy from the anesthesia.  He rolled into the room kicking his feet in the air and swinging his arms wildly about.  The OR nurse wheeled him into my bay and just stood there, as if I had some miracle cure.  I grabbed his arms as another nurse grabbed his legs.  Everyone kept yelling his name telling him to calm down and relax.  He still had his eyes closed and was probably having a terrific dream.

He finally half opened his eyes and glanced first over at the little female nurse holding his left arm and then to me, a not so little male nurse holding his right arm.

Drugged up Patient:  In a slurred, mumbling speech, “Baby!  I am so glad to see you.”

Me:  Wide eyed to female nurse, “I think he is talking to you.”

Female Nurse:  Stifling laughter, “No, I’m pretty sure he is directing the love your way.”

Me:  Aghast, “No way, you look way better than me.”

Drugged up Patient:  Still slurred, and still looking at me, “Honey, I love you.” He reaches up to try and touch my face.

Me:  Grabbing his hand forcefully and a little too homophobically, “Calm down there stud.  I usually get dinner and a movie before the touchy feely stage starts.”

Female Nurse:  Laughing openly and annoyingly, “Come on, don’t be a prude.”

Me:  Still trying to hold back the wandering hands, “I don’t give it up on the first date.”

Female Nurse:  Looking at me a little too seriously, “remind me not to go out with you.”

Drugged up Patient:  Still looking at me with unadulterated love, “Honey, lets get outta here.”

Female Nurse:  Tugs on arm she is still holding, patient looks at her, “Who is that your are talking to?”

Drugged up Patient:  Looks at her, then back to me, “That’s my wife, Shirley.”

Me:  Suddenly letting go of his right arm, “Why did you have to ask that?”

Female Nurse:  “Shirley, quit being a bitch.”

Drugged up Patient:  Taking this opportunity to snake his now free arm around my back, “That’s my baby.”

Me:  As I dart away towards the medication cart, “That’s it, I’m knocking this dude back out.”

Female Nurse: laughing hysterically, “Shirley, don’t be like that.”

Drugged up Patient:  Looking at her, “She can be pretty sassy.”

Me:  As I shoot the guy full of happy drugs, “Goodnight sweetie.”

Drugged up Patient:  His eyes become glazed, “Goodnight baby.”

Female Nurse:  Finally letting go of the left arm, “That was sweet, I want to go hug Shirley out in the waiting room.”

Me:  Still shaken up by the whole thing, “It shouldn’t be too hard to spot her, she must be the ugliest woman in there.”

Pooped in a Racquetball Court

I was asked a question at work tonight, “What is the most bizarre thing you have ever done?”

That could be a loaded question.  What does this person mean by “most bizarre thing”?  Are they looking for something life-changing, like walked on coals in Bangladesh, or do they expect something quirky such as grew an insanely disgusting beard and drove to Alaska?  No matter what they intended, only one story immediately popped into my head. 

I was a young, precocious kid; probably about thirteen.  My family had forced me to attend a family outing to Oxford, MS., on the University of Mississippi campus.  It was a karate tournament. 

My entire family took karate.  My younger brother and older sister were extremely good at it.  They would go to these tournaments and win first place in fighting and Kata almost every single time.  They were both the state champion in their age groups numerous times. 

I however, did miserably and usually refused to participate, but instead would just walk around and spend my hard earned allowance buying throwing stars and nachos.  Can you say...uncoordinated fat kid?

Usually these tournaments were held in small Junior High gyms, but this one was at a major University.  Lots of wide open spaces and shit to see. 

My brother and sister went about their day of kicking stranger’s ass and winning trophies, my parents were watching them, and I quickly became disenchanted with perusing the assortment of dulled martial arts weaponry.  I walked all around the gymnasium and came to one final conclusion...I was bored and I really had to shit.

Now, most young, socially awkward kids will probably empathize with this phobia, but I did not like the idea of crapping in a public bathroom.  I had not done it before, and really did not want to start now. 

I went into the nearest public bathroom and entered a stall with full intentions of letting the green go, but suddenly someone entered the bathroom.  I froze immediately, pulled my pants back up and shuffled out as if I was doing something wrong.  I went further away from all the action and found another public bathroom.  I settled on the furthest stall and prepared to drop the kids off at the pool, but then SOMEBODY came in.  Where the hell are these people coming from?!?  Is someone following me around?  Damn sexual predators!  Where the hell is Chris Hansen and Dateline NBC when you need them?

Once again I re-applied my britches and moved along. 

Now I decided I had to escape these pesky karate freaks and find browner pastures.  I set out on foot to find a public bathroom away from all the people.  A magical bathroom with single seating and a giant deadbolt.  After wandering around the parking lot I settled on the next building.  I walked into what I would later know as the Turner Center which houses the recreational areas, such as the fitness club, swimming pool and the racquetball courts. 

The building appeared gloriously empty and devoid of life.  I found the nearest public bathroom and marveled at it’s gleaming white walls and lack of other people.  After choosing the perfect stall I settled in to take the Browns to the Super bowl.  But wait!  I still could not stop worrying someone was going to walk in.  I just could not let nature take it’s course.  But I really had to poop.

In disgust and frustration I got up and walked further into the empty facility.  I soon found myself in a long corridor with tiny doors.  Each door opened into a large wooden room with no windows.  As I was exploring one of these rooms my stomach could take the suspense no longer. 

For some inexplicable reason I decided that this would be the safest place to drop it like it’s hot.  I squatted in a corner, lowered my pants and did what needed to be done.  When I finished I pulled my pants back up, waddled like a duck back to the bathroom and cleaned myself with the toilet paper.  I know it makes no sense, but I was young and stupid.

I have no definable reasoning for refusing to poop in the bathroom, but regarding it as a perfectly safe place to wipe my ass.  I just seemed like a perfectly sane thing to do at the time.  I quickly ran back over to the karate tournament and got some nachos to replace the void no in my gut.

I can only imagine the shock and disgust the racquetball class displayed when the entered bright and early Monday morning.  I can’t imagine the anger welling up in the cleaning person who was forced to scoop it up.  But it was even more bizarre to me when later I would attend the University of Mississippi, AND take a Monday morning racquetball class in the very same courts. 

I think it still smelled like shit.

Finally, You Noticed

I have been posting like crazy- and finally Killer has noticed. As a regular reader, you have observed Killer’s recent boasting about ‘cracking down’ and grinding out words for NaBloPoMo. He’s talked endlessly about this quest and his commitment. Like someone on a diet telling you everything he’s eaten today and yesterday and what he plans to eat tomorrow, his obsession has taken over his senses. Yawn.... I mean- how hard can it be to write a couple of paragraphs everyday for 30 days?

Now, I don’t have to find out for myself.

Yes, I too joined NaBloPoMo- with the commitment to myself that I would stop as soon as someone acknowledged my contributions. Thank you, Killer, for giving me the out on day 7. 

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